STORYTIME (part 17)

Argh, this section isn’t quite right. I guess it’ll do for a first draft – there probably isn’t much left of this story, so I want to get it down. In general, I think I’m not that great at writing action, and I’ve skipped the character development a bit, really. See what you think!

 

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PART 17

The group leaped over criss-crossing garden walls, each leaping in their own special way. Lester vaulted, Sherman slid, Gert ambled, Sadie clambered, Janey spun. One by way they urged each other forward, rushing back to town, rushing back to roads. Sherman took the lead, arms slicing the air in sequence, leading them, finally, to the edge of a carriageway. He turned to face the others, breathing quickly but tunefully.

“Come on then. Let’s be having you. We’ve got a world to save.”

“Alright, Bralan. Gee…” Janey panted, “Ain’t run that far in years.”

Lester, catching up, wheezed. “Where are we going?”

“Yeah, Bralan, where are we going?”

“The centre.”

“Yeah, but where in the centre?”

Sadie, reaching them, volunteered. “The Moon. That’s where they’ll be. Unfinished business.”

Janey glared at her.

“Janey, we’re on the same side now. I’m sorry for what I did. Pete… I thought Pete would join us, and…”

“Why would Pete join you? Why would he ever throw his music to the hounds?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry…”

She faded, and the two of them stood looking at each other again, a long way from their old friendship.

“Come on! There’s no time for this.”

Sherman was right. There was no time for this. At that very moment a gramophone murmur popped and sharpened above. The crackle smoothed out, eerily.

“Oh no. Folks, this is it.”

Lester expected thunder to rain down from the skies, lights to appear in the huge ceiling of sky. He wasn’t expecting piano music. For that was what it was. A few basic chords, played slowly in a standard time, and then much faster, with notes tucked in, jangling and merry. The heavens smiling with a jaunty little jingle.

“Right, to the Moon, now. And beware! Eyes open at all times! And never, ever follow the vans!”

“We didn’t quite catch that last bit, Bradley!” Sadie yelled back. “Don’t follow the… fans?”

“Vans!”

The road ahead was empty. No people, no cars, no headlights. Only street lights flickered, indignant at being woken up in the middle of their slumber.

“What vans?”

“This doesn’t seem so bad, Sherman,” Gert said, “There’s nothing to worry about really, if you…”

“GERT LOOK OUT”

Gert turned to look where he was going. With the reflexes of an action hero, he flung himself left, off the road. He was just in time too, narrowly avoiding certain doom. Two men, innocently cloaked in blue overalls and cloth caps, carried an enormous pane of glass across the road, just millimetres in front of him.

“Oi! Watch it!”

“They can’t hear you, Gert. They’re vaudevillains.”

“Lord love a duck,” murmured one of the glass-carriers, faintly in the distance.

“See? They’re not of this world.”

Gert took a few moments to catch his breath. “Phew. That’s all I can say. Thought I was done for there.”

“You nearly were. Watch out for anything out of the ordinary. And don’t follow the van.”

“What happens if you follow the van?”

“Bad things happen if you follow the van.”

“How bad?”

Sherman didn’t answer. They continued down the road, keeping close, turning the bend, where they found sailors leaning against lampposts. The sailors were in perfect white suits, Dixie cups perched at jaunty angles. Their legs crossed, angular, at the ankles, in a manner that could only be described as free and easy. Each gazed far into the distance, as if staring at far away ports, thinking of belles on distant shores.

“Watch out,” warned Sherman, “Keep close.”

The sailors, upon seeing the group, lifted their hats in the air. They uncrossed their legs and, strolling breezily, maintaining single file across the road, turned to face their foe. Their eyes were filled with murderous intent, though still carefree enough to charm any Kate or Jane if one happened to walk by.

“Run!”

The sailors lowered their hats, bottom side up. The caps did not look so jaunty now. Inside each Dixie cup was a steaming cauldron of black liquid, which the sailors started to pour on to the road.

“Move! Move!”

The tar hit the track. It streamed towards the group, audaciously increasing in speed, torrenting up the hill. Gert tried to reach the left pavement, Janey the right, but all they could do was block each others way. Sherman pulled Lester to the pavement, accidentally knocking Janey over. She lay, helpless as a vicious stream of tar tumbled inescapably towards her.

“Janey!” Gert roared, having reached the safety of the verge.

Janey crawled, scrabbling at the asphalt. The tar was close now. She could smell it. A burning, rubbery gunk smell. She slipped again, and the tar was in front of her eyes. Somehow she could think, even now. She wondered, in a detached sort of way, which smell would be stronger: the smell of tar or the smell of burning flesh? Perhaps the others would care.

“Janey!” An arm wrenched her own and, with a brittle, bony strength, yanked her free. Scrambling on to the pavement, she watched the dark wave hiss beside her. Where there had once been a road, there was now a scorching river of boiling tar. With a muttered ‘Gor Blimey, guv’nor’ the sailors vanished from view.

Sherman watched the black road.

“We might not be so lucky next time, folks.”

Janey twisted to see who had saved her. Sadie, her old friend, smiled half-heartedly back.

“Huh. Well, I guess that joins the dots,” Janey said, and smiled back a little. A moment or two passed, and they pulled each other up.

Lester pondered.

“Actually, when you come to think of it, they’ve not been very clever so far, have they? We can just escape each attack by staying on the pavement-”

He was interrupted by a loud creaking sound. The others were staring in horror at something over his head.

“What are-”

The others scarpered. In their panic, they nearly tripped each other into the tar river. Lester was stuck to his spot, as surely as to a tarred pavement. A shadow appeared in front of him, a huge obelisk shadow, growing and growing, spreading outwards, silhouetting Lester completely into darkness. A cold wind whistled behind him, ruffling his shirt. He glanced at the others, catching Gert’s eye. Gert, far away from the danger, was open-mouthed in horror…

CRASH

Lester was still standing. He did not understand how. In front of him, shattered, scattered, lay the front façade of a house standing behind him. It had detached from the semi-detached dwelling. Fallen forwards to the ground. Gert, relieved, began to chuckle.

“You were standing in the window, lad! Lucky, lucky.”

He guffawed. Lester looked down to find himself surrounded by a small window frame. Fortunately enough, it had been the only open window on the front of the house. He breathed deeply. To Lester, it wasn’t so funny.

“hey, you were nearly the victim of a broken home!”

Gert roared again with joy.

“Gert, shut it.”

“A warning to you. They can get us anywhere. Stay close. Stay safe.”

Sherman was starting to sound like a telly campaign now, Gert thought. Still, he followed the hunter, as the piano jingle grew louder in the skies. Sherman, the only one to have escaped unscathed so far. For all Get disliked the man, he knew what he was doing. At least, he seemed to know what he was doing.

“Let’s do what Sadie says. On to the Moon On The Hill.”

It was at that moment, turning the corner, that the group first saw ordinary people. They were not so ordinary today. Down the hill, the traffic lights turned to red, halting a flotilla of vans at the crossing. Lester watched as people crossed the road, but not in their usual way. The piano music continued to jangle in the sky, and pedestrians skipped across to its tune. A baby and a mother trod across on stilts. Two little elephants waddled over the zebra crossing, balancing red balls on their noses. Men in top hats bobbed along, spilling champagne from their flutes on to the road. Pandemonium reigned supreme.

The lights turned green again, and the vans continued. Several pedestrians tried to follow, jogging merrily behind them.

“This doesn’t look so bad,” said Gert, watching a passing ventriloquist talk to his lunch.

“It’s not jazz though, is it?”

“You could have both!”

“You can’t have both jazz and music hall, Gert, everyone knows that,” Janey said. “Cain and Abel. Only one can toot over the globe.”

The five moved through the crowd, trying to look inconspicuous. In a music hall crowd, only the sensible stand out. Sadie was pretending to be a mime artist, feeling her way for imaginary windows. Janey was juggling some beads she found on the sidewalk. Gert was pretending to be a lion.

“Roar! Roar! This is a bit of fun!”

“Gert, lions don’t talk. Stop talking and keep roaring.”

Passing the market square – which appeared to have become a circus top – another unfamiliar sight awaited them. The Grey Hart was no more.

“Well, that’s… that’s different,” Gert said.

It was still a pub, just not the Grey Hart. A large, scrubby sign hang out the front now, as if it had always been there.

“The Old Bull And Bush,” Gert read. “Maybe we should go inside and have a drink?”

“No, Gert.”

“Always wanting to go to the pub,” Sadie muttered. “Never learns.”

“Gert, we’re going to the Moon.”

“Oh, of course. We’re off to the Moon, Sadie. Mine’s a rum.”

Sadie huffed. Lester stared at The Old Bull And Bush as they walked round it. It was a curious place. There was a dusty menu in the window advertising boiled beef and carrots for tuppence ha’penny, whatever that meant. A bowler hatted young man with a Hitler moustache slumped on the step, looking mournful as motor cars rolled by.

“Come on, out of here, quick.”

They dashed down the old side streets, taking care to avoid anyone dressed as a sailor. Down an alley they fled, along another back street, emerging just across from the grand old Moon On The Hill.

“Right, we need to get in, before they can take the Moon too…”

Sherman trailed off. In front of them, between them and the Moon’s earthly paradise, stood a van. An old white van, the kind of van that would never have passed its MOT, not in a million years. Beside the van stood a smart, rounded fellow, arms folded, cane under the armpit. The final obstacle between them and the Moon On The Hill.

“Mr Porter, we meet at last.”

“Why, good afternoon, Mister Sherman, sir. It is a pleasure to see you sir, that it is.”

“Bralan, who is this gentleman?” Janey whispered.

“It is Mr Porter, an old stalwart of the music hall. Mr Porter, meet these fine folks. Janey, Sadie, Gert, Lester. Folks, meet Mr Porter.” Sherman flashed those white teeth at the porter.

“Charmed, of course. Lester, is it? Why, what a curious name! Lester, after the square?”

“No, not after-”

“Good heavens, I know a song about Leicester Square. I shall sing it for you now.”

And he proceeded to sing.

“It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go! It’s a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know!”

Sherman and Janey winced, recoiling from Mr Porter’s gentle, tuneful arsenal. The porter paused and wound himself up for the final two lines.

“Good bye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square!” – he indicated Lester, who was writhing on the ground in pain – “It’s a long way to Piccadilly, but my heart’s right there!”

He finished, raising himself up on to tiptoes, then modestly letting himself back down to earth again. Lester could barely breathe. He didn’t know what Mr Porter had done, but it had fixed him, gasping, to the ground.

“I am dreadfully sorry to incapacitate you, Master Lester. Perhaps – if you were not named for Leicester Square, you were named for Lester Young, the-” he paused to register his deep disgust, “jazz – musician.”

