by S. B. Davies
‘Bollocks,’ said Dave, ‘bloody show tunes again. Forgive them lad, they are a little giddy right now, what with bragging rights and all.’
‘What?’ said Fergus, struggling to get a grip on the moment.
‘They just saw an X9 or thereabouts and we’ll never hear the last of it.
‘X9, sorry I don’t follow,’ said Fergus.
‘Ah, let me explain. The letter designates how alien the life form, the number how dangerous. X is rare, as you would never frequent such an alien environment and 9 the realistic maximum, as being in visual range of anything that dangerous is usually fatal.’
‘Erm… Ok’ Said Fergus and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.
‘Put it this way,’ continued Dave, ‘If they were Train-spotters, they couldn’t be happier if the Flying Scotsman pulled up outside thei r bed-sit, signed their spotting books and took them on a time-travel journey of landmark trains throughout history. They’ll be giddy as a maiden aunt on her second bottle of Gin. And if it’s a new species, they get to name it.’
Enoch pulled away from the chorus line and lurched towards Dave.
‘Bonkah, Davey boy. We name this creature – Honey Bun.’ Enoch had a huge grin on his face.
‘Duly noted,’ said Dave.
‘Grand,’ said Enoch.
‘Bugger off and don’t take the piss. You’ve a ways to go before you get a Yorkshire passport,’ said Dave.
‘Where are doggies? Enoch looked around and shouted. ‘Doggy, dog, dog, come play little doggies.’
Twelve dogs trotted across the lawn in perfect formation; they stopped halfway and sat. Enoch saw them and laughed. The lead dog carried what looked like a rugby ball with handles. It dropped the ball on the ground and fixed Enoch with a stare, barked once and grinned.
‘Ready to play little doggies? Want a re-match?’
‘Oi!’ shouted Dave, ‘No rugby, not after last time.’
‘What gonna do Davey boy?’ said Enoch grinning.
‘Oh alright then,’ said Dave, ‘But allotment rules and no gravity belts. I don’t want the bloody RSPCA round again.’
Enoch nodded, turned around, and yelled ‘Rugby’. The Palaver exploded in joy like a bunch of girl guides at a pop concert.
‘Allotment rules?’ asked Fergus
‘No biting of testicles,’ said Dave.
‘Well in that case I’m joining in. I really feel like jumping, running around and shouting like a madman; I feel as giddy as that lot,’ said Fergus pointing at the Palaver.
‘No bloody way, you stay put.’
‘What you gonna do Davey boy?’ said Fergus
Dave looked at Fergus and hunched his shoulders.
‘If you can talk the talk boy, off you go. I am going to sit here and drink superb Irish whiskey, smoke a cigar and enjoy the fact that someone out there likes my book. I shall await your return, assuming of course, that it only requires a stretcher and not a full-blown trip to A&E. Good luck lad, you are going to need it.’
Fergus trotted over to the Palaver, who started sniggering and pointing at him. When they started laughing out loud, Fergus trotted over to the dogs with his head down, muttering obscenities. They seemed under-whelmed, but one of them took Fergus’s hand in its mouth and led him over to the left wing.
Dave beckoned to Enoch, who trotted over to the pavilion.
‘Look, that lad is green as a cucumber. He doesn’t know his elbow from a punch in the kidneys, you can’t let him play with you and the dogs,’ said Dave.
‘Is he warrior?’ asked Enoch. ‘Does mother dress him?
‘Don’t give me that old crap; you know how innocent he is.’
‘He want play – let play. Just rugby, no swords.’
‘Enoch, he’s human, not palaver, not dog. He can’t play with you – he’ll be wrecked.’
‘Dave, we be gentle. Let him be man.’
‘Only if you accept responsibility Enoch, you break him, you fix him.’
‘Done, Davey boy,’ said Enoch, who lifted his arms up, threw his head back and yelled. ‘Now rugby - ARRROOOOGAAAHH!’
Chapter Two
If at first you don’t succeed, use a bigger hammer.
Dave Trellis
One Life, One Woman, One Shed
Enoch kicked off. The ball flew through the early evening air in a lazy, tumbling arc. A dog leapt high and grabbed the ball in mid-air. The game was on.
