Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

16

In a perfect world, where life is lived in little movies, everything would have been sorted by Friday.

Soap would have swung his big newspaper deal.

Norman’s horse would have been up and ready to race.

Geraldo and his friends would have recorrected history.

The Queen would have been back on the banknotes.

Prince Charles would have been the twat with the big ears once again.

Inspectre Hovis would have cleared his desk.

Small Dave would have been banged up in another suitcase.

The library clerk would have been suing the police for wrongful arrest and excessive use of an electric cattle prod.

Pigarse’s dad would have got the new seat for his Honda.

John Omally would have organized the Gandhis’ mega-concert in Gunnersbury Park.

And Jim Pooley would not be lying dead in a mortuary drawer.

Which all goes to prove, if any proof were needed, that we do not live in a perfect world. But rather in one where things can turn from good to bad and bad to worse and worse to far more worser still, in less than a single second.

And in less, it seemed, than a single second, Soap got the shock of his life. There was a sound like breaking thunder and the walls of the office shook.

Soap jerked upright and glanced all about, his eyes rather wide and a-bulge. He was still in the editor’s office, but everything had changed. The room was bare of furniture and also bare of Leo. The floor was mossed by an inch of dust. Damp stains mapped the cracking plaster walls.

Soap took to gathering his senses.

The last thing he could remember was giving the editor a Chinese burn in the cause of a little information. Leo’s watch had come off in Soap’s hand. A rather splendid watch it was, too. A big electronic jobbie with the words PERSONAL LIFESPAN CHRONOMETER printed upon it. And then—

Crash went the breaking thunder sound and a lot of wall came down.

Soap still held the editor’s watch. He stuffed it hastily into his trouser pocket, took to his heels and fled.

He fled through the outer office, also empty, also gone to dust, down the fire escape and out into the High Street. And then Soap paused and gasped in air and got another shock.

Half the High Street was gone. Just gone. Mr Beefheart’s the butcher. The launderette. The recently opened nasal floss boutique. And the bank that likes to say yes.

Gone. Just gone.

There were earth-movers moving earth. Big diggers digging. And a crane with a demolition ball. The crane turned on its caterpillar tracks, swinging the ball like a pendulum. The ball smashed once more into the front wall of the building. The roof came down in plumes of dust. The offices of the Brentford Mercury became no more than memory.

“Oh, no,” cried Soap. “Oh, no, no, no.”

“Oi! You!”

Soap turned to spy a chap with a clipboard hurrying his way. The chap wore one of those construction worker’s helmets, popularized by the Village People and still capable of turning heads at a party when worn with nothing else other than a smile.

“Oi! You!” the chap called out once more.

“Eh?” went Soap, and, “What?”

“Clear off! Get behind the wire!”

Soap said, “Now just you see here!”

And then Soap said, “Shit!” because Soap had spied the logo on the chap’s helmet. It was the Virgin logo and it quite upset poor Soap.

The chap rushed up, waving his hands about, and Soap gathered him by his lapels and bore him off his feet.

“What is going on?” shouted Soap. “Speak at once, or by the worlds beloooow I’ll ram that helmet up your ars—”

“This is a restricted area. Part of the Virgin Mega City development. You can be shot on sight for trespassing. Put me down, you madman.”

Soap let the chap fall flat on his back.

“How?” Soap managed to say.

The chap on the deck was now crying into a walkie-talkie set. “Security!” he was crying. “Intruder on site. Dangerous lunatic. Bring the big guns.”

In his state of near delirium, Soap almost put the boot in. But sensing that it was better to run, he took once more to his heels.

The top end of the High Street was all fenced across with a steel-meshed barrier topped with razorwire. There was a single entrance gate manned by an armed guard. The entrance gate was open. The armed guard was chatting to a lady in a straw hat. Soap slipped through unnoticed.

But not, however, into a Brentford he recognized.