Mr Porter took a swig of water to clean his mouth out from saying the dreadful word.

“Yeah, that’s right!” Janey yelled in support. “The jazz cat! The funky seagull-soaring jazz cat! What you gonna do about that, with your big fat hat?”

“Perhaps, Miss, I shall sing you another song? If you would be so good to hear it. On second thoughts, perhaps I shall sing it to your friend Daisy-”

“Sadie.”

“No, no, Daisy, I think.”

“Sadie-” but she was too late. He began to sing again.

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,” he warbled sweetly.” She felt the same pain Lester had, a cloudy, endless weight dragging her down to the pavement.

“I’m half crazy, all for the love of you!”

Sadie hit the floor, writhing as hard as she could, but trapped under a spell too great for even a mortal such as her.

“Sadie!”

“There’s nothing you can do, Janey. All we can do is defeat the monster, then we’ll get Sadie back.”

“Monster? Hardly polite, Mister Sherman. And when I have arranged this little van for you. Of course, I know you would like to go to Birmingham, but it will be taking you on to Crewe-”

“We don’t want to go to Birmingham. We want to go to the pub.”

“Quite. But this van may also send you back to London. We’ve sent criminals to Moscow before, too. What silly girls and boys you all are. Of course, wherever you end up, you won’t find your way home.”

He ended with a slight sneer.

“But first, a song. A lovely, tuneful song. To get you in the mood for your journey far away from here.”

“Sherman, what do we do?”

“Beats me.”

“But you knew about him! He knew about you! You had a plan, right?”

“Not really. I was just hoping to smile at him. Usually works.” He smiled back at Gert, who frowned.

“Janey, any plans?”

“Excuse me, kids, but I hadn’t been mapping out this kind of warzone. Not really expecting a dude in a bowler to sing at us, you see. He’s gonna sing the Porter song, right?”

“No, that’s what he does to people. He… you remember me telling you about the vans?”

“Well, yeah, I can see he’s got a van-”

While they squabbled, Mr Porter began to sing again.

“My old man said follow the van-”

“I don’t think he’s falling for my charm,” whispered Sherman through his teeth, smiling as broadly and as cheekily as he could.

“-and don’t dilly dally on the way!”

“That’s it, we need to dilly dally!” urged Gert, starting to feel the extraordinary numbness of vaudeville. He limply tried to flap his arms and wiggle his ears, hoping that this was what dilly dallying meant.

“Gert, flap harder!” Sherman urged, “Dilly dallying, for all its loopiness is actually an incredibly precise routine!” Sherman tried to wave his feet about in the air, but only succeeded in falling over.

“Off went the van with my home packed in it-”

Janey tried to dilly dally too, but her arms were loath and cold.

“I followed on with my old cock linnet-”

“What’s a cock linnet?”

“Not sure. I guess it could be-”

“Don’t want to know,” clenched Sherman. If his time was really up, he didn’t want to spend his last few moments discussing the nature of an old cock linnet.

“But I dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied-”

Janey kept her wits, just about. “I know how we beat him.” She yelled at the top of her voice. “JAZZ. With jazz!”

“Lost me way and don’t know where to roam-”

“Lester, hand me your silver whistle. We need to get the groove tunes flowing.” Somewhere in the distance a door opened.

“Janey,” Gert mouthed, “Lester’s down. He can’t give you the whistle.”

Janey groaned. That was it, surely. Finally, that was it.

Mr Porter continued his song, a serene smirk rounding off his featureless face. “Well you can’t trust a special like the old time coppers, when you can’t find-”

WHOOOOP

“What-” Sherman groaned from the tarmac.

WHOO-WHOOOOOP

“It’s a saxophone!” Janey wailed her head skywards.

“Not just any saxophone!” Sadie was up too, struggling for joy.

“Paul! Pixar Paul!”

“At yoooouuuuuur service, jazz hands! Heard your call, that call for jazz, and here I am, ready to spread some peace and some love and some all-time jazz!”

Mr Porter glanced sharply behind his van, giving a frown to his eyes. There Pixar Paul stood. In front of the Moon On The Hill, his spiritual home, his fortress, saxophone in hand, mouthpiece to lips. The Porter saw, and was not impressed. Unperturbed, he determined to continue.

“Can’t find your-”

“No way, Mister Bowler Hat ghost freak! Janey, you still got that whistle? Lester? Janey, take it, let’s get the space show on rocket boosters!”

And he blew, deep, low fast, frenetic, all the way down to the bottom of the sax. Janey caught Lester’s whistle and she joined him, taking the tenor. They riffed and jived, low and high, bursting the air with seamless, cold-calling blues. Sadie was moving too. She unbuckled her vocal chords, letting go from the Porter’s spell, crooning warm, low notes to the crazy stylings of the instrumentalists. Gert and Lester watched in awe as the jazz musicians, the old turtles, rumbled into life, into sound, and the spell slowly lifted from them, letting them up to their feet. Mister Porter looked wildly about him. He tried to continue his song. He couldn’t be heard. He tried to warble the words to ‘Nellie Dean’. He couldn’t be heard. He tried to declare he was Henry the Eighth, he was, but the jazz hands were having none of it. For that moment, that brief, sacred moment, the only thing that mattered was jazz and the ghostly Porter was powerless.

Even spells beyond the grave couldn’t stop edgy, avant-garde free flow. Twelve minutes, twelve long minutes of riffs and solos and crooning. The Porter couldn’t take any more. Fearing for his neither alive nor dead life, he mounted his van and drove, drove fast and away. Gert and Lester cheered his departure, but even they could not be heard.

The three jazz hands wound the song down. There was breath to save. And a world to save. Pixar Paul put it best.

“No time for greets. Let’s boogie on inside the Moon. The battle been won, but the war ain’t over.”

TO BE CONTINUED

STORYTIME – part 16

Haven’t quite got the pacing or tone right for this section, I think, but it’ll do as a first draft.

 

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PART 16

Maximilian kept playing with the cuff of his shirt. It bothered Lester, watching Maximilian trot in front of the group. Another thing that bothered Lester was the way Maximilian walked. His stride pattern was not even: he took much longer lifting and placing his left leg than his right, almost limping, but placing the foot surely to be in any kind of pain. Lester did not understand, confused by a magician of perambulation. The left leg was not lifted any higher, and the stride length was just the same, but somehow the left stride took longer, all the same.

“Maxi, where are we going?”

“We’re going to my house.” Maximilian was not talking much today, although, as a rule, he tended to save his conversation for standing still. Perhaps walking like that took too much concentration, Lester thought. Maximilian was overtaking a lady now, drifting to the outside bend of the pavement and accelerating through the curve. Any racing aficionado would have seen it as a top-class manoeuvre.

“Why are we going to your house?”

“Sadie’s there. We need your help. As I said.”

“Hey, you’ve got Sadie? Did she take the bell?” Janey was well aware that Sadie had taken the bell, but asked anyway.

“I’m not sure. She hasn’t said much. I was hoping you could talk to her.”

“Sure thing, pal. I’ll give her some ear time.”

“Excellent. Knew you’d help.”

“What about the rest of us?” Gert didn’t really want to spend his Monday indoors, unless it was the indoors of a pub.

“Mr Sherman’s the lead detective now, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. At your service. And call me Bradley, or Alan, please.”

“No problem, Bradley. You’ll need to hear her story too.”

Sherman smiled, showing those teeth once again. Gert shuddered, inwardly and outwardly.

“Oh, and this lad,” Sherman pointed to Lester, “He’s my assistant now. Good kid. Wasn’t his fault the investigation didn’t kick off.”

Gert’s shudder turned to a scowl.

“Yeah, Lester can join you too. That’s not a problem.”

“What about me?” Gert’s teeth were clenched, or as clenched as they could be whilst allowing him to speak.

“Gert? You can… I’ve got biscuits.”

He was slightly reassured. All the same, he thought, he couldn’t be doing with many more hurts today. He was an action hero, after all.

They turned into a pearly white close on the outskirts of town. The road curled steeply upward, leaving houses clinging desperately to the slope. They were trying not to slip down the hill. The road surface changed, smooth tarmac giving way to criss-crossing slabs. It was hard to tell where the pavement ended and the road began.

“This way, please.” Maximilian was in tour guide mode. He led them through a gap between two houses, on to a little grey path with steps at the end. He held the rail as he descended them, walking to a small, unremarkable house.

Lester didn’t know what he had been expecting. It seemed out of keeping with the universe that Maximilian’s house should be so normal. The façade was elegant, yet restrained. There was a neat, straight little hedge leading to the front door, and a well-manicured lawn. It even had the stripy grass that marks a top-quality grass cutter from your average garden hack. Lester couldn’t imagine Maximilian cutting the lawn on a Sunday afternoon, somehow. Perhaps it was unrealistic to expect Maximilian to live in a haunted, high-turreted castle or a worn-down outhouse on the edge of a heath, but this picture of suburban tranquillity seemed out of keeping.

Maximilian reached the front door. Pausing to wipe his brow, he started to rummage through his pockets. The others waited patiently as he did so. They continued to wait, as the tension mounted, that tension which builds up dreadfully, ominously, when someone has lost something important. Maximilian reacted in the way someone might respond to seeing an avalanche start on the top of their mountain. It was the way people run in chase dreams when their feet are stuck to the floor. Finally, the tension, the avalanche, the pursuit reached an unbearable climax, and Maximilian needed an escape route.

“Friends,” he said, his voice trembling, “I’ve forgotten my key. We can’t get in.”

The group shouldered the panic together.

“Didn’t you say Sadie was in? Could we ring the doorbell?”

“Doorbell’s broken, I’m afraid.”

“You keep the grass this neat, but you don’t fix the doorbell?”

“It only broke this morning. Haven’t had time just yet. We could try ringing her mobile though.”

Janey took out her phone and dialled Sadie’s number. The phone didn’t ring.

“Hmmm, must be off. Anyone else got a brain bulb lighting up?”

Gert did.

“I know. I’ve got just the thing.”

He rummaged through his own pocket, pulling out vegetables of varying sizes. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

“Here you go. This might open it.”

“What on earth is it?” Maximilian asked, holding up Gert’s piece of denim to the light.

“It’s… well, it’s supposed to open all doors. And it does work, trust me. It works for the doors I’ve tried, anyway. Give it a go.”

“Oh, it’s a key!” Maximilian exclaimed, finally understanding.

“That’s right. Probably should have mentioned that bit. Anyway, give it a go.”

“Okay, let’s see.” He turned the lock and the door swung open gratefully. “Here we are.”

