Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom

by S. B. Davies

  ‘Now that is an access shaft,’ said Dave. ‘How deep is it?’

  ‘I really have no idea,’ said Azimuth, ‘The road is about 100 miles – I’M COMING MOTHER - to the bottom.’

  ‘Well, that’s a long walk, perhaps we best get going,’ said Dave, edging away from Azimuth.

  ‘It’s too late, I’m afraid. He’s coming I can feel it. Sorry about this. You’re such charming guests. I’ll hold on for as long as possible.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ said Dave.

  ‘He’s coming, I can’t stop him, and there is no way you can outrun him. Best accept your fate.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Fergus.

  ‘He only does two things. You best hope he eats you first.’

  ‘I think we ought to get going. Come on Fergus,’ said Dave.

  ‘I’M BACK.’

  Azimuth gave a huge yell, tore off his toga, and beat his chest, like a giant, horned Tarzan.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Dave at the sight of the naked Azimuth and remembered ‘he only does two things’.

  ‘Run.’ yelled Dave.

  Even with gentleman’s brogues, Dave managed a respectable pace, but it was nothing in comparison to Azimuth. His huge legs carried him along at startling speed and he caught Fergus and Dave in moments.

  ‘IT’S BEEN A LONG, LONG - You are such a brute. Hold on second, just thought of something - TIME.’

  Azimuth held Dave and Fergus up, one in each hand and stared into their faces.

  ‘Sorry about this chaps, but it’s the only way,’ said Azimuth and threw them both over the parapet.

  Dave, experienced in long descents, quickly grabbed hold of his flat cap and looked at his watch. Fergus just screamed as they plummeted down the main access shaft.

  Chapter Ten

  Better to be strong and wrong than weak and whiney

  Dave Trellis

  One Life, One Woman, One Shed

  Dave stuffed his flat cap down his trousers and assumed the classic skydiver stance. He slipped air and slid over to Fergus.

  ‘KEEP UP WITH ME,’ shouted Dave over roaring wind.

  Dave started unwinding the rope around his waist, it trailed upwards like the tail of a doomed kite. He tried to get something out of his pocket and started tumbling head over heels. Dave righted himself and struggling with the rope for a few seconds and cut off the unwrapped length with his pen knife. He glided over and grabbed Fergus, then tied the rope around his waist. Two very long ends trailed away from the desperate granny knot. Dave shrugged off his rucksack and passed it to Fergus.

  ‘DON’T DROP IT.’ roared Dave and opened the rucksack. He pulled out a blue polypropylene ground sheet. It started slapping and writhing around in the wind. Dave struggled with it and managed to tie each of the trailing ends of the rope to brass eyelets set around the edge.

  Dave started unwinding the remaining rope. He tried it in the middle around himself with another granny hitch of uncertain utility. He then eased himself upwards, along the snapping groundsheet, away from Fergus. Once he reached the other end Dave risked a quick glance at his watch then tied the ends of his rope to the ground sheet.

  Dave flipped up vertically and dived away from Fergus. The ground sheet filled with air and ballooned out, slinging Dave inwards towards Fergus and they crashed together, each grabbing hold and hugging like amorous bears.

  The makeshift parachute slowed their descent dramatically. The wind slowed from a roar to a howl.

  ‘I reckon that’s halved our speed. Must be no more than about 60 miles per hour,’ shouted Dave right in Fergus’s ear.

  ‘No need to shout,’ shouted Fergus. ‘Anyway, makes no difference, we will still die when we hit the ground.’

  ‘Always the pessimist. No wonder you never get laid.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘We are going to die soon according to you, so give over, and apply your brain to our current situation.’

  Dave looked down and pointed.

  Fergus looked down too. They were most of the way down the massive shaft and they could see what lay beyond. It wasn’t the ground, which was good. It was a vast bowl, in the centre stood an immense machine. It was as if you stood a mile above major oil refinery. A sprawling city of white domes and enormous pipes spread out for tens of miles in each direction. They were falling down a huge hole into thin air miles above an industrial complex the size of London. In the middle rose a huge column dwarfing the rest of the machine. It was a complex spire of baroque spurs and buttress.

