“Are you sure?”
“I think so. Maybe we should write them all down.”
“Hmm we’ll need a pen and paper for that.”
They both stared at each other: it was a Mexican stand-off of laziness. Eventually Alex said, “Alright I’ll get one.” He very slowly went to his bed room, and returned with a pen.
“Paper?”
“Oh yeah.” He walked off again, and eventually returned with a piece of paper.
“Right we’ve got Mungo, Graham, Bobby Lumm, …” he wrote down the names. As he did the room began to shake.
“TIMOTHY. IT’S ROY!”
“H…hello Roy.”
“HELLO. YOU MUST SCORE THE DISCIPLES SO I KNOW WHICH IS BEST.”
“W…why?” but the room had stopped shaking. Roy was gone.
“So how do we rate the disciples?”
“Let’s score them on a number of categories.”
“Yeah. Roy said Mungo should be number one. So one of the categories should be beard I think.”
“Yes he has got a great beard. What about odd sayings? He says 'shambapoo'”
“Yes. And job. He is a mechanic in the RAF.”
“And general discipleness?”
“Yep. So beard, sayings, job and general discipleness. We’ll score each out of 20.”
“OK. Right Mungo: beard.”
“Hmmm he does have an enormous ginger beard. It’s out of twenty right?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm…one million.”
“OK.” Tim wrote it down, “Sayings. Er…’burrr nothing’”
“Yeah “shambapoo’”.
“And he has a funny laugh.”
“So over 20?”
“Four thousand. He’s doing very well so far isn’t he?”
“What’s next?”
“Job. He is a mechanic in the RAF.”
“Yes and he has a beard.”
“Not really a job though is it?”
“No I suppose not.”
“700 hundred million.”
“Good score.”
“Finally general discipleness. Another 6 billion for that. Giving him a grand total of…”
“Hold on what about another category. Then we can work out a percentage more easily.”
“OK what about friends? The less friends the higher the score.”
“Mungo’s got us”
“But we’re more his carers. So fifty?””
“I was thinking 67.”
“Ok then 4867. That gives him a grand total of…6 billion 701 million 8,867. Percent.”
“That will take some beating.” And of course it has never been beaten, except for one time in Portsmouth.
***
Time passes. You head west. You see Tim's house. Alex is here, Tim is here.
Alex says “You going tonight?”
“Where?”
“It’s Dave’s party.”
“Oh yeah I forgot.”
Dave was having a house warming party. He had left school a year earlier, and had bought a house on a new estate on the outskirts of Aylesbury with his friend, Welsh Bob. Welsh Bob took a lot of pride in his appearance. He wore expensive, but slightly out-of-date clothes, and he had highlighted hair. It was very important for him to present an affluent image, and he once told Tim that he earnt “telephone numbers”. In actuality he was not paid particularly well, but felt the need to play one-upmanship with Tim and Dave, both of whom were very competitive. Their salaries had become the main area of competition, and they told ever more elaborate lies regarding their earnings. Tim claimed his part time wages at ADF were more than Dave earned at his full time job. Dave claimed that he was on the fast track to management. Both Tim and Dave knew the other was lying, but Welsh Bob believed every word out of their mouths.
Welsh Bob sold perfume for a large company, but told anyone who would listen that he was the chairman of the company, and was planning a management buyout ‘imminently’.
***
Alex and Tim walked together from Tim’s house to the Dave/Welsh Bob mansion. They arrived early and Alex started helping Dave drink the beer and wine Welsh Bob had bought for the party, whilst Tim and Welsh Bob compared bank balances. Alex was soon drunk (again).
Whilst the four drank the guests gradually arrived, and after a while the party became quite noisy. There was a knock at the door only just audible above the noise. Alex answered it. It was a short man whose name was Rodney, “Who are you mate?”
“Rodney.”
“You can’t come in mate.”
“Let me in.”
“You can’t come in.”
“C'mon. Let me in.”
“You can’t come in!”
“Let me in!”
Dave had heard the commotion and drunkenly arrived at the door.
Alex reiterated: “Sorry mate you can’t come in.”
