Snuff Fiction

26

I didn’t see it.

Though I really wish I had.

They told me that the explosion was really quite spectacular.

Some Bramfielders conga-lining around the car park at the back of the Jolly Gardeners, singing in the New Year and the new millennium, thought at first it was a firework display that the Laird had generously laid on for them.

The charges had been so perfectly placed, you see, and the beauty of it was, as I later came to understand, they were not triggered by any pre-set timing mechanism. The Doveston had let fate set them off.

Allow me to explain.

It had been his obsession that the end of civilization as we knew it would occur at the stroke of midnight on the final night of the twentieth century. He said that he knew it. Had seen it. Had felt it. Whatever. And he was so absolutely certain of this, that this is how he triggered the bomb.

A simple cut-out switch linked to the detonator. As long as the electrical mains supply to Castle Doveston remained on, the bomb remained harmless. But should the power fail, the cut-out switch would trigger the bomb.

And so, of course, if the Secret Government of the World had not really engineered the Millennium Bug and sabotaged all those computer systems, the power would remain on. But if they had and the National Grid failed...

The Big Aaah-Choo!

And, at the very stroke of midnight, the computer systems went down and the National Grid failed.

From beyond the grave, he’d had his revenge.

And, love him or hate him, you had to admire him. It was a masterstroke.

But I was telling you about how the charges had been so perfectly placed.

Three separate charges there were. Cunningly angled. They totally atomized Castle Doveston. But through the nature of their positioning, they did something more. They sent three rolling fireballs into the sky.

Three rolling fireballs that formed for a moment the triple snake Gaia logo of the Doveston.

Pretty damn clever, eh?

But, as I said, I didn’t see it. The big lorry I was trying to drive smashed through the gates, hurtled along the road towards the village and then came to that rather tricky bend just before you reach the Jolly Gardeners.

Well, it was dark, very dark now, no street lights or anything. And I hadn’t managed to figure out how to work the headlights on the big lorry and there was a lot of ice on the road and we were going very fast.

I turned the wheel and I put my foot down hard upon the brake, but that bend was rather tricky at the very best of times.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Norman.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ I agreed.

I do have some recollection of the big lorry’s rear end overtaking us and all these trees appearing out of nowhere and then suddenly we were rolling over and then everything went rather dark.

We missed the Jolly Gardeners by inches, but we did hit that very picturesque-looking Tudor house opposite. The one with the carefully tended knot garden and the preservation order on it and everything.

It didn’t half make a noise, I can tell you.

I awoke to find that Norman and I were all tangled up together on the ceiling of the cab, which had now become the floor.

‘Are we dead then?’ Norman asked.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘We’re not dead. We’ve survived. We’re safe.’

Now, I don’t know why I said that. I know I shouldn’t have. I know, as we all know, that if you say that, then you leave yourself open for something really bad to happen.

You bring down upon yourself THE TRICK ENDING.

Don’t ask me why this is. Perhaps it’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. But I did say it. And once I had said it, I couldn’t very well take it back.

‘What’s that funny noise?’ Norman asked. ‘That funny scratching noise?’

That funny scratching noise. Now what could that be?

Could that perhaps be one of the chimeras that had somehow managed to get aboard the big lorry and was even now making its wicked way along inside the back, before plunging into the cab to rip us limb from limb and gulp us down?

Well, it could have been, but it wasn’t.

It was just the wind in the trees.

Phew.

‘Tell me we’re safe,’ said Norman.

‘We’re safe,’ I said. ‘No, hang about. Can you smell petrol?’