by Brian Hughes
“What the bloody ’Ell did I let it go for?” Spike strained against the rope he’d used to lasso Goliath’s kneecap. With his face mangled-up in defiance, he gave another mighty tug. Then he hurtled upwards, leaving the Allotment Street far behind. The enormous robot had taken another faltering step.
“’Ere, Son? ’Ow do we stop this thing?” As he dangled Spike noticed Sergeant Partridge looking down at him from where he was balanced on Goliath’s left foot. Jack’s fingers were almost bent double clinging onto the instep. The wind was rushing through his hair. His helmet tumbled and span towards the startled sheep on the patchwork hillside.
“How do we stop it?” repeated Spike incredulously. “Do you ’onestly think I’d be hangin’ on ’ere if I knew the answer to that? I s’pose it must have an Achilles’ ’Eel somewhere!”
The world became momentarily blurred as the colossal limb struck earthwards once more. Every inch of Spike’s body hurt as he collided with Goliath’s kneecap. Despondently he threw a half-hearted glance at the policeman now somewhere down below. From this new height Jack resembled a dark blue limpet dogmatically clinging to its rock.
“I’ve ’ad a look.” Jack’s voice drifted up in shreds. “And the only thing odd about this ’eel is that Mrs Barker’s face is squashed across it!”
There was another great crash as the foot made contact with terrefirma again. The weight it carried flattened the topsoil. The fellside groaned beneath the compression.
Time to view this scene from a clearer perspective. About half a mile above it should do the trick. Now look down. The whole of Lancashire is sketched before us like a relief map. That silver cockroach clambering awkwardly around the cliffs is Goliath.Those freckled measles in its wake are the people it’s ignorantly trampled.
And those two dark satellites about its kneecaps are Jack and Spike, hopelessly trying to stop it.
The rock face starts to crumble beneath the pressure. The creature tumbles, dragging with it our two heroes. From up here, where the storm waits, there is no sound. Just billowing debris as Greyminster explodes beneath the Titan’s fall. An explosion comprised of bricks and windowpanes, stretching upwards theatrically.
Then finally stillness. The filthy buttocks of the storm overhead smother the town below us with a shroud of apocalyptic menace.
Chapter Sixteen: Time to Dust Off a Few More Antiquities
It’s time to open our trunk once more and delve into the contents. Hello...what’s this? A collection of cuttings from the Greyminster Chronicle. Some of Damien Roach’s reviews have survived from more halcyon times. Presumably Damien had never heard of William Thackery. When handed a copy of Vanity Fair to review, under the impression that it was a humorous historical novel, our embittered reviewer had this to say. (To make it more palatable to the reader I have corrected Damien’s grammatical misnomers in darker ink.)
Vanity Fair, Thackry’s (Thackery’s) masterpiece? Masterbate (Masturbate) more like! I’ve never read such a selfindulgant, (self-indulgent) plageristic (no such actual word exists) contentious, (pretentious?) claptrap. Whoever told this man he could write ought to be put against the nearest wall and shot successively (repeatedly?) for allowing such a misservice (disservice) to the world of literature.
This book is pants! I tried to like it. I really did! After all, I’m not averse to writing historical novels myself. But this book just isn’t clever. And as for humor, (in Britain we generally spell ‘humour’ with a ‘U’) quite frankly I’ve read more humerous (humorous) things on Shreddies packets. Not once throughout the work did he use the word ‘Pants,’ refer to ‘Shagging,’ or ‘The Lads’, name a single footballer or make any jokes about beer.
Well ‘Pants’ to you, Mr Thockery (Thackery). Fortunately your book will only have a limited print run and will soon vanish from the bookshelves leaving room for decent writers like myself.
(Awarded an F-)
Ironically, this is how Damien’s own masterpiece, ‘Trouble At The Mill’ (Subtitled ‘How My Pants Got Caught In The Thresher’) was received by Dewhurst’s Publications a couple of months later.
Dewhurst’s Communications Ltd.
A subsidiary of the ‘Old Kent Road Pornographic Magazines’ syndication.
Forty-two Brutal Stabbing Lane,
Upper Crummock,
Lancs.
