by Brian Hughes
If the truth be known the pensioner herself was growing scared. Another deafening shred from overhead brought her craggy features up to the boil.
“Hold on a moment, Mrs Lowry.”
A few more buttons were punched before Nancy confronted the occupants of her disintegrating craft. Up above them a third talon tore through the timbers, sending sawdust towards the floor.
“Finger’s crossed! With a bit of luck this might just work!”
The following sequence has been directed after the fashion of a Hollywood blockbuster. Imagine it, if you would, being broadcast on a cinema screen. You’re sitting in your cramped chair, eating the shop-bought popcorn that you managed to sneak into the movie theatre. Ignore the bumbling adolescent and the spotty girl in the seat in front and look at the screen!
Those are the spectacular effects of the temporal vortex which have set the budget back by thousands. A kaleidoscope of gyrating colours receding into the blackness of time.
The gigantic speakers start to rumble in a muffled way. There goes the Greyminster Rose, filling the screen as it hurtles down towards oblivion. On its roof is one of Industrial Light and Magic’s most ridiculous creations to date. A huge, orange rubbery sack; two upright bollocks slapping together on the top of its head.
Let’s chase the acrobatic caravan with our camera, closing in on the creature so that we can gauge its ugly expression. Look at those teeth! That warty chin! Those claws shredding the roof apart.
A quick shot of the main characters panicking inside. The shattered ceiling overhead. A gelatinous eyeball peers through the widening gap. (Directors go to bed at night thanking God for the invention of Slime. Otherwise Jim Henson’s creations would still resemble muppets.)
A sudden whir of clockwork. A close up on the previously unnoticed hatch grinding open. From somewhere inside...similar to where the bolts on Arnold Schwarzenegger’s false head in Total Recall came from...a cannon trundles into view. It centres itself between the Gnart Beast’s eyes. Humorous murmur of an easily pleased audience amused by the creature’s whimsical expression.
The barrel bulges.
An explosion of gunpowder and sound effects. An old gentleman in the front row decides that now is an appropriate time to visit the toilet. The cannonball hits the Gnart Beast in the mouth. The rip of talons across wood. An ensemble of confusing, piece-meal director’s shots. The computer-enhanced beast tumbles screaming into the void with a comical missile wedged between its gums. An oversight of the dubbing editor there.
And that’s it.
Now all you’ve got to do is wait for it to appear on video, wait another six months for the Wide Screen Version, the Special Edition, the Director’s Cut and the heavily edited American Television Version that makes no sense.
Dennis unflattened his nose from the window as the Gnart Beast’s feet disappeared below the chassis. He gave the thumbs up sign to Nancy.
“That got rid of him! Now what are we goin’ to do…Missus Farty-animal?”
Nancy kicked the control panel with her Doc Marten. Several sparks flew out and a panel fell open. A strongbox slowly emerged from behind it. Bending over she pulled the lid off and reached inside. Moments later her hand re-emerged holding a bazooka.
“Right! ’Cop hold of this, Mrs Lowry!”
She threw the weapon across the aisle. Grandma Jo caught it. Already Nancy was back inside the box, rummaging round for more artillery.
“Dennis? Gypsy? Reckon you could handle one of these without blowin’ your brains out!”
“Listen, Missus!” Spike stepped forwards, grabbing the bazooka by its barrel. “I’ll have you know I won the Greyminster Cub Scouts 1988 water pistol tournament. Got the badge and everything t’ prove it!”
“Watcha win it for? Pissin’ off more people than anyone else?”
A stun gun was forced into Dennis’ hands. Nancy looped the belt of a Mortis-Blaster around her shoulders, stuffing a selection of shells beneath her arm.
“You’d better turn that bazooka the right way round, Gypsy. Otherwise you might end up grinnin’ out of your arse.”
“It’d be a improvement,” interjected Grandma Jo.
“Okay, we’re armed and dangerous! Now listen up troops. This isn’t goin’ to be easy.”
She fizzled with static. Her frilly costume transformed into combat fatigues, a maroon beret angled stylistically across one brow.
“You’ve probably gathered by now that we’ve got a stowaway. And wherever it is we’re currently heading there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. We’ll have to land before I can unlock the systems. However, chaps, you can bet your worthless little lives, and some of you might be called on to do that…”
Two of the toddlers shuffled worriedly behind Grandma Jo’s knees.
