Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom Page 7

  Fergus snorted. ‘All that bluff and honour is part of another age, excuses for the testosterone fuelled outrage of the frustrated.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Boadicea, ‘It is part of being, part of life. An important part. Learn to be a warrior if you want to walk at my side Fergus Loaf.’

  Fergus studied his wine for a moment.

  ‘I can learn,’ said Fergus quietly, ‘But hitting people with swords isn’t what I want to do with my life.’

  ‘Yes, but you let other people do it for you. Isn’t that hypocritical?’

  Fergus felt the conversation was going wrong. Not the slick, funny chat he planned in his head; time for an emergency change of conversation.

  Shoes? No, she wore sturdy leather boots. Hair? Not that either, it was a long, braided plait. Clothes? Ah yes, clothes.

  ‘I like your outfit,’ said Fergus, admiring the figure hugging leather cat suit that made her seem wild and rebellious. It looked expensive too, with ornamental gold metalwork on the arms and legs.

  Boadicea smiled; a lovely thing to see.

  ‘It’s ceremonial and bit tight now; I had it fitted when I was seventeen. It’s also hot and sweaty.’

  She reached up to her neck, pulled the zip right down and shook air into the top of the suit. Fergus had a clear view of her shapely breasts. His mouth went dry and the blood left his face; it was needed elsewhere.

  ‘What’s the matter? Never seen boobs before?’

  ‘Um, sorry,’ said Fergus, ‘didn’t mean to stare, but they are truly magnificent.’

  Boadicea looked into his eyes. Fergus drowned. He reached out and pulled her forward into a kiss. It went on for three score years and ten. Fergus reached inside her top and cupped her breast. After a short while she broke away and gently removed Fergus’s hand.

  ‘I have to go soon,’ said Boadicea.

  ‘Coffee perhaps? At your place?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘That would be lovely, but you’d never get past Mrs Yorkshire.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Yorkshire, the housekeeper. I live in St Catherine’s Hostel for Young Ladies.’

  Fergus knew of St Cats, a magnificent Victorian mansion converted into a hostel for daughters of the great and the good. The rules were strict, the residents strange and aloof. It was a Shangri-La of lovely women, entry was impossible; Coffee was not a prospect.

  ‘In any case, you’re not a warrior yet.’

  ‘And how do I get to be a warrior? Adopt a menacing look and stomp about in a bearskin loincloth?

  ‘Well, you could do worse than talk to Dave or at least read his book.’

  ‘His book?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a big hit off-world. You know the thing; a prophet is never appreciated on his home world. Dave is considered a master in the ways of the warrior.’

  ‘Could’ve fooled me, he just seems like a grumpy old man in a cardy.’

  ‘To cause your enemies to underestimate you is the act of a great warrior. Never let them see you coming. In this one thing you act like a warrior, Fergus Loaf,’ said Boadicea and grinned.

  ‘You mean I hide my light under a bushel?’

  ‘I doubt you would get that under a bushel,’ said Boadicea and nodded toward Fergus’s tented crotch.

  Fergus raised his eyebrows, ‘Well, you have that effect on me.’

  ‘Mmm, shame I don’t with our men. They are more interested in the battlefield than the bedroom.’

  ‘And yet you want me to become a warrior?’

  ‘Yes, I am woman, I want it all, and I’m worth it.’

  Fergus looked at Boadicea.

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  Boadicea sniffed then reached over and kissed Fergus on the lips.

  ‘I really, really must go. Mrs Yorkshire keeps a strict curfew,’ she passed the bottle of wine to Fergus and stood up.

  ‘Go and see Dave. He needs some company and perhaps he can help you become a warrior. Goodbye Fergus.’

  ‘Tarrah gorgeous,’ said Fergus and watched Boadicea’s leather clad behind walk away across the lawn. It was a wonderful thing to behold.

  Fergus sat and finished the wine, thinking about what Boadicea said, how she felt, and the possibility of feeling more. Then he remembered the stone. He jumped up and trotted over the lawn towards the Pavilion.

  Fergus walked into Dave’s kitchen. On the table was an opened bottle of whiskey; he poured himself a generous measure.

