Chapter 14

I awoke to find myself face to face with the Duck, who had white froth all around his mouth and a toothbrush sticking out of the side. He removed it.

“Late night, mate?” he smirked.

“That is the weirdest woman I have ever met in my life,” I said. “What planet did you say she was from?”

“Dunno. Did you—you know?”

“What time is it?” I yawned.

“Time to go and meet the Colonel.”

“What do I want to go and meet him for?” I said. “Don’t we eat in this place?”

“You’ll be lucky. Breakfast finished an hour ago.”

I sat up and pushed him. “Well, why didn’t you wake me? I’m bloody starving!”

“I thought I better let you sleep in,” he grinned. “After your night of unbridled passion. What was she like? Bit of a goer, is she?”

“Oh, shut up.”

I shoved him off the ladder and climbed down. I stood in the aisle and had a good scratch. The Duck dug in the breast pocket of his biggles and handed me a lump of bread.

“Here, I saved you this.”

I looked at it, thought about throwing it at him, and started trying to gnaw into it. It was rock hard.

At that moment Jemmons swung round the corner, with a towel slung over his shoulder.

“Morning, shipmates!” he waved jauntily.

I waved back tiredly and leaned against the frame of our bunk. The Duck ferreted in another one of his cargo pockets and produced a battered looking toothbrush with half the bristles missing. He rubbed some of the froth off his brush onto the bent stubs and handed it to me.

“Here, you can have a go with my old one. Give it back when you’ve finished,” he said. “Hiya, Jemmers—been for your run, mate?”

“Aye. I like to keep in shape,” said Jemmons.

“Yeah, well,” said the Duck, looking him up and down. “You should.” He turned back to me and looked down at my bare feet. “We’ve got to find you some shoes. What size do you take?”

“Mime,” I said. I had the toothbrush and the lump of stale bread stuck in my mouth at the same time. I was having one of my private jokes.

“Grow up,” said the Duck. He looked round and spotted a pair of boots under the opposite bunk. “We’ll borrow Archie’s—he won’t mind—you can give ’em back after our interview with the Colonel.” He bent down and swiped them. “Damn—he’s taken the laces out—some people just don’t trust anybody, do they? Here, you’ll have to grip with your toes.”

I stepped into the well worn out, army-style boots.

“There you go,” smiled the Duck. “Slip-ons.”

I attempted to walk and left both boots behind me. They were at least two sizes too big for me. I walked back patiently and stepped into them again and adapted my gait to a shuffle, rather like one of those cross-country Nordic skiers, and they stayed on.

The Duck nodded. “Perfect.” He nudged Jemmons. “Hey, Rog, guess who Stephen slept with last night.”

“Who?”

“Only the Princess.”

“The Princess?” exclaimed Jemmons. “You slept with the Princess?”

“Nothing happened,” I said. “And nothing ever will happen—I’m only keeping her sweet till we get out of this mess. And guess who dropped me in it.”

Jemmons’s eyes switched to the Duck. “Aye, that sounds about right—he tried to fix me up with the little monster, but I wasn’t having any of—”

I wondered why Jemmons had suddenly stopped and looked at the Duck. The Duck pretended to be stroking his hair, but I could tell he’d been signalling like mad to Jemmons.

“What?” I said.

“I just don’t want him to put you off,” said the Duck. He pointed a finger of admonishment up at Jemmons. “And I’ll thank you not to call my son’s intended a little monster.”

“I wouldn’t call her a monster,” I said. “But she is very peculiar. She’s got cold hands, I know that.”

“Naaah!” quacked the Duck. “I thought you said nothing happened.”

“Can we get off this subject? What about the Colonel?” I said. “Let’s get him over with.”

I shuffled up the aisle and Jemmons fell in with me.

“Hey!” called the Duck. “Aren’t we forgetting something?”

Jemmons and I both looked round. The Duck indicated me.

I shrugged. He walked up to me and snatched his toothbrush out of my breast pocket.

“Mine, I think!”

We went via the washroom, so I was at least able to rinse my hands and face. Jemmons let me use his towel. The Duck kept hurrying us. We descended into the long oblong well of the basement I had looked down into the day before. A great hum of humanity emanated from it—interspersed with tuneless whistles, cackles, and shouts. Now it was full of black suited convicts going about their daily routines. Some were pushing trolleys piled high with dishes and cutlery, others were washing up, or emptying slops into tureens or down drains, and still more were hanging about in groups, sitting at tables or standing in the aisles, just talking. The warm, clammy air smelt of bread ovens and laundry, and the body odour of sweaty human beings. I was glad I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To G Wing,” said the Duck. “The Colonel runs things over there, so behave yourself.”

“I don’t do saluting,” I said.

Jemmons and I were walking alongside each other. The Duck, who was leading us, nodded to just about everyone we passed, and they in turn nodded respectfully back. Though I hated to admit it—he did seem to have some authority in the Castle. We strolled on and on through the massive underground hall, flanked on both sides by a tangled network of pipes and boilers, past rows and rows of dining tables with their regiments of chairs, through flexible plastic doors into a laundry section, busy with workers loading and unloading enormous washing drums and driers. The noise and steamy stench was suffocating. Finally, we came to the end and a screen of bars blocked our way.

The Duck went straight to the gate in the middle and pressed a buzzer. Two leather-clad guards—a bit like bikers—emerged from a side room inside the reception area and came over. I noticed one of them was carrying a Bible, with his finger stuck in it, saving a page.

“Doctor?” smiled the one with the holy book. “How can we help you?”

