‘Presently the Theakstons arrived, a pleasant lunch was had and an afternoon of friendly chit-chat. Later the Theakstons left, the Smiths bathed and bedded their children and eventually turned in for the night.
‘While they slept certain things came to pass. Strange men in overalls entered their house. Swept away discarded items, washed and tidied up. Restocked the fridge, redirtied the car and re-hung Sunday’s page on the calendar. They also placed little electrode things on the heads of the Smith family as they slumbered on.
The next day Mr Smith awoke. He rose, washed, breakfasted and went out to wash his car. His wife busied herself in the kitchen because their friends, the Theakstons, were coming to lunch. The children played on the front lawn and everything seemed just as normal as could be . . .’
‘You are sure that this is a short story?’ Byron asked. ‘I have the feeling that I might have heard some of it before.’
‘As I was saying, the day was completely identical to the one before. But that night one of the little electrode things fell off Mr Smith’s head while he was asleep.
‘When he awoke the next day Mr Smith prepared for work. His wife thought his behaviour most odd. “But it is Monday,” he declared and went down to check the calendar. It was Sunday, the Sunday papers arrived, the Sunday news was on the radio. It was Sunday. Mr Smith was in a state of confusion. He went out to wash his car, although he was sure he had washed it the day before. But there it was, dirty.
‘Presently the Theakstons arrived. Mr Smith stared at them in horror. He had never seen these people before although here was his wife welcoming them in as old friends.
‘Mr Smith panicked. He rushed out to his car. But it would not start. Mr Smith lifted the bonnet. There was no engine in there. So he ran. He ran up the street but he didn’t get far. The street ended in a blank wall of impenetrable light. There seemed no escape. What was going on? Now in a state of near-madness he returned home. There was his wife enjoying a pleasant lunch with her guests. Mr Smith went into the kitchen and gazed out of the window at the backyard. All seemed normal, but he knew it was not. He tried to open the kitchen window, but noticed for the first time that there was no handle. Mr Smith picked up a stool and flung it through the window.
‘The image of the backyard vanished and he found himself looking out on to an alien landscape not of this Earth.’
‘Gosh,’ said Byron.
‘Gosh indeed. Mr Smith scrambled through the broken window and ran. Looking back he could see his street enclosed within a great dome. All alone in a desolate landscape of damn-all else. He crawled across dust and rubble and saw in the distance a queue of exotic-looking people gathered before a sort of booth.
‘He found a vantage point where he could observe whilst remaining unobserved. There was a large sign hanging above the booth and Mr Smith was able to read what was written upon it. It read:
‘TICKETS HERE FOR THE MUSEUM OF MANKIND
A PAGE OF LIVING HISTORY
ENJOY SUNDAY LUNCH WITH THE SMITHS
GENUINE TWENTIETH-CENTURY SUBURBANITES.’
‘Gosh again,’ said Byron. ‘Is that the end of the story?’
‘No, there’s a twist in the tail, but I won’t tell you it right now.’
‘Huh.’ Byron got a sulk on.
‘But I can tell you this. It is a true story,’ said Mr Smith, the fat sweeper-upper.
‘But what does it mean? I mean it has to mean something or it will just get edited out.’
‘It means this. There are an infinite number of possible futures but only one “as of the now”. This it is our bounden duty to maintain by servicing the big flywheel. If it falters then time’s edges will fray, flaws appear in the ether of space. We must each play our part no matter how many times.’
‘Sounds pretty cosmic. So what are we going to do?’
‘We are going to save the day, Byron. You and me.’
‘Five thousand times.’ Byron whistled. ‘Did I really do it that many times?’
‘Give or take. I wasn’t always there to keep count. Now come on. We have major adjustments to make. Things have become pretty confused up on the surface and we are going to need our wits about us to sort them out. Would you like to see the chart?’
‘You have a chart?’
‘A really good big complicated one.’
‘Then show me.’ Mr Smith did. ‘I don’t understand this chart,’ said Byron.
