Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (20 page)

The evening passed further on and soon became the middle of the night. Soap stifled yawns. It had been a long day, and a hard’n. He peeped at the wristwatch. What
was
the time?

The face of the watch was a blank and unlit screen.

Soap peered a bit more closely and wondered which button you had to press to get the time up.

“That’s a smart watch,” said Pigarse, leaning far too close to Soap. “Wingarde’s got a watch like that.”

“Has he?” said Soap. “Well, that clinches it.”

“Clenches what?” asked Pigarse. “Bottom cheeks?”

“Very possibly,” said Soap. “But it has to be the same Wingarde. He did have some fancy wristwatch, but I didn’t get to look at it closely. I’d just jumped out of a window and I was hovering in the air.”

“Go on, Soap,” said Omally. “It’s well past the ten o’clock watershed now.”

“Well,” said Soap, “perhaps I
should
tell you all about it.”

“Let me try your wristwatch on,” said Pigarse.

“No,” said Soap. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“That’s what bleeding Wingarde said. Come on, I won’t break it.”

Pigarse lunged forward to snatch at the wristwatch, but his hand struck something invisible and he fell back wailing and clutching at his fist.

“What did you do to him, Soap?” said Omally. “He’s the drummer, you’ve injured his hand.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Soap shook his head. “He just lunged at me, you saw it and …”

Soap’s voice trailed away. It was the watch. It had to be the watch. What was it Wingarde had said? Lifespan chronometer incorporating personal defence mechanism. That was what he’d said.

“So,” said Soap, “what do we have here?” And he tinkered with the buttons on the watch.

And then there was a click and a bang and a whoosh.

And there was no more of Soap Distant.

The grey-whiskered father looked down at the boy

And reached for his teeth in the glass.

He slotted them onto his old wrinkled gums

And rattled his fingers and crackled his thumbs,

And suggested the lad take a seat by the window.

Because he had questions to ask.

Now tell me, young fellow, the old fellow said,

As the lad spread his feet on the pouffe.

There are things I must know, for my time’s drawing near.

And I’ll be just a memory later this year.

So please do me the kindness to answer me this,

Before you’re away on the hoof.

Just name it, my daddy, the young boy replied,

Ask anything under the sun.

If it’s answers you want, then I’ll speak as I find,

So go right ahead, be assured I don’t mind.

Consider the floor to be yours, as I’ve said,

Spit it out, you old son of a gun.

Thus and so, said the ancient, my question is this—

But the telephone interjected.

And the boy went to answer it out in the hall,

And a large moose’s head that hung there on the wall

Fell down on his father and crushed him to death.

Which is pretty much what we expected!

As Soap had no idea what to expect, he was not particularly surprised when he found himself in yet another empty room. This one, however, differed from the last in that it retained all of its fixtures and fittings. This room had merely been emptied of people. Soap was all alone now in Omally’s dining room. It was cold and dark and somewhat eerie.

Moonlight sidled in through the French windows and fell upon the Crawford faces on the wall, which seemed to view Soap disapprovingly.

“Damn,” said Soap. “Not again.”

And then he fell backwards onto the floor.

Someone had obviously moved his chair, so it wasn’t there to greet his bum upon its future return.

Effing and blinding, as was now his habit, Soap struggled onto the vertical plane. It was not a matter of where am I now? It was a matter
of when
? The remains of the feast could be seen in the moonlight, so surely it was only a matter of hours.

Soap considered checking his watch. Soap scrubbed around that idea.

“Wooooooooooooooooo,” came a voice from a darkened corner. “Wooooooooo and woe.”

Small hairs rose all over Soap and his face took on a haunted expression. Which, although appropriate, didn’t help too much.

“Woe unto the house of Distant,” went the voice.

Soap stammered out a “Who’s there?”

“This is the ghost of Gunnersbury House.”

“Oh my,” went Soap, a-clutching at his heart. “Oh my, no, hold on there.”

“Hold on there?” asked the ghost.

“Hold on there, I know that voice. Pooley, is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” said the ghost of Jim.

Soap clenched hard upon chattering teeth and sank down into the nearest chair. “Oh, Jim,” he said. “Oh, Jim.”

“It’s very good to see you, Soap,” said Pooley.

Soap squinted into the semi-darkness. “I can’t see you,” he said.

“I’m over here by the window. But I won’t come out of the shadows. You wouldn’t want to see what I look like now.”

