Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “And I am expected to sleep here?” Mr Wells made a most disdainful face.

  “It’s the best I can offer you for now.”

  “I am not accustomed to camping out in such wretched hovels as this. Take me at once to Madame Rune’s.”

  Norman did a bit of pensive lip chewing and then rephrased a careful suggestion. “I feel it would be safer this way,” said he, “for yourself and your youthful ward here. I am not precisely clear as to what exactly the computer program was doing. Nor, in truth, do I think that I want to know. But as you were able to, how shall I put this, zero in upon it when I perused the program, do you not think that this King of Darkness of yours might similarly be able to do so?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Might he not suspect that you, his archenemy, had a hand in the destruction of the program?”

  “Undoubtedly also.”

  “Then he might wish to exact revenge.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Wells.

  “And you are presently unable to evade him due to the fact that your Time Machine is disabled.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Wells once more.

  “So perhaps it would be best if you took refuge here in this secret hideaway for the night.”

  “Hm,” said Mr Wells. “Perhaps you are correct. But only for tonight, though.”

  “Only for tonight,” said Norman. “Then I’ll sort out proper accommodation and we’ll get your machine working and you can be off on your way back home, having thwarted the evil schemes of the King of Darkness.”

  “All right,” said Mr Wells. “I will put up with the discomfort for tonight. The computer program is destroyed and as soon as the Time Machine is made serviceable once more, Winston and I will return to the nineteenth century.”

  “For the busy man time passes quickly,” said Norman. “I’ll say goodnight to you, then. There are a couple of sleeping bags over here. I’ll be back in the morning with some breakfast.”

  “Goodnight, then,” said Mr Wells.

  “Ta-ta for now,” said Winston.

  Norman left his allotment shed, returned to his van, shouted abuse at it and drove homeward.

  Winston unrolled the sleeping bags and he and Mr Wells settled down for an uncomfortable night.

  Moonlight shone in through the window of Norman’s lock-up garage/shed and lit upon the faces of the getting-off-to-sleepers. Mr Wells huffed and puffed and grumbled to himself, but eventually took to snoring. Winston went out as a light will do and lay, bathed in moonlight, making one of those angelic-sleeping-child faces that even the naughtiest and most impossible children always seem capable of making.

  A shadow briefly crossed the face of the angelic sleeper.

  It was the shadow of Old Pete.

  The elder peeped in through the window and viewed the sleeping child.

  Old Pete drew a deep and silent breath. “So it was all true,” he whispered to himself. “All the vanished Victorian technology. All true. As true as it is that the child sleeping there is none other than myself. I never liked being called Winston. I’m glad I changed my name to Pete.”

  31

  Jim Pooley awoke to another Saturday morning. Jim eased himself gently into wakefulness in that practised manner of his and lay, taking in the ceiling and gauging the potential measure of the day. Jim’s waking eyes strayed towards the chart that he had Sellotaped to the bedroom wall above the fireplace.

  The FA Cup fixtures chart.

  This chart had a lot of crossings out on it now, and a lot of arrows scrawled hither and thus. And a lot of circles about the name Brentford United. The team were going great guns now. As a result of the professor’s continuing missives and Jim’s instructions to the team, things were really rocking and rolling. Four FA Cup qualifying games they’d played now and had won every one of them. Decisively.

  Jim viewed the other wall. The wall by the door. The door with all his press cuttings affixed to it, and the magazine front covers, too. The ones that had him on them. Him. Jim Pooley of Brentford. There he was on all those covers, in his Bertie Wooster suit, giving the big thumbs-up. FHM, Loaded, The World of Interiors, which had done a feature on his kitchenette. And House and Garden, which had struggled, although quite successfully in Jim’s humble opinion, to get a two-page spread out of his window box. He even featured on the cover of this month’s Cissies on Parade, although why that should be, Jim wasn’t precisely sure.

  But he was quite the man about town now. He’d even been invited for a night out at Peter Stringfellow’s club, which Jim had found rather noisy and crowded – although Omally, who had gone along with him, had added many telephone numbers to his little black book.

  Jim stared at all the glossy covers and the press cuttings. It wasn’t right, Jim knew that it wasn’t right. It wasn’t real. Although folk kept telling him that it was, it was all stuff and nonsense really. He had little to do with the team’s success. He was just a pawn in some terrible game being played out between Professor Slocombe and William Starling. He was right in the middle, in the firing line – although no one was actually firing at him at the moment. And for that fact he knew he should feel grateful and be enjoying himself.

  But Jim was not enjoying himself. He didn’t want to be this person. He just wanted to be Jim Pooley, man of the turf, investor in the Six-Horse Super Yankee.

  All he really wanted was just to be left alone to be Jim.

  Jim Pooley sighed. Why did life have to be so complicated?

  John Omally awoke in his own cosy bed, in which he was alone upon this Saturday morning. John had sworn off the women for more than a week now, which was quite a big thing for him. It had not exactly been a voluntary swearing off, though; it was more that he just didn’t have the time. There was simply too much club business to be dealt with.

