by Brian Hughes
“Oh, an’ by the way...”
With a crunch of stiff legs entangled in undergrowth, Jack tugged at the withered hand behind him.
It was a deathly cold hand, riddled with fat, lifeless veins. And it belonged to a pensioner sporting the gait of an arthritic chimpanzee.
“I found this on the way ’ere. I believe it belongs t’ you!”
One short detour before we continue with our misadventure.
This time we find ourselves down Kendal Crescent, a mock Georgian cul-de-sac where suburban Lancashire is wrapped up in remedial slumber.
Or to be more precise we find ourselves outside number seven, a semi-detached with whitewashed walls, green gables and a fine display of hollyhocks.
Cuthbert Hodges padded up the front step as though wearing slippers. For the next eight minutes he rummaged anxiously through his waistcoat pockets, hoping to find his missing front door key. Just as he was about to check the voluminous trousers that were secured beneath his armpits by his braces, the door opened and brought an end to the matter once and for all.
“Ah...evening Pru.”
Hodges, stifled with embarrassment, could barely lift his eyes.
Prunella was standing in her rollers before him. He chewed his bottom lip ruefully.
“I reckon I’ve got some explainin’ to do.”
“I reckon you have.” She stood to one side.
Hodges bustled awkwardly into the hall, upsetting the rubber plant by the telephone. The illumination across the path narrowed to a slither as the door closed once more.
It might be best to fade out on our scene of domestic strife at this point.
It might also be best to ignore the volleys of anger, disbelief and frying pans.
“Animatronics!” Nesbit cocked his head on one side. Then he attempted to look behind the cistern for hidden pulleys.
Apparently there weren’t any.
“Remote control, Clewes,” he corrected himself.
“I assure you, Inspector, we’re not puppets!” Ethyl clawed her way across the linoleum, circling the pensioner who was still tightly bound to the lavatory. “In fact, that’s just the point. We refuse to be treated like puppets any longer!”
“It even sounds like Kermit!”
Behind Nesbit’s shoulder, Malcolm nodded at his colleague’s remark. There was a distinctly nasal chime to Ethyl’s voice, most probably due to the limitations of having a beak. “Very clever the way it’s done though, Sir.”
The two of them stared at the creatures with an amount of awe.
There were banjo-playing caterpillars, soft toys of all descriptions, even two chaffinches carrying the head of small goat mounted on a wooden plaque. Despite having no body the goat was chewing a thatch of grass.
Behind this gathering, kicking an unenthusiastic toe against the flying saucer propped up against the skirting board, stood the Martian. Its hands were somehow stuffed into pockets that didn’t exist.
“Inspector, as you’re probably no doubt aware, we have an inventory of requirements!” Ethyl patted the triple-finned bomb strapped to Mrs Wainthrop’s head. “It’s difficult trying to fit into a human environment and we’d rather end everything once and for all if we can’t receive equal rights.”
“I like the way its little wings move.” Nesbit leaned back on his boot heels, obviously enjoying the show.
“I’m not a manikin!” Suddenly Ethyl was barking violently. “Look at this for Christ’s sake!”
She threw the alluded to wings up and down excitedly.
“I’m warning you, Inspectors! If you don’t start taking us seriously we’ll have no alternative!”
“Alright.” Acquiescing, Nesbit stepped forward. “Though we’d be more inclined t’ take you seriously if y’ stopped talkin’ to us through some chicken.”
“Brilliantly constructed as it is,” agreed Malcolm.
“Chicken!? I’m a bantam you pillocks!”
“As for the bomb, there’s no point in threatenin’ us, Madam, wherever y’re ’iding,” Nesbit continued, regardless of Ethyl’s passionate outburst. “It’s all very well constructing somethin’ that belongs in a Jules Verne novel but in reality plutonium is impossible t’ come by.”
“Not if you hi-jack the late night train that passes through Greyminster from Sellarfield, it isn’t!” Ethyl screwed up one eye dementedly. “The special train that doesn’t exist on British Rail time tables and carries a highly volatile cargo suspended in a complicated arrangement of springs.”
