‘And how long has this been down behind the radiator?’ asked Sir John.
The curator added a polite cough or two to his indiscriminate stream. ‘About thirty years,’ he said.
‘Thirty years!’ Sir John rose to a quite impossible height.
‘Booked in in 1966.’
‘1966,’ Sir John’s narrow head nodded. ‘But of course it would have been. That was when it all happened.’
‘All what?’ asked the curator, who being a curator was nosy by nature. A bit like being a window cleaner really, or one of those people who views houses for sale when they’ve no intention of buying them, or an investigative journalist, or—
‘Shut up!’ shouted Sir John.
‘But I only said, all what.’
‘Never mind.’ Sir John opened the shoe-box lid and viewed the contents. ‘The Golden Tablet of Tosh m’Hoy. And it was claimed to be of extraterrestrial origin.’
The curator’s head bobbed. ‘And is it, do you think?’
‘No,’ said the psychic investigator. ‘It isn’t. But I’ll take it with me, if I may.’
‘I’m sorry, but you may not.’
‘Nevertheless I will.’
‘I really must protest.’
Sir John raised his cane and smote the curator on the head. The curator collapsed in an unconscious heap.
Of mounted sheep
And things that creep
And parchment scrolls
And—
‘Shut up!’ said Sir John.
THE EPISODE OF THE GOLDEN TABLET AS SIR JOHN RIMMER EXPLAINED IT
In a dungeon beneath the Hidden Tower, the manse of Sir John Rimmer, three men were gathered about a cylindrical steel coffin. Pipes ran from this to various control units, stop-cocks, temperature gauges, canisters of liquid nitrogen, electrical apparatus. It was very cold down there in the dungeon, the breath of three men steamed in air made bright by naphtha lamps.
Sir John was there with his two associates, Dr Harney, of the white nimbus hair and freckle face, and Danbury Collins, the psychic youth.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Sir John, ‘I have called you here, upon this dark and stormy night’ (thunder crashed distantly and a flash of lightning showed beyond a stained-glass window), ‘because our search is finally at an end.’
‘You have found the tablet?’ said the good doctor.
‘At last. It has lain lost in the vaults at the BM for almost thirty years, handed in by a Mr Lemon who believed it to be a gift from Venusians.’
‘And it’s not?’ asked Danbury, scratching his trousers.
‘Terrestrial in origin. I have examined it at great length. It was carved in the early nineteen sixties, then buried on the St Mary’s allotment, where a Mr Omally found it and then passed it on to Mr Lemon as a prank. I believe it was intended that we come across it at the same time we acquired our chap here,’ Sir John tapped lightly upon the cylindrical coffin, then examined his fingertips for frostbite. ‘In 1966, however, it got knocked down behind a radiator and thirty years have been allowed to pass.’
‘But it will do what you think it will do?’ asked the doctor.
‘The spell of denecrolization is engraved upon it.’
‘What exactly is that?’ asked Danbury.
‘A spell for reanimating the dead.’
‘Ooh, freaky.’
‘Shut up you silly boy.’
‘Thirty years is a long time,’ said Dr Harney. ‘Do you think the corpse—’
‘The corpse has been preserved at a temperature of two hundred and forty degrees below zero, it will be in mint condition.’
‘Let us hope so. But listen, perhaps now, before you speak the spell, you might care to reacquaint us with the details of this extraordinary business.’
‘I would be glad to.’ Sir John took to pacing, and spoke as he walked. ‘As you will recall, we rescued this chap from the hospital morgue just hours before he was due to be cremated. We brought him here and froze him up.’
‘Nasty,’ said Danbury.
