by Brian Hughes
“I ’ope you don’t mind me interruptin’, Mr Lord?” The cup went down once more. “But when are we goin’ to reach the punch-line? Me bowels need emptying.”
A second figure unfolded from the dark. He was stooped, his receding hairline revealing a pitted head. He approached the Dark Lord’s platform, leering down at Grandma Jo.
“Mrs Lowry? Damien Roach. The man responsible for uncovering the truth.”
A slimy hand that Grandma Jo knew would be clammy was proffered towards her.
Indignantly she stuffed the last of the Hobnob into her mouth, chewing as noisily as she could.
She recognised that misanthropic profile from the Reviewer’s Column in the Greyminster Chronicle. Sad, untalented git he’d been! He was looking older now. A bit more bald and a lot more baggy.
But his cruel little eyes were still the same.
“The truth is Mrs Lowry, the Dark Lord wrote the letter to himself.” The hand was withdrawn having failed in its mission. “You see, I worked for years in the History Archives. We keep such information. One can never be too careful with Quantum Mechanics.”
An ochre grin tore the flesh of his cheeks apart.
“There I discovered the terrible truth. It was ‘You’ who had originally designed Goliath. Hard to imagine that a fuzzyheaded biddy with a face like a punctured basketball could have designed such a killing machine. But there it is.”
“’Old on, Mr Clever-Clogs.” Grandma Jo shuffled forwards. “I remember designin’ an automaton once. And it did look a bit like an ape. For Dennis’ birthday I think. But it was only meant to be about four inches high.”
“We adapted it, Mrs Lowry. Or at least, ‘You’ did.”
The word ‘You’ became the pivotal point of the sentence.
Grandma Jo attempted against all odds to appear unnerved.
“That is to say, ‘You will...’ When we discovered that you created the Overlords we sent one of our holograms back through time to get hold of the blue prints,” the Dark Lord interupted. Damien Roach sycophantically aquiesced. “One of the Nancy Skunk range. A hologram normally used as serving wenches.”
“Dressed as a newspaper delivery girl?” Grandma Jo nodded to herself. The history lesson was starting to make sense. “Go on, baldy. With a bit of luck we might get there by Christmas.”
“However, we were unable to decipher the blueprints ourselves. We realised we needed you to build the creatures for us because we couldn’t read your erratic script.”
“So you want me to build ’em for you?” Grandma Jo frowned. “But you’ve already got ’em? What the ’Ell do you want me for?”
“Insurance, Mrs Lowry.” Damien bowed. “In order for the Dark Lord to reign triumphant, we must now ensure that history is fulfilled. Thus the note his Imperial Highness left himself.”
“Well, gentlemen…” Grandma Jo pushed herself up from the tiny seat, scattered a broken biscuit across the floor and grunted indignantly. “I ’aven’t got a clue what you’re on about an’ I don’t really care. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got me bunions to file.”
“Mrs Lowry?” Damien Roach moved rapidly forwards, barring her path with the runic pole he carried. His icy shadow fell across her.
“The importance hasn’t quite sunk in, has it? We must fulfil the Great Circle, you ignorant old battle-axe. In order for the Dark Lord to exist you must first create the army that brought about the end of the World.”
“Are you trying to tell me that I’m s’posed to build a machine that creates Goliaths so you can send ’em back in time an’ destroy civilisation?” Grandma Jo scratched the back of her head. “And if I don’t then you and ’im won’t ever ’ave existed in the first place?”
Damien Roach’s filthy brown teeth shone in the murky light. “At last we’re making headway.”
“Forgive me for soundin’ a bit dense…”
“Permission granted.”
“But what the buggerin’ ’Ell would I want to do a stupid thing like that for?”
“Because if you don’t…” Suddenly Damien’s nose was crammed against her own. The smell of decomposing sprouts filled her nostrils. “We’ll have to kill you, you untutored walnut!”
The threat was accompanied by a bubble of spit that landed on Grandma Jo’s eyelid.
“Well, at the risk of soundin’ noble…” She straightened proudly. “I’m not exactly young and I don’t give a toss about dyin’. When you reach my age it becomes a release. Besides which, I’ve waited long enough to meet ’Enry agen.”
