by Brian Hughes
“Surely not everybody sleeps on the floor?” Wells eked a twinge from his shoulders.
“Aye, we do. And those outside bogs! I can tell you a few ’orror stories ’bout them. Folk ’oo’ve come unstuck on a January mornin’ gettin’ their privates frozen on the rim.”
Which was where the conversation fortuitously ended.
With a whopping great crash.
The sort of crash that a caravan hurtling through a roof at four-hundred miles an hour would make. Zachary Samson vanished, a puddle of blood oozing out from the buckled wheels of the Greyminster Rose.
“It just gets better, don’t it Missus?”
The door reopened allowing Spike to shove his face into the early dawn. A blanket of mist undulated across the coach house having spent some time working itself beneath the gates. It separated around Wells before continuing towards the stable doors. The shrieks of animals from inside the caravan filled the building.
“’Ere, Missus? How come everything’s in black and white?”
Nancy pottered out, Grandma Jo on her elbow. A huddle of worried little faces gathered round the pensioner’s knees, Dennis gripping the smallest tot’s hand.
“Dunno really, Gypsy. That’s just how it is when you travel back to the 19th century.”
“So what ’ud happen if we went back to the Dark-Ages? Would everyone go flat and sort of stand sideways?”
“No.” Nancy searched the drains of her memory. She’d found a Griffin around those parts once. But it had been lanced and partially barbecued. “It just gets dark. There’s always a big cloud on the ’orizon.”
Spike nodded in acknowledgement at that.
“Pretty much what you’d expect from Greyminster, then?” He scratched his Mohican which, since his bath, had been roaming wild about his head. “So what’s this plan of yours, Mrs Lowry?”
At the mention of her name Grandma Jo stiffened, like a balloon on the end of a bicycle pump. She scratched one calf. “Nancy? ’Ave you got that encyclopaedia?”
“Right ’ere, Grandma Jo.”
A musty tome was dragged from Nancy’s apron pocket. It was incredibly thick and had the title: ‘Ye History Of Ye World. Vol. 1,984. Bea to Bec.’ It was embossed in gold leaf and bore all the hallmarks of Damien Roach. Nancy opened it and started counting slowly backwards.
“’Ere we go! Reginald Beaumont, Great Great Grandfather of Robert.”
She tapped the illustrated column.
“That’s your mate, Bobby.” Grandma Jo patted Judy Mullins on her head. “Or the Dark Lord as ’ee was known before ’ee got plucked. You see kids, we’ve got a scheme to stop that bas…that cheeky monkey…”
Her face opened up like the two separate halves of a freshly split chestnut.
“We got a scheme to stop ’im, any’ow, from ever existin’. All we’ve got to do is stop his great great grandparents from gettin’ married.”
Judy Mullins looked up.
“Was Mrs Great Great Gamma Beaumont up the duff, Gamma Jo?”
The pensioner’s cheeks turned purple.
“No she wasn’t, Judy! Least not as far as I bloomin’ know. And it isn’t nice for little girls to use such language! Things was all done very proper back in those days!” The bosom was hoisted. “There was none of this stickin’ your sausages in puddin’s best left alone.”
She read the article thoroughly.
“Accordin’ to this they should ’ave their first encounter at Bogg Street terminus in about ’alf an ’our.”
A sanguine expression pleated her face into amiable flutes.
“Exceedin’ly good at keepin’ documents was the Dark Lord. Got all the SPODs’ to write everythin’ down. Serves ’im right. Knowledge is Power, an’ all that.”
“What exactly are we goin’ to do, Grandma?” Dennis stuck his pennyworth in, gripping Egbert Marmaduke’s hand. “How do you intend to stop ’em meeting?”
“To be ’onest, Dennis, the details are a bit sketchy.” If the truth be known Grandma Jo hadn’t got a clue. “I’m sure we can come up with sommet worth a try though. Let’s get a shift on! There’s only twenty-eight minutes to go!”
Before she left, Grandma Jo tugged her forelock at the stunned H. G. Wells. Automatically he nodded back. One by one the gang sauntered past, each saluting. As the tiniest tot snubbed his thumb against his nose Spike concluded with, “Don’t let your pecker sag, Mate.”
