by Scott Innes
‘Greetings—’ I began, before Gillian elbowed me in the ribs to silence me.
‘My name is Gillian,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘I hail from Earth. We mean you no harm. We seek only our friend, taken from us by Winged Terrors.’
‘Klakktu smesheebe la?’ the leader asked, squinting dubiously at the pair of us.
‘Exactly,’ I agreed, hoping that would be that. Instead, he clicked his fingers and one of his underlings (who was a bit cross-eyed, bless him) handed him a particularly large spear. Its tip glistened with a wet purple substance as he pointed it in our direction testily.
‘Poison,’ Gillian whispered to me from the corner of her mouth. ‘That’s how they took down the bear creature so quickly.’
It seemed to me that stabbing something in the eye with a massive pointed stick would do plenty of damage on its own, but I said nothing.
‘Skrash!’ the chief snarled, and his companions quickly began closing in, glowering menacingly.
‘Please,’ Gillian said, arching back to try to evade the spear tip. ‘We come in peace.’
‘Aye,’ I agreed, nodding vigorously. I did feel that I probably wasn’t bringing much to the table.
‘Tak-bak slano baffka!’ the leader said, cocking his head and smirking, showing off a row of ugly black teeth. I know they were living off the land but really, a little dental hygiene was surely not much to ask in this day and age. Dreadful.
‘Well, we did our best,’ I said, closing my eyes as I’d done hours earlier with the bear advancing on me. ‘But we’ve bollocksed this right up.’
‘I implore you to reconsider!’ Gillian said desperately but it was no use. The leader’s spear was pointed right at her head. He pulled back his bony arm to thrust it into her skull when suddenly there was a cry from above.
‘Stop! Please! Violence solves nothing!’
In the drama of being sentenced to death by a strange alien race, I’d completely forgotten about Gerry and Barrington12 still cowering in the boughs of the tree. Now my assistant came scuttling down to ground level, with the robot clunking heavily after him, both hurrying to stand beside us.
‘Great plan, Gerry,’ I sighed. ‘Now he’ll have four of us to impale, rather than two.’
I looked over at the tribe leader, feeling resigned to my fate despite this momentary stay of execution. But rather than his smug grin, I beheld a different expression altogether – one shared uniformly by all of his followers.
It was awe.
‘Slasabo-tik!’ he cried in a hoarse, disbelieving voice. ‘Slasabo-tik!’
‘Slasabo-tik!’ they all said in chorus, dropping to their knees and bowing their heads. They were grovelling even more than I did to BBC bosses after my episode of Desert Island Discs got pulled by Radio 4 because I’d insisted on performing all of the chosen songs myself, with Steve Coppell on bongos. The leader fell to the ground, prostrating himself in front of us. Well, no, that wasn’t exactly accurate.
He was prostrating himself in front of Gerry.
‘What did I do…?’ Gerry asked me, dumbfounded.
‘I haven’t the first idea,’ I replied quietly. It was really quite astonishing – they were all crouched double, heads pressed against the soil, eyes closed, muttering ‘Slasabo-tik’ over and over again. The low droning of their voices was like a swarm of bees.
‘What are they so fascinated by?’ I asked, stepping back to give Gerry a closer look. There was nothing remarkable about his clothing – he was wearing a plain grey woollen sweater (a gift, negotiated as part of his contract at QPR), brown cords with the arse still ripped open after his mishap in the tunnel and a rather knackered pair of mud-stained trainers. In short, he looked exactly as he always looked. And yet the tribespeople were entranced.
‘Maybe we should just… go?’ Gillian suggested, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to the path leading on through the forest towards Great Strombago on the horizon. ‘Quite apart from anything else, time’s really a factor for Rodway now. That bear-thing set us back by quite a way.’
‘Good shout,’ I agreed, beginning to tiptoe away. ‘But let’s just take things slowly as we… extricate ourselves… No sudden movements…’
Gillian mimicked my gait and Barrington12 attempted to but was so heavy-footed that he looked like some abortive attempt to create a robot ballerina. Gerry, still looking at the reverential tribespeople bowing before him, brought up the rear – quite literally given the hole in his trousers. Far from being repulsed by this unedifying spectacle, the tribespeople seemed doubly thrilled by the sight of it, one or two of them even looking close to passing out with joy as though it was some kind of bizarre symbol of virility. I mean, to each their own, but come on.