Rodney became angry, “DON”T CALL ME MATE. I DON’T KNOW YOUR FACE.” He pointed at Dave, “HE CAN CALL ME MATE COZ I KNOW HIS FACE. BUT YOU CAN’T CALL ME MATE COZ I DON’T KNOW YOUR FACE.”
The colour had drained out of Alex’s face. He realised immediately who Rodney was. He was the Son of Roy, “OK come in then mate.” Rodney glided into the room. Welsh Bob was sitting in the corner, “Hello. My name is Welsh Bob. And you are?”
“Rodney mate. How’s it going Welsh Bob?”
“Good! I’ve just got a new job. With a new car.”
“Nice.”
“Yes and a pay increase. Not that I needed one!”
“What do you do Welsh Bob?”
“I am managing director of a large retail concern.”
“He sells perfume.” Dave said helpfully.
“I am a managing director,” said Welsh Bob angrily, “And what do you do Rodney?”
“I own Aylesbury. I run Aylesbury.”
“Ha ha. No really.”
“I OWN AYLESBURY!”
“Alright, calm down. Well you don’t own my house. It’s got an extension and a very large living room. And it’s a barn conversion.”
“I AM THE SON OF ROY. I HAVE COME TO HELP YOU DEFEAT RASTAS.”
Alex could now see the likeness of Roy in Rodney’s face. Even though Rodney did not know Alex’s face, Alex knew Rodney’s face, because it was so similar to Roy’s.12 He went to the kitchen to find Tim whowas standing talking to a man with a large scar on his forehead. He looked like he might be a post man.
“Tim stop talking to that post man.”
“Why?”
“Do you know who is in the lounge?”
“Welsh Bob?”
“No. Well yes he is, but so is…Rodney.”
“Who is he?”
“He says he is the son of Roy.”
Tim stood dumb founded. He was lost for words. Eventually he said “How…how do you know?”
“He said so. And he looks like Roy.”
“You mean like an energy cloud?”
“Sort of, but more…his face looks like the vision of Roy in my heart.”
“Then let’s go see him.”
They rushed back to the lounge. Rodney had gone.
“Where is he?” they asked Welsh Bob.
“Who?”
“Rodney.”
“The chap who just arrived?”
“Yes.”
“He said he had to leave.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said he had to run Aylesbury.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Er…I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Er..yes! He said ‘bye’”
“It’s a sign from Roy.”
“Signifying what?”
“Hmmm…I don’t know.”
“You sure he didn’t say anything else?”
“No. Oh hang on he said: ‘Go see Colonel Tony on the moon13 on Thursday.’”
Suddenly the room began to shake, “TIMOTHY. IT’S ROY.”
??
?Hi Roy.”
“HI. IS RODNEY THERE? TELL HIM HIS TEA IS READY.”
“No he has gone.”
“DID HE TELL YOU ABOUT COLONEL TONY?”
“He said to go on Thursday.”
“AND TO BRING THE DISCIPLES?”
“No just to go on Thursday.”
“HOW MANY TIMES DID I TELL HIM TO SAY: GO ON THURSDAY, AND BRING THE DISCIPLES? WAIT TILL HE GETS HOME. BYE.”
After the party Tim went home to sleep, but found he could not. Over and over in his mind he thought about what Rodney had said. How could he round up all the disciples, let alone take them all to the moon? It was all very well for Roy to ask such things, he was omnipotent, but Tim was merely a mortal, how could he follow his Roy's orders? He pondered this again and again, for a full seven minutes, and then his mind wandered onto football, cakes, and ice cream. Could the three things mix? If you went to see live football these days you could get cakes, and ice cream, but you couldn't really eat both at the same time, in a bowl. Tim fell asleep thinking about this, and the next morning he resolved to find an answer. After 3 minutes thought he decided to go shopping, then went home and slept for 2 days. He was awakened by a familiar voice.
“TIM! IT’S ROY! WHY HAVE YOU NOT PREPARED TO SEE COLONEL TONY?”
“Er I forgot. Anyway I am ready, just give the word.”
“RODNEY ALREADY SAID TO GO ON THURSDAY, AND I TOLD YOU TO BRING ALL MY FOLLOWERS.”
“But Thursday is only three days away.”
“YES.”
“Why so soon?”
