‘I am Brigadier Gerard, Yorkshire Light Infantry and this is a military operation.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, but that’s irrelevant. I have reason to believe that mass murder has been committed. You cannot stand in the way of the legal authority of the police.’
‘Oh yes I bloody well can. I have distinct orders from the highest authority. Cordon off the area and offer all possible assistance. No police, no coroner, and especially no press.
‘Look over there you jumped up, tin-pot soldier. I can see bodies from here. You have no choice; this is murder. The Ministry of Defence does not have jurisdiction.’
‘My orders come from higher up than that. Rules of engagement allow lethal force and we carry live ammunition. Civilians casualties are acceptable.’
‘I don’t believe you. No-one could organise all that in such a short time.’
‘Look, go and speak to your superiors, they will confirm this operation, though I doubt they have clearance to know anything more.’
‘Until I get confirmation, this is a police matter and I demand you move your men, they are impeding police officers in the course of their legal duty.’
‘I’m fed up with this. Sergeant?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Escort these men back to the road and enforce a 100 metre exclusion zone. Use force, but don’t shoot them unless you have to.’
‘Yes sir.’
The Brigadier watched as his men scuffled with the police and slowly pushed them back up the path. Where the bloody hell was Trellis? Unusual orders from on high, manoeuvers with live ammunition in civilian areas and the Brigade’s artillery standing by on Saddleworth Moor. It had one of Trellis’s endeavours written all over it. Admittedly it would be nice to see the old bugger, but it would be even nicer to know what the hell was going on.
He was on Saddleworth moor when all the shooting started. The distant thrum of the machine gun fire was shrill and too staccato for any weapon he knew, however the thump of grenades was familiar enough. He gathered a reconnaissance team and drove at speed towards Huddersfield. He guessed the allotment were in trouble and they were the focus of attention of some quietly powerful people.
At the request of some anonymous civil servant, he had made officially unofficial visits on many occasions over the years. At first he found nothing unusual and Dave Trellis unwelcoming to the point of rudeness. When he tried a surreptitious recce of the catacombs, he was pounced on by a hoard of huge orange spiders and escorted to Dave’s pavilion by a pack of growling dogs. It was then, during a pleasant evening of whiskey and cigars, that Dave told him the secret of St Catherine’s allotments and asked for his discretion. For some reason he trusted Dave and did not mention the strange events at St Catherine’ in his report. Some weeks later he was called to London to meet some rather important people and instructed to hold a watching brief over the allotments. He was dismayed to learn that Dave Trellis held the honorary military rank of Major General and permitted to give orders to serving military personnel. Later that month Major Gerard was awarded the rank of Brigadier.
‘Hey up Tonto, you the cavalry?’ A man in scruffy overalls stood staring at the Brigadier. The handle of an elegant katana protruded over one shoulder.
‘You could say that.’
‘Thanks for getting Plod off our backs,’ said Painter, ‘now if you could see you way clear to lending us a few of your boy soldiers we could do with a hand shifting bodies.’
‘The bulk of my men are their way, should be here in an hour or so. Are there many dead?’
‘Enough,’ said Painter.
‘Looks like you had a rough time of it. Sorry. I couldn’t engage until I received word from Trellis.’
‘Doubt it would’ve helped much,’ said Painter, ‘The only reason we’re still here is coz Dave sorted it. You and the rest of the British army wouldn’t have made any difference. Still now you’re here, we’re in need of supplies. We can pay of course; it’s more a matter of logistics. I don’t suppose you know anyone with access to a marquee or two?’
‘Yes, the Mess Officer. Is that really an essential item given the circumstances?’ asked the Brigadier.
‘I assume you know Dave, but do you know anything about the allotments?’
‘Yes, quite a bit. I suppose you could consider me an unofficial military liaison.’
‘Well then, you know what the Palaver are like.’
‘The who?’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get on fine, just don’t play rugby with em. In any case with the palaver a party after battle is an essential event; ergo my urgent need for temporary, canvas-based structures on a grand scale.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘They’re off-world visitors; aliens; big, scary, soldier blokes with a love of light opera and cask brewed beer.’