Just as we reached the path to leave that area of the forest behind us, a great, anguished wail went up from the group and I glanced back over my shoulder with a wince – I’d expected them to be tearing after us, whatever strange spell that had come over them evidently now lifted, but it wasn’t so. Instead, I beheld the really quite ridiculous sight of the tribespeople still in their bowed poses but scurrying after us like strange little spiders.
‘What in the name of bloody hell…?’ I shook my head in exasperation. Don’t get me wrong, I was delighted that they no longer seemed intent on killing us, I was absolutely made up about that in fact, but I did not have the time and certainly not the patience to indulge whatever peculiar ritual they were now performing.
‘Hold it right where you are,’ I said, putting my hands up and pushing the air like a steward trying forlornly to ward off a rapturous crowd. ‘Gerry’s a smashing bloke and I’m chuffed that you’re so taken with him, but we have a lot on today and we need to get off. I’m sure you understand.’
Alas, they did not. Or, if they did, they didn’t care. All they were interested in was Gerry; they huddled at his feet whispering that nonsensical phrase over and over again.
‘What is their game? I mean, honestly,’ I said in annoyance.
‘Gerry, can you really not think of anything about you that might have attracted them?’ Gillian asked.
Gerry looked small and afraid.
‘Don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Well, there must be something,’ I said. ‘With respect, Gerry, nobody is going to start worshipping you without a bloody good reason.’
‘I wish we could understand what they were saying,’ Gillian said, looking at them in exasperation.
‘Maybe after we’ve got Rodway they’ll follow us all the way back to the Compound and we can get someone to translate,’ I suggested.
‘Unlikely,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘There are numerous indigenous tribes on Palangonia and the Alliance knows next to nothing about their language and customs. No one’s ever really got close enough to them to do any kind of study. Believe me, what we’re witnessing right now is beyond extraordinary.’
‘Slasabo-tik!’ cried the tribe leader, looking up at Gerry before quickly averting his eyes again.
‘We don’t know what you’re blathering on about!’ I said in a patronising tone. ‘I mean, you can say it as much as you like…’
‘KEVIN KEEGAN?’
Barrington12 had been unusually quiet, having said nothing at all since he and Gerry had climbed down from the tree. You’d think that if any one of us was going to garner the curious attentions of a group of people who’d been detached from society for aeons, it would have been our ridiculous robot.
‘Aye, what is it, son?’ I replied wearily.
‘PERHAPS I MAY BE OF SOME ASSISTANCE.’
‘Thanks,’ I said to Barrington12, ‘but I don’t think now’s the right time for one of your relaxing shoulder massages. Maybe later.’
‘I MEANT IN REGARDS TO OUR PRESENT PREDICAMENT,’ he explained. ‘MY DATABANKS CONTAIN INFORMATION ON MANY BILLIONS OF LANGUAGES AND DIALECTS AND THIS APPEARS TO BE ONE OF THEM.’
‘Wow, really?’ Gillian said, sounding genuinely impressed. ‘But how?’
&n
bsp; ‘IT’S ENTIRELY POSSIBLE THAT THIS TRIBE ARRIVED HERE FROM ANOTHER CIVILISATION MANY THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO, A CIVILISATION CURRENTLY ON GALACTIC RECORD, AND THAT IS WHY THE LANGUAGE IS STORED IN MY MEMORY. SOME OF THE WORDS THEY HAVE USED ARE NEW TO ME, NO DOUBT DUE TO THE NATURAL EVOLUTION OF THEIR SPEECH, BUT MUCH IS TRANSLATABLE. INCLUDING THE PHRASE THEY HAVE BEEN REPEATING REGULARLY.’
‘You know what it means?’ I asked, stepping towards him. ‘You understand what “Slasabo-tik” is?’
‘YES,’ Barrington12 said – then paused for a second for what seemed like dramatic emphasis. Poor from a robot, that. ‘IN OUR TONGUE, SLASABO-TIK WOULD TRANSLATE LITERALLY AS… MULLET GOD.’
I turned and stared at Gerry and the brittle, outdated mop of hair at the back of his head.
‘But… but what does that mean?’ Gerry asked me in a tremulous voice.
‘It means,’ I said, not quite believing these words were actually coming out of my mouth, ‘that you are a god to these people.Gerry… you’re the Mullet God.’
THE PROPHECY
I stared at the tribespeople in astonishment. Gerry Francis? A god? I mean, had they not seen his record at Tottenham?
‘I don’t like this,’ Gerry said, anxiously. ‘They’ve obviously got me mixed up with somebody else.’