“You can bet your lives, that whoever this interloper is, it’s all his doin’. And whatever time period we end up in it’s ’cos ’ee wanted us to go there.”
Nancy stuck out her chest nobly. Spike suddenly realised just how flat chested she actually was. Lifting her arm, as though in salute to all matters honourable, she shook the mortis blaster above her head.
“So, who’s with me then?”
A murmur drifted back.
Not quite the response she’d hoped for.
“Right! Well, let’s kick some buttocks, men!” She slapped the gun against her palm, stuffed a couple of hand-grenades in her pocket and stepped forwards. “We’ll take this sucker out, dead or alive! HUT, HUT, HUT!”
Chapter Thirty-One: A Romantic Encounter with a Hoverbike
March 21st, 867. It was the sort of wild and woolly evening in which the sky ran on for eternity, the clouds having been blown from the firmament by hurricane winds. It was also the date that the Greyminster Rose was currently hurtling towards, the co-ordinates having been sealed into the computer. (Some of the readers might have already worked out who was responsible for this sabotage.)
Greyminster was nothing more than a collection of wattle and daub huts at this point in history. Thatched boxes with fat walls that acted as stables and chicken houses. Dark blue woodlands ringed the dimly lit hovels, a plume of smoke from the largest building smudged across the moon.
Flurries of sound and flickering candlelight occassionaly burst from the windows of the Long House. Sven Wilberforce slammed his tankard down on the table. He grabbed his head with both hands and scowled. It had been another miserable day of futile battles against unarmed druids, no more threatening than nibbling gerbils.
Across the crowded room two drunken marauders clashed helmet horns.
A mottled washerwoman plucked the tankard from beside Sven’s elbow.
“Olga? What are you doing? Leave ze pots alone until ze mornink!” A tug-of-war broke out between himself and his gigantic sister. “You’re always messink! Why don’t you go do somethink useful? Such as find yourself an ’usband?”
“An ’usband? Me?”
Olga prodded her stately bosoms with the sort of finger that resembled a donkey’s pissal. She was an enormous woman by anybody’s frame of reference. The sort of corpulent Valkeri that would have made Botticelli’s nudes seem anorexic.
“I ’ava no time for such matters, Sven! Ze weedy, apathetic men you always brink me would probably snap beneath my weight!”
“But Olga? ’Ow can I be expected to run a Viking Horde if mine sister’s always botherink me?” Sven dropped his head into his folded arms again. Three frightened boars squealed as an axehead thunked into the Long House wall. “Always moanink! Always sayink ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that!’ My men are tired. You even complain when they forget to shovel up their toenail clippinks!”
Sven frowned, a mien of misery peering out from behind his bow-tied whiskers.
“All I ask is zat you try to settle down, Olga. Raise a couple ov leetle rapists ov your own. W’at was wrong with Olaf ze Bastard? ’Ee’s a good man but you spit in his eye?”
“Too effeminate!” Olga bunched her sleeves
and started to gather in the pots. “I want a real man, not some stunted, snivellink grasshopper.”
“Too effeminate?” Sven bolted upright. “Olaf ze Bastard? ’Ee murdered half ze population ov Essex! ’Ee bites ze heads off wild boars.”
“’Ee was too prissy!” The plates were stacked in her arms, Olga's fat face peering around them. “’Ee wanted me to write ’eroic songs about him. W’at sort ov man asks that ov a girl? Besides which ’is axe was too small!”
“Is that all you ever think about, Olga?” Sven quaffed his flagon with consternation. Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you’ll still be stuck with a sister that resembles a wild boar. “There are other important things in a man. ’Ow many villages ’ee’s burned. ’Ow long ’is ponytail is! Thinks zat matter, Olga!”
“I’m romantic, Sven.” Clack, rattle, chink went the pots. “Beneath zis blubberink exterior lies ze ’eart ov a loveable leetle bunny.”
“No, Olga.” Sven shook his shaggy head, his beard soaking up the beer. “Beneath all zat mess lies ’alf a dozen layers ov lard.”
