“Whoa, whoa, chill, bro,” said the old rocker. “It went that way, towards the city centre.”
“Let him go, John,” I said. “We don’t have time for this.”
John released the innocent, and slightly shocked, rocker and climbed back into the DeLorean. To the rocker I said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where we could find Margaret Thatcher tonight, would you?”
The rocker grinned and nodded. “Of course.” He glanced at his watch. It was one of those eighties watches with the built-in calculator. “She’ll be in The Mermaid’s Tits by now, drowning her sorrows and trying to get laid with any Tom, Dick, or Harry daft enough to want a go on her.”
“The Mermaid’s Tits?” I said, and the old rocker nodded.
“That’s right, yeah. It’s the only place in London where she doesn’t get recognised. Its patrons are all already too wankered to notice her by the time she shows up. Think she’s just a drunk old lady, they do, which she is, I suppose.”
“And The Mermaid’s Tits is that way?” I pointed off up the street. “In the same direction that the other DeLorean went?”
“Do you want me to show you where it is?” said the old rocker. “I’ve always fancied a go in a DeLorean?”
I climbed into the car and shook my head. “Not today, Van Hardon, but thanks for your help.” And with that I pulled the door down and instructed my best friend to head for The Mermaid’s Tits.
“You’re the one in the driving seat,” said John, clicking his tongue and shaking his head.
“So I am,” said I. “In which case, I shall be the one to deliver us to the Mermaid.” I put my foot down and we edged slowly forwards.
All around us, things were so…so…strange. The nineteen-eighties reminded me of Blade Runner, inasmuch as everyone looked like they had a bit of Replicant in them. I tried to recall what I had looked like back then, but it all seemed so distant. I should imagine I looked like Michael Bolton, though. Most of us did, whether we wanted to or not.
“There it is!” said John, aiming his pointer toward a neon mermaid who, despite the name of the pub, didn’t appear to have much in the way of breasts, and what she did have was covered over with neon seashells. A row of motorbikes were parked outside. Large bikes they were, too, not those silly little wasps that teenagers like to buzz about on.
“I don’t see anywhere to park,” I said in that panicked tone one employs when one is about to overshoot one’s runway – in this case, the parking area outside The Mermaid’s Tits.
“There!” said John. “There’s the other DeLorean!”
At the end of the line of Harleys (other motorcycles are available) sat the DeLorean, but there was no sign of The Barry Boys. They must already be inside, chatting up the Prime Minister. I mounted the pavement, almost killing a pair of what could only be described as T’Pau fans, and wedged the DeLorean – our DeLorean – between a lamp-post and a homeless man. Even the homeless man had big hair. “Come on, John,” I said, flinging my door open and rolling out onto the pavement like something from one of those great detective shows of the era: Miami Vice, Magnum P.I., Hill Street Blues, and so on and so forth. Trouble was, I’d landed in a puddle, which never seemed to happen to Crockett or Tubbs.
John pulled me to my feet, shook his head, and said, “That was all a bit ridiculous, mate. Don’t let it happen again.”
I assured him that it wouldn’t. “I hope we’re not too late.”
“If we are,” said John, “couldn’t we just hop back in the DeLorean and try again.”
“We could, but it’s a bit of a pain in the arse,” said I. “To The Mermaid’s Tits!” I said, and ran for the entrance with my trusty sidekick in tow.
*
Eighties bars were smoky, drenched with neon light, and filled to the brim with shoulder-pads, Wayfarers, parachute pants and Converse Chucks. The Mermaid was no different.
“I can’t believe we used to live in this decade,” said John, shouting over the music (I Want to Know What Love Is by Foreigner, if you must know) to be heard. “It’s like something from a George Michael wet dream.”
“Just try to blend in,” I said, for we were aliens and we looked like it. Already people were giving us the stink-eye. Over at the pool-table, the bikers were swinging their cues menacingly, and the bartender had taken down an antique sword and begun to polish it. Truth be told, I didn’t fancy our chances.
