The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet)

by Peter Empringham

  “I realise,” Staveley-Down surveyed the rows of piratical faces watching him studiously, “that you only have my word for the existence of the tunnels. I realise that none of us know where they might lead. However, on the first point I have to tell you that there are three things I know better than anyone else here with us now. The first is how to make a perfect martini, which, please do not take this as any kind of insult, no-one here would have the faintest idea about, including Ron, who apparently thinks that it is a sweet red drink which comes in a bottle. If we get out of here to a place where there is gin, I will prove this point to you.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “The second is tunnels. When I was imprisoned by the H- er my enemies, I did everything I could to escape. We built an aeroplane out of the wood from our beds, we hid in delivery trucks, we tried to catapult ourselves over the fence. I once spent 22 hours inside a wooden vaulting horse until I realised that the idea was that I should actually be digging. From then on, we built tunnels. Dug through earth and stone, planned their route, hid them under beds, boilers, shrubs. O, and of course a vaulting horse. I know how to spot a tunnel, and I’ve seen some now. I propose we put together a plan to use them and get out of this terrible place.”

  “It’s not that bad. We get food, water. I’ve been in worse places.” One of the Germans in the front view shouted out; his view was met with general assent, murmurings from his compatriots. Guntrick roused himself from his leisurely recline.

  “You’re right. We’ve been in worse. But never for so long. But I don’t think that’s the biggest question.” Again the Visigoths murmured agreement.

  “Are we men, or not?” Lucius’ head cried out, which brought an abrupt end to the murmuring. He saw his body twitch as though looking for the source of the voice, which after all was pointless.

  Ron dramatically raised his hand. Guntrick stared at the sky above it and then at Ron, having no idea what the gesture meant.

  “What is it, Ron?” Asked Staveley-Down.

  Ron was now staring out to the crowd, who all had their hands raised.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I thought we all had to point to the sky.” One of the Visigoths jumped to his feet and shouted, “Ron did.”

  “Yes, but that means he wants to speak.”

  “Why would I point to the sky if I want to speak? I point to the sky if there is a vulture.” The Visigoth continued.

  “Or if it’s going to rain” Said another.

  “Or if we see the Space Shuttle.” This caused a large amount of muttering and nodding of heads amongst a group of people who had been adrift so long they had forgotten that they had never, as was the case with the person who described it to them, seen the Space Shuttle.

  “Sssshhhhh.” Ron waved his hands to quieten the audience, who he felt were in some danger of reverting to type and torching some passers-by. When the crowd quietened he looked at Guntrick.

  “What do you think is the biggest question?”

  Guntrick hauled himself to his feet. He may never have seen or heard of Shirley Bassey but he was not without innate knowledge of how to entrance an audience.

  “The biggest question,” his voice rumbled as he surveyed the seated crowd of his followers, “is what is the worst thing that could happen to us if we experiment with these tunnels, presuming,” he allowed himself a sniff and a sideways glance at Staveley-Down, “that they exist.”

  “We could all die!” cried one of the watchers, drawing nods and murmurs of assent.

  “It may have escaped your notice, Hansi, but we are already dead.” This from Ron. Ethel beamed even more and gave him a thumbs up in approval of his plainly logical interjection.

  “We could die horribly…again.” Once more the crowd offered its support to the speaker. Surely one death was enough for anyone? Staveley-Down rose, concerned that the tenor of the meeting seemed to be drifting away from him. Truth be told, he had never actually been in a tunnel, avoiding them due to the claustrophobia he suffered as a result of having repeatedly been imprisoned as a boy in an understairs cupboard by his sadistic elder brother, who naturally went on to become the Head of a care school for young boys orphaned by the Second War. He had, however, taken a position at the entrance to many tunnels, bravely eschewing his own opportunity for escape as he shook the hands of those who took the subterranean route to freedom. Or whatever fate awaited them.

  “I propose a small expeditionary force. A small group to enter one of the tunnels, find what is at the other end, and return to tell us whether this is our route to escape. I do not know what lies ahead of the force, but death, added to death, would seem perverse. Horror? Perhaps. More of this,” he cast his hand around to indicate the landscape surrounding them, “benign tedium. But perhaps escape, a new world, a better place. You have in your blood adventure, bravery, the spirit of discovery. You laugh in the face of fear.”

  “That’s all very well.” A massive man leapt to his feet, breaking the trance Staveley-Down was creating amongst the crowd. They had begun to feel pretty good about themselves in the face of his description of their qualities, and he hadn’t even begun to talk about rape, torture, butchery and the other things upon which they really prided themselves. “But what if it hurts?”

  The crowd looked at him aghast. Franzel, who had been lying on his stomach to take in the presentation, the broadsword making sitting more than uncomfortable, hauled himself to his feet.

  “I’ve had a broadsword up my bottom for 1500 years and you’re worried about whether it hurts? We might even find someone who can remove it!”

  “King Arthur?” said Ron, instantly regretting his flippancy.

  “Who’s he?” asked Franzel.