“I don’t want a man ’oo’s idea ov culture is to belch ze Norwegian anthem an’ then set fire to ’is farts!” The pots clattered obstinately as Olga marched away. “I want somebody big and ’andsome. Somebody ’oo’s going to carry me off on ’is steed.”
Sven snorted. Another decade of gloomy spinsterhood stretched out before him. Olga’s remonstrations continued from the far end of the table.
“I don’t want somebody ’oo’s idea ov flirtink is to club me round ze back ov me ’ead. Somebody ’oo’s idea ov a lovink relationship is three grunts, two groans and, ‘Thank you Ma’am, now chop us a pig in ’alf for breakfast, you big fat cow?’ Leave me alone, Sven. I’m going to bathe. No point in wasting all zat dishwater whilst ze tub is still warm!”
Judy Mullins brought her Jodhpur heels together smartly. The rake that Nancy used for shuffling squonks out of the food cupboard, was held at arm’s length. She tilted her jawbone towards the roof. On the floor Damien Roach struggled against the cords that bound his wrists.
On one of the rake’s battered prongs a barmcake of dung tottered threateningly. Damien squinted at his short but enthusiastic guard then cast a glance at the troublesome bolus. It stared ominously back down at him.
“What are we goin’ to do about him, then?” Spike turned to his confederates gathered around the control panel. “He must have snook in when we was rescuing Grandma Jo. Pity ’ee let the animals go, innit? I’d liked to have seen the Pickled Gherkins in a feedin’ frenzy.”
“Now, Spike!” Grandma Jo raised an admonishing finger. “Just ’cos he’s responsible for the destruction of civilisation there’s no point in being uncivil!”
“How about if we hang ’im up by his…”
“Dennis! That’s enough out of you, Young Man!” Grandma Jo turned to Nancy instead. “Have you worked out where we’re ’eaded yet?”
“Not exactly, but wherever it is we’re almost there.” Nancy lifted her tired eyes. “It must be somewhere of importance to Mr Cockroach ’ere. Better grab hold of sommet tight, folks. This could be a rough ’un’!”
“Couldn’t we just split ’is scro…”
“Dennis Lowry! Another word from you, my lad, and you’ll be grounded for a week!” An antiquated finger was jabbed with a tiny squeak at Dennis’ chin. “Just ’cos your mother’s not about to Axminster punishment don’t think you can defy me!”
March 21st, 867. 11.42 p.m. Sven was just about to bite into a basted cow leg when he heard the whistle of something approaching remarkably fast. The joint hung suspended before his mouth, the sound bearing no similarity to anything he’d ever heard before.
Could it be possible those miserable druids on the edge of the forest had come up with some new-fangled weapon? A catapult for firing pregnant sheep? Whatever it was, the shriek gathered momentum.
An explosion of thatch filled the great hall with the swell of some enormous hydrangea. Barbarians flew backwards everywhere, chickens flung into the vaulted roof. The curtain separating the kitchen from the rest of the community tore apart. Olga Wilberforce let out a scream, clutching the facecloth to her pendulous bosom, her huge, sagging buttocks on view to the world. Two slices of carrot were lathered to her thighs, what one hoped was a peeled potato bobbing around the trembling tub.
As the debris cleared, the Vikings stared in confusion at the Greyminster Rose.
The door burst open. A scuttling, cowled and bent-over figure with a staff between its teeth toppled down the steps. He was still tied up, although the rope was now unravelling like a deranged bobbin. Sven spat the leathery meat from his whiskers and leapt excitedly to his boots.
“Bloody Druids! I thought zo! After ’im lads.”
The world span in and out of focus. A copse of pale anxious faces were crowded around her. One by one the memories of recent events came flooding back. The great adventure with Bobby Beaumont. The failure of her guard duties. And then at last Judy Mullins could make out every crease and every bag on Grandma Jo’s face. A collection of features that when put together resembled an out-of-breath chimpanzee.
“Gamma Jo?” She remembered Damien Roach disappearing through the entrance of the caravan following the crash. “I’ve let the side down, ’aven’t I? I’m afraid the Narcic Interferin’ Bussard got away.”
“That’s all right, dear.” She felt an increase of pressure as the hoary fingers gently tightened about her hand. The whole world seemed very odd from this angle. “You put up an excellent show of defiance, soldier! I’m proud to have you servin’ in my army.”