“Three to see the Colonel,” said the Duck, indicating himself, Jemmons, and then me.

The guard’s eyes strayed over to me. I gasped and quickly stared down at my feet. It was John—the android—the one I’d met and befriended on Tree’s barge.

“Is he expecting you?” he asked.

“We’ve got an appointment.”

“Wait here.”

He nodded to the other one, who whipped out a phone and punched in some numbers, turning away from us, so that we couldn’t read his lips or hear what he was saying. He wasn’t on it more than a few seconds, before he turned and nodded to John the android, who unlocked the iron gate and let us through. He showed no signs that he recognised me. I decided to do the same. They frisked us and sent us on our way, which lay down a dingy walkway no wider than a train carriage, which seemed to go on for miles.

“How much farther is it?” I said, struggling to keep my shuffle up to pace.

“Stop whinging—it’s only down the end,” said the Duck, who was striding ahead.

“G Wing’s on the other side of the Castle—the lay-out’s the same,” said Jemmons.

“You mean I’ve got to walk through another basement?” I groaned.

* * *

Yes I did, and another checkpoint, and up another flight of stairs, and through the maze of bunks that was G Wing. Unlike H Wing, the prisoners in G Wing had arranged their bunks in the form of a giant maze, so that when you entered at one end you had to walk twice as far to get to the centre, which was very annoying, for a man in my footwear, but it was where the Colonel liked to hold court. I, of course, whinged, so Jemmons offered to give me a piggyback through the maze part. But I was too proud to accept, so I just took off my boots and carried them. And that’s why I was barefoot when I entered the Colonel’s inner sanctum—a corral of bunks with only one way in and out.

The moustachioed Colonel was easy to spot—he was dressed in an immaculate British Army officer’s uniform with three pips on the epaulets, and was sitting at an impressive looking plastic desk, flanked by two guys in smart black boiler suits, without the usual customized cargo pockets. Several of the Colonel’s other ranks were there, leaning against bunks, lying on bunks—there was even one sitting on top of a bunk, keeping a look-out.

“Ah, Zirconion—sit down,” said the Colonel, in that rather absentminded, upper-crust tone British Army officers used to adopt in the good old days before Dunkirk. He spotted my feet and pointed his baton at them. “Why isn’t that man wearing his boots?”

“Yes, I’m ever so sorry about that, Colonel,” said the Duck. “Some blighter swiped his laces. You can’t trust anyone in this place, can you—excepting yourself, of course.” He rounded on me. “Put your boots on! Presenting yourself to the Colonel without your boots on—whatever next!”

I dropped my boots on the floor and stepped into them, with the wrong feet.

“Get a grip, Zirconion!” cried the Colonel. “Find the culprit and make an example of him. We run a tight ship on G Wing. A damn good flogging—that’s what the men need.”

“Yeah, and I bet you’d volunteer to let them give you one,” I said.

“What? What did he say?”

“Nothing, Colonel. Now, about our little agree—” said the Duck.

“Sergeant-Major Willis!” barked the Colonel.

“Sah!” screamed a guy a few feet to my left—right in my ear—clicking his heels together and jumping to attention.

“Get that man a set of laces—boots for the use of—from stores at once!”

“Sah!” screeched Sgt-Major Willis, marching away on the double.

“Cheers, mate,” I smiled.

The Colonel fixed me with his double-dash eyes, his military moustache quivering with rage. “You will address me as ‘Sah’!” he bellowed.

“He’s new, Colonel,” said the Duck. “He doesn’t know the drill—I’ll soon lick him into shape.” He turned on me again. “Stand up straight when you’re talking to a superior officer!” he quacked.

“I’m not in the army,” I said. “If he wants to play soldiers—that’s up to him—but I’m not signing up.”

“Give that man a damn good flogging!” yelped the beetroot-faced Colonel, springing from his chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Chalmers—Bauhaus! Lash him to the wheel!”

Two men moved towards me from my left, but the Duck got to me first and punched me in the stomach. I doubled up and dropped to my knees—the Duck got me in a Jap stranglehold and forced my face down on the floor.

“Eat dirt—you insolent scum!” he quacked.

“You’re-you’re-stran-gl-ing-me,” I stammered.

But the Duck kept squeezing.

“For pity’s sake let him up, Doctor,” I heard Jemmons pleading. “You’ll throttle him!”

“Do you submit?” said the Duck.

“Naff-off!” I croaked.

The Duck squeezed even tighter.

“Submit?”

I shook my head.

He jerked my neck back.

I nodded and slapped the floor.

“Say it!” he quacked.

“Sub-mit!” I gasped.

He let go and shoved me aside.

“Most impressive, Doctor,” said the Colonel.

“Not so tough now, is he? I get a lot of his sort—they think they’re hard—but they think again when I get through with ’em.”

“An admirable display of discipline,” nodded the Colonel.

“Well, I have done the SAS unarmed combat cour—agh!”

I pulled both the Duck’s ankles from under him, leapt to my feet and put the boot into him twice, before my boot flew off and I was dragged away by Chalmers and Bauhaus. I remember seeing my other boot drop off and some of the Colonel’s men kicking it around like a football for a lark—until the Colonel bellowed at them.

* * *

I was taken down into the basement and tied by my wrists to the pressure control wheel of a boiler. It was so high up the pipe that my feet barely touched the ground. I remembered seeing a film about some guy who was hung up like this and seemed to recall he died because something happens to the heart, so I was a bit concerned. I was also worried that the Colonel himself might come down and whip me. I mean, I know there are some people who would pay good money for that sort of thing, but I’m not like that. In the event, I was only hanging around for about half an hour before the Duck and Jemmons came to my rescue and quickly cut me down.

