Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

17

Soap’s heart seemed to be beating. He could feel it in his chest. But as he couldn’t actually see his chest, or indeed any other part of himself, he concluded, dismally, that he probably was dead. He could think of no other logical explanation to account for the fact that he now seemed to be floating, in a disembodied form, out of Brentford and up the Great West Road.

“Bummer,” said Soap. “That’s a real bummer.”

“I think it’s pretty impressive,” said the driver’s voice.

Soap sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry you got killed for helping me.”

“We’re not dead, you buffoon.”

There was a whirl and a click and a whoosh, and the car and its driver and Soap appeared out of nowhere at all.

“What?” went Soap, and, “How?”

“Stealth car,” said the driver, winking over his shoulder at Soap. “Latest military technology. Cost me an arm and a leg on the old black market, as you can imagine.”

Soap stared at the driver and the light of realization dawned. “John,” he said, “it’s you.”

“Of course it’s me.” said Omally. “Who did you think it was?”

“I don’t know, I …”

“Ah,” said Omally, turning back to his driving. “The beard. I haven’t had a shave for five years. Not since—”

“Jim,” said Soap. “I heard about Jim. I’m so sorry, John.”

“You might have turned up to the funeral. We sent him off in style.”

“I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Omally swung the steering wheel and the car turned off the Great West Road and in through the gates of Gunnersbury Park.

“So, where have you been?” John asked. “And whatever possessed you to go wandering about in Brentford? You’re a wanted man.”

“Well, it’s all your fault,” said Soap. “If you hadn’t made me stick Small Dave up the back of my coat.”

“Your being wanted has got nothing to do with Small Dave. As you well know.”

“I don’t,” said Soap. “But listen. Thank you for saving me back there, John. You didn’t have to take a risk like that.”

“A friend in need and things of that nature.” The car moved up the gravel drive towards the imposing Georgian pile that was Gunnersbury House.

“What are we doing here?” asked Soap.

“This is where I live.” Omally drew the car to a halt, switched off the engine and tugged the key from the dash. “Come on,” he said. “You could use a drink.”

John climbed from the car and Soap followed on buckling knees. He had all but caught up, when a Godalmighty crash from above had him ducking to his bucklers. Glass and wood rained down on the drive and a television set bounced off the bonnet of John’s car and came to rest in a flowerbed.

“Help!” wailed Soap. “We’re under attack.”

John helped the lad to his feet. “I have guests,” he explained. “That’s just their way of saying hello.”

“Are they loonies?” asked Soap. “Is this a loonybin?”

“The whole world’s a loonybin. Come on, they’re okay.”

The entrance hall of Gunnersbury House might well have been described as a symphony in marble. But only by a lover of Karl Stockhausen. The glorious classical line of the place, with its travertine floor and graceful columns of fine Carrara rising to a Robert Adam ceiling frescoed with Arcadian scenes was buggered all to hell by the chaos of “things” that filled it.

There was a Harley motorcycle, lacking much of its engine. Several stereo systems in various stages of assembly. At least five Stratocaster guitars, leaning against as many amps and speakers. There was a Rock Ola jukebox and a pinball machine and a mountain bike. There were many many cardboard boxes and an awful lot of bubble wrap.

Soap took in as much as he could and the phrase “toys for boys” rolled into his head and out again. “You never married, then?” he said.

“Ah, no,” said John. “I’ve got some booze in the kitchen. Shall we—?”

Soap remembered John Omally’s previous kitchen. He tried to picture it on a larger scale. The thought depressed him somewhat.

“Is it really grubby?” he asked.

“Really,” said John, with an underbeard grin.

“You lucky bastard.”

“I don’t feel very lucky.” John went in search of the booze.

Soap sat down upon a fibreglass stool tastefully constructed from the body-cast of a kneeling naked female. Presently John Omally returned with a champagne bottle and two grubby tumblers. He popped the cork, poured the drinks and handed one to Soap.

“Cheers,” said Soap. “And thanks again.”

“Cheers,” said John. “You’re welcome.”

Soap sipped champagne. “This is good,” he said. “But how did you come by all this? The barman at the Swan said you were famous now. What did you do exactly? What do you do?”

“I manage a rock band and I produce their records. They’re a big band and very famous. Jim and I were partners at the beginning. But when Jim got killed the police confiscated all the money he’d raised and everything went poo-shaped. But I kept working away. I did it for Jim, it mattered so much to him. He knew what it could mean to the world.”

“Good musicians, eh?” Soap reached for the bottle.

“More than good. The lead singer, Litany. You’ll meet her soon. Her voice had the power to heal the sick.”

“Had?” said Soap, topping up.

“She lost it. After Jim died. I think she really must have cared for him. I heard she went to the mortuary. Tried to sing him back to life.”

“Urgh,” went Soap. “That sounds rather sick.”

“Well anyway, it didn’t work and she lost the power. But the band were still shit hot and I toured them and brought out some records on a private label, using the money I had. And eventually we were made an offer we couldn’t refuse.”

“Oh, yes?” said Soap, a-sipping.

“We got a record deal with Virgin.”

Soap spat Champagne all over John.

“Sorry,” said Soap. “I’m sorry.”

“Never mind,” John shook champagne spray from his beard. “But … and there’s a big but.”

“But me this but,” said Soap.

“But it’s all wrong. All of it. The company. The entire set-up. It’s like some world domination thing. The company is taking over. You’ve seen what they’ve done to Brentford.”

Soap gave a shudder. “I did,” said he. “It made me sick at heart.”