‘Not nasty, boy. He is dead, he can’t feel anything, can he?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I know his real name, but we will refer to him as John Doe. The story begins back in the 1950s. The Ministry of Serendipity, a secret government research department, were searching for the Alpha Man. That is a man who is number one in the process of idea-to-realization-of-idea. An original originator, if you like. They were not successful in their search but they later discovered someone with an extraordinary gift. John Doe here. He possessed the power of the mystical butterfly of chaos theory. He could achieve great ends by performing small feats, but he was unaware of his wild talent. The ministry nurtured him and by enlisting relatives of his, an uncle and John Doe’s brother, they set up a controlled experiment: a stage act where John played Carlos the Chaos Cockroach. They worked out what actions he should perform with a specially designed computer program. The experiment was a success, but John overheard his brother and uncle in conversation and realized that he was being used. The M.o.S. put plan B into operation, they set up a phoney attack on Fangio’s Bar, allowing John Doe to escape in the company of a woman called Litany. Litany was also in the pay of the M.o.S. She was one of their top agents.
‘The plan was that she would be John’s lover, and guide him to use his gift for the ends of the M.o.S. These ends were, naturally enough, world domination by the United Kingdom.’
Dr Harney whistled.
Danbury hummed softly.
‘However,’ said Sir John, ‘things didn’t go the way they planned. At a seaside resort called Skelington Bay, John used his talents to make all the local homeless wealthy. Call it fate or call it irony, but the money came from the coffers of the M.o.S. They were furious and tried to track down all these now wealthy homeless. But the homeless were one step ahead, they donated all their money to local charities in the town. The M.o.S. couldn’t touch them.
‘Now we come to the bad bit. Our John Doe here has a fatal accident. He walks into the path of a Blue Bird Cleaners truck.’
‘Is that a truck for cleaning blue birds?’ Danbury asked. ‘As in birds in blue films?’
Dr Harney clouted Mr Collins.
‘Ouch,’ said Mr Collins.
‘Fatal accident,’ continued Sir John. ‘Except it was no accident. The driver of the van was an M.o.S. hitman. Mr Doe had been targeted for termination, as they say. He had become a dangerous liability. They snuffed him out.’
‘That’s very bad,’ said Dr Harney.
‘Very bad,’ Sir John agreed. ‘But there is a little more to the story. My investigations have uncovered that throughout the course of Mr Doe’s short life there are a number of curious anomalies concerning time. For instance, this man’s brother owned a disco van in 1966 in which he played the Byrds’ ‘Eight Miles High’ on the radio. ‘Eight Miles High’ was not released until 1967.’
‘That could just be a mistake,’ said Danbury. ‘Maybe it was a promo copy.’
‘Possibly, but how would you explain him receiving a copy of Captain Beefheart’s legendary 1969 album Trout Mask Replica in 1957 when he was eight years old and playing it on a 1980s stereo system?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘And most recently a 1966 Lincoln Continental was trawled from the mud flats in Skelington Bay, where it had lain for thirty years. On its back seat was a 1996 laptop computer.’
Danbury now whistled.
Dr Harney didn’t hum.
‘There are many more such anomalies,’ said Sir John. ‘This lad’s life was riddled with them.’
‘Are you suggesting that he caused them?’ the doctor asked.
‘I am. Unwittingly, unconsciously, he caused things to occur. Part of some great pattern that only he knew about and yet that even he himself was not aware that he knew about. It is my belief that he created this Golden Tablet with the spell of denecrolization upon it so that it could be used upon him after his death.’
‘Th
at’s quite incredible!’ said Dr Harney.
‘It’s not bad, is it?’ said Sir John. ‘And it hasn’t half tied up a few loose ends.’
‘So are you going to speak the magic words?’ Danbury asked.
‘I am.’
‘Just one thing.’ Dr Harney raised a freckled hand. ‘Do you think this is really a wise thing to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that perhaps it would simply be better to leave him as he is. If this man has the power to control the world, isn’t he better left dead? There’s no telling what he might do when he’s reanimated and finds out what the M.o.S. did to him. He might take it out on us.’