“You pratt!” quacked the Duck. “You could have got us flogged—I had to do some pretty nifty footwork up there to get you off. Colonel Tippet was all for making an example of you to his men.”

Jemmons held my head steady in his arms and poured some water over my lips from a small saucepan.

“Boots,” I panted. “Archie’s boots.”

“Don’t worry about the bloody boots—I’ve got ’em,” said the Duck. “And the laces. They’re the least of your worries. The Colonel’s only refused to help with the escape—if you go!”

“He’s a bas-bas-bastion of old school discipline,” I said.

“He also controls half the bleeding nick—the half we have to escape from,” said the Duck. “The Colonel’s agreed to create a diversion while we’re up on the west wall. And that happens to be right above us. With any luck every guard on G Wing will have his hands full.”

“Just wish we had a better plan,” I said, as Jemmons helped me up.

“Yeah,” said the Duck. “—Hey? It’s my plan!”

“Exactly.”

“Listen, mate, it’s all about descent time,” he said, helping Jemmons to walk me away. “I’ve done all me sums—we’ll be off that wall before they even know we’re away. I’ll have us down quicker than a tart’s knickers. As long as you watch what you’re doing, there’s no risk.”

“Duck!” I said.

“What?”

He walked into a pipe.

“Mind that pipe,” I said.

* * *

We returned to H Wing. John the android was no longer on duty on the gate. I climbed back in my bunk for a doze while I waited for the lunch bell. The Duck and Jemmons went off to see a man about some snowboards. I could only have been asleep an hour when I had an unexpected visitor. It was Travis De Quipp.

“What do you want?” I said. “No—don’t come up—I’ll come down.”

I tumbled down the ladder.

“I feel I must put the record straight,” he said.

“Have you removed that thing from Emma’s back?” I said.

“Thing? Oh, yes—it has been de-activated—it will now dissolve and cause her no further problem,” he said.

“That better not be a lie,” I said.

“Shall we walk?” he invited.

“Where?”

“It is almost time for the pig swill they call food in this place to be served, perhaps if we take a slow walk—the scenic route, as you English say.”

“Okay,” I nodded.

We walked down the aisle.

“I always liked you, Stephen,” he said.

“I always hated you, Travis.”

“Yes, of course, but now I hope that we may lay old rivalries aside and work together,” he said.

“Just like that?” I smiled. “Not a chance.”

“All that matters is the successful conclusion of our business.”

I took that to be code for the escape. “During which,” I said, “I will be keeping a very close eye on you, De Quipp, or whatever your name is.”

“That will be a little difficult I am afraid.” He stopped and looked down at his highly polished boots.

“Why?”

“Because I will not be going with you,” he said gravely.

“Why?”

“I am to play a small role in the diversion.”

“How?” I said, walking on.

“I will be pretending to be the Doctor—or Sir Julian, as I still prefer to call him—in the winch room.”

I glanced across at his noble profile. I still didn’t trust him, but there was something vaguely heroic about his demeanour—the way he clasped his hands behind his back, the slight stoop, the thoughtful look ahead of him—that rang true.

“With Reggie the nark?” I said.

“Nark?”

“Snitch—informer.”

“Ah, yes. With the traitor Reggie Goldenhair,” he said.

“You’re doing this for the Princess?”

“It is my duty,” he said. “I am sure she will attend to my rescue later. She is a fine woman.”

“I’ll remind her,” I said.

“Thank you, Stephen.” He paused and bowed.

“If I remember,” I added.

We continued.

“You are to be married to Her Royal Highness, I hear.”

“Er, yes,” I said. “When all this is over.”

“Congratulations. You will make her very happy, I think.”

“Well, I’ll try. I, um, just hope I can live up to her high expectations.” I was referring to her sexual demands, but De Quipp thought I meant something else.

“You already have, Stephen,” he said. “That is what our duel was about.”

“I thought that was about Emma.”

“No. That was merely to provoke you into a fight,” he said.

“You never loved her?”

“Never. It was a test—a test of your manhood,” he said. “To see if you were made of the right stuff. You passed with flying colours I am pleased to say.”

“Funny, I seem to remember I lost that little charade,” I said.

“Yes, but you did not back down. The man who marries the Princess must show no fear,” said De Quipp. He patted my shoulder. “You were very brave.”

I thought about telling him the truth, but since he was in the mood for confession, I decided to press him for more information.

“What was that blood thing about then?”

“Oh, just a device to keep you out of harm’s way—there was so much going on—Corrective Measures were closing in, we were all planning our mission to the Castle—the Princess did not want you involved. She wanted to keep you safe.”

“She was looking out for me?”

“She is always looking out for you,” he said. “And now I think I have said too much.”

“One more question,” I said. “Have you told Emma any of this?”

“Emma? Does she matter anymore?” he said—rather heartlessly, I thought.

I stalled. Something didn’t sound right—how could this apparently honourable man, a man who seemed so sensitive and selfless when it came to the Princess, speak so callously about Emma? I was picking up some mixed messages and it was making me feel uneasy.

“Does she still mean something to you?” he questioned.

“Not in that way,” I said. “But she is a human being and I still care about her safety and her state of mind.”

“And that is all?”

“Well, she is still expecting my child,” I shrugged. I was confused, watching my words—it was like I was playing a game, without knowing the rules, or even the name of the game—or the point, for that matter.

“You will have many offspring with the Princess,” said De Quipp.

“Number isn’t really an issue is it though?” I said. “I mean one child is as important as a thousand.”