We approached the bar, and the bartender placed his gleaming sword down and regarded us warily and said, “We don’t serve foreigners in here.”
“Just play them on the jukebox?” said John, which I thought was funny but, unfortunately, the bartender did not.
“We’re not foreigners,” I said. “We’re actually from Buckfutt. You might have heard of it.”
The bartender shook his head. “Sounds like one of those places where everyone’s related. That would explain why you look so strange.”
“Yes, well, as J.K. Rowling once said, in-breeding is the future,” I said, though I’m not sure why. “We’re looking for a group of lads. Five of them, in all. A good example of the aforementioned in-breeding, they are. Ringing any bells?”
“One of them looked like he should be ringing a bell?” said the bartender. “In Notre Dame, perhaps?”
“That’s the fella,” I said, for Sammy Barry did have a touch of the Quasimodo about him.
“Round the back chatting up the Prime Minister, last time I saw them,” said the bartender. “Loving it, she was. I’ve never seen her so happy. That Denis of hers hasn’t got a clue, of course. No, she’s a right cheat, she is. Always after the cock. And she’s a raving alcoholic.”
“Makes you wonder how she got a second and third term, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Third term?” said the bartender, his face contorted into an expression of confusion.
“So which way to the PM?” said John. “We’ve got some important news for her. Matter of life and death, it is.”
“Through those doors there and into the lounge,” said the bartender. “They’re sitting in the corner beneath the framed picture of Duran Duran. If you get to the Pac-Man arcade machine you’ve gone too far.”
We thanked the man and followed the bar around to a door. Above the door was the word LOUNGE. As we left the bar, the bikers over at the pool table wolf-whistled and made general murmerings of dissent, but neither John nor I were in the mood to retaliate. We liked our teeth too much, you see. Although, I didn’t like John’s teeth. Like popcorn, they were. All buttery and sticky.
The lounge was less smoky, but just as dingy, as the room from which we had just come. The first thing I noticed was the bartender, as it was the exact same bloke from the bar.
“We can’t afford to employ anyone else,” said the bartender, smiling sheepishly. “Can I get you lads a drink?”
Now, I knew we didn’t have time for such things, but I was a little thirsty. I looked at John, and John looked at me, and then we both looked at the bartender who worked both the Lounge and the Bar. “Go on then,” I said. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and all that. Your round, isn’t it, John?”
John sighed and riffled through his pockets for a couple of quid. “Two pints of your finest,” said John. As the bartender went off to draw two pints of the Mermaid’s finest, John turned to me and said, “Are you sure we’ve got time for this?”
I glanced around the room, my eyes eventually falling upon the snug corner in which The Barry Boys and Margaret Thatcher were presently nestled. “There they are,” I said. John went to turn, but I held him in place. “Don’t turn around.”
“ASWAD, wasn’t it?” said John.
“Ace of Base,” I corrected him. “Now look. We’re going to get our drinks, head over to that table, and talk The Barry Boys out of fornicating with the Prime Minister.”
“All in a day’s work,” said John. “I don’t know about you, Al, but this whole thing seems a little far-fetched.”
“What makes you say that
?” I said. “It really is rather simple. It’s hardly Inception—”
“I thought we were done with that gag?”
“Couldn’t help myself,” said I. “It’s a very addictive joke.”
The bartender returned with our pints and, placing them down in front of us, said, “One pound forty, please.”
I almost fainted dead. “Wow!” I said. “That’s amazing! Seventy pence a pint? Are you sure?”
The bartender frowned. “We’re the most expensive bar in the city,” he said. “If you don’t like it, you can go elsewhere.”
“Pay the man, John,” said I. “And give him one for himself.”
John counted out the correct money and handed it to the bartender, who made his way across to the till, baffled and shaking his head.
“Grab your pint, mate,” I said, picking up my own. “We’ve got a past to change.”
Drinks in hand, we made our way across the lounge. It took a lot longer than it should have due to the stickiness of the carpet, but we got there in the end.
