The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2) (24 page)

Dr Warwick looked to the others first before looking back to the grey.
 

“I think so,” he said.

“Unfortunate. And JoEl?” the grey man said.

“Was that your man there?” Dr Warwick said as he pointed the glass to the corpse on the table.

The grey nodded.
 

“Well, it is unfortunate indeed. Let me tell you, humans of Earth, my name is JooLa. I’m a Councillor of the Galactic Community. JoEl, a Freelancer, was on our payroll.”

“You fucking paid him to come here and kill these children?” Nisha shouted.

“You don’t understand. There is a great evil in the universe. Our elders have foreseen that it would call for Earth. The beacons, inside those children, are an automatic response. That sequence they’ve been psychically sending outwards over the last decade of your Earth years was not simple nonsense. They’re coordinates.”
 

Darpal woke. He murmured something. Seeing the blood on her hands had dried, Nisha stroked the back of her hand over his head.

“Coordinates for what?” Dr Warwick said.
 

“For Earth. I imagine it won’t be much longer than an Earth hour before the source of The Signal arrives.”

“The Signal?” Dr Warwick said.

“Yes. It is with great sadness that we must say goodbye to you before we ever truly welcomed you to the Galactic Community.”
 

“What do you mean? What’s The Signal? What’s happening?” Nisha said.

“In killing JoEl and in letting those children live, I’m afraid you’ve doomed your planet. The Signal would have received the coordinates. A great mass of hatred that wants nothing more than to consume all organic matter will be making its way for you as we speak.”

“What?” Dr Warwick said. “But … how do we stop it?”
 

The grey took a moment.

“I’m afraid you can’t.”

With that, the video signal disappeared from the screen and the room became silent. Everyone in the room looked at each other, unsure what to say.
 

“Miss Bhatia?” Darpal said quietly as he opened his eyes, no trace of the speck left at all. “Miss Bhatia, is everything okay?”

“Yes Darpal, it’s fine.”

“You look scared,” he said.

“I’m fine, Darpal. We’re going to be fine.” As she lied to Darpal, she stroked his hair some more and looked through the window to the bearded teacher, who was wiping his mouth and walking over again to the broken window.

“Hey guys,” he said, still pale. “It may not be the right time, but just so you know, this cat can talk.” He pointed to the cat.

The great worming of the prince of Minu

O poor prince, we feel for you.

As do the worms, who feel for you too.

A time of great hunger, for the prince and the cats.

Not enough fish, birds, or rats.

All the food to be eaten, for the prince and the cats.

But never satisfied, full, was the prince and the cats.

O poor prince, we feel for you.

As do the worms, who feel for you too.

The medicine cat we sent for you, the prince of the cats.

He made you go to the toilet, the prince of the cats.

Examined your poo, did the medicine cat.

Wriggly white worms, in the prince of the cats.

O poor prince, we feel for you.

As do the worms, who feel for you too.

A concoction of herbs for the prince of the cats,

A minty aftertaste you said, for the prince of the cats,

It just wouldn’t do, said the prince of the cats.

But there is no other cure, for the prince of the cats.

O poor prince, we feel for you.

As do the worms, who feel for you too.

The medicine cat’s head was taken, for the prince of the cats.

Stupid stupid doctor, said the prince of the cats.

So he ate, enough for the worms, did the prince of the cats.

And more for himself, did the prince of the cats.

He took his people’s food, did the prince of the cats.

Stole from their plates, did the prince of the cats.

O poor prince, we feel for you.

As do the worms, who feel for you too.

But the cats didn’t appreciate a prince who would take,

A revolt was to be had, a prince to behead.

And now the poor prince is buried,

Deep below, to be fed,

To the worms of the dead.

O poor prince, we feel for you,

As do the worms, who feel for you too.

As do the worms, who feed off of you.

O poor prince. Poor poor prince.

Dr Liz Thompson

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA?” Liz said, leaning forward in her chair. The TV was on. Some daytime program. It used to be The Good Morning Show With Nisha Bhatia, but they’d recently had a switch around. Personal issues. New host.

“We’ll be talking to an expert today about what the black cloud might be?” said the presenter. He was a shiny-toothed orange-tanned one. Bleached blond hair in perfectly sculpted peaks. An imbecile if Liz had ever seen one. And she’d seen many in her seventy-seven years on the planet.
 

“Donald,” she said as she stood up, folded the newspaper, and placed it on the coffee table.
 

He nodded as he stared at the wall and rocked gently back and forth, lost somewhere in his own mind. The glare of the TV reflected off his cataracts.

“Oh, yes please,” he said finally.
 

He wasn’t all there. Hadn’t been for a while. Not since his stroke. The second one, that is.

“So tell us, where has the cloud come from?” said the presenter. “And the most important question is, should we be worried?”
 

Liz made her way into the kitchen and poured some water into the kettle, a new one, a present from their daughter, before clicking the button. She dropped a couple of teabags into the floral teapot and grabbed the matching tea mugs from the cupboard. More gifts.
 

As she waited for the water to boil she looked upon the cupboards in the kitchen. The pictures along the walls. The ones from the US. The time with NASA. Pictures of the wedding, the children. Teaching at the school. Generations of little children passing through. Even that was a long time ago now. She’d lived many lifetimes, it seemed.

A draft blew in through the open back door. Liz walked over and pushed it closed. She didn’t mind it. It was refreshing, but she didn’t want Donald getting ill. Not now. He was her favourite type of fool. The kind to have big plans and bigger promises. The kind of fool who somehow made it all work. The one who led her by the hand onto the plane. She’d dropped into a depression of sorts. Donald promised her a new country and a new life would help her.

