by Brian Hughes
Different dimensions attract different forces.
For example, if you take the dimensions ‘Side-to-Side’ and ‘Backwards-and-Forwards’ then the force of friction introduces itself.
Add another dimension such as ‘Up-and-Down’ and the mass generated produces gravity.
Add a forth dimension, such as ‘Time,’ and the force of irony takes root.
“So what you’re claiming, Missus…” Spike leant one elbow on the console. “Is that you’re the most intelligent ’cos you’ve got the ability to talk bollocks?”
“What I’m sayin’, Gypsy…” Noses brushed in nostril-to-nostril combat. “Is that I know the principles of temporal mechanics. Whereas you don’t! And I’ve never ’ad an accident yet!”
Whereupon irony kicked into gear, and the caravan’s landing proved somewhat more difficult than Nancy had expected.
Mario Wilberforce suddenly found himself hijacked by centrifugal force, flattened against the arc of the ceiling.
Outside, the temporal vortex shrieked past in a phantasmagoric blur.
Down below Mario, across Jack’s shoulder, he could see the crates of mythological beasts decreasing in width towards the floor.
Sergeant Partridge, still manacled to his murderous companion, had been crushed against him resembling a huge stamp of putty.
“’Eesa goin’ too fast! Put onna de brake for Godsa sake, somebody!”
There was a muffled grunt from somewhere to his right. Mario craned around for a closer look.
G force apparently had a peculiar effect on holograms. Nancy Skunk was not only star-fished against the rafters but had been spread into an unflattering smudge. She attempted to retaliate, her lips spluttering.
Below all of this Spike was clinging dogmatically to a cage marked, ‘Borneo Pancake Reptile.’
Stretched out above him, gripping onto his denims, Maria and Sarah kicked and screamed, their legs trailing up like bloomers caught in a draught.
“We’ve got to shut it off, Missus! You can’t ’ang about. I’m losing grip!”
October the third, 1999. Allotment Street.
Sergeant Partridge and Dennis Lowry were investigating the trampled cucumber frame for signs of a missing coalbunker.
Overhead the storm clouds tore apart.
A multicoloured shaft highlighted the rooftops. Splashes of mauve rang off the chimneystacks and streaks of yellow lit up the tiles.
Nancy’s caravan hurtled downwards unstoppably.
The crash sent a shower of slates into the air.
A fall-out of brick dust and plaster followed, scattering down across the patio.
In Deirdre Barker’s front room, the caravan wedged itself between the skirting board and the plate shelf.
“Dark in ’ere, innit Dennis?”
Scuffle, scuffle.
Those were the sounds of mice scampering along the skirting boards. There was the further sound of pensioner-boots shuffling arthritically across a gritty floor. Then the squeak of a finger tracing its owner’s name across a dusty surface.
“I don’t know, I can’t see a thing!”
Squeak, scribble, nibble, scamper.
“What do you reckon these ’uge Perspex blocks are?”
Knock, knock, thump.
“What ’uge Perspex bloOOF?” There was a ringing in Dennis’ ears as the corpuscles stampeded round his head. He shook away the wooziness and struggled back onto his feet. “Is there a light switch, Grandma?”
The question seemed to trigger an automatic response. Set into the ceiling a series of countersunk bulbs flickered on. They cast a nightmarish glow about the boardroom.
Grandma Jo wiped the moisture from her eyes, then stared at her surroundings.
There wasn’t much left to suggest this had once been the Planning Committee. The antique furniture the council had wasted all the poll tax on was crushed up against one wall. Previously immaculate Queen Anne chairs had been smashed up for firewood before being heaped into a mound.
Around the rug a number of solid plastic blocks formed a henge. In the centre of each block, resembling some prehistoric mosquito trapped in amber, a human being peered out.
As a child Dennis had been given one of those ‘First Archaeology Kits’ for Christmas. He’d had to chip away at a hunk of crumbling plaster to reach a cheap, plastic urn inside.
These figures looked remarkably similar.
