by Brian Hughes
The last of her books pealed down the metal gullet. Grandma Jo turned to the mound obscuring Dennis’ head. The odd grunt drifted up from beyond the bowing spines. She took up the slack and shovelled the top set into the hole.
“I never thought of that.” Nancy placed her own tower of volumes down on the floor and scratched her cheek. “But happen I’ve got a way out of it.”
She hiked across to a grubby drawer at the top of the bureau. The sort of filthy, oil-stained compartment where rags and pliers are generally kept. Taking hold of the handle she tugged it open, removing a casket from inside. An iron box, decorated with a dragon coiled about a druid’s staff.
Removing a key from the pocket of her vest she pushed it into the hole, gave it a crank and gingerly lifted the lid.
“Look, Grandma.”
Grandma Jo looked up from the chute, continuing to feed it with the diminishing stack of books. The works of Hawking, Freud and Bray all tumbled downwards. Treatises by Shakespeare, Pepys and Lamb, Marx and Chaucer, all fodder to the teapot’s ravenous appetite. Nancy removed a glowing blue cube from the box she was holding and held it up before the astonished children’s eyes.
“This is me.”
“Watcha mean, that’s you?”
Jude the Obscure, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, The Trumpet Major, all clattered and rang as they danced into the mechanism’s digestive system. Nancy grinned, tossed the cube in the air and caught it again on its descent.
“This is where I’m projected from. It’s kept in this indestructible box.” She gave the container an amiable rap, then dragged a trestle from against the wall into the centre of the room. With some deliberation she placed the box on its top. “Not even the ‘Big Bang’ could destroy this casket. It’s made out of polyunsaturates or somethin’. Hold on a moment…”
She suddenly vanished into the main colonnade. With the systematic approach that had brought the Ford workshops to prominence in America the children continued to factory-line the books. Various thumps and bangs emerged from the console room.
When Nancy finally scurried back into the workshop the books had all but gone, two leaflets on ‘Irish Snakes’ and one of ‘Bob Monkhouse’s Joke Books’ having been trampled beyond repair. Grandma Jo was wiping her forehead on an oily towel.
“So, what’s your plan?”
“I’ve got the motor.”
Nancy held the tiny engine beneath the lantern. It hissed and spat as she carefully tied it to the top of her projection unit.
“Now if me calculations are right the blast should hurtle me projector into space, and with a bit of luck we might just meet up again.”
“What’s goin’ to happen to us, Gamma Jo?” Judy Mullins was peering down the metal shaft at the mountain of books gathered in the gloom below. “Are you really goin’ to recreate the universe? Is Nancy goin’ to kick-start the second Big Bang?”
“She’s goin’ to try, Judy.”
Grandma Jo lifted the bemused child from the precarious chute despite knowing what would happen in a couple of minutes. She set her down at a more comfortable distance.
It was very difficult this.
If things went according to plan the universe was about to explode approximately fourteen inches in front of them. Not a very good spot for such an event to happen by anybody’s standards.
“Right, gather round kids. I want you all to hold me ’ands. There’s goin’ to be an explosion…”
“Will it hurt, Gamma Jo?”
Josephine Lowry bit into her lip. She’d tried her best to feign indifference but it was impossible. Children were quick on the uptake sometimes.
“Will what hurt, dear?”
“Bein’ dead?”
That brought the crescent of kiddies much closer. The pensioner felt the press of frightened bodies around her hips.
“It isn’t really bein’ dead. It’s just our way of puttin’ everythin’ back in order.”
Her words weren’t exactly having the effect that she wanted. But what the Hell? Another thirty seconds and it would all be academic.
“Well, Nancy. It’s time to start. You’ve always wanted t’ play God so you’d better pull that lever.”
“I ’aven’t got me soup dragon, Gamma Jo…”
“Never mind, dear. When all this is over I’ll knit you a new one…”
Nancy grabbed the handle on the side of the teapot, screwed her eyes up as tightly as she could, and gave a tug.
According to Stephen Hawking’s masterpiece, ‘A Brief History of Time’ the Big Bang took place ten-thousand-million years ago. Although even he couldn’t be certain of the date.
