The dead Brigadier yanked the crumpled envelope from his pocket and tossed it across the desk. ‘Took the liberty of reading it. Bally bastard lied to me. Said he was moving his schedule forward from Friday night to tomorrow night. Says in the message he intends to go ahead tonight at midnight as soon as the pylons are in place.’
‘Splendid,’ said the large controller. ‘I can arrange for that.’
‘Says one of your brothers has gone missing too. Drowned in the bay or some such, but didn’t get “born again”. Chap I picked up from the station’s not the same chap I was chatting with the night before. Can’t make head nor bloody tail of this.’
‘Not born again!’ The large controller rose largely from his chair. ‘NOT BORN AGAIN?’
‘Not pre-incarnated, but no need to get a strop on, old thing. More than enough of you fellas to go round, I’d have thought. And bastards the lot of you.’
‘It’s that Claude. The old loon, he must have tampered with the big sky nozzle.’
‘Still in the dark here,’ said Chunky. ‘And still bloody furious. What kind of an afterlife do you call this anyway? Where’re the dancing girlies?’
‘Shut up!’
‘Damned cheek!’
‘Let me think. I must have every inch of the company premises searched, stop him before he wreaks any more havoc. Punish him greatly, greatly indeed. Stay here. Don’t leave this room. Eat cake. Help yourself to the drinks cabinet.’
‘Dancing girlies?’ enquired the defunct Brigadier.
‘You’ll get your dancing girlies. Just stay put until I sort this out.’
‘Big-bosomed dancing girlies.’
Crash went the door, slamming shut on the large controller’s departure.
‘Don’t want ones with little blouse-potatoes,’ sulked the Brigadier, seeking out the drinks cabinet and flinging open its door.
‘Waaah!’ went a crazed-looking fellow, leaping from within.
‘Stuff me!’ croaked the Brig, collapsing on the floor. ‘It’s Ben Gun!’
‘No-one got that the first time around. I’m Claude, I am. Claude the real controller.’
‘Nearly gave me a bally heart attack. Could have done for me.’
‘Not twice. He did for you though, didn’t he? I heard every word. Like to get your own back on him? Fix him good and proper?’
‘I surely would.’ The dead Brig climbed puffing to his feet.
‘Then stick with me, sonny, and I’ll tell you what we’ll do.’
‘Stick with me,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll get it sorted.’
They were parked on the beach now. Quiet little cove sheltering beneath the cliffs. The kind of place where the Famous Five would have had an adventure involving smugglers and sandwiches.
‘You get us the boat, Cornelius, and leave the rest to me.’
‘Don’t you think that being semi-transparent and altogether non-corporeal might present some difficulties for you? Like not being able to touch or move things, for example?’
‘I opened the door of the blazing hotel room and rescued you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes you did.’
‘Then I can organize getting the explosives together. You acquire the boat, the bigger the better, and meet me back here at exactly nine o’clock tonight. OK?’
Cornelius gave another of his thoughtful nods.
‘I think you’re supposed to say “piece of cake”,’ Tuppe told him.
‘Piece of cake it is.’
‘Rock ‘n’ roll then, chaps,’ said Norman and wandered off along the beach.
‘Do you think we could do something about eating now?’ Tuppe asked Cornelius. ‘I’m feeling faint, I am.’
‘Me too, what time is it?’
‘About two in the afternoon.’
‘All right, let’s drive along the beach, away from SkelingtonBay, and see what we can find.’
‘A fine idea.’
And Cornelius drove. The beach was flat and sandy and deserted. The sun beamed down in a pleasing manner, waves lapped, seagulls dipped and weaved and Tuppe said, ‘Look at that.’
‘Look at what?’
‘Out there in the sea, about thirty yards out, running along parallel with us, that’s a shark’s fin, isn’t it?’
‘Surely not here. Perhaps it’s a porpoise, they used to call them pilot fish because they swam along in front of sailing ships. Or was that dolphin?’
‘They don’t have shark fins, do they? Go faster, see if it keeps up.’
Cornelius drove faster.
‘It’s keeping up,’ said Tuppe. ‘Perhaps it prefers Jeeps to sailing ships. Do you think we could entice it in and eat it?’
‘Or perhaps swim out and let it eat us.’
