A Dog Called Demolition

  Or something.

  Danny staggered into Moby Dick Terrace. Moby Dick Terrace. Scene of the terrible murder. The murder of Mrs Roeg. And others. Which he somehow...he somehow…

  Danny staggered out of Moby Dick Terrace most speedily, crossed the precinct. The High Street. Into Horseferry Lane.

  Folk were looking at him. Hardly surprising. Danny put his shoulders back, affected a cheery grin. They still looked.

  Danny looked back and smiled. And then he stopped smiling. Quite quickly. They didn’t look right, these people. They looked all wrong. Blurry somehow. Danny pinched at his eyes. Did some refocusing. No, they still looked wrong. They didn’t look quite in focus. Everything else did – the road, the shops, the cars. But not the people.

  Danny blinked and blinked again.

  The people looked completely wrong. There was something draped about their shoulders. Rising up above their heads. Something odd. Something odious. Something he seemed to hate.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Danny boy.’ Danny stopped short in his staggering tracks. ‘I said that, didn’t I? It wasn’t…? No, it wasn’t, it was me. I am me, no-one else. Nothing else. Just me.’

  Danny staggered on. The Shrunken Head loomed only yards before. A truly welcoming sight. A bit more staggering and he was at its door. A young man was leaving as Danny approached. Danny stared at the young man and the young man stared back. Danny did some more blinking. What was that thing the young man had upon his shoulders? Grey and out of focus. He got the impression of an overlarge head, two black staring eyes. Spindly limbs.

  ‘Drink,’ said Danny. ‘I need a drink.’

  The young man pushed past him and went on his way.

  Danny entered The Shrunken Head.

  There was more of a crowd than yesterday, but a rough-looking crowd it was. All the local tattooed dregs, by the shape of it. The big-bellied lads with the rank-smelling armpits and the pit bull terriers called Arnie.

  Danny eased himself into the crush and made for the bar.

  ‘Morning, Danny,’ said Sandy. ‘Be with you in a moment.’

  ‘Yes, please do.’ Danny found a vacant barside stool and dropped down upon it. He took further deep breaths and tried to steady his disintegrated nerves. He was in some kind of big trouble and he just knew it.

  ‘So what will it be?’ asked Sandy.

  ‘Large Scotch please and—’ Danny gawped at Sandy. ‘What is that!’

  ‘What?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘That,’ said Danny, pointing. ‘That.’

  Sandy looked up above his own head. ‘What are you pointing at?’

  Danny could see the thing clearly. In the half-light of the bar it was plainly visible. It sat upon the barman’s shoulders, a frail, naked thing, its fragile legs dangling down the barman’s lapels. It was all-over grey with narrow shoulders, a slender neck and a great swollen hairless head. It had huge black slanting eyes, a tiny nose, a slit of a mouth. Long, delicate fingers caressed the barman’s head, the fingertips seeming almost to enter it.

  ‘That,’ said Danny. ‘That!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Danny. ‘I get it.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I do. It’s a new theme idea for the pub, isn’t it? Let me guess, Science Fiction Lunch-times, that’s it, isn’t it? It’s the bleeding Mekon.’

  ‘The bleeding what?’

  ‘You know, out of Dan Dare comics. You know. You know.’ Danny turned upon his stool and perused the patrons. ‘They’ve all got one. How’s it done then? They look transparent.’

  ‘Are you all right, Danny?’ asked Sandy. ‘Because you look rather strange.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Danny. ‘Don’t make the mock.’

  The barman turned to draw off Danny’s whisky. Then he stiffened and turned back. Danny saw the thing on his shoulders incline its head, stare deeply into Danny’s eyes, then up to a spot above his head.

  As Danny looked on, the thing became agitated. Its fingers worked and worked upon the barman’s head. Massaging. Massaging.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Clear,’ whispered the barman in a voice that was not his own. ‘You’re a clear.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Clear.’

  ‘Clear?’

  At the word all conversation ceased. Heads began to turn. Grey things stared. Tall men began to stoop and the things that rode upon their shoulders appeared from out of the ceiling, the black eyes darting, shoulders vibrating, slender knees digging in against the human cheeks. As if they were horsemen. Riders.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Danny looked from one to another of them. ‘Something’s happening here. This isn’t right. This isn’t right.’

