Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (49 page)

‘No idea. The reference point for a new civilisation, I presume.’

‘Are you quite sure you don’t know?’ I persevered.

Mr Disvan gave me a suspicious look.

‘Quite sure. Why do you ask?’

‘Only because, in one of the portholes, I saw an elderly gentleman, like yourself, wearing a Panama hat, not dissimilar to yours. He was smoking a pipe too. Curious, isn’t it?’

Disvan was absolutely unmoved.

‘Mr Oakley,’ he said smilingly, ‘on a night of miracles such as this, what are one or two minor coincidences?’

‘What indeed? But if I may put the question to you directly...’

The space ship drowned out my intended
coup de grace
. Some mechanism within it let out a complicated melody of farewell as the craft spun on its axis. It then flew off, with inconceivable speed, away from us, into that faraway night.

I was too stunned to continue Disvan’s interrogation. The city-to-be sprawled endlessly before me and it recaptured all of my attention. At its nearest edge, I thought I could discern a mirror image of our own gathering. A crowd of silhouettes were gazing at us as we were at them.

Knowing that I was but scattered dust in that age, I wondered timidly if my blood ran in any of those future ‘Binskomites’.

Mr Disvan either read my expression exceedingly well or else had access to my innermost thoughts—a worrying theory I hurriedly put aside.

‘If you want a part of you in that age, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘you’ll need to settle down and reproduce. Marry a nice local girl and pack in all that random gallivanting in the woods.’

‘Why else do you think I was in the woods today?’ I replied, knowing full well that Disvan didn’t like ‘that sort of talk’.

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ he said primly and turned away.

Doctor Bani-Sadr stepped into the ensuing socially tricky moment.

‘Well, there you are, Professor Moorcock,’ he said jovially, ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone blew up the world, does it? Nigh on three thousand years from now, there’re mega-cities, space ships and, best of all, peace on Earth.’

‘Goodwill to all men,’ repeated Moorcock.

‘Exactly. So, you needn’t have got so het up, need you? Do you see how unfounded your fears were?’

Professor Moorcock evidently did, to an alarming degree. His face was gripped in an expression of overwhelming joy. The chains of depression were loosing and he was floating up and away onto cloud nine (at least).

‘Peace on Earth!’ he shouted, scrambling to his feet.

‘Well, yes...’ cautioned Doctor Bani-Sadr, ‘but I expect they have their own problems too.’

‘The sum of human happiness and misery is more or less a historical constant,’ said Mr Disvan in (I presume) support. I half expected him to add, ‘Discuss.’

‘GOODWILL-TO-ALL-MEN!’ howled Professor Moorcock, waving his arms and taking a step or two down the hill.

‘Get him,’ said Bani-Sadr tersely.

Sadly we were too late. Moorcock broke into a run. I and a few other of the younger Binscomites tried to catch him but his lead was too great.

One minute he was loping down the field, his rats-taily hair streaming behind him. The next, he froze in mid-air and then collapsed in on himself, turning to dust before our eyes. His last cry of ‘peaceeeee’ lingered briefly in the ether.

I pointed speechlessly.

‘Well, Mr Oakley,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘that’s what happens to people who suddenly become three thousand years old. He entered into the “Rollover field”, you see.’

‘That’s right,’ confirmed Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘Didn’t you read Rider Haggard’s
She
when you a boy?’

I shook my head feebly. I’d been more into things like
Mechano News
.

My horror was compounded by hearing a ripple of laughter pass along the hillside. Looking closely, I saw that, apart from the children, the villagers had found the incident amusing. The poker-faced Mr Disvan and Doctor Bani-Sadr were studying my reaction just as intently.

‘Try to avoid being judgmental, if you can,’ said the former, reasonably. ‘He was an outsider and we did try to save him.’

‘And he wasn’t destined for a happy life,’ added Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘At least this way he had his moment of contentment, didn’t he?’

‘In fact,’ said Disvan, ‘it’s as well he went when he did. Look!’

While we’d spoken, Rollover Night had silently moved on and the scene before us had changed.

