But for Simon, the saloon bar lacked for a customer. Which was just the way Black Jack liked it at lunchtimes. Simon blinked his eyes and squinted through the murk towards the barlord. Black Jack perused Simon with a piscine peeper and moved a mirthless maw.
‘Off with that new hat in my establishment,’ quoth he.
The gardener’s apprentice flashed his pearly whites, lighting up a small area of bar and scratched his hatless head. ‘Good morrow to you, lord of the bar. Hail fellow well met.’
Black Jack ground the blackened stumps of his teeth and hawked a frog-sized gobbet of phlegm into a distant corner. It landed unseen in the darkness, with a dull squelching plop.
Simon made a mental note not to seek out a chair in that direction.
‘A pint of Cloudy and a Ploughbloke’s Lunch, if you would be so kind.’
Black Jack glowered, placed a pint pot beneath the spout of the beer engine and filled it with ale. ‘Pay now and I’ll bring the nosebag over as soon as I can be bothered.’
‘Very nice of you, thanks.’ Simon paid now, took up his pint and struck off across the fag-pocked lino, bound for a window seat.
‘And have a care for my sumptuous furnishings,’ bawled the barlord.
‘I shall treat them as if they were my own.’
‘You bloody won’t; this is a bar, not a knocking shop!’
‘Quite so.’ Simon settled down upon the kind of couch you normally associate with builders’ skips and sought a glimpse of life beyond the unwashed window. A decade’s grime put paid to any such folly and so he was forced to apply spittle to his finger and his finger to the glass. With no small effort he wore away a little viewing hole.
The sunlight rushed in and the lad peeped out.
The world that was Bramfield came and went as it always did. The usual lunchtime walkabout. Simon sipped his ale and appraised the female shoppers, many of whom he found pleasing to gaze upon. Simon was always among the first to admire the swelling buttocks of another’s wife. And even in so small a village, there never any lack of variety. Everybody seemed to be ‘doing it’ with everybody but the body they really should be ‘doing it’ with. The intricate love knots, extramarital flings, bits on the side, toy boys, comings and goings and goings and comings never ceased to not-amaze him at all. For, after all, he’d grown up here. This was what life was like, wasn’t it? Yes, of course it was. Same everywhere, bound to be.
Black Jack suddenly loomed out of the darkness and flung a pork pie on to Simon’s table.
“There you go, scumbag,’ said he.
‘That’s not a Ploughbloke’s Lunch,’ said Simon.
‘It bloody is if he comes in here to eat.’ Black Jack made a very menacing face indeed.
‘Yum yum yum,’ said Simon.
‘And keep your grubby fingers off my window. You’re letting in the ozone layer.’
‘Sorry.’ Simon prodded his pie. It had an unyielding quality to it. It seemed to say, ‘Just you dare.’
The bulging barlord rippled mighty jowls and drifted away to settle once more behind his counter.
Simon took another sip from his pint. Whatever had possessed him to come in here for lunch? Death wish?
Simon sighed and put his eye once more to his viewing hole. It was blocked. A shiny grey van was parked, half up on the pavement, outside.
Simon peered at the van. It looked familiar. It was familiar. It was the van that had nearly run him down on the zebra crossing.
And chaps were getting out of it. Dull pinched-faced chaps in dull narrow-shouldered suits. Matching suits. Matching sunglasses; grey framed, the lenses too were grey. As were the shirts and ties and shoes and socks of these chaps. Three chaps in grey. All grey. Thrice grey.
And by the looks of them, they were coming into the pub.
Simon set his pint aside and Black Jack scowled up from the nose he had been picking, as sunlight blared and three grey men strolled in.
Simon comfied himself down upon his rotten couch. He did not require the special chemical in his head to counsel caution. For although these chaps looked frail and pinched, there were still three of them and only one of him. He wouldn’t be mentioning the matter of how they had nearly killed him. But he would certainly enjoy whatever horrors Black Jack chose to heap upon them. For Black Jack hated strangers. And strangers wearing suits especially. He had once thrown a rep from a potato crisp company to the other side of the zebra crossing simply on the grounds that the rep’s suit clashed with the dartboard. And The Bramfield Arms didn’t even have a dartboard.
