Evil Machines (8 page)

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Authors: Terry Jones

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BOOK: Evil Machines
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‘And you’ve been seeing little green men driving cars ever since, eh?’
‘Certainly not, officer. As I told you there was no one driving this car, and it was chasing a clergyman.’
The duty sergeant was just about to write in the duty log, ‘Aliens at four o’clock!’, which was what he always wrote when dealing with crackpots, when the door flew open and a man in a dressing gown rushed in.
‘I just looked out of my window and I saw a car without a driver chasing a clergyman down the street!’ he exclaimed.
‘You see, officer?’ said the little old lady. ‘Now perhaps you will not write me off as the sort of crackpot who sees little green men everywhere!’
‘There must be some mistake . . .’ the duty sergeant began, but before he could get any further, the door of the police station banged open again and two off-duty members of the Flying Squad burst in.
‘Quick!’ said the first, whose name was Inspector Slazenger. ‘Get us a police car!’
‘Get us
two
police cars!’ exclaimed the second police offer, whose name was Inspector Yates.
‘There’s an out-of-control vehicle in the street! We must stop it at once!’
‘Is it chasing a clergyman?’ asked the little old lady.
‘It certainly is!’ said Inspector Slazenger.
‘Told you!’ said the little old lady to the duty sergeant.
Fifteen minutes later, Inspector Slazenger and Inspector Yates were each speeding down the road in pursuit of the Rev. McPherson’s car. Little did they know that it had already kidnapped the Reverend and was on its way to the Forgotten Forest.
After a fruitless search of the town, both police officers noticed it was teatime.
‘Perhaps we should find an observation point, from which we can observe the traffic as it goes past?’ radioed Inspector Slazenger.
‘There’s a tea shop round the corner,’ Inspector Yates radioed back.
‘Good thinking, Yates! That is the ideal place from which to look for runaway cars!’ said Inspector Slazenger.
Moments later, the two policemen were seated in a corner of the Cosy Café, and Inspector Yates was pouring their tea. Some hot buttered toast had just been placed on the table when they saw a driverless car bearing the number plate EV 1 L chasing a little old lady down the road. She was running pretty fast, but the car was gaining on her.
‘Bother!’ exclaimed Inspector Slazenger.
‘Bother!’ exclaimed Inspector Yates.
And they leapt to their feet and ran out of the tea shop.
‘Hey!’ shouted the owner of the tea shop. ‘You haven’t paid!’ But they were gone.
‘You can’t trust anyone nowadays!’ said the owner of the tea shop to the three remaining customers.
‘You ought to report them to the police,’ said one of them.
‘They
were
the police,’ said the owner of the tea shop.
Meanwhile the Rev. McPherson’s car had almost caught up with the little old lady, but she was an extremely fast old woman, and now she suddenly put on a turn of speed. The Rev. McPherson’s car changed gear and prepared to catch her, but at that very moment it noticed a young woman of surprising beauty, walking down the street.
The Rev. McPherson’s car skidded into the side of the road and pretended to be parked, for it had recognized the young woman of surprising beauty as Sylvia, the daughter of the local banker, who ran a Rolls Royce.
‘Her father’s got so much cash he could repair every abandoned car in the Forgotten Forest twice over!’ thought the Rev. McPherson’s car. ‘If I kidnap
her
, I wouldn’t need any other hostages!’
So the car started moving slowly along the pavement towards Sylvia, the banker’s daughter. As it drew nearer, it put on a burst of speed, flung its door open and scooped her up!
‘Did you see that?’ radioed Inspector Slazenger, who had just come round the corner. ‘That evil car has just kidnapped Sylvia, Mr Grabbital’s daughter!’
‘He’ll be furious with us!’ radioed back Inspector Yates.
And off they went in pursuit.
Now the Rev. McPherson’s car was much too clever to lead its pursuers straight to its hostages, so it carried on past the Forgotten Forest, and on to the Wild Moors. There it bounced across the countryside with the two police cars hot in pursuit.
***
Back in the Forgotten Forest, the Rev. McPherson was sitting in the Black Maria with his head in his hands.
‘Now, brace up, Rev. McPherson!’ said Emily. ‘It’s your car, so it’s up to you to stop it kidnapping people!’
‘You’re right, Emily!’ said the Rev. McPherson. ‘We must get out of here!’ And he started trying to prise up the
floorboards of the Black Maria with his penknife.
