The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends (36 page)

‘Sounds like far-fetched fiction,’ I said.

‘Yet I believe it is true.’

‘And so, and here let me see if I can get ahead of you . . .’ I located a banana in the picnic basket and with some small pleasure began to unpeel it. ‘You are hoping to somehow infect the King of all the Martians and by doing so telepathically infect all the rest.’

Mr Bell nodded.

‘And that is your plan?’

‘Well, part of it.’

‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘Because it is a very rubbish part of it. For one point, because the Martians are presently immune to Earthly bacteria, because they have been inoculated with penicillin. And for a second, because the King of Mars is now Mr Arthur Knapton.’

‘You might have a point or two there,’ said my friend. ‘So let us hope for the best.’

I skilfully downed the banana in one. ‘Share out the Treacle Sponge Bastard,’ I said. ‘At least we can die with full stomachs.’

Closer and closer now came the terrible sounds of destruction, the grinding metal of tripod legs growling ever louder in our ears.

Mr Bell shared out the Treacle Sponge Bastard.

And decanted the vintage champagne.

42

e shared a certain moment. Was it one of absolute calm amidst the terrible sounds of destruction, the roaring of fires and the screams of the fleeing thousands? Were we at the eye of the hurricane? The point of peace within the maelstrom?

At that moment, gentle reader, I truly believed that my end would shortly come, no matter how previously preordained its circumstances had appeared to be, and certain thoughts came to me then.

Certain words.

From Schiller's ‘Ode to Joy’. Which Beethoven chose as the libretto for the famous fourth movement of his wondrous Ninth Symphony.

Joy, beautiful spark of the Gods,

Daughter of Elysium,

We enter, drunk with fire,

Heavenly one, your sanctuary.

I sighed a sigh for that beautiful spark and then chastened Mr Bell for having more than his fair share of the Treacle Sponge Bastard.

Our repast at length concluded, Mr Bell rose to his feet and dabbed at his chops with a napkin patterned in the tartan of Lord Burberry. ‘Onto my shoulder, my friend,’ said he.

And I climbed onto his shoulder.

The sad, bedraggled multitude had passed us by. From the direction of London came the terrible sounds of the tripods, the sky behind them red with rushing fire.

The war machines of the Martians were terrible indeed, the armoured canopy high above each set of tripod legs fashioned to resemble a gigantic monstrous face. The eyes glowed red, for these were the portholes through which the dreadful Martians peered and pointed. But the canopies were several hundred feet above the ground and beneath them were mounted the great gasping engines that swung the tripod legs across the landscape. All over grey dull metal, rivet-studded, armour-plated, apparently invulnerable, they picked their way across the fields with awful sound and fearful tread.

Flames gushed and trees took fire. The very fabric of all that was England was being torn and twisted, burned and broken.

‘Oh, Mr Bell,’ I cried to my friend. ‘This truly is the most terrible thing. Whatever are we to do?’

‘You must trust me,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Do whatever I say, without question,
when
I say it. Do you understand?’

‘I do,’ I said, and I clung to Mr Bell's shoulder.

There was one tripod larger than all the rest. Larger it was and grander, too, its steel grey legs enamelled and inlaid with
many precious metals. Above the canopy rose many golden spires. I stared at it and gasped in utter horror.

‘The face,’ I said. ‘That great metal face.’

‘The face of Arthur Knapton,’ said my friend.

For so it was. Picked out in terrible detail. That long and loathsome face. Recognisable to many as the God-Pharaoh Akhenaten.

This monstrous creation swayed towards us and loomed far above our heads.

‘Mr Bell, we must run!’ I cried.

‘Not yet,’ said Cameron Bell.

A dreadful stench now filled the air. A dreadful clamour went up from the high canopy.

And then the metal jaws of the dreadful face ground open and great sounds were heard.

Great and terrible sounds were these.

The laughter of Arthur Knapton.

‘Well, well, well,’ came a greatly magnified voice. ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum, don't I smell the blood of a fat bald ’un?’

Mr Bell stood his ground with remarkable courage as the hideous structure filled all the sky, dwarfing us in a black and icy shadow.

‘There is a definite niff in the air,’ said my friend. ‘But then you were never a man inclined to the use of soap.’

‘Gawd bless my soul,’ came the voice. ‘If you ain't a rude ’un, a-considering ’ow yer about to meet a very ’orrible end.’

‘
Me?
’ said Mr Bell. ‘I do think not.’

Laughter poured from the war machine and appeared to engulf the whole world. ‘But you're ’ere,’ bawled Arthur Knapton. ‘Right where I knew you'd be. We fink the same at times, you an’ me.’

‘I was relying on
that
,’ my friend whispered to me.

‘
The War of the Worlds
began on this ’ere common,’ the man in the war machine went on, ‘so it seemed fitting enough to us both that this ’ere common is where
this
war should end. An’ blow me down an’ kiss me bleedin’ elbow if I didn't reckon you'd show up ’ere yourself to ’ave a showdown as those American Cowblokes will. Am I right, or am I right?’

‘You are right,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘I ain't seein’ no army, though.’ That grating laugh poured from the steely mouth. ‘I ain't seein’ no batteries of cannons, no redcoats on ’orses prepared to die for Queen and country. In fact, I ain't seein’ noffin’ but a silly Mr Pickwick an’ ’is monkey.’

Mr Bell did chewings upon his upper lip.

‘Would I be right in believing,’ I said, ‘that you did intend for such a military force be present? Right now?’

Mr Bell nodded.