Again, the house was immaculately tidy. There was a hat stand in the hall, home to a languid fedora. A lamp stood even taller, and two mirrors shone from the sides. Maximilian led them through a door on the right, into a modern, versatile sitting room.

“This is the lounge. Take a seat, examine the books, make yourself at home. I’ll be off for a couple of minutes to deal with the key situation. Sit tight until I get back, and I’ll let Sadie know you’re here. She doesn’t want unannounced visitors, you see.”

The four did as they were told. It was Maximilian’s house, after all.

Janey started to peruse the books. Gert loafed through a magazine he found on the coffee table.

“This kid really does throw a surprise party. Didn’t have him down as a romantic thriller kind of guy.”

“And all these celebrity magazines. Maybe he gets them for the horoscope.”

“Probably. I bet he could tell his own fortune though. Chatting of which, there ain’t a single ghost story. Not one.”

“He might know them all off by heart.”

“Yeah. Well, you think you know someone.”

The two of them laughed. Sherman stared grumpily into the distance, re-tying his shoelaces. Footsteps sounded in the hall, several of them.

“Got the keys!” Maximilian sang out. “Wait one more minute, I’ll just get those biscuits.”

There was the distant sound of doors opening and cupboards closing.

“Now he’s got the key, I’d better ask for the denim thing back. Proper useful, that denim key.”

Lester was puzzled. “If he could just collect the key from somewhere, why didn’t he do so before we got in?”

“Spare key in the house, I reckon. Everyone keeps a spare key indoors.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Didn’t he just go out, though?”

The door opened and Maximilian strode in, carrying a delicate plate of biscuits. Custard creams, in fact.

“My favourite!” exclaimed Gert.

“Actually, Gert, I’ve been talking to Sadie, and she wants to see you too,” said Maximilian, withdrawing the plate of biscuits slightly. “Do you want to come with us?”

“Of course. Anything for a friend.”

“Excellent. In that case, I’ll just take you all to her. She’s in the conservatory. Step this way.”

They passed through a couple more doors, sliding through a spotless kitchen. The conservatory door was at the end of the kitchen.

“When you’ve finished talking to Sadie I’ll give you the tour of the house. No ghost stories this time, I’m afraid.”

He opened the conservatory door, standing gallantly aside to let his guests in first. “After you. As I say, no ghosts in this house.”

Janey walked in first, with the others right behind her.

“That is, no ghosts yet.” Maximilian slammed the door shut, rapidly locking it with Gert’s denim key. He gave them a brief wave, then disappeared from view.

There was a very long, surprised pause. Maxi was not the type for locking people in conservatories. Gert finally broke the silence, which had been growing ever more tense as the group realised the truth. Maximilian was not their friend. Maximilian was their enemy.

“Oh. Maybe it wasn’t his house.”

“Good thinking, genius.”

Sadie was sitting on a cushioned stool in the corner, leaning back against the glass, legs crossed at the ankles.

“I wasn’t to know.”

“You gave him the key and you got locked in. Now we’re all stuck in a strange house while they bring back the nightmare of music hall.”

Janey sat down beside her.

“Sadie, what’s going on? What script are you reading out?”

Sadie suddenly didn’t look so angry.

“Janey… I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Sorry about what? What’s happened? Were you in on this or were you not?”

Sadie cupped her head in her hands. A few moments later, brushing back a hair, her face re-emerged.

“Yeah, I was in on it. Part of the team, as it were.”

“You wanted to bring back music hall?” Sherman’s voice was dark, judging, damning.

“Bralan, lay off, yeah? Let her weave her yarn.” Janey glared at Sherman, before turning back to Sadie. “Go on, kid.”

“I don’t have much of a yarn to spin, actually. It is a despicable tale. I… well, one can love things for a lifetime, but it is possible to become bored with what you know. And for a brief while, alas not briefly enough, I was bored with jazz.”

Janey gazed at her, speechless, eyes opening, letting in new, unseen horrors. She stared out into the world, as it glittered and faded and grew dark before her eyes.

“I know. I’m so sorry. I’ve betrayed you. I’ve betrayed jazz, my true love. I’ve betrayed everything, really. Well, not quite everything, I suppose.

“Abraham took me into his confidence early on. He and his wife, that woman he brought from America, if you remember? They had a plan. I don’t know why they thought I would join them. If anything, I should have been the very last person they approached, with my love of jazz. They said they wanted to bring back vaudeville and did I want to be a part of it? Stupidly, of course, I said yes.

“They had some song and some object, I forget its name now, although I could remember it perfectly when I talked to that fool detective yesterday…”

“The Tiddley Om Pom Pom,” Sherman reminded her.

“Ah, yes, that was it. I’ve never seen it, I don;t know what it is, really. Anyway, they had the object, and they just required a few more items, they said.”

“What were they?”

“Oh, they had to have someone with experience of ghosts and the other world, to contact the old vaudevillains. We recruited young Maximilian there. He’s always ready for some spiritual intrigue, so he didn’t take much persuading.”

“What else did they need?”

“They required two things to activate the Tiddley Om Pom Pom. One was some B-sides. B-side the seaside, you know. But that’s quite easy to find. We just went to the record shop one day, bought some vinyls. They’ll be playing them now, I expect. The other thing – and this was the one that caused us so much difficulty – the other one was the brass bands. To awaken the vaudevillains you need B-sides playing, you need someone with the skill to contact them, and you need a brass band, or at least some extremely valuable, beautiful brass instrument. And it needs to be played well, with feeling. You can’t just have any fool hitting a metal tray.”

“I told you so, Bralan,” Janey snapped, “Throwing away our time this morning.” Her knees had raised slightly, tightly.

Sherman didn’t answer. Sadie continued. Her story, dammed for so long inside her, poured out in an uncontrollable torrent.

“So we needed a jazz musician. Abe, he wasn’t a musician. But he knew someone who was. An old, old friend, from his time back in the United States. Pete, his name was…”

No-one was quite prepared for what happened next. Janey snapped her knees into the air, tightness broken, and the stool’s cushion vaulted in the air. Sadie tipped, legs high, hands high, as Janey threw herself at her, arms cracked and shaking as the stool collapsed, sending both to the floor. A knot of arms twisted, Janey reaching for Sadie’s throat, Sadie pulling away. Sherman, the natural peacekeeper, ran to untie, arms and wrists pulling at the Janey and Sadie’s bow. All he could do was twist the knot further, adding loops and strings to this twisted lace of a fight.

Gert and Lester perched at the back of the conservatory. Neither had considered intervening in any way.

“Lester, I don’t understand.”

Lester nodded in agreement.

Across from them, the fight continued. Janey tried to use the stool as a sword. Sadie tried to use the cushion as a shield. Sherman tried to stand in between them. None of the three were very successful, and gradually the tangle eased, taut but untied. Janey stood, shaking with her stool, Sadie shaking her shield, Sherman looking on. The moment throbbed once, twice, three, four, five, six, seven…

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Above, a hatch slid smoothly open, and Maximilian’s face appeared, smugly smiling.

“Ladies and gentlemen, with the aid of the brass bell, the music hall has been successfully restored. Please make yourselves at home – just as I have done so – and await your doom. Do have a good day.”

Maximilian’s face retreated up and over the hatch. Down below, the fight was still strong. Janey had recovered enough breath to scream.

“Pete! Pete!” She paused for breath. “You knew! You knew all along!” Another sharp intake of breath.

“I turned back, Janey. I turned back when they… when -”

Janey raised the stool again, Sadie raised her cushion in fear. But before they could duel again, there was a noise, a loud crackling noise, and the skies darkened. Birds squawked and flew crazily, dreadfully, trying to escape the gloom in the middle of the day.

“That crackle,” Lester intoned, “That’s not thunder.”

“No, son,” replied Sherman, “That’s not thunder. That’s the sound of a great gramophone. A dusty old gramophone, with its needle placed on an old music hall record somewhere far beyond this world.”

Another crackle, another scuffle of a gigantic record in the skies.

“Folks, we need to get out of here, before it’s too late. Gert no longer has his key.”

Lester, as ever, demanded an explanation.

“If we don’t get out, what happens?”

“If we don’t get out…” Sherman turned to the room, “We get done for. Vaudeville will surround this room and seep in. We’ll never escape. We’ll be part of the music hall.”

The group stared at one another, petrified, as another fuzzy crackle splintered the skies. Lester had a bright idea.

“We could just break the glass,” he suggested.

“What with?”

“The stool?”

“The stool won’t break this glass. It’s double glazing.”

“Nothing breaks double glazing,” Sadie agreed. Janey put down her stool, now that there were bigger battles to fight.

“Music hall can break double glazing, but not much else will.”

“There must be something else that can break windows,” Gert added, helpfully. He hadn’t broken many windows in his life.

“Only something as truly horrific as music hall can break windows like these.” Sherman was clearly the expert on double glazing. In times of crisis all men suddenly become experts on household fittings, except possibly Gert.

Janey spoke on the minim, her heart quavering. “We’ll just have to find some brimstone in our lungs.”

“What can we do, Janey?”

“I’ve got just the thing surfing my neurons. Lester, can you empty your pockets? A cat like you never takes things out of pockets, and we might just be alright.”

Lester out his hands in his trouser pockets and rummaged, looking for gold. He found all sorts of things. Sugar, lemon sherbet, a few pennies, a Queen of Diamonds, a small packet of silica gel, a silver whistle…

“The whistle. Take out the whistle.”

He held up the whistle to the remaining light, and handed it towards Janey.

“No, not me. Lester, have you been practising?”

“Yes.” He meant no.

“Do you mean no?”

“Yes.”

“Good. How does it sound when you play it?”

“Well, I’m trying to…”

“Blow into the whistle.”

He held the whistle to his lips and blew. His breath made just the same sound leaving the whistle as it did going in.

“No, that’s not right. You know we all told you about jazz musicians seagull-soaring, catching the crest of a groovy wind, taking off with the tune?”

“Er, yeah.” He remembered slightly. It had been a long week.

“Don’t do that. Imagine you’re not that seagull. Pretend – be – that you’re a daft young kid, full of air, and you want to be that seagull, but you’re not. Stay with me here,” – the skies grew darker still as she spoke, “You ain’t a seagull, but you build yourself some kid wings anyway. Picture those kid wings, all along your arms, paper make. Picturing those wings?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Now flap them wings. Raise yourself high. But those wings, they ain’t no bird’s. They work too well for a bird. You ain’t in control. You flap way above the seagull soar, ’til you’re some jittery kid flying too high on paper make wings, too much energy drink in your heart and not enough smooth smooth whisky. You’re too high, too wide, too much, kid. See it? See the light right above you, coming way too close for a jumped-up cat with no lives left?”

Lester nodded. He saw it all too well.