An elephant chain of awe-struck children. All staring mesmerised at their unusual environment. The monotone stables, the black-and-white carriages, the sepia landscape beyond the gates. And then eventually the time-travelling eco-warriors had disappeared into the bustling street.
H. G. Wells sagged beneath his confusion. Then raised one brow at the Greyminster Rose. The entrance was swinging open, agitated by a draught. It was a miraculous cabinet, from what he could gather, that had the ability to travel through time.
What other wonders would he find inside? And suddenly Aunt Gladys was the last thing on his mind.
One of the reasons for the landscape being so monochrome was because the Victorians were generally dowdy people. White starched collars, grimy brown streets and miserable grey factories. Inside the houses it was a different kettle of fish mind. Lime green wallpaper with thick unpleasant stripes. Bright blue picture rails and horrible pink ceilings.
What the Victorians lacked in taste, however, they made up for with activity.
It was only seven-thirty in the morning but already Greyminster was wide-awake. Alongside the tumultuous traffic there were a great many sights for the eager children. Winos in the gutter, half-starved dogs stealing sausages from fly-riddled butchers. Soiled children in sooted caps as black as Jamaicans scurrying by with dandelion shaped brushes.
“Look Grandma Jo! It’s Ardwick’s Hardware! Bloomin’ heck. I didn’t realise it had been ’ere that long!” Dennis tugged his denims up by their belt. “Didn’t you used to live there once.”
“Don’t want to talk about it!” The old woman took stock of her kiddies. “It’s time we split up.”
They ground to a halt, Judy Mullins awaiting her orders like some sort of commando.
“’Ooever gets to Bogg Street Station first, look out for the Dark Lord’s kin. Here’s a photocopy of what they look like.”
A blurry image was handed to Spike. The stately gentleman on the Photostat had his two front teeth blackened by a marker pen.
“Whatever you do don’t let ’em go anywhere near each other.”
“How are we s’posed to stop ’em, Grandma?” Spike scratched the back of his head. “Surely you’ve got a better plan than that?”
“Tell you what, Spike. You go with Nancy.” Grandma Jo removed the photocopy from his hand. “She’s got enough brains to work sommet out. I’ll take Dennis and the kiddies with me. And don’t forget, be very discreet. We don’t want to go upsettin’ the future, do we?”
Wells dragged his fingertip across the spine of an antiquated book. So far the Greyminster Rose had been very educational, if not a little unpleasant on the senses.
He’d already stuck his thumb into the Jellied Eel cage and had it nibbled. He’d prodded the ‘Roc’ and thanked his lucky stars that he’d used the broom. He’d fed the Slithytoves then watched them gyre and gimble happily. And he’d tickled the giant squid. Now sporting an inky blue chin, he had entered the forbidden library.
In a wisp of dust the book crumbled. Wells stepped backwards, outraged at what had just happened.
“Dear G-- !” (He added the dash with the firm conviction of a Victorian novelist.) “Don’t these people from the future read any more?”
Another work of literature transformed to ashes beneath his fingers. With growing anger he flung his elbow along the shelf, flakes of parchment exploding round his head.
“Is this what our future holds? Uneducated, illiterate hooligans?”
Which was where his tirade ended, because the room was now clogged with dust. From somewhere behind him
a squeal suggested that he wasn’t the only intruder. A camouflaged panel opened. A bent-over form slithered across the floor, disappearing through the doorway. Having reached the corridor, its wretched hand reached up from its cowl and closed the door surreptitiously behind it.
At length Damien Roach looked up at the crates that filled the coridor around him. Parrots swore from teetering caskets. Vampire Bats gnawed, gnashed and gnibbled at his boots.
“So, the daft old cow’s tryin’ to alter the future, eh?”
He stretched up to the iron bolt keeping the Mogwai safely restrained. It howled in complaint as he pushed it down its groove.
“Let’s see what she reckons to a Gremlin in the works!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Where Madness Breaks the Long Established Rules
The Great Bogg Street Terminus was every bit as foul as its 20th century counterpart. Haunting echoes rang down from the rafters. Columns of smoke propped up the magnificent arch. Bullish engines snorted in their stalls. Stout men in uniforms scuttled back and forth blowing whistles, waving flags and bowing respectfully to women with gibbonesque backsides.
