by Brian Hughes
The scene changed. A windswept panorama of shunting sheds and disused carriages. Spike was lurching before the camera, keeping one eye open for the kestrel and the other peeled for the return of his neighbours.
“C’mon Dennis. It landed round ’ere somewhere. Look!”
The camera closed in on a mouldering fish head.
“Alright, Spike? Watcha got there?”
Extremely uncomfortable shot of Spazzer Watkins giving the lens the evil eye.
“Makin’ a film about sommet? Cop a gander at this, y’ sad tosser!”
The pants came down revealing a crudely tattooed ringpiece with the expression, ‘MOM’ written across it. The ‘M’ at either end had been created using a pin dipped in ink.
“Give us a go with the camera y’ bastard!”
A scuffle broke out. The sort of scuffle that sliced the screen into segments.
At length the scene changed again. This time Spike was sitting up in bed, numerous posters of song thrushes from ‘Look and Learn’ hung across his bedroom wall. It was obviously late as the bedside lamp was on. It lit up his Womble bedspread. He had a bruised nose and held a pork chop across one eye.
“It’s quarter past four in the mornin’. I’ve borrowed the camera off Dennis ’cos Spazzer wants me to help ’im make a film t’morrow”
A hammering shook the council house. It was chaperoned by the scream of, “Eddy Johnson’s gonna die!”
“That bastard’s bin there since half past two.” The camera was inched cautiously around the curtain hem. “Let’s ’ave a look at what ’ee’s up to, shall we?”
On the threadbare lawn Spazzer Watkins was swigging from a vinegar bottle. Several further containers stood in a row along the drive. He approached the door unbuckling his belt.
“What’s ’ee up to now?”
Shot moving stealthily down the narrow stairs. Spike closed in on the coiled stool crammed through the letterbox. Outside the abusive threats continued.
A burst of static. The camera came back on. Spike was sitting wearily on the sofa.
“It’s now ten-forty in the mornin’. Me Dad’ll be gettin’ up any minute. Fortunately Spazzer Watkins appears to have givin’ up and buggered off. All bloody night I’ve had to put up with that racket. I’m knackered!”
The lounge door opened. Spazzer Watkins and Oliver Stamford entered.
“There you are, Watty! Told you the sad bastard always left his back door unlocked!”
Whilst Simon Watkins moved threateningly in, Mr Stamford removed the camera and shuffled it discreetly beneath his ski-coat. Which is where the video ends, on a final shot of the designer label.
It’s difficult to determine what happened next.
Whatever it was, it was probably more violent than the episode of Sesame Street that followed it.
Time to close the trunk once more. Perhaps this brief hiatus has shed some light on our hero’s personality. On the other hand, perhaps not.
However, I’ve finished my Hobnobs now. Time to resume our story at the point we left it several pages ago.
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Consequences of Cunning Plans
Somewhere in the temporal vortex. In a cluttered antechamber, one of many that made up the Greyminster Rose. Greasy plates had been stacked amongst the clockwork innards on the cracked stone sink.
Grandma Jo placed her brush on the rim of the paint pot and wiped her hands on a rag. She stepped back towards the crescent of admirers covered from head to toe in spatters of colourful paint.
“Watcha reckon?” The tufted wart on her chin twitched with expectation.
“I reckon it looks like a giant teapot!” There was a scratching noise as Spike dragged his fingernails across his jaw. “What’s it do?”
“It stops the Dark Lord from chasing us through ’istory.”
The children nodded in agreement with that. Not that any of them had understood it. But Grandma Jo was incredibly old and that was enough to ensure her perspicacity. A questioning snuffle, however, drifted up from Nancy Skunk.
“And this is exactly how the other machine looks, is it?”
“Right down to the flowery pattern round the spout.” The rag was thrown across the old woman’s shoulder. “’Course, if the Dark Lord tries using it ’ee’ll get a shock!”
“You mean this one doesn’t make Overlords, Grandma?”
“This one don’t make nothin’, Dennis. I’d give old money to be a fly on the wall when ’ee tries it out.”
Condescendingly she patted her grandson on the head.
“There’s only one problem!” Nancy exchanged a suspicious glance for Grandma Jo’s knowledgeable one. “How are we s’posed to swap ’em over. It’s bigger than I thought!”
