by Brian Hughes
Now satisfied, she jammed the shovel into the mound of earth, took up position with her mouldy spine facing the crater, and waited patiently.
Overhead the clouds swirled with all the menace of blood being swallowed by some gigantic plug hole.
And all around, from ginnels and passageways, from shop fronts and sheds, came the unmistakable sounds of an impossible war being relentlessly waged.
Chapter Twenty: Of Computers and Culminations
‘The correlation between Biology and Psychology: An examination of Internal Organs.
Sigmund Freud first discovered the connection between mental conditions and physical problems when studying medicine. Therefore I have decided that it might be beneficial to take a closer look at some internal organs in order to better understand the human psyche.
Getting hold of such organs is, of course, a difficult business. However, one morning in ’29, an opportunity presented itself. I had just wandered into Broadbean’s apartment for my morning cuppa and had settled down in his favourite armchair when I noticed that the hamster cage was empty.
“Where’s Kevin?” I enquired excitedly.
“He’s had a horrible accident,” the stout gentleman admitted and, after some coaxing, the full terrible truth was revealed. Apparently Kevin had undergone a disagreeable bout of constipation and, after much struggling, his entire nervous system had fallen out of his arse.
“Well,” I thought and, having gone downstairs for a good laugh, I rummaged through the dustbin for Kevin’s remains. Somewhat the worse for his colossal prolapse I wrapped the corpse in a copy of the Daily Mirror.
What I discovered about the anatomy of hamsters that day was most significant. Amongst other items of interest in the wreckage were Sellotape and half a pint of semen, about which I have now informed the police.
Since then I have often wondered what went through Kevin’s tiny brain as his innards rushed out of his bottom. Whatever it was the red cage now stands empty, as does the fish tank once belonging to ‘Swimmy Joe’ whose organs proved too small to be of any consequence and were left on a plate in Broadbean’s kitchen for his wife to find. Hopefully soon Broadbean himself will die at which point I shall add an addendum to this work: ‘How to Post-mortem a Hamster Buggerer’.
Extract from ‘Bray’s Anatomical Delights’.
“Any’ow, I thought you were supposed to ’ave destroyed this, Clewes?” Nesbit struggled to prevent the front corner of the bulky contraption sparking against the flagstones. Malcolm was taking up the rear, his knees thrust forwards for equilibrium, his spine arched painfully beyond the centre of gravity due to the weight imbalance.
The overall difference in height between the two detectives didn’t exactly help their transportation problems either.
“It didn’t seem t’ be doing any ’arm in the wardrobe, Sir...” Malcolm replied, hesitantly.
Since the problems they’d encountered at Dovecote Hall (and again, at this point, I’d encourage any readers who haven’t as yet read that particular book to trot down to their local bookstore and order a copy today) both of them had been wary of such machines.
“It wasn’t plugged in or anything,” Malcolm continued. “And, when you stop t’ think about it, it’s perhaps as well I didn’t get rid of it otherwise we wouldn’t be able to use it now.”
Nesbit snorted, kicking at the mouse lead that was attempting to strangle one of his ankles. “Always assumin’ that bloody woman’s plan actually works!”
Obviously Nesbit, for one, didn't believe Miss Duvall’s strategy had much chance of success. Because their options were rather limited, however, he battled wearily onwards.
“Besides, there must be plenty of other computers around Greyminster.”
From the porch of number eighteen Caldwell Crescent a pensioner lurched arthritically. She was propped up by a pair of walking sticks, screaming and fighting against the sprite that was tugging her blue rinse out in clumps. Every so often the gremlin would belt the old dear around the head with her washboard. It seemed that indoor plumbing, despite the council’s statements to the contrary, had yet to reach certain areas of the mill town. Especially those districts where the aged population held stolidly to traditional values.
“Then again, p’raps there aren’t that many computers round these parts after all,” Nesbit added.
“What I don’t get, Sir,” ventured Malcolm, his right boot dancing erratically in search of a foothold beneath his cargo. “Is why that Quizzling thing tried t’ warn us about what was goin’ on? I mean, if it was part of Mr Wetherby’s subconscious breaking loose, then why did it want to ’elp?”
