by Brian Hughes
“That explains a lot. Never mind. P’raps our adventures have improved you’re old man’s bowels. ’Ee might be able to hold onto his lunch long enough for you to lose you’re virginity now. Hold on tight, Gypsy. We’re about to land!”
Some indeterminate point of the future.
In the filthy realm of the Dark Lord.
A large, vaulted chamber with tiers of seats.
This building was known, in more civilised times, as the Greyminster Fleapit.
There’s Josephine Lowry examining her handiwork. Wiping the oil from her palms with a pair of old long johns. And what of the handiwork she’s surveying? It’s a massive metal teapot complete with handle and spout.
The Overlords had spent all morning welding it together beneath her direction.
Most of the Overlords themselves had now gone back to menacing the SPOD’s. There were still a couple of them outside, however. Peering down with expressionless faces through the shattered dome.
“What’s it do, Grandma?” Dennis strolled up, studying the mammoth machine. The SPOD’s had rescued him as the Dark Lord had agreed.
“It’s an…an…” Grandma Jo sought for the best description. She couldn’t find it and deposited her make-shift towel on a SPOD instead. “It’s a ’vention for creatin’ everythin’ you ever wanted.”
“Why’s it look like a giant teapot?” Dennis stuffed his fists in his pockets and cocked his head. “What’s wrong with a toaster or a chamber pot?”
“The original design was meant to be a bit smaller, Dennis. One has to take into account the lack of resources in a pottin’ shed. Doesn’t matter though.”
With all the flippancy that great minds have towards their work she gave it a kick with her boot.
Sergeant 89D complained through the escape hatch of the undergarments.
“Basically it’s a trap for neutrinos an’ quarks. Iddy-biddy things that pop in and out of existence without givin’ a monkey’s fig.”
She cast a grin towards her grandson. All loose fitting dentures and shrunken gums. A knowledgeable twinkle honed her eyes into jewels of intelligence.
“All it does is gather ’em together. If you program it with something’s molecular structure, whatever you want pops out of the spout. Not very aesthetic I admit. But functional.”
“Excellent work, Mrs Lowry.” The Dark Lord’s voice unfurled down the stairs.
Silhouetted in the doorway, the menacing figure slowly moved into the room.
“As your grandson will testify, we have Goliath up and running. He’s already torn the roof from Greyminster Bank. In a few weeks we’ll take him back in time and stow him on our renegade hologram’s craft. Before you retire however, could we see this contraption in operation?”
The question hung there. More of a threat than a request.
“Can’t oblige I’m afraid, Mr Lord.” The cord in Grandma Jo’s fingers swung unobligingly, the plug thudding against one kneecap. “’Aven’t got a fuse for this, you see? I had t’ nick the plug off a broken-down Breville. However, I do ’ave this…”
A sudden flash of light slashed outwards from her pocket.
The Dark Lord’s face was briefly illuminated. He had startled features that were somehow familiar.
Then the SPOD karate-chopped the torch from Grandma Jo’s frail grip. And the Dark Lord sank once more into darkness.
“I know ’im from somewhere!” Dennis whispered.
“Same ’ere. It’ll come t’ me, given time! ’Ere Dennis. Grab ’old of this!”
In one swift movement Grandma Jo booted Sergeant 89D across the carpet.
With a scream he rebounded off Dennis’ hip, span in a circle and toppled off the stage that had once housed the cinema screen.
“Now what did I ask you to do? You can’t trust anyone t’ carry out a simple task!”
Grandma Jo was off, taking a well-aimed dragon-kick at the fire exit.
The tiny speaker on Sergeant 89D’s buckled chest went into overdrive.
“Stop! Mrs Lowry, you are under arrest!”
“C’mon Dennis! No time for nursin’ you’re bottom!” A blue fog inched through the exit, coiling round the bottom three rows of seats. “Let’s get out of here whilst ’is High an’ Mighty’s still blinded.”
The couple hurtled through the doorway, being devoured by the fog in the ginnel beyond.
“What about the machine, Grandma? Shouldn’t you blow it up or somethin’?”
