by Brian Hughes
Through scratching brambles the couple struggled onwards, the slanted rain cutting into their faces making the gully almost impossible to navigate.
Then finally both miserable performers were inside the building, sizzling like sausages against the cloakroom radiators and wringing the rain from their cuffs.
“Blooming kids! Can’t stand the perishing little buggers!” A pool of water formed around Arthur’s boots. “If I didn’t need the money I wouldn’t ’ave bothered coming all the way up ’ere today.”
“Suffer God’s little children come unto me, Mr Boroughs.” Father Wordsmith vanished through the kitchen door in search of a comforting pot of tea.
“Aye, well next time the little bastards can bloody well come to me, then! It’d save me the bother of getting drenched for a poxy jamboree!”
“I rather like children…” said Bertha, cocking her head on one side.
“I can tell that! ’Ow many did y’ ’ave for breakfast this morning, y’ fat old trog?”
4.00 p.m.
Arkayla Johnson, a whale of a woman with a portcullis of teeth, struggled through the stage curtain and into the dressing room. The chill of the memorial hall followed her in, accompanied by the murmur of excited cubs.
“What ho, you chaps?” She clenched her fingers behind her back in a sort of pink cat’s cradle. “Bit late, aren’t we? Any chance of gettin’ a move on? The natives are growing restless.”
“Bloody woman! You come from Southport, not the bloody Raj!” Arthur crammed a rabbit inside his coat. “Just bugger off! We’d get the show going faster if we didn’t ’ave you annoying us!”
“Mr Boroughs, there’s no call for that sort of attitude!”
And with her nostrils flaring theatrically the scoutmaster marched off.
4.45 p.m.
Stifled yawns drifted up from the audience.
Some of the cub-scouts were pointing out the hidden trap doors on the stage.
Others were falling asleep.
With a flourish that sent a length of knotted handkerchiefs across the boards, the grumbling magician pulled his magical cabinet into view. Beneath its weight the floorboards creaked.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls.” As there was no response, Arthur swallowed his frown and continued. “I will now chop the delicious Bertha into three halves.”
Beneath his breath he added, “Wouldn’t I just buggering wish.”
His assistant tottered awkwardly across the stage in her stilettos. With a snort she manoeuvred her gargantuan frame inside the wardrobe, an action conducted with all the grace of a performing bear.
A tomato caught her squarely on one buttock. It was accompanied by the first genuine round of applause so far.
“Solid steel blades!” Holding the obviously fake swords above his head Arthur ignored the struggle behind him. “Razor sharp!”
He drew his thumb across the blunt edge, feigning discomfort.
From beyond his shoulder a crash indicated that Bertha’s rump had gone through the rear panel. A thunderclap of merriment filled the hall as one spangled buttock appeared through the hole.
“Get your fat arse out of there, y’ greedy cow!” Arthur walloped the protruding disco-ball of flesh.
“Mr Boroughs!” From the front row Arkayla rose like the bows of the Titanic. “There are children present! Please!”
“I told you to go on an effing diet, you ’umungous effing ’ippo!”
Another thump, another blasphemy.
“Y’ve got an arse on y’ like an effing Volks Wagon Beetle!”
The curtain fell at the same moment that his boot sole made contact with Bertha’s behind.
“Look at the state of me bleedin’ cabinet! When I get home I’m putting in for a divorce, y’ disgusting toad!”
Ironically the cubs thought that this was the best part of the show so far. A standing ovation, something Arthur had never experienced before, now took place beyond the curtain as he stumbled furiously off.
Episode Two: That Night at the Bull and Duck
The storm lanterns rattled against the windows as though the Old Bull and Duck had drifted out to sea.
Drunken patrons swung themselves between the tables.
In his own gloomy corner, Arthur Boroughs drowned his troubles in a pint of Thackery’s Old Bastard.
Toby Dingle was sitting opposite him.
Toby wasn’t the best of company, it must be said. He’d suffered from a frying noise in his ears for thirty-odd years which made conversations with him remedial to say the least.