‘Give ‘m hell, you bloated blackguard,’ whispered Simon to his ale.
The three grey men strolled up to the bar. Hands in pockets. ‘Shop!’ said one. Simon flinched.
‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Black Jack, smiling with his stumps and wiping his big fat hands upon his apron. ‘And how might I serve you?’
‘Eh?’ went Simon. ‘Come again?’
‘Three pints of your very best,’ said a man in grey.
‘Certainly, sir. If you and your companions would care to take a seat, I shall bring your drinks over to you directly.’
Simon scratched the head that never wore a hat. Black Jack was obviously working up to something really special. A triple drenching perhaps?
The three men in grey seated themselves at a nearby table. They were still wearing their sunglasses. Simon wondered how they could possibly see where they were walking. Black Jack pulled three pints.
Then he brought them over. On a tray!
‘Anything more, gentlemen?’ he enquired in a voice of silken
obsequiousness.
‘Food,’ said one grey man.
‘Make it good food,’ said a second.
‘And make it quick or else,’ the third one said.
Simon’s jaw dropped open. Make it quick or else? Boy, were they going to get it now. Dear oh dear oh dear. He slipped his pint from the table to a place of safely beneath the couch. He didn’t want it getting knocked into his lap if one or more of the grey men were thrown in his direction.
‘I shall be as quick as I possibly can. Enjoy your beer.’ The barlord bowed politely, then hurried (hurried?) away.
Simon pocketed his pork pie. Now might well be the time for him to hurry away also. It seemed more than probable that when Black Jack did return, it would be in the company of either his shotgun or his Pit Bull terrier. It would be far better to read about the massacre in the local paper, than actually witness it at first hand.
Far preferable.
‘Oi, you.’ A grey man turned suddenly in Simon’s direction.
‘Me?’ Simon pointed to his chest, the way one would
‘Yeah, you thickhead in the new hat. D’you live around here?’
‘Me?’ Simon shook a head that was anything but thick and still refused to wear a hat.
‘Er, no. I’m just a tourist. Why?’
‘Doesn’t matter then. Go back to sleep.’ The grey man turned back to, his companions and they all laughed together.
On second thoughts, thought Simon, who was having second thoughts, I think I shall remain here and enjoy the bloodbath. And possibly even join in the kicking when they’re down.
He sought out his pint, but it now had cobwebs in it. So he just sat back and listened to the grey men’s conversation.
‘I hate these jobs out in the sticks,’ said the first grey man quaffing ale. ‘There’s always some loose end you miss.’
‘How many more sites left to clear up this week?’ asked the second grey man. ‘Just the one here and another one five miles over at Billington.’
The third grey man rubbed his hands together. ‘Then I’m taking a holiday next week. I’m due some leave.’
‘You won’t get leave with all those extra orders coming up,’ said grey man number one.
‘I will. My passport’s been scanned. My documents are all in order. I’m going topside for a month.’
‘Going topside, you?’ The first man laughe
d. ‘The only way you’ll go topside is pickled.’
‘Or canned,’ said grey man number two, joining in a joke that escaped Simon completely.
‘Or bubbled,’ went the first grey man to further hilarity.
‘I am going topside. I’m all booked up. I might even apply for a post there too. Be nice to see the stars again.’
Simon adjusted his hair. Now what on earth were these prats on about? Pickled, canned or bubbled? Salesmen obviously. Seeing the stars again? Holidays in Hollywood? Were these men yuppies? Simon had always wondered what yuppies looked like. Then the nineteen eighties finished and there were no more yuppies. That had to be it. They were yuppies. That’s why they were so rude. And here he was, just about to witness the yuppy race finally become extinct.
The door behind the bar flew open with a mighty crash. ‘Grub up,’ called Black Jack wading through the gloom.
Grub up? Simon cowered on his couch. Some euphemism for gut-shooting perhaps? ‘Our finest local fare.’ The barlord was wearing a chefs hat. He was carrying a silver tray. ‘Boiled potatoes, sprouts, spring beans, lamb chops and gravy. I trust you will find all to your liking.’