‘Well, of course they have,’ I said. ‘I’ve known you for forty-odd years, Gerry, and believe me, you are not a god.’
‘Wait, hang on,’ Gillian said. ‘Barrington12, if you can understand much of what they say, can you speak to them on our behalf, translate what we’re saying?’
‘OF COURSE,’ he replied. ‘PLEASE INDICATE WHAT YOU WOULD LIKE ME TO SAY.’
‘Ask them who Slasabo-tik is,’ Gillian said.
‘SPRAKK BUKBAKTA SHON SLASABO-TIK?’ Barrington12 said to the tribe leader. He raised his head slowly, clearly surprised that these peculiar visitors should speak their language. The leader didn’t say anything – he just extended a stick-thin arm and pointed at Gerry, all the while averting his eyes.
‘We already knew that,’ I sighed. ‘Ask them about the god, what makes him such a big cheese and all that.’
Barrington12 did and the leader slowly climbed to his feet, still not looking fully at Gerry. He began to babble excitedly, gesticulating and becoming more and more fired up. His people continued to crouch down, murmuring ‘Slasabo-tik’ rhythmically.
‘Well?’ I asked, once the leader’s verbal diarrhoea slowed to a trickle.
‘HE IS THE LIGHT AND THE WAY,’ Barrington12 replied dispassionately. ‘HE GAVE LIFE TO THE GALAXY AND HAS THE POWER TO TAKE IT BACK AGAIN. SLASABO-TIK IS KINDNESS, HOPE, POSITIVITY; ALL THE FINEST ATTRIBUTES THE DENIZENS OF THIS GALAXY CAN STRIVE FOR. HE IS THE BEST OF ALL OF US. HE EMBODIES THAT WHICH WE SHOULD BE.’
‘Aye, right,’ I said, rolling my eyes. Listen, I’m not having a pop at religion, let people crack on and believe what they like. But it did make me laugh back on Earth when people used to describe the Bible as ‘the greatest story ever told’. I mean, had they not seen Brassed Off?
‘What else?’ Gillian asked.
‘HE SAYS THAT THE MULLET GOD HAS NOT BEEN SEEN FOR MANY HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS, BUT THAT A PROPHECY FORETELLS THAT HE SHALL ONE DAY RETURN TO THIS GALAXY TO SAVE IT FROM DESTRUCTION, GIVING HIS OWN LIFE TO ENSURE OUR OWN. HE WILL THEN ASCEND TO THE HEAVENS AND ALL WILL BE AT PEACE.’
‘Sounds a bit unrealistic,’ I observed. I was itching to get moving and this seemed an unhelpful distraction. It definitely wasn’t that I was jealous of Gerry being hailed as a lord and saviour rather than me. I wasn’t bothered about that. Listen, it’s beneath me.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Gillian said, her eyes suddenly widening. ‘Of course! The tunnel!’
‘You’ve lost me,’ I said, scratching my head.
‘In the tunnel from the Compound – we spotted those archaic scratchings, those drawings on the walls. Don’t you remember what they were?’
I shrugged.
‘Dunno. Stick men or some such.’
Then suddenly I did remember. There was an etching of a group of people kneeling before a platform covered in strange runes while a man standing above them floated up into the starry sky. A man with long hair at the back.
The Mullet God.
‘Oh, this has to be some kind of daft prank!’ I exclaimed, my tolerance of this madness now at an end. ‘There is no way Gerry is some kind of galactic deity. I mean, look at him! His backside is hanging out all over the shop!’
‘It doesn’t matter that we don’t believe it,’ Gillian said. ‘They do. I mean, they really, really do.’
‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘David James firmly believes, even now, that the world will end in the year 2000. People can be stupid.’
‘It’s just so fascinating,’ Gillian said in wonder. ‘I feel privileged to have witnessed this.’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘the only thing we need to be fascinated about right now is a young kid who’s very special to me. Means the bloody world to me, in fact. And his name is Rodway… er…’
I glanced at Gerry.
‘What’s Rodway’s surname?’
Gerry shrugged. ‘Bit above my pay grade, that, Kev.’
‘Right,’ I said, returning to my train of thought. ‘Well, anyway, he’s the only thing I’m focusing on right now. If he’s not already dead, he soon will be.’
The tribe leader then said something else, something which made the others look to Gerry with hopeful anticipation.
‘HE INVITES SLASABO-TIK TO SAY A FEW WORDS TO HIS LOYAL SUBJECTS,’ Barrington12 said.