  John had always been of the opinion, as have many, that people tend to make simple matters difficult. He believed that things could be dealt with simply, that every problem had a simple solution. Certainly John had held to this opinion because he had rarely encountered any situations that were actually difficult, up until recent times. He had always sidestepped them.

  Now, however, everything seemed to be difficult.

  The town councillors who had received injuries when the floor of the executive box collapsed had decided to sue the club for damages. Their solicitor Mr Gray, an unwontedly vicious individual who Omally surmised must have received some slight or missed some business opportunity to have put him into such a vile frame of mind, was going all out for many thousands of pounds. John hadn’t mentioned this to Jim for fear of upsetting the lad. And then there was The Stripes Bar. It should have been raking in the money, what with the strippers and everything, but it wasn’t prospering. Neville had drawn the clientele back to The Flying Swan, which was infuriating.

  The club shop was doing well, though, knocking out many, many team kaftans, but the money coming in was hardly covering all the expenses of keeping the club going.

  Such as paying the players.

  And there was a big problem with the players.

  Before every FA Cup qualifying game, one of them had dropped out, vanished, had it away on their toes for financial or personal reasons. Horace Beaverbrooke had apparently run off with a lady tattooist. And Trevor Brooking, not to be confused with the other Trevor Brooking, had got so fed up with people confusing him with the other Trevor Brooking that he had given up football for life and opened a sports shop.

  Or so they said. In Omally’s opinion, they had simply lost their nerve.

  The substitutes – Don and Phil English, Barry Bustard and Loup-Gary Thompson – were doing their best, but soon the team would be coming up against the BIG OPPONENTS, the big-league fellows. A bunch of circus performers, no matter how well intentioned and aided by the professor’s magical tactics, could not survive against these.

  Omally did sighings. Why did life have to be so complicated?

  Norman awoke to find Peg snoring as noisily as ever
beside him. Norman made a face of displeasure. He’d been dreaming about Yola Bennett, about doing certain things to Yola Bennett. But Norman hadn’t had any time recently to do these things to Yola Bennett in anything other than his dreams.

  Norman’s waking hours had been rather busy.

  And Norman’s waking hours had not been happy for the lad.

  Norman was feeling bad. Norman was feeling guilty.

  He should never have claimed that those inventions he’d discovered on the Victorian computer were his own. He should never have claimed the patents. And he should never have sold the rights on these purloined patents to William Starling.

  Norman felt wretched. He was not by nature a dishonest man. He was a good man. But he was also a human man. He was a greedy man. He had clearly done a very bad thing. A truly bad thing, if the future of mankind had anything to do with it.

  But had it really been his fault? Norman tried to convince himself that it had not. He had been seeking The Big Figure, hadn’t he? Which was why he’d answered the ad for the free computer parts and assembled the computer in the first place.

  Norman did silent sighings. All that fitted, but rather too well. It was as if a hand greater than his own had had a hand in it. So to speak. It wasn’t his doing, it wasn’t just a coincidence – he’d been drawn into all this.

  And what of Mr Wells and Winston? Norman was currently forking out his pennies and pounds to pay for their accommodation at Madame Loretta Rune’s. And Mr Wells, posing as Norman’s visiting Uncle Herbert, had become a regular patron at both The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar, running up monthly accounts that Norman was also forced to cover.

  And of course, Norman had been spending all of his free time at his allotment shed/lock-up garage trying to fix the Time Machine, which was one reason why he had had no time to see Yola Bennett. Christmas had come and gone now and so had the New Year and what did Norman have to show for all the work he’d been doing on the Time Machine?

  Well, not very much, as it happened.

  He’d had it all to pieces. In fact, it was now little more than pieces, but how it worked was still a mystery; and to add mystery to mystery, Mr Wells seemed to have no idea how it worked either. Which was rather strange, considering that he claimed to have built it.

  As far as Norman had been able to make out, the Time Machine contained no internal mechanisms. There were some levers, but these seemed merely to enter a box which contained …

  A sprout.

  A sprout, yes!

  Norman had examined this sprout. There was nothing immediately “special” about this sprout, although there was definitely something “odd”.

  Norman had, upon first taking this sprout up in his fingers, felt an almost irresistible compunction to thrust it into his ear. He had imagined that the sprout was speaking to him. Norman had hastily thrust the mysterious sprout into the half-consumed jar of pickled onions that he had half-consumed and hastily screwed down the lid.

  Norman was mystified.

  Mystified, guilty, running out of cash and wondering about his wife, who seemed to be spending more and more time in the company of Scoop Molloy, cub reporter from the Brentford Mercury.

  Norman did more silent sighings. Why did life have to be so complicated?

  Neville the part-time barman awoke with a great big smile upon his face. It was a blinder of a smile and it really lit up the publican’s normally paler-shade-of-white visage. Neville stretched out his arms and brought his hands down gently.

  On to shoulders.

  Female shoulders.

  To Neville’s right there lay a woman. A naked woman.

  And to Neville’s left, another one.

  Alike, were these, as two peas in the proverbial pod.[34] Naked ladies in Neville’s boudoir.

  One naked lady called Loz.

  And another one called Pippa.

  Neville smiled some more and waggled his toes about. This was all right, this, this being a ladies’ man. He should have got into this kind of thing years ago. Why hadn’t he done that?