  He knocked on the living room door.

  ‘Come in lad.’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  Dave nodded towards the three dogs curled up in baskets around the flickering fire.

  ‘It was someone they knew and someone they thought should be here. They think you can help.’

  As there was nowhere else to sit, Fergus made himself comfortable in one of the empty dog baskets.

  ‘You alright Dave?’

  ‘Of course I’m alright, I’m always alright… You know about Abbey don’t you?’

  ‘Enoch showed me the whole recording,’ said Fergus.

  Dave sighed. ‘I wanted to talk about things anyway, get a different perspective. These bloody spiders are an ancient problem. In a way, it is good news, as they really are a terrible menace, if I had let that first one go, then we would be ten foot deep in the buggers by now. That makes past events a bit more bearable.’

  Fergus sat quietly waiting for Dave to continue.

  ‘Any road, things aren’t as bright as Enoch makes out. With what we’ve got there’s a chance they could break out and escape into the countryside. Even worse, they could break into the catacombs and we would never get them out.’

  ‘Surely they’d starve?’ said Fergus.

  ‘No lad, there is a whole ecology in the catacombs. It is far, far bigger than you imagine. It’s a new world down there, populated over centuries by off world visitors. There are vast caverns with light and plants and even forests. They could live there for a long, long time.

  Anyways, they’re coming back and we have to deal with them. I can’t trust the future of Earth to an optimist like Enoch. The dogs don’t care. They’d have to leave, but their civilisation would survive. I can’t take the risk. I’m going to call in the authorities and everything we have here will be destroyed.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Fergus and held up the stone. Dave stared at him.

  ‘I had a chat with that murgatroyd Atherton, traded what I knew about my heritage for some information.’

  ‘Well, it was yours to trade. What did you get in return? It’s difficult to believe those miserable buggers would part with hard facts for vague family stories.’

  ‘Once I explained the possibility of a nuclear strike blowing up the planet, it pretty much gave me the information. That we have nuclear weapons seemed a bit of a surprise,’ said Fergus.

  ‘True, they seem to think us mere monkeys half the time.’ Dave paused. ‘Mind you they must be up to something. They couldn’t give a fart about humanity. Something must be stopping them leaving. Well, that’s a problem for another day. What did you find out?’

  Fergus held up the stone again.

  ‘The writing is too small to read,’ said Fergus.

  ‘And it’s in Latin,’ said Dave.

  ‘Really? How can you see from over there?’

  Dave looked embarrassed.

  ‘You aren’t the only one to benefit from off-world technology. Any road, we’ll get it transcribed. It won’t take long, there’s all sorts of technology floating abouts,’ said Dave and yowled at one of the dog’s. It stood up and looked at Fergus, who handed it the stone. The dog trotted off, nosed the door open and left.

  ‘So Dave, what’s this book of yours all about?’

  Dave tilted his head and looked at Fergus.

  ‘So you want to know about my book? Wouldn’t have anything to do with a leather-clad Celtic temptress would it?’

 
‘Hmm, guilty, but still I’m told it’s a big hit off-world.’

  ‘Apparently; I wouldn’t know for sure. Never get any royalties and don’t know who put it out there, though it does have the feel of Palaver about it.’ Dave walked over to the shelves lining the walls.

  ‘Here you are lad, first and only edition.’ He handed Fergus a slim book.

  ‘I published it myself, back when I cared more about such things. That’s a signed copy by the way.’

  The book title was ‘One Woman, One Life One Shed’. Fergus opened the flyleaf and saw Dave’s signature. He also saw the publication date; 1952. He looked up at Dave.

  ‘I know lad, I’m older than I look. Anyhow, reading that won’t solve your problem. I know only too well that her kind are big on the warrior ethos, but it’s an attitude not a philosophy. It’s about actions not thoughts or words. What you need is the ‘Johnny Cash approach’.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Walk tall, walk straight, and look the world right in the eye.’

  The dog returned carrying a plastic binder. Dave took it from the dog’s mouth.

