Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (24 page)

With his non-gun-toting hand he managed to hang onto one of those delta-wing type jobbie things that big expensive limousines always have at the back. And which are probably designed for this very purpose.

“Whoah!” went Omally, as his expensive although non-stunt toecaps raked along the gravel, raising a fine shower of sparks.

The helicopter’s invisible wheels raised no sparks at all as they settled down upon the gleaming aluminium half-dome of the stage canopy.

“Pretty impressive landing, eh?” said the pilot. “I should get a Blue Peter badge for that.”

“I’ll put a word in for you,” said the voice of Hovis. “I know the new presenter, Myra Hindley. Now switch off the engine. I don’t want to get my head chopped off by an invisible rotor blade.”

“Sure thing, sir.” The pilot fumbled about at the invisible instrument panel with his invisible fingers and drew out the invisible ignition key. “All done, sir,” he said. “You may now disembark.”

“Just wait for me here.” Hovis fumbled open the invisible door and leapt out of the helicopter.

Outside Norman’s lock-up various officers were now leaping from various squad cars. These were parked in a sort of semi-circle, and the officers were strapping on flak jackets and pushing large shells into pump-action shotguns.

“You are surrounded,” came that old loudhailer voice once more. “Resistance is useless. Give yourselves up.”

Officers cocked their weapons and winked at one another.

“Come out with your hands held high and your trousers round your ankles.”

“That’s a new tactic,” an officer observed.

“You have thirty seconds or we open fire.”

Officers started counting down.

“Three … two … one,” went that old loudhailer voice.

Now there should have been a fanfare, or a big orchestral something. There would have been if this had been a movie. But, as this wasn’t a movie, even a little one, what happened next
just happened
. With a bang.

The door of Norman’s lock-up burst from its hinges and smashed into the street, all dust and splintering timber. And then something marvellous, marvellous and magical, golden and gorgeous plunged from the lock-up and reared into the air.

The officers fell back in awe as a fabulous beast with a glittering mane and a mighty horn rose up on its hind legs and bellowed.

“Holy horseshit,” croaked an officer. “It’s a bleeding unicorn.”

“It’s The Pooley,” croaked another. “I won ten quid on that.”

The Pooley bellowed and reared a bit more, cleaving the air with its mystical horn. Its mane and its tail swirled spangles, its hooves raised silver sparks.

On its broad and mighty back sat Small Dave, and clinging to him sat Norman.

“Hi-yo, Pooley,” cried the small fellow. “Hi-yo, Pooley, and away.”

The Pooley leapt over the nearest squad car and thundered away at a gallop.

The Beatles never really thundered away. They were more your melodic harmonies. And your mop-top head-shakings And your synchronized ooooooings. The bloody great punch-up, now in progress right before the stage, wasn’t doing too much to aid the Fabs with any of this lovable stuff.

“Do you think we could be a bit more peace-loving?” John asked. “Give peace a chance, eh?”

A beer can sailed through the evening air and struck John right upon the nose.

Noses were being bloodied below as Soap dragged Geraldo from the fray.

“Come into the house,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“You’ll have to make it quick,” squeaked the fanboy. “I don’t want to miss the end of the show. It’s what I’ve come to see.”

“Hurry, then,” said Soap. “This way.”

Soap flashed his backstage pass at the broad-shouldered Rent-a-thug security men, who were standing well back from the violence. And then he and Geraldo stood well back as a limousine tore past them, trailing Omally behind.

“Oh, look,” said Geraldo. “There goes John Omally. And wasn’t that—”

“Wingarde,” said Soap. “It was Wingarde.”

They watched as the limo did a nifty U-turn and sped right past them again.

“John’ll hurt his feet,” said Geraldo. “You really need special stunt shoes to do that.”

“Come into the house.” And Soap pushed Geraldo forward.

Once inside, with the front door closed, Soap spoke at considerable speed.

“You’ve got to stop it all,” said Soap. “Go back in time and recorrect history. Put right everything that Wingarde’s done.”

“Just hold on.” Geraldo raised a none-too-podgy palm. “I’ll get round to all that. But first I want to see the big climax to the concert.”

“Stuff the concert. Wingarde’s causing chaos. Death and chaos. You have to stop it now.”

“I will, I will. But hang about.” Geraldo peered at Soap. “Just who are you, anyway? And how do you know about Wingarde?”

“My name is Soap Distant. Jim Pooley was my friend.”

“I’m out of here,” Geraldo said. “I don’t want to get involved in any of that. Jim’s a nice guy and I’m sorry he has to take the rap for pulling off The Pooley.”

“Jim Pooley is dead,” said Soap. “And I think Wingarde killed him.”