‘Then I’ll do my best to explain it. This chart represents past, present and possible futures. We are only interested in possible futures which result in Armageddon, so we will deal exclusively with them. As you know, the purpose of the great mechanism is to defer the extinction of humanity. To accurately forecast when this will occur and to then retrace the fault, rewind history, realign and start again.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Then let me explain the confusion we now find ourselves in. Due to malfunctions in the mechanism, certain eventualities, which, under normal circumstances, could never possibly come to pass, are now in full swing. See this black line?’ Byron nodded. ‘This represents the ascendancy of the Antichrist.’
‘As usual.’
‘Same old stuff, but this time the fail-safe has overridden, and this—’ A red line met the black at a tangent. ‘Historical personage A, out of time. And here, historical personage B, out of time.’
‘And there and there?’
‘Future personages C and D, inaccurately transposed. Now, D interconnects with B, but in the future. D and A connect through future and past . . .’
‘Do they have names?’ Byron asked. ‘You’ve lost me already.’
‘Sorry. Antichrist is Wayne L. Wormwood. No past, only present and potential future. Appears 3 May 1993.
‘A: Historical personage Elvis Aron Presley born 8 January 1935 died 16 August 1977. He shouldn’t be here.
‘B: Auld Demdike. Witch. Died 16 August 1612. She certainly shouldn’t be here.
‘C: Rex Mundi. He’s the hero. Born 27 July 2030. Out of time arrival 3 May 1993.
‘D: Gloria Mundi. Sister of Rex. Born 27 July 2025. Arrives here 16 August 1977.’
‘Shouldn’t be here,’ echoed Byron.
‘Now here we have E, F, G and H. All interconnected:
‘E: Jack Doveston. Born 16 August 1953. Best-selling novelist-to-be and vital to the plot. Bit of a poltroon though.
‘F: Jonathan Crawford. Date of birth unknown. A major fly in the ointment. Potential disaster area. Top priority.
‘G: Legion. Company of demons. First recorded 31 AD but much older. Very top priority. And that’s about the lot. Now these seven . . .’
‘There’s eight,’ said Byron.
‘There’s eight, but only seven go to meltdown. They are all tangled up in such a fashion that none of them can actually achieve anything.’
‘Then let’s just leave them to it.’
‘Byron, they are all transposed and jumbled up because the mechanism is failing. Unless it is corrected there is no telling what might happen. Things will double up, multiply, lines will collide, divide, jigsaws will not fit together. Anarchy. And there are at least three separate sub-plots that I haven’t even touched on.’
Byron examined the chart. This can’t be right,’ he said.
‘Oh it’s right, believe me.’
‘But see here. You have an extra line marked Kim.’
‘An agency of despatch. Kind of demonic bounty-hunter. Demdike’s doing, of course.’
‘Yes, but look. The line leaves Demdike, then it splits in two. One line goes to Rex, the other to Elvis.’
‘It can’t do that. Give me the chart.’ Byron handed it over. Mr Smith examined it in great detail. ‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Byron.’
‘Yes,’ said Byron.
‘Get your tool bag. We’re in deeper trouble.’
20
I think. Therefore I think I am.
Zippy the Pinhead
&nb
sp; I think therefore I’m right.
Hugo Rune
‘Hi chief, have I missed anything?’
‘Some, green buddy. Mr Russell’s sent this chick over. No trust any more, seems like.’
‘Shut up and keep driving.’ Kim was in the back seat of the Presley Porsche, her pistol against the rocker’s neck.
Barry felt the cold steel, sensed that things might not be exactly as he might have wished them. ‘Chief, why are we driving in this car? Why aren’t you wearing the uniform Mr Russell gave you? Why are we an hour early? Why . . .’
‘Who art thou?’ The pistol drew back. ‘What manner of familiar? I was not told that you were of the faith.’
‘It’s Barry,’ Elvis explained. ‘He lives in my head. He’s a great little guy when you get to know him.’
‘Barry? I know not Barry. Pyewacket I know, Jamara, Vinegar Tom, Griezzell Greedigutt . . .’
‘You got a stone-bonker here, chief,’ whispered the sprout. ‘This isn’t one of Mr Russell’s. This is one of the enemy.’
‘You reckon?’
‘What did you say?’ The pistol rapped Elvis in the right ear. ‘Speak plainly.’