“I’m so sorry, Jim. It’s awful.”

“It’s horrible,” said Jim. “Being a ghost. It’s cold and it’s lonely and you hear things in the night. Things that make noises beloooow.”

“Probably the dwarves,” said Soap, shaking away like a good’n.

“It’s
not
the dwarves,” said Jim. “And calm yourself down, Soap. It’s only me.”

“I’m sorry.” Soap shook and quivered. “I know it’s you, but you’re d—”

“Dead,” said Jim. “But we don’t use the ‘D’ word. Get yourself a drink and pull yourself together.”

Soap found an empty glass and a full bottle and set to correcting the imbalance.

“But what are you doing
here
?” he asked Jim. “I thought ghosts haunted the places where they, you know, ‘D’‘d.”

“You reach out,” said Jim. “At the moment of death. You reach out to your nearest. I reached out to John. He was here in Gunnersbury House, chatting with Lord Crawford about putting the Gandhis on. I reached out to here and this is where I’ve stayed. I’m stuck here. But John can’t hear or see me and although I’ve been able to put the wind up a few people you’re the first old friend who has the gift, as it were.”

Soap drank up and refilled his glass. “You shouldn’t be here, Jim,” he said. “You were a good man. You should have gone to the good place. It’s not right for you to still be here.”

“I can’t leave,” said Jim. “Not yet. Not until everything’s been put right. And my spirit cannot be at rest until the man who killed me is brought to justice.”

Soap’s teeth rattled against his wine glass.

“Sorry,” said Jim. “The afterlife can get a little gloomy.”

“I think you’re taking it all very well.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve come to terms with it now. For the first couple of years I raged about like a wild man. But it didn’t help.”

“I’ll sort it for you, Jim,” said Soap, “trust me, I will.”

“I rather hoped you’d say that. You know that you were right all along, don’t you? About history being changed while you were belooow? Branson on the banknotes and all that kind of business.”

“Oh yes,” said Soap, a-swigging. “I know.”

“But there’s still a lot of it that you don’t know and so I’m going to tell it to you now.”

And so Jim did. He told Soap the lot. About THE END and Dr Trillby and Geraldo and the fanboys from the future and how Wingarde had been saving rock stars’ lives because Jim had pulled off The Pooley. And Soap told Jim all that he knew and all that he’d been through and by the end of it all they both agreed that they seemed to know quite a lot about everything.

Which they almost did, of course.

“You must find Geraldo,” said Jim. “You’ve seen his photograph, so you know what he looks like. He said he’d go back in time and reverse everything that Wingarde had done. But he obviously hasn’t got round to it yet. He’s probably still going from concert to concert. But I’m sure he’ll turn up for this one and I’m sure that if you tell him what Wingarde’s up to now he’ll sort it all out.”

“Okay,” said Soap. “But listen, Jim. Everything points to Wingarde, you know. That he was the one who killed you. To clear the family name because you pulled off The Pooley.”

“I know,” said Jim. “But it doesn’t make any sense. He killed me because I pulled off The Pooley. But I never got to pull off The Pooley, because he killed me first. So if I never pulled off The Pooley, he would have had no reason to kill me in the first place.”

“Do you know what I think, Jim?” said Soap.

“No, Soap, what do you think?”

“I think time travel really complicates things.”

Jim looked at Soap.

But Soap didn’t look at Jim.

“Quite,” said Jim.

“And I’ll tell you something else.”

“Go on.”

“I have a score to settle with that Leo. He nicked my photos and took the credit for my journey to the centre of the Earth.”

“Well, you did nick his wristwatch first.”

“I didn’t nick it. It just fell into my hand.”

“Just leave it all to Geraldo, Soap. Let him sort it out.”

“All right. But that Wingarde must be brought to justice for what he did to you. And then you can rest easy in your grave and go to the good place.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “I’d like that very much.”

Soap stretched and yawned. “I’m really knackered,” he said. “I was knackered anyway. But now I reckon I’ve got the time traveller’s equivalent of jetlag.”

“That’s really tough,” said Jim, “because you’re not going to get much sleep.”

“I’ll have a lie-in tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t, Soap. This is the day after tomorrow. This is the day of the concert.”

(More big juggernaut action)

Over the hill and into the town

The juggernaut came roaring.

Into the sleepy hamlet where

The folk are warm and snoring.

Down the narrow shopping street,

Over the blind road-sweeper’s feet.

