Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (9 page)

Clovis rolled his rosy eyes. “Now what could possibly go wrong with a plan like that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Tripper. “Trust me.”

“Hold on again.” Dr Trillby raised his hands again. “What is all this, trust me? You are not under the mistaken apprehension that
you
will be making this trip, are you? If anyone is going to make this historic journey that someone will be me.”

“Your bravery is an example to us all, sir. That’s settled, then.”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Dr Trillby flapped his hands about. “You’re not putting up much of a struggle.”

“Why should I, sir? Once you’ve proved it’s safe, which is to say once you’ve survived the journey with mind and body intact, I’ll have plenty of opportunities to take as many trips as I like.”

“Hm.” Dr Trillby made the face of thought. “Perhaps it would be better if
you
made the first journey,” he said. “After all, it is
your
project.”

“That’s settled, then.”

“Eh?” said Dr Trillby.

“Snookered,” said Clovis.

Blashford said, “Perhaps we should put it to a vote.”

Dr.Trillby shook his head. “Let’s just get on with it,” he said. “How do you propose to run this test, Tripper?”

“Very simply and very safely, sir.” Tripper rootled in his furry briefcase. “I have here today’s newspaper.”

“Anything new in it?” Blashford asked. “Any new news?”

“None whatsoever.” Tripper held the paper up for all to see. Its headline read, NO NEWS AGAIN: AND IT’S OFFICIAL.

“Are you thinking of changing that, then?” Dr Trillby asked.

“No.” Tripper returned the newspaper to his briefcase and placed his briefcase on the table. “My intention is to travel just two hours into the past and waylay the newspaper boy before he delivers the newspaper to my house. If I return from the past with the newspaper in my hand, then it will mean that the past
can
be changed and we shall have to abandon the whole thing.”

Dr Trillby nodded. “Seems safe enough,” he said.

“I see a flaw in this,” said Blashford.

“Shut up, lad. Go on, then, Tripper, explain the mechanics of the thing. Is there a time machine you travel in?”

“Time machine!” Clovis rolled his rosy red’ns again.

“It’s all done with this.” Tripper displayed the lifespan chronometer on his scrawny wrist. “Porkie will download the program into the chronometer. All I have to do is set the coordinates and the time and date and press ‘send’. Simple as making a telephone call.”

“What are these coordinates?” Dr Trillby asked.

“Of the place where I wish to materialize in the past. I can’t just materialize here, can I? Two hours ago the Earth hadn’t reached this spot in space. The coordinates have to be absolutely precise for the journey there and the journey back. Porkie has worked it all out. It’s all in the program.”

“Porkie thinks of everything,” said Blashford. “But—”

“No buts,” said Dr Trillby. “How do you download the program, Tripper?”

“Simple as can be. I just type into my chronometer the words DOWNLOAD TIME TRAVEL PROGRAM and wait thirty seconds.” He did so and they waited. “There,” said Tripper. “I’m on line. So now I type in time and date and projected location.” He did this also. “And I’m ready for the off.”

“Will you vanish in a puff of smoke?” Clovis asked.

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Dr Trillby told him. “This is a historic moment.”

“It won’t work,” said Clovis. “This is all a wind-up.”

“Ignore him, Tripper,” said Dr Trillby. “Go on, do your stuff”

“But, sir.” Blashford made pleadings. “Please listen, sir. There is a serious flaw.”

“Do it, Tripper,” said Dr Trillby.

And do it Tripper did.

Geraldo paused in his tale and rattled his empty pint glass on the table.

“Don’t stop,” said Jim. “What happened next?”

“Well,” said Geraldo, “what do
you
think happened next?”

Jim thought about this. “That’s a tricky one,” he said. “If he did come back with the newspaper, that would have proved that the past could be changed, so they would have had to abandon the project. But if they had, then you wouldn’t be here. But you are here.
But
according to you, the past
can
be changed …”

“Go on,” said Geraldo.

“Well,” Jim continued, “if he
didn’t
come back with the newspaper that would have proved that the past
couldn’t
be changed. So they would have gone ahead with the project. Which they must have done, because otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“But the past can be changed,” said Geraldo.

“So did he come back with the newspaper, or didn’t he?”

“Both,” said Geraldo. “Or possibly neither.”

“Both, or possibly neither?”