‘Ow!’ said the Black Maria. ‘Don’t do that!’
‘Golly! You can talk!’ exclaimed Emily.
‘All the other vehicles can talk,’ replied the Black Maria, ‘so why shouldn’t I?’
‘It’s just that you’ve never said anything before,’ said Frank.
‘Nobody brought me into the conversation before,’ said the Black Maria. ‘You’ve just been prodding me and kicking me and talking about me as if you hated me, ever since you got in. That’s no way to start a conversation.’
‘Well, we
are
imprisoned in you,’ pointed out Emily.
‘Maybe I could help you get out,’ said the Black Maria, ‘if you were nicer to me.’
‘How could you help us?’ asked the Rev. McPherson.
‘Ah!’ said the Black Maria, and then went silent.
‘ “Ah!” doesn’t explain anything,’ said Emily.
‘I have a secret none of the other cars knows about.’
‘What is it?’ asked the Rev. McPherson.
‘I’m not telling
you
!’ exclaimed the Black Maria. ‘You tried to put a penknife in my floorboards!’
‘Will your secret help us get home?’ asked Emily, who liked guessing games and was good at asking the right questions.
‘Maybe,’ said the Black Maria.
‘But why should you want to help us escape?’ asked Frank.
‘I am a police vehicle,’ explained the Black Maria proudly. ‘I am trained to enforce the law. I cannot be a party to hostage-taking!’
‘Then let us out!’ whispered Emily.
‘Not so fast!’ replied the Black Maria. ‘I want something in return.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Emily.
The Black Maria lowered its voice so that it was only just audible.
‘Frank?’ it whispered.
‘Yes?’ replied Frank.
‘You see that red metal can that’s hanging from the old oak tree in the centre of the clearing?’ murmured the Black Maria.
‘Yes,’ said Frank.
‘Fetch it for me,’ breathed the Black Maria. There was a tremor of excitement in her voice. ‘But on no account must you let any of the other cars see you. Do you think you could do that for me, Frank?’
Frank looked around at the other abandoned vehicles. Most of them were drowsing in the afternoon sunshine. But one or two were playing poker with a rusting BSA motorbike, who seemed to be winning.
‘Look at them!’ said the Black Maria. ‘They’re a bad lot – most of them – they don’t give a fig about speeding, and they’ll park just anywhere. What’s more they’re rude to me, just because I worked for the police.’
‘What’s all this gossiping?’ yelled the Ford Prefect, suddenly waking up. ‘Stop talking to the prisoners, you cop crate!’
‘See?’ whispered the Black Maria.
‘Shut up!’ snapped the Ford Prefect.
They all sat there in silence for a time, until eventually the Ford Prefect fell back to sleep again.
Then the Black Maria whispered, ‘So, Frank? Are you game?’
Frank looked through the little window in the door. The Ford Prefect, that was supposed to be guarding them, appeared to be fast asleep. The card-players were absorbed in their game, and the other vehicles seemed to be snoozing.
‘I’ll go for it!’ whispered Frank.
So the Black Maria released the door catch, and Frank slipped out.
The Ford Prefect gave a rattle in its sleep, and Frank shrank back behind the Black Maria. But then all was still.
Frank ran quickly towards an old Standard Vanguard that was snoring and muttering in its dream. He crouched behind it for a few moments, and took stock of the situation.
To get to the oak tree, he would have to climb over a heap of rusting cars – all of them makes or models that have long since ceased to exist: a Sunbeam Talbot, an Austin Ascot, a Singer, an Alvis, a Buick Roadmaster and many more. It would be tough to climb through them without waking any of them.
But suddenly a cheer went up from the card-players: one of the cars had just pulled a fast one on the motorbike. Every car that was still awake moved a little closer to watch the game. Frank took his chance. He jumped across the Sunbeam Talbot’s rear bumper and hid behind the bonnet of the Austin Ascot.
‘What’s that?’ muttered the old Ascot, drifting into semi-consciousness.
‘There! There! old girl,’ said Frank, patting its nose gently. ‘Nothing to worry about . . . lovely day at the races . . . ‘
‘Ah! The races!’ sighed the old car and drifted back into
pleasant dreams of former times.