The mega-city was still there, more or less, although parts of it were now dark or only thinly dotted with light. No spaceship or crowd were there to meet us. Perhaps the people of that time simply couldn’t be bothered to do so, for they’d also allowed some of the city’s towers and pinnacles to crumble and decay. The glory of the age was clearly past.

Visible against the light of the city and stars, from horizon to horizon, a bank of cloud was sweeping in. It was blacker than any I ever recalled; denser and more continuous. A fanciful person (which I am not) might have imagined it had the shape of a wolf’s head with jaws agape. The thunder that accompanied it was like snarls of anger.

‘It looks stormy there, doesn’t it?’ I said.

‘You’re the master of understatement, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan. ‘Fimbulwinter is more than a storm. Come on, we’d best be off quick.’

Looking round, I saw that others had the same idea. Everywhere, people were packing up their picnics and gathering their possessions together. A few had already started on the way, once again sticking cautiously to the side of the field.

‘I apologise,’ said Mr Disvan politely, ‘I should have explained before. Rollover Night is an interrupted feast. We never stay for the end.’

‘Is there one?’ I asked, being genuinely curious. ‘A great sign in the sky saying “The End”?’

Both Mr Disvan and Doctor Bani-Sadr turned to look at me, patently surprised at some lack of understanding on my part.

‘In effect, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan, ‘in effect. You’re seeing it now.’

The cloud was a third of the way over the city now. The myriad lights cast a sickly yellow glow on its underside.

‘That’s the Fimbulwinter,’ explained Bani-Sadr. ‘According to the old time legends, it precedes Ragnarok—that is to say, “the end” that you were so flippant about. As a non-believer in the afterlife, I, for one, am so not so keen to see it.’

I pretended to be made of sterner stuff.

‘Well, what if we are seeing the end of the world? We’re safe this side of the Rollover field, aren’t we?’

Mr Disvan studied me with renewed esteem.

‘No one’s ever stayed to find out, Mr Oakley, but it’s a very interesting point you make. If you’re able to, let me know how you got on—this side of the grave or the other, I don’t mind which.’

Then, without so much as a goodbye, he and Doctor Bani-Sadr hurried off.

The hillside emptied rapidly but I stubbornly refused to move. What was this Ragnarok to me anyway? An old, superseded Anglo-Norse myth, that’s all.

Despite the ever present sense of unease that, just like rates, was the price of Binscombe residence, I was still minded to stay. What form would ‘the end’ take, I wondered? Missiles? Unsafe sex? A meteorite? Alternatively, was everyone getting worked up about a common or garden bank of cloud?

Then, as the said cloud finally shrouded the megacity-to-be, I recalled that the legends of my own civilisation called Ragnarok, ‘Judgement Day.’

After a brief examination of conscience, I grabbed my coat and sprinted after Mr Disvan.

YANKEE
GO HOME!

‘So how long have you lived in Binscombe, Mr Hood?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it’s mighty hard to rightly say, Mr Oakley. But many years, that’s for sure.’

‘I see, and when did you or your family come over from America?’

Hood looked outraged.

‘America?’ he said. ‘Who the hell said anything about America?’

I was obliged to do a bit of swift backtracking. Some people were just sensitive about names, some about class, some about race, and so on. ‘Different dogs itch in different places,’ I thought—no sense in getting bitten for no reason.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, perhaps I misheard when Mr Disvan introduced you. I didn’t mean to accuse you of being American.’

I was having no luck at all. My response lit another short fuse in Mr Hood.

‘Whaddya mean “accuse”?’ he roared. ‘America’s a fine nation!’

‘Of course, of course,’ I said, in an attempt to placate. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with America.’

I wasn’t helped by an outbreak of stifled coughs and guffaws from the Argyll regulars, some of whom were of a different opinion.

‘Anyhow,’ continued Hood, composing himself, ‘there’s no way I’m American, no way. Why, I’m as English as you are, Mr Oakley. So look, why don’t I just purchase you a pint of ale and...’

‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Disvan, a pained expression on his face. ‘Enough’s enough. That was pitiful. We told you it wouldn’t work.’