‘Not a bit of it.’ Sir John shook his slender head. ‘We will be releasing him from death. We will be his saviours. He will be forever in our debt. Think what we might learn from him. Think what he might teach us. Think what he might give us by way of a reward.’
‘It’s iffy,’ said Dr Harney, ‘very iffy.’
‘It is nothing of the sort.’
‘But what if he was to find out about the M.o.S. killing him? He might take a terrible revenge.’
‘But he’s not going to find out, is he? Because we are not going to tell him.’ Sir John tapped very lightly upon the steel cylinder. ‘All that I have just said is our secret, he must never find out. And, frankly, unless he’s been able to overhear our conversation, there’s no way he ever will.’
Sir John laughed. And he winked as he laughed and, raising high his hands, he spoke the spell of denecrolization.
Inside the steely cylinder John Doe lay rigid. But even though suffering the agonies of being frozen two hundred and forty degrees below zero, he had heard every single word.
And he wasn’t happy.
BLACK CAT’S RETURN
Don of The Spoon and Pusher
Said to the lads at the bar,
‘Though it’s closing time and the Bill be plenty,
I’ll not close this pub to gentry.
Have one more, my bonny lads,
And we’ll wait Black Cat’s return.’
Jim the skipper quaffed his ale
And nodded with his beard.
‘Though I’d best sail when the tide be turning,
I would that my boats be burning
Than leave you here, my bonny lads,
To wait Black Cat’s return.’
Mick the butcher sucked his Briar
And blew out rings of smoke.
‘Though I should be at slicing meat,
I’ll not set one foot in the street
And leave you here, my bonny lads,
To wait Black Cat’s return.’
Ben the sad librarian
Leaned back in his chair.
‘Though I’ve fines that need collecting,
Filing drawers that need correcting
I’ll stay here, my bonny lads,
To wait Black Cat’s return.
Black Cat Larson sat alone
In a pub just up the road.
‘Though I’ve a love for The Spoon and Pusher
With its seats of padded cusher,
I’ll not drink there when it’s so damn crowded
I’ll stay here alone.’
Ha ha.
16
BARRY
It was 1996, the sun was shining and I was marching up a high street. Marching and swearing.
‘Barry, you stupid sodding sprout!’ I swore. ‘That was some radical plan! Thirty years frozen at two hundred and forty degrees below zero and feeling every minute of it. You call that a plan? You stupid sodding sod!’
‘Yeah, well I’m sorry, chief. It wasn’t the way I would have written it. It was just bad luck, the shoe-box getting lost behind the radiator and everything.’
‘I’ve lost thirty years, you ble—’
‘Look on the bright side, chief. Thirty years ago when you were fifteen, you looked forty-five. Thirty years later and guess what, you still look forty-five. That can’t be bad, can it?’
‘Can’t be bad? I have missed out on thirty years of life I could have had with Litany. That’s thirty years of SEX.’
‘Yeah, but, chief, Litany was a stinker, she was working for the M.o.S. She only pretended to like you.’
‘You’re right. And she is going to pay first!’
‘Pay first? What about what you did back there at the Hidden Tower. That wasn’t very nice, was it?’
‘They deserved what they got.’
‘But Sir John did speak the magic words and reanimate you, it wasn’t very grateful, kicking him in the nuts like that.’
‘He was going to use me, like the others did. I heard him, “Think of what he might give us by way of a reward,” he said.’
‘Maybe, chief, but head-butting poor Dr Harney like that.’
‘He was for leaving me dead!’
‘He might have had a point.’
‘What did you say, Barry?’
‘Nothing, chief. But what you did to Danbury Collins, that was really gross.’
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘I’ve never seen someone’s head rammed up their own bottom before.’
‘I said I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Sorry, chief. Where are we going now?’
‘To find Litany.’
‘You won’t find her, chief. This is 1996, she could be anywhere.’
‘I know exactly where she’ll be,’ I said, and I did.