“Things got a little complicated. Allow me to explain. You see, Tripper travelled back into the past and tried to get the newspaper. But the newspaper boy wouldn’t give it to him. In fact he punched Tripper on the nose. So Tripper returns to Institute Tower with a bloody nose and no newspaper. He explains what’s happened and Dr Trillby says he’s a stupid boy and to go back and try again. So Tripper travels back into the past again, making sure that this time he arrives a bit earlier, so he can sneak up on the paper boy from behind. And he’s just doing this when he sees his original self materialize in front of the paper boy.”

“This is the Tripper who got the bloody nose,” said Jim.

“That’s right. We’ll call him Tripper number one.”

“So the other one is Tripper number two.”

“And so on.”

“And so on?”

“Allow me to explain. Tripper number one sees Tripper number two creeping up behind the paper boy and he thinks, Ah, this must be the plan I worked out in case something went wrong. This is myself coming back to tell me not to get the newspaper. So Tripper number one backs off, resets his chronometer and zips into the future. Meanwhile Tripper number two has grabbed the newspaper when the paper boy isn’t looking and is about to zip into the future when Tripper number three arrives on the scene.”

“Who’s Tripper number three?”

“He’s Tripper number one, who’s returned from the future where Dr Trillby has told him that he’s a stupid boy too, and to go and have another try at the newspaper.”

“And does he have the bloody nose?”

“No, because he never got punched.”

“But if he didn’t get punched—”

“He does get punched. By Tripper number two.”

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Because he tries to grab the newspaper off him. And that’s when Tripper number four gets into the fight.”

“Who’s Tripper number four?”

“He’s Tripper number three, who goes back further into the past to find a stout stick to defend himself against Tripper number two. Are you sure you want me to go on with this?”

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t. How many Trippers were there in the end?”

“Dozens. Coming and going and going and coming. I counted at least six of them fighting in the solar lounge at one time. But, do you know, I never did see whether any of them had the newspaper.”

“So I assume that the time travel project was abandoned.”

“Sometimes it is,” said Geraldo. “And sometimes it isn’t. Things have become a little unstable in the future.”

“But they did put it online?”

“Oh no,” said Geraldo. “They never actually put it online.”

“This is all beyond me.” said Jim. “If they didn’t put it online, how did you get here?”

“I nicked it,” said Geraldo proudly. “As I said, I watched and heard everything, because I had hacked into Porkie. So when Tripper explained how to download the program, I hastily downloaded it as well.”

“But after you saw all the chaos, how could you even think of using it?”

“Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“Well,” said Jim, “the prospect of time travel is very appealing. I could certainly win a lot of money on the horses.”

“Yeah, and screw up the future. We took a vow to change nothing. We’re fanboys and all we wanted to do was travel back to the twentieth century and see all the great bands play. All the originals.”

“Like the Beatles, for instance?”

“Exactly. We agreed to meet up at different gigs. But Wingarde never showed up here, and now I know why. He’s been travelling about through time, saving famous rock stars from early deaths.”

“It’s a very noble thing to do,” said Jim.

“It’s chaos,” said Geraldo. “And it’s all my fault. I should never have trusted him.”

“You weren’t to know,” said Jim.

“Yes, but I should have known. It’s in his genes, you see. He can’t help the way he is. His father was the same and his grandfather before that. All trying to live down the family name.”

“Why?” Jim asked.

“Because they had an ancestor in the twentieth century who made a fortune.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Jim asked.

“It was the way he made it. He cheated and so his name became a household word, meaning a dirty rotten scoundrel.”

“Oh,” said Jim. “It wasn’t Branson by any chance, was it?”

“No,” said Geraldo. “It was Pooley. The scoundrel who pulled off The Pooley.”

Sing us your old sea shanty, Ted.

Said crowds of little nippers.

As ancient Ted sat in his shed

Cooking his ancient kippers.

Well, said Ted, there’s one I know

Of days on masted brigs.

With scupper hold and casks of gold

And outboard schooner rigs.

Eh? went the nippers, levelling bricks at him.

Ted sang his shanty.

’Twas in the year of ’fifty-two

Aboard the black ship Didgery Doo,

With Captain Rolf and his mutinous crew

That I went out a-whaling.

We left the port five days behind

Out west the great white whale to find.

We waved at Drake on the
Golden Hind

As he leaned over the railing.

