Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (19 page)

‘I’ll keep any
eye on that,’ said Dave, ‘Just to see if we are drifting. We don’t
want to swim against the current or owt. I think we should head for
that flat part, just at the end of the roadway. It looks like a
loading dock. In the meantime I think it’s time for a cuppa,
assuming of course, that supplies made it through the impact.’

Fergus looked
at Dave.

‘How can you
make tea? We’re in the middle of a lake.’

‘Where there’s
a will there’s a way.’

‘Or an idiot,
anyway. I am pretty sure this isn’t water.’

Dave glanced at
Fergus.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, look how
we’re floating. We are much more buoyant than in water. It must be
30 per cent more dense at least.’

Dave lifted a
handful of water to his nose and sniffed, then took a little
sip.

‘Looks like
water, smells like water, even tastes like water. I’ll drink it.
Any road, make yourself useful and grab the end of this
groundsheet.’

Dave wrapped
Fergus’s rucksack in the groundsheet and it floated between them
like a miniature table. Dave reached into his rucksack and pulled
out a tiny stove. He set it on the floating rucksack and put on a
small pan of water.

‘Milk and
sugar?’

Fergus was
surprised how quickly the water boiled.

‘Just milk. And
that’s not a normal stove.’

‘No it’s not,
but some things take precedent and I wasn’t offering milk or sugar,
it’s sweetened condensed milk. Do you want some?’

‘Why not? We’re
stuffed anyway, might as well poison myself while I’m at it.’

‘Again the
negative. We are merely six hours into our endeavour and already we
found the machine and hold the world record for depth.’

‘So how far did
we fall?’

‘We fell for
five minutes before hitting the water. That’s about seven miles
allowing for parachute an all.’

Dave sipped his
tea.

‘Ahhh… At last,
a decent cuppa. This water may be heavy, but it makes excellent
tea.’

Dave set his
mug down on the floating rucksack and took another set of
bearings.

‘Yet again luck
favours the bold. We are drifting directly towards the loading bay.
We won’t have to swim, just sit back and enjoy the view.’

Seven miles
above the floating pair, the BBC News announced the sudden
disappearance of hundreds of black Labrador dogs. It was a
worldwide phenomenon extending as far as Japan and New Zealand. The
BBC also noted in the business section that Leeds Bradford and
Manchester Airports were experiencing a surge in private charter
arrivals.

Dave and Fergus
stood in the middle of a vast, empty loading dock. You could fit in
all the football fields in the Premier league and still have room
for a cricket pitch or two. Dave scanned the distant walls.

‘There has to
be a way to move inbound goods into the catacombs. Nothing else
makes sense,’ said Dave.

‘Perhaps they
sealed it after they finished,’ said Fergus.

‘Why bother?
Come on let's try right at the back. It would be logical place to
have the exit, process flow and all that.’

They walked in
silence; the sheer size of the space gave the impression that they
were getting nowhere. Dave’s Harris Tweed smelt of urine and itched
at the collar.

There was a
distant splash followed by a faint roar. ‘I’M COMING TO GET
YOU’.

‘Bugger,’ said
Dave, ‘he must have jumped. I rather think we should break into a
jog,’ said Dave, as more splashing echoed in the distance.

Out of breath
they reached the rear of the loading bay. Dave examined the walls
carefully.

‘Right now I
wish dogs were here, they can see through off-world
camouflage.’

Suddenly his
fingers felt a smooth patch on the surface of the wall.

‘This could be
it,’ said Dave, ‘I'll go first.’

Dave backed up
about 15 feet and ran straight at the wall. Nothing happened.
Fergus expected him to bounce, but he just stopped dead and slid
down the wall a little bit.

‘You alright
Dave?’ asked Fergus.

‘Never better,’
said Dave picking himself up and dusting his jacket down, ‘Well
that didn't bloody work. Let's keep looking.’

They walked
along the back wall, Dave running his hands over the surface.
Fergus listened to growing splashing noises.

‘What this?’
said Fergus pointing to the ground. Dave examined the ruts in the
floor.

‘Well spotted
lad. And as you spotted it, perhaps you ought to give it a go
first.’