“Did you jus’ turn the light on, Dennis?”
“Me?” Dennis read the words ‘Josephine Lowry Was ’Ere!’ in the dust. “I thought you ’ad? I’m nowhere near a light-switch.”
“In anticipation of preventing an argument that could go on for hours…” The voice reached out from the sudden rectangle of light behind them. It oozed across the floor and rumbled with gravel. “I turned the generator on with my little box of tricks.”
Two silhouettes filled the doorframe, fingers of illumination squeezing around them.
“I know ’oo you are!” Grandma Jo’s face broke into a gummy grin. “You’re Bobby Beaumont! That obnoxious brat ’oo should’ve been sent to bed more often. What ’ave you done with all you’re friends ’ere?”
“They’re in stasis.” The Dark Lord moved into the room. “They’ve been there since the day I was first transported here by that machine you so kindly left. Frozen in time since I pulled the switch.”
All eyes turned to the row of brass handles on the thick oak panel on the far wall. They were the sort of handles found in old Frankenstein movies. Damien Roach was already upon them, his subservient posture bringing them level with his emotionless eyes.
“And now it’s your turn, Mrs Lowry. You have fulfilled your destiny.”
“Now just one moment you bas…”
Mid sentence, forefinger raised in defiance, Grandma Jo and Dennis transformed into something that resembled a lump of Fortean graphite with a comatosed frog in the middle.
Two more human display cabinets to add to the Dark Lord’s collection.
Releasing his slimy palm from the throw-switch, Damien Roach chortled to himself.
Chapter Twenty-Two: A Bit More Rummaging
There are numerous ways to cheat in exams. Writing the answers down on your body is one old favourite. X-ray glasses as advertised in American comics is another.
Ironically when it came to Nancy Skunk’s Hologramatic Subservience Test she managed to score one hundred per cent without cheating at all.
Amongst the various antechambers aboard the Greyminster Rose there was a library. A refuge from the crates of beasts and the stench of the drains. Crammed inside the antique writing bureau was what Nancy considered to be her IQ test.
Woodwork.
Name Three types of nail:
Finger nail, toe nail, S…nail.
What would you use to remove waste from a groove?
Toilet Paper.
What is the most essential thing to remember when sawing wood?
Make sure that you sit next to Albert Boggins. Then when he’s finished messing about with his work, nick it off him.
Mathematics.
If John had thirteen apples and Mary had five apples, and John took three of Mary’s apples from her after eating four of his own, what would John have left?
One testicle and a black eye, if he was lucky.
What shape fits into the following box? Triangle, Square, Pentagon, Hexagon:
Another square. It’s the only thing that could fit into a square box!
How would you measure the surface area of this sphere?
Look up the answer in the back of Comprehensive Maths For Holograms, Vol. One, seeing as the diagram is patently photocopied from page 302.
English.
Give an illustration of a frustrated palindrome.
(This question is followed by a drawing that resembles a rottweiler chained to a kennel with the name ‘Palindrome’ above the entrance.)
Name three of Charles Dickens’ books:
Rent Book, Account Book and Bank Book.
What does a semicolon do?
Chops your shit in half.
Geography & History.
What is the capital of Portugal?
‘P’
Name the wife of President Nixon:
Mrs Nixon.
Name one of the victors of the second world war:
Switzerland.
ET AL.
Ironically, Nancy answered all the questions correctly. The examiners therefore had to give her full marks.
Not once in the history of the Dark Lord had anybody achieved such a grade, forcing him to add at the foot of the paper:
Excellent. This hologram will do fine. She must be the one alluded to in the historical reference books. Equip her with a Time Machine and set her loose.
Let’s put this review back in our trunk.
Exciting developments are already taking place on the chequer-board of our history.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Peering down the Helter Skelter into Hell
October the Third, 1999. Allotment Street, at that particular hour when shadows become bars and the pitting of stonework transmutes itself into prominent contours.
Nancy and Spike stared at the ruined terrace.
Goliath had followed the same route as before, right down to putting his foot through the roof.