At length Arthur muttered into his alcohol, “Buggering women, eh Toby? They’ve all got it in for me, I tell y’!”
Toby continued to stare at the horse brasses along the rafters.
“I ’ope that stupid walrus who runs the scout group’s happy now that she’s got ’er twenty quid back!”
He jabbed an imaginary Arkayla Johnson in the eye.
“Pompous old cow! They’re all in it together, y’ know? It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is! Ruddy feminists! Blasted councillors! Blooming lyin’, scheming nit-wits the buggering lot of them!”
“There’s sommet wrong with Potter’s Isle.”
“What?”
Arthur looked up in shock.
Toby Dingle hadn’t spoken a word for as long as he’d known him. There was something unnerving about his voice that sent goosebumps up his spine. “Are y’ feeling all right, Toby?”
His companion took another slurp at his beer, only part of it reaching his lips.
“What was that y’ said? About Potter’s Isle?”
An intoxicated reveller stumbled past dislodging a horseshoe. The ornament chimed as it rattled on the flagstones. Toby Dingle continued to stare at the space it had previously occupied.
“Bah!” Arthur slammed his tankard down. “Y’re just as bad as the rest of ’em! Always trying to wind me up! Well y’ can ’ave your mysteries and y’ can stick them up your…”
The triangle above the bar interrupted his tirade, as the ferret-faced barman hollered, “Time please, Gentlemen!”
It was dark along the dock front.
Not that Arthur had noticed. He was lurching along wiping the froth from his lips and feeling sorry for himself. Something he’d had a great deal of practice at, that.
He reached a bollard and flattened one hoary palm against it.
Potter’s Isle? It looked the same as it had always looked, black and formless.
He narrowed his eyes.
Now that he came to look again it did seem odd that this bunion of land should occupy such a wide expanse of the horizon. It was almost as though somebody had painted it onto the sky.
Shaking his head he stumbled onwards.
Episode Three: The Last Pension Day on Earth
10 a.m. on Tuesday morning. “Apparently it prolapsed in the middle of Dr. Patel’s surgery.”
Mrs Wainthrop prodded her spectacles up her nose and continued her conversation with the pillar-box at the head of the post-office queue.
“Nurse Higgins ’ad to sew his ‘rector’ back up. Mrs Dewhurst saw it ’appen, she did, when she went for that ‘monogram’ on ’er bosom.”
“Next please?” The insouciant girl behind the counter blew a large pink bubble from her purple lips. Then she pressed her nose against the glass partition.
Behind Mrs Wainthrop, Mrs Mullins hoisted her bosoms sanctimoniously.
“’Ad to tuck it back inside with a shoe horn,” Mrs Wainthrop continued as a whine broke loose from her hearing aid. “Forced the last bit in with ’is thumb!”
“Next please?” Pop! The young girl’s tongue wound the gum back in between her teeth.
“Geddout of me way, y’ stupid old bags!” Forcing his route from the back of the queue Arthur Boroughs advanced on the counter. “They ought to lock ’er up and throw away the buggering key!”
“Morning Mr Boroughs. ’Ow are you today?” The bored assistant obviously wasn’t interested.
She gave her bright green fingernails another rasp with the emery board.
“Apart from ’aving to put up with the spider monkey from ’Ell, y’ mean?” Arthur cast Mrs Wainthrop a snarl. “Me rheumatism’s giving me gyp, nobody’s got no respect for their elders no more and I burnt myself cooking this morning ’cos that stupid fat cow’s gone off to ’er Aunt’s.”
He slapped his pension book onto the counter.
“’Ave you got any identification, Mr Boroughs?” The girl steepled her fingers and waited patiently. “Driving license’ll do.”
“What do I need identification for? Y’ know ’oo I am!”
“It’s the law Mr Boroughs. Not much I can do about it, I’m afraid.” Another sphere of gum suddenly obscured her upturned nostrils. “For all I know you could be pretending to be who you say you are.”
