Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (15 page)

‘So much for
the legendary low profile,’ said Fergus.

‘Bah, they are
always over-reacting down south and London is the worst. In any
case they aren’t looking for me. There are pictures of a dark,
brooding good looking fellah splashed all over the shop, so you
needn’t worry either.’

‘Cheers Dave.
Anyway, what’s the plan for today?’

‘I plan to
recover and spend the day pootling about the allotments; you on the
other hand have a busy day ahead. We descend into the catacombs
tomorrow and we will need supplies. There is a list in here.’

Dave passed
‘The Guide to the Huddersfield Catacombs’ to Fergus.

‘Also Enoch
wants to see you, about noon he said, in the courtyard.’

‘Some bloke
called Painter is coming too,’ said Fergus, ‘but I don’t know
when.’

‘Painter, aye
grand chap. He’ll fix you up in no time, just tell him what style
you want and he’ll do it all, right down to the scented
candles.’

‘I am not a
scented candles type, soft furnishings are of no interest to me,’
said Fergus.

‘Alright, keep
your hair on. It’s just that lasses like that sort of thing. Male
furnishings boil down to a sofa, a TV, and a fridge, but if you
want to persuade a lass to visit, then it’s cushions and all
that.’

‘Ah, good
point. It’s just – ‘

‘Your
masculinity is fine, even with the girly haircut.’

Fergus stroked
his hair.

‘What’s wrong
with my –’

‘Youth of
today, no bloody sense of humour. Cowboy up cupcake. Stop being so
sensitive, it doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. Why don’t
you go and find Enoch and see what he wants. Oh, and puts some
trousers on, you gave Sandra a fair old shock.’

Fergus walked
along the top terrace. The sun was shining and he could smell the
grass and compost aroma of the allotments along with a hint of
exotic spice. Someone was singing a discordant song in an unknown
language. The allotments were a strange place, yet Fergus felt like
he had returned home after a long trip.

Enoch was
waiting for him in the courtyard.

‘Bonkah, Rugby
Boy. This for you.’ Enoch held out a bright pink manikin with no
head.

‘Lovely, I
don’t know how to thank you,’ said Fergus.

Enoch glowered
at Fergus.

‘This armour,
finest kind, camo broken, only one colour. We decide colour for you
little girl. Easier to spot too.’

‘This is real
Palaver armour?’

‘Yar, for
children. When you know how we broke camo, you choose colour. Now
strip and suit up. Take off pretty bracelets too.’

‘What. Strip
off here?’

‘Nobody cares
little girl. You get armour coz Dave needs help.’

‘And I can’t
take off the handcuffs. I don’t have a key.’

Enoch raised
his eyebrows, grabbed Fergus’s wrist and held one side of the
handcuff’s hinge with thumb and forefinger, then grabbed the other
side and pulled. There was a sharp crack as the hardened steel
pivot pin snapped and Enoch opened the handcuff. Enoch took off the
other handcuff and handed them to Fergus.

‘Memento.
Warriors don’t get caught.’

Fergus stripped
off. He was interrupted by a wolf whistle. From her allotment over
the way, Boadicea waved, held her hands about a foot apart and
winked.

Naked and
feeling smug Fergus stepped into the bright pink suit. It felt like
warm, smooth plastic. It slipped on easily, stretching as
needed.

‘Now helmet and
plate,’ said Enoch and placed a helmet on Fergus’s head. He felt
something firm press against his back locking the helmet in
place.

‘Now backpack,’
suddenly Fergus felt a huge weight and his knees almost gave way.
Then the air in front of Fergus showed glowing symbols, the weight
disappeared and he could move his neck.

‘Contact and
locked,’ said Enoch, ‘Now you soldier; little girl soldier.’

‘I have
control,’ said Enoch and the symbols flashed and changed
quickly.

‘Targeting off,
armour off, environment normal, gravity belt missing – we fix that.
Ah, helmet colour…Purple.’

‘Ha bloody ha,’
said Fergus, ‘who said the Palaver have no sense of humour’.

‘You wearing it
Rugby Boy. Want to fix. Learn fast’.

Enoch went
through the options, what each symbol meant, and then he switched
the armour on. Fergus felt the material change; it became hard and
unyielding. He tried to walk and fell flat on his face.

‘Walk hard.
Little girl legs not tripping sensors.

