Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom Page 4

  The perfect light of morning washed away the dawn. The day smelt freshly washed in a way never captured by fabric conditioner, despite manufacturer’s promises. The dog’s night patrol trotted over the bridge of St Catherine’s Allotments, all four in perfect step with two by two parade cadence, the challenge bark met with an ‘all’s well’ yowl and they passed into the shadows of the barbican.

  The sun peeked over the allotments wall and pierced the pavilion’s gloom, shining in through the south facing windows, onto the south facing gentleman’s four-poster bed and directly into Dave’s south facing face.

  Dave threw back the heavy cotton sheet, parted the carbon fibre re-enforced mosquito net, and strode naked across the polished floorboards. He opened the large mahogany wardrobe and stepped inside. The door closed there was a mechanical whine followed by a muffled thump. A little later Dave singing ‘King of the Road’ was heard in the distance bringing joy to the singer if not the audience.

  By the time the sun’s rays had reached the bottom of the bed, Dave re-appeared, freshly showered, shaved and wearing full ceremonial shop coat, muffler and flat cap; two steaming brews clutched in one hand.

  ‘Tea’s up lad,’ said Dave.

  Fergus jolted awake. The concerned face of Dave Trellis peered at him over the card table.

  ‘How you feeling? Took a bit of a knock last night. Remember?’

  ‘Morning Dave, I feel fine, chipper, full of the joys of spring. And yes I remember all of it; Honey Bun, psychotic Palaver, flying dogs, job offer, the lot. Thanks for the tea.’

  Fergus picked up the tin mug filled with a deep orange liquid that steamed. The enamel on the rim chipped, as per tradition, and Fergus rotated the mug until he found a clear patch and took a sip. It was hot, strong and made with sweetened condensed milk; just the right thing for waking up on someone else’s veranda on a beautiful spring morning.

  Fergus looked out over the lawn, now scuffed and rutted from last night’s rugby, over the two inner terraces of the allotments and beyond. For a few moments he enjoyed the peaceful view of parkland, river, and wooded slopes.

  ‘Shame about the lawn,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Aye, it is that, but it was going to get a battering this afternoon anyway what with the tables and chairs and all,’ said Dave.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The annual Earth celebrations, always best to have a party on such occasions, despite the sadness of past events. So after the speeches and the lowering of the flag, we’ll have beer, wine, food and even some salad. There will also be Pimms; else Enoch and his mob will sulk and that’ll spoil their Gilbert and Sullivan performance. This year they’re doing the ‘Mikado’ and I’d pay good money to see those ‘Ubermensch’ in full metal geisha doing ‘Three Little Girls From School Are We’.’

  ‘Sounds fun, may I come?’

  ‘Of course lad, it’ll be nice to have some human company and you’ve made a bit of an impression already. The Palaver think you’re a good sport and the dogs seem to like you too. Least ways, they haven’t hounded you off allotments… Yet.’

  ‘Mind you,’ said Dave tapping gently on the cast enclosing Fergus’s lower body, ‘we’ll have to get you out of that thing first. I’ll ask Enoch to take it off.’

  ‘What? It’s fixed already? I half expected to be stuck here for weeks.’

  ‘This off-world tech works like lightening,’ said Dave, ‘to be honest I thought it’d come off last night, but I expect Enoch has his reasons. And speak of the Devil.’

  Dave nodded and Fergus looked over at Enoch striding across the battered lawn with a stack of trestle tables balanced on one shoulder. Enoch reached up with one hand and took a table off the stack, shook it until the legs dropped and placed it on the ground. Soon twelve trestle tables stood in a neat row in the middle of the lawn.

  ‘Yes, very clever,’ said Dave, ‘now come over here and get this cast off the lad. He’s been stuck here all night.’

  ‘Bonkah Dave, Rugby Boy. Now see if worked.’

  Enoch lifted Fergus easily, carried him to the side of the pavilion, and laid him on the ground. Enoch pulled a small device from a hidden pocket and pressed it. The cast rolled down over Fergus’s waist and legs like a woman’s stocking and ended up in a neat ball. A shiny, translucent, grey-green lump that looked and smelt like bile jelly encased Fergus’s lower body.