“Nowt I can do about it. Some things ’ave got to be done in order for other things to ’appen. It’s Kermit, Dennis. Or ‘Fate’ as we unposh folks call it! Watch where you’re goin’! Y’ nearly ran into that Overlord’s ankle then!”
Back to October 18th 1999.
Wilberforce’s Fair still resembled a gasworks’ monitor after the tank had sunk below the tarmac. The earth itself appeared to be breathing with listless slurry. There was the sound of a rotary fan. It rumbled and cracked.
Moments later the fabric of reality shredded into vertical strips. The Greyminster Rose hurtled through the tear, screeching dramatically. With a crunch its wheels embedded themselves in the unctuous mire.
Cautiously the door creaked open. Spike’s face emerged through the narrow gap, testing the weather.
Seconds later it drew itself back inside.
“Better get your brolly, Missus.”
“There y’ go, Gypsy.” Nancy Skunk clattered onto the step, the brightly coloured umbrella opened reassuringly above her head. The fizzle of unhealthy rain sent fireworks spiralling up from its canopy. “I said I’d get y’ back home safely.”
“This isn’t Crookley’s Grove.” Spike ducked beneath the parasol as a blob sulphuric acid attempted to remove the skin from his brow.
“What are you talkin’ about? It looks like Crookley’s Grove to me.”
Nancy looked around. Admittedly there’d been fewer skeletons before. And possibly less blood. But it was still the shit-hole she remembered.
“Isn’t that the Community Centre?”
“Missus? That’s what’s left of Pablo Wilberforce’s Wall-O-Death. We’ve landed back at the fairground. And the World’s still knackered!” Spike’s eyes flicked back and forth as numerous thoughts crowded into his brain. “What was it y’ said about burying Goliath? That it might be responsible for bringin’ about the end of civilisation?”
“You’re home aren’t y’?” Nancy scowled. “You’re an ungrateful bastard, Gypsy! At least your old man’s colonic irrigation problems have been sorted!”
“Aye, by killin’ the unlucky fat bastard!”
The argument drifted across the fairground. It reached the workman’s hut in angry fragments.
“What the buggerin’ Nora’s that?” Jack tugged the collar of his trench-coat over his head and peered out of the door. Accidentally he pulled the slumbering Mario from the bench.
Through the effervescence he could just make out a stooped over figure heading noisily through the mud towards the caravan. A desperate form, hisses of steam drifting up from her spine.
Jack checked the crate.
It was empty.
Sarah Kingdom hurried on, mud bursting from the soles of her naked feet.
“You’ve got to help!” The desperate pleading brought Spike and Nancy’s bickering to a halt. “I’ve lost my children. You’ve got to help me get them back!”
“Everybody’s lost their children!” Nancy leaned into the words with such ferocity that Sarah almost doubled-over backwards. The continual ‘Dink, spat, Cizzz’ of polluted rain ate through her cardigan sleeves. “The bloody World’s ended, hasn’t it?”
She turned to Spike. “I’ve had enough! Quite obviously I couldn’t save the World from destruction so I might as well go back to catchin’ goblins and rounderbats!”
“But it was all your fault, Missus!” Spike stomped the step. “You can’t just abandon everything now! If we go back in time again and have another go p’raps the outcome’ll be better!”
By this point a gathering had formed below the three wooden steps. Jack Partridge forced himself to the front, Mario in close persuit. He peered out from the makeshift woollen hood.
“I know a bit about temp’ral mechanics, Miss. Had to deal with a couple of peculiarities before now. How about goin’ forwards in that contraption and puttin’ a stop to all this at a more convenient time?”
“Such as? Thursday afternoon after Bingo suit you?” Nancy reached for the doorknob. “You’re all s’posed to be dead any’ow! What’s it matter to me?”
Her eyes fell on something dragging itself across the ground. A bedraggled, moth-eaten something, coughing apathetic bubbles in the mud. Presumably once it had been a wild occupant of these parts.
Nancy’s mouth dropped open.
“Is that a stoat?” She steadied herself on the door handle. “It is and all! I’ve bin after one of those bleeders for ’alf a century! You’ve no idea how evasive they are!”