The display of confidence was so enthusiastic that it generated a toothy grin across the old woman’s conker of a face.
Judy swallowed, still unsure about what had just happened.
“’Old Bollock Brain did run away, didn’t ’ee, Gamma?”
“Well, yes ’ee did.”
Grandma Jo knelt upright, hauling Judy perpendicular. She ignored the foul-mouthed comment, considering instead the swelling on the top of her noggin.
“But Spike and Nancy are going after ’im. They’ve gone next door t’ get some transport. The rest of us have decided you need a medal for your bravery. ’Aven’t we kids?”
The youthful troops nodded, their makeshift weapons clattering noisily.
“There’s not many little girls who could have fought off a great big demon like that.”
Judy patted the tautening lump and grinned.
“Did I really give ’im some welly, Gamma Jo?”
“More than enough.”
Grandma Jo removed a bangle from her cardigan pocket. It had belonged to her dearly departed Henry. For a moment she seemed reluctant to give it away. But the expression of wonder on the child’s face made her think twice.
“This is what we call the Victoria Cross.”
She straightened the pin, stuck it through Judy’s jodphers, and gave it a pat for good measure.
“I must’ve hit him hard in his bollocks, Gamma Jo. Gamma Mullins used to say if a man was interferin’ with you, kick ’im in the bollocks until the bussards break.”
Grandma Jo coughed. “That doesn’t surprise me, dear.”
“Really hard until is dick snaps!”
“That’s enough of that, Judy Mullins.” As understanding and sympathetic as the Grandma Jo was, there was only a certain amount of elasticity to common decency. “Grandma Mullins isn’t with us any more, so we can be all grateful for small mercies.”
The doorway slammed open against the container that had previously housed the Orc.
“All right! I’ll admit I don’t know how to drive!” Nancy and Spike entered, arguing loudly. “But I’ve had more experience than you, Gypsy!”
Spike was pushing an odd contraption with bullhorn handlebars. It resembled one of those jet skis that nepotistic holdiay programme presenters spend the BBC licence fee on. There were modifications of course. It had chrome-plated exhausts and an ejector s
eat for a start.
“Listen, Missus! I won an eggcup at Sea Scouts for me stunts on a BMX!”
“This thing’s hardly a push bike!” Nancy stopped in her tracks. “This monster’s got a ‘Heisenburger V68 Engine’ with ‘Velocity-Enhanced, Anti-Grav Injection!’ Not the sort of thing you take your cyclin’ proficiency test on!”
“That might be so, Missus Know-it-all.”
Spike gave a tug. The machine swung away from her grasp. With a grunt he pushed it off towards the door.
“Give me credit, Nancy! If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s bikes!”
With which defiant words he mounted the saddle, turned the key and stood on the pedal. An explosion of smoke rattled out of the exhausts, blackening the children’s faces. A high pitched whine vibrated through the empty cages.
“Now bugger off and let me be the hero for once!”
“All right, Gypsy.” Nancy snorted with the wrath of a cartoon bull. “But if you break your stupid neck don’t come runnin’ t’ me!”
In the short time that Judy Mullins had been unconscious the Viking Long House had become chaotic. A pantomime of dipsomaniacs cleaved through the melee in pursuit of Damien Roach. Chicken feathers exploded and bundles of straw detonated, marking the critic’s circuitous progress towards the door.
Alongside the pots and pans of the makeshift kitchen, several more sober Vikings had gathered. Olaf the Bastard kicked the Greyminster Rose’s axle and muttered some knowledgeable comments to his colleague.
“Zer not much cop, zis type ov spoke, y’ know? Best off usink zolid wheels like ze ones I ’ave on mine cart!” Pietre the Sheep Gorger raised one eyebrow. “You get more speed out ov it zat way.”
“Nah, Mate. I got almost thirty miles an hour down Amounderness Vay witch mine last veek.” Olaf the Bastard was surprisingly short. What he lacked in height, however, he made up for in girth and mechanical knowledge. “’Ad ze druids after me. Burned ’em off, I did. Fourteen horsepower! Vvvrooom, like a bat out ov Valhalla.”