Rather dismally.

‘And they have not turned up?’ I asked.

‘It rather looks that way,’ said Mr Bell.

‘Speak up,’ called the voice of Arthur Knapton. ‘You were p'raps a wondering as to where yer army is.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, shuffling uncomfortably.

‘Well, I'll tells ya. They's
dead
, Mr ’igh an’ mighty detective. I'm always one step ahead of you. I ’ad the barracks bombed first fing this morning.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, and he said it painfully.

‘And now,’ came that great and deafening voice, ‘I reckons it's time to be ’avin’ you. I've Martian minions ’ere what wants their breakfast.’

And with that abominable statement, two metallic tendrils
sprang from the canopy and coiled down with speed towards us.

‘We should run
now
,’ said Mr Bell.

And that is what we did.

That is to say, I clung to my friend and he did all the running. And remarkably sprightly, too, he was, for such a portly chap as he. He sprinted between the legs of the tripod and made at haste in the general direction of Horsell Common Underground Station. I was impressed by his speed.

Run and run and run went Mr Bell.

Turn and swing and then pursue went the tripod.

We were in the high street now, or what at least was left of that beautiful village's main thoroughfare. Blackened, burned-out houses and shops. A twisted, broken hansom cab with a horse's skeleton hanging between its shafts. The dreadful stench was all-consuming, for it was the putrid stench of death.

I looked back. ‘It is gaining on us,’ I cried.

‘Just a little further,’ puffed my friend.

‘Into the Underground Railway?’

‘Something like that,’ my friend panted.

Mr Bell was rooting as he ran.

Rooting about in his pockets, was he.

Then drawing out a very special something.

It was a very special something that I immediately recognised. It was one of Mr Bell's very favourite very special somethings. A brass-box contrivance approximately the size of a cigarette case, from which sprouted a slim metal rod, and upon the face of which was a big red button.

‘Just a little further,’ puffed and panted my friend.

And then . . .

We were inside the Underground station and Mr Bell's thumb went hard down on the button.

‘Cover your ears, Darwin!’ he cried as he threw himself down into cover and hugged me to his bosom.

The dynamite had been well concealed.

Within the high street drains.

The explosion was a mighty one.

It roared beneath the tripod . . .

and went . . .

BOOM!

43

‘
otcha!
’ shouted Mr Bell, and he rose amidst dust and patted away at his person. I arose with him and I did pattings, too.

We peered from the station into the street but could see nothing but smoke.

‘That really was a
very
big bang,’ I said.

Mr Bell, who had only managed to cover one of his ears as the other arm had been shielding me, looked a tad unsteady on his feet.

‘I think I might have lost an eardrum,’ he said.

I tried to look sympathetic. ‘Where did you get all that dynamite from?’ I asked.

‘Pardon?’ said my friend.

So this time I shouted.

‘I have had a rather busy twelve hours,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I acquired two things of major importance. The dynamite was one of them.’

‘The dynamite came from the soldiers’ barracks,’ I shouted, for my friend had
not
answered my question. ‘Where the soldiers were. The ones Arthur Knapton killed.’

‘It can all be put right.’ Mr Bell banged at his head. ‘All
this can be made to unhappen. It
has
to be made to unhappen.’

We peered once more into the street. The smoke and dust were clearing now, exposing a scene of utter devastation.

‘It has gone,’ I shouted. ‘The entire village has gone, Mr Bell. You have wiped Horsell village from the map.’

Mr Bell nodded thoughtfully.

But then began to smile.

For not only had the village gone.

So, too, the Martian tripod.

‘You blew it up,’ I cried. ‘You blew
him
up. Arthur Knapton is no more. You beat him, Mr Bell.’

‘I rather think that I did,’ said my friend, and he preened at his dusty lapels. ‘And this victory will hopefully act as a rallying cry to the forces of Empire. Victory shall shortly be ours.’

‘Bravo.’ And I climbed onto Mr Bell's shoulder and gave it a ‘well done’ pat.

‘A breath of fresh air,’ said Mr Bell, ‘then away down the Underground tunnel with us and back to the
Marie Lloyd
.’

‘And Beethoven's Ninth?’ I said hopefully.

‘And Beethoven's Ninth,’ said the great detective. ‘The clearing up of these horrors can wait until after that. We are time travellers, my little friend – we can put all back together.’

‘Wonderful, oh, wonderful.’ I was
so
looking forward to the Ninth.

Mr Bell did a little more dusting and then he stepped from the station. I peered about from my perch on his shoulder.

At nothing.

All that remained of the village was a single twisted lamp post. That and, of course, the Underground station. Clearly Mr Bell had displayed a degree of cunning when it came to
the laying down of his dynamite, that our hiding place would be the only building to survive.
^*

‘No more Horsell village,’ I said. ‘I wonder whether they will ever rebuild it. If they do not, they will probably demolish the Underground station, and no one in the future will ever know that there was one.’

Mr Bell gave me a certain look. ‘Trying to fill in a little plot hole there, Darwin?’ he asked.

I nodded and grinned at my friend.

And we shared a moment or two.

And then I screamed.

Very loudly indeed.

And Mr Bell came all over weak at the knees.

For a great black shadow fell across us. The shadow of the Martian war machine.

‘Oh my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell. Which was probably the last time he would ever get to say it.

The massive tripod, with the ghastly Arthur Knapton face so high upon it, had
not
been blown to smithereens at all. It had been straddling the Underground station all along, unharmed, apparently, its occupants simply waiting for us to emerge.