Galactic Keegan

by Scott Innes

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Time’s up,’ Emberley said bitterly.

  Laika stood and shook herself like she’d been sprayed with water.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kevin,’ she said. ‘But I think that will have to be all.’

  ‘Aye,’ I replied sadly, and met Barrington12’s eyes one last time. ‘That’s all.’

  I gently withdrew my hand from his grip – he clung on for a second longer, as though unwilling to let me go. But then he did.

  I tarried in the doorway and looked back at the wretched figure still sitting at the table.

  ‘You did make a mistake, kid, there’s no denying that,’ I said. ‘But I’ve been thinking about something a bloke far wiser than me once said, which I think you should bear in mind. “To err is human.” You erred, son.’

  Barrington12 looked up at me. A single oily tear ran from one eye and plinked onto the table in front of him as the door closed.

  Life’s a funny old game. I’d lost two dear friends but had regained my beloved football club. These past weeks had left an indelible mark on me, and the wider ramifications for the Compound and for the Alliance would be felt for a long time to come. For now, we had a match to focus on – a tough encounter with the tree-elves of Aqalf-Seni.

  As I walked home, I passed the library. Caroline was there, locking up at the end of another day. She had returned earlier in the week with good news – her sister (or whatnot) had been given the all-clear for infinite malaise.

  ‘They’ve had some sort of breakthrough,’ she told me excitedly. ‘A miracle cure, people are calling it. Isn’t it amazing what science can do?’

  ‘It really is,’ I agreed, smiling warmly as she gave me a peck on the cheek and headed for home. I was just pleased she hadn’t been around to witness the partial destruction of her beloved library, even if the damage had been almost instantly undone. I hadn’t yet told her about what had happened with Barrington12. That could wait. I didn’t mention Gerry’s fate either, but I’m sure she knew. Everybody knew.

  I turned the corner towards my accommodation block, and as I stepped inside the front door I picked up the post and put it on the hall table. As I headed through to the kitchen, my eyes caught the envelope on the top of the pile. It wasn’t addressed, it just had my name written in elegant lettering. Instantly curious, I picked it up and pulled out a single sheet of paper. My heart pounded.

  Compound Scrapyard. Lot 2ZB5.

  Beneath that was another address in the Compound, from a neighbouring accommodation block, not one I recognised. There was no name provided. Then, at the bottom of the sheet, I saw something that made my heart sing. A signature that I knew well.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and walked straight back out of the door.

  EPILOGUE

  ‘Number 33, fifty-first floor, 7-A,’ I said, checking Laika’s note for the tenth time in as many minutes. This had to be the place. God only knew who lived there or why I’d been sent to see them, but they were about to get the shock of their lives at the sight on their doorstep.

  I rang the doorbell. As I waited for the sound of feet shuffling from the hallway within, I grinned at Gillian. I still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Locating the Compound scrapyard had been a feat all in itself – not unlike the time my office at Fulham was relocated during renovation work and I completely lost my bearings trying to find it (the club eventually had to dispatch Paul Bracewell to collect me after I wandered out as far as East Croydon station) – and in the end I had been left with no choice but to seek some help. Gillian had been surprisingly game; even after all we’d been through together I’d expected a certain degree of stuffiness to have come into play, some slavish devotion to the rules, but when I told her that the cryptic note had been from Laika she was only too happy to help. She led me to the scrapyard, tucked away behind the post office and secured by metal fences fifteen feet high, fastened shut with several chunky padlocks. Undeterred and high on life, I scaled the fence quickly (well, it took a good thirty minutes) and immediately set about finding Lot 2ZB5 while Gillian kept watch outside the yard. The lot was a narrow compartment, wedged in the middle of a tight row with several others, all containing crates of junk that would be broken up and either disposed of or sold as scrap. But not 2ZB5. Not today.