Fergus tried
again, this time striding as if walking through water and it
worked. There was a tiny delay then the suit moved for him. It was
effortless, but needed concentration. Running was a joy.

‘Backpack
equipped for little girl, not so useful. Try it, reach behind head,
think sword.’

Fergus did as
told and found nothing.

‘Behind head,
soft flap, push hand in.’

Fergus tried
again, this time he found the flap and under it the hilt of a
sword. He pulled it out. It was a magnificent Katana.

‘Yar nice
sword, daughter’s favourite.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Daughter’s
armour. How else get good armour quick. Wear with honour.’

‘I’m touched.
Thank you Enoch and thank your daughter for me.’

‘We do it for
Dave. Now belt. Want to fly Rugby Boy?’

Enoch handed a
thick belt with a large square buckle to Fergus.

‘Push latch
into buckle. Armour sets level.’

Fergus put the
belt around his waist and pushed the end of the belt into the
buckle. It was like a chunky seat belt.

‘Pay attention.
Not toy,’ said Enoch.

Fergus stopped
fiddling with the gravity belt and looked at Enoch.

‘So how does it
work?’

‘Set level,
jump. Simple enough for you?’

‘No, how does
it work, the Physics?’

‘Oh. Field
stuff. Changes energy better.’

‘What? Kinetic
energy into potential energy. Thus you need less energy to go
higher and gain less energy from being that high?’

‘Not bad little
girl. Now jump, hard.’

Fergus jumped.
He shot up thirty feet in the air. When he looked down he got an
awful tingling in his bladder. The fall would kill him. Fergus
clamped his mouth shut on a scream and descended. His feet hit the
turf and his legs absorbed the shock. It was like jumping a foot in
the air.

‘Rules,’ said
Enoch. ‘One, no momentum, so hit ground, hit walls ok. Two, jump up
high, target long time, not ok. Three, do not take belt off.’

‘Understood.’

‘Three serious.
Take belt off, boom, hello ground.’

‘Ok.’

‘Now fun, belt
set observer mode.’ Enoch knelt down and cupped his hands. ‘Foot
here, Rugby Boy, leg straight.’

Fergus stepped
onto Enoch’s hands and stood up straight. Enoch launched him into
the air with a grunt. Fergus broke the world record for
acceleration in a vertical plane. Falling off a cliff was
pedestrian. Try to imagine standing on the top of a rocket ship
during take-off, and then speed it up.

Fergus’s scream
dopplered around the allotments. A falling note of sheer terror. As
he gained height, Fergus looked down through the rushing wind. Each
allotment looked like a slice of cake cut in half. He could see a
van in the courtyard and a small, dark dot that was Enoch. Suddenly
his vision blurred and the allotments became vague blocks of
colour. He blinked hard and shook his head, but he could not focus.
Strangely the blurring only affected the area around the
allotments.

Fergus arrived
at the top of his trajectory and started down. The allotments
looked like a vast yellow blob on an enormous green tablecloth. The
rest of Huddersfield was in sharp focus, giving him a frightening
appreciation of how far he had to fall.

Fergus feared
he would miss the allotments, then realised where he arrived was
irrelevant. The actual surface he struck would only dictate how far
they would have to dig down to recover his body.

Fergus wanted
to panic, but didn’t know how to start. He struggled to keep his
feet pointing downwards. He tried kicking his legs and that sent
him into a slow vertical roll. The ground was much, much closer. He
screamed.

Something hit
him hard in the back.

‘Bonkah!’
yelled Enoch though the rushing wind.

‘Enoch!’

‘Yar. Forgot
peanuts.’

‘What?’ yelled
Fergus.

‘Keep legs
down, knees bent.’

Enoch rotated
Fergus until he pointed straight down.

‘Don’t worry,
got armour,’ said Enoch and pushed himself away from Fergus.

‘See you in
ground, little girl’.

Distracted,
Fergus hadn’t noticed how close the ground was. He saw the roof of
the pavilion and noticed small patches of lichen. Then he struck
the lawn with a loud thud. Enoch landed close to Fergus with a
small thud, his bent knees absorbed the shock.

‘Can’t you lot
do nowt without damaging my lawn. I only just got that repaired,’
shouted Dave from the veranda.

Fergus was
embedded knee deep in the pavilion lawn.