‘I said you reckon we’re on time? Don’t want to be late for this appointment with the president.’
Remind me never to take a nap in future, thought Barry. Put your foot down hard chief and when I think STOP, then you STOP.
Gotcha, thought Elvis.
‘Now Mr Mundi, this won’t hurt a bit.’ Rex dunked a bread soldier into his egg. ‘All you’ll feel is a little prick.’ Rex knew nothing of the Carry On film, so he let that one slide by.
‘Slow down,’ ordered Kim.
STOP!!! thought Barry. Elvis stood on the brake. The old ones are always the best after all. As Kim flew forward, Elvis ducked, grabbed at the gun-toting hand, caught the wrist and twisted.
Nurse Kim trembled, beneath her mask a puzzled look appeared. She forced the hypodermic syringe towards Rex’s arm, but her hand was being twisted around by an invisible force. She cried out in pain and clawed at the air. Rex gaped up in sudden alarm. A bread soldier protruding foolishly from his mouth.
‘Hold her, chief!’
Elvis wrestled with the gun. With her free hand Kim tore at his head.
‘Not the hair,’ cried the King. ‘Anything but the hair.’
Nurse Kim was struggling against her doppleganger’s unseen attacker. Rex jerked forward and tore the mask from her face. ‘You!’
‘Apostate!’ screamed Kim. ‘Giaor.’ Without further thought Rex lifted the metal breakfast tray and smashed it into her face. Hitting women was not in his character, but there were exceptions. Nurse Kim staggered backwards, tripped over the now awakening Jack and toppled on to the floor.
In the car Elvis forced the gun around and back at its holder. Kim’s finger, locked against the trigger squeezed. SQUEEEEEZE . . . ‘Keep your head down chief!’
‘No!’ screamed nurse Kim, writhing on the floor. Rex watched in horrified fascination as the syringe rose closer and closer to her breast.
Elvis gave a final jerk. The syringe plunged into nurse Kim’s heart. She twitched furiously. Thrashed like a suffocating fish. Rose again and again upon head and heels. Her face blackened and a terrible cry rose from her throat, ‘Leviathan.’
Jack rolled over, clutching his jaw. ‘What hit me ... what the . . . ?’ He caught sight of the dying woman. ‘Rex, you didn’t . . .’
‘No. Stay back. Wait.’ Nurse Kim slumped like a discarded doll, limbs contorted at impossible angles. ‘Don’t touch her.’ Jack had no intention of doing so.
‘A hired assassin,’ Rex said, with cool deliberation. ‘She came to kill you, Jack. She knocked you out and was going to stick you with the needle. Lucky for you I was here. I saved your life again.’
‘Gosh thanks.’ Jack looked warily towards the corpse and then with equal wariness towards Rex. ‘But I seem to remember
‘You’re probably concussed. I’ll get you a glass of water.’
A movement stirred in Kim’s breast. ‘She’s still alive,’ croaked Jack.
‘She’s not.’
‘She is. Look.’
Something began to pound. There were muffled reports as ribs snapped. An exhalation of air as the throat expanded. Rex covered his nose as an evil stench filled the air. The dead woman’s mouth stretched hugely open in a diabolical silent scream as something black and fearsome eased up through it.
‘Out,’ yelled Rex. Jack did not need telling twice.
‘Out, chief.’ Elvis did not need telling twice.
It rose like an eel. A sleek black tentacle, hovering upon its length. At its tip a baleful eye blinked open. Took in its surroundings. Gazed down at the husk of its host.
Outside the room Rex pressed his ear to the door.
‘What can you hear?’ Jack whispered. Rex shook his head.
‘Should I wake up this policeman?’
‘Best not. What was that thing, Jack? Tell me, you know,’
‘An agency of despatch. The product of high sorcery. Guazzo catalogues them in his Compendium Maleficarum. A kind of kissing cousin to the succubus. Very deadly,’
‘How do we kill it, Jack?’
‘Oh, you can’t kill it. It isn’t actually alive. You could destroy it by fire. Are you sure it’s me it wants?’