  I pulled out one such box and opened the lid. I peered inside and my heart skipped a beat at the sight of a familiar, if disembodied, head looking back at me. The blue lights of his eyes had gone out and the head rested on a nest of cables, metal plates and circuit boards. I found myself feeling a sense of profound sadness that someone I had been speaking to only that morning could have been so quickly reduced to this undignified mess. I dragged the box out of the lot and huffed and puffed my way back to the gate. I lugged it up onto my shoulder and tried to scale the gate one-handed, no doubt slipping a disc or five, before Gillian pointed out from the other side that while she’d been waiting for me to return she’d found a small unlocked exit a hundred yards along. I hadn’t felt such relief since Big Sam Allardyce phoned to say he couldn’t make it to my New Year’s party in 2002 – I’d neglected to buy Scotch eggs and things would have turned ugly very quickly.

  Now we had arrived at the mysterious address as Laika had directed. It couldn’t be her own place – she had no residence on Palangonia, and in fact I had already heard that she had departed the Antioc Nebula once again to return to The Oracle. So where the heck had she sent us?

  ‘Oh, hang on,’ Gillian said, looking around, a penny dropping. ‘I do know someone who lives here. But why would Laika…?’ She trailed off as a silhouette appeared behind the frosted glass of the door and peered out. I waved and, to my relief, the figure reciprocated and opened the door.

  ‘Kevin,’ Dr Pebble-Mill said, bemused though not unhappy to see me freezing my crackers off on his front doorstep late at night. ‘Gillian. Is everything okay? Is there a medical emergency?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ I said.

  ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘So… what can I do for you?’

  I went blank.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied unhelpfully.

  ‘We’ve been sent here,’ Gillian said. ‘But we don’t know what for. I’m sorry, Andre, I know how silly that must sound.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said patiently. Then, ‘What’s that in your box, there? Looks a bit heavy.’

  ‘It is,’ I replied, wheezing with the strain as I attempted to lift it again. Gillian picked it up (she made a bit of a play of showing some exertion on her face, which I was convinced was purely to make me feel better) and set the box down on the doorstep.

  ‘Oh my,’ Dr Pebble-Mill said, crouching down and peering inside with great interest. ‘Is that… what I think it is? Your robot?’

  ‘My friend,’ I said. ‘Barrington12. They scrapped him, Doc. I mean, you know that. And I don’t blame you at all for your Council vote at the trial, I promise you. You didn’t know what I knew, after all. But Laika told me where I could find him, and then, for some reason, she gave me your address.’

  ‘This is fantastic,’ Dr Pebble-Mill said, plucking a few pieces, including one of Barrington12’s arms, from the box.

  ‘I don’t understand why she would send us to you,’ I said, frustrated. ‘You’re a people doctor. This isn’t your field at all.’

  ‘Oh, but it is,’ Dr Pebble-Mill said. ‘Don’t you remember what I told you the other week? I love tinkering with these old models. I once built myself a Barrington50 – this is a real passion of mine.’

  Then, at last, I understood. I looked at Gillian, who smiled – she had got there way ahead of me.

  ‘Can you do it, Doc?’ I asked him urgently. ‘Can you… rebuild Barrington12?’

  He stood up and smiled.

  ‘Bring him inside,’ he said. ‘This might be a long night. I’ll put some coffee on.’

  Dr Pebble-Mill worked into the small hours, barely pausing for breath as he pieced
together tiny components and large with a dizzying speed and genuinely heart-warming enthusiasm. He was like a kid with a Lego set, a pencil tucked behind one ear, sleeves rolled up, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Gillian and I played our part of course – she would help him to lift and hold in place some of the heavier components while I kept our spirits up by saying things like, ‘Looking good so far,’ and, ‘Nice one.’

  It was four in the morning and still dark outside as Dr Pebble-Mill finally stepped back over the jumble of discarded wires, screws and coffee mugs, and puffed out his cheeks. I glanced at Gillian, who was looking on anxiously. After a long moment’s consideration, the doctor said, ‘I think… it’s done.’

  I took a deep breath. I was almost too afraid to watch as Dr Pebble-Mill leaned round behind the back of the robot’s neck and fumbled for the tiny boot-up switch. I looked at this eight-foot-tall machine with an affection I never thought possible. Dr Pebble-Mill had done an extraordinary job of piecing him together – he looked almost identical to before, though his eyes had been inserted at a slightly askew angle which left him a little cross-eyed. If this did work, we’d have to get Barrington12 a swift paint job to disguise his identity – no one could ever know that this was the same robot who had accidentally brought the L’zuhl to our borders. He’d never live it down.