At last with rations running low

And Rolf boy running to and fro,

We spied a whale off the starboard bow

And shouted, cool and groovy.

And Captain Rolf put down the mate

And came across on a roller skate,

And said, I think we’ll have to wait,

I’ll miss the midnight movie.

So after we had watched the show

We lowered little boats to row,

And got our harpoons out to throw.

But by that time the whale had buggered off.

“And?” said the nippers. “What happened next?”

“Nothing,” said Ted. “That was it. I did see a mermaid on the way home. But I’ll tell you all about that another day.”

The nippers entered into a brief discussion, arrived at a consensus agreement and, without further ado, stoned old Ted to death.

“Stone me,” said Jim Pooley.

“And that’s the God’s honest truth, I’m telling you,” said Geraldo, rattling his empty glass once more.

Jim considered the phrase “You are a lying git” but dismissed it as redundant. The tale simply
had
to be true. He had never told anyone about The Pooley. Certainly all who knew him knew of his quest for the six-horse Super-Yankee. But he had wisely refrained from mentioning the name he intended to give it.

Jim finished his pint and set down his glass. The health-farm glow had fled from his cheeks and he felt far from well.

“I need the bog,” he said.

“Then give me the cash and I’ll get in the round.”

Jim fumbled in his pocket and dragged out a oncer. “Take it,” he said. “Get a pint for yourself and a vodka for me.”

“Fair enough. No, wait just a minute.”

“I can’t,” said Jim, making haste to his feet. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“But this poundnote. Is it all right? Who’s this bearded bloke on the front?”

Jim took to flapping his hands as he ran to the bog. Generally in moments of acute agitation he flapped his hands and turned around in small circles. But this time he had to flap on the hoof.

“I hope it wasn’t something I said.” Geraldo took his empty glass to the counter.

Within the bog of the Flying Swan, Jim made for cubicle three. And here he emptied the contents of his stomach into the white china bowl.

“Oh my God,” went Pooley. “Oh my God.” And he reached for the chain to flush away the horrors.

“Don’t pull that,” said a voice from above.

“Oh my …” and Jim’s hand hovered.

“God,” said the voice. “This is God.”

“God?” said a pale and trembling Jim, glancing all round and about.

The bog was empty but for himself. But for himself and—

“God?”

“Don’t pull that chain,” said God once more. Jim’s hands began to flap.

“And don’t flap your hands,” said God.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jim, who was now on the point of collapse.

“And down on your knees when you’re talking to me.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I’m sorry.” Jim knelt down in the cubicle, his nose too near to the horrors. This was all he needed! A telling-off from God!

“Pooley,” said God.

Jim shuddered at his name.

“Pooley, I am displeased with you,”

“But it isn’t my fault,” said Jim to God. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“What, never?” God asked.

“Well, sometimes,” said Jim. “But you’d know all about those.”

“You’re a bad man, Pooley,” said God.

“But I don’t mean to be. I’d never knowingly do harm to anyone. I can’t be held responsible for things that happen in the future.”

“What are you on about?” God asked.

“The future, sir, what happens in the future.”

“So you want to know what happens in the future, do you?”

Pooley nodded dismally.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a yes, sir,” said Jim.

“It’ll cost you,” said God.

“What?”

“The information will cost you.”

“Do you want me to put money in the poor box at St Joan’s?”

“No, you can leave it here on the floor. I’ll see that they get it.”

“Eh?” said Jim.

“Are you querying God?”

“Oh, no, sir, I’m not.”

“Then I will give you a name and an address and you will give me a fiver.”

“I don’t think I have a fiver left,” said Jim. “It’s been a very expensive evening.”

“What about the fiver you keep in your left boot for emergencies?”

“You know about that fiver?”

“Everybody knows about
that
fiver.”

“Oh,” said Jim.

“Well, whip it out.”

Still in the kneeling position, Jim fought to remove his boot.

“You want to wash your socks a bit more often,” said God.

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.” Pooley placed the crumpled fiver on the floor.

“Right,” said God, “So this is what you do.”