This was not going to be pretty.
‘Do I have to, Kev?’ Gerry looked over at me, whispering under his breath.
‘Just… speak from the heart,’ I said. ‘Tell them how proud you are to be their Mullet God and that you won’t let them down, that sort of guff.’
‘But I don’t want to encourage them!’
‘Listen, just keep them onside so we can head off to find Rodway,’ I told him.
Apparently somewhat reassured, Gerry turned back nervously to face his adoring fans.
‘I, er… hello,’ he said uncertainly.
‘Slasabo-tik!’ screamed one particularly emotional man who then promptly fainted. No one went to his aid – they all continued to watch Gerry, transfixed. As he spoke, Barrington12 translated for the tribe.
‘My name is… I am Gerry. Apparently I am your Mullet God. Which, er, is very nice of you. I really appreciate that. I’m going to knuckle down and do my best and, um… well, at the end of the day, the ambition has to be for us to win a league title. No, sorry – not that…’
He trailed off and looked back at us for help. I put my hand over my face in embarrassment.
‘Jesus wept,’ Gillian muttered, turning away.
Gerry, panic in his eyes, turned back to face their expectant stares.
‘So… yeah. It’s great to be back, like the prophecy said – or whatever. Look, shall we just leave it there? All the best.’
A roar of approving hoots and whoops went up from Gerry’s adoring crowd. I sighed and shook my head. Life must be so much less stressful when you’re that easily pleased.
‘Listen, we have a job to do: find Rodway, bring him home, then get back to hunting for that spy. Explain that to this lot, please,’ I said to Barrington12. ‘Just the basics, I mean, you don’t have to tell them about the spy stuff – let’s keep it simple.’
‘You’re right, Kevin,’ Gillian said. ‘Quite apart from anything else, the longer we’re out here, the stronger the likelihood of someone back in the Compound noticing we’re gone. If General Leigh finds out we snuck away during his lockdown, he’ll never let us back in again – it won’t matter whether I’m on the Council or not.’
‘Akkkk!’ screamed the tribe leader animatedly as Barrington12 passed this on. The others were now standing up and looking on in slightly discomfiting silence.
‘Sounds like that news went down well, then
,’ I said wearily. Though the one benefit of their believing Gerry to be some kind of weird god was that the likelihood of them resorting to any more threats of violence against us was now practically nil.
‘AKPLATAK HAS AN OFFER HE WISHES TO MAKE,’ Barrington12 said, turning to us.
I raised an eyebrow.
‘Who the chuff is Akplatak?’
‘THE LEADER OF THE WATLAQ PEOPLE,’ Barrington12 replied.
‘Who the chuff are the—’
‘Clearly these are the Watlaq and Akplatak is the… chap whose meat and veg keeps flapping out from under his cloth,’ Gillian cut in.
She had clocked it then. Shame.
‘What offer?’ Gillian asked. ‘What is he talking about?’
‘AS DIRECTED, BARRINGTON12 EXPLAINED OUR SITUATION AND OUR QUEST FOR THE NEST OF WINGED TERRORS ON THE LOWER SLOPES OF GREAT STROMBAGO. IT WAS MADE PLAIN THAT THIS WAS OUR JOURNEY AND THAT SLASABO-TIK COULD NOT STAY HERE.’
Bang on. He’d done us proud there; couldn’t have put it better myself.
‘AKPLATAK WAS AGHAST AT THE IDEA OF SLASABO-TIK WALKING INTO ALMOST CERTAIN DEATH WITH SUCH DISMAL AND ILL-PREPARED COMPANY.’
Rude.
‘Get to the point,’ I muttered irritably.
‘AKPLATAK SAID THAT SLASABO-TIK MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS. AND SO THE WARRIORS OF THE WATLAQ WILL ACCOMPANY US TO THE MOUNTAIN AND WILL GLADLY GIVE OVER THEIR LIVES SO THAT SLASABO-TIK MIGHT LIVE. NOT ONLY THAT, BUT THEY SAY OUR CURRENT ROUTE IS ILL-SUITED AND KNOW OF A PATH THAT WILL HALVE THE DISTANCE AND TIME. WE CAN AVOID THE DANGEROUS JUNGLE AHEAD AND TRAVEL VIA THE MARSHLAND TO THE EAST.’
‘Okay, tell him we agree,’ Gillian said immediately.
‘Well, hang on just a second,’ I interjected. ‘Do we not even discuss it then?’
