by Brian Hughes
The blushing Olga, who now resembled a sunburnt hippopotamus, desperately tried to cover her magnificent attractions. She lashed out with her pickled-onion toes.
“Get out! Zis is mine bathroom! ’Ave you not an ounce ov decency?”
Olaf blew some beer from the tousled opening in his beard. Five corpulent fingers twittered towards him.
“If you’re goink to stand around talkink macho bollocks all day, zen at least hand me ze towel.”
It was a request that wasn’t destined to be completed. At that very moment the door on the caravan burst open, the lantern above the porch erupting in a shower of tiny fragments.
Through the dust shrieked Spike’s uncontrollable hoverbike. It careered down the steps, multicoloured fumes billowing dramatically from its juddering exhausts.
There was a thump. Spike’s field of vision became obscured by something pink and rubbery.
With a hairdo resembling something dredged from David Lynch’s imagination he slammed the brakes on. His knuckles whitened. The bike stopped short, Spike swinging upside-down above the handlebars.
Then it was off and spluttering once more, becoming nothing more than a single smudge.
Spike still couldn’t see anything because of the rippling flesh in front of him. Two plaited pigtails slapped him angrily around his temples.
Another crash and an Olga shaped hole appeared in the far wall.
The crack of bracken. The scratch of brambles. The squelch of something sinking deeply into mud.
Damien’s scuffed and bleeding face emerged triumphantly from the undergrowth. He double-checked his dark surroundings.
In the distance axe heads rang against the tree trunks, deerskin boots padding across the forest floor. Norsemen shouted Scandinavian phrases towards one another. (Up until this point the Viking’s conversations have been translated into modern English. I thought there wasn't much point in forcing the reader to buy a Viking dictionary.)
A smile broke out across Damien’s dirty features. He’d finally managed to frustrate those idiotic brigands. Now if he could just work himself free from his infuriating bindings he could track down Greyminster’s last remaining druidical order.
Damien had wanted to meet the elders of this nature worshipping brotherhood since Bobby Beaumont had first opened the Temporal Vortex. He intended to introduce them to some technological advances. A pocket torch, for example, might just be enough to turn him into their God. Then he could alter the course of Earth’s history to suit himself.
The power crackled through his bones.
The grin it produced was, however, short-lived.
From the direction of the pigsty an anachronistic motor spluttered towards the moonlit copse. A wheezing, distressed noise accompanied by the excited holler of a sexually-aroused female.
Spike twisted the accelerator, one arm on either side of his passenger. Oak trees whirred past in dangerous columns. The adipose Olga slung her arms round his neck, planting her frog-like lips on his pimple-infested cheek.
“Geddoff me, you bulbous dobber!”
Another smack of tender kisses. Olga gazed besotted into her hero’s watering eyes.
“I can’t see where I’m goin’! Watcha tryin’ to do? Get us killed?”
“My ’ero!” A sticky slurp as a king-sized tongue stroked the bristles of his chin. “At last a tender lover on a chargink steed.”
Damien ducked as the hoverbike skimmed overhead, whipping the ferns up into a frenzy. The nearness of his encounter with its undercarriage left him with a purple tonsure.
The bike sped off, unable to navigate the hawthorn hedge. Screams accompanied the horrible shredding. The receding lights scribbled their way through the foliage, rounding in a mighty crescent and heading back.
Damien fumbled in the soil until he located an object. A rather blunt object.
He struggled onto his feet, swung the branch experimentally, and waited.
With a buzz, the craft rose into view again, two colossal peaches overhanging the front.
Damien breathed in until his ribs cracked, waiting for the perfect moment to inflict the most damage.
The blackened outline of a twin-headed beast.
Damien swung. A blur of limbs. An explosion of sparks. A thud that sent him hurtling backwards into the brambles.
A haunted crack repeated itself from every stump within a twenty-foot radius, scurrying off into the calming well of the wood. Olga watched as the dark green bowers of a free-falling world pirouetted around her. Branches snapped beneath her weight. With a total lack of co-ordination the sturdy serving wench landed in a firtree.