The fine Victorian streets had disappeared and in their place were new homes. Built in that style which architects know as Postmodern and the rest of us know as shite!

“I’m in Legoland,” whispered Soap. “What am I doing here?”

Behind him arose the wailing of alarms and Soap was away on his toes. He was several streets further before he once more began to recognize his surroundings. He passed by Bob the Bookie’s and Norman’s cornershop. Neither of these had sported the “well kept” look before, but now they looked decidedly wretched.

Soap stumbled by. Ahead he saw the Flying Swan. He stumbled up to it and in. He stood there, framed by the famous portal, puffing and blowing and effing and blinding and sagging somewhat at the knees.

A barman, wearing a sports top and shorts, looked up from an automatic glass-polisher. Soap lurched to the counter and leaned upon it for support.

“Been at the gym, mate?” said the barman.

“No,” mumbled Soap. “Where’s Neville?”

“Neville?” asked the barman. “Who’s Neville?”

“Don’t come that with me.” And Soap raised a wobbly fist.

“I wouldn’t get lairey if I were you, mate. You’re on camera, remember.” The barman thumbed over his shoulder towards a surveillance camera that angled down from the ceiling.

“But …” went Soap. “But …”

“You’re drunk,” said the barman. “And you’re wearing make-up! Out of my pub. Go on now.”

“No.” Soap’s fist became a palm of peace. “No, wait. I’m confused. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You look familiar to me,” said the barman, studying Soap. “I’ve seen your face somewhere before.”

“I don’t know you. Please tell me where Neville is.”

“I really don’t know any Neville.”

“But he’s the part-time barman here. The full-time part-time barman.”

“Oh, that Neville. He retired.”

“Retired?” Soap steadied himself against the counter. “Why would Neville retire?”

“There was a shooting incident. Bloke gunned down right outside the door.”

“Gunned down?” Soap did further steadyings. “Gunned down? Here? How? When? Why?”

“This was five years ago,” said the barman, staring hard at Soap. “It made all the papers at the time. Local bloke, shot down by a contract killer, they reckon. Sniper rifle off the flat blocks opposite. The ones they’re pulling down.”

Soap’s chest heaved. His breath went in and out.

“Yeah, big news,” the barman continued. “They never caught the killer. Some witnesses said that they saw a kid in a black T-shirt and shorts legging it away afterwards, but the investigations came to nothing. I’ve got all the news clippings. First shooting here, that was. Been a lot more since then, of course, during the riots and stuff.”

“Riots?” Soap managed to say.

“When Virgin bought up the borough under a compulsory purchase order. Lots of riots. The locals put up quite a struggle.”

Soap felt giddy and sick. “I’m in the future,” he mumbled. “That’s what it is. Somehow I’m in the future.”

“You not from around these parts, then?” said the barman, squinting fixedly at Soap. “Only you do look familiar.”

“This is all wrong.” Soap shook his head. “It was all wrong before but it’s much more all wrong now.” Soap looked up at the barman. “Do you know a man called Omally?”

“John Omally?”

“John Omally, yes.”

“You just missed him,” said the barman. “He always comes in on this day.”

“He always comes in every day,” said Soap. “Some things will never change.”

“Once a year is all that he comes in,” said the barman. “Famous man like that.”

“Famous? John Omally? Famous?”

“Where have you been, mate? Underground or something? John Omally is the big record producer. He comes in here on this day every year. Because this was the day it happened.”

“The day?”

“The day of the shooting. The bloke who was shot was John Omally’s bestest friend.”

“Jim …” whispered Soap. “Jim Pooley.”

“That was his name. John Omally comes in here and drinks one pint of Large. We have to get it brewed specially for him. He drinks one pint of Large and he cries. Can you imagine that? A manly man like him crying? Fair turns my guts, that does.”

“I have to go. I have to go.” Soap lurched up and made for the door.

“Hold on there,” called the barman. “I do know you. I do.”

Soap ran back down the Ealing Road.