“Yeah...I’m sure I’d have heard about that one if it was true.” Nesbit took another step forward, still searching for hidden levers and radio antennae.
“Do you honestly think the government would tell a dolt like you about it?”
One speckled wing hooked itself through the pin sticking out of the bomb’s fuselage. Inside her bindings Mrs Wainthrop squirmed uncomfortably.
“Now, are you going to meet our demands or what?”
“No!” Nesbit jabbed his oxford in the bantam’s direction. “Step away from that ridiculous lookin’ bomb, Madam, and reveal yourself!”
“With pleasure, Inspector.”
Ethyl stepped to one side.
As she did so the pin came loose.
A startling whine rose from the atom bomb’s innards, accompanied by a worryingly noisy tick.
Chapter Sixteen: Of Showers and Shrinkage
‘The Loch Ness Monster:
In 1863 Wee Jockstrap McDougal, gamekeeper, circus midget and Aberdeen Angus worrier (everybody needs a hobby), first sighted the mythological water kelpie.
Nessie’s later title of “The Beast” was inspired by the nickname given to Jockstrap himself following his trial at Dunfermline Assizes for repeated bovine molestation.
Ignoring reports about excessive waste distribution from Lord Uffington-Bowelsacker’s recently installed privy, McDougal (herein-after referred to as ‘the accused’) started a chain of rumours culminating centuries later in a booming tourist industry for what would otherwise be a boring bit of Scotland.
The next sighting was made in 1933 when Fiona Macsporran saw what she took to be a whale at Aldwoman Castle. Ann Widdecombe, taking a break from her early political career, was relaxing in Loch Ness that afternoon wearing her black bathing suit with spangle-trim. Unfortunately, despite being in the same place at the same time, she noticed nothing.
Alistair Campbell, water bailiff, heard about Mrs Macsporran’s hallucination whilst confiscating the southern end of the loch for being bankrupt. Having interviewed her he then wrote an article for the Inverness Chronicle entitled ‘Hideous Creature on the Loose’.
It had little to do with Nessie but was more of a scathing attack on Cyril Smith.
When Fleet Street heard about the “monster”, not bothering to research the rest of the article, the news of Nessie spread like a dose of clap. Three days later Mr and Mrs Spice were attacked by the prehistoric creature as it crossed the road in front of them. Their attempts to claim insurance for a broken windscreen, dented boot and several stains on the back seat resulted in scandal and litigation.
Eventually they became the last couple to be hanged by their toenails in England.’
Extract from ‘Bray’s Bestiary: The Unexpurgated Version’
It has been said that maturity starts the day a person realises they’re going to die.
In the case of Millicent Broadhurst she was already dead, which probably explained why she’d gone beyond the point of maturity and was currently in a state of decay, the stench of which was causing a few watering eyes.
About halfway down Greyminster High Street Phillipa Morgan, hands stuffed into pockets and nose upturned, was trying her best to ignore the bouquet.
Winifred Duvall, directly behind her, was doing more than just trying. It was difficult enough being attached to the cold, lifeless hand by her own fingers, let alone contemplating the fragrance. This clearly wasn’t the Millicent Broadhurst that Miss Duvall had known f
or so many years. All the mischief, the chaos and recklessness had been sucked out of her somewhere along the lines, only to be replaced by jointless limbs and the general appearance of a smacked baboon.
Sergeant Partridge didn’t have the time or the inclination to worry about the stench. Jack had travelled this road before. It wasn’t his lot in life to question things. He just knuckled down, completed whatever tasks his betters set him, and recorded the results amongst the schematics for model aircraft in his jotter.
Overhead the dragon coiled, spiralling in the fashion of some demented corkscrew across the rooftops.
The sound it produced was growing darker, the air currents generated by its whip-lashing tail instilling fear in the onlookers.
“Right then, Sergeant!” Miss Duvall briefly checked the public conveniences behind her, convinced she could hear an operatic chorus. “Any ideas as to how we might stop this thing?”