“What a strange species you are,” said De Quipp. “In my world one must be prepared to die for the good of the many.”

That explained why he was risking his life, or, at the very least, his freedom, for the rest of us.

“Where exactly is your world?” I asked.

“Oh, you wouldn’t know it,” he said.

“Well, I might.”

“Do you know where the Dropsyplevlapachord Sentaxia is?”

“Um?”

“It’s appluvial to the Gannexquadadraxl Cyclopse Ring.”

“Is it?”

“Beyond the Mormagleean Spydra.”

“Oh—that appluvial! Why didn’t you say?”

* * *

De Quipp and I strolled around H Wing—not that there was much to see but bunks and bars—and had ourselves a fascinating conversation. He wouldn’t tell me much about his world, but I did draw him out on one or two other interesting details. For example, he had not slept with Emma, they had not been to bed, or spent the night together and their entire courtship had not progressed beyond a kiss. They hadn’t done anything. Anything at all. I was relieved to hear this because it would have been immoral to seduce Emma by foul means. And I was sure Emma would also have been relieved that she had not been taken advantage of when she heard the bitter truth about her precious Travis. I must admit though, I allowed myself a secret portion of smugness in the knowledge that I had been right all along.

* * *

We met up with the Duck and Jemmons for lunch—Reggie joined us, too, but the Duck discouraged any other inmates from sitting at our table, which was set a little distance apart from the others. Our own personal Judas tried to pump us in his own crude way for more information about the escape. The Duck handled him like a shark angler toying with a minnow.

“So, what happens when we hit the ice, Doctor?” asked Reggie.

“We hit the ice running, Reggie baby,” drawled the Duck. “The rest is going to be legendary.”

“But where do we run to?”

“Our friends on the outside will take care of that end,” said the Duck.

“The Resistance?” whispered Reggie.

The Duck looked both ways and leaned in. “Otherwise known as The Levellers, Reggie—they are going to smash this Government one day—there’ll be anarchy and then the big boys will step in and take over.”

“The big boys?” said Reggie.

“The Desperate Men.”

“I thought they were called The Levellers,” said Reggie, scratching his bald head.

“They’re just a front—it’s all political—The Angry Old Men have had enough,” said the Duck.

“But I thought you just called them The Desperate Men,” said Reggie.

“They’re just being used—it’s the Angry Old Men who run the show—they come from the highest levels of society,” the Duck told him.

“Toffs?” said Reggie. “Like who?”

“The brother-in-law of the Over-Controller’s cousin for one,” said the Duck. “Now, that’s enough, ’cos the more you know the longer they’ll torture you for if you get caught.”

“They won’t break me,” said Reggie.

“Reggie,” said De Quipp.

“Yes, Monsieur De Quipp?”

“Take my plate back.”

“Yes, Monsieur De Quipp.” He scurried away with his own and De Quipp’s plates.

“You take unnecessary risks, Sir Julian. What if the Over-Controller does not have a cousin with a brother-in-law?” said De Quipp sharply.

“Oh, but he does,” said the Duck, wobbling his head as he trumped De Quipp. “When these fascists blew up Duckworth Hall back in 2002, a new family took over my land and rebuilt on it—they were called Neuville—they’re still around somewhere—only now I’ve found out they’re related to the Over-Controller. That was just a little historical pay-back.”

“You should not make our business personal,” said De Quipp, clearly irritated at being wrong.

The Duck quacked, “Everything’s personal De Quipp. That’s what makes it fun.”

* * *

Our lunch party broke up. The Duck said he had to see someone about foot-straps for his boards. I didn’t want to get stuck with De Quipp, so I made some excuse about wanting to find my clothes in the laundry, because I’d left something in the pocket of my leather jacket. So, poor Jemmons found himself left with De Quipp. I didn’t wait around to see where they went. I had suddenly remembered John the android and wanted to see if he was on guard duty. I had no idea what I was going to say to him if he was, I just had a compulsion to see him, maybe ask him if he remembered me. I had decided it couldn’t do any harm—he could hardly turn me in.

It was a long walk, but Archie had allowed me to go on borrowing his boots and since they now had laces in them, I made good, comfortable progress to the gate.

The guards were in their guardroom. I pressed the buzzer. Both guards came out. One was carrying a Bible.

“What can we do for you?” asked John the android, still showing no indication that he knew me.

“Could I just have a word with you—over here?” I pointed along the bars and started walking.

He shrugged to the other guard and followed me. The other guard watched us for a moment or two and then went back inside.

“What’s all this about, convict?”

“Er, remember me, John?” I smiled.

His head tilted slightly to one side. “No. And my name is not John. You must have me mixed up with someone else, convict.”

I looked anxiously towards the guardroom and then back at John. “Don’t you recognise me at all?” I said.

“Why should I? I have never seen you in my life before.”

“You can drop the religious robot routine now, mate,” I smiled. “You remember—me, you, Jody and Emma—that night on the boat. What a party that was! Drinking, dancing—you and Jody getting it on—”

“Stop! These are serious accusations, convict!”

“They’re not accusations, John—I’m just saying we had a great time, man—we philosophized about life, art, and love—chilled to the Bird playing his axe—”

“—Silence! You are impure—and a thief! It is in the good book! You are all damned! It is forbidden to speak to you of such things! Move away from the bars!” he barked, waving his Bible in my face. “Back—thou art the foot soldier of Satan!”

I stepped back a couple of paces. “What happened to you, John? Did they get Jody, too? You must remember Jody. You were going to do the Kerouac thing with her—you know, go on the road—find yourself.”