‘Ah yes, Trellis mentioned them. What about casualties? We can start moving them up the path. There are ambulances waiting.’
‘Nah, no need for that, we have the finest medical facilities right here. If the palaver can’t fix em then they’re screwed.’
‘They sound damned useful these palaver, when do I get to meet them?’
‘Step this way soldier boy.’
‘I prefer Brigadier.’
‘Right you are Brigadier boy.’
Boadicea, with Fergus strapped over the saddle like hunting trophy, walked her horse along the M7 and chatted to Abbey.
‘You know I always liked this light; the touch of green always reminds me of the sky just before a hurricane.’
‘I hope that’s not an omen.’ replied Abbey.
‘Indeed. So how do we get to the Dark Library, it’s a way from the exit I understand?’
‘We don’t have to. We just send wonder boy on a mission; I brought cash, I expect he can find a taxi or a bus if he feels thrifty.’
‘Are you sure he can find what you’re looking for?’
‘No, but he can always ask. The Librarian loves people taking books out.’
‘Really?’
Abbey laughed. ‘What are we going to do about him?’
‘You can have him,’ said Boadicea.
‘I thought you were, you know, fond of him.’
‘I am, but we’re cousins. We didn’t find out until today.’
‘Ah. So you don’t mind if I…’
‘I give you my blessing, but don’t hurt him, he’s a terrible romantic.’
‘I know, I’ll try not to, but the future can be harsh.’
Abbey and Boadicea were quiet for a while as their horses walked along in the late evening sunshine. Eventually Boadicea broke the silence.
‘How do you know where they are? Dave and your mother I mean.’
‘That creep Engineer sent my Dad to where he could find what he ultimately seeks. And that’s my Mum. He still loves her, I can see it his eyes.’
‘Yes, but how does that help? That could be anywhere.’
‘It means that Engineer knows where my Mum is. How could he know that?’
‘Sorry you’re losing me.’
‘Think about it. That cruel thing may have access to information from anywhere, but it would not specifically seek out my Mother. So the information must have come to it. That means I know where my Mum is.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ said Boadicea.
‘What would that creature monitor, where would it have cameras and the like? I think it tracks those places that directly affect the machine; in other words the installations on Earth.
We can discount the Catacombs, for obvious reasons.’
‘Which are?’ asked Boadicea.
‘It’s not dangerous enough, for Dad anyway, so little chance of retribution, and I doubt my Mum could get into the Catacombs without Dad knowing. That leaves the Ship and the Workshops and my Mother always had great interest in the Workshops.’
‘Ok, if you worked it out already, why do we need to go to the Library?’
br /> ‘We need a book that tells us how to get in.’
‘Don’t we need to know where it is first?’ asked Boadicea.
‘It’s in Australia, my Mum told me where.’
‘Fine. And how do we get sixteen people and twenty horses, all armed and dangerous to Australia? Charter a Jumbo jet? We’ll never get this lot through the airport scanners.’
‘Good point well made,’ said Abbey, ‘I think we need an A road. That’s another task then for our delightful library errand boy. Talking of which, we need to get a move on; the Library shuts at eight.’
‘Hmm, will Sleeping Beauty be awake by then?’
‘If he isn’t we chuck him in the river, this isn’t the time for a lie-in.’
Dave suffered. His tweeds prickled in the humidity and gave off the aroma of incontinent dog. His fine leather brogues, unsuited to the spongy mulch of the forest floor slipped more than they gripped. His three companions were unsympathetic.
‘You wanna get that kit off before you boil mate,’ said Toomey.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t be a drongo; at least take your jacket off.’
Dave sighed, ‘Maybe your right.’ slipped off his jacket and tied it around his waist. They had fought through the undergrowth for hours and Dave was thirsty, tired and fed up, but was determined not to utter one word of complaint.
Trev stopped and crouched down next to an enormous tree, the two others slumped down beside him.