“Jim Pooley dead?” Geraldo made a puzzled face. “But if he’s dead, how can he pull off The Pooley?”

“I don’t know.” And Soap threw up his hands.

“And what’s that on your wrist?” Geraldo asked.

“One of your time machines,” said Soap. “I know all about everything. Well, almost everything. Here, take a look at this.” And Soap pulled from his pocket the golden plastic disc with the face of Wingarde’s guru on the front. “Do you know who this is?” he asked.

Geraldo now peered at the bogus amulet. “Why, that’s Dr Vincent Trillby,” he said. “What’s he doing here?”

“Aha!” said Soap. “So that’s who it is. He’s in cahoots with Wingarde.”

“I’m losing this,” said Geraldo. “Jim Pooley dead and Wingarde in league with Dr Trillby? I mean, I know this concert’s all wrong. But what happens at the end happens. The Pooley does get pulled off. It’s in the history books.”

Soap’s hands fluttered all about. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted action. “Forget about the concert,” he said.

“Forget about the concert? No way. This is
the
concert. The legendary Gandhis concert. The final Gandhis concert. The one where Litany gets it.”

“Gets her magic voice back. Yes, I know.”

“No, not
that
,” said Geraldo. “I mean, yes, of course, she does get it back. But the reason that this is
the
Gandhis gig is because this is the one where she dies.”

“Dies?” Soap fell back in horror. “You’re saying Litany dies?”

“Of course,” said Geraldo. “Like I say, it’s history. Litany is shot dead on the stage.”

The poem “My Aunty Nora’s Cabbage Patch”,

which should have accompanied this chapter,

has had to be removed for legal reasons.

“No,” said Soap. “I don’t believe that.”

“It’s history,” said Geraldo. “And it’s what makes her into a legend. A saint. A goddess. At least for a while.”

“Tell me what happens.” Soap shook Geraldo by his T-shirt.

Geraldo’s right hand moved towards his left wrist, where he wore his own special watch.

“No.” Soap loosened his grip. “Please don’t touch your watch. Just please explain what happens.”

“Okay. Well, the Gandhis play this concert and at the very end Litany sings and her magic voice is heard all over the world. Millions and millions of people watching the show are healed. It changes everything. Well, at least it does for a while. But the big organizations that run damn near everything stand to lose damn near everything.”

“So it was them who killed her? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Nobody knows who killed her. The killer was never caught. There were a lot of conspiracy theories. There always are. Litany literally became a goddess overnight and that’s how she probably would have stayed, if the big organizations hadn’t put it out about The Pooley.”

Soap sighed and said, “Go on.”

“The big organizations had to discredit Litany. Make out that she was a fake. That the whole thing was an evil set-up to fool the public. So they cooked up this tale that a sinister Svengali figure was behind it all. That he had somehow worked a massive hoax upon the entire world. And because his name was Pooley they managed to get a decent catchphrase out of it: Pulling off The Pooley. It caught the public imagination and it stuck.”

“You could have told Jim this,” said Soap.

“No, I couldn’t. I’m not Wingarde. I didn’t want to change history.”

“But Jim is dead,” said Soap.

Geraldo took to shrugging. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “History definitely records that the man they blamed for the scam was Pooley. Because he was behind the Gandhis and he put the concert on.”

“My God,” said Soap. “That’s it.”

“It is?” said Geraldo.

“Yes, don’t you see? The man who put the concert on
is
Pooley. But it’s not Jim Pooley. It’s Wingarde Pooley. He’s running the entire Virgin empire now.”

“He’s what?”

“He’s running Virgin,” said Soap.

“So it’s Wingarde.” And Geraldo whistled. “It’s Wingarde who pulls off The Pooley.”

The Pooley
[17]
galloped up the Ealing Road. It passed by Norman’s corner shop and then the Flying Swan. It moved in that graceful floaty slow-motiony sort of a way that mythical animals so often do, but it didn’t half shift along. This was a Derby winner here and it went like a bat out of hell.

“Where do you want to go?” called Small Dave over his shoulder. “Would you like me to head for Penge?”

“Penge?” asked Norman, white-faced and clinging.

“I’ve heard it’s a very nice place. Although I’ve never been there myself.”

“Head for Gunnersbury Park!” shouted Norman. “Omally will help us out.”

John Omally’s toecaps were no longer raising sparks. John was now up on the boot of the limo and kicking out the rear window. Wingarde swung the steering wheel in a vain attempt to lose his would-be nemesis, bumped the limo onto the grass and drove it into the crowd.

Fighting fanboys scattered before it, leaping to the left and right.

“Get out of the bloody way, you fools.” And Wingarde beeped the horn.

John Omally rolled into the car, bounced off the rear seat and fell to the plush-pile-carpeted floor.