“If it isn’t The Barry Boys!” I said, feigning surprise. Their shocked expressions were genuine. “Mind if we sit down, lads?” To the PM, I said, “Ma’am?” because that’s the kind of thing you say to Margaret Thatcher, no matter how much you disagreed with her policies.
“What are you doing here?” said Danny Barry, edging along a little to make room for us.
“That’s a very good question,” said John, sipping from his pint. “And one we would like you to answer first.”
“You want me to stab ‘em in the face?” said Willy Barry, placing a butterfly knife down on the table.
“That would be a remarkably stupid thing to do in front of such a powerful lady,” said I.
“I don’t mind,” said the PM, slurring her words. “I’m off-duty.”
Willy Barry picked up the knife and, with a flick of the wrist, revealed its blade. There was already a spot of dried blood upon it. I, for one, became very flatulent.
“Now, now, lads,” said John. “We don’t want any trouble, and as a member of the clandestine group known only to its members as ‘Fight Club’, I implore you to reconsider your actions, lest you wind up with myriad broken bones and fat lips.”
I admired my friend’s tenacity. However, I was a little disappointed in him breaking the first rule of his club. Still, it seemed to have the desired effect as Willy put the knife away and picked up his Piña Colada.
“Fantastic,” I said. “Now, boys, there’s been a bit of a change of plan. Buckfutt needs you back right away, so if we could all just finish our drinks quickly and make our way outside, that would be—”
“Are you out of your mind?” said Margaret Thatcher, touching up her mascara. “Me and the boys here are going back to my hotel room for a little hanky-panky.”
“I would advise against it,” I said. “It is a well-known fact that Sammy Barry has some of the most dangerous STDs known to man, and that Danny Barry’s penis is barely large enough to satisfy a wasp.”
Out came the knife again. I prayed to God that John had my back.
“Who cares about STDs?” said the prime minister. “I’ve had them all at some point or another. I’ve got Chlamydia right now, as a matter of fact. Caught it off the French president. François Mitterrand, now there’s a guy who known how to show a woman a good time. Course, they eat frog’s legs and snails, which is a shame as apart from that they’re decent people.”
I didn’t know whether to cry or vomit, so I did a little of both, not necessarily in that order. When I was finished, I wiped my lips and turned to Danny Barry. He was the only one I could reason with. “Danny. If we don’t go back right now, the future is ruined. You and your brothers will be dead by the end of the night. Eaten or squashed by dinosaurs.”
“That all sounds a bit far-fetched,” said Danny, sipping at his Slippery Nipple.
“And sitting here, thirty years in the past with the then-Prime Minister, with the objective of talking one’s way into her drawers, is a regular occurrence, is it?”
“Aw, I’ve heard enough of this nonsense,” said Margaret Thatcher. She necked what was left of her pint, extinguished her cigarette, and snorted a line of coke up from the table with a one-pound note. It was a rather impressive display, proving that everyone had a secret side. Thatcher’s just happened to be slightly more debauched than the rest of us. “I’m going back to my room to get wasted and shagged. Who’s with me?”
Willy, Wally, Sammy, and Billy all stood up, their erections visible through their cargo-shorts. Danny Barry, however, remained seated, and not just because his own erection would have taken somebody’s eye out had he stood. “I don’t know about this,” he said. “All this changing the future nonsense, sounds awfully like that film with Neo from The Matrix and his mate.”
“Everything we do here changes the future,” I said. “Who knows what damage we’ve already done? Just being here will have a knock-on effect. We’ll probably get back to 2015 and find that everyone’s walking around with armpits for faces.”
“That was one of my ideas for the next budget,” slurred Margaret Thatcher. “Think of all the money we’d save on food if we had armpits for faces.”
“Go back to your room,” John told the PM. “And, by the way, you die in 2013. Have fun living with that, you old hag!”
“John!” I said.
“Well, she deserves it,” said John.
“Yes, but we have to be careful not to change anything, remember.”