He felt his temple and stared at me, almost as though he was beginning to remember.

“Love and peace, man,” I said. “Do your own thing, yeah?”

He swallowed hard and looked down at the book he was clutching so tightly in his hands, and then back at me. His eyes were switching from side to side.

“I love you, man,” I said.

“Fornicator!” he screeched. “Blasphemer! Liar! Devil worshipper! False prophet! Sperm of Satan!”

He put the fear of God into me. I backed away and turned tail and ran. I looked back a couple of times—thinking maybe I’d turn into a pillar of salt—and he was still standing there, bent and rocking forwards and backwards on the same spot, screaming at the top of his voice. And then he dropped to his knees and his partner came to his aid. I carried on running.

Finally, I ran out of gas and hid behind some laundry trolleys. I squatted down with my back to one and then I sat right down and closed my eyes, with my feet pushing against another one. I don’t know what I’d expected John to say, or how I expected him to react, but it saddened me to think that all my good work had been in vain. I know he was only an android, but I was sort of proud of my two conversions, and I really wanted to know what happened to Jody. I would most likely never know.

My mind switched off. I opened my eyes and let them stray over the laundry on the other trolley. It was probably safe to come out, but something kept me sitting there—a kind of lazy boredom. For a while, there didn’t seem much point in doing anything. And then I had an idea that snapped me out of it—completely unconnected with John and Jody—it was about the wheels on the laundry trolleys. They were fixed on the underside of the trolleys like those caster wheel things you find on furniture. Only these were made of clear plastic and reminded me of my old skateboard wheels. I hope you can see the way my mind was working. Why not grab myself four to take along—just for a little extra insurance? If I had four holes drilled in my snowboard, I could just slot them in and be lightning when I got down on that ice.

* * *

In the middle of the afternoon, I was lying on my bed, wondering where everybody was, when a bell rang. There was a commotion below. I swished my curtain open. The guys were climbing out of their bunks and filing down the aisle like Pavlov’s dogs.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Where’s everybody going?”

“ReEd!” grinned Archie, the flyer-type, who had loaned me his boots. “To the Hall!”

I scrambled out of my bunk. “Can you eat it?”

“ReEducation classes, you chump—come on, it’s How to Resist Sex today—we’ll be late.”

“Think I’ll give it a miss,” I said, turning back.

He caught my sleeve. “House rules, old bean.”

I went along with him—curious to meet the guy who was gonna deconstruct my sex drive.

We filtered into the flow of the main queue and found ourselves jostled and swept out of the dorm and along to what looked to me like a cinema. The Duck was already there, with De Quipp, Jemmons, and the ubiquitous Reggie Goldenhair. This was pointed out to me as soon as I came through the door by one of the guards directing the human traffic. The Duck was waving like mad from the back row. I smiled and waved back.

“I’ll sit with Archie,” I said, out of the corner of my mouth.

The guard grabbed my arm and practically threw me up the steps.

“Doc says sit with him!”

Archie tried to follow me, but was pushed away.

I trudged up the steps. The Duck was cleaning his specs. He flapped a hand.

“Pull up a pew, man—the show’s about to begin.”

I slumped down in the end seat.

The house lights dimmed. The screen lit up.

An orchestral soundtrack rose. Lots of swirly violins and bassy adagio—reminded me of one of those hilarious Hollywood B movies from the forties, which, of course, were always in black and white and not meant to be funny. A family of puritans were leaving a white picket-fence church. Could have been New England in the snow. A caption popped up: How to Resist Sex, Part 69.

I sniggered and looked around at the others to share the joke. But they were all deadly serious—their eyes fixed on the flickering screen. All except Jemmons, who was nodding off.

A monotone voice-over droned. The guy sounded like a mix of Walter Cronkite and Virginia Wade. I didn’t know about Celebrity Voice Synth back then.

* * *

“These are the Whatmores, an ordinary God-fearing family, living in an ordinary God-fearing town. Father is a respectable undertaker and lay preacher. His good wife, a school ma’am. Their daughters, Prudence, seventeen, and Mercy, eighteen, were their pride and joy.”

* * *

We got close-ups of them all as they were named. The Abraham Lincoln pa, clutching the good book. The dough-faced ma, shepherding her little women. First, Prudence, a poker-faced bespectacled critter with a slit mouth as taut as a rubber band, and then her sister—Mercy! I did a double take. The pouting madonna stepped out onto the apron of the little church and flashed her doll eyes at the camera. She stretched her neck languidly in the sun and drew her black hood up over her platinum blonde bun.

* * *

“Till temptation came calling…”

* * *

The music built and struck a succession of tragic chords.

I chuckled and took another look along the row. Rog was snoring. The Duck had sunk right down in his seat—and was eating what looked like popcorn! A sort of darkly satisfied leer spreading across his face, his head wobbling, as he absently shovelled in the sticky mess. De Quipp stroked his ‘tache and looked faintly amused. Reggie blinked nonstop and gazed in awe at the twenty-foot vision of temptation up on the screen.

The Whatmores filed through the braille of grave mounds to their hearse. Pop folded his lanky grasshopper body in behind the wheel. Ma and the girls climbed in alongside him and the music and the cameras and the lighting followed them down a painted board mainstreet. The mainstreet of Hell—lurid and loud, flashing lights and lowlife on every street corner. And there was some strange symbolism going on—milk churns outside a grocer’s store looked like shiny silver artillery shells. Icicles looked similar, only, of course, pointed down. And as the hearse passed, the icicles steamed and melted away—and—weirdest of all—a rotating barber’s pole turned into a solid red tube as it turned, becoming the only colour in the monochrome film. And it was all intercut with close-ups of miserable Mr Whatmore and his expressionless family. The whole thing was so bizarre and disturbing, I thought I was watching a car advert.