‘What wouldn’t?’ I asked—and was ignored as usual.

‘Do you think he knows?’ said Hood with a look of childlike innocence.

‘Just possibly,’ grinned Doctor Bani-Sadr, ‘just possibly. Mr Oakley, could you hazard a rough estimation of Mr Hood’s country of origin?’

‘Well... America, I think. Texas to be more specific.’

Hood was wide mouthed with surprise.

‘A security breach!’ he gasped.

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘If you persist in sounding just like J R Ewing, we’ll never pass you off as one of us. Mr Oakley spotted you straight away, didn’t you?’

I didn’t want to upset the bulky Mr Hood again, but neither could I deny the blindingly obvious.

‘Well, yes, I’m afraid so. That southern drawl isn’t particularly Binscombe, you see.’

Hood’s eyes slitted.

‘Maybe someone tipped him off,’ he said to Disvan. ‘Maybe you got a spy in your apparatus.’

The roar of laughter from the regulars at the bar was an eloquent answer to this exciting theory.

‘But seriously,’ said Disvan, not joining in the merriment, ‘back in the real world for a moment, Mr Hood, this isn’t an “apparatus”, you know. It’s just an old village with a large council estate all over and round it. There’re no agents, no spies, just people. Bear that in mind if you hope to live here. Meanwhile, a lot more Anglicisation practice is clearly required.’

Mr Hood pulled a face.

‘Hell, more warm beer, more talking like a goddamn constipated faggot. And the cricket—ugh!’

Mr Bretwalda seemed to take this assessment of his culture personally. Accordingly, I and a few others considered running for the safety of the Gents. Fortunately however, violence was not on his central processing response menu on this occasion. He leaned on our table and made it groan ominously. Mr Hood was more than covered by the Bretwalda shadow and was plainly willing to give a lot of attention to anything the man might care to say.

‘If you don’t like it,’ Bretwalda rumbled, ‘you’re always free to bugger off!’

Normally, Mr Disvan didn’t approve of strong language but, for once, he overlooked it and even added something in Mr Bretwalda’s support.

‘And spend the rest of your life flitting from place to place,’ he said to Hood.

Be he American or whatever, Mr Hood had bags of bulldog spirit, I had to give him that. He wasn’t intimidated by all this; he merely considered it.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I was way out of line, I admit it. Sorry y’all. Are we still in business?’

Disvan indicated that they were—whatever that meant.

Hood was very pleased to hear it.

‘It’s just I’ve developed a powerful mislike of living in those woods,’ he said. ‘That’s not the life for me; no way.’

Sadly, at that point, the logical imperative ever present in me surged up and took temporary control. I heard my voice saying, ‘I would have thought that with a name like yours, the woods would have been your natural habitat.’

Once again, Mr Hood wasn’t amused.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ he said in a way that had little to do with apology.

‘Well, you know, Hood—Robin Hood—and his merry men, in Sherwood Forest...’

‘And we warned you about the name as well,’ interrupted Mr Disvan. ‘Robin Hood, honestly!’

‘But what could be more English than that?’ said ‘Mr Hood. ‘I reckoned it was a real good choice.’

‘Well, it wasn’t,’ said Disvan tersely, ‘and kindly stop that noise.’

The landlord, among others, had started humming the theme tune from the much loved ‘60s television series. Unbidden, the words surged out of my childhood memory banks.

‘Robin Hood, Robin Hood

riding through the glen,

Robin Hood, Robin Hood

with his band of men,

feared by the bad, loved by the good,

Robin Ho-od, Robin Ho-od, Robin Ho-od.’

Mr Disvan’s wishes were normally law, but that sort of folk memory takes some stopping. Even I felt a powerful urge to join in the community hum and it needed a few seconds for peace to return.

‘What was that about?’ asked the man who called himself Hood.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ replied Disvan. ‘Now listen; you’ll be eating at Mr Oakley’s house tonight.’

‘Will he?’ I asked. ‘Who says?’

‘You do,’ replied Mr Disvan, nothing perturbed. ‘Sorry, did I forget to ask you? Is it a problem?’