May 16th, 1992
Dear Mr Roach,
Currently we are not considering accepting new clients. Actually that isn’t strictly true. It’s the best thing I could think of for breaking the news to you that your novel is crap. Furthermore Dewhurst’s Publishing could never represent anybody whose work might be deemed unfit for public consumption. Might we suggest a creative writing course? Or at the very least a Beginner’s Class in Standard English.
Yours with the lowest of regards,
Doreen Fouler
To make matters worse, Dewhurst Communications were Vanity Publishers. Henry Higginbotham, an associate of Damien’s, had recommended them after they’d printed his own licentious poems. The princely sum of four hundred pounds had been returned to Damien adding insult to injury.
Perhaps it would be best to close the trunk and return to our unfolding story. I’m sure the reader would like to know what’s happened to Bobby Beaumont, rather than study the rantings of a perfidious mind.
Chapter Seventeen: Down the Staircase of Infinity
Here is darkness. Not ordinary darkness that wardrobe interiors are fulls of. But a darkness so thick that it almost has substance. Here is a tunnel of the gloomiest pitch. A vaulted sewer in which nightmares hang suspended. And here comes the slap, slap, slap of naked feet on damp cobblestones.
Sarah Kingdom burst into view. She scurried roughshod over fallen masonry, her toes bending painfully. Her features, although never particularly attractive, were now even more drawn.
Bobby Beaumont twisted the dial on the ‘time machine’ with an appreciative chortle.
“Bobby Beaumont!” A bead of sweat rolled down Sarah’s nose. It reached the end and hesitated timorously. “Stop this, right now!”
She skidded across the cellar floor. Bobby turned another switch. “Turn it off, Bobby! It’s dangerous. Grandma Jo said you shouldn’t mess about whilst she was gone! You’ve no idea what it does!”
“Yes I have!” The huddle of children backed worriedly away. “This button here makes time go forward.”
He gave it a flick. Sarah was instantly propelled forwards, crumpling up as daintily as a giraffe against the wall.
“And this one here makes time go backwards.” Another prod. The eco-warrior unfolded herself from the stones and hurtled backwards.
“And this one...” Bobby’s finger hovered above a bright blue button. “Is the ‘Fast-Forward-Search.’”
“Nooooooooo…” Sarah hurtled forwards again, crunching back into the wall. One or two of the smaller tots were impressed.
“Make it go backwards and pause it in mid-air, Bobby!” Graham Moorhen, a six-year-old with a permanent crust of snot on his lip, clutched his handknitted Tinky Winky excitedly.
“Bobby Beaumont!” Judy’s angry face appeared in front of him. “Gamma Jo said, ‘No Messin’ About While She Was Gone!’”
“I’m only having a look! Besides which the daft old bessom ain’t comin’ back! She’s been kidnapped by the Overlords!”
“I thought you said you were goin’ to use that machine to save our world.” Judy’s scowl disintegrated into sorrow. “To save my Patch, that’s w’at you said.”
“Self, self, self! That’s all you ever think about, isn’t it, Judy Mullins?” Bobby rounded on his companion. “What about the other kids? Don’t you think in these dark times they could do with some entertainment?”
“You’ve got a funny idea of entertainment!” Judy screwed her hands into tiny fists. “You’re a spoilt, good for nothing idiot! Why can’t you use it sensibly?”
“I’ll show you what’s sensible you…you…stupid girl!” He punche
d a random sequence of buttons and aimed the beam towards her.
Judy ducked. The beam of light spliced across the empty vault. It struck a stained glass window that had somehow survived the holocaust, splintered blindingly and reflected back. A number of screams accompanied the flash.
All of the children vanished.
For several moments a strobing Moebius band span round the plinth where the monitor had stood. Then the ever-so-quiet thud of a teddy bear hitting the floor signified the spectacle was over. Sarah Kingdom raised herself onto one bruised elbow. She rubbed her head and listened to the darkness. No more sound. Just the stone walls still ringing from her impact.
“Bobby?” No response. The noise of spiteful laughter had disappeared along with the children. Now just the dismal plunk of chippings remained. “Bobby Beaumont? I ’ope you haven’t broken that machine? That’s our only means of puttin’ matters to rights. Bobby Beaumont? Judy Mullins? Tommy Watkins?”