John took the bottle and topped up both glasses. “It’s got to be stopped and we’re going to stop it.”

“We?” said Soap. “You and me?”

“Me and the Gandhis.”

“You and Gandhi’s family?”

“The band. They’re called Gandhi’s Hairdryer.”

“What a foolish name,” said Soap. “Why do they call themselves that?”

Omally tugged at a yard of beard. “I never thought to ask. But we’re going to bring down the company. This very weekend. There’s going to be a big rock concert, right here in Gunnersbury Park. The biggest ever. Everybody who’s anybody will be coming, and the whole world will be watching it live on TV. It’s the concert that Jim wanted to happen, but it’s taken me five years to set it up.”

“And what will be so special about this concert?” Soap asked, as his glass became empty once again.

“It’s the Beatles’ farewell concert.”

Soap made a terrible groaning sound.

“And Prince Charles is going to be there.”

Soap added moans to the groan.

“You don’t sound too keen,” said Omally.

“I’m not,” said Soap. “But just how are you hoping to bring down the company? You’re not going to blow up the Beatles or something, are you?”

Omally emptied his glass and shook the Champagne bottle. “These don’t last long, do they?” he said. “But, no, Soap, we’re not going to blow up the Beatles. But we are going to bring down the company. You see, we could never get a record deal to begin with, because of Litany’s power. No big company would touch the band. Her voice had the power to heal, as I’ve said, and these big companies make their fortunes out of pharmaceuticals. If all people needed to get well was to listen to a CD, then no more pharmaceuticals.”

“But hold on,” said Soap. “Firstly, you said that Litany had lost her powers, and secondly, it’s Virgin who bring out the records. They would simply stop the records from being produced.”

Omally grinned beneath his facial plumage. “Firstly,” said he, “Litany’s powers have finally returned. Time heals all wounds, so they say. And secondly, there will be no records. This is going to be the Gandhis’ farewell gig and they are going to go out on a high note. A note that will be heard all around the world. Heard by millions and millions of people and recorded upon millions and millions of video recorders. This is going to make history, Soap.”

“Make history?” Soap’s head nodded. “That might do it, yes.”

“And it will stuff that little sod,” said John.

“What little sod is that?”

“The chairman of the company, of course. The evil little rat. And to think that when we were offered the record deal I thought it was a good omen. Him having the same name and everything.”

“I’m lost,” said Soap. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the revolting little tick who runs the company. The vile bastard who is responsible for the destruction of Brentford. I’m talking about Wingarde Pooley.”

“Wingarde?” Soap made the face of surprise. “I met a young bloke called Wingarde.”

“I’m sure you did. Probably when you were nicking his guru’s watch.”

Soap now made the face of outraged innocence. “I didn’t nick any watch,” he said.

“Come off it, Soap,” said Omally. “There’s been wanted posters out on you ever since it happened. He must really want that watch back.”

“Watch?” And Soap recalled his struggle with the editor of the Brentford Mercury and how he’d ended up here in the future clasping nothing but the—

“Watch,” said Soap. “There is a watch. But it didn’t come from any guru.”

“It came from Wingarde’s guru. True Father, as he calls him. Here” – John rooted around amidst the boxes and the bubblewrap – “I have one of his holy medallions somewhere. They give them away free with CDs and stuff. Ah, here’s the fellow.”

Omally flung a golden plastic disc in Soap’s direction.

Soap took it up from the floor and gave it a bit of perusal.

From the centre of the disc a face grinned out at him. It was the face of Leo Justice.

“Oh dear,” said Soap. “I do know this man. He’s the editor of the Brentford Mercury. His name is Leo Justice.”

Omally shook his head and vanished behind his beard. “That man’s name is Mageddon,” he said. “Robert Mageddon. But he likes to be known as ‘Most High’.”

“Robert Mageddon?” said Soap. “R. Mageddon? Armageddon? What kind of name is that?”

Omally shrugged and gathered in his beard.

“Well, I’ll tell you this,” said Soap. “The last time I saw him he was calling himself Leo Justice and posing as the editor of the Brentford Mercury.” Soap peered hard at the face on the medallion. “I don’t know who you really are,” said Soap, “but I’ll find out, you see if I don’t.”

Soap flipped the medallion into the air, caught it and rammed it into his pocket, where it lay all nestled up beside the stolen watch. The accidentally stolen watch. The accidentally stolen watch that was not only a watch but also a personal lifespan chronometer and a time-travelling device. The very time-travelling device which had, through Soap’s rough handling of it, caused him to be thrown into the future.

And had Soap taken this watch from his pocket and examined its back, he would have seen the owner’s name printed in tiny little letters upon it. The real name of the owner, that is.

And that name was not Leo Justice.

Nor was it Robert Mageddon.

That name was Dr Vincent Trillby.

The waiter brought me channel bends and ring-seals,

His goggles were the finest I have seen.

And he moved so very swiftly on his winged-heels,

While a crowd of parrots struggled at his chin.

His dress was smooth and styled in tweed and casters,

The swell of ray guns showed beneath his cloak.

He was trimmed throughout to combat all disasters,

His dovetailed keyring jangled as he spoke.

His offices were wall to wall with letters

That told of all the places he had known.

And he never feared the ridicule of betters,

For he moved in women’s company alone.

Far overhead the coal-black kites are flying,

And underfoot the worms turn in the grave.

And if I said I loved him, I’d be lying,

For who can love a lord if you’re a slave?

Upon the table one-eyed Jacks are winking,

And cars move by in endless metriform.

And he can hear most every word I’m thinking,

For he’s a deviation from the norm.