  ‘You didn’t have to slobber all over it,’ said Dave and wiped his hand on his cardigan.

  The dog growled and muttered.

  ‘I may be ungrateful, but I am not ungracious. I apologise,’ said Dave and the dog walked to a basket, turned round a few times and lay down.

  ‘You paid for it, so perhaps you might want to read it first,’ said Dave and handed the folder to Fergus.

  In it was a single page.

  From: Quintus Petillius Cerialis

  To: Emperor Hadrian

  Date ii Aprilis DCCCLXII (Translator note – 2nd April 110 AD)

  Eboracum (Translator note –York)

  The main fort near Cambodunum (Translator note –Huddersfield) is destroyed, with the loss of all 500 men. The local villagers flee an unknown menace that kills people and livestock. Scouts report invulnerable demons occupy this place.

  I despatched the Legio IX Hispana to restore order. They were routed and those that survived fled to Mamucium (Translator note –Manchester). I request men be sent to replace this lost legion.

  A delegation of Druids arrived and claimed these demons are from another world, and travelled here through an enormous gate hidden in the depths of the earth. Their teachings speak of such things. They offered to send a party to caves near Cambodunum and travel deep into the earth. Once at the appointed place a giant bell rung to summon the Keeper of the Gate. This requires a human sacrifice. They claimed they could persuade this entity to rid the world of these demons. In payment they required Druid sanctuaries at Stonehenge, Avebury and Wayland’s Smithy. This I promised.

  Over the last month, beset by constant attacks by these demons, until they reached the walls of Eboracum. Yet they are not beasts, there is cunning and strategy in their actions. They were not many, yet were strong and tough; we had not injured even one. We watched them gather for another attack in the early evening gloom. Then they disappeared. There was no sound or lightening in the sky as if the gods had struck them down.

  The Druids returned today and claimed their reward. I therefore ask that you honour my promise and grant Druid sanctuaries at the agreed sites.

  Dave took a sip of whiskey, his impatience showing as Fergus read.

  ‘What does it say lad? Anything useful?’

  ‘Very useful, if it’s true. It implies that there is some controlling entity here in the catacombs that has the power to get rid of unwelcome visitors. It sounds like the effects of that ‘last line of defence’ I saw in Enoch’s recording.’

  ‘Ha, that’s terrific,’ said Dave and reached over to touch his glass against Fergus’s, ‘Let’s have a read then.’

  While Dave read, Fergus looked around the room and sipped his whiskey. Without thinking, he stroked the head of the dog curled up in the next basket. On the second stroke he found his hand grasped in the dog’s teeth. It stared at him.

  ‘Sorry, old habit,’ said Fergus. The dog let Fergus’s hand go.

  Dave looked up from the printed sheets and grinned.

  ‘This is very, very good news. The Druids kept accurate records for their day and their verbal histories go back eons. We may be able to find out more about this entity. It certainly seems tied in with the setup here. Well done lad, this could be a viable option.’

  ‘Would such an entity still be alive after all this time?’

  ‘Our concept of time is skewed. That’s why the murgatroyds didn’t notice our progress over the last hundred years. These off world types think a thousand of our years as a long lunch.’

  ‘Well how do we know it’s accurate?’

  ‘A murgatroyd wouldn’t keep it unless its providence was impeccable and it certainly wouldn’t trade it. Their reputation is everything, without that they are just speed humps on the smooth road of the Universe.

  So change of plan; we try and reach this entity. I will set a deadline, if we don’t get things sorted in time, then the authorities are informed and let battle commence. Mind you, a trip to the deeper part of the catacombs is highly dangerous. We may not survive.’

  Dave fell silent and stared into the fire, nursing his glass.

  ‘Do you want to survive Dave?’

  ‘Sometimes I’m not sure. I’ve lost nearly everything I loved; these allotments are the only thing left. I’ll fight for them, but I don’t know if surviving means that much anymore.’

  ‘Would these allotments survive without you though?’ asked Fergus.

  Dave was quiet for a moment and then looked at Fergus.

  ‘Keep calm and carry on,’ said Dave and smiled.

