“I assure you that we’re you,” I said. “We were you only an hour ago, and we went into that shop and bought a lottery ticket from Mister Sidhu, who was discussing an insurance scam with his son at the time.”
As if to prove my point, Sidhu Jnr emerged from the corner shop with a shotgun under his arm.
“See?” I said. “How could we have known that if we weren’t you?”
Other-me frowned. “This is all terribly confusing,” said he. “Are you sure people are going to be able to follow the plot?”
“It’s hardly fucking Inception,” said my John.
“More like Bill and Ted,” said other-John, and they both grinned, knowingly.
“So what happens now?” said other-me. “There can’t be two versions of us. That would be a preposterous premise.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “But since John and I are from a future that no longer exists, I should expect—”
“Dear me,” said other-me that was now just me again. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Who would have thought they would explode like that?” said other-John. “In the middle of the street, no less.”
“Come on,” said I, for I was me again, and John was he, and we were us, and so on and so forth. “Let’s get back to the present and hope we haven’t done too much damage.” And I hoped Marla wasn’t burnt to a crisp like the other me had said, for I had seen those people on the TV, and they seldom aroused me in any way, shape or form.
17
The Fox with Two Dicks was not on fire, which was a fantastic start as far as we concerned. We rushed toward it, as we had done on many prior occasions – usually when Marla was about to lock up for the night – and burst through its doors, breathless and sweating like a pair of sweaty, breathless, middle-aged fools who had just returned from the past.
“Aye-aye!” said Danny Barry. “The wanderers return. Been off bumming one another, have you?” This elicited laughter from all of The Barry Boys. When I realised that John, too, was laughing, I nudged him in the ribs and dragged him toward the bar, where Marla didn’t resemble a burn-victim of the most horrid kind.
“Oh, Marla!” I said. “Thank God! We thought you were on fire!”
Marla shook her head and began to draw two pints of ale. “You pair crack me up,” she said. “On fire? What a silly thing to say.” And she laughed, heartily, and her boobs jiggled up and down as she did so, and I crossed my legs. “Have either of you seen Sid? He seems to have disappeared.” She placed the ales in front of us, and I snatched mine up almost immediately.
“He’s not part of this,” said I, sipping frantically at my drink. “We’re trying not to mention him, in fact. The budget won’t allow for his inclusion.”
“Oh, alright,” said Marla. “That’ll be four quid and a penny please, gents.” She held out a perfectly-manicured hand expecting coins to cross it in the very near future.
“Your round isn’t it, John?” said I, for I was still destitute thanks to the other us-es. “Hang on a minute,” I said, for I had realised something was amiss. “Four quid and a penny?”
“That’s right,” said Marla, hand still open and waiting.
“Not four quid exactly?”
And she laughed. “You positively kill me, Alan,” said she. “Four quid and a penny please.”
“How is that even possible?” said John. “I mean, four-pound-two would make sense for two drinks, but a random penny?”
“It’s always been four quid and a penny,” said Marla. “Do you want me to call upon the landlord?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “John, pay the lady.”
John searched the coins in his hand and transferred the correct ones to Marla’s palm. As she went off to the till, he turned to me and said, “I do believe that we’ve somehow still managed to fuck up the future.”
“Only slightly,” I said, though I knew how quickly those pennies would add up. It would eventually cost John a small fortune. “At least she’s not on fire.”
“An extra penny a pint? I think I’d prefer it if she was.”
When Marla returned, she carried about her person a book of raffle tickets. “Now I know you two are monetarily-challenged – that is to say, I’m aware of your current financial troubles – but can I interest you in a page of raffle tickets? It’s for a very good cause.”
“And what cause would that be?” I said, downing half my pint in one go.
“Sidhu’s daughter is off to medical school and we’re trying to help fund her first year.” The Stereotypical Barmaid pushed the book toward me across the bar. I pushed it back. She pushed it back. This went on for a few minutes, until John slapped a fiver down on the sticky counter and said:
“Five tickets please.”
“That’ll be twenty-five quid,” said Marla. “But your fiver gets you one ticket and a feeling of warm fuzziness.”
“Five quid a ticket?” I said. “That’s ridiculous. Nobody charges five quid for a raffle ticket. The prizes must be amazing.”
“Two pints of ale,” said Marla.
“Two pints of ale would have saved us ninety-nine pence,” I said, for I was rather good when it came to the old mathematics. “When’s the draw?”
“At the end of the year,” said Marla. “Something to look forward to, though, isn’t it?”
“I can hardly wait.” I finished my drink and looked somewhat expectantly at my best friend, slapping my lips together and making my eyes as large as possible.
“Another round please, Marla,” said John.
While she was drawing our pints, I decided to broach the subject of the DeLorean. “What are we going to do about that DeLorean?” I said. “We can’t just leave it there for all and sundry to play with. Who knows what damage will be done to the space-time continuum.”
“Are you suggesting we have it towed?” said John. “Because my cousin’s got a recovery van, but he probably won’t be able to get around to it until Friday. Busy fella, my cousin.”