  “Oh, er, he’s a sword remover. And King, of course.”

  “See,” Franzel yelled at his concerned compatriot, who was now admittedly regretting his expression of fear, “I could be swordless. Then I could use it on you, you…Roman!” He glanced at Lucius’ torso. “No offence”

  “None taken.” the words came from the platform.

  “If I may say something.” An authoritative voice rang from the back of the crowd, and the presenters raised their eyes as the audience turned to see the unknown figure in the dark suit and tall hat, who was now standing. He had the puckered exit wound of a bullet on his forehead, the hat and his thick curly hair thankfully masking the mess the shot had made on the back of his cranium.

  “It seems to me,” he said “that the most important thing a man can have is his freedom, whether in life or in death. If you feel you are imprisoned here, then you have to break those shackles by whatever means possible; throw off the yoke of tyranny and become free men. There can be no freedom without sacrifice.” He stood for a moment, waiting for the portentious words to sink in.

  “Actually,” said Guntrick at last, “we’re just a bit bored.”

  “That’s another good reason.” Said the man in black.

  Guntrick had to admit he was a little disappointed when Staveley-Down took them to the tunnels. He had expected either dramatic signs of mass excavation, or in keeping with what the Wing Commander had told them about his previous experience, some evidence of intelligent obfuscation to hide the escape routes. What he actually saw was nothing.

  The Englishman had led them to the bottom of a hill where the edge of a forest abutted a meadow. The trees rustled in the breeze blowing in from a shore to their right; whether of a sea or a huge lake they were unable to tell, although the water stretched off into the horizon. The walk had taken some time and had caused a raising degree of expectation amongst the Visigoths, especially those who had volunteered to try out the tunnels. The party was to be led by Guntrick, who insisted that he would not let his men enter any possible danger he was not prepared himself to face (this hadn’t stopped him inflicting a minor leg wound to get him out of the assault on Marseilles some centuries earlier but perhaps time had brought about a new preparedness for responsibility).

 
Franzel was going, convinced that King Arthur was just waiting for the chance to remove the weaponry from his rectum, along with another four volunteers. Lucius had wanted to go, but they didn’t want to risk his body ending up at one end of a tunnel and his head at the other; Ron was deputed to remain with the rest of the Visigoths on the basis that he had earned their respect, and therefore would take charge of the marauders should Guntrick not return, an outcome he had not envisaged when polishing the RAC membership badges on his Austin in the driveway of his bungalow. Staveley-Down had chickened out, but had managed to convince everyone that it was better for him to stay in order to plan future expeditions. The problem now was that having decided who was doing what, no-one could see a tunnel to save their life. Ron, who had, after all, brought the proposition to Guntrick, began to feel that the respect earned over the years may well fall away in a matter of seconds.

  “There’s nothing here.” He said. “I can’t see anything.” He turned to Staveley-Down with a pleading look. The Wing-Commander stepped forward. He for sure looked no less certain.

  “Look at that tree.”

  “Which one? There are hundreds.”

  “The one in the middle.” This didn’t help, and Staveley-Down couldn’t help noticing that the Visigoths were beginning to mutter amongst themselves.

  “Alright, I know that isn’t very specific. If you look at a single tree, and concentrate on it, you will see that it has two outlines. They merge occasionally, and then they separate. If you really look, you will see that the different edges to the trees create the shape of an opening.

  The sight of forty or so fourth-century international terrorists squinting at several acres of woodland, closing one eye then the other, grunting and shaking their heads had never been one Staveley-Down had envisaged as part of his future. More importantly he began to feel that if one of them didn’t see something soon, his future might involve some rather nasty physical separation.

  “I see it!” There was a collective jump, and everyone turned to the source of the voice. It was Lucius, head now under his own arm (a position he preferred, because when carried by one of the Visigoths some of the aromas were a little animalistic to say the least, many of them not having washed since 487). Staveley-Down exhaled for what seemed the first time for hours.

  “Where?” He said.

  “Over there.” Lucius stared at the wood in front of him and his body raised an arm. “Behind that yellow rock.”

  Staveley-Down marched towards the yellow rock, which was partly embedded in the ground, then emerged and pointed upwards at an oblique angle. As he walked, he heard the voices saying they couldn’t see anything, that Lucius had gone mad, and despite his own certainty, he felt a twitching in the sphincter. He could see the outline too, but internally had become somewhat riven by self-doubt. He could of course be off his rocker. He could, in reality be strapped to a bed in a military hospital, ranting and raving, hallucinating the last 60 years in this place, the Germans, Ron, the tall American. The tunnels. All in all, that was marginally more likely than what he believed to be happening.

  Staveley-Down stooped and picked up a large rock with both hands. He was some twenty metres from the edge of the forest, the yellow rock beside him pointing skyward. All eyes were upon him.

  “I need an assistant.” He pronounced.