“I suspect it was ’is conscience getting the better of ’im,” Nesbit replied, knowledgeably. “Even idiots like Wetherby ’ave some ’umanity in ’em. Apparently Hitler was very fond of ’is dog, you know? Now button y’r lip, Clewes, an’ put some effort into carryin’ your end. I can feel me ’amstrings snappin’ ’ere!”
“I’m still not sure what you intend to do with this, Sir.”
“Neither am I, Clewes...” A bead of sweat dripped from Nesbit’s nose as they turned, three degrees at a time, to face Felix’s garden gate. “But we’re enlisting the ’elp of a computer expert, apparently.”
“Get off your fat arse and face y’r responsibilities, Jess ’Obson!” Mrs Prune, as short as she was, almost filled the living room doorway. The ability to psychologically inflate herself in this manner was something she’d perfected over the years through dealings with troublesome clients. It went along with such dark, clairvoyant secrets as knowing how to rap on the table with your knee and put on an Irish accent when necessity required it.
“Leave us alone an’ get someone else t’ do it,” Jess replied, burrowing his head deeper into his copy of Old Kent Road. “I ’aven’t tinkered about with computers an’ stuff since all that business with the knackered universe.”
(Once again, copies of Hobson and Co are still available from most good bookstores. And one or two not so good ones. Better yet just buy the Greyminster Chronicles compilation volume for further information and the most enjoyable book you’ll read this year! Arthur Bagshot, book reviewer for the Fleetwood Times.)
“Then it’s ’igh time y’ started to tinker again!” Mrs Prune stomped her boot down hard on the rug, raising a small cloud of dust and forcing Jess to take deeper refuge in his turtleneck sweater.
“I don’t know ’ow...” replied the glossy magazine. “I was possessed by me grandfather or somethin’ last time. Never did fully work that one out. Whatever the case, I doubt I could sort the blasted thing!”
“I’m sure you’ll manage if y’ try ’ard enough.” The broom handle that Mrs Prune usually kept for drainage emergencies prodded him uncomfortably in his ribs. “Now,” she continued with resolution. “Kindly get off your big ’airy backside before Greyminster’s reduced to a pile of clinker!”
Some of the less desirable districts of Greyminster, if current appearances were anything to go off, had already achieved (and in some instances gone beyond) Mrs Prune’s apocalyptic description.
Crookleys Grove council estate was looking decidedly ravaged. The coppice of cul-de-sacs hadn't exactly been picturesque to start off with. But right now it was adding new meaning to the phrase ‘under-privileged’.
The solemn featured gargoyles from the eaves of the Judges’ Lodgings had clambered down from their covings and were administering punishment to the already mistreated residents.
Pitchforks chimed and stone maws bit as the abominations crawled in the fashion of stop-motion animations through living rooms.
Further afield the authoritarian poplars that had previously lined the drive of the Municipal Park had been raised to smouldering stumps. In the past they'd watched single mothers pushing their bawling prams through the park with scorn. Now a great plume of smoke, speckled with leaves and startled sparrows, windsocked itself across the crazy golf course as numerous fire sprites scorched their way towards the mem
orial.
Next door to the town hall the normally somnolent market wasn’t faring much better.
Since Ethyl’s last visit the blue evening air had been replaced by a baleful, choking smog.
Striped canopies burned in the effluvium. Traders’ boots pounded through the warren of booths. Stall holders fought attacking demons. Bulls bellowed from pens and sheep bleated in ignorant placitude.
The whole atmosphere reeked of smoked kippers being stewed into glue by the engulfing combustion.
“That’s the way to do it, lads!” Ethyl adjusted the bloodstained tourniquet wrapped round her head. She’d developed a nasty bump following her tumble from St Oliver’s. A handy pair of bloomers borrowed from Mrs Wainthrop’s washing line had alleviated most of the damage. “Give him a damned good kicking. It’s more than he deserves!”