“Maybe we should inform the police,” I said. “One of their lot can come down and transfer it to their impound.”
“And what if,” said John, “on the way to the impound, said rozzer accidentally ends up doing precisely 88mph, thusly activating the flux capacitor and journeying through time?”
“I thought we weren’t allowed to say flux capacitor?” said John, and I flicked him in the face.
“We’re not,” I said. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“So what do we do?” John rattled his fingers upon the bar. “If we don’t act quickly, The Barry Boys will be taking that godforsaken time-machine for a joyride around Buckfutt.”
“Shit, I forgot about that,” I said, turning to face The Barry Boys, who were no longer sitting where they had been a moment ago. All that remained of them were five empty glasses and a strange lingering smell. “Oh dear!”
“What’s the matter?” said Marla. “I’m afraid the raffle tickets are non-refundable.”
“It’s not that,” said John. “How long have The Barry Boys not been there?” He pointed to the vacant table.
“They’ve not been there for a while,” said Marla. “I believe they made their exit as you pair of twats argued over the price of two ales.”
“Shit,” said I.
“Shit!” gasped John.
“Shit,” said Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid, lest she feel left out. “Most people are usually relieved when The Barry Boys leave.”
“We have to go after them,” I said. “We can’t stand idly by while they set about the destruction of our fair village.”
“If only the police had the same attitude,” said Marla, though neither John or I heard her as we were already running for the door. She must have thought us a right pair of heroes.
“What a right pair of heroes,” she said as we left The Fox with Two Dicks and headed out into the afternoon rain to save the world.
18
“How could you pos
sibly know that she said that?” asked the doctor, once again cutting me off mid-flow. “If you were in the process of leaving the building, and therefore out of earshot, how can you possibly know that she referred to you as a pair of heroes?”
“What else would she call us?” I said.
“Twats? Pricks? Cockwombles? Dickheads? Cu—”
“That’ll do,” I said.
“You get my point, though?”
“Indeed I do. However, if you knew Marla like we know Marla, you’d know that she doesn’t like the c-word.”
“Shall we continue?” asked the doctor. “I fear there’s still rather a lot of this story to go.”
“Unfortunately,” said I.
“Then please do crack on.”
19
We emerged from The Fox and were rain-drenched before we even got across the road. “I wonder where that chicken’s going,” said John, pointing to the fowl as it passed us.
“Probably just getting to the other side,” said I. “This is no time for bad jokes, John. We’ve got to stop The Barry Boys from getting in that DeLorean.”
“And have you thought about how we might achieve such a thing?” said John. “I mean, they’re not too keen on being told what to do. Didn’t they beat up old Mrs Quim for telling them to stop kicking a ball around her lawn?”
“That they did,” I said. “To be honest, she shouldn’t have turned the hose on them.”
“She almost deserved those cracked ribs then, did she?” asked John.
“Come on,” I panted. “If we don’t get to that car park in time, I should imagine that all hell is going to break loose around here.”
John pulled up all of a sudden, which was a silly thing to do as we were getting wetter by the second.
“John, you’re my best friend, but I will kick you in the ballbag if you don’t start moving again.”
“Do you hear that?” said John.
“Does it sound like rain soaking a pair of wankers?” I said.
“No, not that,” said John. “That roaring noise. Does that sound like an engine to you? Perhaps the engine of a cult 1980s vehicle.”
I was about to reply when a large black van with a red stripe running along its side went past. I sighed with relief. “It was just the A-Team van,” I said. “Now, can we get a move on? We don’t want to—”
I was cut off mid-sentence as the screeching of tyres filled the night. If ever there was a more terrifying sound – other than that of Ed Sheeran singing or the drill of a dentist – I didn’t know what it was.
Then it came into view, rounding the corner at what appeared to be exactly 87mph. The DeLorean, filled to capacity with The Barry Boys. Wally Barry was hanging out of the window, whooping and hollering and smoking something that looked suspiciously illegal. Danny Barry, in the driving seat, had a huge grin upon his face, as if he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.
“Look out!” I yelled, and I pulled John away from the road. We slammed into the roller-door shutters of a long-closed shop just as the DeLorean whooshed past at breakneck speed. Wally Barry said something along the lines of: “Out of the way, you pair of wankers!” but the still-rattling shutters were all I could hear.
“Slow down!” I called after the DeLorean. The sign Wally made out of the window suggested they were going to do no such thing. “You’re going to go Back to the—”
Fortunately, for legal purposes, I didn’t get to finish my sentence. The DeLorean flashed once or twice, as if struck by lightning, and then it was gone. Kaput. No more. All that remained was twin columns of fire upon the road and a strange electrically-charged atmosphere all around us.
“This is not going to end well,” said John.
“As long as it ends soon,” I said, for the whole thing was starting to royally piss me off.
“Where do you think they’ve gone to?” asked John, scratching his head in that way that confused people often do.
“Knowing The Barry Boys,” I said, “they’re probably off assassinating the Queen. In fact, they wouldn’t even have to do that, would they? They could show up at 17 Bruton Street in Mayfair on the night Queen Elizabeth and George VI got a little frisky. All they’d have to do is disrupt the mood, perhaps blow out the candles and turn off the Wurlitzer. No sexy ambience, no Queen Elizabeth II.”
