Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

  ‘But hold on,’ said Soap. ‘Firstly, you said that Litany had lost her powers, and secondly, it’s Virgin who bring out the records. They would simply stop the records from being produced.’

  Omally grinned beneath his facial plumage. ‘Firstly,’ said he, ‘Litany’s powers have finally returned. Time heals all wounds, so they say. And secondly, there will be no records. This is going to be the Gandhis’ farewell gig and they are going to go out on a high note. A note that will be heard all around the world. Heard by millions and millions of people and recorded upon millions and millions of video recorders. This is going to make history, Soap.’

  ‘Make history?’ Soap’s head nodded. ‘That might do it, yes.’

  ‘And it will stuff that little sod,’ said John.

  ‘What little sod is that?’

  ‘The chairman of the company, of course. The evil little rat. And to think that when we were offered the record deal I thought it was a good omen. Him having the same name and everything.’

  ‘I’m lost,’ said Soap. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about the revolting little tick who runs the company. The vile bastard who is responsible for the destruction of Brentford. I’m talking about Wingarde Pooley.’

  ‘Wingarde?’ Soap made the face of surprise. ‘I met a young bloke called Wingarde.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. Probably when you were nicking his guru’s watch.’

  Soap now made the face of outraged innocence. ‘I didn’t nick any watch,’ he said.

  ‘Come off it, Soap,’ said Omally. ‘There’s been wanted posters out on you ever since it happened. He must really want that watch back.’

  ‘Watch?’ And Soap recalled his struggle with the editor of the Brentford Mercury and how he’d ended up here in the future clasping nothing but the—

  ‘Watch,’ said Soap. ‘There is a watch. But it didn’t come from any guru.’

  ‘It came from Wingarde’s guru. True Father, as he calls him. Here’ – John rooted around amidst the boxes and the bubblewrap – ‘I have one of his holy medallions somewhere. They give them away free with CDs and stuff. Ah, here’s the fellow.’

  Omally flung a golden plastic disc in Soap’s direction.

  Soap took it up from the floor and gave it a bit of perusal.

  From the centre of the disc a face grinned out at him. It was the face of Leo Justice.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Soap. ‘I do know this man. He’s the editor of the Brentford Mercury. His name is Leo Justice.’

  Omally shook his head and vanished behind his beard. ‘That man’s name is Mageddon,’ he said. ‘Robert Mageddon. But he likes to be known as ‘Most High’.’

  ‘Robert Mageddon?’ said Soap. ‘R. Mageddon? Armageddon? What kind of name is that?’

  Omally shrugged and gathered in his beard.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you this,’ said Soap. ‘The last time I saw him he was calling himself Leo Justice and posing as the editor of the Brentford Mercury.’ Soap peered hard at the face on the medallion. ‘I don’t know who you really are,’ Soap told it, ‘but I’ll find out, you see if I don’t.’

  Soap flipped the medallion into the air, caught it and rammed it into his pocket, where it lay all nestled up beside the stolen watch. The accidentally stolen watch. The accidentally stolen watch that was not only a watch but also a personal lifespan chronometer and a time-travelling device. The very time-travelling device which had, through Soap’s rough handling of it, caused him to be thrown into the future.

  And had Soap taken this watch from his pocket and examined its back, he would have seen the owner’s name printed in tiny little letters upon it. The real name of the owner, that is.

  And that name was not Leo Justice.

  Nor was it Robert Mageddon.

  That name was Dr Vincent Trillby.

  18

  Dr Vincent Trillby was a deviation from the norm.

  A scientist from the future, possessed by demons and now playing guru to a time-travelling fan-boy who took orders from The Voice of God. Not your everyday man on the Brentford omnibus.

  A question that might be asked, and not without good cause, is this: If Wingarde took his orders from The Voice of God, why then would he need a guru?

  Good question.

  And one deserving of an answer.

  It is a well-known Holmesian adage that, once you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, no matter how unlikely it might appear, must be the truth.