She raised one arthritic finger. And saluted the Dark Lord with it.
“So you can stick you’re history up you’re ’Oly, Imperical Arse!”
Damien’s grin became frothy.
Grandma Jo backed away.
“We thought you’d say that. God how I hate noble people. Always thinking about others instead of indulging oneself.” He reached inside his robes and removed a photograph. “We have other ways of making you comply.”
“’Ere, what are you doin’ with a photograph of Dennis?”
“Your grandson was killed by Goliath!” Damien threw a sneer towards the pensioner. “However, we could send the SPODs back through the Temporal Vortex to save him, on your behalf!”
Grandma Jo appeared to sag. Even more so than usual.
She ran the problem over in her head.
No matter which way round she viewed it she was here now and that meant that from her point of view Dennis was dead whatever else happened to alter history.
“Just as soon as you’ve finished our machines, Mrs Lowry.” There was the creak of vertebrae as Damien sank ever lower. “If you don’t help us we won’t exist. And our SPODs will have nobody to give them orders. You see, Mrs Lowry, it’s the only way your grandson can be guaranteed his life! And the only way that we, as thoroughbred bastards, can be guaranteed ours!”
Chapter Nineteen: Quantum Physics Explained
In order to explain the complexities of Temporal Mechanics we need to turn to the works of Thomas Hobson (PhD). Time for a break once more as we delve into our trunk. ‘Thomas Hobson’s Guide to Quantum Physics For Primary School Children. Volume Two.’ This book was written in 2039. It was published in 1881. It was not a best seller. Let’s study the most salient points.
Chapter Four: Misconceptions about the Direction of Time.
Subheading Four: The Problem With The Big Bang Theory.
There is an understanding amongst intellectuals that the Universe started with a big bang. If one studies matters however, we find that the Universe is not expanding. It is actually contracting towards the Big Suck, a point of infinite density. The confusion arises with the notion that we are all moving forwards through time. This is nonsense.
People who drive would find it ridiculous to imagine a situation in which the steering wheel was facing the boot. In order to go forwards one needs to face the road ahead thus avoiding obstacles as each one rears into view. In the case of Temporal Progression we are obviously sitting backwards, watching the road we have already traversed disappearing over some distant fell top. The fact that much has been made of time contracting on itself as the Universe’s expansion reaches its zenith explains this phenomenon. We are in essence already on the return journey. The fact that we haven’t reversed our direction as far as time is concerned helps explain the knackered state that the Universe is in.
Chapter Six: The Inability to Reconcile the Space-Time-Continuum with Schrodinger.
Subheading Eight: Where Stephen Hawking Got It Wrong.
According to Schrodinger’s Experiment with his Great Aunt Emma’s cat Tiddles, an experiment I have performed numerous times, both conditions of an unknown factor exist simultaneously until the act of observation clarifies the matter. A theoretical experiment. Although in my case a bit more practical. And one that resulted in the Parallel Universe Theorem.
Schrodinger’s conclusions are a separate concept from Hawking’s own space-time continuum theory. All
outcomes exist at the same time allowing free will to decide which route to take. ‘The Act of Observation’ as the great man said, ‘Affects That Which is Being Observed.’
E.g. A patricidal academic travels backward through time. Once there he kills his own father. That thought appeals to me greatly. Thus effectively, according to Mr Hawking, he has prohibited his own birth. Apparently a paradox is generated. Not so if one applies Schrodinger’s logic to the problem. The observer in such a circumstance would be the murderer, hence as the alternative time-line begins, the previous time-line for the killer becomes merely the past. Obvious really!
I read the review of ‘A Brief History Of Time’ with scepticism. Now here’s my own literary tribute. ‘Stephen Hawking’s contradictory book marries the intellect of a marsupial with the genius of a hamster!’
Chapter Ten: How to Shag Sheep without Getting Caught.
Subheading One: Wellies and Suspenders.