“This is a ‘Spatially Retarded Craft,’ innit?” Grandma Jo grinned. “I’m sure the back door’s big enough to make allowances.”
“It isn’t the back door that’s the problem, Mrs Lowry. It’s how we’re goin’ to move the bloody thing. Not even the forklift could shift somethin’ that large. And as for gettin’ the other one back in again. We’re only a few little kids and a skinny adolescent!”
“Ah…” Grandma Jo tapped the side of her nose in a mysterious manner. “Don’t worry ’bout that. I’ve got a couple of highly trained monkeys ’oo can ’elp us out.”
It was a late September evening, the last dregs of daylight turning the chimneys into a black fringe against the night. For the chronologically minded it was also somewhere around 1884. The recently lit gas lamps contrasted with the dark blue cloak of the sky.
Several horse-drawn carriages rattled wearily through the gates, their wheels clattering on the pale blue cobblestones. In one corner of the stables a bundle of chequered clothes opened quietly. A sunken face peered out of the hole and into the gloom.
H. G. Wells had been stranded on a wobbly milking stool with nothing but his misery for company for some time now. He watched as the last steaming horse pulled up, spluttering expressively.
“Evenin’ Zachary. Bugger of a night to be out?” A series of hollered exchanges took place between the dismounting cabbies. “Be nice to get ’ome t’ me big fat woman and a roarin’ fire.”
“Aye. Give ’er one from me, Mr Coppersmith.” From the carriage’s roof a short, muffled man clambered wearily down.
“Excuse me, Sir?”
Zachary Samson looked over the top of his scarf, the reins gripped tightly in one blue hand. H. G. Wells advanced from the steaming stalls, uncoiling the muffler from his thin neck.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’m hoping to get to Devils Crevice tonight. I’m s’posed to...to...get the connection with Carlisle from there. Could you tell me when the next coach for that particular t…t…township might be due?”
Deep intake of breath. The sort that members of the working class always precede bad news with.
“Arh, well now. There’d be no more coaches tonight, young Sir. And I ain’t Jewish!” The reins were unhooked, the horse’s rump slapped and the gratified animal trotted off. “First one out of ’ere, I reckon, ’ud be tomorrow, ’bout six o’clock. Could be seven. Hard to know sometimes, what with the weather and the fact that I can’t tell the time. Off somew’ere in a hurry?”
“I’m trying to reach my Aunt. She’s very sick.” Wells cast his eyes around the straw covered stones, despondency creeping into his voice. “I was supposed to change at Devils Crevice but I unloaded here by mistake. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I could bed down for the n…n…night?”
“You can sleep ’ere if you’re ’ard up. Don’t s’pose Dapple ’ud mind.” Zachary scratched the bulb of his nose with one mittened finger. “So long as your feet don’t smell.”
He flung a casual, scarf-hindered nod towards the grey that was settling down in its enclosure.
“No funny business mind! Had Obidiah Barley in ’ere about a month ago. Missed ’is ’orse, Egbert, ’ee said.” The coachman’s eyes narrowed. “Poor old Dapple couldn’t walk for a we
ek. Funny lot farmers. All ruddy cheeks and country folklore.”
He suddenly raised his eyes.
“Looks like you’ve got a long day ahead?”
“A long day?” Wells frowned. “Surely you don’t mean the next coach out of here leaves at s…s…six o’clock tomorrow night?”
“Don’t I?” Zachary broke a frozen cake of straw off his boots. “Could ’ave sworn that’s what I meant. Still, you obviously know best, Sir.”
Wells released a pent-up snort into the collar of his gargantuan coat. He took a feeble look around at his accommodation.
“Where exactly is this God forsaken town anyhow?” He blew into his fingerless gloves, pins and needles jabbing at the tip of each finger.
“This ’ere be Greyminster. Slateworks Capitol of the North.” There was almost a pride in the taxi driver’s voice. Almost, but not quite.
He dragged the blanket from the seat above his head and tucked it beneath his arm.
“Now, let’s be havin’ you. An’ don’t go stickin’ your tongue down me neck in the middle of the night, neither! Me and Dapple needs our sleep. I ’opes you’re not a bloomin’ farmer, that I do.”