  Enoch turned on the hosepipe. A powerful stream of water shot out hissing and Enoch played it over the bottom of the grey-green lump dissolving the jelly.

  Fergus howled as his feet appeared out of the lump.

  ‘Ahhh, its bloody cold, turn it off, turn it off.’

  ‘Relax little girl,’ said Enoch, ‘Water soluble, best way, stop whining.’

  Fergus sat and shivered as the water washed away the jelly, revealing shins then thighs and finally, after a lot of whining and swearing, the last part. Fergus shut up, Dave’s jaw dropped and Enoch laughed.

  ‘See, we do something nice,’ said Enoch and threw his arms out wide.

  ‘Enoch, I’m stunned, it’s undoubtedly the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I’ve no idea how you did it, but thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s, it’s perfect.’

  ‘Perfect, it may be lad, but I’d cover it up if I were you,’ Dave threw the blanket at Fergus, ‘and I’d check the warranty; with this lot of idiots I wouldn’t be surprised if the first time you use it your balls blow off.’

  ‘All works Dave, finest kind,’ said Enoch, ‘Standard issue field repair plus tweaks.’ He leaned over and punched Fergus on the thigh. It sounded like a mallet hitting a side of beef. The thigh muscle didn’t even move. ‘You walk lightly now, Rugby Boy.’

  Chapter Three

  Your attention is the most sincere gift.

  Dave Trellis

  One Life, One Woman, One Shed

  The sun climbed higher over St Catherine’s allotments and the yellow sandstone glowed. A crowd of busy people milled about getting things ready for the party.

  To the right of the pavilion was the food preparation area complete with barbeque. On one side was a small white table that looked rather forlorn; a handwritten sign said ‘Vegetarian option’.

  In front of the pavilion, sturdy trestle tables covered with white tablecloths held an army of wine and beer bottles. They gave Fergus a cloth and introduced him to the joy of polishing glasses.

  Dave found him there.

  ‘Hey up lad, can you spare a few minutes? I promised to show you round.’

  Fergus slung the cloth over his shoulder and grinned.

  ‘Oh I think I can find a slot in my busy schedule around about… now.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Dave, ‘come on then.’

  Fergus fell into step with Dave, who with waving arms started the tour of St Catherine’s allotments.

  ‘It’s all very simple lad, nutrition is the key. Once away from your home planet you have certain key dietary needs. Of course, you can carry pills, but why not carry seeds and grow your own. It’s lighter and you never run out, hence these allotments. Mind you, they also act as a home base, a place to leave your valuables, hold messages and somewhere to stay when it all goes wrong, that sort of thing.’

  ‘By the way,’ continued Dave, ‘at the party, stick to native food no matter how enticing the other options look, that goes for the refreshments as well. I don’t want to explain cyanide poisoning down at A & E again, they’re getting suspicious.’

  They walked past allotments, some neat, some disorganised, a complete mixture of extraordinary and the common place. Dave talked about amino acids and proteins, about cuttings and top dressing. It passed over Fergus’s head as his attention flitted from purple marrow to black rhubarb, distracted by the chaos of the preparations and the exotic smells and sounds around him.

  The next allotment was neat, tidy and displayed a variety of growing vegetables and plants.

  ‘Hey up la
ss, how are the Brassicas,’ said Dave pointing towards a row of blue sprouts.

  ‘Coming along nicely since you suggested the cadmium top dressing,’ said a female voice from among the vegetation.

  A face appeared and Fergus heard no more; struck in the forehead by the half brick of perfect beauty. Green eyes were all he saw then dark, curved eyebrows, a delicate nose and finally lips, full and wide. His attention was dragged back to her eyes, where it stuck. He stared at the girl, but it didn’t matter as she stared back. She smiled and something deep in his brain woke up. He wanted to wear a loincloth and hunt lions with a spear. Then the face disappeared.

  ‘Sorry love was that your foot?’ said Dave. ‘Whoops, sorry. Are you alright? Here take my hand.’

  Fergus saw Dave helping a pretty girl, sprawled in a patch of blue cabbages. She wore dungarees, which failed to hide a shapely figure, and green wellies. As she struggled to her feet Fergus saw she was lovely, but not the woman of a moment before who could demand the launch of a thousand ships and it would be done.