This was the point at which all matter in the universe was first created. Billions of chemical reactions all taking place within the first few seconds after detonation. Protons and neutrons combining together to form the nuclei of the very first atoms.
Of course there wasn’t any life around in the cosmos for some considerable time afterwards. Life didn’t raise its bleary-eyes until the galaxies had expanded and cooled down again.
What Mr Hawking failed to mention was the devastating effect that such an explosion would have on the insides of a temporally-distorted craft.
Not to mention what sort impact it would have on the caravan’s terrified occupants.
To get an idea of what actually happened the explosion must be slowed down to a fantastic degree. During the initial one-hundred seconds or so the temperature would have been, to say the least, incredibly hot. Considerably higher than one-thousand-million degrees to be accurate. The impact this had on the varnished woodwork was quite dramatic.
For the briefest amount of time imaginable the small group of humans were turned into smoking skeletons, then into nothing more than shadows against the bookshelves. Their smouldering flesh stripped away and vanished in will o’ the wisps, before the caravan itself exploded in a fireball.
Don’t worry! These events occupied no more than one-million-millionth of a second. I have it on good authority that nobody would have felt a thing. Apart from Grandma Jo, that is, who was momentarily distracted by a tickle on the end of her nose.
Time to pull back. Time to view the catastrophic event from a much greater distance.
The universe is still expanding at one Hell of a rate. Here come the rippling edges of everything, rushing through the darkness of eternity.
We must go faster otherwise we won’t have time to see what happens. The hands on the clock are turning so rapidly now that the dial has melted. Forcing us onwards through flickering centuries of temporal distortion.
There go the galaxies look. Some spiralling round. Some flattened into discs that resemble potato-cakes. There are the black holes, tears in the fabric of the universe where the mass is so dense that ‘time’ itself has stopped. Those are the fault of the empty pages in some of Bray’s misprinted books. Grandma Jo should have checked a few of the more suspicious volumes before she put them in. It’s too late now to worry.
Infinity grows colder the more it expands.
The planets start to appear. Tiny ball bearings orbiting flickering suns.
White Dwarfs, Red Giants, great furious pink and purple Nebulae that stretch across the heavens.
And now what’s this?
A tumbling box embossed with a coiled Chinese dragon, spinning helplessly through the Milky Way.
Let’s hope that Nancy made her calculations wisely. The slightest mistake to a fraction of a degree, would result in her missing the solar system entirely and skimming off into the never-ending universe.
Chapter Thirty-Five: At the Dawn of A Whole New Civilisation
October the Second, 1999. Subtly different but somehow more of the same. There were gypsies abroad in Greyminster that night. Dark, swarthy terrorists with flashing eyes and glinting flick-knives. In Devils Copse ‘Wilberforce’s Fairground’ had set up camp with a great deal of clamour.
“Issa impossible!” Mario Wilberforce’s teeth coruscated beneath the storm l
antern, the mammoth burnt pizza of his face leering down on Edward Johnson. “De dart see? Issa too blunt to stay inna de cork.”
One enormous hand demonstrated how impossible it was to actually win at the ‘Hit-an-Ace-and-Win-A-Prize’ stall.
“Wad I wanna know is, ’ow that girl manage to winna de fifteen teddy bears?” Spike shrugged his shoulders. The balls of his thumbs smarted where he’d forced the darts into the cards. A peculiar feeling of deja vu was tugging at his cerebellum. Perhaps he’d been in a similar situation in a previous life. When he’d been more apathetic. “And I told you before,” Wilberforce continued. “Only the cheap toys witha de stitchin’ comin’ loose are to be given away as prizes!”
Wilberforce made to slap Spike round the head. His arm was stopped in its tracks by Spike’s outstretched palm. Mario squinted, forced himself against Spike’s grip, then appeared to sag. “Buggerin’ Hella?”
“All right, Wilberforce!” The arm was rammed against his spine with such unexpected force that Wilberforce almost toppled over backwards. “You’ve taken advantage of the town’s folk for too long. This bloomin’ fairground is about t’ be closed down.”