‘Quite sure,’
‘Is there anything wrong?’ The ward sister smiled at the skulking pair. ‘You really should be back in bed, Mr Mundi. Your tubes have come out. Come along now,’
‘I think not,’ Rex eased himself from the matronly grip. ‘I’d like to change my room please,’
‘He’d like a bigger one,’ Jack chimed in. ‘He’s on Medicare, give him the best,’
‘Well, let’s just get him back to bed for now,’
‘I think I’ll discharge myself. Where is the exit?’ The ward sister made tsk tsk noises. Loud and violent noises now issued from Rex’s room.
‘It will be looking for another host,’ Jack’s whisper had a troubled quality about it.
‘Wake the policeman,’ said Rex.
‘Is this your car?’ the policeman asked. ‘It’s parked at an angle and this is a towaway zone,’
‘Not mine,’ Elvis shook his head violently, whilst still trying to comb his hair. The officer eyed the preener with suspicion and peered into the Porsche. ‘Holy Moses,’ he cried as he caught sight of the thing issuing from Kim’s throat. ‘It’s a 1217.’
‘A 1217?’
‘Woman being strangled by a snake in the rear seat of an auto, chief,’ said Barry.
‘A 1217, huh?’ The King adjusted his quiff. ‘I thought that was a 1309.’
‘No chief. A 1309 is a woman having illegal sex with a lobster on the rear seat of a motorcycle.’
‘Actually that’s a 926,’ said the officer, who had been radioing for assistance. ‘And how do you do that without moving your lips?’
‘It’s an old Indian trick. So what’s a 1309?’
‘OK. Stand back.’ The hospital corridor was suddenly a confusion of cops. Police chief Murphy, bullhorn in hand, heralded their arrival.
‘The cavalry,’ cheered Jack, ‘and in the nick of time.’
‘Stand back now.’ Rex was impressed; the officers were carrying flame-throwers.
‘Best leave it to the professionals,’ said he, steering Jack aside. ‘And take our leave.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Jack.
‘No, no,’ said the policeman, taking off his cap to wipe his brow with an oversized red gingham hankie. ‘A 1414 is a dwarf posing as an infant with felonious intent. You’re thinking of a 1065.’
‘Nah,’ said Elvis. ‘A 1065 is the Battle of Hastings in England.’
‘That’s a 1066,’ said a know-all in the gathering crowd. ‘A 1065 is . . .’ But happily his words were lost as screaming sirens announced the coming of reinforcements.
‘Stand back.’ The officer battered at the crowd with his cap. ‘Give
them room.’ The squad cars swerved to a halt. Officers leapt out. They were all carrying cameras. ‘Where’s the woman with the lobster?’ asked one.
‘This is a 1065,’ said Jack Doveston. ‘Grand theft auto. Hospital vehicle.’ Rex felt certain that it was a 1407. But knowing all too well the law of diminishing returns and still harbouring his distaste for the running gag, he kept his own counsel.
‘Do you believe in predestination, Jack?’
‘That every act is foreordained? You’re on the wrong side of the road.’
‘Sorry.’ Rex span the wheel. ‘Well, do you?’
‘No I don’t. It’s a sophistry. It absolves man of responsibility for his actions. A basic flaw in Judeo-Christianity. Anathema to itself.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘No perhaps about it. The fundamental principle of every religion is “God knows all”. And if God knows what you’re having for breakfast tomorrow before you do, then where is your free will?’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that.’
‘On the contrary. Have you ever studied the works of Hugo Rune?’
Rex shook his head and passed through a red light, causing the cross-flow traffic to brake and collide.
‘If you switch on the siren you can get away with that,’ said Jack. ‘Now Hugo Rune states that the larger a thing is, the more simple it becomes.’ Rex opened his mouth to protest, but Jack continued. ‘Let me give you an example. DNA - view it through the electron microscope. Dead complicated it is. No-one has fathomed it out yet. But put it all together and it becomes a person. It becomes simpler. You can state, here is a person, this is a big person, this is a small person, this is a good person, this is a bad and so forth.’
‘You might not be correct.’
‘I’m coming to that. Now, the Pyrrhonists believe that true wisdom and happiness lie in the suspension of judgement, since absolute knowledge is impossible to gain. What could be simpler than that?’