And God spake unto Pooley and did tell him of a woman who dwelt in a terrace called Moby Dick. That she was possessed of great powers concerning the foretelling of the future, for she was a Penist and could read the willies of men. And God named this woman and gave Jim the number of the house and also the telephone number, which could, if he forgot it, be also found in any one of the local telephone boxes upon certain coloured cards affixed to the walls with blu-tack. And then God instructed Pooley that he should bugger off at the hurry up and be grateful that he hadn’t got a thunderbolt up the bum for being such a bad fellow and also that he should, in future, give money to people smaller and less fortunate than himself, if asked for it.

“And so, on your bike,” said God. “And sin no more, you bastard.”

And Pooley, having heard the word of God, did hasten from the bog.

And God, having heard the door slam behind him, did hasten from his hiding place in the cistern of cubicle three. And did shin down the chain and snatch up Pooley’s fiver.

“Thank you very much, Jim,” said Small Dave, tucking it into his pocket.

It was a pale and shaking Jim that returned to the saloon bar. A Jim that had had enough for one night and many nights yet to come.

A Jim that—

“Whoa!” went Jim. “Where are they?”

An equally pale-faced Neville was loading empties onto a tray. “Who?” he asked, without enthusiasm.

“The chaps I came in with. The chaps in the black T-shirts and shorts.”

“The shorts!” growled Neville. “The shorts!”

“But where are they? Where’ve they gone?”

“Buggered off,” said Neville, “and good riddance, too. Shorts in my bar. You’re a bad man, Pooley.”

“No,” mumbled Jim at the terrible phrase. “I’m not a bad man, I’m not. But I have to speak to Geraldo. Why did he go? Did he say where he was going?”

“No, he didn’t, and
I
didn’t ask. He came up to the bar just after you’d rushed off to the bog, and if you’ve been sick on my tiles you’re in bigger trouble. He came up to the bar and I said, ‘What’s the matter with Pooley?’ and he looked at me and said ‘Pooley?’ in that silly little voice of his and then all his friends started saying ‘Pooley?’ and looking at each other and then they all rushed out of the door.”

“Oh no!” Jim’s hands were flapping once again.

“And don’t do that in here,” said Neville. “It fair gives me the willies.”

“The willies,” said Jim. “The willies, that’s it.”

“Go home and sleep it off, Pooley.”

“I’m not drunk. I only wish I was.”

“Well, you’re not drinking any more in here tonight.”

“No,” said Jim. “All right, I’m going.”

“Good,” said Neville. “Goodnight.”

Jim wandered, lonely, through the night-time streets of Brentford. He was all in a daze and a dither and he didn’t know quite what to do. Although Norman admired Jim for living his life in little movies, the truth of the matter was that this was the only way Jim could live his life. One thing at a time was all the lad could ever deal with. Two or more and it was goodnight, Jim.

The rain was falling once again and Pooley turned his collar up. “I
am
sorry, God,” he said to the sky. “You don’t have to rain on my head.”

A rumble of thunder came down from above and Jim put more spring in his step.

He would greatly have preferred to have gone round to Omally’s. The Irishman was his bestest friend and Jim felt that he would have known what to do. But, as he hadn’t seen John since before the Gandhis’ remarkable performance, and had no idea whether he would even be home,
and
, as he really didn’t want to get on the wrong side of God, Jim pressed on towards Moby Dick Terrace.

It was growing late now, after eleven, and Jim had no way of knowing whether the reader of willies would still be open for business. Nor was he exactly certain why God had sent him to seek out this woman anyway. Surely God knew all about the future, didn’t he? He could have just told Jim about it there and then.

But, then, God knew his own job best, of course.

And who was Jim to argue?

And he
had
paid out five quid for the information.

And he
was
really desperate to get this thing sorted.

And it
was
getting late.

And he
was
in a state.

And that
was
a tiny little horse that just ran across the road up ahead.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Jim, to no one but himself. “I’m sure it really wasn’t.”

Most of the houses in Moby Dick Terrace were bed and breakfasts, catering to the needs of the many tourists who poured in throughout the seasons to visit Britain’s best-loved borough. There was always a holiday feel to the terrace, no matter the time of the year.

But at night time there was something more. A strangely nautical feel. Many might have put this down simply to the name. After all, this was the terrace where the legendary Captain Ahab was born. But there was more to it than that.

Certain streets have their own personalities, which they often keep very much to themselves and which you may only catch by chance. And then only in the middle of the night.