As though in reply, the mocking darkness closed in around her.
Briars of smoke twisted up and around the cliff-top. They coiled morbidly about the smouldering grass. Far below, where the steps had been cut from the cliff face, lay the mangled remains of Goliath. Slabs of iron that had once been limbs now leant crumpled against bent pine trees.
“I’m tellin you, Missus! She’s not dead!”
We appear to have joined Spike and Nancy in mid-conversation.
“Nobody actually saw the corpse. Well, nobody important.”
“Only her usband, but I suppose ’ee doesn’t count?” Nancy struggled beneath a gargantuan finger. She dug her heels into the ground, dandelions sticking out beneath her soles.
“No ’ee doesn’t! ’Er ’usband was part of the cover up.” Spike wasn’t helping her. He avoided manual labour as though it was a contagious disease. To Spike, ‘work’ was a four-letter-word. “’Ow come we never saw her lyin’ in state? And ’ow could anyone die of a bruised leg like the papers said?” He shook his head, his flattened Mohican swinging apathetically. “Nah…she’s livin’ in luxury at the expense of the tax payer somewhere, I’ll bet good money!”
“You ’aven’t got good money, Gypsy!” Nancy removed a mangled scarf from Goliath’s knuckle. “You ’aven’t got bad money, come to that! What is it with you and conspiracy theories, any’ow?”
“The people of Britain ’ave the right to know.”
“What? That flying pigs saw what had happened and rescued ’er?”
“At least I don’t collect animals that never existed.” Spike screwed his face up. “Anyhow, she isn’t buried on that island, is she? It’s not even confiscated ground!”
“Consecrated!” Nancy corrected him, checking out the huge metal palm for further signs of the scarf’s former occupant.
“All right, ‘Constipated’!” Spike snuffled haughtily, kicking Goliath’s elbow with his toecap. “She’s buried in the family vault in the local church anyhow. It’s just that those rich gits ’oo live in that neck of the woods don’t want disturbing by all the riff-raff!”
“I thought you said she wasn’t dead?” Nancy stood up, eking a twinge from her spine. “I thought she was living with Elvis in a hut in Scotland?”
Something caught Nancy’s eye. A dim red pulse that the average person would have overlooked. It created a halo above the ape’s mammoth snout. “Looks like she’s not the only one ’oo isn’t dead. There’s still signs of life comin’ from this thing!”
Goliath’s eyes were glowing auspiciously. A hum rose and fell with each fresh flicker. Jack Partridge emerged from the behind the scrap metal. He mopped his brow with his Humpty Dumpty handkerchief, his face the colour of jade.
“There’s goin’ to be a lot of paperwork for this one.” The handkerchief squeaked against his taut green skin. “Especially from Spotty Dribblesthwaite, the pathologist.”
Queasiness swept his features. He struggled to regain control of his contracting gullet.
“Mrs Barker’s bin squashed all over its right ’eel. And there’s a bit of her on its elbow.” Another bolus of nausea scuttled up his throat. “Either that or its got a tattoo in the shape of a Zimmer.”
He sponged his brow again. “One of the Wilberforces is jammed up its nostril, Dennis Lowry’s smeared across its boot, along with Councillor Ordenshaw an’ three startled sheep. And what I presume is Albert Brasswick has been bitten in ’alf between its teeth. An’ if that wasn’t enough I found this.”
Nancy folded the scarf and looked at the object in Jack’s hand. She gave it a prod. “What is it?”
“Edna Pruitt’s right boot! Wouldn’t like to say where the rest of her is.” Jack grimmaced. “It was sticking out of its jacksie. I could think of smoother things to use as loo roll!”
“At least that’s good news.” Spike blinked and smiled.
Silence fell across the three of them. You could almost hear Jack’s brain creak as a landslide of chippings spiralled between him and Spike from above.
“It’s not good news for the poor bastards oo’ve just bin crushed!” He narrowed his eyes. “I always thought there was ’ope for you, Spike. P’raps I was wrong. ’Alf of Greyminster’s dead and you reckon it could ’ave bin worse?”
“No...you don’t understand. If Goliath’s been destroyed we must’ve saved the World from destruction. It must have been him what brought about the End of Civilisation!”