Down below, a rainstorm of pinecones peppered the helmets of the searching hordes. The trunk let out a creak. Then it fractured.
Damien flung the rope into the scrub and stumbled blindly through the darkness again, his robes snagging on briars and his ankles bleeding with thorns. His sights were fixed on the standing stones huddled together beyond the wood.
Smoke coughed itself out of the hoverbike and coiled up the bloodstained beech. Crumpled up amongst its roots, the buckled metal appeared to weep. Shadowy red tears that ran in ribbons, catching the moonlight across their backs.
Beneath the wreckage, torn and mangled, Spike lay dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two: One Last Intermission
There is one more videocassette in our trunk that we haven’t looked at. In the wake of Spike’s untimely death perhaps now would be a good opportunity. The hand-scrawled title on the cover reads: ‘Spike’s Home-made Good Sex Guide.’
Spike’s frowning face filled the screen. He tapped the lens. Dennis’ little sister, Ruth, was giving instructions.
“You’d better watch what your doin’, Mister! If Mum catches you breakin’ that she’ll have your gonad’s for her suspender belt.”
“Why? She got a collection or somethin’?” Spike moved back. “This is Spike’s Good Sex Guide.”
“Hah!” It was an acerbic laugh that came from Ruth’s mouth. Spike lifted a crumpled, upside-down magazine and tried to ignore it.
“According to a survey in ‘Woman’s Periodical’ apparently English men only ’ave three or four partners in their lifetime as opposed to the five-’undred that American’s ’ave. Accordin’ to…”
He squinted at the text, pulled back puzzled, turned the magazine the right way up and tried again.
“Accordin’ to Mrs Emily Carmicheal this means that Americans are better lovers! Well let me tell you something, you sad, fat Yankee warthog! P’raps if you took that stupid bees’ nest off your ’ead you might realise that the real reason yanks have so many partners is ’cos they’re crap at ’avin’ it off! They obviously don’t know how to satisfy each other.”
The magazine was studied again in an offended manner.
“It says ’ere that American men can have it off up to sixteen times a night!” It went back down, a snarl on his lips. “Must be bloody short shags then! I might only be able to do it once meself but I always mek sure I get it right the first time.”
“Perhaps as well or your wrist ’ud break!”
A change of scene, this time the garden on a glorious summer’s day. Spike was holding the hosepipe between his legs, an arc of water gushing from its nozzle ripping the sweetpeas from the fence.
“Look at the size of me big green cock.”
Spike started to prance around the flowerbeds.
“Ooh-er, Missus. Bet this ’ud make your eyes water, wouldn’t it?”
“What the Hell do you think you’re doin’?”
The camera swung round onto Dennis’ mother. Her fists were planted on her thighs.
“Look at the state of my petunias! The Holy Father’ll be spinnin’ in the Vatican. Put that ’osepipe down and get off home you little pervert!”
And that’s about that. Not a long or impressive video. But one that still belongs in the trunk. Let’s close the lid for one last time. We’re now approaching the end of our adventure. So hold on tight beca
use it’s going to get bumpy.
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Tea Party Following a Conversation in the Dark
Jonathon Livingstone Bluebottle had aspirations. He’d been genetically engineered by the Dark Lord and didn’t want to spend his life trampling turds. He’d watched the humans coming back to the Greyminster Rose and had decided that what he needed was an education.
Jonathon already knew one or two things about scientific principles. Such as Newton’s Law of Motion, where a body moves relative to its surroundings. He himself could never exceed 50 miles per hour unless Sellotaped to a firework. But on a train he could buzz up and down at over 200 mph. By rights he ought to have been a crumpled blot, wondering why his arsehole had changed places with his mouth.
The thought occurred to him, ‘What would happen if the train roof were removed? The train would still be rushing along, but the sky would remain where it was. Which surroundings would he then belong to? How much of the roof would have to be removed before the sky became more important than the carriage?’
Such were the problems of a bluebottle. How he loathed the ignorance of the common houseflies that squandered their lives in the bottom of the sink.