‘Well... not exactly. I suppose if Mr Hood needs help I could... It’s just a question of notice...’

Why, I asked myself in the privacy of my head, had my parents brought me up to be so reasonable, in the face of an unreasonable world?

‘No, no problem,’ I said resignedly.

Mr Disvan smiled warmly.

‘Good man,’ he said. ‘Then when we’ve eaten, presuming we survive, we’ll have an inquest on today’s lamentable outing.’

‘Okay, will do,’ said Hood smartly.

‘And bring your photographs along to show to Mr Oakley.’

‘Okay, will do,’ said Hood again.

I’d heard that sort of offer before. It was either holiday or family snaps, which was bad enough, or, in the context of Mr Disvan, something disturbing and/or horrible.

‘Don’t bother about them,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Just bring yourself along.’

Disvan had clearly been trespassing in my thoughts again.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘they’re nothing horrible.’

Hood lay an oversized paw on my shoulder.

‘Man,’ he said, ‘you will like them. Believe me, they’re out of this  world!.’

Disvan grinned mischievously and the landlord laughed.

*  *  *

‘Well, it’s quite cosy, as holes in the ground go, Oakley,’ said Mr Hood, ‘but a hole in the ground it remains, even so. I’m used to something better.’

After Disvan’s analysis of Mr Hood’s earlier failure to deceive, Hood had turned to asking me all about my house and lifestyle. I’d duly returned the compliment. It transpired he’d escaped the mortgage trap by occupying a well designed hide in the woods on Binscombe Ridge.

‘Except,’ he explained, ‘when kindly folk, such as yourself, invite me to their homes for a spot of good cooking and a hot bath.’

In fact the cooking had been good, but it wasn’t mine. I’d fetched in a mega-meal of fish and chips. It had been a form of compromise between my Japanese/vegetarian tastes and Mr Hood’s probable, impermissible, desire for a Macdonald’s.

‘It sounds very nice,’ I said.

Hood looked astounded.

‘It does?’ he replied. ‘Do you wanna swap?’

‘Hang on,’ said Disvan. ‘That was polite English understatement. Do you recall what we said to you about that?’

‘Oh yeah,’ agreed Hood. ‘I recall that. You say something that you don’t mean at all—right?’

‘More or less,’ said Disvan doubtfully.

Hood nodded and smiled.

‘I know another name for it,’ he mused, as if to himself.

Fifteen-Love to him, I thought, beginning to enjoy myself.

‘Okay,’ I said, trying to sound as forthright as Cromwell before his maker, ‘let’s be painfully frank...’

‘Yes, let’s,’ said Hood.

‘Um, well, living in a hole on Binscombe Ridge sounds pretty horrific, actually.’

‘Glad you see it my way after all, Mr Oakley.’

‘Don’t mention. So why do it?’

‘Well...’ Hood drawled, leaning back in his (my) chair, ‘I could pussyfoot you round some in answering that, Mr O—but I won’t, seeing how’s you want to be frank or earnest or whoever. Did you ever see
Apocalypse Now
, Mr O?’

‘Just the half dozen times, yes.’

‘Then you’ll understand what I mean when I say that I’m playing Captain Kurtz out here in Bins-combe.’

‘No, not really.’

‘Shame on your thinking processes, boy. What I mean is that I was military, that I have been a naughty boy and that my ex-friends mean to terminate me with extreme prejudice.’

‘You mean kill you?’

‘Reckon so—leastways, eventually.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, nothing really. Just because of a few pictures...’

‘What, of generals in compromising positions, do you mean?’

‘No sir. Nothing that commonplace. What I’m talking about is a bit more world shattering.’

The press applied that phrase to every transitory ‘crisis’ and five-day-wonder pop group, so I wasn’t in danger of over-heating. Consequently (?) Mr Disvan put his oar in.

‘And the world Mr Hood is speaking of,’ he said, ‘is not our world.’

This did the trick. As an avid, if ignorant and bleary-eyed, viewer of
The Sky at Night
, the mention of other worlds hauled me into Hood’s story.

‘Have you got photographs of a UFO?’ I asked enthusiastically.