The ball flew down the line, from dog to dog to Fergus, who took it at speed and made for the line. His legs pumping hard, feet hitting the firm dry turf, accelerating, leaning almost too far forward. Ball grasped firmly against his chest, he pounded down the wing towards the last defending Palaver.
Three strides from the hulking figure, Fergus changed grip and made ready to pass the ball back towards the centre. He started the pass, but at the last minute dummied and jinked left. The defender left standing and Fergus dived for the line. Three feet off the ground with the ball outstretched, Fergus was hit by three Palavers, each with its own distinct trajectory. 600 kilos of high gravity muscle descended with substantial velocity on the frail human body of Fergus Loaf and he was undone.
Dave ran across the lawn. He pushed his way into the muttering huddle of dog and Palaver.
‘The entire diameter of ball has to cross line and the player must exert downward force for it to be a try,’ said Enoch, reading carefully from a small book.
One of the dogs half barked, half yowled and Enoch grinned. ‘Yar, good point, plenty downward force.’ There was some general sniggering, before Dave exploded.
‘You cretins, you broke him didn’t you. I told you he’s just human. What did you want and go and do that for?’
‘He fine Dave, we lever out of ground, get breath back. No worries,’ said Enoch.
‘Yes there are worries you clod. Look at him; he looks like a kid’s drawing of Mr Corkscrew Legs. There’s blood everywhere.
‘Oh. We thought weak bladder. Is bad Dave?’
Dave looked down at the broken mess that was Fergus Loaf. It was worse than he thought. Not just broken legs. The knees bent in the wrong direction, probably with multiple fractures hidden below the turf. The pelvis was too narrow and the torso seemed to join the lower body at the wrong angle.
The anger on Dave’s face drained away.
‘It’s bad Enoch, really, really bad. We can’t fix this. He might even die.’
Enoch’s grin disappeared and he whistled two loud, rising notes. Something round and flat was thrown hard by one of the Palaver. Enoch caught it, held the disk between his palms, and twisted. The disk split open along its edge. Enoch ripped open Fergus’s shirt and pressed one of the halves firmly onto Fergus’s chest.
Enoch studied the other half of the disk and pressed it a few times. Fergus shuddered, coughed, and drew in a huge breath. His eyes blinked open and he jerked his head forward. Enoch pressed the disk again, and with a sigh, Fergus closed his eyes and sank into unconsciousness.
‘Won’t die now,’ said Enoch.
‘Aye, but he’ll never play rugby again,’ said Dave.
Enoch scratched his chin and grinned.
‘We fix him. Fix him good. But not allowed - embargo. Still, special circumstances Dave. You have power. Who are we not to obey the Planetary Plenipotentiary?’
Dave raised his eyebrows and stared at Enoch.
‘Oh right. Now all of a sudden the unbreakable embargo can be ignored at the wave of my imperial hand. Enoch you are so full of it I am surprised you don’t squelch when you walk. ‘You break him, you fix him’ that was the deal. Don’t go dumping responsibility on my doorstep. I shall be in the pavilion, taking a much-deserved snifter of the finest Irish. I shall be casting my all powerful eyes over there.’ Dave pointed towards the barbican, ‘Do what you have to, I don’t want to see, I don’t want to know.’
Dave stomped back to the pavilion, deliberately not hearing words like ‘viral re-structuring’, ‘half-body soup suit’ or ‘emerge
ncy pupation’.
Two hours later Fergus had regained the priceless gift of consciousness and sat lengthways on a bench with his back against the wall of the pavilion. A flexible casing, like half a sarcophagus enclosed Fergus from the waist down and a thick woollen blanket covered his shoulders. He sat opposite Dave, his right arm resting on a card table, his hand holding a large Irish whiskey. The other held a cigar, which he waved around as he made his point.
‘They have no skill, just speed and strength. Now with a bit of -’
A voice yelled ‘Incoming!’ and a yowling descended through the evening gloom.
‘Oh bugger not again,’ said Dave, who stood quickly, held his whiskey and cigar high in the air and took two paces backwards. A dark blue blur landed on the veranda and sent the table flying. The dog scrambled to its feet and with claws skidding on the wooden floor, ran straight back out again.
Dave shouted at the departing dog, it sounded like ‘hussen vaver’ and from the gloom came a growled response of ‘vuvark’
‘What was that?’ asked Fergus.