  The end of the shaft and their last option, an attempted landing on the concrete motorway, was gone.

  ‘We can still try,’ shouted Dave, ‘Spread yourself out like this until we get closer to the ground. Then when we hit, bend your knees, and try to fall sideways on imp-’

  Dave and Fergus were slapped with great force by an invisible hand or perhaps someone had managed to swing a whale and let rip. With the sound of a cricket bat hitting a side of beef, they came to rest. Dave was stunned and wet. Fergus was better off, as at least had his feet pointing downwards on impact, and floated chest high in clear water. Dave spluttered next to him wrapped up in blue groundsheet. Dave untangled himself with little grace and much cursing and splashing.

  ‘Well I suppose we should be grateful’ said Dave, his face bright red.

  ‘You’ve got a face like a slapped –’

  ‘Yes, thanks for that. I can feel it you know.’

  ‘Hurts does it?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Not as much as your ingratitude. A little thanks wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Ok, you’re right, but if you’d let me keep the gravity belt, this would never have happened.’

  ‘Always something with you isn’t it? A simple ‘thanks Dave’ would suffice. Now which way is dry land?’

  They bobbed in an immense lake of crystal clear water. The distant walls reached up to meet the roof lost in the dimness above. All the light came from the vast machine, miles below the surface.

  Dave reached into his rucksack and pulled out a prism compass. He took a bearing on the hole in the roof that entered the chamber close to the edge of the lake. He took another bearing for triangulation.

  ‘I’ll keep any eye on that,’ said Dave, ‘Just to see if we are drifting. We don’t want to swim against the current or owt. I think we should head for that flat part, just at the end of the roadway. It looks like a loading dock. In the meantime I think it’s time for a cuppa, assuming of course, that supplies made it through the impact.’

  Fergus looked at Dave.

  ‘How can you make tea? We’re in the middle of a lake.’

  ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’

  ‘Or an idiot, anyway. I am pretty sure this isn’t water.’

  Dave glanced at Fergus.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, look how we’re floating. We are much more buoyant than in water. It must be 30 per cent more dense at least.’

  Dave lifted a handful of water to his nose and sniffed, then took a little sip.

  ‘Looks like water, smells like water, even tastes like water. I’ll drink it. Any road, make yourself useful and grab the end of this groundsheet.’

  Dave wrapped Fergus’s rucksack in the groundsheet and it floated between them like a miniature table. Dave reached into his rucksack and pulled out a tiny stove. He set it on the floating rucksack and put on a small pan of water.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  Fergus was surprised how quickly the water boiled.

  ‘Just milk. And that’s not a normal stove.’

  ‘No it’s not, but some things take precedent and I wasn’t offering milk or sugar, it’s sweetened condensed milk. Do you want some?’

  ‘Why not? We’re stuffed anyway, might as well poison myself while I’m at it.’

  ‘Again the negative. We are merely six hours into our endeavour and already we found the machine and hold the world record for depth.’

  ‘So how far d
id we fall?’

  ‘We fell for five minutes before hitting the water. That’s about seven miles allowing for parachute an all.’

  Dave sipped his tea.

  ‘Ahhh… At last, a decent cuppa. This water may be heavy, but it makes excellent tea.’

  Dave set his mug down on the floating rucksack and took another set of bearings.

  ‘Yet again luck favours the bold. We are drifting directly towards the loading bay. We won’t have to swim, just sit back and enjoy the view.’

  Seven miles above the floating pair, the BBC News announced the sudden disappearance of hundreds of black Labrador dogs. It was a worldwide phenomenon extending as far as Japan and New Zealand. The BBC also noted in the business section that Leeds Bradford and Manchester Airports were experiencing a surge in private charter arrivals.

  Dave and Fergus stood in the middle of a vast, empty loading dock. You could fit in all the football fields in the Premier league and still have room for a cricket pitch or two. Dave scanned the distant walls.