“Don’t bugger with me, you leetle bastard! You donna know ’oo youra messing with!” Mario straightened, Spike’s boots lifting slightly from the damp grass. “Pablo? Come and dispose ova dis ’orrible leetle geet for me!”
From behind the grimy loaf of Mario’s caravan, Pablo’s weary, tattooed features appeared. Around his wrist a pair of handcuffs secured him to Sergeant Partridge. It wasn’t the Romany who returned his father’s call. It was Jack himself, lifting Pablo’s arm beneath the fluttering wings of the lantern.
“Mario Wilberforce? I’m arrestin’ you on numerous accounts. Includin’ neglect of children, mistreatment of animals, burglary, threatenin’ behaviour, impersonatin’ gypsies, harbourin’ dangerous equipment, collectin’ illegal pornography involvin’ sealions, general misconduct durin’…”
“All right, all right…” There was the click of handcuffs about the fairground owner’s wrist, the cold steel biting into his flesh. Spike’s teeth, still crooked and buckled, spread into a grin as he clamped the other end about his own wrist. “I donna believe you’re workin’ forra de pigs?”
“Sergeant Partridge is trainin’ me! Aren’t you, Jack?” He gave the policeman a courteous salute. “Reckon I’m better off on this side of the law than the other. Now let’s get a move on, Fatso. We’ve got a lot of paperwork t’ get through before mornin’!”
Dennis Lowry rubbed two circles from the condensation on the window. With squinting eyes he peered into the allotments beyond. The bob of his chin had flattened itself against the glass resembling a washer-woman’s elbow. He listened attentively to the sounds of the empty night.
“No point in wastin’ your time, Dennis.” There was the rattle of machine-parts in her arms as Grandma Josephine shuffled arthritically across the potting shed. “You’ve got a face on y’ like a smacked bottom. You’re gonna give’ me an ’and with this and that’s the end of the matter! It’s either that or slop out the goat! So stop sulkin’.”
“I’m not sulkin’ Grandma…” He brushed his hair behind one ear and forced his chin a smidgen higher. “It’s just that I can ’ear a funny noise.”
“What sort of funny noise?” The old woman pulled up short and listened. She was hard of hearing these days and couldn’t make out anything beyond the coursing of blood through her cauliflower ears. “I can’t ’ear nowt.”
“It’s a sort of whistlin’, fallin’ noise.” Dennis bit into his lip and concentrated. “As though World War Two was still goin’ on and the German’s had dropped a bomb.”
“Pah!” Grandma Jo grimaced then poured her mound of paraphernalia onto the workbench. “If it was a bomb you’d know about it. There’d be a buggerin’ great hole in the roof!”
As if by request one appeared. It was accompanied by a crash and a sudden explosion of wood in the shape of a lampshade. Almost by instinct the two of them ducked, covering their heads with their arms. Moments later Dennis coughed an empty tunnel into the dust and frowned at the hole in the ceiling.
“What was it, Grandma? Did we just get hit by a meteorite?”
“Doesn’t look like no lump of rock to me, Dennis.” The sagging pensioner lifted the casket from the rubble and brushed it down. “Looks more like a box. A singed and knackered box, but a box none-the-less.”
With fumbling hands she laid the smoking object beside her other contraptions, prodding its hinges with one cautious finger. A dim blue cube pulsed feebly inside. She thrust one hoary palm behind her back and twitched the fingers on it maddeningly.
“Dennis, hand me that screwdriver quick! There’s somethin’ inside this damn thing.” Pound! Rattle! Twist! The flattened head of the oily tool prodded the gelatinous block. The briefest of fizzles crackled upwards. Grandma Josephine flinched, the screwdriver toppling through the air towards the wheezing radiator in the process.
“Don’t be worried, Mrs Lowry.” The vague outline of a Victorian maid appeared beside the lawn mower. A form filled with static. Gradually Nancy Skunk came into full view. Grandma Jo reached for the claw hammer. “There’s no point in beltin’ me with that thing either! I’m a solid energy ’ologram and therefore impervious to damage.”
“Wanna bet? Dennis, look under the sink.” She wielded the mallet threateningly. “We’ve got a chainsaw somewhere! How do y’ know me name?”