  ‘Clear,’ said the barman in the strange unearthly voice. The voice. The voice. The voice that had been in his head. The voice he had never actually heard. Just felt. Just experienced. That was the voice. That was the way it sounded.

  ‘Clear,’ said a fat-bellied fellow with tattoos.

  The same voice.

  ‘Clear,’ said a lady in a straw hat.

  Same again.

  ‘Clear,’ they went. ‘Clear. Clear. Clear. Kill the dear. Kill the clear. Kill the clear.’

  ‘No.’ Danny shook his head vigorously. And it hurt when he did it. ‘No, stop this. Whatever it is. Stop it.’

  ‘Clear!’ and a fat-bellied fellow threw a pint glass.

  Danny ducked and the glass hit Sandy square in the face.

  The barman didn’t seem to notice. With blood now streaming from his forehead he continued the terrible chant. ‘Kill the clear. Kill the clear. Kill the clear.’

  ‘No, this is madness.’ Danny leapt from his stool as another pint pot flew at him. He pushed aside a scrawny youth who lunged forward, the grey rider on his shoulders spurring him on, a twisted leer on its lipless mouth.

  ‘No!’ Danny ran. As he burst through the door he bumped into The Kid. ‘Thank God.’ Danny stared. Though made pale by the sunlight one of them was there. Perched upon The Kid’s shoulders, clinging to his head. ‘You too!’

  ‘Me what?’

  ‘Clear,’ cried the advancing crowd.

  ‘Clear?’ went The Kid and the thing upon him glared down at Danny.

  ‘Holy Hell!’ Danny pushed The Kid aside and ran.

  He was in no fit state to run.

  But it really did seem the absolutely right thing to do. What with ‘Kill the clear’ and everything.

  Danny ran.

  Up Horseferry Lane he ran. They were tumbling out of the pub after him, he glanced back to see them, falling over one another, trampling on the fallen. Howling. Howling.

  Danny ran.

  He made it to the High Street. There had to be safety there. Amongst people. Sanity. In films if you’re chased by monsters you’re saved if you make it to civilization, to where the normal folk hang out. Danny huffed and puffed in the High Street.

  The mob poured on in hot pursuit. They weren’t letting up.

  ‘Help,’ wailed Danny, resuming his run. ‘Help! Help!’

  Shoppers turned at the commotion. Normal folk. Civilization. And on their shoulders. Danny could see them. The unnatural shapes. They were there. Everybody had one.

  ‘Oh my good God.’

  And the heads were turning. The Riders over their heads were turning, staring at him. Glaring at him. Danny pushed shoppers aside. And ran and ran.

  And tripped and fell.

  And the mob caught up. Closed in upon him.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ bawled Danny, rising and kicking and punching. ‘Get off me. There’s something bad on you. Leave me alone.’

  But that wasn’t what they had in mind.

  Fists rained upon him. Feet lashed out.

  ‘No!’ went Danny, covering his head. ‘No, no, no.’

  But they were screaming in their weird unnatural voices. Screaming and screaming.

  And hitting and kicking.

  ‘No!’
>
  And then there were howls of pain. But not Danny’s pain. A white van veered from the road and into the crowd. It mashed folk aside and swerved to a halt beside Danny. A door flew open. A pale hand extended.

  A voice whispered harshly those now legendary words, ‘Come with me if you want to live.’

  And Danny did.

  He really did.

  17

  FOOD FOR THOUGHT

  The driver put the white van into gear. Wheels spun and rubber burned. The mob burst asunder, howling curses. The van leapt forward from the pavement, grazing cars and burning further rubber, through the red lights, scattering pedestrians, upending cyclists, missing by a fraction this and that.

  Then on and on. Away and away.

  And fast.

  Danny clung to the dashboard, crazy-eyed and on the point of gibber. He flashed his crazy eyes towards the driver, looked at him long and hard. The smart dark suit. The swept-back hair. The mirrored shades. And looked him up and down, especially up.

  ‘Duck your head,’ gasped Danny. ‘Duck your head.’

  ‘My head?’ The voice a rasping whisper.

