by Brian Hughes
Grandma Jo grabbed the frightened children by the scruffs of their necks.
“Dennis? Grab hold of Tiny Tim! Don’t let him run off on ’is own.”
Dennis wrestled with the wayward toddler. A Sabre Toothed Tiger bolted past in a flash of orange.
“Get inside Brasswick’s! Some stupid bugger’s let the pets out!”
When viewed from above the animals had split into two distinct entities. A cucumber of dust obscured both groups, both moving away from each other in the fashion of meatballs from a stabbing fork. One thunderous collection was heading for the Bogg Street terminus, small speckles of humans being flattened as they scrambled along. The dragon, burnished with gold in the morning sunlight, had already swept through the towering entrance.
Spike was struggling with Officer Mahoney against the horse-drawn police carriage. He suddenly stopped and stared at the yellow-eyed crocodile perched in the rafters.
The dragon extended its talons and grabbed a startled pigeon. A blast of bedevilled breath and the plump grey bird became a smouldering titbit.
“Come along, Son! Let’s be havin’ you!” Mahoney tugged on the handcuffs, Spike apparently having grown roots. “No point in puttin’ up a struggle. I’ll only get me truncheon out and belt you!”
After several more yanks Mahoney turned. A shadow chilled his overworked bones to their marrow. He raised his face to the lumbering reptile, its talons outstretched on the platform before him. One armour-plated spur was scratching nastily along the ground.
“Bloody ’Ell!” The constable’s last, uninspired words.
Moments later Spike found himself attached to a smoking pyre of ashes.
“Nancy? Was this s’posed to happen?”
The clatter of boots and Nancy Skunk skidded to a halt beside him. All around mythical creatures were attacking the townsfolk. Harpies pulled clumps of hair from the heads of old women. Feral Yorkshire Puddings nibbled ankle boots and shredded stockings.
“Was it buggery! Somebody’s opened the cages! When I find out who it was I’m goin’ to fry their stupid sweetbreads!”
A wood nymph floated ethereally overhead, dragging an old man by his silver hair.
“Ah well, at least we don’t have to worry about the Dark Lord bein’ born, now!”
Nancy nodded towards the ticket booth. A unicorn was rearing up before a group of commuters. On its horn the lifeless body of a young woman was being tossed about like an old rag doll. A coil of blood spurted out of her mouth.
Look closely. You might just recognise her.
That’s Robert Beaumont’s great great grandmother.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Private Visit on the Past
In the bottom of our trunk is a copy of Bray’s Encyclopaedia. It might be of some interest to us. Let’s have a look for some relevant entries.
Mao Tse Tung:
Born in Bangor, 1893. The eighteenth son of a Welsh colliery worker. Mao suffered chronically from haemorrhoids and hepatitis which turned his skin yellow. After many adventures on the Indian Ocean in a bathtub Mao settled down in the Pong-Ping-Ying-Yong province of Greater China. Having fought off an attacking grizzly bear he was elected as leader of the Communist Party.
Famous for quotations, in 1923 Mao made the following blunder at a public rally. By accident he read these words from his ‘Little Blue Book’. “Half a pound of sausages. A quarter of dripping. A pint of milk. Three pairs of those frilly, black lace undergarments with Kruschev’s face on them. And some bickies for Spot.” The frightened coolies in Zimmerman Square gave a standing ovation.
In 1839, during an upsurge of the Marks and Spencer’s Movement, Mao made his most famous remark. “China must take a great leap forward.” In order to achieve this he attached a catapult around the great wall and thrust a huge fork of oak into the Island of Formosa. Fortunately David Copperfield hacked through the massive rubber band in time to stop it.
Mao Tse Tung finally succumbed to Yellow Fever in 1985. He was buried at The Bodwin Jones Memorial Cemetery, Llandudno.
Actually, that wasn’t the section I was looking for. However it does prove that Bray was a charlatan when it came to factual research.
Hold on and I’ll look for the page I intended to show you originally.