Simon’s mouth stayed open. He couldn’t shut it at all.
Black Jack’s wife, who never ever entered the bar, carried a nice clean white linen table-cloth. His son Filth held polished knives and forks and a silver cruet set. Jack’s daughter, Chubby-Behemoth Wooler clutched an ice bucket to her ample bosom. A champagne bottle stuck out its golden nose.
Within moments the grey men’s table was spread. Delicious smells wreathed themselves throughout the bar. Simon’s mouth slammed shut. But it soon fell open again.
‘If there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask.’ Black Jack bowed low and his hat fell off. He scooped it up and rammed it into his apron pocket.
‘Three more beers,’ said grey man one.
‘And some HP Sauce,’ said grey man two.
‘And make it quick or else,’ said grey man number three. And Black Jack scuttled off, his family in his wake.
And Simon gave his head another shake. Not yuppies then? Policemen then? The Mafia then? The Mob then? Who then? Black Jack treated them like royalty. Royalty then?
Simon took his cobwebby glass up to the bar. Black Jack was labouring at the pump. And as Simon watched, he drew off a pint of stunning clarity.
‘These chaps friends of yours then?’ Simon asked.
‘No friends of mine.’ The barlord shook his big bald head and as he did so a bead of perspiration dropped from the tip of his nose and fell into the pint he was pulling. Simon smiled, that was something, at least.
The barlord stared at the pint in horror. Then he poured it straight down the sink and took up another glass in a hand that had a most definite shake on. Simon was amazed. As far as he knew, Black Jack feared no man living, but for Mr Hilsavise, whom many claimed to be in league with the devil.
‘What is going on here?’ Simon asked. ‘Who are these dreadful sods?’
‘Keep your voice down. And get out. Just get out.’
‘Where’s our beer? called the voice of grey man one.
‘Coming, sir. Coming right up.’
Simon leaned his elbows on the bar counter and watched as Black Jack struggled with the drinks. This was all wrong. The barlord was a bad’n, everyone knew that. ‘A soul so black as would obscure the darkness of hell,’ was the way Andy liked to put it. But the way these grey fellows had him bowing and scraping. It was wrong. All wrong. It had to stop. Right now.
‘Get a move on, fat boy,’ crowed grey man number one.
Simon’s right hand sneaked back over the bar counter to where he knew that Black Jack kept his big stout stick.
‘We haven’t got all day,’ sneered grey man number two. ‘Shift your great arse.’ Simon’s hand alighted upon the big stout stick. Just hit one of them, he willed the barlord, I’ll be right in there with you. I promise I will.
Now you should never make promises that you can’t keep. But Simon felt that he really would keep this one. He felt a curious alliance to Black Jack. Almost as if he and Jack were set against a common enemy, which they sort of were, but not in the way Simon thought.
‘Chop chop.’ The third grey man raised a hand and made sinister wiggling motions with his fingers. ‘We wouldn’t want to have to tell big Abdullah that you held us up, now would we?’
‘No, sir, no.’ The barlord put down the beers. ‘Not big Abdullah, no.’
‘Big Abdullah?’ Simon’s hand left the big stout stick and gripped the bar counter. ‘Big Abdullah?’ Simon’s brain went click click. What had they been saying? About loose ends and sites to be cleared up. And extra ‘orders’. And going ‘topside’. And pickled, canned or bubbled. And seeing the stars again. Big Abdullah!
Simon’s brain went click click click. And a special chemical sped through it. Simon left The Bramfield Arms and lurched blinking into the sunlight, traffic roar and pushchair-wheeling mums. The lady with the nice blue eyes, who worked in the post office, smiled at Simon. Simon stumbled up the high street. Three men in grey, who cleared up after big Abdullah. Men in grey. As in Men in Black?
He’d read all about the Men in Black. They cleared up after UFO landings in the nineteen fifties and sixties. So these were the nineteen nineties’ models. And Black Jack knew who they were and what they were.
Who else did?
Simon did furtive glancings as he stumbled along. Who else might know? Some of them? All of them?