  So let us, as would Holmes, apply the science of deduction to this problem. And then, having solved it, we will plunge headlong into all the ensuing chaos and action, at least secure in the knowledge that we actually know what the bleeding is going on.

  So.

  Let us first consider Wingarde. He has shot dead his many-times-great grandfather. Surely, then, he himself would cease to exist? He would never have been born. But here Wingarde is. Large as life and very much more powerful. How?

  All right. Consider this. What if Wingarde, although a Pooley by name, is not actually a real Pooley? Which is to say, what if Wingarde Pooley Snr is not the biological father of Wingarde Pooley Jnr? What if Wingarde’s mother had been having an affair and had got herself pregnant?

  These things happen. It’s something to do with single men not washing their dishes, and a full explanation can be found in an earlier chapter.

  So, if this is the case, and let us assume that it is (because it is!), who might Wingarde’s real father be?

  Well, obviously someone his mother found very attractive. Someone glamorous, perhaps. Someone powerful. Because power is a great aphrodisiac.

  How about someone really powerful? How about the director of the Institute? How about Dr Vincent Trillby!

  All right, let’s try that one on for size. Does it fit? It does. And it would explain what Dr Vincent Trillby is doing in the twentieth century. Searching for his wayward boy.

  It makes perfect sense. And as perfect sense is much better than no sense whatsoever, we will stick with it as an answer.

  But what about those demons? And what about The Voice?

  Are these connected? Well, yes and no.

  Firstly, then, the demons.

  Picture this scenario.

  Amidst all the chaos at Institute Tower, the various Trippers coming and going and hitting each other, Dr Vincent Trillby’s mobile phone rings. Dr Trillby answers it. ‘Trillby speaking,’ he says.

  ‘It’s Marge,’ says Marge, in tears (for Marge is Wingarde’s mum).

  ‘Whatever is it, Marge, my dear?’ asks Dr Trillby, dodging Tripper number eight. ‘You sound upset.’

  ‘It’s our darling boy,’ weeps Marge. ‘Our darling Wingarde. He’s gone. He’s run away.’

  ‘Now calm yourself, Marge. He’s run off before. I’m sure he’ll come back. Don’t worry.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say don’t worry. No one knows you’re his real father. He doesn’t know. My husband doesn’t know—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ says Dr Trillby. ‘Let’s not start all that again. Have you any idea where he’s gone? Did he leave you a voicemail or anything?’

  ‘Yes,’ blubbers Marge, and she plays the voicemail down the phone.

  The voice of Wingarde says, ‘Right! By the time you get this message I’ll be gone. I’m sick of living in this stinking century with THE END on its way and everything. So I’m off. I’m getting out. I’m going back to a decent period to—’

  ‘—see some decent bands,’ says another voice (the voice of Geraldo).

  ‘Yeah, to see some decent bands. Like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and Sonic Energy Authority and the Sumerian Kyngs and the Lost T-Shirts of Atlantis and—’

  ‘—Gandhi’s Hairdryer,’ says the voice of Geraldo.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll see them too. So goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Father. Goodbye.’

  And click goes the voicemail and that is that.

  ‘He’s gone mad!’ cries the voice of Wi
ngarde’s mum. ‘What shall we do, Vincent? What shall we do?’

  Dr Vincent Trillby sighs yet another sigh. He’d hoped that he’d done with sighing, but with all the Trippers and now this…He grabs the nearest Tripper by the throat. ‘Download the time travel program into my lifespan chronometer and do it right now,’ says he. ‘I’ve got to find my son.’

  So far, so good. This all follows neatly. But what about those demons?

  Right. So Tripper, much against his will, downloads the time travel program from his lifespan chronometer into Dr Trillby’s. But then Dr Trillby is faced with a problem. Where and when is Wingarde? Dr Trillby can date the Beatles to the latter part of the twentieth century. But that’s not enough. He’ll need to be a bit more accurate than that. So Dr Trillby does what anyone would do in such circumstances. He hooks into Porkie. That’s SWINE, if you recall. The Single World Interfaced Network Engine. Sum of all human knowledge. Knower of all that there is to know.

