The Toyminator

  ‘Which way?’ asked Dorothy once more.

  ‘Now let me just get this straight,’ said Mr Haley. ‘What you’re suggesting is—’

  But suddenly he was up off his feet and dangling in the air. Dorothy held him at arm’s length and then shook him about. ‘Which way is it to Area Fifty-Two?’ she demanded to be told.

  ‘That way. That way.’ Guy Haley pointed. ‘Five miles up the Interstate there’s a turn-off to the right, a dirt road. It goes all the way there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dorothy, lowering Guy to the floor. ‘We’ll pass on the lunch, I think. Farewell.’

  And she and Jack left Haley’s Comet Lounge.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack as they stood in the sunlight, ‘fancy that. What a coincidence, eh? Area Fifty-Two being just up the road. And it being the place where all the chickens for the Golden Chicken Diner are produced.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dorothy. ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘If I believed in a God,’ said Jack, ‘I would believe that he, she or it was smiling right down on me now. That he, or she, or it, had provided me with the miracle that I’d hoped for earlier.’

  ‘Would you?’ said Dorothy. ‘Would you really?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘I would.’

  ‘Hey, Officer,’ the tall drab grey man with the short hair called out to Jack from the garage. ‘Your auto’s all done. Shall I bring it out?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jack. ‘Please do.’

  Sounds of engine revvings were to be heard and then the tall man drove the black-and-white from the garage.

  Jack gawped somewhat at the black-and-white. It had been totally repaired. The bodywork was perfect, resprayed and waxed, too. The windows had been replaced. There was a shiny new back bumper.

  The tall man climbed from the car and tossed the keys to Jack.

  Jack was all but speechless.

  ‘There’s still a bit of rust inside the tailpipe,’ said the tall mechanic. ‘I hope you don’t mind about that.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘You fixed it all up,’ he said. ‘That is incredible.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said the mechanic, getting to work on his hands with an oily rag. ‘After all, this is America.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘Quite so. So, er, what do I owe you?’

  The tall mechanic winked. ‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Jack.

  ‘Well,’ said the tall mechanic, ‘I have been guilty of one or two minor misdemeanours, and if you, as a police officer, could turn a blind eye to them, then we’re all square. Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Jack, settling himself back behind the steering wheel and taking a sniff at the Magic Tree that now hung from the rear-view mirror. ‘This is America, after all. Consider yourself forgiven in the eyes of the law.’

  ‘Why, thank you kindly, Officer.’ The tall mechanic closed the driver’s door upon Jack. Dorothy sat herself down on the passenger seat and patted at the refurbished upholstery.

  ‘I mean, it’s no big deal,’ said the tall mechanic. ‘And I only did twenty-three* of them.’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ said Jack, sticking the key into the ignition and giving it a little twist. The engine purred beautifully.

  ‘And they all had it coming, those daughters of Satan. High-school girls with their skirts all up to here,’ and he gestured to where these skirts were all up to. ‘Flaunting themselves. And those nuns, too.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Jack, looking up at the tall mechanic. All shadow-faced now, the sunlight behind him.

  ‘Killed ’em quick and clean. Well, some not so clean, perhaps, but after all the torturing was done, they was begging for death anyway,’ said the tall mechanic. ‘And I only ate the good bits.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack. ‘Well, we have to be on our way now. Thank you for fixing the car.’

  ‘No sweat!’ The tall mechanic took a step back.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Jack, and he drove away.

  The tall mechanic sidled out onto the road, where he waved farewell with his oily rag.

  ‘Twenty-three,’ said Jack to Dorothy. ‘Did he just say what I thought he just said?’

  Dorothy said, ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Jack halted the car.

  The tall mechanic stepped out into the middle of the road. ‘Everything okay up there?’ he called. ‘No trouble with the engine?’

  Jack looked at Dorothy.

  And Dorothy looked at Jack.

  And then Jack put the car into reverse, revved the engine, let out the clutch and reversed at considerable speed over the tall mechanic.

  And then, to be sure, as you have to be sure, drove over the body once more.