Beyond the cliff a scribble of smoke now rose from his crumpled torso.
“Wasn’t such a good idea after all, was it?” Nancy lifted a brick with her toecap. “Still, I s’pose it had to be done. And now you’ve done it proper, Gypsy!”
“It was your suggestion, Missus!” Spike flattened his Mohican with one palm. “‘Go and let Goliath free’, you said. ‘It’s fate’, you said. ‘You’ve got t’ do it before you can correct the other problems.’”
Nancy’s nostrils flared. “There’s no point cryin’ over spilt milk.”
“But Missus…” A smile planted itself on Spike’s face. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we ’aven’t got a time machine no more?”
That much was evident. There wasn’t much left of Allotment Street at all. Just ransacked gable ends. Between them a mammoth boot print had crushed the terrace into a depression of joists. One warped axle from the Greyminster Rose jutted upwards sadly, waving its flag of truce in the form a Humpty Dumpty handkerchief.
“You were the one ’oo said to Jack, ‘You’d better keep your ’eads down in the caravan.’” Spike wiped a grubby tear from his cheekbone. “We murdered ’im. ’Ee was a good un, really, Missus. We had our differences but his ’ead was screwed on right. Which is more than I can friggin’ say for it now!”
“Look on the bright side, Spike.” An unusual chill ran the length of Spike’s ribcage. “At least that fat git with the Dali moustache won’t be botherin’ you no more.”
Spike ignored her, removing a strip of poster from the rubble instead.
“Got any more brilliant plans, Missus?” A creeper of mucus wound itself back up his nostril. “Any guillotines you’d like me to test with me neck?”
“I thought we might have a go at the tree frogs next.”
“’Ere? Watcha reckon to this?” He handed the scraps of the bill to her. “It’s got your name on it, look.”
Nancy looked. It did indeed have her name on it, in Damien Roach’s handwriting.
In reproducing the poster, I have decided to skirt around the smears of blood that occasionally broke into the words.
On pain of the death stick and the dreaded rust eater.
This is a WARNING to all SPODs and other minions of the Dark Lord.
Ensure that the reprobate Nancy Skunk, having arrived at October 3rd 1999, is kept
permanently in this period. Ensure that her mission to release Goliath has been accomplished.
And that in the process she has no further means of escape, as Fate demands.
Signed The Dark Lord.
(And his subservient menial: Damien Judas Roach)
“Buggerin’ fat, hairy bollocks!” Nancy lowered the crumpled page. “We’ve bin set up, Gypsy! The Dark Lord knew where I was all along. And he let me get on with it. You know what this means?”
She raised her widening eyes.
“We’re responsible for destroyin’ civilisation! Goliath was meant to get stolen all those years ago. ’Ee let me steal the Greyminster Rose knowin’ Goliath was onboard. Look at me poor old caravan, now! All those fabulous creatures crushed!”
“Who gives a toss?” Spike took a punt at a passing rat. “The time machine’s flattened beyond recognition! We’re stuck here a few hours from oblivion! And unless you can magic another one from out of the thin air, that just about wraps it up for this life.”
“You’re being a bit pessimistic, Gypsy.”
“Pessimistic?” He cast one palm towards the refuse. “Watcha call this? There was four human beans inside that damn thing half an hour ago. Four now extremely dead human beans!”
“Don’t wet yourself!” A crooked smile played with the muscles of Nancy’s face. “I’ve got a cunnin’ plan…”
Here are the Amazonian rain forests, approximately twenty-five minutes later as the temporal crow flies.
Hundreds of miles of congested umbrage.
Up above them, hovering against the clouds, a caravan with rotating blades holds its position. The sort of caravan that would have Stephen Hawking turning over in his chair.
The hatch slid open. The rush of cold air flanged Spike’s Mohican. It wasn’t cold in the rain forest, but the vista below him was expansive enough to add an unexpected wind chill.
Far beneath Spike’s swinging boots the burnished rattlesnake of a river sparkled and chimed between the trees.
