25

 

FACING THE FINAL CURTAIN

 

AND THAT WAS ALMOST IT FOR ME. ALMOST, BUT NOT QUITE. I QUIT the White House. I made my excuses and left. It seems strange to me now, when I watch some Prime Minister on the TV that I should never have seen them before for what they really are.

I should have recognized the slightly out-of-kilter clothes, the curious haircuts, the odd turns of phrase, the mispronunciations of simple words, the flapping hands, the whole body language thing. Recognized them for what they really are: compensators, just like I used to be.

As I sit here now in my room at Hotel Jericho, writing in my red exercise books, thirty lines to the page, twenty pages to the book, I look at it all and I don’t feel bad.

Certainly I failed to change the world for the better, I can hardly deny that. My every attempt, no matter how well intentioned, was doomed to ultimate failure. But it wasn’t my fault. I tried my best. Of course there are those who might consider some of my motives questionable — all right, so I did enjoy all that free love in California —    but I did have good intentions. I was a good person.

And so before I sing ‘I Did It My Way’, take another tablet and slide off to my sorry bed, I would just like to relate to you one final episode.

It is an episode not without interest, and it does at least provide an explanation to all that has gone before, while at the same time being an absolute joy to read.

Which can’t be bad.

Can it?

 

 

SPROUT MASK REPLICA

(At last the truth.)

 

The black and unmarked helicopter swept in low, searchlights dicing the night sky. With clattering blades stirring dust clouds about, it settled into the compound. An electrified perimeter fence had been raised around the area of devastation to discourage the curious, and within armed guards stood at twelve-yard intervals, guns held at the ready to reinforce this discouragement.

The date was 17 August 1977. The place was Brentford. The time, eleven o’clock of the evening. Clear night, full moon.

The hatch slid open in the helicopter’s belly and disgorged three men wearing silver one-piece coverall suits. A tall slim one with a prodigious red beard, a middle-sized one with a nimbus of white hair and a short young one who was scratching his groin. They were greeted by more men in uniform.

‘I am Captain Vez,’ said one of these, offering a stiff salute. ‘And you are Sir John Rimmer?’

The tall slim figure with the beard flashed an official ID. ‘On secondment to the Ministry of Serendipity,’ he said, ‘above-top-secret classification. Are all the perimeter fences manned and secured?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the drilling rig is fully operational?’

‘Yes, sir, ready to go.

‘And you are absolutely certain that the area has not been compromised, that nothing has been tampered with?’

‘A few locals were poking about earlier in the day, sir. But nothing was disturbed. The entire area is now fully secure.’

‘Good.’

‘But, sir— ‘Yes, soldier?’

‘What is it all about, sir? What have we got here?’

Sir John exchanged glances with his middle-sized companion. ‘What do you think, Dr Harney?’ he asked.

‘These men have all signed the Official Secrets Act,’ said the good doctor, ‘and we will need their assistance with the excavation and the containment. We have no choice but to tell them.’

‘So be it.’ Sir John stared down upon the captain, a man of no small size himself. ‘We have an alien abduction situation,’ he said. ‘Seismic scans suggest that the craft is still in the area, in a disabled condition.’

Captain V turned about in circles, dragging his gun from its holster. ‘Flying saucer?’ he went. ‘Where is it? Have we fenced off the wrong bit? It isn’t round here.’

‘You’re standing on it,’ said Sir John.

The captain took a jump backwards and angled his pistol towards the ground. ‘It’s buried?’ he asked.

‘More like dug in,’ said Sir John.

‘I don’t understand.’

Sir John pulled out a map of the area and tapped at it with a finger shaped not unlike a haricot bean. ‘The building that stood here,’ he said, ‘was the Sir John Doveston Memorial Gymnasium, known locally as the Johnny Gym. The abductee’s name was Nigel Bennet, brother of the boxer Billy ‘The Whirlwind’ Bennet who won last night at Wembley.’

‘And a bloody good fight it was,’ said Captain V. ‘I was there myself, local boy making good and all that.’

‘Quite so. However, while Billy was scoring great points in the annals of boxing, his brother packed dynamite into the foundations of this gym and blew the bugger to kingdom come.’

‘But why?’ asked the captain, which was reasonable enough.

‘He was compelled to do it. Compelled by something alien.’ Sir John tapped at his temple. ‘Something made him do it.’

‘And then he got abducted?’