An expression of disbelief crossed Arthur’s face.
“Do you ’onestly think that if I could afford plastic surgery for this…” He pointed out the various attractions of his aspect. “Do you honestly think I’d be collecting this buggering pittance? For God’s sake, I’ve been coming in ’ere for eleven years. Surely to God y’ know ’oo I am by now?”
Without another word the counter assistant took hold of the plastic ring above her head and tugged the blind down.
Seconds later the sound of a kettle boiling, the chink of Hobnobs on a saucer and the rustle of teabags made it perfectly clear that her position was now closed.
Arthur’s face turned purple.
“It’s a bloody conspiracy, I tell y’!”
10.35 a.m.
Arthur worked his way around the harbour, leafing misanthropically through his stingy pension.
Across the rows of bobbing trawlers the morning fog was smothering Potter’s Isle.
He rubbed his nose and peered between the duelling masts.
Toby was right. It did look weird, even in this light.
The swell of the tide slopped itself against the harbour wall as Arthur watched the ghosts of the sea mist swallow the island.
“This requires a bit more investigation.” There was a grating noise as he drew his fingers across his chin. “It’s a buggering conspiracy, I tell y’! I’ll come back ’ere tonight and check it out!”
Episode Four: The Awful Truth about Reality
11.35 p.m. The rain drummed gently on the water as Arthur clung to the ladder, searching for the boat with his toecap.
Sometime later the tiny vessel ploughed across the harbour, the warehouses becoming airbrushed flat against the town.
It was cold out here. Eerie noises rose up to greet him from the depths. Warning bells and blinking lights. The slop, dunk, slosh of water against the flimsy keel. Arthur suddenly felt very miserable.
“What the ’Ell am I doing? There’s no conspiracy! It’s just me. I’m a cynical old sod, that’s all!” He wiped the end of his dripping nose. “Supposin’ I miss the buggering island and just keep rowing out to sea by accident?”
A blast from a foghorn rolled across the foggy ocean.
“What’ll happen then? I’ll end up washed up on the coast of Ireland, nothing more than a skeleton with boots on.”
There was a thunk.
Actually it was more of a metallic crunch.
Whatever the case it sent a vibration along the keel.
Losing his grip on the wrenching oars Arthur tumbled backwards into the swirling bilge.
“I must ’ave hit a sodding buoy! Typical of the buggering council that. Putting the damn things where people are likely t’ collide with ’em.”
His eyebrows appeared above the rowlocks as he peered out into the gloom. To his surprise there wasn’t a channel marker in sight.
“What the buggering Nora was it, then?”
He squinted.
Something was wrong with Potter’s Isle all right. The prow of the boat had gone through the beach as though the sand was constructed from moulded fibreglass. Now there was a hole between the glued-on pebbles that seemed to contain some sort of scaffolding.
Cautiously Arthur reached out for the horizon.
His fingertips struck something solid.
“What the buggering ’Ell?”
Potter’s Isle appeared to be painted onto the dome of the firmament. Now that he came to look again he could make out rows of machines beyond the half-transparent canopy. Machines projecting the constellations on the heavens.
Beneath the boat, pipes released the fog into the atmosphere.
His fingers discovered a door knob. There was a plaque just above it that read:
‘Service Entrance. Trained Personnel Only.’
He gave it a twist.
The door creaked open beneath his weight.
Arthur stared into the pitch-black oblong. Beyond stretched a dimly lit cavern.
Uncertain what to do next, he scrambled from the bows and across the damp step.
“I’ve buggering uncovered something ’ere, all right!” Stumbling, he inched into the passage. “I said there was some sort of conspiracy going on! I suppose I’d better see what lies beyond our mysterious entrance then.”
Episode Five: Beyond the False Horizon
1.05 a.m. On the other side of the door numerous staircases coiled off from lofty platforms. The structure resembled some sort of impossible Escher illustration.