Grind, whirr, clunk, Click! Above the entrance to the coach house the massive clock ticked.
Clonk, chudder, whirr. Watch those hands revolve. Faster they go as we call into play one of literature’s most spectacular special effects. The transgression of time.
The dreary brick landscape alters beneath us. Buildings groan and bulge and sprout. Terraces race each other down ill-defined roads towards the 20th century. Click! Clock! The threatening skies of the Second World War are suddenly full of blimps, the drone of aircraft, the whistle of falling bombs and the wail of air-raid sirens.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Quicker now, the coach house becoming a bookstore, the astringent style of the fifties standing sharply against the grime of the Victorian streets. And now the clock itself has gone. Carried off to York Street police station.
Look to your left. Those colourful lights in the Fleapit on Bramwell Crescent. They signify that we’re passing through the heyday of British Cinema. Its only brief mind, the lights disappearing as Will Hay’s irritating screams fade away.
Onwards we hurtle down the drainage shoot of time. And now at last, we reach the future where the Odeon has undergone a few modifications. It’s now the Dark Lord’s laboratory; a towering edifice of pipes.
With a crash the gypsy caravan hurtled through the dome. It rebounded off the torn seats and came to rest against the enormous teapot. With a dispirited creak the sideways door opened.
“I must say, Missus. Your parkin’ skills are gettin’ better.” Spike brushed a couple of squonk turds from his sweater. “Still, at least you managed to get the right place this time. Even if it isn’t the proper way up.”
A whistle sounded sharply. Grandma Jo stuck her head through the door and two fingers between her pinched lips.
“Oy, Mighty Joe Young!”
From high above, the Overlord looked down. Its eyes blinked through the shattered dome.
“I want you to give us an ’and. And no arguin’! I ’aven’t got time!”
She cast it a cantankerous look. Automatically the Overlord stood up straight, bringing its massive hand up to its temple.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes.” Nancy’s nose appeared next to Grandma Jo’s shoulder, forcing itself into what little room there was. “Let’s get this show on the road then shall we, Mrs Lowry?”
“Call me ‘Grandma’. Everybody else does.”
She clicked her shrunken fingers and jabbed towards the caravan’s rear. With an unoiled groan of ancient joints the Overlord bent down.
It was a peculiar sight and one that words can’t adequately describe. Somehow the original teapot was forced in through the back door and the new one eked out. The narrowed space contracted and swelled at the same time. It would have made a constipated man jealous.
“Ta very much, Mr Kong!” Grandma Jo gave the Overlord the international thumbs up. With a lurch so thunderous that several bits of pane fell, the giant lumbered off for its coffee break. “Let’s see Bobby bloody Beaumont stick that up his jumper an’ smoke it!”
“Ah, Mrs Lowry? Thought I recognised that caterwaul!”
The Dark Lord’s voice meandered down the cinema stairs. By his side a SPOD rocked worriedly back and forth.
“And the reprobate Skunk? How convenient of you both to drop in unannounced.”
The darkness moved, dragging its feet across the carpet. The nervous SPOD closely followed, upending ashtrays on the chair arms.
“Private 72F? Is the machine ready for use?”
“Yes, Your Most ’Ideous ’Umblenessiest.” The private attempted to bow, clanking its head on the floor in the process. Then it hurtled off towards the gigantic teapot.
Grandma Jo leaned towards her accomplice, speaking from the corner of her mouth. “’Ee doesn’t know what we’ve just done, does ’ee?”
“What have we done, Grandma?” Nancy forced her face beneath the old woman’s armpit. “What exactly is that machine for?”
“Hang around here. You’ll get the picture. It’s one of me old blueprints. Never had much success with it in the past.”
The Dark Lord cocked his head, as though endeavouring to eavesdrop.
“I’ve no idea what you’re whispering about. But I wouldn’t make too many plans if I were you.” He clicked his fingers as an indication for the SPOD to proceed. “It would be hard being anarchistic beneath the heels of the new improved Overlord! Private 72F, the switch!”
A white-gloved hand grabbed the drop switch. The rumble of engines firing up. The stammer of pistons. The gasp of lamenting joints and frustrated cogwheels.
