Future Tense (26 page)

“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.”

Chapter 15

And so, cometh the hour, cometh the men. Six of us sat down at that last supper. I looked around at them all as they tucked into their roasts. There was Archie, a traitor and possible Corrective Measures agent; Reginald Goldenhair, nark; De Quipp, my arch-enemy and a man—well, alien—I did not trust; Roger Jemmons, whose clone had tried to kill me with a cutlass—how much did this Jemmons really know about that—more than he was letting on? And then there was the Duck, my nineteen year old father, who took part in a conspiracy to have me shot and left me to bleed to death in our family home, which he knew was about to be blown up by a Corrective Measures snatch squad—

“Hey! Where d'you think you're going?” said the Duck, as I hurriedly left the table.

“Er, I was just, um—”

“Siddown! Nobody leaves without the others,” he said. “We haven't had our spotted dick and custard yet.”

“I've lost my appetite,” I said, slumping back down. “I was just going to go up and lie in my bunk.”

“Yeah, well, mooning around up there won't help, just you stay there—and when they come round with the desserts—tell 'em you want a double helping of spotted dick and custard and give it to me,” said the Duck.

“Are you going to eat those spuds, Stephen?” said Jemmons.

“Help yourself,” I said.

“Here—scrape his Yorkshires onto my plate, Jemmsey—I'll have them,” said the Duck. “Go on—give me his swede and carrot as well then.”

“You should eat,” said De Quipp, slicing off a small piece of his beef and placing it delicately onto his tongue.

I folded my arms and ignored him.

“Can't you-know-what on an empty stomach—what?” said our phoney pilot friend.

“Well, I don't know where you put it all, Archie—you must have hollow legs,” I said. “You're eating like Douglas Bader.”

The Duck gave me a kick under the table.

“Got to keep one's strength up, old man.”

“Just mind you don't go through the ice, Archie—eating all that,” I said.

The Duck whispered in my ear, “We've got a problem with him.”

“What's that?” I whispered back, like a ventriloquist.

The Duck leaned in again. “He insists on staying close to you.”

“Lucky me,” I said, again without moving my lips.

“They must have told him and Reggie not to let you or me out of their sight,” whispered the Duck.

I coughed into my hand and then spoke through it in the Duck's ear. “I've got an idea.”

The Duck dropped his fork and bent down to pick it up. I dropped my napkin and bent down to join him, below the level of the table.

“What idea?” he said.

“Tell Ali we can only take one—him or Archie—the strongest gets the ticket,” I smiled.

The Duck stifled a laugh. “Nice one, my son!”

We both sat up again.

I removed a biro from the breast pocket of the Duck's biggles and wrote this note on my napkin:
I'll go tell Ali.

The Duck took his pen out of my hand, held it up to the light to check how much ink I'd used, and put it back in his pocket.

I got up. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have to go upstairs,” I announced. “Be back in two pulls of a chain.”

“Yeah, yeah—just do it—don't write us a bloody sonnet about it,” said the Duck, waving his fork at me and pulling a pained expression.

I strolled through the dining hall on the lookout for Ali. I spotted him five tables away and tapped him on the shoulder as I walked past. By the time I reached the staircase up to the dorm, he was right behind me.

“The washroom,” I said, without looking round.

He let me walk ahead a little way. I got to the top corridor and turned into the washroom. He followed me in.

I turned round and he tried to embrace and kiss me.

“What're you doing?” I cried. “Get off me!”

“Just Ali's little joke,” he grinned.

“Yeah, well—you were a little bit too convincing, mate.”

He walked over to one of the plastic mirrors and inspected himself fondly. “What you want?” he said.

“There's one place—it's either you or Archie. You'll have to cut cards or something,” I said.

He turned round and pulled out a huge curved dagger from somewhere inside his biggles—all in one smooth movement.

“Aunt bloody Nora!”

“I think Archie won't make the cut,” he said, curling lip like an Elvis impersonator.

“No killing, Ali,” I said, sounding uncannily like one of my old school teachers.