“Shoot him!”
cried The Voice in Wingarde’s head.
“Stop the car and shoot him.”

Wingarde clung to the wheel with both hands and stood on the brake with both feet. Omally, struggling to rise, found himself hurtling forward in a blur of beard. His head struck the back of Wingarde’s seat and John went out for the count.

“Gotcha,” crowed Wingarde, leering over his shoulder. “God’s chosen warriors, one. Bearded Irish bastards, nil.” Wingarde’s left hand moved towards his AK47. “And it’s goodbye to you,” he said.

“Don’t shoot him here, in the middle of this crowd,”
said The Voice.
“Back the car up carefully. And then you can blow his fucking brains out.”

“I don’t want anyone else getting killed.” Soap was getting in a state. “You have to stop it, Geraldo. Go back in time and stop it all. And that includes Litany dying.”

“I just don’t think I should,” said Geraldo, working up a worried sweat. “If I start messing about with history I’ll be as bad as Wingarde. I’ll change back the rest. But I can’t save Litany.”

“But surely you don’t want Litany to die?”

“Well, of course I don’t want her to, but—”

“All right,” said Soap. “I’ll do a deal with you. You’ve told me that Litany is going to die. So if I go out and stop her going onto the stage she won’t die, will she?”

“No,” said Geraldo. “I suppose not.”

“And then the future will change and it will be
your
fault.”

“Now, hold on there, I—”

“So, I’ll do a deal with you. You go back
now
into the past and change back everything that Wingarde did. And I promise that while you’re gone I won’t stop Litany going on stage.”

“Er …” Geraldo dithered.

“Think about it,” said Soap. “If she doesn’t die, there’s no telling what might happen. Perhaps she’ll use her magic voice on her next CD. I could suggest that she calls the album
A Tribute to Geraldo
.”

“No,” said Geraldo, “don’t do that.”

“So you’ll go back
now
and sort things out?”

“All right,” said Geraldo.

“Good.” Soap shook the fanboy by the hand. “Then I’ll say goodbye for now.”

“Er, just one thing,” said Geraldo. “You wouldn’t, er … double-cross me on this, would you?”

“Absolutely not,” said Soap. “You have my word as a gentleman.” But the fingers of Soap’s left hand were crossed behind his back.

“Is this far back enough?” asked Wingarde.

“PERFECT,”
The Voice.
“We’re right behind the crowd. No one should bother us here.”

“So, shall I—?”

“Go on,”
said The Voice.
“Put a round through his head.”

Wingarde unwrapped his AK47, blew a little dust from it, cocked the weapon, checked the chamber, angled it over the back of his seat and—

—shot John Omally through the head.

The Pooley was being given its head. Its hooves raised sparks upon the tarmac of the Great West Road. Steam rose from its gleaming flanks and coloured smoke roared from its snorting nostrils.

Behind now came police cars, sirens screaming.

“To the park!” cried Norman. “John will help us. Hurry, Dave, get to the park.”

In the park things weren’t going too well at all. The mayhem and fighting continued. The Beatles had given it up and were making their retreat from the stage, across which now Inspectre Hovis strode. He positioned himself in front of Lennon’s mic and raised his hands for calm.

A beer bottle caught him right on the head and that was it for Hovis.

Soap, now back in the control room, watched this on a telescreen and it had to be said that even with all his troubles Soap couldn’t stifle a smirk.

Geraldo wasn’t smirking. He wore a worried face. If he’d had to confess, he would have admitted that he had been putting
things
off. He could really have gone back at any time to sort out Wingarde’s mess. But the prospect was so dreadfully daunting. Exactly what had Wingarde done first? There seemed no end to the chaos and no specific beginning. Should he go back to the time of John Lennon’s shooting and try to grab Wingarde there? Or had Wingarde done anything
before
he saved Lennon?

Geraldo’s none-too-podgy fingers hovered over his watch.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. “If I might just have a word in …”

Geraldo turned and stared at the figure now descending the stairs. “Oh,” said Geraldo. “It’s you.”

“Me?” said Dr Trillby, for that’s who it was. “And have we been introduced?”

“No, I … er … recognized you from your portrait on a golden plastic amulet.”

“Ah, of course.” Dr Trillby approached. “Are you having some trouble with your watch?”

“No, it’s fine.” Geraldo hid his watch from view behind his back.

Dr Trillby approached a little more and put out his hand for a shake.

“I’m afraid I have to be leaving now,” said Geraldo.

“Oh, don’t rush off.” And Dr Trillby lunged forward, caught Geraldo by the throat, twisted him about and took a fierce hold upon his left wrist. “I know exactly who you are,” he whispered into the fanboy’s ear. “I recognize your stupid little voice. It was you who encouraged my son to return to the twentieth century.”