Cracking the tile with its exhaust heat

The juggernaut came roaring.

Onto the lanes where the farmers walk

The juggernaut came screaming

Past libraries where none may talk

And the out-of-work sit dreaming.

Over the cobbledy cobbledy way,

Ruining the blacksmith’s holiday.

Distracting the faithful as they pray,

The juggernaut came screaming.

The men aboard the lorries

Laugh as they drive along.

And don’t give a toss for simple folk

And can’t tell right from wrong.

Now one of the best things about outdoor rock concerts is that they involve a lot of big juggernaut action. There’s all that beefy boy-type equipment that has to be loaded up and hauled about and erected by a lot of manly men in construction worker’s helmets, who whistle at girls and swear a lot.

It’s a manly man’s game is rock music. Always has been, always will be. That’s the way it is.

Gunnersbury Park was a big old park and a pretty nice one, too. The house was originally built for the first Earl of Gunnersbury, Sir Rupert Crawford, who made his packet from the slave trade and the transportation of opium. Whether Sir Rupe would have gone for rock ’n’ roll is anyone’s guess. And what he would have thought about all those “slaves to the rhythm” who would shortly be filling up his grounds can only be imagined.

He would no doubt have approved of all the dope they’d be bringing and, as a manly man of some renown, he would certainly have loved all the big juggernaut action.

Which was a shame, really, as there wasn’t going to be any.

It was somewhat after eight of the morning clock when the snoozing Soap was raised from his slumbers by what can only be described as a bloody horrible racket.

“Aaaagh!” went Soap, falling down from his chair. “Bugger my boots, what’s that?”

No answer came from Pooley. For with the coming of the dawn his shade had faded all away. This is often the case with ghosts. It’s a tradition, or an old teeth-chatterer, or something.

Soap crawled over to the french windows and peered out. “Bugger my boots,” he said once more and not without good cause.

For drifting in from the lands of the west there came a marvellous sight. A helicopter of awesome proportions, all red, white and logoed. And slung beneath it an entire rock concert stage protected from the weather beneath a vast aluminium half-dome, complete with sound equipment, lighting gantries, mixing desks and all the bits and bobs. It was a single unit. One of the first Virgin Integrated Outdoor Concert Systems. Solar-powered and digitized and all that kind of caper.

The helicopter moved forward and hovered overhead, blotting out the sky and giving Soap the willies. Servo units engaged, cogs meshed, hawsers hawsed and down to the grass before Gunnersbury House came the stage with all its bits and bobs and bugger-my-booteries.

Soap watched the descent, boggle-eyed, shaking his head at the wonder of it all. “It’s a bit close,” he observed as the stage touched down and minced John’s car to scrap. Stagehands and roadcrew swarmed down ropes from the helicopter’s belly and disconnected the hawsers and suchlike. The helicopter rose and swept away and that was that was that.

Soap rose to his feet, opened the french windows and strolled outside to view the rear of the stage.

And down from it jumped two men. They wore black suits and sunglasses. One held a pistol, the other a walkie-talkie set.

“Pass!” shouted the gunman in a menacing manner.

“What?” replied Soap, rather too shocked to move.

“Backstage pass. Whip it out.”

“I’m with the band,” said Soap, which sometimes works.

The chap with the walkie-talkie shouted into it. “Intruder in rear-stage area,” he shouted. “One for the wagon. First of the day.”

“Now just you see here!” said Soap.

“And he’s a
live
one. Best bring the dogs.”

“Hang about,” said Soap.

“Yes, hang about.” The voice was Omally’s and the rest of him accompanied it. John came marching up the drive, paused for a moment to view the area where his car should surely have been, shook his head and approached the rear-stage area.

“Ah, good morning, Mr Omally.” The men in black saluted John. The one with the walkie-talkie struck himself on the head with it, the one with the gun did likewise and almost put his eye out.

“That fills me with confidence,” said Soap.

“This man is with me,” said Omally. “Here, take this, Soap, and put it on.”

John handed Soap one of those plasticized backstage pass jobbies which can be a passport to sexual bliss if you flash them in front of the right women. Soap clipped it onto his lapel.

“Off about your business,” said John, and the men in black went off about their business.

John led Soap away to his terrible kitchen. “That was some stunt you pulled the night before last,” he said, forcing bread into a blackened toaster. “Vanishing into thin air like that. Pigarse pooed his pants.”