“Cool. Now hold it, hold it. Put your finger on the highest note. Hold it. Now blow. Blow that paper make wing wind.”

He blew the silver whistle. It no longer sounded like his own breath, or, in fact, the breath of any living creature at all. A shaking, scraping, ice-lolly cold shriek froze the air, tearing at any brain within earshot. Gert cowered for the corner. Sadie desperately attempted to block both her ears with the cushion, but to no avail. Sherman stood still, immobile with pain. The floor trembled, a counter-tenor earthquake. The glass walls of the conservatory wobbled, rigid. They wobbled slowly at first, then harder and further, until they shattered, an unsolvable jigsaw of glass falling to the ground.

“Lester, you did it!”

His own ears shaking, Lester just about heard this, and smiled.

“Good work, son,” Sherman said, “Now, we’ve got a world to save.”

And with that the five sprinted into the garden, ignoring the glass and the birds around their heads.

TO BE CONTINUED

STORYTIME (part 15)

PART 15

 

She was a doctor and she drove a bus. Bus Doctor Debbie, they called her. Her formal title was Dr. Deborah Bussell, but she wasn’t one for titles. Three years ago she changed her mind about the medical profession. They only ever saw people when they were ill and, Dr Debbie thought, it’s too late to stop people being ill if they are ill already. So she decided to start seeing people with their illnesses before they fell ill. That way, she reasoned, they wouldn’t get ill. To do this she would have to leave the hospital, because people only visit the hospital when something is wrong with them. She would get her own bus. Put the world to rights from behind the wheel.

 

Dr Debbie was a legend in our town. Still is, in fact. Every Monday morning was the Pensioners’ Run. She would, at half seven sharp, start up the engine of her double decker, and head to the furthest of our town’s surrounding villages. She would, in turn, visit every single village and hamlet nearby. The village with the dinky bridge over the river. The hamlet with three houses and a glass workshop . The church next to three hairdressers’ shops. A thatched post office. She would visit them all, and more.

 

Lester sat, weary, on Doctor Debbie’s bus. It had been such a late night, and he wasn’t used to late nights, not yet. He had always been an early riser, getting up at dawn to help on the farm, but he rarely needed to stay up late. Last night was the exception, not the rule. He yawned again, too sleepy for the morning, too sleepy even to play Racing Cars with undertaking tractors.

 

Eight thirty. He had been on the bus for forty-five minutes. They had travelled three miles. Death by numbers. The bus chugged on again, a cloud of black steam coming from somewhere on the side. There were two other young people on the bus. One, a long-haired woman, was staring mournfully into space. The other, a long-haired teenage boy in a black shirt, was very audible. A metallic, fuzzy noise erupted from his earphones at regular intervals. There was almost certainly a volcanic eruption taking place in his brain.

 

The bus stopped yet again. The doors creaked and shrieked, doors jerking at conflicting angles, struggling to keep up. A new fitness regime for an ageing omnibus. A man and a woman and a man and a dog alighted, in that order. Doctor Debbie turned to the first.

 

“How can I help you, sir?”

 

“My back’s playing up again.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Tell me where it hurts.”

 

“Lower back, to the side a bit.”

 

“Well, when you get home, take a long, hot bath and do your exercises. That’ll put it right.”

 

“Thanks, Doctor Debbie!”

 

“No problem. A return is two-fifty.”

 

She turned to the second customer. “What’ll it be, Agnes?”

 

“Two aspirins and two return tickets to town please, my darling!” Agnes turned, ushering her man and her dog. The dog tried to shake free of its lead.

 

Doctor Debbie handed Agnes her tickets and her pills. “That dog will need a ticket too.”

 

“Oh cripes,” Agnes looked aghast, “We haven’t got change for the dog, have we?”

 

Her man shook his head vigorously.

 

“You and the dog will have to wait for the next. Ta-ta!”

 

She waved them good-bye and bumbled to a seat by the window. As the bus started to pull away she made kissy noises at the dog, who presumably could not hear her through the glass. The bus, almost as soon as it had stuttered away, spluttered to another stop.

 

Three more pensioners joined the service. A small, clearly spectacled man clambered aboard, taking his place in aisle seat. Lester could see the small, single tufts of white hair that wired from his otherwise bald head. Perhaps he had always been the joker, the one who led the laughs after the footy. Behind him an upright man stiffly, woodenly took his ticket. His smart grey jacket brushed down dignified creases. He sat in front of Lester, next to an ambling flat-capped fellow, smiling serenely.

 

“Off to collect your winnings, eh?”

 

“Aye, that’s right.”

 

Perhaps they greeted each other like that every Monday morning. Perhaps they had for years, Lester thought. Retired, healthy happy, after long lives in a land at peace. Lives of smiling and farming and family, with their beloved green fields close at hand. Friends from school, Lester fondly imagined, playing in lessons, playing on the farm, learning the land. Now they sat together, warm and comfortable, off to receive their hard-earned pensions. That was how to live, really, wasn’t it? The sort of thing to aspire to-

 

Lester’s thoughts were interrupted by a clip round the ear.

 

“Oi!” yelled the clipper, triumphantly. Several pensioners looked round in alarm, but Lester didn’t. He knew exactly who it was.

 

“Gert! You’re here!”

 

“I am here. And it was a bumper adventure last night, let me tell you.”

 

And before Lester could get a word in, Gert joyfully recounted the tale of his night. Every last word of it, from Sadie’s story to the ripped-jean Scotsman to a daring escape involving a key, a fire escape and a small pigeon. Lester sat open-mouthed. Some of the pensioners were leaning in to listen.

 

“Sadie?”

 

“Sadie.”

 

“So is she for us or against us?”

 

“Us? Who are we?”

 

“I’m not sure.” Lester quickly told his tale of the previous day’s events. Gert stared dreamily ahead. The boy with a volcanic head had started pretending to play the drums, possibly in time with his music, although it was hard to tell. He was probably trying to impress the girl in the seats in front of him, but she didn’t appear to notice.

 

“Gert? What do you think?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“What do you think? Who are these people and why weren’t they in the Moon like Mister Sherman said they’d be?”

 

“I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out.”

 

There was only one more stop to go before the town. The long queue of patients slowly crept aboard. Doctor Debbie dealt with a dodgy knee, a splintered wrist, two heart transplants and an elbow surgery before starting the bus again. An appendicitis case slowly moaned at the back. One of the joker’s tufts of hair was very slowly curling, as if drooping under a river bank’s gentle breeze.

 

Gert and Lester sat out the last ten minutes of their journey in silence, as people always do on buses. Finally the bus trembled to a halt in the bus station. Doctor Debbie removed her translucent blue gloves, briskly rubbed her hands together, collected her bag and strode off the bus, doors snapping open to attention. A trail of pensioners followed behind, rank-and-file to their white-coated captain.

 

—————————————

 

“Shiny things!”

 

Gert was right, the market was full of shiny things. The Monday Morning Market, organised just at that time when everyone had better things to do, sold anything that was going. As usual, all the stall renters, each looking for their own peculiar gap in the market, had brought exactly the same thing: jewellery. Big jewellery, little jewellery, brightly coloured trinkets, elegant regal necklaces, wild Celtic crosses.

 

“Gert!”

 

He glanced round.

 

“Survive the Hood?”

 

“No, I’m one of Maximilian’s ghosts. What does it look like?”

 

He wasn’t best pleased with Janey.

 

“Look Gert, I’m sorry. But we thought it was show time, and we had tickets.”

 

“You betrayed me. Maybe you were too scared to take on the Hood and Hangman…”

 

He stopped short. It was clear from Janey’s face that she was not too scared of the Hood.

 

“Look, it’s like this-”

 

Sherman appeared beside her.

 

“Gert.”

 

“Sherman.”

 

In a standard English grammar textbook neither of those utterances would be sentences, but this was not a textbook moment.

 

“How are you?”

 

“I’m very well, thank you.”

 

Silence. Sherman waited patiently for Gert to ask how he was, but the polite question never came. Janey sighed.

 

“So, Gert, what happened?” And Gert, although still offended, told his story again, with only slight edits. His mood lifted as he recounted the tale. Lester did not find it as exciting the second time around, even though Gert skipped the bell bit completely and expanded more on the riveting details of his daring escape.

 

“Yeah, I knew it was Sadie all along,” Sherman remarked confidently.

 

“No you didn’t.”

 

“Did.”

 

“Did not.”

 

“Guys, guys, please, you;re killing the vibe. We knew all about the Tiddley Om Pom Pom and stuff. That’s why we went to the Moon. We though there’d be some cool smooth jazz, a bit of brass.”

 

She let this hang as if it explained everything.

 

“Brass?”

 

“The recipe. Where the brass bands play. You need to be where the brass bands play. In order to bring back the music hall, one of the things you need to do is be where the brass bands play.”

 

“Do we?”

 

“It’s a line from the song, dimbo. Remember?”

 

“I thought we were trying to stop them bringing back music hall?”

 

“We are. But it’s where there’ll be when they do try and bring it back. And we thought last night was the night. But clearly it wasn’t.”

 

“So we’ll find them near a brass band?”

 

“Or possibly just near brass metal,” Sherman added, “There’s more than one way this can go.”

 

“He means he hasn’t found out which yet,” Janey whispered, in as quiet a drawl as she could manage.

 

“I thought you were meant to be a professional detective.”

 

“That’s my cover, Gert. I’ve only just become a professional detective. My usual job – I’m a vaudeville hunter. I hunt the music hall. I don’t know because… because the music hall’s a mystery. A right mystery. One that’s taken all my life to put an end to. Oh, and I’m a talk show host in my spare time, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.” He flashed that pearly white smile of his.

 

“So that’s why we’re here, boys. Brass. We need to find something brass. An instrument, a valuable object, something groovy enough to bring back the music hall. You find anything, you buy it. We’ve got expenses. A hunting purse.”

 

Gert and Lester, not really sure what else to do, joined in meekly. Annoyed as he was, Gert couldn’t resist rummaging through shiny things. The four of them ruffled through the market.

 

“Lester, look!” Gert giggled as he held up a twinkling copper root vegetable of some description.

 

“That’s nothing compared to this.” Lester produced some blue dice in the shape of fish.

 

“Back to the task!” Janey commanded. They obeyed. After many minutes of searching, they found nothing.

 

“I’ve got copper, tin, bronze, aluminium bronze, nickel silver, zinc, a little woodwind” – he held up a mouse-sized flute – “but no brass. Where’s the brass!” Sherman threw his wide assortment of rings and bracelets on the ground in frustration.

 

“Tell you what,” Janey recommended, “We’ll go to Mr Wiggs’. They’re bound to have something brass. They’ve got everything.”