Emmeline Pankhurst:
Born 1858. Led the fight for ‘Votes For Welsh Women’ from a pickup truck owned by Joseph Lister. Introduced Punk Rock to Wales by constantly chaining herself up in public and spitting on passers by. Often imprisoned with her fellow suffragettes for playing bingo on the street corners, holding beetle drives on thoroughfares and disrupting traffic with her ‘All-Night-Knit-Ins.’
Married Sir Isaac Newton, inventor of the wheel and the apple pie, in 1885. Bore him thirty-seven sons all of whom are now stuffed and on display in the British museum. Had another seventy-five illegitimate children to Samuel Pepys, the Godfather of Modern Jazz.
Died 1928 when she threw herself beneath Kind Edward’s feet at Ascot. His massive, gout-ridden weight was enough to crush her frail bones. Buried beneath a potting shed in Aberystwyth.
Yes...my apologies again. That’s also not the bit I was looking for. Actually, I’m beginning to wonder how much Welsh blood Bray had running through his veins when he wrote this book. Just bear with me a moment, only a couple more pages to go. Ah, here we are. An historic reference to one of the characters in our story.
H. G. Wells:
Born September 21st, 1866 in a small Welsh Choral town with an unpronounceable name. Educated at Midhurst Grammar School, Brecon Beacons, by a lean character known as the punishing Mr Tibular Fibbs. Ran away from home in 1872 to join a travelling physics laboratory with his Great Aunt Gladys. Served an apprenticeship at Owen Baldwin’s Draper’s in Dolgellau, where he wrote the famous song ‘Half-a-Sixpence’ for his roommate, Tommy Steel. Obtained B.Sc. at the Royal College of Science for his work with invisible ink, D. Litt. at Dr. Bunion’s School of English in Glamorgan, and Ph.D. at Merthyr Tydfil for his pioneering work with Quantum Physics.
Wrote some novels.
Still not dead at the ripe old age of one hundred and thirty-nine. Has now retired to a pig farm East of Swansea where he lives with his eighth wife, Matilda.
There we have it. Conclusive proof that this novel is historically accurate. At least as accurate as Bray’s research allows it to be.
For anyone wondering, don’t go looking for Bray’s ‘Guide To Historical Figures.’ You won’t find another edition anywhere in Britain. Fortunately perhaps, especially in the light of what happened later, Wells himself destroyed the only other copy during his tantrum in Nancy’s caravan.
Time to close the trunk once more. Time to return to our story. We haven’t finished with Mr Wells yet. It was important, however, to know a small amount concerning his background.
Chapter Thirty: The Origin of Novel Ideas and the Outcome of Interference
The slam was so violent that it made the roof-struts rattle. Herbert George Wells slid his half-moon spectacles down his nose and raised his eyes. Not all of the books in Nancy’s library were as brittle as his original choice. And the ones concerning the Future History of the Earth had turned out to be positively intriguing.
One work in particular had caught his eye. ‘Bray’s Historical Reference Book on the Hippy Culture.’ Especially the full colour photographs of young women enjoying a communal bath at Glastonbury.
“Somebody somewhere’s going to pay for this, Gypsy!”
Wells took out his notepad, removed a pencil from behind his ear and officiously licked the lead. Cocking one temple he listened intently to Nancy’s soliloquy.
“’Course I’m not referrin’ to the actual amount it ’ud cost to rebuild Greyminster, you stupid cretin!”
An assortment of grumbles sneaked in from the coridor. Wells concentrated, scribbling down whatever brief snatches he could determine.
“Might just have altered the ‘hole’…” He scribbled that out, rewriting ’Whole’ in its pl
ace, “Shape of Things to Come.”
More muffled admonitions reached his ears. The pencil scribbled furiously, Wells’ lips moving as he wrote.
“Going to test out whether Gypsies actually have crystal balls or not…”
Behind him the door creaked slowly open.
“Shut your ugly gob, Gypsy…” Another lick, followed by the squeak of graphite on paper. “Before I rip off your…?”
He coerced his eardrum a little further, frowned, and wrote, “Morlocks,” adding a question mark after it.