‘No thanks, keep the tyres out of the tide. Go a bit faster.’
Cornelius went a bit faster.
‘It’s keeping up. And it’s coming nearer too.’
‘It’s never a shark,’ said Cornelius. ‘It’s too angular, looks more like it’s made of metal.’
‘And glass. Glints in the sun, doesn’t it? Strange, eh?’
‘It couldn’t be a submarine or something, could it? I mean . . . Oh no!’
‘Oh no!’ Tuppe agreed.
It rose from the waves, and it did look like metal and glass. The trim and the windscreen and the mirrors. The bonnet was all covered in seaweed, but the metallic-blue finish was still visible and the big chrome bumpers, though battered, were mostly intact.
‘It’s the Cadillac,’ Cornelius gave the accelerator pedal full wellie.
‘It’s coming at us, Cornelius. Faster, faster.’
‘I’m going faster. But how can it do that? Cars can’t run under water. They just can’t.’
‘It doesn’t seem to know that. And I don’t think it gives a damn. Faster!’
The Cadillac swung in from the tide, drawing closer and closer. Big powerful engine the Cadillac Eldorado. More powerful than a Jeep’s.
‘We’ll never outrun it on the straight,’ Cornelius swerved up the beach. ‘Might out-manoeuvre it though.’ Another swerve and another.
Sand swept up in blurry cascades.
The Cadillac left the sea, surf skimming from the door seals and the radiator grille. Engine growling. Tyres churning the sand.
‘You’d have thought it would have run out of petrol by now. Ouch!’ Tuppe toppled to the floor as the Cadillac shunted the Jeep in the rear end, bursting the big spare water tank and making the clip-on trenching tool (which is really hard to get unless you know someone in the war-surplus circles) fall off and break.
‘Faster,’ shrieked Tuppe from the floor.
‘It’s too powerful,’ called Cornelius. ‘And too big. If it hits us a couple more times we’ll be finished. Ooooooh!’
The Cadillac sideswiped them, tearing off a running-board and a goodly portion of Jeep side. On Tuppe’s side.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Tuppe scrambled up in his seat. ‘It’s had half my door off. Do something, do something.’
Cornelius swerved about in a nifty, sandy sort of U-turn. ‘You do something. Anything.’
‘Shoo!’ called Tuppe. ‘Go away. Leave us alone.’
Growl! went the Cadillac, coming about and gaining on them once more. Such a long flat beach and with the cliffs running right along, such a difficult one to escape from.
‘This will make you laugh,’ called Cornelius. ‘According to the gauge, we’re out of petrol.’
‘Oh dear. Ouch!’ Crash up the back end again. There goes the spare wheel. Tuppe whacked forward into the military equivalent of the glove compartment. ‘Oh!’ went he, then, ‘Ah!’
‘Ah?’ Cornelius enquired.
‘Yes, look, look.’ Tuppe displayed his find.
Screech went brakes, Cornelius spun the Jeep to the right, the Cadillac flew by then swerved to continue pursuit.
‘Hand-grenade,’ said Tuppe.
‘Tasty,’ said Cornelius. ‘You’d better let me throw it.’
‘Get awa
y, I found it.’
‘Tuppe, please. It will end with one of those hand-grenade gags, throwing the pin and keeping hold of the grenade, dropping the grenade on the floor — let me do it.’
‘Shan’t,’ said Tuppe. ‘You’re driving, I’m throwing. Let the Cadillac get up along side of me then I’ll simply toss the grenade in and you can swerve away.’
‘Having pulled the pin first.’
‘What pin?’
‘What pin!’
‘Only joking. Oooooow!’ Mash went the Cadillac into the back. ‘I won’t do any counting, just pull the pin and lob it in, how much time do you get anyway?’
‘About ten seconds, I think.’
‘You’d better do some nifty driving then. OK let’s go for it.’
Cornelius swerved to the right, the Cadillac drew up along side and began to grind against what was left of Tuppe’s door.
‘I hate to do this,’ said Tuppe, ‘as you were once such a magical car. But I’m sorry.’ He pulled the pin and flung the grenade into the Cadillac. ‘So long.’