 

Gert and Lester nodded in agreement. They loved Mr Wiggs’ Super Store.

 

Janey led the way, past agreeably quiet market traders and rowdy truanting children. An old lady with a walking stick ventured across the street. She was ten metres from a zebra crossing but hobbled forward anyway, forcing the traffic to watch as she circumnavigated the roundabout.

 

Janey dragged open the door of Mr Wiggs’ Super Store. Lester choked on the dust.

 

“What is this place?” Bradley Alan Sherman asked.

 

“It’s Mr Wiggs’! Everyone knows Mr Wiggs’!”

 

At first glance Sherman might have thought it was a giant skip. There was no carpet, just grey concrete. The air was dusty, and it was not clear where the sawdust smell came from. Sherman walked warily to the nearest shelf, which was marked ‘Objects between 7 and 16 inches’.

 

“Don’t normally see these things stacked together in a shop.”

 

“You should see the aisle of bricks.” Gert was quite chirpy now he had entered Mr Wiggs’ Super Shop. “I used to buy all my wedding rings from here. There’s a section right next to the wallpaper.”

 

Lester wandered to a giant display case. It contained a large warning sign, reading OBJECTS BANNED BY THE CONVENTIONS OF LOGIC, and it contained all sorts of curious items.

 

“Hello, how may I help?” A man in a stiff white shirt had appeared over Sherman’s shoulder.

 

“Oh, I’m-”

 

“Good morning, and how may I help also?” Another man, identically attired, had glided beside them. “Why, good morning Gert!”

 

“Good morning, Mr Wiggs!”

 

“Good morning, Gert!”

 

“Good morning, Mr Wiggs!”

 

“Good morning Gert. How do you do,” said the first Mr Wiggs, addressing Sherman, “I am Mr Wiggs.”

 

“Yes, how do you do?” the second Mr Wiggs cut in, before Sherman could answer. “I am also Mr Wiggs.”

 

“You could say – we are Mr Wiggs!”

 

“Yes, yes, yes, we are!” Mr Wiggs and Mr Wiggs were delighted by the change in pronoun.

 

“What can I – what can we do for you, sir?”

 

Sherman looked from one Mr Wiggs to the other. “Well lads, I’m looking for some brass.”

 

“Do you seek a particular brass object, or an object that is particularly brass?”

 

“Anything brass, me. Where do I find your brass?”

 

Mr Wiggs and Mr Wiggs looked thoughtful. “Ah, Mr Wiggs, where did we move the brass section?”

 

“It used to be found in ‘if metals, and if not-metals then yellow objects’.”

 

“I know where it used to be, Mr Wiggs. I am perfectly capable of grasping the linear progression of time.”

 

“Perhaps it is now if metals. If you, Mr Wiggs, are capable of grasping the linear progression of time, you will surely recall that we have not completed our re-organisation in light of the Convention.”

 

“I am more than aware of not having re-organised the entire store after that damned Convention, Mr Wiggs, but I do not recall it, as it is a fact about the present, not a fact about the past. It is now that we have not re-organised in light of the Convention, you see.”

 

“Ah, but you also recall not re-organising in the past.”

 

“I cannot recall not re-organising, because not re-organising is not something that has been done, it is something that has not been done, and hence not something which can be recalled.”

 

“So only that which has been done can be recalled? Are you implictly obeying the Convention?”

 

“No, how dare you! I am merely being consistent with the convention, not acting from it-”

 

“Lads,” Sherman interrupted, “I hate to stop you, but where’s the brass?”

 

Abruptly, Mr Wiggs and Wiggs halted their train of thought. “Oh, I’m sorry sir, we can get rather carried away. The ‘if metals’ section is forward for 5.465 metres, then 23 degrees clockwise for 2.122 metres, then 96 degrees clockwise for 0.465 metres.”

 

“Mr Wiggs has, of course, only given you angles to the nearest whole degree. He does become rather – poetic – at times, does Mr Wiggs.”

 

“How dare you, Mr Wiggs! I am giving measurements to the precision required by-”

 

“That’ll do, lads. Why don’t you show the four of us to the brass section?”

 

“The ‘if metals’ section, sir.”

 

“Mr Wiggs, the customer is always right!”

 

“And he is sometimes wrong. Or are you explicitly obeying the Convention?”

 

They began to shuffle towards the if metals section. The others followed.

 

“Hey Wiggs and Wiggs, what’s the game with the Convention?”

 

“The Convention! Do you not know of the Convention?”

 

Lester tried to help. “Is it anything to do with that display case by the entrance?”

 

Mr Wiggs and Mr Wiggs beamed. “Exactly, young sir. It is everything to do with the display case by the entrance.”

 

They turned to face the others, now walking backwards along the corridors of their shop.

 

“The UN Convention of Logic. You must know of the UN Convention of Logic.”

 

“Be aware of your modalities, Mr Wiggs. It is possible that they know of it, and probable given empirically true facts about communications systems, but it is not known of necessity.”

 

“On this occasion you are correct, Mr Wiggs. The UN Convention of Logic, if you do not know-”

 

“And if they do.”

 

“Quite. The UN Convention of Logic has forced regulations upon us, regulations it has no right to do, regulations that encroach upon our sovereignty!”

 

“Quite right. The UN has decreed, in its infinite folly, that Classical Logic shall be the standard for the whole world’s retail industry.”

 

“Not just this world, Mr Wiggs, but all possible worlds! The UN has imposed regulations on all possible worlds!”

 

“Worlds it has no jurisdiction over! It has placed unnecessary, merely contingent regulation over this possible world.”

 

“It is our doctrine that we should have sovereignty over our own possible world.”

 

“That a governing body from an arbitrary, contingent world cannot set necessary restrictions on the will.”

 

“We are, and will be, taking our claim to the European Court of Abstract Reasoning.”

 

Gert looked confused. “I didn’t know there was a European Court of Abstract Reasoning, and I’m a criminal detective. I know about this things, or at least I probably should.”

 

“There isn’t. At least not in this possible world. Or in space and time.”

 

“We’re having trouble working out how to get there.”

 

Sherman sighed, but Janey looked sympathetic.

 

“That’s real bad. What -” she asked, “what arrangements have you cats had to scratch? What’s changed?”

 

Mr Wiggs and Mr Wiggs looked at each other, collecting their heads. The group passed a section marked ‘Gizzards, Wumples, Artichoke.’

 

“I think – and so does Mr Wigss – that this brass business is a fine example. Brass used to be in ‘if metals, and if not-metals then yellow things’. Now the UN-” he huffed just mentioning it, “the UN decrees, and I quote, that brass has to ‘be in one, or the other, but not both’.”

 

“It’s a terrible dilemma. We used to direct customers to ‘if metals, and if not-metals then yellow things’, knowing that brass would be in both. But now they must be one or the other. Where do customers go?”

 

“And it’s the same for all sorts of goods. Where do you put pogo sticks? In ‘things between 23 centimetres and six miles’, or in ‘objects invented during the Spanish Influenza epidemic’? It’s impossible.”

 

“Impossible? Modalities!”

 

“Very difficult, then. I was rather poetic there, it must be said. Thank you for correcting me.”

 

“And don’t get me started on the goods we’re no longer allowed to sell!”

 

“Are those the things in the display case?” Lester asked.

 

“Yes. Well, it’s only a selection. There’s an infinite number of things we’re no longer allowed to sell.”

 

“Round squares.”

 

“Escher staircases.”

 

“Our entire fancy dress range. The present King of France, the First Chicken Egg, The Set Of Sets…”

 

“Gee, that’s a shame.”

 

“I know. We know. Don’t we, Mr Wiggs?”

 

“Yes, Mr Wiggs. In fact, before the Convention, we used to be one person.”

 

“I used to be one person. Plain old Mr Wiggs.”

 

“No, I used to be Mr Wiggs.”

 

The first Mr Wiggs groaned. “Things are so much more difficult since we became Mr Wiggs and Mr Wiggs. That’s why we argue so much.”

 

“Well, I think things are easier.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Yes, we do. Especially in bed.”

 

Mercifully, they had reached the ‘if metals’ section.

 

“It’s time to love you and leave you, lads,” Sherman said pointedly, “We’ll take it from here.”

 

“Ah, yes, of course. Good bye, Gert and companions.”

 

“Good bye, Mr Wiggs!”

 

“Good bye all! Damn the UN!”

 

“Good bye, Mr Wiggs!”

 

Mr Wiggs and Mr Wiggs left them in the ‘if metals’ section, and they got to work. Lifting scrap metal, examining cans, checking the undersides for hallmarks.

 

“Gert, what are you doing?” Janey asked. He appeared to be rubbing a kettle very hard.

 

“Thought it might be Aladdin’s Magic Lamp. Could find anything in this place.”

 

“Maybe they’re banned by the UN Convention too,” suggested Lester. Janey chortled, and Gert raised a smile. Encouraged by the laugh, Lester wondered whether he should air the thought he was hiding. The others would probably have dismissed it already, but perhaps not.

 

Sherman lifted his head from the heap of metal. “There’s no brass here.”

 

“None at all.”

 

“None whatsoever.” He wiped a slightly shiny hand across his face. We’re going to have to try the other section, whatever it was.”

 

“We’ll have to go back to Mr Wiggs and Mr Wiggs, see if they can show us.”

 

Everyone groaned.

 

“May I say something?” No-one objected, so Lester continued. “What I think- what I mean is… is that, if the baddies, whoever they are… aren’t they supposed to be looking for brass, not us?”

 

They all looked at each other.

 

“Shouldn’t we be looking for the baddies. Or for Sadie?”

 

Sherman tried to explain himself. “Well, son, we were out looking for brass. The bad guys need brass, so if we find the brass, they won’t be able to get their hands on it.”

 

Janey looked sceptical. “Young Lester’s got a point though, Bralan. We can’t collect all the brass in this town.”

 

“At this rate, it looks like we can.”

 

“Maybe they’ve got the brass already.”

 

“Shut up, Gert.”

 

Lester pleaded again. “But we need to find Sadie!”

 

“Hang on, son, we don’t know whether she’s with us or against us.”

 

“But she’s in mortal danger! She’s got the bell!”

 

Janey and Sherman looked surprised. “The bell? What bell?”

 

“The bell from the Hood and Hangman! Well, that’s what Gert said. Actually, maybe he forgot to mention it to you…”

 

“You didn’t mention it, Gert. We heard all about the part where you hid in the air vents while gunmen ran past looking for you, but we didn’t actually hear the bit we needed to know.”

 

“It didn’t seem so important.”

 

“It’s the only part that really matters, Gert. What kind of metal was the bell made out of?”

 

Gert made a fish face. He looked as if he was waiting for plankton.