‘Knees bent,
little girl. Ground soft, like your head,’ said Enoch.

Fergus
struggled out of the lawn.

‘Sorry Dave,’
said Fergus.

‘That’s quite
alright, feel free, it’s not like I bother to mow it, water it,
feed it, edge it and the like. Now bugger off and leave me in
peace.’

Fergus and
Enoch walked back to the courtyard where Enoch forced Fergus to
practise jumping from one side to the other.

‘Oi, are you
Fergus Loaf?’

Fergus and
Enoch turned round. A man in paint-spattered, white overalls stood
with a hand on his hip and a sarcastic look on his face. He wore a
bright red yarmulke with gold embroidery and silver bangles up his
wrist. He looked Enoch up and down.

‘Bloody
off-worlders, turning up here, nicking all the theatrical roles,
and making the place look untidy.’

‘Painter!
Bonkah! How goes it little man?’

Painter leapt
forward and cracked his forehead into Enoch’s. To Fergus it looked
more like an attack than a ritual greeting.

‘Bloody
marvellous and now I have a headache. How can it get better? We’re
still banned from The Slubber’s by the way. The rule is cast iron –
no show tunes.’

‘‘Wand’rin’
Star’ is classic, not show tune,’ said Enoch.

‘Is he wearing
that for a bet?’ asked Painter.

‘Camo broken,
we break it good.’

‘You’re still
funny; like a badger in a cake shop.’

Enoch
grinned.

‘Hello Fergus.
I’m Painter. Sandra tells me you need some decorating.’

‘Yes, the
apartment is empty apart from kitchen equipment,’ said Fergus.

‘So you’ll want
everything. Beds, wardrobes, settee, TV, computer, carpets, tables,
and no doubt a window.’

‘Yes please.
But no cushions.’

‘Ah come on,
you need at least one cushion. What else you going to wear on your
head when drunk? Lampshades are passé.’

‘Well… I
thought, um… A sofa would be nice, but what colour I don’t know.’
Fergus was adrift on the sea of interior decoration. A dangerous
ocean for the unwary male, with many a good man gone overboard.

‘Look, leave it
to me. I’ll make it masculine, but not butch. Enough soft
furnishing to make any visiting lass feel comfortable. Mid-range
consumer durables. Push the boat out a bit on the bathroom. Get you
a nice emperor size bed –’

‘Can you make
that a water bed?’ asked Fergus.

‘No I can’t.
Once the novelty has worn off, they’re bloody useless. But I can do
you a Jacuzzi and an open fire. Trust me, that’s a bigger draw than
being kept awake all night gently bobbing up and down.’

Fergus looked
uncertain.

‘You don’t
think I can get it just the way you want it? Well, let’s see how
well I understand the real you.’ Painter looked Fergus up and down
a few times.

‘You’re not
gay, despite being dressed in skin-tight pink latex.

You want to own
a big motorbike, but they frighten you.

You’re always
polite, but inside you want to punch half the people you meet,
including me.

You think you
can get everything in life just right and it will stay that
way.

You believe
love is more than just lust and responsibility.

You accept all
this strangeness around you, because you don’t actually feel part
of it.

You have little
understanding of other people’s emotions.

You worry what
people think about you, despite acting as if you don’t care.

You have no
clue to your heritage, despite it being obvious.

You
underestimate yourself. For example you do not realise you are the
factotum of the most important man on the planet.

So:

White
woodwork.

Pastel shades
of yellow and green.

Dark blue for
the furnishings.

Oak
floorboards, tile in kitchen and bathroom.

Gym with free
weights and a punch bag.

Slate
fireplace.

Walk in shower,
no bath.

Sunken Jacuzzi
in bedroom.

Large picture
windows with views down the valley.

A full wall of
bookshelves.

Beardsley
prints in Art Nouveau frames…

How am I
doing?’

‘Erm…’ said
Fergus.

‘I think I can
lay my hands on a real Bearskin rug,’ said Painter nodding his
head.

‘But, that’s
not-’

‘I know, I
know. Not ethically sound. You like the idea, but worry what people
with think. Fuck em. What can you do with a dead bear? Hmm… I’m
missing something. Let me think a moment… Of course. The sword.
Always a personal choice.’

‘What? What
sword.’

Painter put
both hands on his hips and stared at him.