“That sounds awfully confusing,” said John. “Do you think people will be able to follow the—”
“We’re not turning that Inception joke into a running gag,” I said, for it was a terrible joke and I wasn’t in the mood. “Any second now we’re going to notice a change in our fair village of Buckfutt. The Barry Boys are going to do something truly ridiculous to the past, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”
“Shall we go back to the pub then?” said John.
“Might as well,” I said. “I’ve always said that when the apocalypse happens, I want to be good and inebriated. It’ll take the sting off, don’t you think?”
John nodded. “My round, isn’t it?”
“You’re damn right it is,” said I. “Come, old friend of mine. Let us adjourn to The Fox to think things through in a drunken haze.”
I stepped off the kerb at the exact moment the DeLorean materialised in the road. My best friend John pulled me back onto the pavement, thusly preventing me from getting squashed, and we watched in abject horror as the time-machine swerved and careened and bounced off things that had more right to be there than it did. Eventually it came to a stop. Smoke billowed from its bonnet and from its undercarriage. The gull-wing doors on either side opened up, and out spilled The Barry Boys, coughing and spluttering and being generally uncouth.
“That was insane!” said Willy Barry, high-fiving Wally Barry. “That Marilyn Monroe is a bit of a goer, ain’t she?”
“I just can’t believe you put a finger up Hitler’s bum,” said Sammy Barry as he brushed the dust from his person.
“Two fingers,” corrected Billy Barry. “And a thumb.”
“This thing is amazing!” said Danny Barry, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the smoking vehicle. And that was the moment he glanced our way, and I knew that we were about to find ourselves on the receiving end of a Barry Boy beatdown, or at least some choice swear words.
“Oh, shit,” muttered John. “What do we do? They’re going to pummel us.”
“They won’t,” I said, though they probably would. “Just leave the talking to me. I’m pretty good at it. If he throws the first punch—”
“Assume the position and take the kicking like a man?”
“Well, I was going to suggest throwing a punch back, but whatever works best for you.”
They were walking toward us now. All five of them, and I couldn’t help feeling like I was trapped in some godawful 80s film, one of the ones with the Kevins: Dillon or Bacon. The hissing DeLorean serving as a backdrop behind them only added to the strange sensation.
“If it isn’t the old bummers,” said Danny, cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to stop holding hands just because we’re here.”
“We don’t hold hands,” I said, shaking John’s hand out of my own. “And we don’t want any trouble, Danny. We’re just off back to the pub for a few beers before closing.” And maybe a cheese cob, I thought, for I had a right rumbling tummy.
“We’ve just had intercourse with Margaret Thatcher,” said Sammy Barry, and three of his brothers cuffed him lightly about the head.
“First of all,” I said, “ew. And secondly, you shouldn’t go messing around with the past like that. You don’t know how your actions are going to reshape the future. That thing over there is not a toy. It’s a retro time-machine, and…” I trailed off there, for I noticed the flick-knife in Danny Barry’s hand and it fairly put the wind up me.
“Are you telling us what to do?” said Danny. “You old fart.”
I shook my head and held my hands out in a placatory fashion. “Now, Danny,” I said. “Why don’t you put
the knife away and join us in the pub for a few light ales. It’s John’s round.”
John made a noise that I’d never heard him make before.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Danny, and he folded his knife away and that was that. “And can I put it on record that I didn’t do anything with Margaret Thatcher?”
“If you like,” I said, and toward The Fox we went. The Magnificent Seven. And I was just grateful that The Barry Boys didn’t appear to have damaged the future, despite apparently raping and pillaging their way through much of the twentieth century.
All’s well that ends well, I thought in that moment. Time for a few beers, a good ogle at Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid, then off home for a wank and a slice of cheesecake.
But then the dinosaurs…
20
“A wank and a slice of cheesecake?” said the doctor, regarding me as if I were some sort of heathen.
“Not in that order,” I said. “What do I look like? A sicko?”
“These Barry Boys don’t sound like the kind of people you should have been getting involved with.” The doctor poured himself a large scotch and lit his pipe.
“Where did you get that pipe from?” I said. “If I’d known we were smoking pipes, I’d have brought my own.”
“Do you want a pipe?” asked the doctor.
“Of course I want a bloody pipe,” I said. “Who doesn’t want a pipe? I feel the rest of this story requires a pipe, and one of those large scotches, and maybe the removal of this straitjacket.”
The doctor picked up the telephone and began to speak into it, which was the best way to use a telephone, in my humble opinion. “Claire, could you bring in another pipe, please? I’m not sure he’s fussy. Perhaps a squat bulldog or a churchwarden. Yes, a medium billiard will be fine.” And with that, he replaced the phone in its cradle and stood up. “Now,” he said. “If I remove the straitjacket, do you promise that there will be no attempt at violence toward either me or my staff?”
“I’m not a huge fan of violence,” I said. “I much prefer a good debate.”
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