 

“Oh.”

 

“It was brass, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sherman stood, hands on hips. “That might just be the game.”

 

The four of them stood staring at one another for a few moments. Lester didn’t really understand, but he understood enough. The enemy were a whole move ahead. Things couldn’t get much worse than this, he reckoned.

 

He was, of course, wrong. At that moment a familiar sight skipped round the corner.

 

“Friends.”

 

“Maximilian! Why, it’s good to see your splendid face!”

 

Maximilian’s splendid face was askew. “The town’s saying that a bell has been stolen, and that Sadie did it. Someone who was there told everyone on a bus this morning, apparently.”

 

Gert pretended to be nonchalant. Maximilian continued.

 

“So I need you to help me. Come this way.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED

STORYTIME (part 14)

PART 14

 

The Hood and Hangman’s dark, haunting passages were a little disappointing, Gert felt. They weren’t really up to standard. You would expect low, hanging beams, flaming torches on brackets, grimy stone walls. At the very least there should be a steady drip from the ceiling, muffled screams from a distance. There were none of these things.

 

Gert was led, firmly, down an ageing corridor that reminded him of his old school. Old, disused bookcases cracked noiselessly on the walls. The carpet was, in colour, completely forgettable, so completely unmemorable, in fact, that Gert didn’t notice it. The only memorable, noticeable thing about the straight, planned corridors was their smell. They smelled, as so many 1960s buildings do, of brown. The colour brown. All it needed, thought Gert, was a man named Gerald to pop his head round the corner, predictably wearing glasses too boring for his face.

 

There was no man named Gerald. There was no man at all. Endless corridors, one after the other, round right-angled turns and broken filing cabinets. If there was a Minotaur in this maze, thought Gert, it wouldn’t gore you to death. It would bore you to death.

 

He chuckled.

 

“Quiet.” The prim guard hated laughter.

 

Gert was quiet. The man probably wouldn’t understand the joke, and it might come across as a bit rude.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Quiet.”

 

“Quiet’s not a place.”

 

“Quiet.”

 

The man sounded far too smug, Gert reckoned. A bit like those suspects you see in TV dramas who say ‘No comment’ to every question. They get very pleased with themselves after a while, as if they’re a criminal mastermind outwitting The Law. Gert decided to do some outwitting of his own.

 

“Say ‘quiet’ if you’re a poohead.”

 

“Quiet.”

 

“Ha ha! You’re a poohead.”

 

“Quiet.”

 

Gert eventually tired of this exchange and went back to memorising the route. After a few more corners he gave up and stared blankly at the carpet, trying to work out exactly what colour it was. Before he could decide, they finally stopped at a door.

 

“Inside.”

 

It made a change from Quiet. Gert bustled through the door, which was shut behind him. The Liverpool shirted Scotsman sat slightly cross legged on the ground, a shambling, apologetic Buddha. There was a trendy hole in the knee of his jeans.

 

“Oh aye, there you are again. Thought I’d be seeing you soon.”

 

“I was never going to last long in there, was I?”

 

“No, you got that right.”

 

They sat in silence for a second.

 

“So… do you come down here often, um, Fowler?”

 

“Fowler?” Shaking his head, he gestured to the back of his shirt. “The name’s Duncan. And…”

 

“Why does it say Fowler on your shirt? Is it someone else’s shirt?”

 

“It’s… oh, don’t mind that. It’s my first time here. Even the Hood and Hangman doesn’t treat its customers like this. Don’t send drinkers to dark prisons.”

 

Behind him a balsa wood panel slowly peeled from the wall.

 

“It’s not my first time in a prison though.”

 

Gert tried to ignore this.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“Aye, it’s not my first time in a prison. But a very different prison from this, mind.”

 

Gert again tried to ignore this.

 

“I think we’re probably in the old council offices, or maybe the disused school…”

 

“My first time in prison was some time ago. This is my second time.”

 

Gert wanted to ignore this, but had little choice. The truth was that he was locked in a room with a convicted felon, with no supervision whatsoever.

 

“What were you in for?”

 

Duncan chuckled, but it wasn’t a maniacal chuckle, if it is possible to manically chuckle without it turning to a cackle.

 

“What was I in for? For freedom, laddie.”

 

“How can you be locked away for freedom? Freedom isn’t a crime.”

 

“Oh, I wasn’t in prison for committing a crime. It wasn’t your everyday prison. No, I was a prisoner of war. A political prisoner. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

“Why, have you seen the horrors of war too, sonny? Do you know what it’s like for a man to watch his comrades die?”

 

“No, I’m just a bit gullible.”

 

“Ah, well in that case let me tell you the things I’ve seen. I’ll give you the chance to believe some more.”

 

“Go on, I like a story.”

 

Duncan cleared his throat grandly.

 

“My story starts with five wee impressionable Dundee lads. Seventeen years old we were, and all we knew were our names. Fine lads we were too, strapping healthy lads. Big, tall and strong, reckoned we were harder than Brazil nuts.”

 

“Nothing’s harder than a Brazil nut.”

 

“Aye, you’re right there. And you learn in time, don’t you, that you’re not as tough as you think when you’re seventeen. But we thought we were hard as anything, and we took on all comers in that Dundee pub.”

 

“Sounds a pretty rough pub. No wonder you’re here in the Hood.”

 

“No, not at fighting! We didn’t fight. Weren’t that sort. No, took on all comers at snooker. We were the pub’s snooker second team. The youth squad.

 

“But aye, we were right good. Beat everyone. Other wee lads, older dogs, hardened Glasgow gangs, they couldn’t match us on the table.”

 

“If you beat everyone, why were you only the second team?”

 

“So we were strong snooker lads, and we played all day and all night. That is, when we weren’t studying or partying or playing FIFA. And then, one day, we did our duty.”

 

He sighed, and stared back in time.

 

“The war started, the brutal civil war. Freedom versus slavery. Love versus hate. Peace versus war. Decency versus not decency. And, even though the war so far away, snooker players around the world took their cue.

 

“It might be a far-off country, but it’s where snooker started. Where the first red was ever potted. Us snooker players loved it. Philosophers love Athens. Cherry tree lovers love George Washington’s birthplace. We couldn’t let the fascists have our home of snooker.”

 

“So the war started and we were too young to fight. Seventeen. But we played snooker, and we heard the news. No-one really understood the news. It was a very confusing conflict, but we knew it was bad.

 

“And one day the recruitment tents rolled into town. They camped out in the square. Squaddies got a camp fire going. A smiling lassie hands round leaflets. We smile back. We took leaflets and we headed back to the pub.

 

“The whole pub went with us. Everyone signed up that day. The old heads, the laddies, we all joined up. There were so many of us that we formed our own regiment. The Dundee Snooker Club Regiment, they called us. All bright and bonnie, we were. All bright and bonnie.”

 

He paused to stare again. Gert could not see what he was staring at, but hoped to be told.

 

“So the Snooker Club got on a plane. Off we went. The five of us lads at the back of the troop carrier, playing Mind Billiards and I-Spy. Soldiers love I-Spy. It’s how they locate enemy bombers. We laughed, yelled, laughed again. Aye, those were the days. We’d potted our first red.

 

“But when we got out there, well, it all changed. Us and the other internationals. As I said, a complicated war. We were on the side of freedom, but we didn’t know who stood for freedom. For a while we were part of the Freedom Movement. Then it was the Liberty Army. Later it became the Democratic Republic of Free Peoples. Finally we were in the Liberty Movement, who we thought were the enemies in the first place. But we were strong, and we were bonnie, and we could only fight for good.

 

“And then, the five of us, we got stuck on a cushion. We were on patrol. A van turned up, tricked us by pretending to be carpet salesmen. We end up in the van, taken away, prisoners of war. Aye, prisoners.

 

“But look around this place,” Duncan gestured at he and Gert’s surroundings, “A prison is only on a cushion, we’re not snookered. The laddies and I – well, just a minor setback.

 

“The first escape was easy. Two days in prison. We told the guards we were on their side. It was a difficult war, no-one really knew what was happening. They believed us and let us free. We got halfway across the desert before they caught us again.

 

“Second escape wasn’t much harder. We grew moustaches in the camp. Easy to do when you can’t shave. Convinced the guards we were different men, they let us free. We were halfway across the desert before they caught us again.

 

“Third time, we dug a tunnel. Fourth, we dressed up as the guards on Fancy Dress Day and ran for it. Two thirds of the way across the desert, only got caught because we’d dressed up as the wrong army’s guards. Fifth time we grew moustaches, dug a tunnel and dressed up as the guards. Threw them completely, that did. We nearly got clean away through the desert. Water was hard to find. We only survived by drinking our boots, which had melted in the sun. To be honest, by that point we didn’t care about freedom or getting home. The only thing that mattered was escaping in braver and classier ways.

 

“But again they found us, all the wee snooker lads, all five of us. Oh, it was seven by this point. We’d been joined by a tall London sonny boy. He had no respect for authority, but his heart was in the right place. Then there was the young Jamaican laddie, Pelly. Not sure who he was, or how he’d got there, or what the point of him being there was, but he was there all right.

 

“Escape six was a good one, it was. Little Jonny Weir took up the drums in prison, or said he did. We practised all day and night, keeping the guards awake. We learned how to mimic a drum each. The Londoner took the bass drum, I could sound like a tom-tom,” Duncan made a perfect drum noise, to which Gert nodded in approval, “and Jonny was a cymbal. One night, months later, we carried out our plan. We put our drum kit up for sale on E-Bay. The Cockney laddie got in his bass drum, I squeezed inside the tom-tom – tight fit, mind, even then – and Little Jonny Weir puts a cymbal on his noggin. The buyer came and we snuck out in the drum kit. Got right across the desert that time.”

 

He smiled proudly.

 

“Did you escape for good?”

 

“No, sonny. Turned out the courier got the address wrong, shipped us back to the right address. It was the prison camp. The head guard heard us, got inspired to take up the drums. We found ourselves in his office, staring glumly at the floor.”

 

“So how did you escape in the end?”

 

“We committed the ultimate sacrifice, laddie. Sometimes you have to give up everything, and we did. It started when the guards gave us a snooker table. They knew we were good. The best around. So they challenged us to a match. The five of us, plus Pelly, the Cockney sonny, and some random American who had never played snooker before. Didn’t get the rules, either. He held the cue like a baseball bat. Every time he hit a ball off the table he whooped and shouted ‘Home Run’. But the guards wanted to play us, and to beat us.”

 

“So you beat them and escaped?”