  ‘Always a good plan. So what do we do now?’

  ‘We seek more information.’

  ‘So it’s back to the authorities after all?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘No lad, we need to make a trip to London. I think it’s time we visited the Dark Library. If this works out then perhaps we can save the Earth and the allotments.

  The dog next to Fergus barked softly.

  ‘No chance,’ said Dave.

  The dog barked louder and yowled for a while.

  ‘Ok then, that’s a deal,’ said Dave.

  ‘What?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Muttley here wants to come along and he has persuaded me, after a suitable bribe, to agree. He also said if you touch him again without his permission, he’ll bite your balls off.’

  Chapter Six

  Patience beats enthusiasm; endurance beats speed; cunning beats skill. That’s why old farts like me can still kick your arse.

  Dave Trellis

  One Life, One Woman, One Shed

  ‘Come on lad, let’s get going,’ said Dave.

  The battered tandem had a large lamp strapped to the front of an enormous basket. In the basket sat a dog, which looked at Fergus and barked.

  ‘Um, Dave, you’re not thinking of going to London on that are you? I can peddle for England, but even at full tilt it’ll take days.’

  ‘And what do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, a car, preferably a fast one.’

  ‘Can’t be doing with them, too noisy and you never get to appreciate countryside. Any road, we’d never get one into catacombs.’

  ‘Dave, I appreciate the joys of cycling, but we need to get to London fast.’

  ‘I know it lad or I wouldn’t go this way. I’d take the train and a good book. This is the fastest way to London; we’ll be there in half an hour.’

  ‘What? You going to make this heap of crap fly?’

  ‘No lad, we’ll take the M7 direct to London.’

  ‘There is no M7. M6 sure, M8 definitely, but no M7,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Not on your maps, true, but for those that know, the M7 is grand. Come on saddle up, I’ll steer, you peddle.’

  ‘What about the dog?’

  ‘Don’t be daft lad; his paws won’t reach the pedals.’


  Five minutes later, the big lamp on the front illuminated the rock walls of the catacombs and the air smelt of warm cinnamon.

  ‘Peddle harder, we need to go faster,’ said Dave.

  Fergus pumped the pedals and they shot ahead at a tidy lick.

  ‘You might want to shut your eyes for a bit,’ shouted Dave over the wind and creaking gears.

  ‘What? Is this bit secret?’ shouted Fergus.

  ‘No, it’s just bloody frightening, just keep peddling, and do not stop. Here we go ... Arrgggghhhh.’

  Fergus joined Dave in a quick scream and the dog yowled as they charged towards a dead end. The rock wall was grey with a slight white discolouration toward the top and Fergus would be able to describe it in detail for year to come. Fergus shut his eyes.

  There was no crash, no pain, and no tiresome wheel repairs. Fergus smelt fresh air and felt sunlight on his face; he opened his eyes.

  The tandem was cruising along a smooth tarmac path down the side of a cutting. There were trees and wild flowers along the sides and the bottom was a wide flat road. It looked like a disused railway line. The sky seemed green, rather than blue, Fergus put that down to shock.

  ‘You alright lad?’ asked Dave.

  ‘I’m fine, just a little surprised.’

  ‘Well put your back into it then, we haven’t got all day.’

  Fergus dutifully pushed on the pedals and the tandem sped down the cutting. By the time they hit the bottom, the tandem was doing thirty miles an hour. The wheel bearings whined and the breeze whistled past. Tears formed in Fergus’s eyes and flowed back towards his ears. Dave stuck his head back and put his legs in the air. The dog, paws up on the edge of the basket, pushed its nose into the breeze and enjoyed every minute.

  After a while Dave yelled, ‘Stop peddling.’

  The tandem slowed to a halt, the dog leapt out and headed for the embankment.

  ‘Come on lad I’ll show something impressive.’

  Dave scuffed the ground with his boot, scrapping away a thin layer of mud and moss. Underneath was a flat, grey surface. Dave polished away with the sole of his boot until the structure was visible. It was a smooth, cobbled road, but each cobblestone fitted the next exactly, like the shell of a huge stone tortoise.