“Yes, John, I’m sorry. I can explain about that. I’ve got to tell you everything.”

“Well, you’ll have to do it later.” John peered into the toaster, from which smoke was already beginning to rise.

“No, John. I have to tell you now.”

“Later,” said John, fanning his face. “I have to meet the Beatles.”

They came in by helicopter too. It dropped down onto the lawn beside the stage and Soap munched on burnt toast and watched it through the unwashed kitchen window.

He saw the Beatles being helped down by their minders and nurses and fussed about and settled into wheelchairs.

“That Wingarde has a lot to answer for,” said Soap, spitting black bits into the sink. “And I’m going to punch him right on the nose when I see him.”

Pigarse wandered into the kitchen. “Aaaagh!” he went and he clutched at his trouser seat and limped away at speed.

“Fucking hell, what a pong,” said Ricky breezing in. “Oh, it’s you, Soap. Where did you spring from?”

“Yes, I’m very sorry about that, you see—”

“Well, never mind,” said Ricky. “It’s always a joy to see Pigarse filling his kecks. Have the Beatles arrived?”

“They’re out there,” said Soap, pointing. “They look really old and knackered.”

“That’s because they
are
old and knackered. Old rockers never know when to quit. It’s all the buzz from playing live. The adrenaline rush. Makes you feel like a god. Once you’ve had it you never want to lose it.”

“It’s not for me,” said Soap. “But listen, Ricky. A couple of things. Could you lend me that silence tape?”

“Sure, I won’t need it today.” Ricky pulled out his walkman and handed it to Soap. “What else do you want?”

“I have to find someone who will be in the crowd. Will there be surveillance cameras set up?”

“There always are, they’re all over the place.”

“So could I get access to the control room or something? Look at the screens or whatever?”

“You’ve got your security clearance card there. You can go pretty much where you want.”

“Splendid,” said Soap. “So which bands are playing today?”

“Well, there’s us. But we’re near the bottom of the bill today.”

“Is Litany going to do her magic thing as soon as you go on?”

“No, not until right at the end, when the Beatles have finished their set. She’s going to do one of those Marilyn Monroe numbers. ‘Happy birthday, Mr President’. She’ll be doing ‘Happy birthday, Mr Lennon’. Then she’ll let it rip.”

“So who else is playing?”

“All the usual suspects. The Who. Jimi Hendrix. Elvis will be making an appearance.”

“Elvis playing Brentford!” Soap whistled.

“Doing stuff from his new rap album. And there’s Ali Dada.”

“Never heard of them,” said Soap.

“And Screaming Lord Sutch and the Savages.”

“God bless Screaming Lord Sutch,” said Soap
[16]
.

“They’ll all be arriving soon,” said Ricky. “What time is it, do you know?”

Soap almost pressed a button on the wristwatch. Almost, but not quite. “I don’t know,” said Soap. “It’s broken. But tell me this also: will Wingarde and his guru be coming?”

Ricky nodded his big-haired head. He still had all the big hair, although it hadn’t been mentioned of late. “The little shit will be here. Throwing his weight around and making an arsehole of himself.”

“Good,” said Soap. “He and I have much to discuss.”

“Rather you than me,” said Ricky. “I can’t stand the bastard.”

The bastard was having his breakfast. The full English and heavy on the ketchup. He sat at a table on the roof terrace of the Virgin Mega City Rich Bastard’s Tower.

The roof terrace afforded Wingarde a fine view of Brentford. As he munched upon his egg, he could see all the earth-movers moving earth and the diggers digging away.

Wingarde raised a pair of binoculars and smiled as he watched the demolition ball cleaving its way into number seven Mafeking Avenue.

“Out with the old and in with the new,” crooned Wingarde, setting down his bins and tucking into some unburnt toast.

“You’re very chipper this morning,”
said The Voice.

“Well, it’s all moving along nicely. You’re pleased with the progress, I trust.”

“Most pleased. And I’ve rewarded you well for your labours, have I not?”

“You certainly have.” Wingarde chewed upon a sausage. “Mmmmph mmm, mmph, mmph,” he continued.

“Don’t speak to God with your bloody mouth full.”

“Sorry, God.” Wingarde wiped his chin. “I was saying thank you very much. I really enjoy bossing people around.”

“I thought it might appeal to you and it suits my purposes well.”

“What exactly are your purposes?” Wingarde scooped up bacon. “I keep on asking and you keep on being vague.”