There was a gentle tug on his trousers. Staring up at him from knee height was a four-year-old girl. She was dressed in a fluffy pink jodhpur suit and was clutching baggy hand-stitched ichthyosaur to her chest.
“’Ello Mister. What are you doin’?”
“Judy Mullins? Where’ve you gone, dear?” Grandma Jo’s voice rattled through the door. It was shortly followed by the old woman herself. “Don’t go wanderin’ off. You don’t know ’oo the ’ELL ARE YOU?”
A sudden rush of blood up Herbert’s thin neck sent his cheeks into full bloom.
“Herbert G…G…George Wells. At your service, Ma’am.”
H. G. held out one humbled palm. He wrapped his scarf a little tighter round his neck.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to s…startle you.”
A crowd filled the entrance to the library like hairy pickles in a jam jar. A gathering so thick that it turned his plans of escape into a distant dream. He gulped nervously.
“So? You’re the idiotic bastard who let the animals out, are you?” Nancy barged into the room, grabbing Wells by the collar and yanking him off his feet. “What’s your game, Mister? Have you any idea what you’ve done?”
“I haven’t the slightest, Madam, but might I assure you th…that what…”
“You’ve only upset the ’ole of the future as it was!”
Nancy ran the sentence back over in her mind. It still didn’t make sense, no matter which way round she viewed it. Under the circumstances it would have to do.
“What have y’ got to say for yourself?”
“I merely assumed, that is, I only wanted to have a look…er…around your un…un…unusual and, might I say, ‘remarkable’, side-show and…er…”
Wells’ feet barely touched the boards as they skittered down the coridor, Nancy lifting him off the floor. Seconds later he was flung through the narrow entrance. He staggered several paces before coming to rest in a loaf of horse-manure.
“And Bloomin’ Stay Out!” Nancy brushed down her wiry hands, several startled, wide-eyed faces peering out all around her in the fashion of a daisy. “Right! Everybody back in! We’d better have look at what’s happened to the future, hadn’t we?”
“What about ’im?” Spike nodded towards the rump protruding from the aromatic heap. “That idiot’s just read loads of stuff about the future. S’posin’ he puts it to some history alterin’ use?”
“Have you ever ’eard of him, Gypsy?” The hologram’s fists were back on her hips. “’Ee’s just a nobody! I hardly think ’ee’s goin’ to change the face of literature! Besides which we’ve got bigger problems right now.”
October the Third, 1999. Not October the Third as it had once been. But October the Third as it now was. The cirrus-strata parted and the Greyminster Rose descended awkwardly towards the earth. It was similar to watching an orang-utan’s Dunlop swinging out of control. Following some unusual acrobatics the caravan eventually put down its stanchions and landed gently in Devils Copse. There was a thump as its wheels sank into the mire. Moments later the door handle turned.
“There you are. There’s hardly any difference!” The door was flung open, Nancy stepping fearlessly through it. “No Dark Lord’s Realm. No industrial landscape. Just good old Devils Copse. I hope you’ve all enjoyed travellin’ Skunk Airways. This is where we part company. Single file now. Quick as you like.”
A daisy chain of heads forced themselves out beneath her arm.
“It’s bin a pleasure meeting you.” Nancy scratched her chin. “With the exception of Gypsy. Now bugger off so’s I can get back to me collectin’ in peace.”
“I hates to tell you this, dear.” Grandma Jo, with a child attached to each arm, nudged herself onto the top step. “But I don’t recall there being so many unicorns when I was ’ere last.”
A herd of them were grazing in front of the lopsided porch.
Nancy shrugged.
“So you’ve got a new species in the Eye-Spy Book of British Wildlife.” She folded her arms across her pinny as though preparing for an argument. “That’s hardly goin’ to upset matters, is it? It’s better than havin’ to live with the Dark Lord.”
Grandma Jo looked up at the fantastic purple leaves overhead. In the distance a tartan-coloured beast was trampling some oak trees into a pulp.
“Where’s Greyminster got to? You could see the spire on St. Oliver’s from ’ere! And where’s all the people?”