“Actually, Grandma Jo…” Nancy stuffed her hands into her pocket and pulled out a deformed brooch. A familiar bauble that had once been a ‘Medal of Honour’ for a wounded soldier. “I know a lot of things about you. That’s why I’m ’ere. I’ve got an interesting tale I want to tell…”
This, however, is not the end of our story. Imagine if you would the Lancashire milltown of Greyminster as seen from above on a moonlit October’s night. It was now October the Third to be precise, at just turned midnight. Above the rooftops hung the massive disc of the harvest moon, pale yellow and mysterious apart from the craters that made up its ancient face.
Down below wound the steel River Grey, a molten crevasse filled with mercury tonight. Running parallel the tributary of the Lancaster Canal. Two glassy ribbons that corkscrewed through the town before banking steeply up South Ringing Fell. Yellow light streamed through the window of number two Allotment Street. A forty watt tungsten bulb flooded the kitchen with lethargic brilliance. This was Mrs Margaret Lowry’s house, and as such the kitchen was populated by religious iconoclasm and tasteless utensil-holders.
Dennis stuffed his fists into his pockets and peered anxiously around the door of the darkened lounge. Then he scratched his chin with growing vexation. “Get a move on Grandma. We don’t want t’ wake up Mom, do we?”
A rustling emanated from the room beyond. It was accompanied by several muttered oaths at too low a volume to be audible. Dennis turned to Nancy.
“So did the Dark Lord vanish then, Miss Skunk?” There was no response so he rolled his eyes as though the answer was on the inside of his skull. “I mean, did ’ee never get born in the first place?”
“I dunno.” Nancy shrugged her bony shoulders. “But if ’ee did, ’ee hasn’t caused any trouble. And ’ee should’ve done be now. P’raps his mother gave him an ’idin’ every once in a while. Made him a bit more ’umble or sommet.”
Two struggling forms appeared in the doorway, Grandma Jo bent over double as she dragged the beanbag along behind her. It was decorated with Teletubbies and stuffed with chicken feathers.
“’Ere you are! This should do the trick.” She let go of the clump of material she’d rucked up as a handle, pushing her knuckles against her complaining spine. “It’s anarchistic I know. But with a bit of luck we shouldn’t need it for long. Should be enough to cushion his fall.”
“Are you sure y’ want to do this, Grandma?” There was a hint of doubt in Nancy’s expression. “We’ve only just sorted history out. Don’t want to b
ugger it up again.”
“It’s insurance,” said the old woman confidently. “If we save my ’Enry I won’t go round inventin’ things that might destroy civilisation. Come on, Miss Skunk. Sooner we’re done, the sooner you can get back to visiting Spike.”
She plucked the engine off the draining board where Nancy had left it, and gave it a prod with one wizened talon. It spluttered apathetically.
“You’ll have t’ show us how this thing works. And Dennis, dig us some wool out of y’r mother’s basket. I’ve got a soup dragon t’ knit for Judy Mullins.”
It’s generally accepted that stories ought to have an ending. Something dramatic. A finale that leaves the reader with no doubt as to what the future holds for our heroes. In fact, most stories conclude with, “And they lived happily ever after.” Or words to that effect.
Unfortunately, that couldn’t happen here. Perhaps I should tie all the remaining threads together into one decisive knot? But the readers could probably do that for themselves as most of the clues are in the book somewhere. Perhaps I should fill the next forty pages with reference notes? But that would just be an attempt to make the book seem larger. Therefore reluctantly I’m afraid, this is the point where we must take our leave. It’s been a long haul and the future is never clear for anybody. Come to that matter, sometimes the past is a bit on the murky side as well.
What became of Grandma Jo and Nancy Skunk on their latest foray? Well that’s another story. Because the rest, as the adage goes, is history.
BOOK THE FIFTH: MISS DUVALL’S ADVOCATE
Chapter One: Of Gremlins and Ghosts
Here’s a thought. Not much of one it must be said, but then again sometimes even the most uninspired trinkets of observation can lead to the greatest of discoveries.