  ‘Just duck it, please.’

  The driver ducked his head. And Danny looked at him hard again. ‘You’re safe,’ he sighed. ‘You haven’t got one on you.’

  ‘One of what, is that?’

  ‘One of them. The monsters. The aliens.’

  ‘Aliens, you say?’

  ‘It’s got to be it. It’s got to be.’

  ‘It has?’

  ‘It has.’ Danny gagged to find his breath. Found some of it and held that as best he could. ‘Something terrible’s happened. Terrible. Those people back there, who were attacking me. They had these things on them. Aliens.’

  ‘Really?’ said the driver. ‘Aliens?’

  ‘I’m not joking. And I’m not mad. Aliens, big bulbous heads, black eyes. Like the ones in that film Communion, except they were really badly animated in that. These were real. It must have happened last night.’

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘An invasion. Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers but without the pods. Earth got invaded last night. Or Brentford did. They got everyone, but they didn’t get me. I was in my allotment shed. So they didn’t get me. That has to be it. It has to.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not,’ whispered the driver. ‘But it’s a plausible theory though. I expect if I were in your shoes, it’s the one I’d have come up with.’

  ‘You would? I mean, hang about. Who are you anyway? Why did you rescue me?’

  ‘My name is Vrane. Parton Vrane. We’ve met before.’

  ‘I don’t think we have, I’d remember you. You know who you look like, by the way?’

  ‘Gary Busey?’ said the driver.

  ‘People have told you that before, eh?’

  ‘Actually no. Hold tight now, I’m going to take a hard left at the roundabout.’

  ‘You can slow down. We’ve lost them.’

  ‘They’ll be looking for us. They’ll search.’

  ‘You saw them too. You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘I saw them. I’ve always been able to see them.’

  ‘Always? What do you mean by that? And when have we met before? And why did you save me? You’re not answering my questions.’

  The van pulled a very hard left and Danny fell across the driver, he struggled to right himself. ‘Tell me what is going on,’ he demanded.

  ‘Where is the dog?’

  ‘The dog? What dog? Oh God, the dog. Are you a policeman? I don’t feel well.’ Danny clasped at his head. ‘I’m really ill. I’m going to pass out.’

  ‘Stay awake a bit longer, Mr Orion. I have to talk to you.’

  ‘Mr Orion? How do you know my name?’

  ‘I’ve been following you.’

  ‘Let me out.’ Danny rattled at the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. ‘Let me out. Stop the van.’

  ‘That really wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  ‘Stop the van!’ Danny tried to put a lot of menace into his voice. He was only fooling himself though.

  ‘All right.’ Parton Vrane swerved the van into the kerb. ‘Wind down the window, have a look out.’

  Danny wound down the window. They were in a side-road bordering Gunnersbury Park. There were few folk about. A man and a woman. The woman was pushing a baby buggy.

  ‘Thanks for helping me.’ Danny tried the handle once more. Without success.

  ‘Just look out.’

  Danny just looked out. The couple were approaching. Young chap in a shell suit, woman in a baggy T-shirt and those horrendous multi-coloured leggings that not even Claudia Schiffer could make look appealing. Sprog in a miniature football strip. And then Danny saw them. The Riders. Perched upon the shoulders of the adults. And the child too! Even the child.

  Danny let out a strangled cry and hastily wound up the window. ‘Drive. Just drive. Don’t stop.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The driver drove on.

  ‘I am going to pass out,’ said Danny. ‘I am. I really am.’

  ‘There’s food in the glove compartment.’

  ‘Oh thanks.’ Danny rumbled open the glovey. He found a carton of milk and some sandwiches (egg) in a triangular plastic container. Danny tore open the milk carton, put it to his mouth. He took a long deep draught, then spat milk all over the windscreen.

  ‘Careful there,’ said Parton Vrane.

  ‘It’s off,’ Danny spluttered and coughed. ‘It’s bad. It’s—’ He examined the sell-by date. ‘It’s two weeks’ old. Disgusting. You bastard!’

  ‘Sorry. I like it like that.’

  ‘You what?’ Danny clawed at his tongue. Held up the pack of sandwiches. ‘These too. They’re going furry inside.’