  Then backed up a couple more times to be absolutely sure.

  And then proceeded on his way.

  No words passed between Dorothy and Jack for a while.

  And when words did pass between them once again, these words did not include any reference to the tall mechanic.

  ‘Slow down a bit,’ said Dorothy. ‘We must be almost there.’

  Jack slowed down a bit. ‘There?’ he asked. ‘That dirt road, do you think?’

  That dirt road had a big signpost beside it. The signpost read:

  DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT DRIVING UP HERE.

  ‘I think we should drive up there,’ said Dorothy.

  Jack steered the spotless police car onto the dusty dirt road.

  ‘What are you planning to do,’ asked Dorothy, ‘when we get there?’

  ‘Rescue Eddie,’ said Jack.

  ‘But we don’t know for certain that he’s there.’

  ‘I do,’ said Jack. ‘He is.’

  ‘But you can’t know for certain.’

  ‘Oh yes I can,’ said Jack. ‘I can feel him. In here.’ And Jack tapped at his temple. ‘The closer we get, the more I can feel him. I can feel him, and he’s hurting.’

  And Eddie Bear was hurting. He’d been kept waiting about in a concrete corridor outside a big steel rivet-studded door for quite some time now. The other Jack had passed this quite some time by kicking Eddie up and down the corridor. So Eddie was really hurting. And hurting more than just from the kickings.

  Eddie felt decidedly odd. Slightly removed from himself, somehow, as if he didn’t quite fit into his body any more. It was a decidedly odd and most disconcerting sensation. And it was not at all helped by the kickings.

  The other Jack squared up for another boot. Bolts clunked and clanked and the big steel door slid open.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Eddie.

  The other Jack kicked him through the opening.

  Eddie came to rest upon a carpeted floor. It was most unpleasantly carpeted. With poo. Chicken poo.

  ‘Urgh,’ went Eddie, and he struggled up from the floor.

  Eddie was now, it had to be said, a somewhat unsightly bear. He was thoroughly besmirched with sewage and cell dust and now chicken poo. Eddie was not a bear for cuddling, not a bear to be hugged.

  ‘So,’ said a voice, and Eddie searched for its source, ‘So, Mister Bear, we meet at last.’

  Eddie could make out a desk of considerable proportions and behind this a chair, with its back turned to him. Behind this chair and affixed to the wall were numerous television screens and upon these were displayed numerous scenes of American life. Most being played out via the medium of the television show.

  The shows meant nothing to Eddie and so he did not recognise George Reeves as Superman, Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy, Phil Silvers as Sergeant Bilko or Roy Rogers on Trigger.

  On one TV screen, Eddie viewed a newscast. It showed scenes of devastation, crashed police cars, a wrecked AC Cobra and a Ford Mustang called Sally. And a photograph was being displayed also. A mugshot of a wanted man. Eddie gawped at the mugshot: it was a mugshot of Jack.

  The desk and the chair back and the TV screens, too, were all besm
utted with poo. Chicken poo. Eddie Bear sniffed at the air of this room. It must have smelled pretty bad. But Eddie Bear couldn’t smell it. Eddie Bear had no sense of smell left whatsoever.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Eddie. ‘Who is this?’

  The chair behind the desk swung around and Eddie Bear viewed the sitter.

  The sitter on the chair was no chicken.

  The sitter was Eddie Bear.

  ‘Whoa,’ went Jack and he shuddered.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘I suppose so. I went all cold there. Have you ever heard that expression about feeling as if someone just walked over your grave?’

  ‘I’ve heard it, but I’ve never understood it.’

  Jack peered out through the windscreen. He had the wipers on now – there was a lot of dust. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ he asked.

  Dorothy did peerings also. ‘There’s something up ahead,’ she said. ‘It looks like some big military installation with a big wire fence around it. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Bluff it out,’ said Jack. ‘This is a police car. I’m a policeman. We’ll get in there somehow.’

  ‘Seems reasonable,’ said Dorothy. ‘Let’s just hope that there’s no real policemen around.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very likely out here,’ said Jack.