The ‘thing’ blew a squall of flames towards Stoughton’s Tailors where the chimneystack promptly exploded. A shower of sparks mingled with the fire as it licked the smouldering pot.
“Well...” Jack scratched his blue chin, thoughtfully. “W’en I was called out to Mrs Prune’s earlier, I swear this bugger shrank in the rain.”
The memory of her favourite turtleneck emerging from the washing machine fit only for Barbie rose in Pip’s mind. She followed her companions’ gazes towards the dramatic stage of the sky. The clouds were rolling back like a set of huge curtains, revealing the cast of stars beyond.
“Not much chance of showers tonight by the looks of things.” Miss Duvall glanced down again as a strobe bounced off the windows and caught her attention.
Greyminster’s solitary fire engine hurtled round the corner of Crompton Street.
It screeched to a halt beneath the descending embers. With the polished brass bell clanging noisily, the exhausted crew stumbled from their berths. Then they connected the hosepipe to a nearby stop-cock with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Small conflagrations were exploding just about everywhere across the mill town tonight, from Crompton’s Crag to South Parade. It was turning out to be the longest stint they’d ever known.
“What is it they say?” Miss Duvall asked reflectively, her eyebrows raised. “About prevention being better than cure?”
Animals scattered!
Or rather the sort of creatures more normally associated with creepy Bulgarian animations scattered.
One hand-sewn vole with its stuffing coming loose managed to clamber through the window. It almost knocked the catch from its peg in the process.
Tin soldiers broke ranks around Mrs Wainthrop’s crinkled stockings. They clanked aggressively towards the door, raising their rifles towards Clewes and Nesbit.
Ethyl leapt up and down on the spot, her stubby wings flapping and her claws making scratch marks on the floor. She was screaming at the Martian who was fumbling awkwardly with the saucer’s lock.
“Get it open, you idiot! We’re going to die!”
In his over-eagerness the Martian dropped the hoop of keys. They rattled down the back of the sink.
‘Tick’ went the bomb, the whine it now produced rising beyond human hearing.
“Turn it off!” Nesbit screamed above the sound of his own frantically beating heart. He rapped the bomb with his knuckles.
“We can’t!” shouted Ethyl. “Once the reaction has started it’s irreversible!”
“Surely we can do somethin’?” Swinging round, his Mackintosh tails catching several mice and hurling them against the wall, he leered expectantly at Malcolm. “You’ve done science, Clewes! Make it stop!”
“I wouldn’t know where t’ begin, Sir.”
“You can’t reverse it!” interjected Ethyl, giving the keys up for lost and scrambling for the window instead. “Not unless you can shrink millions of highly trained personnel to the size of atoms, inject them into the machine and somehow stall the reaction!”
One stubby wing threw the pin in Malcolm’s direction.
“But seeing as you’re so damned clever, you can have a go if you like!”
Malcolm never got the chance. The sweat around his forehead was dripping into his eyes, making it difficult to see properly. Misjudging the pin’s trajectory, it vanished with a ‘plink’ into the hallway beyond.
Mrs Wainthrop stopped struggling at roughly the same moment the bomb stopped ticking.
All eyes swivelled round.
Ethyl pointlessly covered her head .
A grind!
A whirr!
And a small cover slid back across the fuselage.
From somewhere inside a spindly arm winched itself through the opening. It was clutching a pennant wrapped round a lollypop stick. With a ‘pop’ the flag unfurled, the word ‘Bang!’ painted in circus lettering across one side.
Slowly Nesbit uncoiled his arms and stared at the feeble contraption.
He turned to Ethyl where she was balanced on the sill, gawking at the bomb herself with equal bemusement.
“You’ve got to be kidding right?”
There’s many an accurate expression uttered in haste.
The explosion was voluminous.
Especially when viewed from the rockery outside. A huge pink cloud, entwined with black ropes of smoke, forced itself through the lavatory window.
The walls of Mrs Wainthrop’s cottage bulged, as though the building was suffering from indigestion. The roof rose slightly and several bats charged out of the guttering. In true cartoon fashion, a seagull’s nest span above the chimneypot on a cushion of soot. Then, without warning, it shot into the night trailed by a streamer of glowing effulgence.