  Tiny letters move across the screen of Dr Trillby’s lifespan chronometer. They spell out the words

  WE THANK YOU FOR CALLING SWINE, BUT REGRET THAT ALL INFORMATION IS NOW CLASSIFIED. SWINE IS NOW OFF-LINE AND HAS GONE ON HOLIDAY. GOODBYE.

  Dr Trillby panics and, his heart now ruling his head, programmes a random latter-part-of-the-twentieth-century date into his chronometer and then wham bam, thank you, ma’m, he’s off.

  Out of the future and back to the past.

  And right into very big trouble.

  For Dr Trillby is not as other men. Dr Trillby is a deviation from the norm. Particularly because Dr Trillby was not actually born. Dr Trillby was cloned, and a man who is cloned may look like a man, but he doesn’t actually possess a soul. You can clone the man but you can’t clone the soul. And so what do you think would happen to a man without a soul who suddenly appeared in the twentieth century?

  Another good question.

  And one deserving of an answer.

  Such a man without a soul would instantly fall prey to demonic entities. For it is only the presence of our souls that keeps the blighters out.

  So, here we have a man without a soul, possessed by demons, searching the latter part of the twentieth century for his son. And here we have his son, driven by The Voice, screwing up the latter part of the twentieth century and creating a situation ideal for demonic agencies to seize control of society. The creation of a single mega-organization running damn near everything.

  That is fertile soil for Old Nick and his chums.

  That is Virgin territory!

  And it certainly would not have happened if the great and Godlike Richard Branson had still been at the helm (please don’t sue me over this book, sir).

  Would it? No, of course it wouldn’t. Are we agreed?

  Yes, we are. It all makes perfect sense. It is all, as the well-used saying does, as clear as an author’s conscience.

  Three questions only remain to be answered and then all the pieces will fit:

  What about The Voice?

  How come Wingarde is now running Virgin?

  And how come Dr Trillby is posing as his guru?

  Again, good questions. So let us apply the science of deduction to them and get ourselves back to the action.

  It is certainly not hard to see how, guided by The Voice and considering all he has so far achieved, Wingarde could easily have taken over Virgin. And we can accept that Dr Trillby set himself up as editor of the Brentford Mercury in a historically changing world as a means of tracking down his son. Information Superhighway stuff, data access, all that kind of caper. And we can accept that it was some time after Jim’s murder that Wingarde took over Virgin. By which time Virgin had already bought out the Brentford Mercury.

  A continuation of deductive reasoning puts forth this simple proposition. A new head of Virgin, recognized by Dr Trillby. He has found his wandering son. His wish is to drag him back into the future. But he cannot, because Soap Distant has his personal lifespan chronometer. He wants it back, so he puts out the wanted posters and waits for Soap to reappear. And while he’s waiting he wants to keep close to his son. So he approaches him, chats with him, and as he knows everything about Wingarde it is not difficult for him to convince the lad that he is little less than a guru.

  But but but but but but! I hear you say. What about The Voice? If this is The Voice of God in Wingarde’s head, The Voice of God will know.

  So, what about The Voice?

  Good question.

  Very good question.

  Very good question indeed.

  19

  Soap Distant wasn’t mowing the lawn. He was having a bath.

  He was ruminating in the tub. Dwelling in the lather. Soaking, sud-sniffing, things of that nature.

  Omally had told him that, although the retro library clerk costume and the smudged face make-up did make Soap look something of a character, it also made him look something of a prat. So why didn’t Soap just go upstairs and have a bath, help himself to something from Omally’s extensive wardrobe and then come down and meet the Gandhis for dinner?

  And so Soap was having a bath. Ruminating in the tub. Soaking, sud-sniffing—

  ‘I’ve got to work all this out,’ said Soap to himself. ‘Apply the science of deduction. I haven’t got all the pieces yet. But I know I’ve got some of them. I know it’s the men in the black T-shirts. I know they travel through time. And I know they mess around with history. Save rock stars from tragic early deaths, and so on. And now this Wingarde is in charge of Virgin and Virgin virtually own all rock music. It’s all connected and it’s all to do with rock music.