With a sad sputter the stoat collapsed headfirst in a puddle. Its eyelids fluttered and the bright yellow teeth made a final defiant gnash.
Then the lights of elucidation conked out.
Nancy pounced on its limp body, attempting against all odds to give it the kiss of life. Not a terribly clever thing to do to a rodent, but one conducted with great enthusiasm nonetheless.
Several times its ribcage expanded like a whoopee cushion. Several times a hologramatic mirror was forced beneath its nose.
But at length Nancy’s pigtails sagged.
“That bloody bastard!” She stood up, holding the cadaver at arm’s length. “Look what ’ee’s done! Bloody Dark Lord Murderin’ Git!”
With unexpected violence she swung around, her mouth curling into a growl.
“Well? What are you hangin’ around for?” She punted the stoat’s corpse across the wreckage of the Hot Dog Stall. Then she set off with a purposeful stride towards the caravan.
“Get inside! Before this rain reduces you all to a mound of entrails! We’ve got work to do!”
Chapter Twenty-One: The Unmasking of Civilisation’s Nemesis
Everybody at some point shares the same dream. Not the one where you find yourself running down the high street wearing only your skuddies. Or the one where a pair of genitals with Robin Cook’s face hurtle after you. (You haven’t had that one?)
I’m talking about the one where the dreamer finds himself inside an uninhabited mansion. A building with narrow, ill-lit corridors and creaking doorways.
According to psychologists this dream represents our darkest fears.
Well, right at that moment in time, the dream was happening in reality as Grandma Jo rushed through the Town Hall porch.
“Keep close Dennis. The ground’s uneven. I can’t afford to take a tumble. Not with my arthritis!”
The suffocating darkness closed about her, the beam from her torch highlighting cracks in the plaster. The only other light came from the swinging lanterns overhead. Miserable bulbs forming pools on the floor
“Dennis?”
Something clammy grabbed Grandma Jo’s shoulder.
She drew in a deep breath. The blood pumped through her varicose veins as the fingers tightened their grip.
“Sorry Grandma. I was just shuttin’ the door. Your shoulder feels a bit lumpy.”
“You stupid great sod! You nearly made me swallow me torch!” Her shoulders relaxed beneath his fingertips. “If me knicker elastic was perished before, it’s totally gone now!”
“What is this place?”
“Civic Centre!” When Grandma Jo became angry she snapped her sentences into bite-sized chunks. “Where all those bastards used to work. Spent many an hour waitin’ ’ere for some trumped up prig to sort me housing claim out. Least that’s what it was before. It’s more like an abattoir now. Highly appropriate.”
“Is it safe to hide here?”
“I wouldn’t ’ave thought so. Nowhere’s safe no more.” Grandma Jo snuffled haughtily. It sounded as though it had tasted unpleasant. “Saw a beetle outside committin’ ’Arry Krishna just now. It’s got to be a sad look out when that sort of thing ’appens!”
Dennis felt his grandmother’s fingers fumble awkwardly for his own. He wasn’t sure whether she was trying to make him feel more secure or whether she was trying to feel more secure herself.
Whatever the case, she hitched up her undergarments and lurched forwards again.
“C’mon. We’d best go in. Don’t want nobody comin’ through that porch and finding us.”
She stroked the cigarette lighter inside her cardigan pocket. The one that her long-deceased Henry had always used to light his pipe.
It made her feel a bit more confident.
“And don’t nobody try nowt, neither!” she called into the darkness, just in case. “I’ve got a gun in me pocket and I’ll use it if needs be.”
Thump, thump, whomp!
These are the sounds of running feet crossing a lino floor.
’Reeaaarcggchh!’
Apologies for that, but it’s the closest I could get to rubber soles skidding.
“Grandma Jo?” Puff, wheeze, pant. “What…” Gasp, pathetic cough. “What exactly are we runnin’ for?”
“I’m not runnin’! You started it!” There was petulance in Grandma Jo’s words as they tumbled congestedly from her lips. “I thought you ’ad more sense!”
“I was only goin’ faster ’cos you started runnin’ when that cockroach sneezed.”