Within the Swan the barman was leafing through a pile of wanted posters. “I bloody do know you,” he said, and, “Yes.”

He withdrew from the pile a single sheet of paper. On the top were printed the words “Have You Seen This Man?” Below this was a photograph of Soap, blown up from a frame of surveillance footage. “Wanted for assault and the theft of a valuable wristwatch. Five thousand pounds reward!” The barman whistled. “They’ve been reprinting this poster every month for the last five years. No wonder he looked so familiar.”

The barman pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the Virgin Police Service.

Soap turned a corner, then another and ran into Mafeking Avenue. John Omally lived at number seven.

John Omally had lived at number seven.

The man who now did drove Soap away with a stick.

Soap limped on, bound for heaven knows where.

Back in the Swan the barman was babbling into his mobile. “It was definitely him. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned library clerk uniforms. And he’s well out of it. Drugged up or something. He can’t have gone far. You’ll catch him on camera and don’t forget who called it in. I want my five thousand quid.”

The Memorial Library was still standing. The bench outside was broken, but Soap sat down upon it. He buried his face in his hands and trembled terribly. He was in the future. Five years into a horrible future. A future where Brentford was being pulled down. A future where John Omally was a famous man, but Jim, poor Jim, was dead.

Soap struggled like the drowning man, for some small straw to clutch at. There had to be some sense to this. Some logic. Some reason. Someone to blame.

“It’s them.” Soap raised his head from his hands. “It has to be them. The men in the black T-shirts. The one running away after Jim’s murder. The ones on the speed cameras. The same ones at the Beatles’ concert in nineteen eighty. Exactly the same. The same age, the same clothes. My God.” Soap took a deep breath and nodded his head. “It is them. It’s time. That’s what it is. That’s what all this is. They travel through time. And they change things and no one knows they’ve been changed. No one but me. Me. I’m the only one who knows. I’m not affected by their changes. Because …” Soap paused. Because, was a tricky one. Why hadn’t he been unaware that the past had been changed? “Because,” Soap continued, “because I was beloooooow. I was deep beneath the Earth. That has to be it. Something to do with the magnetic field or something. Yes, that has to be it. So …” Soap drew in a very deep breath.

“So what the fucking hell am I doing in the future?”

It was a good question, that. And one that, given time, Soap might well have answered. He had done remarkably well so far, considering the state he was in and everything.

But to have answered that question, Soap would definitely have needed quite a little time. And quiet time.

Uninterrupted.

The helicopter came in low. It swept down over the library roof and hovered over Soap.

“Lay down your weapons and prostrate yourself upon the ground,” called that old loudhailer voice. “If you obey at once you will not be harmed. Any attempt to make an escape will be met by force of arms.”

“Shit!” said Soap, which is just what you say. “I’m in big trouble here.”

Soap stood up slowly, his hands in the air and then Soap panicked and ran.

Off went Soap at the hurry-up, action once more his word.

Above him flew the helicopter. All red and white with that logo on the side.

“Somewhere to hide,” gasped Soap as he ran. “Somewhere to hide, and quick.” He ducked down an alleyway between two terraced houses and fell straight over a dustbin.

Remembering the words of Inspectre Hovis, Soap did not hide in the dustbin. He stumbled on, between back gardens now, the helicopter keeping easy pace.

“Halt, or I fire!” came the voice from above.

“Shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Soap rushed on and down another alleyway and out into another street. From above came the rattle of rapid fire, around his feet burst the bullets.

“No,” wailed Soap, rushing on.

He had almost reached a corner when a long black car came sweeping up from behind. It swerved directly into his path and Soap toppled over the bonnet. He fell to the road, all flailing arms and legs, prepared to come up fighting.

The driver’s window of black mirrored glass slid down and a voice from within shouted, “Soap!”

Soap staggered to his feet. “You won’t take me alive,” he shouted back, as brave as brave can be.