“I’m absolutely off my face on drugs and booze,” said the PM. “I won’t remember a thing about this in the morning.”
“In that case,” said I, “It’s April the 8th 2013, to be precise, and your death is celebrated more than that of Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein combined.”
“Well,” said the PM, somewhat annoyed. “I shall have to enjoy myself while I still can. Which of you fine boys will be accompanying me to my Travelodge?”
Willy and Sammy Barry stood up. I knew I had to act fast, and fast I did act.
“These reprobates voted Michael Foot,” said I.
Margaret Thatcher vomited onto the table.
I relaxed back in my seat and grinned. My work here was done.
38
The doctor folded his arms and sighed deeply. What followed was an uncomfortable silence of epic proportions. You had to be there to fully appreciate its awkwardness. Unfortunately, I was.
“So, in informing the then-PM of The Barry Boys’ preference for the Labour party, you saved the day, so to speak? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “How ridiculously simple, right? No explosions or assassination attempts? No dangling from a twenty-storey building and then falling from said building in slow-motion? No high-speed car-chase through central London with cop-cars somersaulting and crumpling by the dozen?”
“Actually I was thinking about pouring another drink,” said the doctor, pouring another drink. “Are we any closer to an ending?”
“I bloody hope so,” I said.
“Then please do get on with it.”
And get on with it I did.
39
We arrived back in the here and now and buried the DeLorean in the woods on the edge of the village. The last thing we wanted was for someone else to stumble upon it, and so we made certain it would never be discovered. We buried it deep and made a pact never to return to the spot of its interment. We shook on it – a gentleman’s agreement – and headed back into the village, where everything appeared to be back to normal.
“Where have you two been?” said Marla the Stereotypical Landlady as we entered The Fox. “Pete was starting to worry. Thought you’d buggered one another to death.”
We approached the bar – a simple wooden bar with nary a fairy-light in sight – and settled upon the stools there. “Pete the Landlord?” I said. “So he hasn’t wanked himself to death then?”
Marla snorted and drew
us two pints of bitter. “Not that I know of,” she said. “John’s round, is it?”
“It is indeed,” said I.
“Fucksticks,” said John.
“Ah,” I sighed, scoured the pub, drank in its essence. It wasn’t necessarily a nice essence, but it was our essence. “This place has never looked so good.”
“If you say so,” said Marla, sliding our pints towards us. She was frowning, and with good reason, for John and I were grinning maniacally. We had done it! We had bloody done it! We had saved the day, and yet…well, nobody would ever know about it, which was a bit of a bugger as at least one of us was wearing a vest and it would have been nice to have a bit of recognition. “Why are you grinning like that?”
“Like what?” said John, still grinning.
“Like you’ve lost a quid and found a fiver,” said Marla. “It’s very unsettling.”
“Let’s just say that we’ve had a bit of a strange day,” I said. “But it’s all turned out okay in the end.”
“Glad to hear someone’s had a good day,” said Marla. “I’ve had a nightmare. I don’t think anything could cheer me up.
“What about if I came in here naked and covered in chocolate?” I said. “I could even do a little dance for you?”
Marla laughed. “Ha! That would probably do it!”
And so off to Sidhu’s I went to purchase his entire stock of Nutella. Crazy? Perhaps. But at the time it seemed like a fun thing to do, and you can’t put a price on love.
40
“So that’s it,” I said, stretching and yawning. “That’s how I ended up naked and smothered in chocolate spread.”
“The old ‘I’m going to get naked and smother myself in Nutella’ gesture, huh?” said the doctor. “And that’s why you were delivered to us on this strangest of nights? That’s how I came to hear your story of dinosaurs and time-machines and horny prime ministers?”
I nodded.
“If I didn’t believe you were mad before, you’ve made a very good case for why you should never see the outside world now.”
“What?” I said. “But…but it was all true! Everything happened exactly as I told you! You can’t keep me here! This is…well, it’s madness!”
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