The Dark Lord’s feature’s fell at the unfamiliar sound. This wasn’t the noise his Doomsday Device had made before.
“What’s going on?” He pointed accusingly at the SPOD. “What have you done with the original ENGINE?”
Private 72F shrugged. Then backed away. As powerful as the Dark Lord was, every last instinct told him to scarper. And fast.
Behind the Greyminster Rose a shadowy figure uncurled from the darkness. It sneaked menacingly through the rear door of the tilted caravan.
“I want my Monster Maker back, you foul OLD CANKER!”
From a hatch beneath the teapot's spout a rod unravelled itself with a great deal of clamour. High above, the lid slid backwards, encouraged by a loud hullabaloo of grinding gears. Another limb extended upwards, pincers opening and closing dramatically. It hovered briefly, as though observing the ground beneath it.
Then both arms swiped with the speed of a pterodactyl pursuing a prehistoric shrew.
With a scream the Dark Lord was snatched by his cowl and hauled off his feet.
“What the buggerin’ ’Ell is it?” Nancy’s mouth fell open.
“Told you this ’ud be good, didn’t I? It’s a bloody big version of me Chicken Plucker!” A terrible scream, a devastating rip and a snowstorm of cowling fluttered down all around. “Awh, look at his little winkie. No wonder ’ee had such psychological problems. C’mon my girl, don’t want you seein’ any more of this!”
“Why not?” Nancy’s grin caught Grandma Jo’s eye in a cheesy twinkle.
An horrendous shred, that clothing alone couldn’t make, rang round the room. Spike, who had been watching all of this from behind the back axle, suddenly found himself drenched in blood. A ribbon of intestines wrapped itself about his chest. They bore the unmistakable signs of the Dark Lord’s flesh. All putrid and rank.
“That’s why not.”
Grandma Jo pushed Nancy back in through the doorway. The giant machine shook the last few scraps of bloodied cloth from its snapping claws.
“I said I hadn’t had much success with it in the past. Mind you, it wasn’t usually this bad. It generally just left a bald chicken with an embarrassed expression. Come on Spike, I think the kiddies �
��ave had enough fun for one afternoon.”
Spike shook himself, dripping gruesomely, his sweater having been stretched beneath the weight of the viscera.
“W’at ’appens now, Granny? Apart from havin’ a bath that is?”
“I’ll get the buntin’ out. What a pity your old man wasn’t around to see this day.” Grandma Josephine disappeared inside the upended time machine. “Our next step is to put to rights the rest of civilisation. With the Dark Lord out of the way it shouldn’t be too ’ard. And less o’ the Granny. It’s either Grandma Jo or nothin’.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Where Plots Collide
South of the Watford Gap there is a tendency to view Northerners with blinkered vision. Lancashire women are thought to resemble the late Les Dawson, forever hoisting their wartime bosoms over back garden walls. Lancashire gentlemen fare little better, binding their trousers with string (a practice without apparent meaning), wearing flat caps and stuffing ferrets down their long johns. Sparking clogs sing from every corner, brass bands forever play the largo from the New World Symphony, and pigeon fanciers fill the red brick pubs. In short, Lancashire is the county where the M6 is still cobbled.
Oddly enough this derogatory image isn’t far removed from the truth. Black puddings, tripe and bleak craggy fells rank very highly in the colloquial heritage.
H. G. Wells woke up on that cold September morning in 1884 with a throaty cough. The aroma of Baby’s Shag coiled up his nostrils. He thrust his head up through the smoke, straw poking up from his hair.
“Mornin’ Squire?” Zachary Samson held the lighter above the bowl of his oxford and noisily sucked. The mound of tobacco glowed. “’Ave a good sleep then?”
“Not altogether, no. I’ve got pains in the small of my back.” Wells arched his spine and thumbed the offending sockets. “I don’t know how you could p…possibly sleep in this dump every night!”
“Arh, that’s ’cos I’m a Northerner!” Suck, puff, puff, puff. A sprinkling of embers left the bowl like angry midges. “You Southern types ’ave your feathery beds and your big pink eiderdowns. Up North we likes to sleep on cobblestones and use outside lavatories. None of this leopard-skin bog roll for us. We just use our ’ands and ’ope Queen Vic don’t wants to meet us’.”