  Adwahl, who wanted to be next to Staveley-Down so that if he were wrong he could be the first to wring his neck, marched forward. The Englishman motioned for him to stand a couple of metres closer to the wood, beyond the rock, guiding him to make sure he walked around what he believed to be the entrance to the tunnel. There was a terrible hush as he lifted the rock above his head. He closed his eyes and threw it into the shimmering space. There was no thud, no smack as it hit the ground. He opened his eyes. The others, who were actually looking, had seen the rock thrown, seen it head in the direction of the trees, and then they hadn’t seen it anymore.

  Magic was nothing absolutely new to Guntrick’s crew. Ron had, in the early days, won quite a lot of food from them with a thing involving three coconut shells and a cashew, until Ethel told him to give it all back. They had seen things disappear, and it was in the nature of the place they now inhabited that they had long since stopped praying to their Gods every time the air quivered and a person appeared or disappeared, but this was new. After a collective gasp, as Staveley-Down took on an air first of relief and then smugness, they looked at Adwahl, who was peering first to the spot from which the rock was thrown, and then hopping a couple of paces to the side like an excited sand crab and peering intently behind the supposed ‘entrance’ to the tunnel.

  “Where is it Adwahl?” they cried.

  “It’s gone” he yelled back, spittle thrusting itself onto his fulsome beard.

  “Where is it Ron?” They peered at the little man, who was now smiling, as though they expected him to expose the stone under a gigantic shell.

  “There’s something there.” He said at last. “It’s an opening to another time or place. I saw it on Doctor Who: it’s a warp.”

  Given that Ron’s scientific knowledge had in the main been gleaned from early evening science fiction –he had enthralled them with an opinion that they would shortly be beamed up- the assembled crowd could have been forgiven for questioning this opinion. It will ever be a fact, however, that even knowledge gleaned through this route is almost always going to be greater than that of a bunch of early ages pillagers who had to experiment for a long time to find the burning point of flesh, a fact to which Lucius could to some extent lay personal testament. They gasped, and Ethel took in with subsuming devotion the looks of near-worship Ron gained for this insight gained from a children’s Television programme.

  Amidst the adulation from his recent friends, Ron was asked by Staveley-Down what exactly a warp may be, a line of questioning he didn’t entirely welcome given that he wasn’t sure that either Dr Who or indeed Star Trek had gone that far and he certainly had no idea whether Warp Factor 3 was greater or less than Factor 2. He was saved from the requirement to fabricate creatively by the waddling figure of Franzel, who grabbed him by the shoulders and spoke into his face. The Visigoth’s breath could have brought about the fall of Rome on its own if anyone had known how to harness it.

  “It’s really there, Ron. The tunnel to King Arthur the sword-withdrawer. And there’s hundreds of them, look. Now I see one I can see them all.”

  Not wanting to bring up the likelihood that King Arthur may not be at the end of any of the tunnels for fear of disappointment, Ron followed the direction indicated by Franzel’s outstretched arm and finger. It was true. He could see the outline of the tunnel through which the rock had flown, and marking its characteristics was able to sweep his eyes right and left and see that the whole area had a marginal dislocation. There were hundreds of entrances, stretching into the trees and who knew how far beyond.

  This was the most exciting thing to happen since Hansi’s boil burst.

  Guntrick had his team lined up aft, twenty metres up the hill, ready to run at the entrance. They had hastily crafted a bier in which to carry Franzel, outstretched on his stomach with anal sword rampant like a radio aerial seeking a signal from Radio Free Europe. It needs speed, Guntrick had opined. All invasions need speed.

  Ron and Ethel’s tear ducts were filling up. Stinking, oral-hygienally challenged, louse-infested, farting rapists they may be, but these people had become their closest friends. They had never ever borrowed a strimmer and failed to return it despite heavy hints, or eaten just the pineapple from the cocktail sticks leaving the disgusting tiny frankfurters behind. True friends indeed.

  Staveley-Down shook hands with all of them, his face set into the grim look of fortitude he had held at the top of so many digs.

  “You have brave men, Guntrick. We shall await your return. Our prayers go with you. You only have to give the order.”

  “We’ve only ever had one order.” Franzel’s voice was a touch muffled from his supin
e position.

  “What’s that?” asked Staveley-Down.

  Guntrick raised his spear. His voice echoed around the landscape. “What’s our order boys?”

  The Visigoths looked up, raised their arms in the air and then pointed them at the shimmering gateway. They cried as one, coarse, guttural, terrifying.

  “Chaaaaarge!”

  They obeyed. Franzel a battering ram between them, they sped down the hill. Then they were gone.

  The silence fell quickly, the men looking with hope and regret at the wood ahead of them. Ron took off his cap. He heard the soft footsteps behind him and turned to see the black suited figure approaching, his beard black as the night, the wound on him red and vivid.

  “I know you, don’t I?” He said. “Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Why sir, I am honoured that my reputation should have spread to this place.” He sucked in a big breath, gestured to the wood ahead and the doorway through which the adventurers had sped. “These are brave men to go into the unknown. From such men are nations forged.”

  Ron looked to the wood and then back at the serious figure, temporarily lost for words.

  “So,” he said, “how was the play?”

  CHAPTER 8