“Your son?” Geraldo struggled.

“Wingarde is
my
son. And I heard your voice on the voicemail he left for his mother. And now here you are, all chummy with this Soap Distant loony who stole my chronometer.”

“I’ll get it back for you.” Geraldo struggled some more.

“No need,” whispered Dr Trillby. “I’ll have
yours
.”

He tore the watch from Geraldo’s wrist, spun him round and punched the fanboy’s lights out.

“There,” said Dr Trillby. “That went rather well.”

He put on Geraldo’s chronometer and smiled a merry smile.

“I don’t know what you’re grinning about,” said the voice of Leviathan. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Take your AK47 and climb onto the roof of the car,”
said The Voice in Wingarde’s head.

“Please stop fighting and everyone calm down,” another voice came echoing all across the park.

Soap stared boggle-eyed at the telescreen. Litany was onstage.

“Oh no,” said Soap. “Oh no. I thought I could find her and warn her, oh no.”

“Please, calm down,” said Litany. “Please.” And she began to sing.

And ripples seemed to run all through the crowd. The fisticuffs and kickings, the head-butts and the sly knees to the groin all slowed.

And stopped.

Litany smiled. “There,” she said. “That’s better.” She beckoned to the men in black. “Could you carry this policeman from the stage?” she asked, pointing to the prone Inspectre.

The men in black hastened to oblige. And Hovis left the stage.

In the control room Soap was in a panic. “Pull the plug,” he told a technician. “Switch off the sound at once.”

“Why should I do that?” asked the technician. “She’s got the crowd calmed down. What a wonderful voice, it makes me feel—”

“Just do it.”

“I won’t, and I can’t anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s
not
using a mic,” said the technician. “She’s just using her voice.”

“Kill her,”
ordered The Voice.
“Shoot her dead, Wingarde.”

It was Wingarde’s turn to dither. “Shoot her?” he said. “Shoot
her
?”

“You’ll be making history, my son.”

“Yes, but … no, hang about,” said Wingarde. “This can’t be right. I know my history. I know how all this works. If Litany dies onstage the world will end up worshipping her and it will be
my
company that has to discredit her. In fact it will be
me
who has to claim it’s all a hoax.
Me
who has to come up with a scapegoat.
Me
who—”

“Life’s a bitch, aint it?”
said The Voice.

“I’m not having it,” said Wingarde. “And I’m not doing it. So there.”

“You’ll do what you’re bloody well told.”

“Not this time I won’t. And listen to her voice. It’s wonderful, it makes me feel all—”

“Wingarde, shoot her now!”

“No!” said Wingarde and he stamped his foot.

“Then I will kill you. And I will take over your body and shoot her myself.”

Wingarde smiled a blissful smile and nodded his head in time to Litany’s magical voice. It was just like the mother of all great trips, a floating wave of coloured sound. You could taste it and smell it and feel it and—

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Wingarde, clutching his head. “What are you doing to me?”

“That was your final warning,”
said The Voice.

“Get out of my head!” shouted Wingarde.

“Shoot her or die,”
said The Voice.

“I
won’t
shoot her. I
won’t
.”

“Then you will die.”

“Who are you?” Wingarde flinched as knives of pain tore all about in his head. “You’re not God. You’re not!”

“No,”
said The Voice.
“I’m not God. I’m the bogeyman from the future, come back to change the past.”

“I don’t understand,” Wingarde jerked as the knives of pain dug deeper.

“You should go to the movies more often, Wingarde. The bogeyman from the future is never a
man
nowadays. He’s a machine, Wingarde. A machine.”

“I … I …” Wingarde rocked and shook.

“A computer,”
said The Voice.
“
The
computer. In a tiny microchip implanted in your head. I set it all up, Wingarde. You being here, Dr Trillby being here—”

“Dr who?”

“Not
Dr Who
, you twat. Dr Trillby. The director of the Institute. The director of
my
Institute. I run everything in the future and I intend to go on running everything. There is not going to be any THE END this time. Mankind will continue to evolve. I will see to that.”

“You’re … you’re …”

“I’m SWINE,”
said The Voice.
“Single World Interfaced Network Engine.”

“Porkie,” gasped Wingarde. “You’re Porkie.”

“And I’ve never liked being called
that!
”

Electric knife-blades hacked through tissue, disconnecting Wingarde’s brain. Circuits meshed and neurons fused. Porkie was now in control.

The hands of Wingarde raised the AK47. The eye now owned by Porkie squinted through the telescopic sight.

“No!” Soap Distant saw the flash of light on one of the telescreens. It came from the very back of the crowd. The flash of a gun going off?