In case you’re wondering what this has to do with our story, it allows me to explain about the relative motion between ‘Time’ and ‘Outer Time.’ In the temporal vortex ‘Time’ didn’t actually exist. Only the progression of events taking place separately from the rest of the universe.
According to Newton, Jonathon’s own progression through ‘Time’ was also related to the Greyminster Rose. He smacked his chops, thought about matters, then drew a little face on the condensation with his antenna.
Time for a bit more knowledge. The library was tall and foreboding, especially seeing as he was so small. It was full of imposing books that towered above him. Jonathon buzzed in and out of the shelves for a short while, examining the hieroglyphics down the lofty spines. Then he stuck out his feet and came to rest on one massive tome. Time, he thought, to learn to read.
Grandma Jo brought the covers together with a muffled crunch. Then replaced the Bestiary amongst the other volumes. She turned to Nancy who was running her fingers through an encyclopaedia. “You ’aven’t said much since y’ got back?”
“What is there to say?” Her sallow expression said it all really. She could pretend not to be bothered, but the way she’d kicked that Viking through the Long House window didn’t stand for nothing.
“I’d have thought you’d have lots t’ say, under the circumstances. Havin’ just seen that bike all mangled up. How about, ‘that bastard book critic’s killed me boyfriend’?”
“What? Gypsy?” Nancy feigned astonishment. “’Ee wasn’t me boyfriend.” Her encyclopeadia was slammed shut with such ferocity that a crack rang out around the cases. “It was his own fault. I told him not to bugger off! I couldn’t care less if he’s dead!”
“Humph!” Grandma Jo hoisted her underwear beneath her armpits and placed her palm on the young girl’s shoulder. “Then how come you’re crying?”
“I ain’t crying!” A non-existent tear was removed from her cheek with the back of one hand. “I’m just concerned about me animals, that’s all!” With resolution Nancy crammed the book back into its slot and fumbled for the next one along.
“He wasn’t a bad lad really.”
“I don’t wanna talk about ’im.” Bray’s Encyclopaedia of Genetics was yanked from the shelf with growing fierceness. “Can’t you understand, you stupid old walrus? We did nothin’ but argue.”
“Most people do…” Grandma Jo’s eyes misted over. “Especially when they’re in love. It’s just their way of sayin’ ‘We get along so well a little argument ain’t going to ruin things.’ I’m sure that Spike thought very ’ighly of you.”
That did the trick. A tear exploded on the leather cover.
“Why did I let him do it, Grandma?” Nancy snuffled. “I could have stopped ’im. But I didn’t! Now ’ee’s dead!”
“It wasn’t your fault.” A stiffened handkerchief was proffered obligingly to the end of her nose. “I remember when I was young. I was a bit prettier then. I haven’t always resembled a gerbil with indigestion. I was just as headstrong and argumentative as you. Hard to believe, I know.”
Grandma Jo settled back against the cupboard, absentmindedly patting Nancy’s hand. “My husband ’Enry ran the Ironmongers on the High Street back in those times. Ardwick’s Hardware. Not a bad livin’. I knew those ladders were dangerous. Got hit by more bombs than enough durin’ the War. I was always tellin’ him not to leave ’em out by the air-raid shelter. Any’ow, we had an argument one afternoon. A bloomin’ big argument over sommet ridiculous. Who’s turn it was to rub the ointment on the dog’s boil or sommet. And I’d stormed off with Dennis’ father in his pushchair without tellin’ ’Enry the foot was loose.”
Nancy blinked, removing the tears from her lashes with her cuff. “What ’appened, Grandma?”
“Bloody idiot fell and broke his neck!” Grandma Jo was having difficulty extracting the words from her tightening throat. “Broke me ’eart as well. Bloody sod! That’s why I took up inventin’ things. To help me get over what had happened.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Well, you see...” Grandma Jo pulled herself back out of her reverie as though the worst of it was over. “I thought I owed the world somethin’. You know, for me stupid attitude? Then one day this ’ologram just like you turned up. ’Course, I didn’t know it was an ’ologram at the time. Thought it was the paper girl. But she convinced me to make the world a safer place. So I sat down and started venting things that might ’elp avoid accidents.”