Grandma Jo was right. Nancy could recall the towering chimney of Stewartstone’s Slateworks as well. She produced an electronic monitor from out of the air. A bijou oblong with a fluctuating dial that listed the number of species around at any given time.
“Perhaps they’re hidden somewhere?”
“Aye, p’raps.” It was Spike’s turn to speak. “Probably inside that creature’s stomach over there. The one that under normal circumstances you wouldn’t see uprooting the trees at Druid’s End.”
As he spoke a sullen breeze whispered through the grass. A lumbering beast that resembled an onion with muscular legs was heading towards them. Harvest mice took to their delicate wings as it pounded the ground into divots.
“P’raps we ought to get back inside.” The huddle of humans appeared to shrink into one multiheaded animal. “Before that thing decides t’ finish us off?”
“I don’t understand!” Nancy thumped the box. The readout for mankind remained at zero. “’Perhaps humans and mythological beasts were never designed to live together? Our little accident must have had more effect than we thought.”
“You could be right there!”
The Dreaded Orange Gnart Beast was drawing closer. It leapt Greyminster Dyke, its huge size becoming more apparent. From its sloping forehead two boneless flanges battered against each other. Its enormous mouth grew ever larger, hung rungs of gristle disappearing down its gullet.
“Er, Missus? It’s time we got a move on!”
Crack went the scanner against the bucket hung over the porch. Nancy squinted at the readout as the unicorns scattered in all directions.
“Now look! The bugger’s not workin’ at all! Third rate Korean rubbish!”
At last she looked up. Approximately thirty-two feet away and closing fast the gigantic vegetable lolled belligerently towards her. It’s teeth were flashing like brand new traffic cones, its stubby legs crushing nettles beneath their weight.
“Buggerin’ ’Ell!”
Nancy suddenly realised that everyone else had vanished.
She decided to join them.
The door slammed shut as the forty-foot beast made a swipe for her apron.
The whirr of motors spluttering into life. The hack of a backfiring exhaust. The splinter of oak-ripping tusks penetrating the ancient bowed roof.
And then finally the Greyminster Rose retreated pell-mell into the temporal vortex.
Carrying an unwelcome new passenger with it.
“That was fun!” Spike folded his arms, keeping one eye on the splinters of ceiling falling all around him. “It’s always good to visit your old friends, don’t you think? We ought to go on these nostalgic tours more often.”
“Shut your gob, Gypsy. You ’aven’t got any friends anyhow!” There was a crash overhead and the Gnart Beast’s finger poked through the ceiling. “You might not ’ave noticed but we’ve got a problem!”
“Can’t you just land somewhere and let him off?”
“No!” Nancy crossed to a collection of pine butt
ons she’d never used before. “’Ee’s not the only intruder. Someone’s bin messin’ about with the controls. They’re all jammed up. We’re on an unstoppable course for God only knows where! Or rather ‘When.’”
Her fingers danced across the keys. Tiny warning lights blinked on and off.
Another crunch from up above. This time it brought cobwebs down on top of everyone’s heads. The frightened children wrapped themselves tightly about Grandma Jo’s legs.
“So, what are you up to? Another one of your schemes that’ll accidentally rip the belt of Orion from the heavens?” Spike’s foot tapping grew in strength as a second finger forced itself through the ceiling stays. “That’d be great, wouldn’t it? Orion with his starry gnadgers on view.”
“I have to take desperate measures!” There was an urgency in Nancy’s voice. It sent a shiver of worry up Spike’s back. “If that roof comes off we’ll all be sucked into the eternal wastelands of time.”
“Right, and that’s bad is it?” The hint of worry had crept into his voice now. Just enough to remove the sneer from his lips.
The controls suddenly glowed a disturbing red, loud sirens screaming like banshees from every corner. The group of children grew ever more compact, Grandma Jo turning purple beneath the crush.
“Not as bad as what I’m goin to do to your gonads, Gypsy, if we manage to get away with this!”
“Stop it!” Grandma Jo’s voice unexpectedly broke through the din. She removed her palm from Dennis’ head and thrust one finger towards the arguing couple. “Just stop your arguin’! You’re frightenin’ the kiddies!”