Sorry about that! We appear to have overshot the mark. Thomas Hobson’s derogatory remarks about the greatest scientific minds of our century, it should be pointed out, are his own opinions. Although suffering from a surplus of intellect Hobson had a lack of social etiquette. What the uppercrust call ‘eccentricity,’ although the rest of us know it better as being ill mannered.
Hobson himself had been forcibly removed from a number of parties following his oftentimes-vulgar act with Cecil the blow-up ram. A party piece that invariably frightened children.
Now then, whilst we’ve got the trunk open, let’s take a look at something else. A cassette recording of, ‘The End of Civilisation as We Know It.’ It was recorded off the radio by Mrs Wainthrop, an elderly lady whose hearing was so dire she regularly blew the speakers off her wireless.
She had been expecting the Archers at the time.
The recording starts with a guttural voice.
“Wadda week it’s been down ’ere in Ambridge! Doctor reckons I got throat cancer. So ’ee’s given me some Strepsils. Doris ’as bin ’aving trouble with ’er ’emmeroi…We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an update on the current situation with the Third World War. Across the globe the United Nations have been deploying troops, hoping against all odds to combat the machines. Morning Mrs Archer. ’Ave those turnips turned up yet? Nothing appears to be having any effect! Following lengthy deliberations Russia has decided against diplomacy after the top of St. Basil’s was bitten in half. Since that time, fifteen Mig Fulcrums have been lost in battle. Outside the Vatican this morning there were horrible scenes as the pope was torn in half. News just coming in! The President Of America has been witnessed boarding the shuttle at NASA and buggering off! I ’ear that Dorothy ’as bin ’aving a bit of ’an affair with ’er potatoes. OH MY GOD! THERE’S ONE OUTSIDE THE WINDOW! IT’S GLARING AT ME WITH ITS BEADY LITTLE EYEBALL. IT’S LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF JURASSIC PARK! An’ ’alf a pound o’ butter, if y’ don’t mind. Bessy’s udder’s bin playin’ up agen. I reckon this might be just the thing we need t’ cure it. CRASH! SHATTER! AAAAARGH! It’s bitten Richard Whitely’s head off. Keep back, y’ bastard! KEEP BACK!! CHRIST! There, I’ve put in an extra onion. I knows ’ow much y’ loikes y’ sandwiches with a bit o’ flavour.”
It was important to hear this valuable recording. Our tangled tale appears to be going round in ever decreasing circles, and it seems unlikely that we would otherwise have come into contact with the destruction of civilisation.
Needless to say the Overlords were ultimately victorious. For all its propaganda movies America couldn’t overwhelm the enemy with patriotic speeches. The British put up a worthy fight however, never once becoming the toffee-nosed, traitorous bastards that the self-same American movies have always portrayed us as. Time once more to close the trunk. Time to head back, quickly now, to the unfolding events of our desolate future.
Chapter Twenty: A Meeting of Mercenaries
October 18th 1999. It was hard to say precisely what time it was, because there was no difference between night and day in these smoke-clogged times. High overhead purple and yellow streaks slid depressingly across the war-torn landscape. Beneath the corrugated bomb-shelter three figures huddled together for warmth. Other than the percolated gurgle of the acidic rain, silence shrouded Wilberforce’s Fairground. From time to time a pair of eyes would peer from the workman’s hut. Eyes that blinked slowly, staring into some lost and abstract world.
A rasping voice shattered the gloom. “’Ere? Wadda de ’Ell do you thinka you’re playing at?”
Mario’s fingertips suddenly lurched towards the can of Felix. A can that had previously been nestled in Jack Partridge’s palm. A tug-of-war broke out, fishy entrails splattering up the ribbed wall of the hut.
“Datsa my lunch! ’Oo said dat you coulda ’ave eet?”
Jack held the cat food tightly against his chest. Mario’s arm jerked uncontrollably into his chin.
“P’raps you ’aven’t noticed mate! But you ’appen to be ’andcuffed to me?” Jack’s words smelled of fishy gizzards. “Unless you want to be draggin’ a dead body round with you for the rest of your life, y’d better let me get somethin’ to eat! It’s all your fault this ’appened in the first place!”