Fergus shrugged
his shoulders and backed up 20 feet. He put his hands out in front
and ran at the wall. Instead of hitting the wall like a sack of
potatoes, he disappeared.

Dave took an
even longer run up this time and ran as fast as it could right at
the wall. He too disappeared.

‘Well that's
new,’ said Dave, as he lay flat on his face. ‘No resistance at
all’.

‘You any idea
where we are?’ asked Fergus.

‘From all the
shelves and crates in neat rows, I would hazard a wild guess at a
warehouse. What about you?’ asked Dave.

‘Perhaps we
should open some of the crates,’ said Fergus, ‘there may be
something useful in them.’

‘I would be
leaving those alone if I were you lad. There’s no knowing what them
crates contain or what a fuss it might cause. They could have
security.’

‘They must have
a forklift truck or something,’ said Fergus

‘I don't know
about that. I expect an automated system or perhaps more pixie
magic. But they wouldn't have a warehouse, if there wasn’t some way
of moving the stuff to where it’s needed. So there must be some
door somewhere.’

They wandered
between the aisles of huge crates. The roof was much lower and the
shelves towered above them in the dusty air. It was almost like
being in a factory warehouse back on the surface.

‘Hey, what’s
that?’ said Dave, ‘Looks like we’re in luck.’

Parked neatly
beside the wall, hidden from view by two huge packing crates, was a
small truck it looked a bit like a golf buggy.

They jumped
into the truck. There was no steering wheel and no pedals or
buttons anywhere.

‘How you get it
to go?’ said Dave and the truck moved, accelerating to about 20
miles an hour.

‘Stop,’ shouted
Dave.

The truck
stopped, almost throwing Dave and Fergus over the front bonnet.
Dave stepped out of the truck and beckoned to Fergus.

‘I reckon it's
a voice controlled.’ whispered Dave to Fergus.

‘Never,’ said
Fergus. Dave looked at him.

‘Any idea how
to set the destination?’ asked Dave.

‘We could ask
it to take us to the catacombs.’

They stepped
back in the truck and Dave said ‘Go catacombs’.

The truck took
off and headed straight at the wall. Dave wasn't quite sure whether
to put his arms up or just to let it lie. It took him so long to
decide that they arrived at the wall with his arms halfway up to
his face. Then they were in a long tunnel and the truck
stopped.

‘We’re back in
the catacombs but I don't know where,’ said Dave, ‘Let’s try to
find a landmark.’

‘Any particular
direction?’ asked Fergus.

‘You choose,’
said Dave.

Fergus looked
left, then right and started walking. He chose the slightly uphill
path, they were already at the bottom and anywhere up was better.
They walked for hours through the clean, well lit tunnel that
curved slightly so they could never see far ahead. Their clothes
dried in the warm air, but Dave’s suit still smelled of wee.

‘That’s enough
for one day,’ said Dave.

‘Do you think
we went the wrong way?’ asked Fergus.

‘Dunno lad, but
I am not back-tracking with our horny friend still on the rampage.
A nice brew and a biscuit will do nicely, and things always seem
better after a bit of kip.’

Dave pulled the
half-full water carrier out of his rucksack and put the kettle on.
Captain Dreadlock’s finest oatmeal digestives went down, just, with
Assam tea. Dave sat himself down and leaned against the wall of the
tunnel. He pulled out a notebook and started sketching. Fergus
tipped the biscuit packet up and poured the last of the crumbs in
to his mouth.

‘Is that the
last of the food?’ asked Fergus.

‘Aye, but don’t
worry, you can last 20 days without food. Here, look at this.’

Fergus shuffled
over to Dave.

‘See, I made
this based on Coleridge’s notes. It is perforce inaccurate, but
should be relative proportionally –’

‘You mean it’s
a rough map.’

‘Yes. See here
is Coleridge’s final destination. He was searching for a place of
legend and I believe it was the Bell chamber. If I’m right, we have
a ways to go, depending on where we arrive back in the catacombs
proper.’

‘What’s this?’
asked Fergus pointing to little circle full of triangles.

‘Caves of Ice,
very mountainous by all accounts.’

‘And this?’

‘Sunless
Sea.’

‘And all those
circles with little skull and crossbones?’