  ‘Lovely. Tear them open will you and give me one.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Go on then.’ Danny tore the pack open. The sandwiches smelt pretty rank and added to the stench of the milk, the van, although perhaps still a safe place to be, was no longer a pleasant one. Danny handed the pack and its revolting contents to the driver. ‘Go on. Tuck in.’

  ‘I will.’ Parton Vrane tucked in. The plastic pack as well.

  ‘Oh my good God.’ Danny turned his face away. And had his stomach any contents to yield up, it would certainly have yielded them. Probably in a projectile fashion.

  ‘Do you always behave so rudely when others are trying to eat?’ asked Parton Vrane.

  ‘When they’re eating garbage, yes.’

  ‘One man’s garbage is another man’s feast.’

  ‘Garbage!’ said Danny. ‘And I am going to pass out.’

  And he did.

  He awoke to stare bleary-eyed at yet another ceiling. Danny wondered, for a moment, if perhaps this was to be his fate, always to get into some kind of dire trouble and always to awaken looking up at yet another ceiling. And then he stopped wondering that and he screamed.

  ‘Aaaaaaagh!’ he went, because that is how you scream, when you scream, if you’re a man. It’s the accepted mode of screaming. Although sometimes (if it’s really loud and dramatic) it’s conveyed in capital letters. This one wasn’t that loud, but it was loud enough to raise attention.

  ‘Are they on me? Are they on me?’ Danny flapped and flapped at his head. ‘Get them off. Get them off.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Mr Orion. You’re in safe hands now.’

  The voice was not the harsh whisper of Parton Vrane. It was an educated English tone.

  Danny looked up at a chap with a monocle and a toupee, looming above him. He glanced all about his present environment. A big airy room. Portrait of Her Majesty. Victorian busts. Leather Chesterfields. He was lying on one of them.

  ‘Well,’ said Danny, ‘this makes a change.’ And then he stared hard at the chap with the monocle. And up and over his head.

  ‘You’re safe,’ said Danny.

  ‘I’m clear,’ said the gentleman. ‘And so are you. What
we’d like to know is, how?’

  Danny sat up and sunk his head into his hands. ‘Feed me,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t care who you are or where I am. Just feed me. Please.’

  ‘On the trolley.’ The gentleman gestured to a chromium wheelabout, laden with silver food domes, a coffee pot, cup, milk jug, toast in a rack.

  ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you.’ Danny tucked in like a mad thing.

  The gentleman sat behind his grand desk watching. The munching and chomping and thrusting-into-the-mouth of and munching and chomping some more. ‘Everything to your liking?’ he asked.

  ‘Just perfect.’ Danny wiped marmalade from his chin, sniffed the milk jug suspiciously then grinned and downed its contents at a gulp.

  The gentleman raised his non-monocled eyebrow and pursed his lips. The working class! he thought. Savages all. When they weren’t beating their wives, abusing their children and getting drunk, they were spending their cash on the National Lottery. Which was their only saving grace, as no-one else was going to finance the National Opera.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Danny, filling his face as he did so. ‘No, don’t tell me, I know. This is a top-secret room, isn’t it? In one of those big Whitehall buildings. I bet it looks out at Big Ben.’ He stood up and looked. ‘Told you.’ He sat down again and ate on.

  ‘Very good, Mr Orion. Although a mite messy.’ The gentleman flicked food flecks from his desk top. ‘If you wouldn’t mind swallowing before you speak again.’

  ‘Sorry. Oops, sorry again.’

  ‘Just finish your breakfast.’

  ‘Thanks. Sorry. Thanks. S—’

  ‘Just eat.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  At length, and at some length it was, Danny stopped eating. He would have eaten more, but all the plates were empty. He felt a lot better for it and he belched mightily.

  The gentleman shook his head in disgust and thought about the National Opera House.

  ‘Where’s the bloke who looks like Gary Busey?’ Danny asked. ‘I assume he brought me here. Am I under arrest, by the way?’

  ‘You’re not under arrest.’

  ‘Oh good, then I’ll be off.’

  ‘Really? And to where?’

  Danny thought about this. There were an awful lot of folk in the heart of London and if they all had one of those things, one of those Riders...