And it did … in many ways.

The kettle clicked as wafts of steam poured upwards through the filter. She filled the teapot, stirred the water, and took a tray with the mugs, pot, milk jug, and sugar into the living room.
 

Donald was watching the TV now. Back to lucidity.
 

“What’s all this black cloud nonsense about?” he said. “There was some idiot on the TV talking about the rapture.”
 

Liz tutted.

“I dunno Don. I doubt it’s even real. A stunt of some kind. Idiots talking nonsense.”

The black cloud had appeared the day before. She’d seen the clips taken from people’s mobile phones. Even on those pixellated screens, it looked menacing. A giant black cloud. Always moving, undulating. It came from the skies and rested above London. The tip of the Shard building poked upwards and into it, piercing its black membranous skin.
 

“It’s … worrying,” Donald said. “Very worrying.”
 

“Why?” Liz scoffed as she poured the tea. “Nothing to worry about. It’s just weather.”

“We live in Kent, Liz. We’re only an hour away from London and that cloud. Whatever it is. It doesn’t look like no cirrus or no cirrocumulus to me. It looks like a goddam demon!”

“Donald, don’t swear.” She stirred in his sugar and his milk and placed his mug on his tray next to him.

She sat back down on her chair and sipped her tea. It burnt her lip and her tongue a little bit. The man with the orange skin and blond hair was interviewing someone, an expert on the cloud apparently. A black gentleman with big thick dreadlocks tied above his head and a smart suit.

“I believe that what we have here is something very worrying, very alarming. Just on the Tube on the way here I heard several commuters talking about the cloud. People are genuinely concerned. I’ve heard people call it a terrorist weapon. I’ve heard some call it an act of God. Others are acting like it’s an alien.” They both laughed. “I know, right, but what we have here, obviously, is an issue related to global warming, greenhouse gases, and the damage to the structure of the ozone layer.”
 

The host on the TV nodded in agreement. All serious like.

“Okay, with that we’re going to take a call. First we have David from Manchester. David, what’s your take on the black cloud?”

“All right!” the faceless voice spoke. Deep, male, Mancunian. “Aye yeah well it’s obvious to me that it’s just a big black cloud. You know how, like, clouds get grey when they’re rainclouds? Well, this one is just full of oil or summat from one of those oil spills. Know what I mean?’

“Yes, Dave, potentially. On to our next caller. Zoe from Derby. What’s your take, Zoe?” the host said.

“Well, let me tell you.” A new voice. Female. “We never had none of this black cloud nonsense before all of these immigrants and whatnot started showing up. How do we know that it’s not something that they brought over?”
 

The host and his guest both shook their heads. The guest’s tidy dreadlocks wobbled. The host’s blond spikes stood strong.

“Okay, well, we’ll take one more caller and then we’ll move onto our roving reporter. Here we have Freddie from Surrey. Freddie, tell me your thoughts.”
 

“Hello there, yes, well, I have to say that this is deeply concerning to me. I believe what we have hovering above the Shard in our great capital city of London is the manifestation of all of our negative thinking. If we would look within ourselves, realise what we have within us, this immense power of positivity, we might be able to come together to make it disappear.”

“Yeah maybe, Freddie,” the host said as his eyes slightly looked to the right, off-camera. “Maybe.”

Liz shook her head and laughed.

“What did you say?” Donald said.

“Nothing, Don,” she said, still laughing.
 

She grabbed the remote control for the TV and switched the channel to some gardening program. They were talking about the black cloud affecting the light and the growth of their sunflowers. She changed the channel one more time and switched it to the Barry Kyle show — one of those programs where the host gets broken families on and makes them fight, under the veil that he will help them through their problems. A DNA-tests, my-dad-is-my-brother, your-granddaughter-stole-my-wallet, sort of deal.
 

She looked back to Donald, but he was staring out the window now. Watching the bushes and the trees in the garden sway against the wind. The autumnal brown beginning to take over.

As she was about to finish off her tea the phone rang. A landline. They were the last people on the street to have one. It was all about mobiles now. She climbed out of her chair, hiked her way to the hallway, and picked up the old off-white plastic handset and placed it to her ear.

“Hello?” she said.

“Is that Dr Cooper?” the voice said. Male, mid-thirties perhaps. Posh British.

“Cooper?” she said. “Not gone by that name in a long time. It’s Thompson now.”

“My apologies, Dr Thompson.” The voice went quiet. She faintly heard the inhalation of breath. “Okay well, please understand Dr Thompson, how strange this may sound. I do not wish to cause you any alarm.”

“Is this a marketing thing? Because we already have the internet.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

“Okay, go on then.”

“I’m sure you’re aware of the black cloud that is currently sitting atop the Shard?” he said.

“Yes yes, I’m bloody sick of it, to tell you the truth. It’s all over the TV.”

“Quite,” he said. “Well, this may sound strange, but … does the name Miss Sam mean anything to you?”

Moomamu The Thinker

Whatever open wounds Moomamu had, whatever open piece of skin baring the under-flesh beneath was now covered in sand. Painful at first. It was everywhere. It got into him, grated against his nerve endings, but after hours of walking through the desert, Moomamu realised that the pain wasn’t even that bad. Not when you compared it to the hours of loneliness. The searing heat. The dehydration. The burning skin. And the thirst. Moomamu had never, and would never, want to wish such a thing on anyone, even a cat.
 

The opening to the cave, the place he’d come through, was far behind him now. He’d left it back with his concern that the cats would come after him. Why would they come here? It was obvious he would die out here. It was a death sentence in itself. He’d killed himself by coming to such a wasteland.