She screwed her wing-ends into feathery knuckles and punched the air, bouncing up and down excitedly on the roof of the tobacco stall.
Sprawled across the cobbles in front of her, although little of him could be seen beyond the upturned crates, Seth Marmaduke -- trout pickler extraordinaire -- battled hopelessly with the characters from a Punch and Judy show.
The grotesque puppets had jammed garden canes inside those secretive holes where usually only the puppermaster’s arms ever ventured. These makeshift legs had then been capped off with doll's shoes to give them stability.
Every so often a yell would accompany the snap of crocodile jaws, and the rag-doll baby would spiral upwards from the confusion.
“In future y’ might not act so speciesist!” Ethyl grinned that unnerving grin of hers as the words ‘Judy, Judy, Judy!’ flew up accompanied by a cry for help. “That’ll teach you for discriminating in the workplace, mate!”
Sometimes celebrations are premature. Especially in the middle of a conflict.
The sudden sensation of falling upwards swamped Ethyl’s mind and she almost tumbled from her roost. The vertigo forced her to grip her perch tightly as some distant echo whistled through her subconscious.
Then just as abruptly it was gone.
“What was that all about?” Pinpricks of light swirled devilishly in front of her eyes. “Something’s going on across town.”
She regained her composure and frowned up at the sky. Not that her gaze managed to reach far, the starling-filled rafters of the market putting paid to that.
Deep inside she’d felt an emotional tug. A tortured yank on the essence of her soul. Whatever it was, it didn’t bode well for the future.
Jess gave the screwdriver another crank. Then he sat back as a jet of steam rushed out from the seams of the mechanical spider.
“How’s it going?” Miss Duvall leaned across his shoulder, her chin rising and swelling on the ocean of her throat. “Having much success yet?”
“It’d ’elp if I knew what I was doin’.” He gave the chuddering arachnid a rap with his screwdriver.
“An’ what exactly are y’ trying t’ do?” Nesbit was flanking his other side, his pipe hovering just above Felix’s hand as though resisting the urge to give it a jab.
“I suspect Mr Hobson is attempting to connect this cable...” Miss Duvall cast a glance at the thick grey flex running between the bulldog clips on the computer and the temporal suspension unit. A small lid had been lifted on the spider's back into which the cable was now being forced.
“Or at least plug it indirectly...” she went on “...into Mr Wetherby’s brain, Chief Inspector.”
Nesbit stiffened at the abuse of his title but didn’t question it. Mistakes could be ignored so long as they promoted him.
“And that’ll be good?” What had started as a statement turned into a dangling question.
Miss Duvall took up the slack. “Sergeant Clewes has a very large hard-drive.”
Once again Nesbit stiffened. Partly at the demotion of his colleague, which he again let past without admonition, but also because the innuendo was difficult to resist.
“What we’re hoping to achieve here is to download some of the memories clogging Mr Wetherby’s brain and free up enough space in his head to allow the missing sections of his self-awareness to return.”
“Right.” Clack went the pipe stem between Nesbit’s teeth. “And this’ll work, will it?”
“Probably not. There are too many pins on the cable socket!” Jess held the wires up to the living room window, inserted the flat of his screwdriver between the jacks and gave them a twist. “Not t’ worry. ’Appen this ’ull do the trick.”
Opening the grimy toolbox by his knees he extracted a sizeable mallet.
“Grit your teeth, Mr Leathery...this might ’urt a bit!”
In some respects it was as though a duvet, hand stitched from the silence of dawn, had suddenly been drawn across the rooftops.
Along with it, although purely by coincidence regardless of its dramatic effect, unfolded the valance of a well-bruised storm cloud. Its sagging crotch snared on the chimney pots, its portentous abdomen expanding as though replete from a fifteen-course meal of cacophony.
The effect was startling.
A horrible stillness filled the streets where moments before the war had been waging.
Stuffed rodents gazed into the stratosphere, their mangy fir bristling.
Soft toys stopped their deadly games and craned their necks, terrified, as the storm billowed theatrically overhead.