  ‘But what about Jim? Why kill poor Jim? Jim was a friendly harmless soul. An amiable buffoon, really. But he was a good man. A much-loved man of Brentford. Why would anyone want to kill him?’

  Soap sighed amidst the suds. ‘It has to be the music,’ he said. ‘Jim’s share in the Gandhis or something. But I’m sure it’s all down to this Wingarde and his guru. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Getting to the bottom of things is what I do best.’

  And with that said, and as he was now all prune-wrinkly from more than three hours in the bath, Soap rose from his perfumed water, donned a rather spiffing white towelling bathrobe and examined himself in a mirrored wall tile.

  Same death-mask dead-white facial features. Same transparent hooter. Same pink hamster eyeballs. Same fibre-optic flat-top.

  ‘Same good-looking son of a tunnel,’ said Soap Distant.

  Soap rootled about in Omally’s wardrobe, marvelling at the quantity of suits. He selected for himself a black silk number, matching shirt and shoes.

  ‘Black silk shoes,’ said Soap, twirling before the mirror-tiled bedroom wall. ‘Omally knows how to live. But is this me, or is this me?’

  Soap concluded that it was indeed he, as black was really his colour. He turned out the pockets of the library clerk’s uniform and came across the golden plastic medallion and the watch.

  Now, what should he do with this? Flush it down the toilet? Soap weighed up the pros and cons. Perhaps it would be better just to hang on to it. Use it as a means to meet up with this Leo once again. Soap stuck the medallion into his pocket and strapped the watch onto his wrist.

  ‘Very smart,’ said Soap. ‘Very futuristic’

  All dolled up and dandy, Soap made his way downstairs. Sounds of gaiety echoed where they could about the crowded entrance hall. Coming from behind a panelled door, which Soap assumed must lead to the dining room.

  Soap thought that he’d make a grand entrance and so he picked his way through the chaos, knocked smartly on the door and flung it open.

  The dining room, for such it was, was grand as grand could be.

  The walls were hung with portraits of the Crawford family.

  There were dudes done up as generals and ladies all in lace.

  You could tell they all were Crawfords, for they had the Crawford face.

  The furniture was old and rich, of Chippendale persuasion.

 
The table fairly groaned with grub, as for some state occasion.

  A laughing group was gathered round, Omally at the head.

  As Soap appeared their laughter stopped and silence reigned instead.

  ‘What a very poetic room,’ said Soap. ‘Er, why are you staring at me like that?’

  Omally rose from his chair and pointed a trembling finger at Soap. ‘Of all the suits in my wardrobe,’ he said, ‘why did you have to choose that one?’

  ‘It’s black,’ said Soap. ‘My favourite colour.’

  ‘It’s my funeral suit,’ said Omally. ‘The one I wore to Jim’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Colour rose to Soap’s cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know. I’ll go and change at once.’

  Omally shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Forget it, Soap. It does suit you. Keep it, it’s yours.’

  Soap Distant stood in the doorway, the now legendary spare dongler at a wedding.

  Omally beckoned. ‘Come and sit down here by me and get stuck into this grub.’

  Soap took a seat. Omally poured wine and made the introductions.

  ‘This is Litany,’ said John, ‘the most wonderful singer on Earth.’

  Soap nodded smiles towards the woman nodding smiles at him. She was slim and svelte and stunning. All in white with eyes of emerald green. Soap was taken at once by her beauty, but also by the thought that surely he had met this woman before. There was something about her that rang one of those little bells that you can’t actually hear but you know are being rung. Somewhere.

  ‘I love the moustache,’ said Soap. ‘Is that a fashion thing?’

  ‘It’s a metaphor,’ said Litany.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Soap. ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘And this is Ricky,’ said John. ‘The greatest Stratster on the planet. He’s teaching me to play.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Soap,’ said Ricky, reaching for a handshake. ‘John’s told me all about you. Did you really visit the centre of the Earth?’

  ‘Certainly did,’ said Soap. ‘Although I’ve mislaid the photos.’