  ‘Here goes,’ Dr Pebble-Mill said, and flicked the switch. He stepped back quickly and joined Gillian and me, the three of us standing there on the messy living room carpet, watching, waiting and hoping.

  Nothing happened.

  After thirty seconds of silence, I could feel Dr Pebble-Mill’s shoulders sag beside me.

  ‘Well, bugger,’ he said in disappointment. ‘We tried, Kevin. I guess that’s just the way she goes sometimes.’

  ‘Damn,’ Gillian said disconsolately, turning to me. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Come on, kid, I thought, willing Barrington12 to say something, to show any sign of life. But there was none. He was gone for good.

  ‘We did our best,’ I said, and placed my hand on his cold metal chest.

  I still don’t know whether this triggered something or if it was pure chance, but no sooner had I placed my palm against him, Barrington12’s arms suddenly jerked up from where they had been dangling at his sides and his tiny blue eyes flickered into life.

  ‘Doc!’ I cried. ‘He’s alive! Barrington12 – can you hear me? Do you recognise me?’

  Dr Pebble-Mill hurried over, Gillian hot on his heels, and stood beside me, staring up at Barrington12 in hope and wonder. With the squeak of metal upon metal, his head moved and he stared down at us. Was there any recognition there at all? Would his memory banks have remained intact or would he be Barrington12 but born anew? Dr Pebble-Mill had warned me, in adding an extra layer of security to his system to prevent any future infiltrations by the L’zuhl, that it could end up rebooting Barrington12’s memory to its default factory settings. It wouldn’t be ideal, sure, but it was better than nothing at all.

  He didn’t say anything for the longest time; he just looked intently at the three imploring faces in front of him. And then:

  ‘KEVIN KEEGAN. I CANNOT BEGIN TO EXPLAIN HOW PLEASED BARRINGTON12 IS TO SEE YOU. AND GILLIAN ROUTLEDGE, MY ADMIRED FRIEND AND EMPLOYER. AND DR ANDRE PEBBLE-MILL, THE FINEST MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL IN THE COMPOUND. I NEVER DREAMED THAT I WOULD EVER BE AMONG MY FRIENDS AGAIN.’

  ‘Well, you are, son,’ I said, blinking back tears. ‘And you always will be. I promise.’

  I turned to Dr Pebble-Mill, who looked beyond thrilled that his arduous night’s work had been such a success, and embraced him like a brother. Gillian stepped backwards to allow us the moment but I wasn’t having that – I flapped a hand at her until she laughed and stepped forward to be pulled into the group hug.

  ‘Thank you, Doc,’ I said. ‘A hundred times over. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us today.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome,’ he said warmly, patting me on the back. ‘Really, the pleasure is all mine – I haven’t built one of these in years.’

  I hadn’t felt such pure elation since that famous 4–3 game at Anfield in 1996. I mean, yeah, we’d lost right at the death but come on, what an absolute corker of a match that was.

  ‘KEVIN KEEGAN,’ Barrington12 said. ‘WOULD I BE PERMITTED TO RETURN TO YOUR COACHING STAFF NOW THAT PALANGONIA FC IS BACK IN OPERATION?’

  I stepped back and took Barrington12’s hand in mine. I shook it firmly.

  ‘I’ll tell you, honestly,’ I said, ‘I would love it if you did, son.’

  Love it.

  We were all far too excited to retire for what remained of the night, so I suggested a trip out to Mr O’s Place for a very early breakfast.

  ‘My treat, of course,’ I insisted. ‘Though if you get something off the jumbo menu do bear in mind the price leaps up quite a bit, so let’s not get daft or anything.’