  The smile faded slightly from Neville’s face. He knew full well why he hadn’t. But he was doing it now, making up for lost time. And in a big way, too. Two ladies. Two bare, naked ladies. And he hadn’t disappointed either of them. He was a Goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus.

  Neville made a thoughtful face, although it still had a bit of a grin left on it. He knew full well that it wasn’t him, wasn’t really him. It was all down to Old Pete’s Mandragora. That stuff made Viagra look like spray starch.

  And it was undoubtedly addictive. Neville was now downing a packet a day, and Old Pete was upping the price with every delivery. He was even talking about cutting Neville’s supply completely because he had “more important matters on his mind”.

  More important matters than Neville’s sex life?

  What could possibly be more important than that?

  And then there was the other business.

  The other business, which involved Young Master Robert, the brewery-owner’s beloved only son. He had further plans to liven up The Swan.

  Neville’s smile all but left his face. All but.

  Why did life have to be so complicated?

  Pippa awoke and her hand brushed lightly against Neville’s todger.

  “Stuff complications,” said Neville.

  Arising, as one would, to the occasion.

  32

  Big Bob Charker hummed an Old Testament ditty. It was the one about Moses riding his motorbike.[35] He steered the big open-topped bus on to the Great West Road and took to the putting down of his foot.

  Above Big Bob, Jim Pooley stomped his feet – but lightly.

  “I feel a winner coming on,” said Jim to John Omally.

  “I’ll bet Bob the Bookie didn’t give you good odds.”

  “The man refuses to take any bets from me now, which I’m sure can’t be legal.”

  “I’m impressed that he has not dispatched a hit man to rub you out and relieve your body of the betting slip that will shortly be bringing us fortune.”

  Jim Pooley shivered. “Not even in jest, John, not even in jest. But he has offered to buy the ticket back from me for a thousand pounds.”

  “You told him into which part of his anatomy he could insert his offer?”

  “In the politest possible manner. I lay my bets in Chiswick now – but well away from the Consortium building.”

  It was John’s turn now to shiver. “That creature we saw there still gives me nightmares. And the thought that Lord Cthulhu’s dark and scaly minions might at any time put in an appearance does little to ease my concerns.”

  “I’m sure the professor’s on the case,” said Jim.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Jim Pooley stretched out his arms and let wind slip through his fingers. “It can’t go on like this,” he said.

  “Like what?” Omally asked.

  “With one of our star players absconding before each and every game. I see we have Humphrey Hampton, the half-man, half-hamburger, on board today. And no Morris Catafelto.”

  “He’s having a nose job, I understand.”[36]

  “It can’t go on,” said Jim.

  “I think their nerve just goes, Jim. It’s the stress of all the winning – they’re not used to it. It’s too much for them.”

  “But we can’t end up with a team solely composed of circus performers. It’s not professional.”

  “They’re professional performers. And the circus hasn’t objected to them taking the time off.”

  “It won’t do,” said Jim. “You must buy us more players.”

  “With what, my friend? With what?”

  Jim sighed. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” he asked.

  Omally shrugged. “Good question,” he said.

  Big Bob turned on to the motorway: today the team were playing in the North. London suburbs fell astern and countryside appeared all around. Jim looked fearfully at this countryside beca
use, as has been said, no traveller was Jim. “This is a very large park,” said he.

  “Do you want to sit downstairs?” John asked.

  “I do, please. I think I’m getting a nosebleed.”

  The team were already in their kaftans, kaftans that now weighed heavily with all manner of advertising logos.

  Jim viewed these with interest. Many of them were new to him. “What’s an Arab strap, John?” he asked.

  “It’s for sport,” said Omally, which had a basic accuracy.

  “And a Klismaphilia Specialist?”

  “Enjoy the view, Jim.”

  “It’s more park. And surely it’s getting darker.”

  “We’re travelling north, Jim – the nights are longer here.”

  “Burnley,” said Jim. “Where exactly on the map is Burnley?”

  John Omally shook his head. “A little to the left of Leeds, I believe,” he said.

  Charlie Boxx[37] touched the hem of Jim’s raiment. “Boss,” he said, “the lads are wondering about the language problem.”

  “The what?” Jim asked.

  “Well, the Northerners, Boss. They don’t speak the Queen’s English, do they?”

  “Do they, John?” Jim asked.

  “In a manner of speaking. I have a phrase book.” John took it from his pocket and handed it to Jim. Jim leafed through it.

  “It’s all about flat caps and whippets and going-to-the-foot-of-our-stairs,” said he.

  “Sorry,” said John, reacquiring the phrase book and repocketting same. “That’s the Yorkshire one. This is what you need.” He handed yet another book to Jim.

  “Surely this is Klingon,” said Jim.

  “It’s basically the same. Trust me, I’m a PA.”

  Jim now shook his head and addressed the team over the tour-bus microphone. “Gentlemen,” said he, “we are travelling north into terra incognita, into realms hitherto untravelled by Brentonians. We are pioneers, trailblazers, a bit like the Pilgrim Fathers. We will bring the Gospel of Brentford unto these heathen hoards.”