‘You have it.’

‘But you say the craft is still here. Why didn’t it fly off into space?’

‘The craft didn’t come from space, captain. It came from right here.’ Sir John redirected his haricot bean. It pointed this time down towards the ground. ‘The aliens we seek do not come from above, they come from below.’

‘Saints preserve us,’ said the captain, whose mother didn’t like him swearing. ‘But surely if it came from below and it’s returned below, we’ve lost it.’

Sir John shook his long slim head. Search light twinkled in the lenses of his horn-rimmed specs, and he smoothed down his beard as he spoke. ‘The Ministry of Serendipity has been monitoring this area for years. Brentford is what is known as a window area for outré occurrences and weird shit generally. Ministry sensors are buried in the ground all over this borough. The explosion last night set the needles rocking at Mornington Crescent HQ. The sensors picked up the craft making its escape, they also picked up its collision with a vast metallic object one hundred feet beneath the surface.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Captain V. ‘So what is this vast metallic object, do you think?’

‘It could be anything. Victorian debris from the ill-fated Brent-ford Thames tunnel, Second World War unexploded bomb.’

‘What?’ went the captain, taking another back-aways jump.

‘We shall have to drill rather carefully,’ said Sir John.

The captain took off his cap and scratched at his military head. ‘One thing puzzles me though, sir, and that’s the size of this alien craft. We’ve located what we were asked to look for, “a point of entry”, but it’s not much bigger than a rabbit hole.’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Sir John. ‘Dr Harney, show the captain the photograph. And, Danbury.’

‘Yep?’ asked the lad.

‘Leave your groin alone.’

Dr Harney brought out a dog-eared photograph and held it up before the captain. ‘Scout craft,’ he said.

The captain stared at the picture, replaced his cap upon his head, then removed it again. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘that is a picture of you on a donkey at Great Yarmouth.’

‘No, look, there.’ Dr Harney went point point point.

‘That’s a Scotsman in a kilt,’ said the captain.

‘Yes, of course it is. But what’s that on his kilt?’

‘It’s a sporran.

‘It’s a subterranean scout craft,’ said Sir John. ‘Manned by sprouts.’

‘What?’ Now there are many kinds of What? expressing various forms of surprise, horror or amazement. The captain’s What? expressed, shall we say, a certain element of doubt. ‘You are suggesting,’ he said, carefully, ‘that Nigel Bennet was abducted by a sporran full of sprouts?’

‘Not just any old sprouts,’ said Sir John. ‘These are very special sprouts, sentient sprouts. A different order of sprout. A different order of being. Some genetic mutation, or possibly something originally not of this world.’

The captain took off his cap once more, then realizing that he already had it off, he put it back on again. ‘Now just you listen here,’ he said. ‘I know I’m a soldier and therefore not very bright. But I’ll have you know—’

‘Sir,’ a soldier came ambling up.

‘What is it, Sergeant Lemon?’

‘We have RUPERT fired up and ready to go, sir,’ Sergeant Lemon replied, saluting as he did so.

‘What’s RUPERT?’ asked Sir John.

‘The robot digger and retrieval unit,’ said Captain V. ‘Stands for Remotely Operated Bio-Electronic Recovery Tractor.’

‘Ah,’ said Sir John. ‘I see what you mean about you not being very bright. Shall we set RUPERT off down the rabbit hole then?’

Captain Vez scratched at his cap. ‘At the double, sir,’ he said. ‘But carefully. And before we do, is there anything else of an above-top-secret nature you’d care to share with me? Just in case, he paused, ‘in case we don’t come out of this thing alive.’

Sir John nodded his slender head. ‘We are dealing with a particularly cunning adversary. Back in the 1950s the Ministry of Serendipity set up the Alpha Man project, an attempt to discover society’s original thinkers, those who begin the process of original idea to realization of original idea. They found one. A chap called Larry, we have no record of his surname. In the cause of science, doctors at the Ministry removed Larry’s brain and floated it in a nutrient solution. Larry, unfortunately, did not survive this experiment. An autopsy of his brain, however, revealed something startling. An implant. Larry had been abducted at some earlier time in his life and implanted.’

‘What was this implant?’ asked the captain.