Moby Dick Terrace was one of these. A B and B’er’s paradise by day it might have been, but by night, with the rain coming down and the wind in the right direction, you could almost smell the briny deep and hear the flap of sailcloth.

It no longer seemed to be land-locked suburbia. Now it was harbour lights and fishing floats and crabbing pots and whalebone uplift bras.

As Jim marched along through the wind and the rain he fancied that he heard the sirens singing. Seeking to lure him to his doom in front garden ponds. Or onto rockeries, where the ghosts of drowned sailors searched in vain for their hats.

Beat beat beat
went the rain on Jim’s head.

And Jim beat a path to the Penist’s door.

It was a bright-blue door, as it happened. Blue as the deep blue sea. The house was called Ocean View, as were many of the others, but the number was right. It was twenty-three.

Jim ducked into the shelter of the porch.

“Any old porch in a storm,” said Jim.

And gave the house a good looking-over.

It was your standard two up, three down Victorian masterpiece. With a
No Vacancies
sign in the front window. It was as nice or as nasty a house as suits your personal taste. In his present mood, Jim was in no fit state to judge.

He stood on the doorstep and dithered, damned by doubt and direly desirous of deep deliberation. He didn’t want to go through with this. He really, truly didn’t.

The more he thought about seeing the Penist, the less he liked the idea. Jim was a sensitive soul. He wasn’t one of those blokes who whip their old chaps out at the slightest excuse. And certainly not in front of a lady.

Jim would never even have considered displaying his private parts to a lady, unless they had been properly introduced (Jim and the lady, that is. Not the private parts), shared a romantic candlelit dinner for two and both got so out of their faces on wine that they probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.

But this lark wasn’t for him. This was for the likes of John Omally. Or Small Dave. He was always pulling his tadger out and waving it all over the place.

“I’m not doing this,” said Jim.

Crash went the thunder and flash went the lightning.

And press went Jim’s finger on the bell.

There was one of those little intercom things and this gave a sudden crackle and a lady’s voice said, “Can I help you, please?”

Jim sighed a deep and heartfelt. “I’ve come to see Madame Crowley,” he said.

“In you come, then, dear.” The door buzzed and clicked and Jim pushed it open. “And please wipe your feet,” said the voice.

Jim wiped his feet upon the mat. Shook what rain he could from his shoulders and head and closed the front door behind him. He was standing in a pleasant little hall, which had all the usual guesthouse how-do-you-do. The hall stand with the raincoats and the waders and galoshes, the buckets and spades and the shrimping nets, the coloured brochures advertising the beauties of the borough and where to go to get the best tattoos. There were the house rules. No sheep in the rooms after nine p.m. and suchlike. And so forth.

And there was something more.

The left-hand wall was covered in masks. Carnival masks. Dozens of them. Masks of clowns and public figures, film stars old and new. In the very midst was a sign.

And this is what it said.

CLIENTS OF A MODEST DISPOSITION OR OTHERWISE DESIROUS OF ANONYMITY MAY CHOOSE AND DON FROM THIS COLLECTION BEFORE HAVING THEIR WINKIES READ.

Courtesy of the management.

“Very thoughtful,” said Jim, wondering what he should choose.

He passed on the Bill Clinton. It looked rather worn out and over-used. And he gave the Hugh Grant a miss too. The Dalai Lama seemed hardly appropriate and exactly what Sister Wendy was doing there—

Jim settled for a rather dashing domino, which lent him, he thought, the look of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Or Batman’s Robin, at a push.

And having posed a bit before the hall mirror and wrung what rain he could from his hair, Jim squared up his sagging shoulders and knocked on the living-room door.

“In you come, dear,” said the lady’s voice and Jim put his best foot forward.

He found himself in a room that might have been anyone’s. It might have been his Aunty Norma’s, or his Aunty May’s. It was an aunty’s room that looked just the way that aunties’ rooms always do. Jim squeezed past the stuffed gorilla and stepped over the stripped-down Harley-Davidson. His shoes made sucking noises on the latex rubber carpet.

“Hold it there, dear, if you will.”

Jim held it there and sought out the owner of the voice. His gaze fell upon an ancient white-haired lady of respectable good looks, who wore more lace than a Southern belle and sat at a table littered with all the usual tools of the duff clairvoyant’s trade. The crystal ball, the tarot cards, the magnifying glass, the KY jelly and the stirrup pump.