‘Oh, I called him ‘a dog that likes to sniff its own farts’ and he replied I was ‘an old grey snout who licks his testicles for pleasure,’ said Dave as he set the table upright and sat down.
‘They aren’t dogs are they? I mean every day, household dogs’
‘No lad, they aren’t,’ said Dave, ‘More your Superdog or Ubermutt. To be accurate, elite military-trained beings from another world. Think S.A.S. with four legs, shiny coat, and a wet nose. They specialise in reconnaissance and diplomatic protection. Not that they talk about it mind, but the Palaver are terrible gossips.’
‘And the Palaver?’ asked Fergus.
‘Finest infantry in existence, apart from the show tunes that is.’
‘So they are here to protect Earth from things that arrive, like the Honey Bun?’ asked Fergus.
Dave laughed, ‘The dogs are here due to diplomatic incidents or just plain bad luck. They are hiding, like many of our visitors. The Palaver come here to visit the dogs, comrades in arms and all that. We’re just the local natives; think of the British Empire and how we treated the indigenous population of our colonies. It’s all a bit hoisted by our own petard, if you get my drift.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Give it time lad, it’ll come,’ said Dave. Just understand this; they are here for their own benefit. Of course they are fond of our ethnic traditions, interesting native culture and they allow us a fig leaf of dignity by letting us think we’re in charge. This is just a safe haven to them.’
‘Like in the film Casablanca?’ asked Fergus.
‘Aye, but put a sock in it lad, if the Palaver hear you, it’ll be ‘As Time Goes By’ all bloody night. Any road, what about you? What’s your story?’
‘Hmm, it’s hard to know where to start. I’m an orphan, sort of. My parents left me with my uncle Bran when I was eleven. They went on expedition to Brazil. They were supposed to return in six months, but they never came back. I tried to find out what happened. The Brazilian Embassy denied any knowledge of them, no entry visa, no hotel records, nothing. I couldn’t find any flight details of them going anywhere. Their bank accounts were untouched. My uncle helped, but he always seemed resigned to their disappearance, as if searching for them was hopeless.
I suppose I never really believed they were gone for good. I kept expecting them to arrive suddenly, all smiles and exotic presents.
About a year after that I was packed off to boarding school and my uncle went to look for them. There was plenty of money, so I never suffered, but I was lonely and felt a bit sorry for myself. Eventually I just got on with it.
I went to a good school, had friends, a few girlfriends and so on. I stuffed up my A-levels trying to disprove Quantum Mechanics. It is wrong you know, I just can’t invent the maths necessary to prove it. I left school and drifted for a while; then my entire world was turned upside down by a visit to the local allotments.’
‘So how come you’re broke and homeless?’ asked Dave.
‘I was funded while in full time education. I get the rest when I’m thirty. My parents felt young people are irresponsible.’
‘Sharp people your parents. So you’re just a trust fund kid slumming it until the inheritance kicks in.’
‘Hey, I worked hard to fail my A-levels and now I’m trying to support myself. I’m an entrepreneur not a trustafarian.’
Fergus drew on his cigar and watched the dim figures on the lawn struggling in the growing twilight.
‘Don’t they ever give up?’ asked Fergus.
‘Well, they would have packed it in ages ago, but you went and buggered it all up by scoring a try. That hasn’t happened before and the Palaver never admit defeat. This could run and run.’
‘What? Nobody scored before?’
‘Nope. The dogs keep knocking the Palaver down like skittles. The Palaver keep picking the dogs up and throwing them back down the pitch. It’s a stalemate. Anyways, aren’t you worried, what with this rubber cast around your legs and everything? Don’t you want to know what happened?’
‘Strangely, I feel completely at ease, happy even. It’s probably the painkillers or perhaps this excellent whiskey. As to what happened? Well, I was just about to score when I became very heavy and it all went dark. I do remember dropping the ball though. I didn’t ground it; it wasn’t a try.’
Dave stared at Fergus then smiled; he pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew it long and hard. The yells, grunts, barks and growls stopped and out of the gloom trooped twelve exhausted Palaver and twelve dishevelled dogs. They formed a rough semicircle in front of the pavilion and gave Dave, the official match referee, their full attention.