* * *

“The Devil finds work for innocent hands…”

* * *

Fade to Prudence reading her bible while mom stitches another quilt and pop measures up another stiff. Cut to Mercy, upstairs on the window seat, reading her bible. But she looks bored, distracted, her blank eyes drift from the text and latch onto a drawer in her dresser. She lays aside her bible, rises slowly, and goes to open it…

“Snap their bones and blind them! Clip their wings and bind them!”

* * *

We see Mercy reach in and take out a shiny little cylinder. She twists it and the room is suddenly filled with a bright vermillion glow, emanating from the point of a lipstick.

* * *

A jazzy saxophone and tom-toms explode from the everywhere-sound system, as crazy Mercy leaps and capers around the room, waving her lipstick about like a kid with a sparkler. And then she’s ogling herself in multiple mirrors and applying it thickly to her lips and doing what looks—to me anyway—like simulated sex. She rips off her bonnet and lets her hair fly! And then she’s flinging herself on the bed and tearing off the rest of her clothes.

I sank down in my seat, my eyes glued to the screen, reached across Jemmons, and dipped my hand into the Duck’s bag of popcorn.

That director had a ball—each time Mercy tossed her hair, a whip cracked. And we were bombarded by a succession subliminal messages, full-screen:

HARLOT. WHORE. BITCH. JEZEBEL. WANTON. WAR. RED. BUY EMPSON’S WHEETIES.

And when the action moved outside, we were treated to even more bizarre images: Mercy’s blue breath; slushy steaming streets; exploding icicles; lipstick graffiti scrawled on shiny surfaces and human flesh. The naked—except for her lipstick—Mercy danced through a snowscape of tombstones and wandered wantonly into town. The actress who played her must have got frostbite in places frost could seldom have bitten. To cut the fifty-minute epic short, Mercy got hooked on evil lipstick, fell in with bad company and got herself arrested. Whatever they were trying to cure us of or convert us to, it wasn’t working. What we were watching was nothing short of an art house porn movie!

Finally, the music swelled to a crescendo of emotion, as Mercy fell to her knees, her face scrubbed and blank. She raised her eyes to the light pouring in through the cell window and spoke those unforgettable, breathless words:

“Forgive me, Father…for I want to do it again…”

The End. Roll the credits. House lights up…

* * *

I looked along the line. The Duck was blowing his nose in a handkerchief. Reggie was still spellbound, following all the lines of words as they slid up the screen. De Quipp, rather disconcertingly, was staring directly at me. I looked away and nudged Jemmons.

“Hey, Rog—wake up—you missed that, mate.”

“When you’ve been in every bawdy house from Union Street to Calcutta, laddie—that stuff’s tame,” he sniffed.

The Duck stepped past us, with De Quipp and Reggie in tow.

“Come on, Rog—we’ve got business,” he said.

“Where’re we going?” I said.

“You’re not coming—I can’t take you anywhere,” said the Duck. “This is special business.” He strutted off down the steps.

“Oh, please let me be in your gang!” I jeered.

* * *

Later, hanging out in my bunk, alone again, scratching my initials on the bedpost, bored out of my box, I saw the Duck walk by.

“Hey—have you got those boards yet?” I said.

“Will you keep your voice down!” he quacked.

“Where’re you going?” I said.

“Never you mind.”

I scrambled down the ladder and pursued him along the aisle.

“I need to do some work on my board,” I said, keeping my voice down.

“What work?” he scoffed.

“Four holes—quarter inch in diameter,” I said. “Two in each end.”

“Hey? Don’t be daft. What d’you want to do that for?”

“That’s my business,” I said.

“Well, you can’t—’cos they’re not here.”

“Where are they then?”

He stopped. We were at the end of the aisle. He pulled me round the corner.

“What’s all this about holes?” he quacked. “I haven’t got time for holes.”

“I want four, quarter inch round holes drilled through my board, one in each corner,” I said. “About two inches in from the side and six in from either end.”

“What for?”

“Just make sure it gets done,” I said. I set off back up the aisle.

“Yeah, well, just you remember, mate—I give the orders around here!”

* * *

Pleased with myself, I returned to my bunk and had another look at the trolley wheels I’d nicked. I spun each of them in turn to make sure they were all nice and fast and didn’t stick anywhere. When I’d satisfied myself they were perfect, I put them back under my pillow and just lay there staring off into space.

A moth fluttered past my bunk. I didn’t take too much notice. And then it fluttered back again and hovered in front of my face. It was a small white thing with a handful of orange spots on each wing. I tried to swat it away with the flat of my hand, but it rose sharply and dodged the blow. I sat up and attempted to squat it between my hands, but again it evaded me and zoomed off down the end of my bunk, where it settled on the edge of the curtain, facing me.

Just then, Archie came back carrying three books. He climbed up into his bunk and gave me the Churchillian victory salute. I raised two fingers in what has come to be the peace sign in my time, and lay back down on my pillow, looking up at the canopy.

A minute or two later, I felt someone coming up the ladder and Archie’s jovial face appeared—all handlebar moustache and teeth.

“What—ho, old chap—brought you that book you wanted,” he beamed.

“What book?”

He thrust a copy of Famous British Aircraft of the Second World War into my hands.

“I’ve marked that page on spitfires I was telling you about—damn fine aircraft, the old spit,” he said.