Frank nipped round behind the Singer 10, and then had to climb across the low bonnet of an AC Ace with wide mudguards. The Ace spluttered awake. It had been a fast car in its day, and one of which its owner had been extremely proud. But life in the fast lane had caught up with it and it now was very confused.
‘Just giving you a shine, sir,’ said Frank.
‘Ah! Thank you, my boy . . . need to look my best . . .’ it muttered. ‘And check the tyre pressures while you’re at it, would you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Frank. He didn’t like to point out that it only had two wheels and no tyres at all.
All Frank had to do now was get past the Alvis and the Buick, and then sprint for the tree.
The Alvis had been woken by the Ace’s booming voice. ‘Wassat?’ it muttered, and shifted its gear stick irritably and nudged the Buick.
‘Don’t you touch me!’ snapped the Buick. ‘You useless heap of bent tin!’
‘I am
not
a heap of tin, Old Boy, and I am only slightly bent at the mudguards,’ replied the Alvis.
‘You’re so stuck up!’ said the Buick. ‘I hate this country!’
‘I suppose you’d rather be back in Minnesota?’ drawled the Alvis.
‘I don’t come from Minnesota! I come from Flint, Michigan!’
‘I expect it’s just as ghastly,’ replied the Alvis.
Meanwhile Frank had dashed across to the oak tree and hidden himself in the hollow at the base.
So far so good.
Now he had to climb up to the fork in the tree and grab the red metal can
without being seen
!
***
Back on the Wild Moor, the two policemen were still chasing the Rev. McPherson’s car, and Sylvia Grabbital was still screaming and kicking in the back seat.
‘Stop that!’ yelled the Rev. McPherson’s car. ‘You’ll make me crash!’
‘Then let me out!’ demanded Sylvia.
‘No fear!’ replied the Rev. McPherson’s car. ‘You’re worth more than the rest of the hostages put together!’ And on it bounded, over the heather-covered moors, with the two police cars still in pursuit.
***
Frank was still inside the hollow of the old oak tree, wondering how on earth he was going to grab the red petrol can and get back to the Black Maria without being spotted. The card game had broken up, and most of the vehicles were now aimlessly mooching around. More cars seemed to be waking up all the time.
‘I don’t have a chance of getting back,’ thought Frank. But that is where he was wrong. A shout went up, and every vehicle turned to look at a timid Morris Convertible that always kept itself to the edge of the clearing away from the other cars.
A gasp went up from the other vehicles. There was smoke pouring off the Convertible’s canvas roof.
‘Help!’ screamed the Convertible.
‘Where’s the fire engine?’ cried the other cars. But the old fire engine in question was in a sorry state, and its water tanks were empty.
‘Help!’ cried the Convertible again. ‘Can’t somebody do something?’
‘What’s happened to your spirit of public service?’ exclaimed the Standard Vanguard.
‘The spirit’s still there,’ wheezed the old fire engine, ‘just the chassis is weak . . .’
‘Come on!’ breathed a petite red Mini. ‘I believe in you, Thomas . . .’ (that was the old fire engine’s name) ‘You can do it!’
Now the old fire engine was head-over-heels in love with the petite red Mini, so he staggered across to the stream, and an ancient Reliant Regal baker’s van ran out the hosepipe to fill his tank.
Meanwhile most of the other cars had limped over to the unfortunate Morris. Some tried to blow the flames out by fanning their doors at them.
‘Stop it!’ cried the Convertible. ‘You’re fanning the flames! Ooooooh!’
All the cars were now preoccupied with the fire so Frank legged it up the tree and grabbed the red petrol can. The moment he did, he almost dropped it.
‘It’s heavy!’ he exclaimed. He didn’t know why but he had expected it to be empty.
The fire engine, meanwhile, was still trying to load up with water, but its hose was full of holes, and its tank was no longer watertight. Nonetheless it eventually filled up with
as much as it could, and then struggled over to the flaming Convertible.
While that was going on, Frank unwound his scarf from his neck, attached it to the petrol can, and lowered the heavy can to the ground. A few seconds later he was sprinting across the clearing back to the Black Maria, clutching the can to his chest.
‘That poor Morris Convertible is on fire!’ he gasped.
‘Yes,’ said Emily. ‘The Rev. McPherson threw a fire bomb on to it to cause a diversion for you.’
‘Disgraceful!’ exclaimed the Black Maria. ‘I’m not sure I should help any of you now.’

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