Improbable animals from mythological realms ceased gouging hedges.
Martians dropped their weapons and shrank back into the gutters fearfully.
In short, whatever Jess Hobson was doing, the battle had reached a turning point. The unfeasible terrorists fuelling their existences off Felix Wetherby’s mind could feel something hauling at their limited souls. Powerless against this psychological magnet, it didn’t take much to realise the full implications.
Suddenly creatures scattered in every direction, leaving the battered townsfolk alone in the streets wondering what the hell had just happened.
Like rats, which of course some of them had once been, abandoning a sinking ship, the drains and ginnels rapidly filled with the undead.
Pensioners, accountants, council estaters and dignitaries watched as rabid menageries stampeded past. All attempting to jump over board but unable to find a board over which to jump.
“Progress?” Miss Duvall leaned over Jess once more. He was still tinkering maniacally, adjusting screws and prodding cogs.
The cluttered lounge at Caldwell Crescent was in even more disarray by this point. Police inspectors, paranormal investigators, interfering old dames, wheelchair-bound archaeologists and gothic hippies; all had somehow crammed themselves onto the limited floor space around the pensioner.
Felix himself was still spasming in his threadbare armchair as superglued memories were torn violently from his brain and sent hurtling down the flex.
“Well, it’s like this, Mrs Duvet.” Jess wiped a smudge of sump across his forehead. “It’s an old computer, right? And the download speed is very slow. What Sergeant Flues ’ere really needs is t’ chuck this thing in the bin an’ upgrade to the latest Pentium.”
“But is it working?” enquired Pip, grabbing Miss Duvall’s arm comfortingly.
“Well, I imagine the little bastards ’ull be gettin’ a bit panicked by now.” Jess grinned sadistically, checking the hairs on his wrist in lieu of a watch that wasn’t there. “And as soon as enough o’ the synapses ’ave cleared, the old duffer’s self-awareness should start returnin’ where it belongs.”
Time to confront an old issue that’s been bothering me of late. This won’t be much of an interruption to the story, and it is relevant in a round-about fashion, so please bear with me.
In the past I have been accused, by some of the more vociferous readers, of being fundamentally left wing in my outlook. Frankly, that’s putting it mildly! My sociological viewpoints make Lenin appear as some sort of right-of-centre Tory.
This is more by accident of experience than
actual design. I prefer to think of myself as an egalitarian. As far as I’m concerned, it’s hard to believe that successive generations of the British class system, forcing the wedge of financial differences between cultural identities, can possibly have had any benefit to anyone.
Call me old-fashioned.
Call me ignorant.
Call me Saturday and tell me I’ve won the National Lottery.
But the way I see it, Darwin was wrong. Evolution isn’t a case of “Survival of the Fittest” but more “Survival of the most Fitting.”
Whether rightly or wrongly Mother Nature is a tyrannical matriarch and, as appealing as such creatures might be, hamsters in pantaloons and blancmanges with teeth don’t belong on this planet.
To put it bluntly, the poor buggers never really had a chance of survival.
Souls, as a rule, cannot be seen by the untrained eye, except perhaps in nineteenth century paintings and sentimental American movies where they tend to be blue on the whole.
However, some of the witnesses to what happened next could have sworn that windswept smears, screaming stubbornly and stretching out as though they were huge elastic bands, were torn frantically from the terrified beasts. Generally via their eardrums.
Struggling to remain fixed inside their new bodies, the force acting on these segments of Felix’s soul proved too great to resist.
Stuffed weasels slumped to the cobbles, lifeless roadkill belching sawdust into the drains.
Vegetables collapsed where they’d recently bounced, those perched on ginnel walls rolling lifelessly over the coping stones and shattering messily in the alleys beneath.
Soft toys, suddenly denied the right to exist, appeared to flatten beneath their own weight, becoming no more substantial now than inanimate beanbags discarded by toddlers.
Down Cornwall Close, where he’d been battering Mrs Pickford with his wooden leg, Gingerbeard the pirate raised his one good eye in horror and felt something yank at the back of his mind.