Nancy snorted. Not entirely convinced she studied the giant jigsaw puzzle all around her.
“I must admit, that’s what I thought as well. Although I find it hard to believe we’ve stopped the End of the World from ’appening. Temporal Mechanics has a nasty habit of creeping up on folks unexpected!’”
“But surely the World was meant to end today, wasn’t it?” Spike continued. “Apart from Greyminster, everything else has survived. An’ there’s nowt to suggest it won’t go on doin’ otherwise.”
“Don’t count your chickens, Mr Gypsy.” Nancy dropped the scarf onto the rubble. “The day’s not over yet. This thing’s still alive. We’d better get rid of it somewhere before the Dark Lord gets his hands on it.”
She kicked the huge metal ear, turning various hiding places over in her mind. With the whole of history to go at it wouldn’t be too difficult hiding a heap of mangled junk, surely.
“Somewhere a long, long way back in ’istory and underground should do the trick.”
The patter of cascading rocks cracked like rifle fire. As though it was chasing them down, a voice called out from above.
“’Ello down there? Do you require any ’sistance?” Mayor Thompson’s head looked over the ledge.
Sergeant Partridge wiped the blue stubble on his upper lip. “Not if I’ve got to apply in triplicate for it.”
“Is that you, Jack?” Gordon Thompson recognised Jack’s acerbic tones. “I’ve got a job for y’. I noticed Mario Wilberforce ’ead down in a ditch on the way over here. P’raps you could arrest him? On manslaughter charges.”
“Tell you what, Gypsy…” Nancy drew Spike discreetly to one side. “I’ll go an’ get the Greyminster Rose. You keep an eye on this lot…”
She nodded at the still humming gorilla behind her.
“Make sure it doesn’t go nowhere. The sooner we get it shifted the better.”
An optimistic expression crossed her face. It sent a shiver down Spike’s spine.
“You never know, p’raps we could stop civilisation from endin’ after all. It was a good idea of yours to turn this thing loose.”
October the Third. 4.55 p.m. The first doleful slavers of rain plunged earthwards.
The smell of wet soil met with the pulpy odour of leaves. Excellent weather for woodland mites that ate damp soil. Not much good for crawling about through drainage ditches, however.
Which, as far as Mario Wilberforce was concerned, was a shame.
“Poppa?” Maria stared vaguely along the reed-filled gully. An amoebic form squeaked towards her through the bowing weeds. “Poppa, is tha
t you?”
“’Eesa me, Maria! Keepa your voice down!” Mario hastily checked around his rump. “There’sa people searchin for me!”
Now that she could see him clearly, Maria noticed the bruise around his eye. His hair was matted with clots of undergrowth.
“Poppa, I’m so glad to see you.” Maria’s voice fell to a whisper. She wiped the rain from her nose and stared at her feet stuck out before her. “I’ve gotta some bad news, I’m afraid…”
“I know, Maria. The bastards at the council wanna put a stop to my fairground!” Mario clenched his enormous fist and punched a collection of nettles. “But I won’t let them get awaya with eet, you hear? ’Ow dare they take on de mighty Wilberforce?”
“No, Poppa. It’s much worse than dat, I ’ate to say…”
A few moments of silence filled the trench. How could anything be worse?
“You donna mean somebody’s broken de Candy Floss machine?”
“No, Poppa…it’s Pablo...eesa dead!”
Another moment for reflection. A gaggle of emotions toyed with Mario’s features.
“I know ee’s dead, Maria! I saw ’im crushed beneatha Goliath’s buggerin’ boot!” A snort of breath enlarged his nostrils. “You bother me with such trivia? I thought it was somethink important.”
“But Poppa? ’Ave you no ’eart?” Maria swept back her blood-matted tresses. “Ee wassa your son! Ee wassa my brother!”
“Pah!” Mario tossed her pleas aside. “I’m still virile, Maria. I can ’ava loadsa more sons. But candyfloss machines, they’re not cheap! If I ever getta my hands on that ugly leetle bastard ’oo’s responsible for dis I’m gonna break ’ee’s scrawny neck!”
There was a disturbance in the damp grass overhead. The sounds of boots sucking mud from the oily recesses of the meadow.
They were accompanied by the asthmatic wheezing of wearied searchers.