“Oh, that book,” I said. “Thanks, Archie.”

He rattled back down the ladder and returned to his bunk, whistling the theme from The Dam Busters.

I opened it to the page Archie had marked with a strip of paper, but couldn’t see anything special about the old black and white photographs of spitfires or the captions around them. And then I noticed that he’d written something on the bookmark. It read, Don’t look now, but you’re under surveillance—the moth at six o’clock.

It had never occurred to me—but, yes, it made sense—there were mechanical beetles and spiders—why not mechanical moths? Its eyes would be microscopic cameras. I was under observation in my own bunk! I was just thinking what a violation of privacy that was, when I heard a THWANG!

Something fast and small had been fired from the direction of Archie’s bunk and whatever it was had hit the moth and knocked it off the curtain. It all happened so quickly, I didn’t see where the moth went.

“Got the little blighter!” cried Archie. He waved a small homemade catapult in a victory salute.

“Where did it go?” I said.

I looked around in my bunk for the moth. Archie hurried down his ladder and back up mine.

“There it is!” he said, grinning from handlebar to handlebar. “A direct hit. What?”

I followed his pointing finger and spotted the moth on its back in a fold of the blanket, its tiny legs still pedalling the air. Archie reached in and grabbed it in his fist and squeezed. There was a crunch. He opened his hand. The debris of the little electronic moth gave up a wispy plume of smoke.

“They must be very interested in you,” said Archie.

“I can’t think why,” I said. “I’m just an ordinary time traveller like the rest of you.”

He switched his eyes from left to right and leaned in. “I know there’s something going down, old man—you can trust Flight Lieutenant Archibald St John-Jones to keep mum,” he whispered.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” I said.

“Walls have ears—what?”

“What?” I said.

“Careless talk cost lives and all that,” he said. “Know the value of playing one’s cards close to one’s chest, old man—you don’t need to tell me—I was there in forty guarding the skies over the Home Counties, giving Jerry a good roasting. What?”

“What?” I said.

“Good luck with the escape, old chap—that’s all I’m saying—mum’s the word,” he said.

“Yeah. Right. Give my regards to Douglas Bader, mate,” I said.

“What’s that, old man—code?”

“Code?” I said. “You must know old tin legs.”

“Only flew spits and hurricanes, old man,” he said.

“No, Douglas Bader had tin legs,” I said.

“Yes, spot on—old tin legs. Must dash—evidence to dispose of—tootle-pip, old chap!”

He slid down the ladder and hurried off along the aisle with his kill.

I remember I did a lot of chin rubbing after that rather bizarre incident and conversation. And when the Duck returned and disappeared into his bunk I went straight down and swished his curtain open to tell him about my concerns. I found him sitting cross-legged on his bunk, rolling a joint.

“Shut that bloody light out!” he quacked.

I climbed in next to him and watched him light up and take his first contented draw.

“How well do you know Archie?” I said.

He expelled a sweet-smelling cloud of marijuana smoke. “Archie? Why—what’s he done?”

“It’s more what he hasn’t done,” I said.

“What are you on about?”

“He was never a spitfire pilot for a start,” I said.

“People in here get a bit carried away with their own importance,” said the Duck. “They make a lot of it up.”

“Yeah. I had noticed,” I said. “But this guy’s getting carried away with his own identity.”

“Yeah, well, they exaggerate—most of them just stumbled into a time machine, thought it was from outer space, and pressed a few buttons,” said the Duck.

“I’m not talking about all that,” I said. “I think he’s Corrective Measures.”

“You what!” spluttered the Duck. He coughed uncontrollably. I patted his back. “What d’you mean he’s Corrective Measures? How would you know?”

“He’s supposed to be an ex-Battle of Britain spitfire pilot, right? But he didn’t even know who Douglas Bader was.”

“Why—who is he?”

“Well—I wouldn’t expect you to know, but every English schoolboy who ever glued a model airplane together would know who Douglas Bader was. He was a flyer who lost both legs and still flew combat missions—he’s a national hero. A legend. It’s just not possible that old handlebars Archie wouldn’t know who he was.”

“Bit flimsy, innit?”

“The guy knocks out a surveillance moth with a catapult, comes over here, and starts pumping me about escape plans,” I said. “I don’t trust him.”

The Duck considered the glowing tip of his spliff for a few seconds and then began nodding at me very exaggeratedly.

“No—no, you’re wrong, man—Archie’s as straight as a die,” he said. “Besides, we haven’t got an escape plan, because we’re not planning to escape, so why worry?”

“Are you headbanging again?” I said. “Good stuff is it?”

The Duck gave me a lopsided grin and whispered, “Agree with me, you pratt—the bloody bed bugs are probably microphones!”

“Oh, yeah, well, I guess you’re right, mate,” I said. “I’m probably just being stupid, dumb, and silly. And he did lend me his boots so he must be a good guy.” But I whispered, “And they’re army boots—not air force boots.”

The Duck took a tobacco tin out of one of the breast pockets in his biggles, stubbed his spliff out in it, and pressed the lid shut.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s stretch our legs.”

We bailed out of the bunk and headed up the aisle. As soon as we were out of earshot of the bed bugs, I voiced another of my concerns.

“And another thing,” I said, “there’s something odd about De Quipp.”

“Now De Quipp’s kosher,” said the Duck, sticking his finger in my face.

“He’s a cold fish,” I said.

“Hey? Who told you that?”

“What d’you mean—who told me that? Nobody—I worked it out for myself. He told me what he’s going to do,” I said.

“Did he? What’s that then?”