  She smiled awkwardly and stepped toward Fergus offering her hand. Fergus clasped her hand, it warm and slightly damp, and some impulse made Fergus lean forward to kiss her cheek. At the last moment she turned her head toward Fergus and he kissed her on the lips. Fergus leaned back, surprised, and she smiled. Suddenly it all felt awkward and she let go of his hand. She pushed her long brown hair back from her face with both hands. It made her face beautiful and for a moment Fergus felt the call of the savannah once more.

  ‘Boadicea, meet Fergus, though you’ve introduced yourself already,’ said Dave.

  Boadicea gave an awkward little wave and shrugged her shoulders. Fergus thought it adorable.

  ‘Any road, we need to get a move on, so I’ll see you later at the ceremony. Take care now, love.’

  Dave shepherded Fergus towards the next allotment. In his bemused state Fergus forgot to say goodbye, so he turned around and waved to Boadicea, which earned him a big return wave and a smile. Fergus felt absolutely wonderful.

  ‘You’ll want to walk that off before we meet the next holder,’ said Dave and nodded towards Fergus’s crotch.

  Fergus looked down to see a substantial tent in the front of his combat trousers.

  ‘Ah, good point. Perhaps I ought to sit down for a bit,’ said Fergus and sat crossed legged on the path. Dave squatted beside him.

  ‘Boadicea is actually rather shy and doesn’t say much until you get to know her,’ said Dave, ‘but you have to watch out for the Glamour - you know, the eyes thing. It’s mostly autonomous; she doesn’t mean anything by it. It just happens when she’s surprised. You have to distract her to break the Glamour, that’s why I trod on her foot and knocked her over.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Fergus, ‘What do you mean the eyes thing?’

  ‘The Glamour,’ said Dave, ‘The sudden, overwhelming experience of perfect beauty. It makes you feel like a teenage caveman. She did it to me once, when I bumped into her by accident, I’ll never forget it. Mind you, that’s the first time I have seen her do it without some sort of surprise. Then again that upgraded lunchbox of yours, parading at attention, is enough to surprise anyone.’

  ‘So she isn’t human?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘No lad, but chin up, she’s about human as is possible to be and still come from another place. I notice you seemed rather struck, over and above the Glamour, and you also made an impression on her, over and above the salami in the pocket. Don’t worry lad, her kind have been getting on just grand with us humans for millennia; you’ll be fine.’

  ‘One word of warning; she’s a very nice lass, adored by just about everyone. If you treat her casually, you will face the wrath of the allotments; Old Testament wrath, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Don’t worry Dave, I’ll treat her as if she were your daughter,’ said Fergus.

  Dave looked away and pushed his hand through his greying hair.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘It’s nothing lad, let’s go and see the catacombs.’

  As they walked back towards the pavilion, Dave stopped and stared at a patch of grass a few yards away. He reached down, picked up a handful of soil, and threw it over the grass.

  The thrown earth showed up a large rounded shape. It looked like a small Volkswagen Beetle or perhaps a huge tortoise.

  ‘Hmm, a Murgatroyd,’ said Dave, ‘Most hated species in the known universe. We have quite a few of em, considering that they are so very rare. They have a real knack with the electromagnetic spectrum; can bend light round a doorpost, which makes for superb camouflage. They can live for a month on a glimmer of sunlight if they wanted; which makes it all the more strange that they eat so much grass. Still, it keeps the land around here looking nice and tidy. Interesting creatures mind and very, very knowledgeable.’

  ‘Why are they hated so much?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Have a chat with one of them and you’ll soon find out. We named them after cricketers as they spend most of their time standing around on grass. This one’s probably Atherton, he’s the baby of the bunch and hangs around the allotments quite a bit. The rest of them tend to skulk about the bottom of the river.’

  ‘Oi Atherton,’ shouted Dave. A response, in bright blue letters about a foot high, shimmered in the air.

  REQUEST FOR COMMUNICATION – HUMAN, TRELLIS DESIGNATION

  RESPONSE – NULL

  ‘See lad, we are not worthy of their high and mighty attention.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Fergus.

  REQUEST FOR COMMUNICATION – CHIMERA NOT DESIGNATED

  RESPONSE – INTEREST, SCANNING

  ‘Argh, that hurts stop it. Stop it!’ yelled Fergus as he jumped around rubbing his chest and stomach.