‘Careful!’ A head bobbed up in the Cadillac’s front seat, inches away from Tuppe. It was a sheep’s head. It was Boris the bogus sheep’s head. ‘You nearly hit me with that,’ he called gaily. ‘What a laugh this car, eh? How are you doing, fellas?’
‘Boris, it’s you!’
‘What?’ went Cornelius.
‘It’s Boris in the Cadillac.’
‘Then don’t throw the grenade.’
‘I have thrown the grenade.’
‘You didn’t tell me you’d thrown it.’
‘Boris popped up and surprised me.’
‘How many seconds ago did you—’
‘Boris!’ screamed Tuppe. ‘Jump out of the car. That’s a bomb I’ve thrown into it. A bomb. Jump! Jump!’
‘Can’t wait!’ Cornelius swerved away and rammed on the brakes. The Cadillac shot past, leapt a small dune and then erupted in a violent gout of flame. Very forcefully and with a great deal of noise.
Cornelius threw himself across Tuppe, as shards of flaming metal rained down on the Jeep.
Boris hadn’t leapt to safety.
Boris was sadly no more.
35
‘Did he . . .’ Tuppe asked.
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Then he’s . . .’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he is.’
‘Then I . . .’
‘It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t see him until it was too late.’
‘That doesn’t help. I killed him, Cornelius. I blew him up.’
‘Very quick end,’ said the tall boy. ‘If it’s any consolation, he wouldn’t have felt anything.’
‘It’s no consolation at all. We’ll have to give him a decent burial at least.’
‘Do you think so?’ Cornelius wasn’t too keen to go looking for parts.
‘I killed him, so I must bury him.’
‘OK.’
They climbed from what was left of the Jeep and plodded sadly to the crest of the little dune and stared down at the horrid mess that lay beyond. The Cadillac was reduced to its blackened chassis. Little burning bits smoked here and there.
‘Do you see any of him?’ Tuppe asked. Cornelius nodded. ‘Over there.’
‘Ah,’ said Tuppe.
‘And over there,’ said Cornelius. ‘And over there.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear. I’m so sorry.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘We don’t even know anything about his family. We don’t know who to tell.’
Cornelius patted his chum on the shoulder. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said.
‘Let’s gather up his pieces.’
‘Would you prefer to do it by yourself?’ Cornelius asked hopefully.
‘No, I’d like you to help me.
They trudged dismally down the little dune. ‘Shall I do the small pieces?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Whichever you prefer. You wouldn’t rather I just dug the hole?’
‘No,’ said Tuppe.
‘Fair enough.’
Boris wasn’t overly scattered. Hooves, woolly tail. And the head!
The main carcass was intact. No bowels hanging out, or anything. Cornelius stooped down, ran his hand over the scorched wool, gave the body a little pat.
‘Is it safe to come out now?’ the body asked. ‘This power armour gets the job done. But I’ve a right headache again.’
‘Tuppe!’ Cornelius jumped up. Jumped up and down. ‘He’s alive, Tuppe. He’s alive.’
‘Eh, what?’ The small fellow had the sheep’s head in his hands and was peering into its empty husk.
‘He’s safe, he’s alive.’
‘I am,’ agreed Boris, struggling out of his protective torso.
‘Oh great!’ Tuppe came stumbling over. He embraced Boris. ‘You’re alive. You’re alive.’
‘Leave it out,’ said the Magonian. ‘Don’t kiss me please.’
‘But you’re alive!’
‘Yes, I know I am. ‘What is that funny noise?’
‘Probably my stomach,’ said Tuppe. ‘It’s a while since I’ve eaten.’
‘No, not that funny noise. I meant that funny noise .
And that funny noise wasn’t really all that funny. It was more of a hideous growling noise. A hideous, mechanical growling noise.
‘It’s the Jeep!’ Cornelius stared in horror as the mashed-about vehicle rose up over the dune, a-growling and a-roaring, the latest victim of Mad Car Disease.
‘Did someone say run?’ Boris asked.
‘Me, I think,’ said Tuppe. ‘Help, Cornelius.’
And the tall boy gathered up the short boy and, in the company of Boris, ran.
Hugo Rune never ran. He strode sometimes. Sauntered often. Sat mostly and slept a good deal.