“Don’t start,” I said. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“You mean the diversion with Reggie?”

“What did you think I meant?”

“De Quipp knows what he’s doing.”

“I hope he gets caught and they hang him or something,” I said.

“You’re still holding a grudge,” said the Duck.

“Holding a grudge? The grudge I’ve got is too bloody big to hold—I can’t even lift it!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten your part in all this either,” I said. “When we get out of here, I’ll be settling a few scores.”

“Don’t rush to judgement, mate—I’ve been looking out for you, if you did but know it.”

“This is about you and a new machine,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it now—it’ll keep. Did you get those holes drilled in my board?”

“Four quarter inch diameter holes—two each end,” said the Duck. “Sorted.”

“Good. By the way, any news of Tree?”

“Tree? What’s he got to do with the price of fish?”

“He went looking for this place. But he never returned,” I said.

“Hey?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Well, where’s Emily?”

“Well, she’s fine, I think.”

“You think? Where the hell did you leave her?”

“It’s a long story. She’s still in Bristol,” I said. “We didn’t exactly leave her there—we were kidnapped on a barge—they sort of time-ported us here.”

I told him what happened and why we were in Bristol in the first place, and how the whole barge suddenly took off.

“Crikey! I heard about that new gadget TCP developed—they find out your dimensional co-ordinates and then sling a sort of temporal mesh over you. It’s a bit like a fishing net, only you have to imagine the water is time and you’re the bleeding fish,” he said. “It’s scary if they’ve got that working.”

“If?” I said. “They did it!”

“All the more reason for us to lay our hands on the new technology,” he said. “Like a machine that can dodge about through time and space.”

“All of a sudden it’s ‘us,’” I said. “I don’t want anything to do with time machines after this little lot—you can drop me and Emma off in 1920s New York with a copy of that sports’ results book you promised me for a wedding present. I’m retiring.”

“Fair enough. Meanwhile, I would appreciate a bit of help—we’re not out of the wood yet, mate.”

We found ourselves in the washroom. A couple of guys were swamping down the floors with mops. The Duck walked straight over to a shower and turned it on full, to drown out our voices.

“I think I know where Tree went—it’s Emily I’m worried about,” he said, looking genuinely concerned.

“So am I, but where the hell’s Tree?”

“Tree is an addict,” said the Duck, doing one of his lopsided grins.

“You mean booze? What? Drugs?”

He straightened his glasses. “No. Ever heard of PLEASURE-Domes?”

“Yeah. Tree talked about them just before he—”

“He spent seven years in one last time,” said the Duck. “He likes to tell people, including Emily, that he spent them in this place, but he’s never even seen the inside of a prison.”

“I thought his drawings were a bit inaccurate—they don’t look anything like this place—he had men and women in the same dungeon—dorm, I mean—he made it look like something out of Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Just drawings. He made it all up,” said the Duck.

“He got the islands right though—and a few other details,” I said.

“Yeah. He’s heard me talking about it, that’s why. Anyway, never mind him—he’ll be doing the Kublai Khan-can in some PLEASURE-Dome somewhere in the middle of the late third millennium—we’ll worry about him later. Now, do you know the exact date you were in Bristol?”

“Um?” I thought hard. “September! But I don’t remember what day it was. No—wait a minute—it was late! Or, was it early?”

“Close enough,” said the Duck. “Emily knows what to do—she’ll rent somewhere under an alias we use and put an ad in the local paper for a flat mate. We’ll pick her up later.”

“I hope you’re right—the place was crawling with Corrective Measures agents,” I said. “So what are we going to do about Archie?”

“Leave Archie to me—I’ll send him with De Quipp and Reggie to the winch room.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

* * *

We made our way down the steps to the basement and had a cup of tea. Some of the lads had pushed back the tables on the other side and were having a kick about.

“Look at ’em,” said the Duck. “They’ll spend the rest of their perishing lives in this place.”

“They seem happy enough,” I said, fancying joining in the game. “But I must admit, I never expected to find so many in here—there must be well over a thousand.”

“Nearer two thousand,” said the Duck.

“I wonder where they all came from,” I said, just thinking aloud.

“Hey—that’s a point. I shall return some day,” said the Duck. “I shall return and set them free.”

“Spartacus the Duck,” I said.

He set his chin firm and stared at them, nodding to himself. He was off on one. “It is an offence to the Duckworth spirit to see so many brave lads banged up in here like this. The waste—the waste. Never have the many owed so much to the few. I never thought I’d see this—not on this sceptred isle—not in my—”

“—Teatime?”

“This is a concentration camp, mate—that’s what it is!” cried the Duck. “These brave boys deserve their comforts—a home fit for heroes!”

“They’re thieves,” I said.

“Thieves. Where’s the harm in going for a joyride up time’s motorway? Answer me that.”

“Think of the damage they’ve done.”

“What damage? All right—make the punishment fit the crime then—give ’em community service—don’t lock ’em up for life like common criminals. Can we not call that justice! What shall it profit a man if he gives himself and he’s still out of pocket?” he reasoned, in Duck logic. “All they need is resettlement somewhere nice and quiet and a chance to pay back some of the overheads.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “I get it now—pay you, you mean? They’d be in your debt!”

“Yeah, you’re probably right—I bet half of ‘em wouldn’t cough up. The thieving rats. Come on, we’d better find Jemmons and De Quipp and run through the final details for tonight,” he said, rising from the table and waddling off briskly towards the stairs.

“What time are we going?” I said, catching up.

“Straight after supper—it’s roast beef and spotted dick tonight—I’m not missing that.”