  ‘Stand still,’ shouted Dave, ‘It’ll still hurt, but if you dance around like a fairy it’ll take longer. It won’t stop scanning ‘til it’s finished.’

  Fergus stood still, swearing with much repetition and a lack of originality.

  Dave had a grin on his face.

  ‘The chimera bit will be Enoch’s field repair; you’re now part Palaver. Mind you, I thought they knew all about that.’

  The bright blue letters disappeared and replaced with a new message.

  REQUEST FOR COMMUNICATION TO THREE SPECIES CHIMERA NOT DESIGNATED

  WHAT IS YOUR ORIGINATION?

  Dave stared at Fergus.

  ‘Three? Where did the other one come from? No. No don’t answer that. You’ve interested one of them miserable buggers; we can trade that information. Keep your trap shut.’

  ‘I don’t understand Dave. I’m just a normal bloke.’

  ‘Keep it under your hat lad, we can bargain for something useful, like fusion power or the cure for cancer. Tell them nowt.’

  ‘Like I said Dave, it must be wrong. I’m just normal.’

  ‘There’s a chance that a Murgatroyd made a mistake, but no matter. It thinks you’re interesting and that’s a saleable commodity in this here neck of the woods. Let’s get off to the catacombs; it won’t be able to detect what we say down there.’

  Fergus marvelled at the superb stonework of the tall arched entrance.

  ‘This looks like a tunnel entrance on Brunel’s Great Western Railway.’

  ‘Nah, not Brunel,’ said Dave, ‘Shoddy; William T Shoddy. I reckon he could have gone a long way if it weren’t for his name.’

  They walked into the dark entrance of the catacombs. The floor angled down steeply; Fergus thought it would be better with steps.

  ‘I could swear there’s something I’ve forgotten,’ said Dave.

  As the light from the entrance faded, the descent was not as steep, but they were still going down.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a torch or anything?’ asked Fergus, ‘It’s getting quite dark’

  ‘Just keep walking straight ahead. The lights will come on automatically once we’re recognised.
’

  Now completely dark, they walked on, their footfalls echoing off the stone walls, and the floor still tilting down. The air surprised Fergus, it was warm and didn’t smell damp; instead it smelt of cinnamon.

  ‘Ah! Dave something’s on me; it’s big and it’s moving.’

  ‘Of course! Roof spiders; they don’t know who you are. Just stand still lad and I’ll try to contact the Hive-mind. Oh, and think happy, harmless thoughts, fluffy kittens that sort of thing.

  ‘Spiders don’t live in a hive.’

  ‘These do, it’s a bit like St Paul’s Cathedral, lovely architecture. But if I were you lad, I would be thinking nice thoughts and not blathering. These lads can strip a man down to his bones in about 30 seconds. Strangely they always leave the eyes and the testicles; I reckon they don’t like the texture.’

  ‘There’re three now. Can you hurry up Dave?’ Fergus’s voice sounded strained.

  ‘Hold hard there tiger, can’t rush this telepathy stuff, it’s all a bit vague, emotions and the like. Keep thinking kittens, we’ve got loads of seconds before they pounce.’

  They stood in silence and total darkness for a small eternity then suddenly Fergus yelped.

  ‘They’re all over me, everywhere. Get em off. Get em off.’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t move,’ yelled Dave, ‘Movement triggers their attack reflex.’

  ‘Ow!. One of them bit me! Help, help me pleeeease.’

  ‘Oh, alright then.’

  Suddenly there was light as Dave shined a torch on Fergus. Orange spiders covered him from head to foot, each about the size of a baseball mitt. One was hanging on Fergus’s face. Dave sniggered.

  ‘Come on now, clear off,’ Dave made shooing gestures with his hands and grinned from ear to ear. ‘Sling yer hook, joke’s over.’

  The spiders made high-pitched whistling sounds.

  ‘No, that’s the end of the game I mean it, fun’s over.’

  Dave stopped shooing and burst into laughter.

  ‘You should see your face,’ said Dave and started coughing.

  The spiders dropped off Fergus and scampered away. Soon he was standing, spider-free in the wavering torch beam as Dave chuckled.

  ‘That was not funny,’ said Fergus.