There were mammoth crowds at Wembley. Sonic Energy Authority were playing their thirtieth-anniversary concert. I pushed my way into the crowd.
‘You don’t have a ticket, chief.’
I head-butted a short frail-looking young man and availed myself of his wallet. ‘I do now.’
‘This is not a nice way to behave, chief.’
‘Just shut up.’
The ex-waiter playing bass hadn’t aged too well, he was going bald and had a serious paunch. The rest of the band didn’t look so bad. Cardinal Cox, the lead singer, still had it. When he launched into ‘Johnny B. Goode’ the crowd went wild.
I stood to the side of the stage eyeing the crowd. And then I saw her, right near the front, blond hair, bikini top, up on some young fellow’s shoulders. It was a right squeeze getting to her, but I managed it. I punched the young fellow right in the nose and caught Litany on the way down.
‘Come with me,’ I shouted.
‘No I won’t. Leave me alone.’
‘Come with me or I’ll wring your neck right here.’
‘Well, if you put it that way.’
In one of the big corridors I held Litany against a wall.
‘Litany,’ I said, ‘remember me?’
‘I don’t remember you and my name’s not Litany.’
‘Oh yes it is.’
‘Oh no it isn’t.’
‘Is!’
‘Is not, my name is Stephanie.’
‘What?’
‘Litany was my mother.’
‘Your mother. So that’s how it works, you lot always looking the same at all the concerts. Where is your mother? I have to talk to her.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Dead!’ I stepped back in more than some surprise and not a little shock. ‘Dead? When did she die?’
‘Thirty years ago, as it happens.’
‘Thirty years? But you don’t look—’
‘I’m just thirty.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Why, what’s it to you?’
‘I knew your mother, she was... Just tell me what happened.’
‘Her boyfriend was killed. My father. Nine months after he died she gave birth to me. When she left the hospital she put me into care, then she went out and bought all of Philip Glass’s records. The entire collection, she went home and played them one after the other and was—’
‘Bored to death, what a terrible way to go.’
‘She was quite rigid when they found her.’
‘Bored stiff!’
‘And completely desiccated. No bodily fluids left.’
‘Bored sh*tless!’
‘So now you know, let me go, will you?’
I released my grip but I didn’t let her go. ‘You say her boyfriend died nine months before you were born?’
‘Died in a road accident, yes.’
‘Road accident.’ I looked at Stephanie. Deep into her eyes. And then I knew. This was my daughter. Litany had died for love of me. I took the girl in my arms.
‘Get your frigging hands off me!’ she screamed.
‘No, you don’t understand. About your father. He didn’t die. He just went away.’
‘He died,’ she said.
‘No he didn’t. He just went away.’
‘He died!’
‘He didn’t. Listen, I know who your father is.’
‘Was.’
‘Is.’
‘Was, he’s dead.’
‘He’s not dead. Your father’s name is—’ And I named myself.
‘Rubbish,’ said Stephanie. ‘My father’s name was Panay Cloudrunner.’
I marched out of Wembley Stadium and along another high street. Wembley High Street. I pushed through the Saturday shoppers. ‘That does it, Barry,’ I shouted. ‘That really does it!’
‘Now don’t do anything hasty, chief.’
‘Oh I won’t be hasty. I’ve thought about all this. For thirty years I’ve thought about all this. I am going to change this rotten world from the ground up. I am going to build a brave new world, without liars and cheats and exploiters. A real world. A decent world. A world of love and, and, little fluffy animals.’
‘Sounds pretty gross, chief’
‘Oh you’ll love it, Barry. You and the Big Figure.’
‘God, chief?’
‘Chief God! He’s going to love it too. And although having spent thirty years at -240, the idea of +240 up your green bottom in the cooking pot does have a certain appeal, I’m actually going to let you share the glory.’
‘That’s very nice of you, chief.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? God will probably make you chief breeding sprout. Do sprouts have sex, by the way?’