“Donna blame me, you English Peeg! You’re de one dat loosa de key to these things! Justa donna eat all of the jelly, okay?” Mario slumped back unhappily, the ridges of his spine showing through his flesh for the first time in forty years. “Dat’sa de last of de chowder, innit? After dat we’ll ’ave to start frying uppa de corpses inna de mud!”
“Sergeant Partridge?” Maria’s wasted features moved out of the darkness. Her concave cheeks were even more sallow now. “Wadda you reckon ’appened to de Lord Mayor of Greyminster? Last time I saw ’im ’ee was sitting beneath a tree with a worried expression onna ’ees face?”
Brookland Street. A muddied field, the corner of which played host to a razor-rash of trees.
Nobody was certain where Brookland Street had got its name. There wasn’t a street, or indeed a road, for miles.
It was a question that Gordon Thompson had been asking himself for the past few days.
The plink of acid rain burning a patch of hair from his head was echoed by the perspiration dripping his nose.
In his arms sat a pot-bellied bomb, ticking with menace. He gently slapped one fin, coaxing the monster back to sleep. Another twist of smoke rose from Thompson’s suit.
It coiled up towards the clouds like a length of barbed wire.
“Anna what are we gonna do about our leetle friend over there?” Maria continued, nodding in the direction of the puddles outside. “She ’asn’ta eaten since she snook into dat thing.”
Everyone turned towards the broken crate that had once housed engine parts for the dodgems. Rivers of foul-smelling, multicoloured slime acted as a moat around its base.
Two eyeballs blinked back from between the slats.
“Sarah Kingdom? She’ll be all right. She’s a sturdy old bird.” Jack lowered the cat food and snuffled. “Used to know ’er when that road was bein’ planned for Bog-Dyke View. She’s a bit on the stubborn side. Couple of days without grub and she’ll be friendly enough.”
The rusted can was placed gingerly on the ground. Jack held his arm above his head to stop Mario picking it up again. With a length of wood he forced it carefully through the lathering mud.
A hand reached out from the crate, its wiry fingers gripping the tin greedily.
Moments later it had vanished, grunts and snorts and chewing noises drifting up against the stampeding rain. True to Sarah’s defiant eco-warrior mentality she muttered, “Fascist Bastard,” quietly to herself.
“I don’t s’pose you’ve got any air-freshener, have you Missus?” The rumble of three weighty balls of dung vibrated unpleasantly up Spike’s broom handle. “That blooming Yeti don’t half make a mess when it gets excited.”
“I don’t have any use for air-freshener.” Nancy adjusted the dials on the console. “I just turn off me olfactory senses.”
“P’raps you could boil some coffee then?” Spike leant his chin on the nub of the handle. He searched around for an excuse not to continue with the morning’s ablutions. “There’s nowt quite like the smell of coffee to make you feel at ’ome. I wonder why they don’t make aerosols that smell of it?”
Nancy wasn’t listening. She was making sure the journey home was by the most direct route. Her ugly companion was putting a serious crimp on her adventures. Now that she’d sorted out the end of civilisation she could dispose of him and get back to her Maniacal Gherkins and Flying Snakes.
“Or roast beef? Great smell roast beef!” Spike’s nostrils dilated as the memories grew stronger. “Better than a house that pongs of pine forests. Always reminded me of public bogs did that!”
“Is that what your house smells of, Gypsy?” Nancy’s fingers whirred across the controls.
Spike straightened, optimistic at the thought of returning home. The heavy droppings rumbled another foot further.
“Narh! My ’ouse always smells of me father’s backside. ’Ee used to spend all day on the bog with the door open. Not a very cultured sight. Guts straining through ’is string vest. Then ’ee’d go to the Job Club ’cos he couldn’t take the smell anymore. Used to make the wallpaper peel off. It were a real pea-souper and no mistake!”
Thud, thud, thud. Three Cornish pasties of manure bounced off the drainage flu on their descent into the wastelands of time.
“No wonder I could never get a bird. Not one with a nose that worked any’ow.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”
Nancy raised her eyes. Only momentarily mind. Steering the Greyminster Rose through the Temporal Vortex was a precision job.