‘Right listen up! Full time, end of game, the score nil – nil. The try is disallowed as Ace here,’ Dave hooked a thumb towards Fergus, ‘Tells me it wasn’t grounded.’
The Palaver grinned like teenagers in a brothel and put up a tired, ragged cheer. One the dogs muttered ‘hussen vaver’, turned round and kicked grass at Fergus. Enoch stepped onto the veranda and patted Fergus on the cast.
‘Honesty may be own reward, but we do something nice for you. Good man.’
The Palaver wandered away, the dogs trotted off, unintelligible banter passing between them fading in the night, with only a loud cry, and a sharp yelp before the quiet descended leaving Dave and Fergus in the bright light of a hissing primus lamp.
Finally Dave broke the silence ‘I don’t suppose you play Go by any chance?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Fergus, ‘and it would be interesting to learn a new board game.’
‘I’ll give you a nine point start and how about a fiver on the side just to make it interesting?’
‘Ok you’re on,’ said Fergus and shook Dave’s hand.
‘I’ll go and get the board and stones,’ said Dave and stood up. He was gone some time. When he returned he placed a thick wooden board on the table and at each side a wooden bowl filled with stones the shape of Mint Imperials, one set of stones black, the other white. Then Dave set nine black stones on the thick wooden board, each on the ‘Three-Three’ points, the intersection of three lines in from each corner.
‘This here is considered your first move; you play on the crosses not the squares. So how did you know it was a board game?’ asked Dave as he played his first move.
‘Lucky guess?’ said Fergus, but the tone and the twinkle in the eye gave it away.
‘Bugger,’ said Dave.
Sometime later, after a string of humiliating setbacks, Dave sighed and passed over a rumpled five pound note.
‘Thanks Mr Trellis,’ said Fergus, ‘Not just for the fiver you understand. Thanks for the whiskey, the excellent cigar and a cracking game of Go.’
‘After today lad, you can call me Dave. And thank you for not behaving like a pillock. You stood still and shut up, when most people would have run screaming for the nearest hole in the ground. Moreover, you had the hubri
s to play rugby with that lot, which points to stupidity or bravery verging on the suicidal; probably the former in your case. So well done lad, good job.
‘Which brings me to a few thing I need to say,’ continued Dave, ‘I’m sure you’re thinking that after all that went on this afternoon, after all you have seen, I could not possibly refuse a polite request for an allotment. You may consider that the slightest insinuation of a phone call to the papers, the BBC, or even the local police would force my hand. In this you would be wrong. Any such feeble attempt at coercion would be firmly rebuffed for two reasons. First, no one would believe you; second, you wouldn’t get far before Enoch ripped your liver out through your arsehole.
I give these allotments to people who need them; really need them. Not some lazy, failed student planning on growing marijuana and flogging it rather than getting a proper job. However, being as you are now initiated into our happy family, you could earn yourself a bob or two running errands. As you might imagine, there are allotment residents who don’t like being seen in public and getting deliveries down here is a bugger. It would save me trouble if you would run errands, sign for deliveries, and the like. What do you think?’
Fergus paused and took a sip of whiskey.
‘To be honest Dave. I never really planned on a career as an errand boy. I don’t mind helping out, but I can’t see me spending all my time fetching Meaty Dog Chunks from Asda.’
‘You’d be surprised at the wealth concentrated in these here allotments lad. But any road, you think on it and tomorrow I’ll show you round; let you meet some of the holders. You’re not going anywhere until Enoch decants you out of that cast. I’ll get you a few more blankets and you can kip here on veranda. I’ll sleep in the pavilion tonight, just in case.’
Later that night, long after Dave extinguished the primus lamp and went to bed, dark shapes crept silently onto the veranda and gathered around the sleeping Fergus. Strange lights flickered, fingers pointed and quiet bickering punctuated by sniggering filled the night. The dark shapes melted away, stifled laughter drifting on the night air, until all was quiet once more.
The perfect light of morning washed away the dawn. The day smelt freshly washed in a way never captured by fabric conditioner, despite manufacturer’s promises. The dog’s night patrol trotted over the bridge of St Catherine’s Allotments, all four in perfect step with two by two parade cadence, the challenge bark met with an ‘all’s well’ yowl and they passed into the shadows of the barbican.