  ‘Out where?’ asked Police Chief Samuel J. Maggott, shouting somewhat into the mouthpiece of his telephone. Sam was considerably bandaged, but back behind his desk. ‘Speak up, boy, I can hardly hear you, what?’

  Words came to him through the earpiece.

  ‘You’re saying what? You saw the midday newscast? The wanted maniac, Jack? That’s right. Dressed as a police officer, at your lounge? Left without paying for his chicken-fish lunch? Drove over your mechanic? How many times? That many, eh? And he’s gone on to where? I see.’

  Samuel J. Maggott replaced the receiver.

  And then picked it up again.

  ‘Get me Special Ops,’ he told the telephonist. ‘Get me Special Ops, get me a chopper and put out an all-points bulletin.’

  *

  ‘You look put out,’ said the Eddie in the chair. ‘In fact you look all in. You look as wretched as a weevil with the wobbles.’

  ‘What are you?’ asked Eddie Bear. ‘You’re not me. What are you?’

  ‘I’m the you of this world,’ said the other Eddie.

  ‘No you’re not,’ said the Real McCoy. ‘Toys don’t live in this world.’ Eddie Bear paused. ‘Or do they?’

  The other Jack loomed over Eddie. ‘Would you like me to knock him about a bit, boss?’ he asked.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Eddie and I are going to get along just fine, aren’t we, Eddie? We are going to be as cosy as two little peas in a little green pod.’

  Eddie looked down at his grubby old self.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ said the other Eddie. ‘You really are in disgusting condition. You’re as foul as a fetid fur-ball. We’ll have to get you all cleaned up. Jack, take Eddie to the cleaning facility, see that he gets all cleaned up.’

  ‘Can I hold his head under the water? Or use the high-pressure hose?’ asked the other Jack.

  ‘No, Jack, I want Eddie in tip-top condition. He’s very precious, is Eddie. After all, he’ll soon be the last of his kind.’

  ‘What?’ asked Eddie. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hurry,’ said his other self. ‘The countdown has already begun.’

  The other Jack picked Eddie up and hurled him out into the corridor.

  The other other Jack, the real Jack that was, drew the police car to a halt before a little guard post. A little guard issued from this post and made his way to the car.

  Jack wound down the window.

  The guard wore a rather stylish golden uniform with a Golden Chicken logo picked out in red upon the right sleeve. He took off his golden cap and mopped at his brow with an oversized red gingham handkerchief.

  ‘Good day, Officer,’ he said. ‘It’s a hot’n, ain’t it?’

  ‘Very hot,’ said Jack. ‘Would you open the gates, please?’

  ‘Have to ask the nature of your visit, Officer.’

  ‘Official business,’ said Jack. ‘I’d like to say more, but you know how it is.’

  ‘Not precisely,’ said the guard. ‘Could you be a little more explicit?’

  ‘Well, I could,’ said Jack, ‘but frankly I just don’t have the time. Would you mind dealing with this, Dorothy?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Dorothy left the police car. Walked around to the guard’s side. Dealt the guard a brutal blow to the skull and returned to the passenger seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jack. ‘Would you mind opening the gates now?’

  ‘Why don’t you just smash through them with the car?’ asked Dorothy. ‘It’s so much more exciting, isn’t it!’

  ‘This is an exciting machine,’ said the other Jack.

  He and Eddie now stood in another room. One of an industrial nature. There were conveyor belts in this room and big, ugly-looking machines into which they ran in and out again.

  ‘Prototype, this,’ said the other Jack. ‘Chicken cleanser. Chickens go in this end,’ and he pointed, ‘through the cleansing machine, out again, along that belt there, then through the drier, then out of that, then through the de-featherer, then out again. Just like that.’ And he ambled over to a big control panel, threw a couple of switches and pressed a few buttons. Great churnings of machinery occurred and conveyor belts began to judder into life. ‘Never went into mass production though, this model. The chickens kept getting all caught up inside. Came out in shreds, some of them. Didn’t half squawk, I can tell you.’