‘Time for a break already?’ asked Dave.
Trev grinned ‘Don’t come the raw prawn. You’re three feet from collapsing mate.’
‘Never felt better in my life.’
Trev stared at Dave for a moment. ‘Anyways we’re here.’
Dave looked around and all he could see was more jungle.
‘This tree,’ said Trev and slapped the trunk behind him. ‘Is the largest Fig tree I ever seen and it supports the biggest vertical banyan forest on the planet. It goes all the way down the cliff. It’s the closest thing to a ladder we gonna get.’
‘Right then let’s go. I’m looking forward to a nice cup of tea,’ said Dave.
‘What makes you think there’s water down there?’ asked Toomey.
‘Experience.’
‘And what,’ asked Trev, ‘Makes you think we brought tea?’
‘You are Australians aren’t you?’
Hungry Joe jumped up.
‘Why the hurry Hungry?’ asked Toomey.
‘Where there’s water, there’s food,’ said Hungry Joe.
‘You trust this Pom?’ asked Trev.
‘Well you do mate. If yer didn’t you would’ve chucked him over the cliff by now.’
They edged their way around the trunk of the fig tree and stood on a wide platform of braches that jutted out over the cliff. The cliff was in fact the lip of a huge circular hole that disappeared into the depths, showing floor after floor, like some vast multi-story car park filled with banyans and vines all cascading down in a green wave that hid the walls from view. The mist stopped them seeing further than a few levels down, but Dave assumed they were at the top level, as he could see huge lamps in the roof above.
With more bravado than sense, Dave clambered onto the edge of the platform and swung himself down onto a thick banyan vine that descended straight down into the green mist. He wrapped his legs and arms around the vine, then eased his grip until he started to slide.
‘See you at the bottom gentlemen,’ shouted Dave and loosed his grip some more. The acceleration took Dave by surprise and he shot down the vine at commando speed, disappearing into mist with an uncertain ‘Geronimoooooo’.
The vine diminished in diameter and it occurred to Dave that this vine did not necessarily meet another further down. What’s more as it got thinner, Dave’s grip got weaker, that combined with the moisture from the mist and the poor coefficient of friction associated with Harris Tweed meant Dave accelerated beyond what the SAS consider courageous and into the range of foolhardy. Dave sought to bring his brogues into play, but the slimy mud from the jungle floor reduced their effectiveness below expectations. The vine was now the diameter of thick rope and the wind rushing past threatened to lift the flat cap off his head. Dave didn’t dare spare a hand to grab it as he clung on grimly. The heat of friction became uncomfortable and Dave was sure he could smell burning wool.
Up above the Australians were impressed.
‘Give the Pom credit; he’s game,’ said Toomey, ‘Down that vine, flat out like a lizard drinking.’
‘Mind you,’ said Trev, ‘He’s obviously never gone down a cliff by vine before. What d’you reckon his chances of finding another vine before that one runs out?’
‘Slim to none.’
‘Nice bloke all the same. Still at least we won’t have to listen to all that whining.’
The rapidly diminishing diameter of the vine spurred Dave to action. He grabbed his flat cap with one hand and wrapped it around the vine, then with both hands gripped at tightly as possible. Soon wadding and bits of cap were shooting past Dave’s face, but it worked. He started to slow down. By the time Dave came to halt the vine was thick as climbing rope and his flat cap done for. Holding on tightly with one hand and chaffed thighs, Dave unwound twenty feet of rope from around his waist and securely tied himself to the vine. A few minutes of careful work fashioned a descending rig that allowed safe movement down the vine. It occurred to Dave that travelling down next to the edge of the cliff would offer a much safer route, with the option of getting off at one level and moving around to find a suitable vine.
Dave swung back and forth and slowly built up momentum, until he swooped across the vast space like a tweed suited Tarzan. He positioned himself on the vine just right to land on the nearest level and kept building momentum. Dave was almost close enough to jump when the vine snapped. Fortunately for Dave it was at the top of the swing and he would have arced gracefully to salvation if only it was in the opposite direction. Instead Dave managed an ‘Oh bugger!’ before gracefully arcing into thin air and descending ever more rapidly into the mist-filled hole.