 

“No. Their officers told them it was a stupid idea and cancelled the match. We were devastated. Pelly in particular. He was a wizard with the yellows. Instead we sanded down the snooker table. Made it into a glider. Used cues for the wings. Painted it in camouflage with that weird green chalk that everybody polishes the cue with, even though it makes absolutely no difference to their shot. The eight of us jumped in. I’ve never flown a glider before, but I took the wheel. We flew right out that camp. We flew over the desert. We flew right out the war zone, right back to bonnie Scotland. No-one saw us, even though the green camouflaged stuck out horribly in the sandy desert.”

 

Gert looked thoughtful.

 

“Hang on, I thought you said you’d made the ultimate sacrifice. That doesn’t sound much of a sacrifice.”

 

“But we sacrificed everything! Don’t you see? We wanted to fight for freedom, but we flew all the way back home again. We were fighting for snooker, but we turned a snooker table into a glider. We might as well have potted the black when we were meant to be going for red.

 

“And we sacrificed our lives. Little Jonny Weir could have been a star, but he ended up playing the Lancashire third league. Rossy Ross potted the blue like nobody ever did, but now he’s doing a cabaret act in Bognor Regis. The American went back to America. The Cockney git lost his mind and now thinks he really is a bass drum. Pelly – well, I don’t know what happened to Pelly. Gordon McKinlay now plays football, for Pete’s sake. And me -”

 

“And you?”

 

“Aye, laddie, I’m an addict. Not to drink or drugs, although I am addicted to those too. I’m addicted to escape.”

 

He paused to reflect.

 

“I escaped once too many times, you see. Snooker was my love, but I had too much escape. Couldn’t stop. When I got back home I had to keep escaping. Making friends just to escape friendships. Falling in love just to escape being single and escaping relationships just for the sake of falling in love. Walking into supermarkets just to escape them. Locking toilet cubicles from the inside just to climb over them and clamber out the window. Taking the window seat on the train so I could exit by crawling under the seats, rather than making my fellow passengers stand up. The only thing I can’t escape from is my addiction to escaping from things. Ironically.”

 

He gave another long, low, avuncular chuckle.

 

“Duncan, if you’re so good at escaping, how do we get out of here?”

 

“No, sonny, my escaping days are done. I told you – I’m an addict. Not even a small escape for me. I have to be escape-dry. Duncan’s escaping days are done, that’s for sure -”

 

There was a very loud noise. Something, somewhere had, somehow, fallen over. Yells and shouts came from down the corridor, in a way that reminded Gert very strongly of the day he had been expelled from school. Gert and Duncan craned their heads through the tiny window in the door, trying to see what was going on.

 

They need not have craned. A figure, a female figure, dashed past, clutching the Hood and Hangman’s Last Orders Bell as a relay runner clutches a baton. Other sprinters chased in pursuit, the rival Hood and Hangman relay team, all in uniform. They wanted their bell back, clearly.

 

“Sadie!” Gert cheered, though not too loudly. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

 

“You know her?”

 

“She’s an old friend.”

 

“Was she the person you were sitting with? Ah, I get it. This is a plot!”

 

“It’s not a plot. I didn’t know she was going to take the bell.”

 

“Course, you didn’t, laddie. Course you didn’t. If it’s a plot, of course, that changes matters. I’m not gong to escape myself, but if I can help a plot, that’s a different matter.”

 

Gert seized his chance.

 

“Yes, it’s a plot. A great big plot.”

 

“What are you going to do with the bell?”

 

“We’re going to run off with it!”

 

“I can see that. What are you going to do with it after that? That’s always where escape plans fail, my friend. People get out, they don’t plan for the ride home. They usually don’t think they’ll ever escape, don’t really think about the long run.”

 

“We’ve planned ahead all right!” Gert had to think on his feet and desperately search for a convincing plan. “We’re going to melt down the bell and… we’re going to, we;re going to sell it for gold! That’s right, we want gold. Lots of it.”

 

“Just gold?” Duncan asked, looking suspicious.

 

“No, there’s more to it than that. We… we’re against last orders. We don’t think there should be last orders. We think orders should go on for ever. If we take away all the last orders bells then drinking will have to go on all night and all day. That’s what we want: drinking all night and all day.”

 

“Hmmm,” Duncan considered, “Do you realize what a blunder you’ve made here, laddie?”

 

“Blunder?”

 

“You come in to a pub you don’t know, a dangerous pub, you chat with a stranger at the bar, you get a drink. You’re taken prisoner, by sheer chance you find yourself locked up with the person you met at the bar. He, with his charm and openness, extracts a full confession from you, without even the slightest little bit of torture – oh yes, the best interrogators don’t use interrogation or torture at all, sonny – and you’ve given the game away. Rookie mistake, laddie.”

 

“You’re working for them?”

 

“As far as you know, I might be working for them. How do you know I’m Duncan, the friendly Liverpool supporter? I could be an addict in their pay just to get my fill of escapes.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“No, but I could be, as far as you know.”

 

“No you couldn’t. You’re too friendly.”

 

“Ah, but maybe I’m acting?”

 

“But you’re not acting!”

 

“No, but maybe I am.”

 

“But you’re not.”

 

“No.”

 

The two stood in silence for a moment.

 

“Okay, sonny, here’s the deal. I’ll help you. But be more careful in future, yeah? I hope your plan comes off.”

 

“Thanks. How do we get out of here?”

 

“How do you get out of here, you mean? Let me show you.”

 

With that Duncan rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a key made out of denim.

 

“Here, take this. I knitted it from my jeans just before you got here.” He indicated the hole in the knee of his jeans, which Gert had assumed was simply fashionable attire. “It unlocks all the doors on the way out. Take it. It’ll only save one of us.”

 

“I can’t take this. It’s yours. You made it. You would have escaped yourself, if it wasn’t for me.”

 

“No, it’s yours now. There is a point in a person’s life when… when he must stop escaping. A man – or a woman, for that matter – cannot run away from his problems for ever. He must turn to face them, whatever may come of it. Go.”

 

He handed Gert the denim key.

 

“I hope you memorised the way.”

 

“I tried, but I was distracted by the guard. He would only say ‘quiet’ to every question, so -”

 

“Never mind. You’ll just have to follow your lucky stars. Now go, before they return.”

 

“But-”

 

They could hear the sound of distant, approaching footsteps. Several pairs of footsteps.

 

“To everything there is a purpose. Go. Go now.”

 

Gert turned the key in the door. The footsteps were close, much closer now, and travelling faster, more urgently, marching to war.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Good luck. A time and a place for everything under heaven. Run.”

 

Gert opened the door, looked back one last time at the serene, unapologetic, slightly smiling Liverpool Buddha, and he ran, down one corridor and round the next, away from the sound of feet, away from the guards. He ducked under a beam, pushed aside an old shelf in his mad dash to nowhere in particular. The distant footsteps stopped and, for one lingering, pulsing second, there was silence.

 

Brief, throbbing, deepening silence, and then the guns began. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat. And silence again.

 

Gert broke into a madder, uneven dash, his own footsteps urgently, desperately muffling any pursuing trods. Somewhere, somehow, there was a way out.

 

TO BE CONTINUED

STORYTIME (part 13)

Here’s part 13. Sadie’s voice has changed a bit: I was confusing her with another character, and I hadn’t really worked out how she sounds, but I’m starting to put that right. I’ll try and write the next few parts more quickly – I’ve taken an unacceptably long time over this section.

 

————————

PART 13

 

Oh, I do like to be beside the sea side!

I do like to be beside the sea

I do like to stroll upon the Prom! Prom! Prom!

Where the brass bands play

Tiddly-om-pom-pom!

So just let me be beside the sea side

I’ll be beside myself with glee

And there’s lots of girls beside

I should like to be beside

Beside the sea side, beside the sea!

 

 

“It’s time.”

 

Ten past one in the morning, and Sherman stood outside the grand old Moon On The Hill, Janey and Lester watching on cautiously. At first glance, the Moon seemed just the same. As usual, it was open, the early hours proving no stay to the relentless march of pouring pints. A saxophone – or possibly a trumpet – coughed through the window. Presumably old rockers were telling each other about the day they bought their first guitar.

 

“Are you sure…”

 

“Yes, I’m sure. Tricky ones, these vaudevillains. Music hall can mimic any form.”

 

“Music hall?” Lester could have done with Sadie’s story too.

 

“Music hall. They’ll have taken the Moon by now. It’s the only place they can get brass round here.”

 

“Brass? Fish?”

 

“Come on Lester. Let’s go in.” And with that they slowly creaked the door open.

 

———————————

 

Gert tried to break into song, but Sadie quickly shushed him.

 

“Not in here! You can’t do that. The locals don’t like singing.”

 

Gert started to protest, but behind him he could see two heavily moustachioed cowboys throwing knives at one another, and he saw sense.

 

“And besides, you don’t want to sing that song.”

 

“Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Sea Side? It’s a lovely song. Punch and Judy songs, big long promenades, donkey rides, screaming children. Brings back the days of youth. Or possibly my dad’s youth. Or maybe my grandad’s, bless him.”

 

“Quite. Anyway, that song is not for singing. It is not what good folk would call entertainment.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a bit of fun, really-”

 

“No. You misunderstand. It is not a song designed to entertain. It is a call to arms, young man.”

 

“A call to arms.”

 

“When music hall knew it was seeing the Last Days of Rome, it acted. Have you heard of Arthur and Avalon, or Drake’s Drum?”

 

“Oh, when Drake was about to die he got in a big drum, and when England’s under threat, someone’ s got to hit the drum, and he’ll be woken up and get out and argue with the person who hit the drum for waking him up.”

 

“When Drake’s drum is beaten, Drake will return and save England from peril. And Arthur is…”

 

“He’s supposed to rise again when England is in danger, upon which he will defeat the invader.”

 

“Yeah, that. So they both wake up? That could be awkward. Who takes charge?”

 

“It doesn’t matter, it’s…”

 

“I reckon it’d be Arthur. He’s the King. Order Drake about.”

 

“It-”

 

“But Drake didn’t like being ordered about, did he? Bit of a scoundrel, him. Better than Arthur, that ruffian. Wouldn’t obey orders, do what he pleases.”

 

“The point is, music hall saw what was happening, decided to follow suit.”

 

“They’re coming back to save England too? Come to think of it, Arthur would lead the army, wouldn’t he, and Drake take the navy. That’s it. Nelson won’t be too happy, though. Don;t see what good music hall would do when you’ve got Arthur and Drake and Nelson and all our living soldiers, like the Duke of Edinburgh and Germaine Greer and Elvis.”

 

Sadie sighed.

 

“Music hall stowed away, as it were, just like Arthur of Francis Drake. Instead of dying completely, they left a little of themselves hidden in our land. Joplin drove them underground, but they were never gone completely.”