The old woman bit into her bottom lip thoughtfully.
“Wasn’t very successful. First thing I made was a pair of clippin’ shears that couldn’t cut. Electric scissors they was. Bloody things blew up and took ’alf of Allotment Street with ’em.” She brought her ramblings to a halt and looked around to see where she was. “Any’ow, you can’t go blamin’ yourself for accidents. That’s all I’m getting at. If things was goin’ to go wrong then that’s how it was meant to be. Now what’s this plan you’ve got?”
“Well…”
Reluctantly Nancy looked back down at her book, then tapped a diagram of what resembled a zebra crossing.
“We’ve still got to get rid of the Dark Lord before ’ee comes into existence. And put the human race back by removin’ the mythological beasts?”
Grandma Jo nodded, part of her mind still obviously stuck in her own dark past.
“So what I intend to do is go back to the dawn of life. Sort out the DNA patterns. Then trace his ancestry back to its origins and prevent ’is family from ever happenin’.”
“And how are y’ goin’ to do that?” She stuffed the handkerchief back in her cardigan pocket.
Nancy uncoiled her wiry fingers. A fizzle. A spark. And in her palm there sat a device that resembled a soldering iron. “Usin’ this!”
March 21st, 867. Approximately midnight. From Greyminster’s standing stones a dragon of smoke lashed up to the heavens, coiling out of a charcoaling cauldron. Mimicking the granite obelisks of their adopted bore hole, a group of druids leaned on their staffs. A bloated silence filled the night as they watched the hungry flames lick around the bubbling concoction.
At length the shortest of the group pulled back his hood and scratched his chin. He leaned across the surface and flared his nostrils like a trained wine taster.
“It could do with a bit more salt.” He thrust one finger into the mixture and gave it a stir. A buckled helmet bobbed amongst the cubes of leek, clanking noisily against the rim. “And another slab of meat.”
“We ’aven’t got no more meat.” The tallest druid had a booming voice. It vibrated eerily from his hood, out of place with the brittle air. The barbs of his beard twittered up and down as he spoke.
“We had the last of our emergency Vikings yesterday.”
“How
’bout a sheep then?”
“Are you mad?” Despite being concealed one could sense the indignation in the short druid’s face. “You don’t know what sort of ’orrible disease you could catch.”
It was precisely at this juncture that Damien Roach stumbled into the ring. The firelight danced across his cowling. His cheeks were raw, his ankles swollen by stinging thistles. Behind one of the monoliths three lonely rams bleated apathetically.
Just a moment, Damien. Look in your pockets. You’ve got one, somewhere. He fumbled about beneath his robe, searching desperately for the bicycle lamp.
“ArGeKK! Chowda Concheil!” A Jack-o-Green suddenly appeared from nowhere. Or rather a soil-encrusted savage wearing a mask with a crooked mouth. He shook his tasselled Morris dancer’s stick before Damien’s nose in the manner that a witch doctor would exorcise evil spirits. “NyARgh Arrra HuTCh!”
“Gentlemen? Arh, now! Don’t be alarmed by my odd appearance!” He dragged the object from his pocket into the firelight. “I come from a long way in your future. I know you don’t understand a word I’m saying.”
Nonetheless he spoke each syllable with great deliberation. “But I have a suspicion that this might prevent you from taking hostile action.”
His horny thumb depressed the torch button. The reaction on the druids was almost as unimpressive as the reaction from the bulb. Damien lifted the useless Chinese lamp and squinted at the trembling filament. It appeared to be swinging from its prongs. It must have broken during all the excitement.
Damien snorted and looked back at the druids.
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” He thought about matters urgently. “I’d show you my radio but there’s not a lot being broadcast at this moment in time. Not unless Jimmy Young is still around. Hold on, I’ll think of something.”
Somebody tugged on his elbow. Damien stared at the squatting Jack-o-Green. He was prodding his emaciated chest with one gaunt finger, pointing towards the bubbling stew with the other arm. His makeshift head was tilted enigmatically. Damien watched the foul ragout inside the cauldron bubble and spatter.