‘A sprout,’ said Sir John. ‘Of course. The sprout was still alive and it was removed to Area 51 in Nevada USA for interrogation. It revealed, after some initial encouragement which involved showing it a saucepan of hot water, that such abductions have gone on throughout the course of human history. The vegetable kingdom has us under surveillance, captain. They are a race far older than man and with the growing trend towards vegetarianism we pose a threat to them. Every time they locate an individual whom they consider represents a particularly large threat, they abduct and implant him. Control him, in fact. They are attempting to slow mankind’s progress. Not destroy him, not yet, not until their hybridization scheme is perfected.’

‘Their what?’ asked the captain (a slightly different What?, that time).

‘Hybridization,’ said Sir John. ‘A cross-breeding of the two races. A new order of mankind. Half-man, half-vegetable. But mostly vegetable.’

‘Like Philip Glass,’ said Danbury Collins.

‘I quite like Phillip Glass,’ said Captain Vez. ‘Catchy tunes.’

‘Quite so,’ Sir John inclined his head. ‘And, with all that said, I suggest we put RUPERT into operation and see what we can winkle out.’

The soldiers saluted and marched off towards the drilling rig. Sir John and his colleagues followed, Danbury bringing up the rear.

‘What do you reckon to this load of old toot?’ whispered Danbury to the doctor.

‘I reckon it ties up pretty much all the loose ends,’ the doc whispered back. ‘So unless you can think up something better, don’t knock it. And, Danbury—’

‘Yep?’

‘Do leave your groin alone.’

‘Sorry,’ said the lad. ‘But talk of “tying up loose ends” always gets me going.’

‘Danbury, the sight of me dipping my sausage in a boiled egg at breakfast had you going.’

‘It certainly did,’ said the lad, grinning like a good’n.

‘Hurry up, chaps,’ called Sir John. ‘And Danbury—’

‘I know,’ said the lad. ‘The groin, leave the groin.

‘Good boy.’

 

RUPERT was positioned at the opening to the burrow.

‘I don’t see how a grown man could have been sucked into such a tight opening,’ said Captain Vez.

Danbury Collins made sniggering sounds. Dr Harney biffed him in the ear.

‘How exactly does this contraption work?’ Sir John asked. The captain did lapel preenings to imply a great knowledge of the subject. ‘It’s a robot,’ he said. ‘With tracked wheels, a light on the front with a little video camera and a pair of extendible arms with moveable grippers on the end. We control it here, by means of this hand-held controller, seeing what it sees with its camera on this video monitor, here.’

‘Very impressive, captain. So how do you switch it on?’ The captain made a baffled face. ‘How do you switch it on, sergeant?’ he asked.

‘Search me,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ve got the instructions, but I don’t know if they’re the right ones. They look more like something for the erection of a flat-pack kitchen. An uncle of mine tried that once, he ended up eating his own foot, I don’t know whether—’

‘Give me the controller,’ said Sir John. ‘Let me do it.’

‘I can’t allow that,’ said the captain. ‘This is a piece of military hardware.’

‘Well, get someone military to operate it.’

The captain sighed and turned to his men, who were standing around with their hands in their pockets. ‘Ten-shun,’ he shouted. The men stood to attention. ‘Now,’ said the captain, pacing before them, ‘does any man here know how to operate RUPERT?’

‘I do, sir,’ said a private, stepping forward, with a smart salute.

‘And your name, private?’

‘l26765-zero Robert McGeddon, sir.’

‘All right, McGeddon, operate RUPERT.’

‘I can’t do that, sir, I don’t have the rank.’

‘What?’ (Another variation on What? but a subtle one.)

‘No combatant on active duty below the rank of captain is permitted to operate a RUPERT, sir. Section 14, paragraph 12, Army Field Command Orders.’

‘You certainly know your orders, soldier.’

‘Certainly do, sir. In my business, knowing your orders can mean the difference between coming home smothered in glory and coming back home in a body bag. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do, sir.’

‘Could we get a move on with this please?’ asked Sir John.

‘Don’t interfere in military procedures, sir. Soldier, I am ordering you to operate RUPERT.’

‘I regret to disobey a direct order, sir,’ said Private McGeddon. ‘But I must reiterate, section 14, paragraph 12. No combatant on active duty below the rank of captain.’

‘Aha,’ said the captain.

‘Aha, sir?’

‘I hereby make a field commission, I hereby raise you to the rank of captain.’

‘You can’t do that, sir. I’d have to become a corporal, then a sergeant, then a—’

‘Don’t you want to be a captain?’