The familiar faces now seemed strange. Alien.
I have to get out of here. Simon made off towards the Transit. Get away from this village and think things through.
No, not that. Not yet. Simon ceased his stumbling. He’d seen enough old science fiction films to know how this worked. If he tried to escape, it would turn into a chase movie, with him being chased. He had to be cleverer than that. The grey men didn’t know that he knew. No-one knew that he knew. Only Raymond. And where was Raymond? Gone ‘topside, pickled, canned or bubbled’?
‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘What to do?’ Follow them. That was what. Be the pursuer rather than the pursued. They had come to clear up. So they were on their way to the allotments. So, follow them there. See what they got up to.
Better still. Get there first. Lie in wait. That was far better.
Simon jogged into the customers-only car-park behind the supermarket. And then he stopped. And then he gaped. His mouth once more at full-down hinge. The Transit was not quite the way he had left it.
The back flap was down. A scaffold board lay on the Tarmac. The Allen Scythe had been stolen.
And if that wasn’t all . . .
If that wasn’t all . . .
The Transit had been wheel-clamped!
‘Oh dear,’ said Simon. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’
‘Oi, you!’ called out a voice. And Simon turned. A grey man was approaching at a trot. ‘Yeah, you. I want a word with you.
‘Oh my!’ Simon glanced up at the empty flat-back, down at the wheel-clamp, then across towards the man in the grey suit and sunglasses.
And then Simon took to his heels and really truly fled.
5
On Venus things weren’t going well for Raymond. The Humpty Dumptys had a flat-back truck. It was not altogether unlike the one that was currently wheel-clamped in the customers-only car-park behind the supermarket in Bramfield. It was slightly lower and wider and the doors were bigger. But it was the same kind of thing.
Raymond was on the back. Upside down and still in his bubble. He wasn’t taking in the passing scenery to any pleasing effect. Not that the passing scenery was particularly pleasing.
It was all suburbia now. And all very earthlike also. Estates of housing, somewhat lower and squatter and with fatter doorways. They even had satellite dishes. And garden gnomes.
‘I hate these bastards,’ said Raymond.
The truck passed along beside a high and solid-looking brick wall, ab
ove which a gigantic hoarding flashed an impressive holographic display, announcing that the circus was in town.
Raymond wasn’t impressed.
The voice of the darling daughter came back to him from the cab. ‘Can we go to the circus, Daddy?’ it asked.
‘No dear, I don’t think so.’ Daddy Dumpty turned left and the truck began to rise up a long steep hill.
‘Why can’t we, Daddy?’
‘Because,’ Mrs Dumpty explained, ‘the circus is for common folk. Not for well-brought-up young ladies like you.’
‘But I want to go to the circus. I need to go to the circus.’ Raymond couldn’t see the brat. But he could picture the face.
‘I want to go too, said Dumpty jnr.
‘Please be quiet and let your father concentrate on his driving. This is a very dangerous hill.’
‘But I must go to the circus,’ screamed darling daughter. ‘I must. I must. I must.’
‘Sssh now,’ went Mrs D. ‘If you’re very quiet all the way home, I’ll let you have a special treat.’
‘What treat?’ asked the two little tykes.
‘Well.’ Mrs D. thought about it. ‘You can play with George.’
‘Can we get George out and play with him?’
‘All right. But we’ll have to break his ankles with a hammer. We don’t want him running away, do we?’
‘Can I break George’s ankles with the hammer?’ the darling daughter asked. ‘Oh please, Mummy, please.’
‘Stuff this.’ Raymond eased himself into the upright position. ‘I have to get out of here right now.’ But exactly how, that was the question.
Raymond recalled Mr Chameleon’s remark to his clients.
As you know, the spheres are virtually indestructible from within, but a sharp tap on the outside will shatter them.
If I can somehow get this bubble to fall off the back of this truck, thought Raymond, it will surely break when it hits the road and then I shall be free.
Now, as to whether the dictionary definition of the word ‘free’ actually extends to ‘running around naked on a distant hostile planet’, Raymond wasn’t too sure. But getting out of the beastly bubble had to be a step in the right direction.