  ‘Now just you see here,’ said Eddie. ‘I don’t think that I—’

  But Eddie was hauled once more from the floor.

  And Jack in the car gave another terrible shudder.

  ‘Through the gates it is, then,’ said he, and he put his foot down hard.

  ‘And put your foot down hard,’ said Samuel J. Maggott to the pilot of the helicopter that now stood upon the rooftop of Police Headquarters, slicing the sunlit sky with its blades.

  Horrible slicing, mashing sounds came from the chicken cleanser.

  And terrible cries from Eddie Bear.

  And then he was on the conveyor belt again.

  And into the drying machine.

  And great puffs of steam and smoke belched from this machine.

  And further cries came from Eddie.

  Cries of vast despair.

  And the other Jack clapped his hands together.

  And Eddie cried some more.

  And the stolen police car smashed through the gates and Jack did further shudderings.

  Ahead lay a long, low concrete bunker kind of jobbie. Jack swerved the police car to a halt before it.

  ‘Looks rather formidable,’ he said to Dorothy. ‘I can only see one door, and it appears to be of sturdy metal. Should I try to smash the car through it, do you think?’

  ‘No,’ said Dorothy. ‘Best not. We might well need to make a speedy getaway in this car. I’d use this, if I were you,’ and she handed Jack a plastic doodad.

  Jack examined same and said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Security pass key card,’ said Dorothy. ‘I took it from the guard.’

  Jack smiled warmly at Dorothy. ‘Come on then,’ he said.

  ‘Come on then,’ said the other Jack. ‘Up and at it, Mister Bear. Oh dear.’

  Eddie Bear looked somewhat out of sorts. He was certainly a clean bear now. Very clean. And dry, too. And sweetly smelling, although he wasn’t personally aware of this. But there was something not quite right about Eddie. His head seemed very big and his body very small. And his arms were all sort of flapping sleeves, whereas his legs were thickly packed stumps.

  And as for his ears.

  ‘What have you done to me?’ he asked, in a very strange voice.

  ‘Your stuffing seems to have become
somewhat redistributed,’ said the other Jack. ‘But no matter. I’ll soon beat you back into the correct shape.’

  And outside Jack gave another very large shudder.

  And now up in the sky in the police helicopter, Samuel J. Maggott remembered that he had this pathological fear of flying, which his therapist had assured him stemmed back to a freak pogo-stick/low-bridge accident Sam had suffered as a child.

  ‘Fly lower,’ Sam told the pilot.

  ‘Really?’ said the pilot. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Of course you can – why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not allowed,’ said the pilot. ‘We’re not allowed to fly at less than two hundred feet, unless we’re landing or taking off, of course.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Helicopters have a tendency to crash into power lines if they fly low,’ said the pilot.

  ‘Fly low,’ said Sam. ‘And look out for power lines.’

  ‘Can I fly above all the police cars and the military vehicles that are now speeding along Route Sixty-Six?’ asked the pilot.

  ‘That would be preferable,’ said Sam.

  ‘Splendid,’ said the pilot. And he flung the joystick forward.

  And Samuel J. Maggott was sick.

  And so was Eddie Bear. He coughed up sawdust and nuts.

  ‘Not on my floor,’ said his other self. ‘You’ll soil my chicken droppings.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Eddie, ‘but this joker punched me all about.’

  ‘But you look much better.’

  Eddie patted at himself. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d like a drink?’

  ‘If it’s beer, I would,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Jack,’ said the other Eddie, ‘fetch Eddie here a beer, and one for me, too, and one for yourself.’

  The other Jack looked down at Eddie Bear. ‘I don’t think I should leave you alone with him, boss,’ said he. ‘He might turn uglier.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Eddie and I have much to discuss. Hurry along now.’

  The other Jack saluted and then he left the room.

  ‘He never makes me laugh,’ said the other Eddie. ‘Some comedy sidekick he is, eh?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Eddie. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, he’s as funny as a fart in a lift.’

  Eddie nodded and said, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said his other self.