“Come with me if you want to live,” called the voice – which rang a certain bell.

Soap gaped in at the driver. He glimpsed a great black beard, woven into intricate knots and laced with coloured ribbons, a pair of red-rimmed eyes and—

“Down on your knees!” called the voice from above. “Down on your knees, or I fire!” The helicopter dropped even closer to the ground, the noise of the blades becoming deafening.

“Come.” The driver beckoned Soap. “Hurry, or you’re dead.”

Soap couldn’t hear what the driver said, but, as his options were severely limited at the present, he tore open the rear door of the car and flung himself inside.

The driver put the car in gear and it shot forward, catching the still-open door on a lamp post and smashing it shut with a bang.

“Keep your head down,” shouted the driver. “And don’t get sick on my seats.”

Now, your modern Virgin Police Service helicopter comes fully equipped with an impressive assortment of weaponry. You have your small-bore machine guns for taking out a suspect at close range. Your General Electric mini-gun, dispensing its six-thousand-rounds-per-minute pay-load for crowd situations. And, of course, your missiles. Your missiles are usually reserved for special circumstances, destroying a paramilitary stronghold, or a tank, say. But, as every good Virgin Police Service officer knows, there’s nothing quite like the thrill of letting one of those suckers loose at a speeding motorcar.

Laser-guided too, they are. You just lock on and hit the button.

The driver of the black car swung the wheel and pushed his foot to the floor. Soap clung onto whatever he could, as the car took a corner on two wheels alone and swerved into the Ealing Road. Leaving really brilliant skidmarks. Burning rubber all the way.

Behind it came the helicopter. Low to the ground now, a few feet above. In the cockpit the pilot winked at his fellow officer. “Go on,” he said. “Lock on and hit the button.”

The long black car rushed past the Flying Swan.

Behind it came the helicopter.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrm, went the black car’s engine.

Chb, chb, chb, chb, chb, went the helicopter blades.

On went the laser-guiding system.

On went the little telescreen.

Green electric cross-wires focused.

“Keep your head down!” shouted the driver.

“Press the button,” said the pilot.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrm and rev and roar went the car.

And chb, chb, chb, chb the helicopter blades.

The black car passed over the railway bridge, its four wheels leaving the road.

Soap’s head hit the roof and a finger hit the button.

Out of the sky came the missile. Out from the sky and down to the road.

The explosion swallowed up tarmac and pavement, rubber and metal, in fragments and fistfuls.

The helicopter circled through the smoke and flame. Of the black car and its occupants, nothing whatever remained to be identified.

From the deep-hidden realm of Shambhala

To the halls of the lofty Potala.

From the tomes of Debrett

To the domes of Tibet,

You can sit and take tea with the Lama.

He will speak of forthcoming disasters

Like the rise of the new Perfect Masters,

Who are gaining control

Now we’re all on the dole,

And there’s no happy-ever-afters.

So forget about paying the mortgage,

And cancel the milk from today.

Armageddon is coming,

And it’s only four minutes away.

You can dump your two weeks on the Costa

And scrub round your flexible roster.

That new three-piece suite

And that chic place you eat,

And all other plans you may foster.

Cos tomorrow’s been cancelled for ever,

No more knock or the old never-never.

No more Barrett Homes,

And no more Earl’s Court clones.

No more John, no more Ron, no more Trevor.

So tear up that final demand note,

And open the Champagne today.

Armageddon is coming

And it’s only two minutes away.

There’s a jewel in the eye of the lotus

Which is fine if you like those nice motors.

But the bent MOT

Won’t mean sod all, you see,

As the whole world just went out of focus.

And through firestorms and nuke radiation

We will see a new birth of a nation.

Like a Phoenix arise

Spread its wings to the skies,

And for more news stay tuned to this station.

Forget about yesterday’s heroes,

The new ones are coming to stay.

Armageddon is coming,

And it’s only a heartbeat away.

Only a heartbeat away.