“Aye, well, p’raps we’d better catch our breaths. Then hide somewhere. One of these rooms should do.” They looked around the dingy walls, studying the doors for one that might lead to sanctuary. “How about this?”
Grandma Jo twisted a dusty knob. The hand-scrawled sign attached to the central panel gave up its grip and fell off. Beneath it Gordon Thompson’s nameplate was still bolted in position.
“What’s this then?” Grandma Jo ripped the final corner from the wood. “‘Stasis Room’? Wonder what one of them does?”
“P’raps we’d better choose another.” Dennis searched the arcade anxiously.
There were numerous doors here, all ambiguously threatening in their own individual ways.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dennis. Chances are they’re full of ’ologramatic bogey men. ’Ave a gander at this.”
She shoved her middle finger beneath his nose.
“See all that dust? This room ’asn’t been used for years. It’s about as secure as we’re goin’ to get. So we might as well ’ide ’ere until somethin’ better presents itself.”
With which conviction she forced the ancient hinges to squeal and stepped inside.
Here is the Temporal Vortex. A rotating cylinder of pastel shades. Pinks, golds and blues that blur and mingle amorphously. Drawing us down through the duct of time.
Here is a form. A spinning top that stands out sharply against the walls of the maelstrom. A gypsy caravan otherwise known as the Greyminster Rose.
“So what’s the plan?” Jack Partridge rose unsteadily to his feet, dragging Mario Wilberforce with him.
Leaning against the Tasmanian Tiger’s cage Sarah Kingdom tied a bandage round her head.
“What’ll we do when we get there?” Jack continued. “Punch this Dark Lord bloke’s lights out?”
“We’re not goin’ to see the Dark Lord yet.” Nancy wrinkled her nose and took a slurp from her stagnating coffee. “If we want to destroy ’im we’ve got to fulfil the conditions of fate first.”
Whereas the reader is now familiar with all problems Schrodingeresque, the huddle of misfits in the caravan had no understanding of its finer points.
Come to that matter, neither do I.
“Spike ’as got to set Goliath free.”
“What?” Spike pulled up alongside. “You can’t be serious, Missus? That’s what ’appened last time and look at the mess it caused.”
“Exactly, Gypsy. That’s why we’ve got to do it again.” Nancy breathed heavily down her
nostrils and studied the whirring chronometer. “To bring an end to the Dark Lord we must first establish the right conditions in which to do so. If you hadn’t set Goliath free we wouldn’t be here discussin’ this!”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Because we are ’ere discussin’ it? It’s a bit like trying to cook a chocolate cake without puttin’ the ingredients in the bowl.”
For anybody having problems following our heroin’s argument let me to refer you back to Chapter Nineteen. It would take up far too much time to explain things again.
“What makes you think you’ve got it right, Missus?” Spike was obviously still unhappy. “How come you’ve got all the answers? You’re the one ’oo tried to get two female diplodocus’ copulating remember? Why should we trust you?”
“’Cos I’m the one with the Time Machine.”
That much was true. Everybody nodded.
Nancy breathed in and appeared to grow in height. “Besides which, I’ve got an IQ of an’ undred and ninety.”
“I ’ate to disappoint you…” Jack stepped forward, the grumbling Mario reluctantly following. “IQ’s only go up to an ’undred and sixty. Apart from Jimmy Saville. ’Apparently his is an ’undred an’ eighty.” He rubbed the end of his bulbous nose.
“That’s because I’m more intelligent than Jimmy Saville.” Nancy steeled herself for an argument. “I don’t believe in IQ tests. They fail to take into account the ability to draw, or play a musical instrument etc. And for someone to set an exam they ’ave to know the subject better than anyone else. Which means the idiots at Mensa ’ave decided they’re the most intelligent people on the Earth. All IQ tests do is prove how good you are at IQ tests.”
“You mean you ’aven’t taken one?”
Nancy appeared to grow another inch. “I did once. Long time ago. Can’t remember how much I got. But it was high. And seein’ as I’m intelligent enough to know that IQ tests are rubbish, that makes me cleverer than Jimmy Saville. So mine must be at least an ’undred and ninety!”