“YOU’VE HAD AGES TO PREPARE. IF I'D ASKED YOU TO PREPARE FOOTBALL AND CAKES YOU WOULD HAVE DONE THAT I'M SURE. NOW YOU ONLY HAVE SEVENTY HOURS …NO SEVENTY TWO HOURS AND IF YOU ARE NOT READY BY THEN A BOMB WILL GO OFF, OR SOMEONE WILL DIE, OR SOMETHING. I WILL LEAVE YOU THIS ELECTRONIC TIME COUNTER THAT COUNTS TIME AND WILL SHOW YOU HOW LONG YOU HAVE LEFT.”
He placed what looked like a bomb, with a large red LED screen attached to it, on the floor in front of Tim. The screen was counting down from 72 hours. It read “71:58”. Oh no, sorry: “71:55”.
“MAKE SURE YOU CONTACT COLONEL TONY, USING THE LAMP, TO CHECK HE WILL BE IN ON THURSDAY. OH, AND SO THAT HE CAN SEND YOU TRANSPORT.”
Chapter 11. Marillion of Roy
Book of Tim’s Mental Cousin “John”, Entire Book
“Owright Tim?”
Alex and Tim sat in Tim’s living room. Tim glanced at Roy’s countdown timer. It had stopped at 44:12. He hit it and it started again, then speed up, the seconds counting down too quickly. Soon it read “00:04”, “00:03”, “00:02”, “00:01” then “00:00”. Tim threw it in the bin.
“So we are off to the moon. I’ve never been there before.”
“I knew that. Unless you are an astronaut you are hardly likely to have been are you?”
“Shall we go then?”
“But Roy said to take all his followers.”
“Right then we’ve got to round up all the disciples.”
Alex’s jaw dropped, “But we’ll never get them all together by Thursday.”
“Alex, my friend. Remember last summer up on the mountain how we rounded up all the sheep?”
“Er who is asking?”
“Me of course”
“I aint no queer”
“No I’m just saying how good we are together at rounding up sheep, and simpletons are much like sheep.”
“How so?”
“Well you tell them to get in a car and they will go in the car. Not the sheep of course you’d have to push them and stuff. But you and I together can get the disciples in a car. Come on let’s do it!”
“Is that your plan? Get them in a car?”
“Yes. And I have a feeling that this will help.” He pulled out a giant colouring book, and a packet of coloured pencils from beneath the sofa they were sitting on, “All we need to do is give each disciple a different colour pencil and get them to colour in a picture of a train.”
“Good idea! “said Alex excitedly. Suddenly the smile disappeared from his face, “Wait a minute” Alex took the pencils and counted them, “Only 8. That’s that then.”
“You’re right. We were so close, but … hang on,” Said Tim, “we can get another pencil!”
“You’re right!”
***
There was a knock at the door it was Welsh Bob, “Just wanted to tell you the good news.”
“Which is?”
“I have a new job. They are paying me telephone numbers Tim. I’m not joking. Telephone numbers. Sometimes I wonder if I am worth that kind of money.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I am managing director of a FMCG corporation.”
“Fast Moving Consumer Goods?”
“Yes.”
“It’s perfume again isn’t it?” asked Tim.
“It might be.”
“Perfume’s not FMCG.”
“Yes it is. Anyway I’m not sure which car to choose.”
“What about a Beemer?”
“A BMW? That’s a hairdresser’s car.”
Tim and Alex looked at each other non-plussed.
“What about a Rover like me?” suggested Tim.
“Ugh!” a look of horror appeared on Welsh Bob’s face.
Tim and Alex looked at each other again. They both realized at once that Welsh Bob was one of the missing disciples. Dave had lived with him without ever realising his true potential.
“Well done Welsh Bob. Say…how do you fancy going to the moon?”
“I’m much too busy for that. I have a number of meetings to attend to get me up to speed on the new company.”
“OK. Well they can wait.”
“Sorry but they can’t.”
“We’ll pay you.”
“How much?”
“Er telephone numbers. No… 10 to the power 100 numbers.”
“OK.”
“Great! Now before we go to the moon we need to round up Roy's disciples.”
“No! It's not in my job description. Anyway what does it mean? Who is Roy?”