“Because it’s none of your damn business. But I’ll tell you this, Wingarde. That little town you see down there being ploughed away. From its earth will rise a mighty tower. A tower that will be a temple to science.”

“Built in praise of you, sir?”

“Built in praise of me.”

“But why build it in Brentford? Brentford’s such a dump.”

“Because, as anyone who knows their history will tell you, Brentford occupies the site of the Biblical Eden.”

“And that’s important, is it?”

“You are a fuckwit, Wingarde. But, oh look, here comes your guru.”

“I don’t know why I need a guru anyway,” whispered Wingarde. “When I talk directly to you.”

“I’ve told you before, he’s here to protect you. He has your best interests at heart, and mine also, although he does not know it.”

“Is that why you won’t let me tell him about you?”

“Something like that. So just keep schtum and be nice to him. OK?”

“OK,” whispered Wingarde, scraping jam on to a piece of toast.

“Good morning, Wingarde,” said Dr Vincent Trillby, striding up in dressing gown and slippers. To either side of him strode Balberith and Gressil, but Wingarde couldn’t see them, so he didn’t poo his pants.

“Good morning, True Father,” said Wingarde, which was accurate enough.

“All going well with the demolition work?” Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s bacon.

“Splendidly,” said Wingarde, pulling his plate beyond reach. “But I do have a bit of bad news for you.”

“Oh yes?” Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s coffee.

“Well, you know that wristwatch you had stolen?”

Dr Trillby nodded and spoke in a guarded manner. “A family heirloom,” he said. “Of great sentimental value.”

“Well, there’s been a spot of bother. I was sent some surveillance footage. The chap who nicked it turned up on the street.”

“At last,” said Dr Trillby. “I knew he would eventually.”

“Well, he tried to escape in a getaway car and a police helicopter blew it to buggeration. Slapped wrists all round. A bit of a cock-up.”

Dr Trillby’s face took on an ashen hue. He rocked upon his heels and clenched his fists and bottom cheeks.

“That’s you fucked, then,” said the voice of Leviathan.

“Pardon me?” said Wingarde.

“I’m talking to myself”

“Are you having another of your mystical turns? When the saints speak through your mouth?”

“Something like that!” Dr Trillby turned shakily upon his heel and staggered from the terrace. Once out of sight of Wingarde, and all alone in the very posh lounge (well, almost all alone), he flung himself down to the goatskin rug and drummed his fists on the floor.

“What a pity for you,” said the voice of Leviathan. “Your time-travel watch all blown to buggeration. You’ll just have to stay in this century with us.”

“Leave me alone!” blubbered Trillby.

“No way, we’re here to stay. And so are you, by the sound of it.”

“Listen.” Trillby ground his teeth. “Just listen. I’m not saying it hasn’t been fun. It has. But I returned to this century for one reason only. To fetch my wandering boy. I can see that he’s done very well for himself here, but his mother wants him back. And I’m going to take him back no matter what.”

“Not now your watch has gone boom.”

Dr Trillby drummed his fists and thrashed his legs about. “Oh, bollocks!” he shouted. “Oh, bollocks bollocks bollocks!”

“They’re a load of bollocks,” said Pigarse. “I’m not saying hello.”

“They’re the Beatles,” said John Omally. “And although I don’t think much of them myself they
were
Jim’s favourites, so you’ll be nice to them or else.”

“Or else
what
?” asked Pigarse. “I’ll give you a smack. I’ve done it before.”

“You’ve one hand bandaged. I wouldn’t try your luck.”

“Luck doesn’t enter into it when you fight as dirty as me.”

John made them all line up in the entrance hall. It was a very tidy entrance hall now. John had spent much of the previous day clearing it up, with no help at all from the Gandhimen. Under normal circumstances he would never have considered clearing it up, but, well, it’s not every day you get to meet the Beatles.

“Look,” said John, inspecting his troops. “They’re old men. They’re rock legends. Please show a bit of respect.”

Soap stuck his head out from behind the kitchen door. “Can I meet the Beatles too?” he asked.

“All right,” said John. “Get on the end of the line there, next to Pigarse.”

Soap got onto the end of the line and stood to attention.

“You twat,” Pigarse whispered.

The front door swung open and men in black entered. They flanked the doorway, flexing their shoulders and looking “useful”. And then into the hall walked an old gentleman, supporting himself on an ebony cane.