* * *

I rejoined the others and smiled across at Archie as I sat down.

“What-ho, old man—touch of Delhi-belly?” he said.

I grimaced. “It feels just like someone's sticking a knife in me—d'you know what I mean, Arch?” I said.

The Duck kicked me under the table.

“I hope you're going to be fit enough to go over the wall, mate,” he said. “We don't want any little accidents on the way down.”

“Don't say that word,” I said.

“What—‘accidents'?” he smirked.

“No—‘go,'” I said.

* * *

Half an hour later we were all ready to go. Now here's where it all got a bit strange. I stayed close to the Duck, but as soon as we got up on the landing both he and De Quipp darted into the toilet, telling me, Jemmons, Archie, and Reggie to wait outside. And then when the two of them didn't come back out, Archie started to get a bit jittery and went in to find out what was keeping them. We couldn't stop him. He never came out again. I still to this day don't know what happened to him in that washroom, but I've got a pretty good idea. Now, here's the thing of it—Ali then came out with the Duck and they both grabbed Reggie and dragged him off towards the dorm.

“Wait there!” the Duck shouted back.

“Hey? What about us?” I called after him.

I looked at Jemmons and we both shrugged. At this stage I didn't know where De Quipp and Archie were, so I said to Jemmons we should go in to the washroom and have a look for them. No sooner had we got through the door than the Duck barged into us and pushed us outside again.

“What the—? I thought you just went up there,” I said.

“That was De Quipp,” he said.

“But he looked exactly like you,” I said. “Didn't he, Rog?”

“The spitting image,” said Jemmons.

“It was make-up—we made a mask—hid it in the washroom—now no more questions,” said the Duck. “Come on—I've had a new hole cut in the overflow pipe, the bugs sealed the last one up—our boards should already be in there.”

He herded us towards the landing.

“Down here.”

The great pipe ran along the back of the landing and right out over the basement.

“There's something very fishy going on,” I said, as the Duck was removing a small section of the pipe, which had been pre-cut and carefully put back in place.

“Aye, and there's nothing new in that,” said Jemmons.

“Just keep a lookout,” said the Duck. He shone a torch around inside. “Right, Roger—you're the biggest—you first.”

I had stepped over by the rail along the landing and was keeping an eye out for anyone coming up the stairs or around the corner from the wing. I looked round and saw the rear of Jemmons disappearing into the hole.

“Right, now you,” said the Duck.

I hurried over and climbed up into the pipe, and then turned round and offered my hand to the Duck. He gripped my wrist and I hoisted him in. He brought the panel with him and now gently replaced it from the inside, using strips of, er, duck tape he got from one of his many pockets, while Jemmons held the torch light on it for him. Meanwhile, I had spotted the snowboards and immediately started looking through them for the one with the holes. There were five boards in all and I found two with holes in right at the bottom of the pile. The Duck had obviously copied me. I pulled one clear and took a laundry trolley wheel out of my thigh cargo pocket to try it in one of the holes. It fitted perfectly. If anything it was a little loose, but it was good enough for my purposes.

Jemmons was watching me.

“That's a good idea,” he said.

“Just in case,” I said.

The Duck came over, took the torch back off Jemmons, and picked up a board. “Bring the rest,” he said, and set off along the tunnel. We took two boards each and followed him. I went second.

The tunnel was so big that even Jemmons only had to bow his head slightly to walk upright in it. It was the same tunnel the Duck and I came in through, but this time we were going the other way, though there was still a strong smell of biogas. It was strange to think that we were walking out over the dining hall, which was probably some twenty feet below us. The pool of light from the Duck's torch wobbled about ahead of us up the dark tunnel like a giant amoeba on a microscope slide, picking out swatches of green slime and casting eerie shadows.

“This is the storm drain,” said the Duck. “There's a shaft all the way up somewhere.”

“Like that one we fell down?” I said.

“No—nothing like that one—this one's got a ladder, according to the plans,” said the Duck.

“Good,” I said. “What about Emma and the Princess—how are they getting up?”