“Why’s everybody starin’ at me?” Spike dodged the steam escaping from the Mallard’s hissing boiler.
“Can’t imagine what any Victorian commuter ’ud find interestin’ about you, Gypsy.”
Nancy gazed about the platform, searching for that one outstanding face amongst the chaos.
“P’raps it’s because you look like somethin’ out of a Jules Verne book.”
There was a rush of cold air, as though the outside world had been dragged indoors.
“There ’ee is, Gypsy. The Dark Lord’s ancestor. What a ponce ’ee looks, and all.”
She span on her heels, scanning for the other great great grandparent. Seconds later she jabbed her finger towards the lavatories. Making her way up the steps was the woman from Grandma Jo’s photograph.
“Quick, Spike!” That shudder again, upending the hairs on his neck. “You’ve got to stop ’em meetin’. Go and occupy his attention.”
“And that’ll prevent the future from happenin’, will it?”
Spike didn’t seem convinced. He’d been worried about the lameness of their strategy since they’d first arrived.
“S’posin’ they just meet up again tomorrow?”
“Stop whingin’!” Nancy screwed her fist into a ball and brusquely shook it beneath his nose. “Just go and do sommet quick!”
“Such as?” He tilted his head at an argumentative angle. “Stick a pencil up his nose?”
“’Just do whatever comes to mind!”
Reginald Beaumont was reading the Chronicle with great deliberation, his half-moon spectacles sensibly clipped onto the arrowhead of his nose. He was propped up against the door of the Left Luggage Office. Spike tapped him firmly on the shoulder. Reginald lowered his paper and stuffed two pennies into Spike’s hand.
“There you go, my good man.” The journal was lifted across his eyes once more. “Now b— off and buy yourself some clothes! And while your about it, have a bath!”
For a moment Spike stared at the two bronze coins. He gave them a cautious bite to test whether or not they were made from chocolate. Then with a cough, he tried again.
“Excuse me, mate? I’m not your Good Man. I just wanted…”
“Listen to me you loathsome working-class oik! How dare you thrust your soiled demeanour on my person?” It was painfully obvious which character trait had been handed down through the successive generations of Beaumont’s. “Now kindly remove yourself or I’ll call a policeman and have you carted off to Australia!”
Which was where Spike lost his rag. His fist came up smartly beneath the ancestor’s chin. A thwock resounded across the station. Reginald Beaumont crumpled up in a heap of coat tails and newsprint.
“Excellent, Gypsy.” Nancy drew up alongside as several other commuters gathered. “That’s all we need. Here comes Mr Plod now.”
A portly constable, with the sort of whiskers you could lose a fox in, hurried towards them, pushing onlookers aside with his shovel-sized palms. He reached the affray, removed his helmet and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
“All right everybody. If you could all stay calm! Who’s responsible for this?”
“He is, Officer Mahoney.” A weasel-faced guard in shirtsleeves lunged a finger towards Spike’s shoulder. In annoyance Spike bent it backwards.
“Trouble maker, eh Son?”
P.C. Mahoney wrestled him to the ground. There was the click of handcuffs closing. Spike felt the metal biting into his wrists.
“We’ll see how big you are when you confront the magistrate, shall we?”
From the circle of spectators a young woman looked up.
“It’s all right, Officer. He’s not dead after all.”
She had an attractive face, all dimpled cheeks and fluttering lashes. The same face as Bobby Beaumont’s Great Great Grandmother in fact, awash with loving contentment. She nestled the slightly bruised head of her new-found love against her heaving bosom, her expression demanding it ought to be left there.
“I’d better take him to the buffet room. Make sure there’s no concussion.”
“Bloody marvellous!” Nancy watched as Spike was dragged off towards the Police Carriage. “You’re an ’opeless cretin, Gypsy. I hope you bloomin’ ’ang!”
George Pemberton’s hirsute hands emerged from the basin of stagnant water clutching the bar of carbolic soap. He removed the froth from the cut-throat’s blade on his string vest, then set about the stubble on his jaw. His lips were pursed in a jaunty whistle.