Had he been sleeping now it is more than probable that his dream would have involved a marble bath-tub, perfumed water, a certain missing equation and a violent knocking upon his bedroom door.
But Rune wasn’t sleeping.
He was organizing.
Something that he excelled at.
Though preferably while seated.
And thus he was seated now. Upon the mayoral throne, looted from Skelington Bay Town Hall. He wore the Mayor’s cloak of office. And his chain. And his hat.
The throne was strapped onto the turret of a Sherman Tank. Rune had commandeered a loud hailer and through this he was ‘organizing’.
Gathered around the tank were several hundred people. Most were clad in holiday attire, stragglers from the great forced-march, or those who had chosen to remain in hiding. All rounded up by the militia men of Chunky’s private army. A private army now under the sole command of Hugo Rune.
‘This entire area is now under martial law,’ called Rune. ‘Your choice is this: engage in a couple of hours’ work for me, or be shot as looters. Those in favour of the first option, raise your hands.’ Most, but not all, hands rose upon the instant.
‘I assume that the dissenters choose to be shot,’ called Rune.
‘You can’t treat us like this,’ shouted a lady in a straw hat. ‘This is England after all.’
‘I see, would you be so kind as to step forward, madam.’
The lady in the straw hat stepped forward from the crowd.
Rune raised a great hand towards the sky, then brought it down, forefinger angled to the hat of straw.
A dark shape dropped from on high. Bat-like wings and cruel claws. A stench of sulphur, flickering forked tongue about an eagle’s beak. Talons caught hold. The lady shrieked. The crowd drew back screaming and crying. Wings beat upon the air. The lady was drawn up, howling for mercy, carried high, away. Towards the sea.
‘That’s the third option,’ called Rune. ‘Have to hurry you now.’
‘Hurry!’ Cornelius plunged towards the cliffs, Boris plunged too. Behind them, roaring like a beast, the Jeep lurched, trailing its exhaust pipe, back tyres shredded, rims grinding.
?
??Ooof!’ went Boris, falling flat on his face.
‘Come on, my friend,’ Cornelius turned, ducked, snatched up Boris, rolled to one side. The Jeep hurtled past, inches to spare, bowel-loosening stuff.
‘Up the cliffs,’ cried Cornelius. ‘Come on, Boris, hurry.’
‘Hurry, the man says.’ Boris scrambled up, the Jeep came about once more, stood, roaring and snorting like a bull. Preparing for the charge.
Cornelius gained the cliff. High cliff. Overhanging cliff. Chalk cliff. The tall boy dug in his fingers. Tried to climb. Chalk fell away. The tall boy fell with it.
‘Ouch!’ wailed Tuppe, as the tall boy fell on him.
Roar, Roar, Roar, went the Jeep, revving its engine.
‘Give us a leg up the cliff,’ implored Boris.
‘I don’t think this cliff can be climbed,’ gasped Cornelius. ‘You don’t have a ray gun on you, by any chance, I suppose.’
‘Ray gun,’ said Boris. ‘Now that’s a thought.’
‘Then you do?’
‘No I don’t. But it is a thought, isn’t it?’
Roar, Roar, Roar, and then Rush.
Shredded tyres flailing like whips. Blue fists of exhaust smoke. Grinding metal, shuddering and shaking, snarling and shrieking. The Jeep shot forwards.
‘Oooooooooh!’ Cornelius caught up Boris and Tuppe and prepared for an impossible leap.
The Jeep tore towards them.
Yards were in it.
Feet.
Then inches.
Then nothing.
Horrible contact.
Mangling, rending.
Destructive.
Unholy.
So very, very nasty.
The concussion was such as to bring down an avalanche of cliff. Rumbling boulders and crests of chalk descended in a thunderous cascade, burying the Jeep and stifling its roars.
For ever.
A big silence fell upon the now deserted beach.
‘Phew,’ said Tuppe. ‘That was close.’
‘Only inches in it,’ said Cornelius.
‘Thought we were done for there,’ said Boris.
‘What intrigues me,’ said Tuppe, ‘is, how in the name of Babylon’s Whore are we hovering up in the sky?’
‘Flying boots,’ said Boris. ‘Issued as standard to the air corps in case you have to bail out. Hang onto me now, stay within the telekinetic field.’