Spike pulled the asbestos suit about his shoulders, then confronted Nancy with a puzzled expression.
“Are you sure that accordin’ to temporal physics we’re allowed to do this?”
Nancy handed the helmet to her windswept companion. “We’ve already done it, Gypsy.”
“But we can’t just go round nicking time machines from our previous selves. What’s going to happen when our previous selves go back to the ditch and find the Greyminster Rose has gone? ’Ow did we bury Goliath if we didn’t have a time machine to do it?”
“Don’t ask me!” The helmet was locked into position by three brass bolts, the smoked grey visor obscuring Spike’s ugly features. “It’s sommet to do wi’ Schrodinger. ‘The act of Observation affectin’ that which is being observed.’ Whatever the case we managed to do it!”
“But…” Spike’s words battered themselves against his windscreen. “If we’ve buggered up the past won’t that alter the future?”
“With a bit of luck.” Nancy handed him the staple-gun, a roll of Sellotape and a length of string. “Try not to think about it, Gypsy. Don’t want you havin’ a prolapse of the brain four ’undred feet above the forest floor.”
“What am I s’posed t’ do with these?” Spike lifted the objects to the front of his visor. “You don’t expect me to stop the tree frogs from singin’ do you?”
“That’s what the suit’s for.” Nancy took a firm grip on the winch and gave it a tug.
With a sinking sensation her companion began his descent.
“We don’t want you poisoned before you’ve saved the World.”
“And what’s goin’ to ’appen if it doesn’t work?”
“No idea.” The rope gave a jolt, then continued downwards. “But at this stage, Gypsy, what ’ave we got to lose?”
Back once more to the ashes of Allotment Street.
There was a creak and the duplicate coal bunker sputtered back into existence.
Apparently the SPODs had been relaxing in the interim. The coalbunker now sported a number of ‘I LUV BLACKPOOL’ stickers. One on the roof read, ‘SPODs Do It With Electrical Probes.’
A cloud of smoke exploded across the patio. The green shutter burst open, Sergeant 89D emerging at full sprint. His wheels squeaked across the cucumber frame.
&n
bsp; An object, similar to the tape recorder Captain Kirk always used, was grasped firmly in his hand. It made a sweep of the topsy-turvy ground.
Somehow the sergeant managed to frown. Private 72F and Corporal 85B rumbled up behind him. The Corporal was wearing a pair of humorous glasses and a Groucho Marx moustache. His troops needed some entertainment in these miserable times.
“We’ve got problems, lads.” Sergeant 89D revolved his lid to face his men.
He tapped the dial on the box. An awkward moment stumbled past.
“Corporal? What the ’Ell are those s’pose to be?”
“Sarge!” The SPOD straightened haughtily, saluting. “‘X-Ray Specs’, Sarge. Thought they might come in ’andy.”
“Take ’em off, Corporal!”
Two Ping-Pong ball eyes sprang out of the frame on two coiling springs.
“Yes, Sarge.”
“We’ve got to tell the Dark Lord what’s ’appened. Don’t want you buggerin’ everythin’ up!” There followed the sound of oil slithering down an iron throat. “There’s trouble afoot, lads. The reprobate Skunk ’as disappeared. And muggins ’ere’s goin’ to cop for it!”
The grinding of a winch under pressure.
The asbestos helmet poked itself up through the draughty hatchway, ten sausage-roll digits gripping onto the steel rim.
Nancy struggled and at length her companion was hauled aboard in a heap.
“***kin’ didn’t ****in’ work, did **? The **** *ittle bu**** managed t’ ***** off!”
It was difficult to say whether Spike was blaspheming or not. The words were buffeting senselessly against his visor. With a squeak the helmet was removed, Spike’s shiny features coming into view with some alacrity.
The following sentence was clear enough.
“Buggerin’ staple gun drove a soddin’ piece of metal through me thumb. Looks like one of those hippy light-bulbs now!”
“I take it the mission wasn’t a success?” Nancy stuffed the helmet beneath her arm, then attempted to remove the gloves.