  ‘There has to be a way to move inbound goods into the catacombs. Nothing else makes sense,’ said Dave.

  ‘Perhaps they sealed it after they finished,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Why bother? Come on let’s try right at the back. It would be logical place to have the exit, process flow and all that.’

  They walked in silence; the sheer size of the space gave the impression that they were getting nowhere. Dave’s Harris Tweed smelt of urine and itched at the collar.

  There was a distant splash followed by a faint roar. ‘I’M COMING TO GET YOU’.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Dave, ‘he must have jumped. I rather think we should break into a jog,’ said Dave, as more splashing echoed in the distance.

  Out of breath they reached the rear of the loading bay. Dave examined the walls carefully.

  ‘Right now I wish dogs were here, they can see through off-world camouflage.’

  Suddenly his fingers felt a smooth patch on the surface of the wall.

  ‘This could be it,’ said Dave, ‘I’ll go first.’

  Dave backed up about 15 feet and ran straight at the wall. Nothing happened. Fergus expected him to bounce, but he just stopped dead and slid down the wall a little bit.

  ‘You alright Dave?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Never better,’ said Dave picking himself up and dusting his jacket down, ‘Well that didn’t bloody work. Let’s keep looking.’

  They walked along the back wall, Dave running his hands over the surface. Fergus listened to growing splashing noises.

  ‘What this?’ said Fergus pointing to the ground. Dave examined the ruts in the floor.

  ‘Well spotted lad. And as you spotted it, perhaps you ought to give it a go first.’

  Fergus shrugged his shoulders and backed up 20 feet. He put his hands out in front and ran at the wall. Instead of hitting the wall like a sack of potatoes, he disappeared.

  Dave took an even longer run up this time and ran as fast as it could right at the wall. He too disappeared.

  ‘Well that’s new,’ said Dave, as he lay flat on his face. ‘No resistance at all’.

  ‘You any idea where we are?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘From all the shelves and crates in neat rows, I would hazard a wild guess at a warehouse. What about you?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Perhaps we should open some of the crates,’ said Fergus, ‘there may be something useful in them.’

  ‘I would be leaving those alone if I were you lad. There’s no knowing what them crates contain or what a fuss it might cause. They could have security.’

  ‘They must have a forklift truck or something,’ said Fergus

  ‘I don’t know about that. I expect an automated system or perhaps more pixie magic. But they wouldn’t have a warehouse, if there wasn’t some way of moving the stuff to where it’s needed. So there must be some door somewhere.’

  They wandered between the aisles of huge crates. The roof was much lower and the shelves towered above them in the dusty air. It was almost like being in a factory warehouse back on the surface.

  ‘Hey, what’s that?’ said Dave, ‘Looks like we’re in luck.’

  Parked neatly beside the wall, hidden from view by two huge packing crates, was a small truck it looked a bit like a golf buggy.

  They jumped into the truck. There was no steering wheel and no pedals or buttons anywhere.

  ‘How you get it to go?’ said Dave and the truck moved, accelerating to about 20 miles an hour.

  ‘Stop,’ shouted Dave.

  The truck stopped, almost throwing Dave and Fergus over the front bonnet. Dave stepped out of the truck and beckoned to Fergus.

  ‘I reckon it’s a voice controlled.’ whispered Dave to Fergus.

  ‘Never,’ said Fergus. Dave looked at him.

  ‘Any idea how to set the destination?’ asked Dave.

  ‘We could ask it to take us to the catacombs.’

  They stepped back in the truck and Dave said ‘Go catacombs’.

  The truck took off and headed straight at the wall. Dave wasn’t quite sure whether to put his arms up or just to let it lie. It took him so long to decide that they arrived at the wall with his arms halfway up to his face. Then they were in a long tunnel and the truck stopped.

  ‘We’re back in the catacombs but I don’t know where,’ said Dave, ‘Let’s try to find a landmark.’

  ‘Any particular direction?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘You choose,’ said Dave.