‘Well I’d like to, sir, like to very much.’

‘Then you are a captain, OK?’

‘Well, OK, yes, thanks very much.’

‘And so, captain, will you now operate RUPERT?’

‘As soon as I receive orders so to do. Yes.’

‘I have just issued you orders so to do.’

‘But I now hold the same rank as you captain. You can’t order me to do anything.’

‘Sergeant Lemon, arrest this man,’ ordered Captain Vez.

‘Ignore that order, sergeant,’ said Captain McGeddon.

‘Stop all this at once!’ shouted Sir John Rimmer. ‘I’m not fooled by these delaying tactics. One of you’s an enemy agent. One of you has a sprout in the head. Which one is it?’

‘This man is clearly a fruit cake,’ said Captain McGeddon. ‘Sergeant, have him removed to beyond the perimeter fence.’

‘It’s you!’ screamed Sir John.

Captain Vez drew out his pistol. ‘Leave Sir John alone,’ he ordered, ‘and you, Captain McGeddon, stand out of the way.’

‘Drawing a weapon on a fellow officer is a court martial offence,’ said the new captain. ‘Paragraph 23, subsection 18. No officer shall—’

‘Shut up. And you’re now stripped of your rank, you’re a private again.’

‘You can’t do that. Only a senior officer can strip me of my rank. Article 15, Clause 28.’

‘I thought Clause 28 was something to do with homosexuals,’ said Danbury Collins.

‘We don’t have homosexuals in the armed forces,’ said Captain McGeddon.

‘Perhaps you’re not asking nicely enough,’ said Danbury. ‘Perhaps if you put up some posters in gay bars you—’

‘Shut up!’ shouted Captain Vez.

‘Touchy,’ said Danbury.

‘All closet bum boys,’ called a stumpy woman through the perimeter fence.

‘Oh come on, please,’ implored Sir John. ‘This is of the utmost importance. We must capture the alien craft.’

‘Capture an alien craft?’ called an old bloke, joining the stumpy woman. Bloody Army couldn’t capture a dose of the clap nowadays. It’s all virtual reality and battle simulations. Not like in my time when we were sticking it up Jerry.’

‘Another one of them,’ said Stumpy.

Danbury tittered.

‘Remove those civilians,’ ordered Captain Vez.

‘Stuff you,’ called some young-fellow-me-lads. ‘We’re on our side of the wire.’

‘Give me that controller,’ said Sir John, making a snatch for it. ‘Certainly not,’ said Captain Vez, stepping backwards and falling over RUPERT.

‘Drunk on duty,’ said Captain McGeddon. ‘I am hereby assuming command.’

‘No you’re bloody not!’ Captain V fired his pistol (he still had it in his hand, the hand that wasn’t holding the remote control unit —  in case you were wondering). He shot Danbury Collins in the foot.

‘Aaaagh! I’m shot!’ howled Danbury, collapsing into the line of soldiers and knocking several down.

Outside the wire, members of the Brentford populace howled also. The shooting of civilians by military personnel was something deeply frowned upon in this neck of the suburban woods.

‘Give me that gun,’ shouted Captain McGeddon, leaping onto Captain Vez and wrestling at his wrist.

As the crowd outside the wire began to grow and to shout abuse, Sir John snatched the controller from Captain Vez’s other hand.

‘Give that back, and let go of me, McGeddon. Shoot this officer, someone, there’s a commission in it for the first man who does.’

Those soldiers who hadn’t fallen under Danbury hastened to load their weapons. But not all were on the side of Captain V. Some, as if driven by an inner compulsion, an inner-head compulsion, turned their guns not upon Captain McGeddon, but upon Captain Vez himself. ‘Not me, him!’ shouted the good captain.

‘Break this up,’ shouted Sergeant Lemon, drawing a weapon of his own and firing it into the air. It was an unlucky shot, ricocheting as it did from one of the helicopter blades and blowing the straw hat off a woman in the growing crowd.

‘Storm troopers and Cossacks!’ bawled the old bloke, beating on the wire with his fist and receiving an electrical discharge that set his wig ablaze.

A bit of a mêlée then ensued.

Soldiers within the wire began to fight amongst themselves, as soldiers will when the opportunity arises. The pro-Captain V contingent fell upon the pro-Captain M contingent and likeways about. Those undecided fell upon each other. Some fell upon Danbury who was struggling up.