“We're meeting them—there should be a riot starting about now on G Wing—courtesy of the Colonel. The women's dorm is right above it, under the infirmary.”

“Why don't we follow this drain all the way out of here?” said Jemmons. “Be a lot easier.”

The Duck stopped and turned round. I bumped into him. He pushed me aside and shone his torch up into Jemmons's squinting eyes.

“Because, Roger,” he said patiently, “we've already sussed that one—it doesn't go outside—it goes straight down into an underground lake—and then out into the sea. Which is under about thirty feet of bleeding pack ice—does that answer your question?”

“I'm sorry I spoke,” said Jemmons, shielding his eyes with his hands.

The Duck turned on his heels and soldiered on, swiping a dangle of slimy stuff out of his face.

“Livingstone Duck,” I sniggered.

“Shut up.”

We continued in silence until we came to a thirty-degree downturn. Well, it looked pretty steep to me.

“I thought we were supposed to be going up,” I said.

“It must be down here,” said the Duck, slipping and sliding onward. “Come on—”

At that moment he lost his balance and splatted down on his backside. Jemmons and I sensibly held back.

“Looks dangerous,” I said. “You sure that's the right way?”

“Course it's the right way!”

Jemmons pointed upwards. “What's that hole?” he said.

I could hardly make it out. “Throw me the torch, Duck,” I said.

“Help me up then!” he quacked.

Jemmons held my hand and I ventured a little way down the slippery slope and grabbed the Duck's outstretched hand to pull him back up. He pushed us both out of his way and went straight over to shine the torch up the hole himself.

“No,” he said. “That's not it. It's too narrow. That can't be it. Can it?”

“Lift me up on your shoulders, Rog—I'll have a closer look,” I said.

Jemmons knelt down on one knee and I sat on his back with my legs around his neck. He kept stooped and bore me over to the hole. The Duck passed me up his torch. I got my head in line with the hole.

“All right, Rog.”

Jemmons straightened up slowly and my head and shoulders rose straight up through the hole.

“What can you see?” called the Duck.

“Yeah—it's a shaft. This looks like a drainage hole—there's a grille—hang on, I'll try to move it.”

I pushed up with the flat of my hand and dislodged the cover easily. Then I reached both my hands up and hauled myself through. When I stood up, I found myself in a shaft some four feet square.

The Duck's hands and then head appeared by my feet and I helped him in. Then we both reached back down to pull Jemmons and the boards up. Once we were all in the shaft, I kicked the grille cover back in place. We were now standing in a tight circle, staring each other in the face.

“Where's the bloody ladder then?” quacked the Duck.

“Um?”

“I told you it wasn't the right way!” he said, giving me a push.

I pushed him back.

The Duck snatched his torch off me and shone it up the shaft.

“I think I can get up there,” said Jemmons. He handed us the boards and spat on the palms of his hands. “Give me some room, boys.”

The Duck and I squeezed ourselves up into a corner. Jemmons braced his heels against one wall and fell forwards, stopping himself hitting the opposite wall with his hands. Then, drawing first his right foot up the wall and then the left, he began walking up the shaft, hand over hand. The Duck nudged me and I saw he had taken an orange fishing line out of his biggles and was tying the boards together. I passed him my two and went back to watching Jemmons.

“Sod that!” I said. “How far up does it go?”

“It's no height at all,” laughed Jemmons. “Have you never been out on the yardarm of one of His Majesty's ships of the line in a force nine gale, crossing the Bay of Biscay, sonny?”

“Not recently, Rog,” I said.

Jemmons disappeared up into the darkness. We looked at each other. The Duck, who was by far the shortest, stuck the torch in his mouth, paid out all of the nylon line, tied the end around his waist, walked out into the middle of the shaft, swung his arms about, looked up, clapped his hands, shuffled backwards, braced his heels against the foot of the wall, fell forwards, and knocked himself out cold on the opposite wall.

“What was that?” called Jemmons.

“Midshipman Duck just fell off the floor,” I said.

Jemmons cackled and started whistling a hornpipe.