  Fergus looked left, then right and started walking. He chose the slightly uphill path, they were already at the bottom and anywhere up was better. They walked for hours through the clean, well lit tunnel that curved slightly so they could never see far ahead. Their clothes dried in the warm air, but Dave’s suit still smelled of wee.

  ‘That’s enough for one day,’ said Dave.

  ‘Do you think we went the wrong way?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Dunno lad, but I am not backtracking with our horny friend still on the rampage. A nice brew and a biscuit will do nicely, and things always seem better after a bit of kip.’

  Dave pulled the half-full water carrier out of his rucksack and put the kettle on. Captain Dreadlock’s finest oatmeal digestives went down, just, with Assam tea. Dave sat himself down and leaned against the wall of the tunnel. He pulled out a notebook and started sketching. Fergus tipped the biscuit packet up and poured the last of the crumbs in to his mouth.

  ‘Is that the last of the food?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Aye, but don’t worry, you can last 20 days without food. Here, look at this.’

  Fergus shuffled over to Dave.

  ‘See, I made this based on Coleridge’s notes. It is perforce inaccurate, but should be relative proportionally –’

  ‘You mean it’s a rough map.’

  ‘Yes. See here is Coleridge’s final destination. He was searching for a place of legend and I believe it was the Bell chamber. If I’m right, we have a ways to go, depending on where we arrive back in the catacombs proper.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Fergus pointing to little circle full of triangles.

  ‘Caves of Ice, very mountainous by all accounts.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘Sunless Sea.’

  ‘And all those circles with little skull and crossbones?’

  ‘Caverns Coleridge suggested were interesting, but best avoided.’

  Fergus stood up and started pacing.

  ‘I am starting to feel like Captain Scott. We are out of food, yet have bitten off more than we can chew. This is starting to look like yet another GBF.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Great British Fuckup.’

  ‘Come on lad, best endeavours.’

  ‘Stuff best endeavours, Dave. Stuff them up the Sunless Sea. What in fart’s name are we doing here? Lost with no supplies and chased for no reason by a nine foot maniac bent on killing and eating us, with the possible added joy of being raped before or after death.’

>   ‘Steady on, it’s not that grim.’

  ‘Oh? And how so?’

  ‘Firstly, Azimuth has a face, so use his name. Azimuth is mentally disturbed and needs help. He may well be open to reason. Secondly, the fruit loop is miles behind us, still stuck on the loading bay.

  There is food in abundance in the catacombs, and lastly we are not lost, we merely lack a known best route to our destination. So cowboy up cupcake.’

  Fergus stopped his pacing and stared at Dave. Dave stared back. Fergus sighed and sat down beside Dave.

  ‘The correct attitude is essential in overcoming difficult situations,’ said Fergus quietly.

  ‘So you read my book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘It’s brilliant. Pithy, terse and once you have the relevant experience to realise it, highly accurate.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dave.

  ‘I particularly liked “When life gives you lemons, chuck them and go find some oranges.” That chapter “One Life, One Woman, One Shed.” were you serious? Was the shed some sort of allegory?’

  ‘No lad. Every man needs a shed. Be it a cellar, an attic room or your real, actual allotment shed, with stove and dusty stack of Exchange and Mart. Men need to ponder things, let them stew for a while. Women get on with it and that has its place, particularly in the running of an efficient life. But men need concern themselves with bigger things.

  Not, ‘is the house clean and well maintained’, but is it the right house in the right location? Some say that life would be better if women were in charge. And they would be right. Only we would all be rushing about, in a highly efficient manner, organising everything. So the trains would run on time, but we would never see another Shakespeare, Einstein, or Coleridge. Men would be too busy to ponder in sheds.’

  ‘Do really think that?’ Fergus

  ‘Actually, it’s probably just me. I like to sit and ponder, to potter about busy with unimportant things. But then again, most great achievement come after a long period of pottering, consider Einstein’s years in the post office after he failed the German equivalent of A Levels.’

  ‘Hmm. I don’t think it stands up as a valid theory.’

  ‘It’s not a theory. It’s an opinion. Take it or bloody leave it.’