Smoke escaped through every crack, Ethyl’s fat little body being flung into the garden.
Her descent was accompanied by squawks, loose feathers and a daisy chain of guano from her trembling rear. In a smouldering arc she sailed over the pond, shredded a surprised hydrangea and landed, beak first, between the exposed buttocks of a mooning gnome.
“Would you mind stopping that awful racket?” Miss Duvall let go of Millicent’s hands and covered her ears. She leaned away from Milford Ramsbotham. The deputy fire-chief was furiously pounding the bell. The noise travelled straight through her delicate eardrums, skidded down the back of her neck and then shattered across her shoulders.
Jack Partridge, on Milford’s right, reached the end of his tether. He grabbed the clacker, gave it a sharp tug and tossed it into the gutter as they hurtled past.
“’Ere, that was an antique!” Milford’s face appeared to collapse. “Pride o’ the force that was. Presented to us in 1837!”
“Well, now it’s two antiques,” replied Jack unperturbed, keeping a close eye on the smouldering dragon above them. The fire engine rounded the pillarbox at Chesterton Drive on two wheels. “One of which’ll now be left for future generations of archaeologists t’ discover down the sewers.”
Captain Eric Wattle, forty years in the service and built like a rhinoceros, crouched attentively over the steering wheel. The peak of his helmet rattled against the windscreen enthusiastically.
Eric was an immense putty-rubber of a man, all jaws and biceps and crudely formed features unconventionally arranged about the front of his head. Exactly how he'd managed to squeeze his excessive bulk into the driver’s seat was an enigma that Jack wasn’t going to enquire about.
Miss Duvall peered up through the hatch in the cabin roof. “Are you alright there, dear?”
“I’m coping, thank you,” replied Pip courtesy, clinging grimly to the whistling ladders.
The engine rounded another sharp corner.
The weight of Pip’s jewellery, confronted with the change in gravity, pulled her dangerously to one side. She dug her gothic boots into the metal rungs for support.
“Although I suspect that Flinders had the best idea going home to bed when he did.”
The tarpaulin of the dragon swooped upwards without warning. It hovered for a moment against the c
onstellations, studying the townscape below as though reading a map.
Then it plunged, its monstrous wings fanned, towards the town hall and the thirty snoring pigeons scattered about its roof.
“It’s coming to rest!” shouted Pip from her swaying crow’s nest.
Several pigeons toppled down from above, blasted from their slumbers by the dragon’s arrival. Pip unhooked her knuckles from the rung beneath her chin and pointed towards the copper dome. On its dented summit the serpent had finally landed. It was now flossing its fangs with a skein of wool that had once been attached to Gertrude’s rump. It was completely oblivious to the destruction that defined its route across town.
Seconds later the fire engine skewed to a halt as well. It mounted the curb, demolishing three skeletal stalls waiting to be fleshed out by tomorrow’s traders.
The next few moments were filled with bustle. Manhole covers were lifted with glistening crowbars and determined grunts. Large metal clips were bolted round stubborn stop-pipes. Spoked wheels were turned accompanied by hisses and groans. Eventually everything was ready; the brave boys in yellow waiting patiently for their orders.
Sergeant Partridge took his position in front of them, concentrating on the serpent above. A cascade of droppings bounced down the wall, dislodging several plant pots from the windowsills. Reckoning that now was as good a moment as any, he nodded to Deputy Fire-chief Ramsbotham. Jack was the sort of person you allowed to take charge in such a crisis.
Milford passed the sergeant’s mute signal onto his underlings.
More wheels were cranked with revitalised gusto.
The hosepipe bloated, stiffening and widening as the water pressure engorged its flaccid length. Pointing the nozzle towards the steaming gutters, Eric Wattle yanked back on the lever.
A pillar of water thundered upwards. The necessity for somebody of Eric’s build was now apparent as the backlash knocked him to the ground.
The water roared into the night.
The inquisitive dragon craned over the drainage flu, resting one foot on the slippery tiles whilst keeping the other between its teeth.