Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

25

“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 ofmy 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?

Soap stared in horror.

No, the glint of sunlight on a telescopic sight.

“I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to do something.” Soap took to flapping his hands. He turned to the technician and shook him all about. “Can I get on the speaker system? Warn her in some way? How?”

“There isn’t a mic in here. We’ve only the tape deck for playing music”

“Then stick something loud on. We can distract her.”

The technician shrugged as Soap shook him all about some more. “I don’t have any tapes,” said he, well shaken.

“No tapes! Aaaaaaagh!” Soap let the technician drop. “No, wait. Wait.” He fumbled in his pocket and dragged out Ricky’s silence tape. “Stick this on,” Soap told the technician. “Stick this on and turn it up full blast.”

The technician slotted the tape into the deck and Soap ran from the control room.

The front runner in that other race, the eight o’clock from Brentford, galloped through the gates into the park.

“Whoah!” went Dave, pulling in at the reins. “Whoah there, boy, and hold it.”

Norman gaped at the mighty congregation staring as one at the stage. And then the voice of Litany reached him and Norman sighed. “It’s her.”

“It’s who?” Small Dave gave a shiver. “I say,” he said, “that voice. It makes me feel all—”

Scream went the scream of police car sirens.

“Head for the hills,” said Norman.

“I can’t see any hills,” said Dave, “so I’ll head for the house instead.”

In the house Dr Trillby was going through changes, none of which seemed very nice.

“Ooooooooch!” he went, and “Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuurgh!”

“Just leave the watch alone,” said Leviathan. “Then I’ll stop twisting your arm.”

“Get off me, you—”

“Time’s up, Lev,” said Gressil. “Time for my go now.”

“It’s never your go,” said Balberith. “You had the last go, it’s my turn.”

“I’m dealing with this.” Leviathan heaved Dr Trillby about, lifting him from his feet.

“You’ll damage him like that.” Gressil grabbed Dr Trillby’s legs and dragged him down to the floor. “Get out and let me do it. You’re not working him properly.”

“I work him the best,” said Balberith. “I can make him do really gross things.”

Leviathan took control of Dr Trillby’s right leg and kneed Balberith in the balls. “See,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Right, you bastard. I’ll have you for that.”

Balberith took a swipe at Leviathan and tore off Dr Trillby’s left ear.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Dr Trillby.

“Now look what you’ve done,” said Gressil. “He’s all lop-sided.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Balberith. “Let me tear off the other one.”

“No!” wailed Dr Trillby.

Leviathan moved his left leg and kneed Gressil in the balls.

Gressil doubled over in pain and bit off Dr Trillby’s—

“ !” went Dr Trillby, as Gunnersbury House and Gunnersbury Park went suddenly suddenly—

SILENT

Silence boomed out of the speakers. Stereo silence, at that. It drowned out every sound in the park, down to a grasshopper’s fart.

Litany stood upon the stage. Her mouth sang nothing but silence. TV sound crews plucked at their headphones, as thousands of men in black T-shirts rooted about in their ears.

Through them pushed Soap Distant, struggling up to the stage.

On the roof of the red and white limousine Porkie shook at Wingarde’s head. There was nothing but absolute silence, within it and without. Porkie focused Wingarde’s eye. The cross-hairs of the telescopic sight focused on Litany’s forehead.

Porkie tightened Wingarde’s finger on the trigger.

Pulled it back slowly and—

Everything happened at once.

Four plain-clothed policemen brought Soap Distant down.

Three warring demons in Gunnersbury House tore Dr Trillby to shreds.

Two police cars, suddenly silent, swerved out of control and crashed.

And one unicorn, with two men clinging to it, leapt over a red and white limousine that was parked in the way on the drive. They were yelling, the two wild horsemen were. Yelling “Get out of the way!” But they couldn’t be heard. The silence was deafening. And the man on the roof had his back turned to them and couldn’t hear their warnings.

Had his back turned and was leaning slightly forward. Sort of half-crouched, with his bottom sticking out. Just in the act of firing a gun was what he seemed to be.

And as the unicorn leapt its horn drove deep. Drove deep and up and through.

Click went the silence tape, running out.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Porkie.

It was horrible.

Truly horrible.

All who saw it agreed as to just how horrible it was.

The thousands of fanboys who turned at the terrible sound all agreed. And most were instantly sick.

The two men on the unicorn who saw it at such close quarters agreed. The one at the back was sick.

And the dazed Irishman, climbing from the limo, only wounded in the beard, agreed. But he wasn’t sick at all.

Omally stared up at the horrible sight. The dead body skewered on the unicorn’s horn, the gory tip protruding through his mouth.

Omally stared and Omally nodded and then Omally spoke.

“Do you want me to get him down?” he said. “Do you want me to pull off The Pooley?”

I once had a dog called Nero,

Said Varicose-Billy Knid.

And he was a Goddamn hero

With all the things he did.

Like rescuing children out of streams,

Doing the pools, interpreting dreams

Solving riddles and playing chess,

Teaching the gentry how to dress.

Swimming the Channel,

Strumming the uke.

Taking tea

With the Queen and Duke.

Coughing for doctors,

Guessing the chart,

Sizing up seamen,

Pulling a cart.

Giving the dead-leg and getting it back,

Walking the pavement avoiding the crack.

Sniffing out dope for the excise men,

Holding his own in a chat about Zen.

I once had a dog called Nero,

Said Varicose-Billy Knid.

But Varicose-Bill is a queero,

And I don’t believe he did.