‘You’re all bloody mad,’ cried Dr Harney, striking down Sergeant Lemon.

Sir John Rimmer crept under the helicopter, dragging the video monitor with him and began to twiddle at the controls. RUPERT rumbled off into the hole in the ground.

‘Storm the wire!’ cried the old bloke, beating out his wig. ‘Overthrow the military dictatorship.’

Certain young fellow-me-lads who had arrived upon the scene as the pubs were turning out took to hot-wiring a nearby car, in preparation for a ram raid.

The stumpy woman consoled the lady without the straw hat. ‘All men are bastards, Mum,’ was what she had to say.

‘Call me an ambulance,’ cried Danbury.

‘You’re an ambulance,’ replied the crowd, eager to respond to such a classic.

More soldiers fell on Danbury and he said nothing more.

RUPERT had his headlights on now and Sir John steered him along the tunnel, seeing what he saw on the video monitor.

Soldiers biffed and bopped and banged at each other. Dr Harney rolled by with Sergeant Lemon clinging to his throat.

Brrm, Brrm, went a nearby car, now thoroughly hot-wired. ‘I’ll deal with these soldier boys,’ said the straw-hatless woman, whipping out a Saturday-night special.

‘I’ll join you,’ said daughter Stumpy, drawing an Uzi from her shoulder-bag.

Brrm, Brrrm and Rush-Forward, went the hot-wired car. ‘Fire at will!’ shouted the still struggling Captain Vez, as the car passed through the wire fence in a burst of electrical sparkings. ‘Fire at will!’

There was a sudden silence, which either meant that it was twenty-to-something or twenty-past-something, or simply meant that no-one present really had the nerve to reply ‘Which one’s Will?’ Well, not after the ambulance gag, anyway.

Bang! Bang! went the soldiers’ guns, firing every which way.

Bang! Bang! also went the hatless woman’s Saturday-night special.

Rat-at-at-at-at-at-at went Stumpy’s Uzi. Now there’s a proper gun for you.

‘Urban guerrillas!’ cried a military fellow, labouring to pull the pin from a hand grenade.

Brrm, Brrm, went the hot-wired car, running over the top of him.

Sir John Rimmer stared at the monitor screen. He could see it, the sporran-shaped scout craft. Its opening parts part open, the glimmer of green within.

‘Gotcha!’ said Sir John, twiddling at the controller and extending the arms with the gripping end-pieces. ‘Out you come, you little—’

Rumble, went something. Something big. It was a rumble to be heard and felt above the shouting voices, the firing guns, the scream of a hot-wired engine, this was a rumble that said, I AM A RUMBLE.

Much in the way that an earthquake does.

As Sir John’s eyes widened behind the lenses of his horn-rimmed specs he saw on the screen a pin-point of light appear through the scout craft’s opening parts and grow to a blinding flash that blew out the tube of the monitor. The rumble became a shudder, became a fierce vibration. A dazzling laser-like beam of energy shot up from the burrow and soared into the sky, mini-lightning flashed about it. The rumble grew and grew.

‘It’s going to blow,’ cried Sir John, leaping to his feet and striking his head on the underside of the helicopter. ‘It’s going to self-destruct. Run everyone, run as fast as you can.’ He looked all around. ‘Oh, I see that you have.’

And they had. Well you don’t catch the folk of Brentford napping. They’ve seen all this stuff too many times before.

Sir John snatched up Danbury by the collar of his one-piece coverall and took to his not-inconsiderable heels.

Within the wired, although now holed-by-a-car, compound the ground cleaved open and a massive space craft, easily the size of, well, let’s see, oh it was huge, I don’t know, how about St Paul’s Cathedral, that’s pretty big, rose slowly into the sky. It was round and it was green, in short (or in spherical), it was sprout-like. Lights twinkled on its shimmering sides, or side (because a sphere has only the one), and through lighted portholes small green spheroids could be seen bouncing up and down.

Up and up it went into the star-strung sky until with a sudden mind-jarring acceleration and a trailing stream of bright green sparks it was gone into the heavens.

 

Sir John Rimmer raised his head from behind a garden wall and stared up at the night sky. All silent now. Just white dots on a black background. And as Sir John looked he fancied that he could see numbers upon those dots, as if one could join them up and spell out a message. And as he traced dot to dot with a finger not unlike a haricot bean, he also fancied that there was a message there.

And the message was.

WE’LL BE BACK.