Fergus woke with a splash. His world was dark and cold. When he breathed, water shot up his nose choking him. He struggled and thrashed, reliving his near drowning in the Alf, before finding the surface and gasping, struggled to his feet. He stood naked in the shallows of the Thames before an audience of Tuatha De Daanan, Abbey and Boadicea. Abbey looked surprised and nudged Boadicea who just laughed.
‘Is this some sort of running joke? Throw Fergus in the river. How could you? Its bloody freezing. And why naked? Is this just to humiliate me?’
‘It’s cool this evening, you’d catch your death in wet clothes.’
Fergus was exasperated. ‘Why throw me in the bloody river in the first place?’
‘Because you wouldn’t wake up,’ said Abbey, ‘now cowboy up and get dressed; you have a mission.’
‘I choose not to accept it.’
‘What makes you think you have a choice sweetie?’
The taxi stopped outside of the Dark Library, Fergus leapt out and with a shout of ‘Wait here I won’t be long’ he ran into the building.
‘I’m glad I caught you Librarian, I thought I was going to miss closing time.’
‘Mr Loaf, as ever a pleasure; I expect that you would want to miss closing time, as that is the time that we close,’ said Librarian.
‘Err… Yes, ok. Look I need your help. I need two books and need them right now. It’s an emergency.’
‘Oh I doubt that Mr Loaf. People are so excitable; rarely does a genuine emergency occur. More often it is exaggeration and lack of phlegm.’
‘Seriously Librarian, Dave is in trouble.’
‘A constant state of affairs for Mr Trellis, don’t you find?’
‘Are you going to help, or shall I charge about the library, causing untold disharmony in my desperate search.’
The Librarian
sighed, ‘Perhaps our express service may be suitable.’ and waved a hand in the air. A small blue rectangle appeared. ‘What do you need?’
‘A book called ‘Ancient Dreamtime Tales’ and detailed map of the Causeways local to Earth.’
‘And perhaps a generous index-linked pension?’
‘Pardon?’ said Fergus.
‘My little joke,’ said Librarian, as his fingers danced around the blue square and then deliberately pressed one corner. The Librarian tilted his head. ‘There it is done. It is fortunate that you hold a full library card. The express service is rather exclusive.’
‘How long does it take?’ asked Fergus.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Depends on the location of the books I suppose?’
‘I have no idea, Mr Loaf, as I have never been persuaded to use it before. Once again you are honoured more than you realise.’
‘Um… Thank you Librarian, both Dave and I appreciate it.’
Fergus stood in front of the desk feeling awkward as they waited.
‘Nice weather of late,’ said Fergus.
‘Ah, small talk; as I rule I don’t indulge. Why don’t you sit down Mr Loaf? Perhaps read a book or twiddle you thumbs. I am sure you can get the hang of it.’
Fergus sat and waited.
What looked like a small haystack appeared to run out of the wall adjacent to the Librarian’s desk and skidded to a halt. In one huge hand it held a book. The Librarian raised an eyebrow, bent over his desk and stared.
The Noggin spoke quickly in a high-pitched voice. Fergus didn’t understand a word, but the Librarian sighed once more and looked at Fergus.
‘Wonders never cease Mr Loaf. In the absence of a suitable reference work on the Causeways local to Earth, the Noggins have sent a guide. Apparently the Dog Atlas of the Earth is deficient in this requirement, which is a surprise. If it were within my remit I would stop this. I caution you that should this person be identified as an off-world visitor, it will go badly for you.’
Fergus stared at the short creature, which gave a small bow and shook its head. Bemused, Fergus put out his hand. Instead of shaking it, the Noggin held it and moved next Fergus, as would a small child. The Noggin’s hand felt hot and dry.
The Librarian grinned. ‘Good luck Mr Loaf, and give my regards to Mr Trellis; I have every confidence in your ability to rescue him.’