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“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 Gu
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 Gu
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, ru
“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 Cha
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.
26
So, did it have a happy ending?
Did Geraldo manage to undo the knots and tie up all the loose ends?
Could anyone?
Well, yes, given time.
And Geraldo had plenty of that.
And so it came to pass that upon a beautiful warm spring Tuesday evening, of a kind that we just don’t see any more, there came a ringing on the bell of number seven Mafeking Avenue, Brentford.
The occupier of the residence, a Mr John Omally, skipped up the hall and opened the door and greeted the man on the step.
“Watchamate, Jim,” said John.
“Watchamate, John,” said Jim.
The man on the step was Jim Pooley. John Omally’s bestest friend.
“Come on in,” said John Omally.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jim.
“No, hold on,” said John. “I was coming out.”
The two friends strolled up Mafeking Avenue and turned right into Moby Dick Terrace.
“So,” said Jim. “What do you fancy doing tonight?”
“Well,” said John. “I have heard that there’s this band called Gandhi’s Hairdryer and that they have this really amazing lead guitarist and they’re playing at the Shrunken Head tonight and I thought we could go.”
Pooley shook his head.
“No?” said John. “Not keen?”
“I hate that pub,” said Jim. “I would rather have my genitalia pierced with fish hooks than spend an evening there.”
“Oh well,” said John. “As you please. Let’s go to the Swan instead.”
The two friends walked on up Moby Dick Terrace. And as they turned another corner into another of the elegant Victorian terraces of Brentford, John Omally raised a thumb behind his back.
From a nearby alleyway another John Omally raised a thumb in return. This was a slightly older version, heavily bearded and somewhat battered about. He stood in the shadows, in the company of a gent dressed all in black. This gent sported a Tipp-Ex complexion and a see-through hooter and this gent raised a thumb also.
“Well,” said Soap. “I think that went rather well. Your former self obviously believed everything his future self, which is to say yourself, spent the afternoon telling him. So to speak.”
Omally nodded his beard up and down. “I’ll tell you what though, Soap,” said he. “There are still a good many unanswered questions.”
“Really?” Soap scratched at his fibre-optic top-knot. “Well, I’m sure that I can’t think of any.”
“No, but I’m sure there’d be people who could.”
“Then they would be right miserable buggers, wouldn’t they?” said Soap.
To which John nodded. “Yes, they would. And so,” he continued, “we still have plenty of time on our hands, or should I say on our wrists. So how about taking a little jaunt or two to see what we might see?”
“Oh no,” said Soap, with much shaking of the head. “We promised Geraldo that we would just come back here, to this time, so that you could talk yourself out of seeing the Gandhis and save Jim Pooley’s life. Now that’s done, we should give these watches back.”