‘Caverns
Coleridge suggested were interesting, but best avoided.’

Fergus stood up
and started pacing.

‘I am starting
to feel like Captain Scott. We are out of food, yet have bitten off
more than we can chew. This is starting to look like yet another
GBF.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Great British
Fuckup.’

‘Come on lad,
best endeavours.’

‘Stuff best
endeavours, Dave. Stuff them up the Sunless Sea. What in fart’s
name are we doing here? Lost with no supplies and chased for no
reason by a nine foot maniac bent on killing and eating us, with
the possible added joy of being raped before or after death.’

‘Steady on,
it’s not that grim.’

‘Oh? And how
so?’

‘Firstly,
Azimuth has a face, so use his name. Azimuth is mentally disturbed
and needs help. He may well be open to reason. Secondly, the fruit
loop is miles behind us, still stuck on the loading bay.

There is food
in abundance in the catacombs, and lastly we are not lost, we
merely lack a known best route to our destination. So cowboy up
cupcake.’

Fergus stopped
his pacing and stared at Dave. Dave stared back. Fergus sighed and
sat down beside Dave.

‘The correct
attitude is essential in overcoming difficult situations,’ said
Fergus quietly.

‘So you read my
book?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you
think of it?’

‘It’s
brilliant. Pithy, terse and once you have the relevant experience
to realise it, highly accurate.’

‘Thanks,’ said
Dave.

‘I particularly
liked “When life gives you lemons, chuck them and go find some
oranges.” That chapter “One Life, One Woman, One Shed.” were you
serious? Was the shed some sort of allegory?’

‘No lad. Every
man needs a shed. Be it a cellar, an attic room or your real,
actual allotment shed, with stove and dusty stack of Exchange and
Mart. Men need to ponder things, let them stew for a while. Women
get on with it and that has its place, particularly in the running
of an efficient life. But men need concern themselves with bigger
things.

Not, ‘is the
house clean and well maintained’, but is it the right house in the
right location? Some say that life would be better if women were in
charge. And they would be right. Only we would all be rushing
about, in a highly efficient manner, organising everything. So the
trains would run on time, but we would never see another
Shakespeare, Einstein, or Coleridge. Men would be too busy to
ponder in sheds.’

‘Do really
think that?’ Fergus

‘Actually, it’s
probably just me. I like to sit and ponder, to potter about busy
with unimportant things. But then again, most great achievement
come after a long period of pottering, consider Einstein’s years in
the post office after he failed the German equivalent of A
Levels.’

‘Hmm. I don’t
think it stands up as a valid theory.’

‘It’s not a
theory. It’s an opinion. Take it or bloody leave it.’

‘Alright, keep
your shirt on Trellis.’

‘Any road, the
book is not about that. It’s about attitude, which is where we
started. Your attitude stinks. It’s the selfish, self-pity of a
spoilt child. And worst of all it’s weak.’

Fergus took a
deep breath.

‘No. Shut up a
minute. We are on a dangerous endeavour to save all that I still
find worthwhile in a chaotic, unfair world filled with
disappointment. It is important. Important in real terms. People I
care about will suffer and even die if I don’t succeed. This is not
about the pointless accumulation of wealth or kudos. It is about
security, happiness, and continued existence. So the fact that you
are hungry, scared, and despondent isn’t important. Get over
it.’

Fergus took
another deep breath and then said nothing.

‘In many things
you have great strength,’ said Dave quietly, ‘but you need to
change your attitude. The attitude you show the world makes you
look weak. The attitude you hold inside makes you weak. Consider
that everyone around you has similar or worse problems. They just
don’t talk about it. Consider that your attitude is your own
choice. Consider that you are going to die. It is only a case of
when and how. And lastly consider how much fun you are missing by
being a bloody misery.’

‘It’s easy to
say,’ said Fergus, ‘And I try –’

‘There is no
try, only do. Some puppet in a film said that.’

‘That’s wrong,
it’s –’

‘Nothing can be
harder than the search for fun’, Berthold Brecht.’

‘You can throw
quotes at me all night Dave. Words are easy, doing is hard.’

‘And again you
quote me,’ said Dave and smiled.