“’Ere, Roland?”
“Watcha want? I say watcha want?”
Roland Wainthrop yawned. It had been a rough night, as most nights were inside the Coach House. George sucked his overhanging stomach into his braces and nodded at the Romany caravan behind him.
“How long’s that thing been there?” The grate of bristles being harvested. “I tek it the travellers have come back. Last time they settled ’ere they had off with most of Greyminster.”
Which only goes to prove how things have changed in the Romany culture.
Well, doesn’t it?
“There’s only one, I say there’s only one of ’em from what I can see. The others must be down at Bog Dyke View.” Roland Wainthrop rubbed his teeth with one manure-ingrained finger. “’Ere, George, I say George? What’s that noise?”
“Sorry mate.” George shrugged. “Had one of those meat pies from Brasswick’s for supper. Those buggers always have that effect on me.”
“Not that bloomin’ noise.” Roland strained his cauliflower ear against the splutter of grazing horses. “Can’t you ’ear it? I say, can’t you bloomin’ ’ear it?”
The two men froze and listened to the sounds of lather dripping. Scratching noises appeared to be coming from the caravan. George Pemberton removed the foam from his chin, craned his neck towards the bolted door and listened more attentively.
“If it wasn’t impossible I’d swear it sounded like a menagerie!”
At that moment the scratching was overpowered by a hefty bolt being manhandled along its furrow. The wooden doors swung open, the volume being suddenly amplified to such a pitch it skimmed the grey curds from the tubs. The coachmen’s locks were all blown up in the ensuing blast, the two of them resembling shaving brushes.
“Morning gentlemen! Hope you slept well?” Damien Roach gripped either side of the doorjamb with his emaciated fingers. “’Cos I’m afraid you’re about to have a most unpleasant day!”
He stepped to one side, allowing the mythical creatures to escape in explosions of feathers and fangs. The coachmens’ shrieks were drowned in the crush of thundering hooves.
History claims that Brasswick’s Butchers somehow managed to remain undisturbed and upright through two World Wars. Originally its proprietor was Stanley Brasswick, a great pig’s udder of a man whose centre of gravity was akin to that of the SPODs.
M
r Brasswick was never happy unless he was holding a blood-stained cleaver in one hand and a faggot of entrails in the other. Even on this chilled September’s morning, a collection bluebottles buzzed about his fetid window. Grandma Jo breathed on the pane, rubbed the condensation off with her cardie cuff and peered inside.
“Dear God? Has ’ee still got that manky thing?”
Above the counter an enormous boar’s head swung on its steel hook. She’d always wondered how old it actually was. It was slightly less shrunken at this moment in time. A bit more tufted than its modern descendant. But it was still the same repulsive mobile that had always defied the laws of gravity.
“No wonder his shop always smells like a eunuch’s cricket box!”
“Gamma Jo?” A gentle tug on her elbow. Judy Mullins was staring towards the park. “Can you ’ear somethin’ weird?”
“What sort of weird?”
The distant rumble grew in strength. Clucking noises and scrabbling toes began to separate from the confusion as the tidal wave of discord advanced.
“That sort of ‘weird’, Gamma Jo.”
A shadow from overhead froze the children to the spot. Dennis scurried behind his grandmother. Spiralling against the autum sky a dragon with scaly green limbs blew a funnel of flames towards the ground. A number of cobblestones turned into jelly. Grandma Jo’s mouth dropped open on its hinges.
“What the f…?”
Everybody ducked. The terrible reptile hurtled past overhead with all the threat of a Harrier Jump Jet. With tail thrashing and nostrils flaring it disappeared towards the station, its portentous shadow gliding across the rooftops.
“Gamma Jo?” Judy’s lip was trembling now. “What’s goin on?”
Through the towering gates of the municipal park a cloud of ochre dust billowed troublesomely. At the front of the cloud, several plump dodos tumbled excitedly. Behind them marsupials scrambled and archaeopteryxes flapped. With their great horns lowered two stegosauruses led the rampage down the narrow street. In the distance the pastel beechs were being gnawed by woolly mammoths sporting tusks as long as barge poles.