 

“So where are they?”

 

“They are nowhere, yet they can be summoned. It is believed – known, in fact – that they a stone’s whisker from the everyday world.”

 

“Zombies!” yelled Lester, before realising where he was. Sadie looked round in alarm, but ‘Zombies’ was something you could shout in the Hangman without being noticed.

 

“I always knew they existed.”

 

“Not quite zombies, Gert. They’re not dead, they’re not alive as such, but they’re not really undead either.”

 

“Ah, I see.” He didn’t.

 

“The point is, they left behind a way to be summoned. It sounds like a spell, but it’s not really a spell. More… more of a recipe.”

 

“A recipe?”

 

“Not literally a recipe. Perhaps a guide, some instructions as to how to find them. Anyway, the guide lay undiscovered for some time. And that’s where Abraham comes into our story.”

 

Gert leaned forward eagerly, or at least even more eagerly than before.

 

“Abraham… well, there’s not much to do growing up in a small fishing village. And Abe, like a lot of kids, put some headphones on his ears. He discovered music hall. And he wondered what happened to it. So he wandered down to his library and dragged a book from the shelves, two books, three books. They told him that music hall was gone, but that it could be saved.

 

“Idly, he tried to find out how. He heard lots of music hall songs, looking for inspiration. Thing is, Abraham was a far better detective than you, Gert. Did his homework. Didn’t sleep on the job. Didn’t impersonate other detectives. Not like you at all, really.

 

“He guessed, but he guessed right. The guide, the recipe, the summoning spell – Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Sea Side.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“The lyrics tell you what it is, where it is how to activate it. Abraham worked it through. It’s beside the sea side. What’s beside the sea side? The sea. It’s in the sea.”

 

“The land is also beside the sea side.”

 

“No, land is beside the sea. The land is the sea side. The sea is beside the sea side. Do you see?”

 

“Don’t see a word of it.”

 

“So it’s in the sea, and a curious thing struck Abraham. His little village, Gleewith. It’s beside myself with glee, beside Gleewith. All he needs to do is go out into the sea and find it.”

 

“Okay, so what is he trying to find?”

 

“Ah, that’s the beauty of it. It’s named in the song too. They call it – the Tiddley-Om-Pom-Pom.”

 

“That’s a stupid name.”

 

“It is a stupid name. But this is vaudeville we’re talking about. They tended to give things stupid names.”

 

“So the Tiddley-Om-Pom-Pom is under the sea.”

 

“That’s right. And Abe, with his friend Sean, went to get it. Sean – well, he didn’t last. But Abraham got the Tiddley-Om-Pom-Pom, and he went off to seek his fortune.”

 

“Why didn’t he use it?”

 

“Well, he didn’t care that much. Just a foolish kid in search of adventure, not really a crusader for the olden days. And besides, he couldn’t activate it. You need to follow the other instructions to activate it.”

 

She paused for the inevitable question, but clearly it was evitable.

 

“All right. Girls. A brass band. And no sea food.”

 

“No sea food?”

 

“The Tiddley doesn’t work if there’s anything to do with the sea about. You’ll find that out for yourself, when you find the Tiddley.”

 

“I still think it was uranium.”

 

——————————–

 

“I don’t see any vaudevillains.”

 

Janey was the first to speak. The pub looked every bit the Saturday night oasis that it always had been. The bar chilled in a warm yellow light. A huge publican strutted behind the bar, drawing whisky from the shelves by magnetic attraction. A few new faces clustered around the stools, but they were still regulars, even though it was their first visit. A regular of one bar is a regular to all bars, especially if that one bar is the Moon On The Hill.

 

“Where are they? Where are the vaudevillains?”

 

Sherman didn’t know. He still believed it might be a trick and examined a few of the cutomers. He tugged at a young man’s stringy beard, hoping it was fake. It wasn’t, and the young man waved him away fondly, even though his chin was hurting.

 

“We’ve been fooled. Tricked. Sent down a blind alley. I play tough but fair, and we’ve been hoodwinked.”

 

“They’re one step ahead. They’re always one step ahead.”

 

In every pub there is a huddle of three or four people blocking the exit. No-one ever knows why they are there, what limbo they have been caught between, or what they hope to achieve by getting in everybody’s way, but they stand stock still, all the same. For a few minutes Janey, Sherman and Lester formed this solemn trio. They surveyed the scene.

 

Sherman finally made a decision. “Well, there’s nothing for it. Meet tomorrow in the market square, 9 am sharp. We’ve got some muck to stink out.”

 

With that he turned into the night.

 

————————————-

Gert pondered. He didn’t ponder often, but he was ponderous now.

“So Abraham found the Tiddles and now he’s dead.”

“That’s right.”

“But why? Sadie, who killed him?”

She fell silent.

“That’s all I can tell you for now. I brought you here because…”

“Miss.” The bartender appeared at their side in the sooty darkness. “You have… an urgent message at the bar. Waiting for you.”

He gripped her arm, carefully gentle but unmistakeably forceful. As Sadie was led away, she managed to mouth one final instruction.

“Just find the Tiddley Om Pom Pom.”

“But what is it?” Too late. She had gone, led away to some darker fate. Gert stared mournfully into the distance.

“What on earth is the Tiddley Om Pom Pom?”

Gert stared mournfully at his Lime Death Ale. Gert considered himself a great detective, but he seemed to acquire mysteries rather than solve them. Sadie was involved, but how? Could he believe her story? Gert was a natural believer, but this might be too tall a tale, even for him. There was only one thing to do.

Ring-ring

Ring-ring

No response. Gert tried again.

Ring ri-

“Wha-what?”

“Lester, pick up a pen. I need you to write down everything I say.”

“Whwwhww”

“Okay, here goes…”

“It’s three o’clcok…”

“You mean clock. Get a pen.”

“Brrr.” There was a scrabbling sound, followed by the unmistakeable rhythm of someone looking for his notebook.

“Go on.”

Gert told Lester everything and Lester promptly recorded it.

“We’ll discuss it in the morning. Now get some sleep.”

“Gert, we’re meeting Sherman at 9am, market square.”

“9am! Bless me, I haven’t been up that early in years. I’d best be grabbing some shuteye then. See you on the morrow.”

He hung up cheerfully. He was quite looking forward to seeing a clock at 9 in the morning. Just as his spirits started to lift, on thoughts of sighting that blessed hour, something very odd happened.

Pandemonium, which was the normal order of the Hood and Hangman, stopped. A sudden, cut-throat stop. The unshirted men ceased their punching. Conspirators silently, invisibly disappeared, leaving no trace of their plotting. Ribald revelry became hushed, awed silence. The murders, stabbings, beatings and cheatings ended on a single, orchestrated beat. Dying men and women turned with their deadly cocktails, forgetting their own immense suffering, as if seeing the light of Heaven come before them, or, more likely, the endless grieving pains of Hell.

The damned customers turned toward the middle of the bar, captivated. Gert poked his head from the darkness to see what was going on. If anyone noticed him – not that they did, being blinded by the light – they would have seen a grizzled, unkempt, curiously wide-eyed face emerging, almost bodiless, from the dark. Craning his neck round a pillar, he finally saw the procession.

The bar staff had changed. Altered completely, in fact. Instead of grimy t-shirts, they were now caped in brown, overbearing hoods, bowed to the floor, carrying between the four of them a plush velvet cushion. On this cushion lay a little bell, which hollowed in faded bronze. The four were slowly, deeply chanting. After a while Gert could not make out what they were saying, for he did not understand the tongue in which they spoke. Behind them, however, came a much taller woman, the bar manager. She wore no hood, spoke no words. As the four chanters came to the centre of the floor, circled by uneasy, devout onlookers, they slowed and finally halted, in respect of some greater power. As they stood motionless, the manager, still standing tall, trod slowly round them, orbiting the bell as we might orbit a distant star far beyond our ken. Having completed three orbits, she fixed her gaxe on the bell, examining it, taking in every aspect of its shape and colour. The manager, eyes never leaving the bell, walked gently, purposefully into the inner circle. Keeping her eyes on that copper bell, she placed her hand on the sacred object, lifted it in the air and, in plain, ordinary English, let her voice clearly and distinctly ring out across the pub.

“Last orders!”

She rang the bell. It tingled gently, meekly, a softness almost absurd in this filthy den of din.

“Last orders!”

Here endeth the service. Onlookers awoked from their bewitched slumber, and sprang into their dungeon life. The usual quarrels over last orders broke out. For those who had not bought a round, this was their last chance to absolve their sins. For those who were owed a round, divine justice was to be served with a bag of crisps. For those fearful of impending night, a final round of joy was to be burst, Dutch courage for journey into endless dark.

The man in the Liverpool shirt was among the first to be served. Gert, still behind his pillar, watched as the Liverpool shirt handed over silver and waited, smiling raptly, for his ale. The barmaid poured the drink and, as Gert continued to watch, leaned over, gesticulating for something. Liverpool shirt laughed and, lifting his wallet, opened the cards section. His face, his contented, jocular face, turned grey and dark. Scrabbling, the man frantically rummaged through his cards. Store cards, season tickets, old memberships to long-disbanded societies – they all tumbled to the floor, sadistic confetti.

His loyalty card had gone.

The barmaid stood back, arms folded, face hardening. He knew it was over, the look in hie eyes said so. Burly men appeared behind him, wrapped in chains. They took his arms, no ceremony this time, and dragged him, visibly screaming. No sound was heard. The tumult was too great for that.

Gert knew he was powerless to help. The man and his captors disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. The ground must have taken them all, taken them to some underworld far beyond this mortal place.

“Poor man,” said a voice in Gert’s ear.

“What a poor man.”

There was no sympathy in the voice.

“What a poor quality man. No loyalty.”

Gert knew there was no point turning round.

“Loyalty is what we value hear at the Hood and Hangman. We do not value wit or charm. We do not care for looks, or manners, or that which you ordinary folk call intelligence. We care only for one thing: blind obedience. A person may be as wicked, as cruel, as despicable as they like, but for us they are neither good nor bad. Neither good nor bad, that is, until they are for or against us.

“That man, well he had loyalty, didn’t he? He even had a card to show for it. But not all things can be demonstrated with cards, can they? He showed you his loyalty card, a stranger. That is no way to be loyal, now. And you,” he tapped Gert on the shoulder, “you are not of this place, and never shall be. You are one of the ordinary folk. You are particularly ordinary.

“Tell me, do you have loyalty?”

Gert didn’t answer. He suspected, correctly, that it would not make any difference.

“Come with me, ordinary man.”

There was no point struggling. He allowed himself to be led to the back of the bar, just as his old pal Sadie, the jazz turtle, had been taken.

TO BE CONTINUED