Sometimes the roof came down so low that Arthur’s spine was crushed into the shape of a boomerang. The whole place reminded him of something from a Lewis Carroll volume.
Bookcases made the corridors even narrower. They were crammed with pots of marmalade, verdigris-coloured sextants, Victorian teddy bears and other paraphernalia.
Every so often a greasy window would overlook a courtyard filled with miserable people sitting at writing desks.
Entrances led off from intersections. Beyond these doors glass mezzanines connected the other chambers together.
Getting spooky this, isn’t it?
Arthur paused on one landing, snorting dust from the hessian banister.
“A buggering conspiracy’s putting it mildly! Someone’s turned the effing world on it’s ’ead!”
A noise like a chainsaw suddenly tore the silence apart.
A metal discus with mechanical wings appeared in front of him.
It had a camera lens on the front.
“What the buggering Nora’s that supposed to be?”
He tried to swat it, but it zipped to one side, filming his elbow as it hurtled past.
“Arthur Boroughs?” An electronic voice scratched its path from the mechanism’s throat. “You are under arrest! Do not attempt to continue further into the Out World!”
“Bugger that!”
With a bound Arthur jumped the rope. He really ought to have checked first because, as it turned out, there wasn’t a platform on the other side.
Seconds later he was hurtling through blackness.
Resembling an ink-stained octopus Greyminster stretched out below him. Flickering strands of lights reached up from distant attics, hanging from the sky like the ropes of a Big Top.
There was a crunch.
Arthur suddenly became very flat.
“What’s happened now?” Shaking his head he inched himself onto his elbows. The arthritic backbone of the Lancashire fells wound serpentine below him. “Buggering Nora! I’ve landed on the sky!”
“Arthur Boroughs?” The camera hovered into view again. “Remain where you are! Any further act of defiance will result in punishment.”
“Bugger off!”
Electricity arced from the camera’s undercarriage.
Arthur felt it hit his temple.
He made a grab.
Heard a snap.
Felt the presence of two figures hauling him up.
And finally fell into unconsciousness.
Episode Six: A Few Home Truths about the Nature of the Universe
Some indeterminate hour. It was impossible to say what month it was, let alone what time.
The unfocused blur in front of Arthur gradually turned into Arkayla Johnson. She was bearing down on him with such enthusiasm that he was forced to jerk backwards.
His head hit something solid.
It was at this point that he realised he was strapped into a dentist’s chair, leather bands holding his wrists in position.
“Well, well, well, Mr Boroughs.”
Arkayla’s grin almost completely filled his view. The never-ending well of a cylindrical library reached up above him. Musty books wound in a spiral towards the iota of a distant dome.
Arkayla prodded his damp nose. “We really are the maverick, aren’t we?
“I wouldn’t say ‘We’ exactly, Arkayla! You’re more of an overfed chicken, yourself!”
The buxom scoutmaster stiffened and turned her back.
“Well, Mr Boroughs. You’re the first in sixteen years to break out!”
“What the buggering ’Ell’s going on Johnson, you annoying inflated frog?” He tugged at the bindings. “Y’ve no right keeping me ’ere against me will!”
“Ah, but I have, Mr Boroughs. You see, there was a conspiracy after all!” Although he couldn’t see it, Arthur felt the animosity in Arkayla’s smile. “Much greater than anything you ever imagined in your most miserable dreams.”
He felt the chair jerk and heard the squeal of wheels. All around him the bookshelves appeared to slowly advance.
“Let me show you.” Arkayla held one palm towards a space between the cupboards. In the gap a window overlooked a warehouse filled with studious scratching noises.
Arthur’s chair pulled up in front of it. Inquisitively he craned his neck. The warehouse was teeming with the same industrious bureaucrats he’d seen before.
“You used to be one of those chaps yourself.” Arkayla rubbed an ellipse from the greasy pane. “Look how contented they are, Mr Boroughs? All working diligently, without complaint.”
She breathed deeply in, her chest expanding so much that her shiny red woggle scaled the hummock of her chin.