  Gillian was concerned about someone spotting Barrington12 and raising the alarm, so Dr Pebble-Mill screwed a metal strip over the 12-series branding on the back of his midsection and changed his blue LED eyes for the green ones more commonly associated with Barrington50 models. In the end we needn’t have worried, as the Compound streets were all but deserted, a lone road sweeper the only figure I could see as we made our way towards the dim yellow light of the café window at the edge of the square. Then suddenly my eye was drawn to something else, some movement high above our heads. I stopped in my tracks and pointed – Gillian, Dr Pebble-Mill and Barrington12 looked up as one.

  A shooting star etched a path through the early morning sky infinite miles away from us, all alone out there in the darkness. A faint tail of light, almost imperceptible, followed in its wake as it made its way across the vast cosmos.

  It almost looked like a mullet.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks to the brilliant team at Unbound, who have looked after me so well, particularly Fiona, Georgia and Mathew. I could not have been in better hands than with my wonderful editor DeAndra Lupu, who has been such a fantastic supporter of this book and an absolute pleasure to work with. I am also indebted to Liz Garner for her wisdom, kindness and enthusiasm throughout the editing and redrafting of the novel – it became a thousand times better for her input. My thanks also to Dan Mogford for his terrific cover art and to Mark Ecob for his excellent chapter illustrations.

  Huge thanks to my agent, Rory Scarfe, and to Amy Fitzgerald, who did so much to shepherd this book into reality. To Neil Blair, for giving a chance to an idiot with a daft Twitter account and without whom none of this would have happened. My thanks also to Olivia Maidment for her early editorial guidance (and zero-tolerance policy on dad jokes!).

  Working on this novel has probably involved as much gnawing anxiety and self-doubt as it has actual writing, so I am extremely grateful for the encouragement throughout from Helen Barrett, James Dowthwaite, Rob Francis, John Rain, Andrew Sillett, Will Stevens and Joel Young. Sincere thanks also to Dionne Allen.

  Gratitude beyond words to my wife, Laura, for her love, support, patience and everything else. To my parents, Pat and Brian, who always believed and unfailingly indulged their shy bookworm of a son in his love of reading and writing and to whom I owe so much, and to my brother, Callum, who can’t stand football but is an otherwise great guy. To my in-laws, Mark and Barbara, who have been like second parents to me, and to Katherine, Dan, Sam and Meg.

  To Kath, whose generosity and support I will never, ever forget.

  Finally, to the followers of the @GalacticKeegan account and to everyone who pledged towards this book – thank you. It exists for you and because of you.

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Scott Innes was born in Doncaster, South Yorkshire (which also happens to be the hometown of a certain Kevin Keegan), and is now based in East Sussex. He has worked for the NHS for over fifteen years. Scott has been the writer of the @GalacticKeegan Twitter account since early 2014, in which time it has accumulated more than 70,0
00 followers. Galactic Keegan is his first book.

  PALANGONIA FC HALL OF FAME

  Chris Allen was Palangonia FC’s record signing at a fee of 50 million kronqueks. After an excellent debut season which included 22 goals, 31 assists and 19 red cards, Allen was unexpectedly plucked from the training pitch mid-warm-down by a flock of Winged Terrors and remains missing, presumed eaten.

  Paul Allen signed for Palangonia FC from Flimshwuk United, the most decorated club in the Freenk Nebula. Unfortunately, a succession of injuries meant that Allen failed to fulfil his initial promise and retired from professional football to open a bakery, which currently has a galactic hygiene rating of ‘Requires Improvement’.

  Tim Barber is a player who needs no introduction – four-time winner of the Galactic Golden Boot (a trophy made from aluminium but painted gold to save costs), he remains the only footballer in the Antioc Nebula to have ever scored a hat-trick while tucking into a full Sunday roast.

  Andy Bignell is the longest-serving player in the history of Palangonia FC, having played there for five seasons. A dynamic midfield powerhouse, Bignell holds the record for the most bookings in one season with 76, an average of two per game.

  An imposing goalkeeper with a no-nonsense disposition, Daniel Calder infamously killed three teammates during one ill-tempered goalmouth scramble and still went on to win the Players’ Player of the Season award. Calder currently resides at Tek Rumbri, the galaxy’s most impregnable prison, for undisclosed reasons.