“There's no time to explain now. Right we need to get some things. Quick lets go to Tescos.” And Tim, Alex and Welsh Bob jumped into Welsh Bob's Lada, and screamed away, “I can see why you turned your nose up at a BMW.”
At Tescos they jumped out of the car, and hurriedly entered.
“Right we need a lasoo, some butter, er...sheep dogs, a net, some fly paper, and eighteen pots of yogurt.”
“Pissed on yoghurt again eh Tim?” asked Alex, “What's that for?”
“To eat.”
Quickly they found the items and paid. They went back to Welsh Bob's car.
“Right: to Mungo's house.” They drove to Mungo's house and parked on the street outside.
“Right,” said Tim, “We need to observe his movements. We'll sit here and watch his comings and goings. Try and build up a pattern. Then we'll throw a lasoo around him.”
“Why can't we just lasso him straight away?” asked Welsh Bob.
“Why can't we just knock on his door and ask him?” said Alex.
They did, “Hi Mungo.”
“Hur hur hur. Why you got a lasso? Er up.”
“We need to go to the moon. Do you want to come?”
“Yeah!” One down.
“Right lets go get Graham. Where does he live?”
“Not sure – he's just moved.”
“Oh great. Never mind let's get Bobby Lumm next, we'll get Graham later.”
They drove to Lumm's swamp. Bobby was nowhere to be seen, “OK let’s try MFI.” They drove to MFI. Inside the foreman pointed out Bobby Lumm who was unloading boxes from a lorry.
“Bobby!”
“Hi Tim. I quit here the other day, won 50 grand on the lottery like, but as soon as I quit they wanted me back. Said I could name my price. £100 an hour I'm on. True as I'm standing here.”
“Right. Er...do you want to go to the moon?”
“Yeah. Been there b
efore of course. I've got a house there. It's got a really big kitchen.” Just to be sure, Tim wrapped Bobby Lumm in fly paper and threw him in Welsh Bob's boot. Two down, “Right: Michael Holton. He works at Insure Your Life I think.” Insure Your Life was an insurance company with its head offices in Aylesbury. They drove to Insure Your Life's head quarters, “How we going to get Holton?” asked Welsh Bob.
“Good question. We could observe and use the lasso again,” suggested Tim.
“We've not actually used it yet. How about sending in the sheep dogs?”
“Into an insurance company? The kind of people who work in insurance eat sheep dogs for dinner.”
“No they don't, but I agree: it is a stupid idea. Wait look there. It's Holton”
“Where?”
“There. In the back seat next to you”
“Oh yeah. Hi Michael.”
“Last time come 'ere shagged Welsh Bob.”
Welsh Bob turned bright red, “You liar!”
“Anyway,” said Tim, “would you like to come to the moon?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Last time went to the moon, met a moon monster.”
“Don't worry there are no moon monsters now.”
“OK,” three down.
“Let's go see Parsons.”
Parsons was home watching the news, “Alright!! ‘Ave you seen the news? Ronald Reagan ah...president...Libya,” he said incoherently.
“Do you want to come to the moon?”
“'Ave you got me butter?”
Alex gave him the Tescos butter.
“OK then.” Four down.
As they started to leave, something on the news caught Alex's attention, “Listen to this lads.” He turned up the volume.
“...serial killer. Arrested last week he was released last night without charge. His lawyers released a statement saying Graham would be staying at a hotel in the middle of Aylesbury, and should not be harassed as he is innocent of all charges.”
“Wow did you hear that?”
“Yeah. Graham is in a hotel. I wonder why.”
“Must be the Tulip Hotel in the Market Square.”
“Let's go.”
They drove to the market square which was at the heart of Aylesbury's tourist district. Tourists flocked there and stayed in Aylesbury's numerous hotels: the Tulip and one other. The market square was named after the Marillion song “Market Square Heroes”, and a number of its buildings had been built by Fish out of Marillion, and Marillion's bass player Pete Trewavas’ wheel barrow.
As they neared the Tulip they had to slow to avoid a mob of people, some standing in the road. They were being prevented from entering the hotel by two large security guards. The mob, many of whom carried flaming torches, were waving fists at the hotel, and shouting.
“”I don't blame them for not being happy with the Tulip. It's not up to my standard of hotel,” said Welsh Bob.
“What are they shouting?”