The Terminus (17 page)

“Gary,
this is all so crazy.”

“Mum, I love
you. Dad as well. You’ve no idea what these guys are capable of if they take
you back as hostages. I promise I’m not messing around. Get the hell out of the
house.
NOW
!”

This was
followed by a period of silence at the both ends of the phone. Like Mike, his
mum was well aware of his temper.

“Mum?”

No response.

“You still
there, Mum?”

“Oh my God, Gary,
I’ve just seen something on TV.
Breaking news.
About the theft of a priceless antique tablet from the
British
Museum
.
You and Mike!
Caught on security camera in those funny
costumes.
Oh, Gary… is this
why…?” She was in tears. All he bloody needed! “I tried so hard to bring you up
properly,” she continued. “You were doing well at school... top in most
subjects... and now... oh, what’ve you gone and done, Gary?”

“Believe in
me. Beetie, too. And she’s
not
Belinda! Can’t say more, Mum.
Six o’clock
!”

He hung up.

Caught on
security camera?
On the national news in this weirdo tracksuit with
strange-looking hair?

He still had
his mag-stunner, but what use would this be against the entire Metropolitan
Police Force? Anyway, the effect only lasted three minutes. Oh, how he wished
Mike was with him! But just suppose the two pairs of time-specs
were
somehow linked? His only option was
to head off onto the Heath with Beetie, find a secluded spot where they could
huddle (and cuddle?) like a couple of lovers −
if
she’d allow him −
until
six o’clock
. He thought
most
people tend to turn away from lovers. At least, Gary O’Driscoll of the past
used to before his life got turned upside down.

As they
strolled along the Heath footpath away from Whitestone Pond, Gary
talked… about his parents, their home, his school, Danny, Emma Pearson, the teachers,
his love of science and maths and the movies. Beetie listened eagerly, her
questioning eyes almost melting away his insides. When they were a decent
distance from the pond, and he was no longer able to resist, he led her off the
path, placed the bags on the ground, took her in both arms and kissed her on
the lips. She yielded so sweetly, stroking his cheek, he went on and on and on
with the kiss.

Until they
were rudely interrupted!

“Now would ye
mind tellin’ me what de heck ye t’hink ye’re doin’ to a colleen so fair, for my
eyes is tellin’ me she’s de Holy Virgin herself! Bejesus, dat girl is
beautiful!”

Gary
turned and stared anxiously at a filthy, unshaven tramp in a worn-out dark grey
suit. The man, who swayed from one side to the other as if balancing on a boat,
was difficult to age. Moist, red eyes peered mischievously from a feral tangle
of hair that hid all other facial features except for a bulbous red nose. Their
owner seemed to be conducting an invisible orchestra with a
three-quarters-empty bottle of whisky.

“Bejesus, she
is dat! Now you be careful, young fella. Can’t go messin’ wid de Holy Virgin.
Not a holy man misself, to be sure I’m not, but de Holy Virgin, she’s due some
respect, ye see!”

Gary
felt annoyed. Of course he respected Beetie! He’d risked his life for her …
and
his best friend’s.

“She’s not
religious,” he said, “Only very special. What’s it to you anyway?”

The boy’s eyes
narrowed. Even tramps had access to police stations and to televisions in
electrical shop windows. Might the man turn him in for a reward?

“Special! To
be sure, she’s dat! Like every colleen! My daughter too, God bless her, dough
I’ve not set eyes upon her for twelve long years! Mother of Jesus,
she
was special to me. Dis stuff, dis evil liquor, it’s taken away my family…
everyt’hing! All de time I’m t’hinking about her, bless her little soul. My
wife won’t let me near herself or my daughter.”

The tramp
staggered towards Gary and Beetie and Gary
stepped in front of the girl.

“Sure! Dat’s
right, now. You protect de Holy Virgin child! As I was sayin’, I was a comp’ny
director once, before de demon drink got a hold of me and she dug her claws
into my soul and tore out my heart. What ye see before ye is all dat’s left of
Seamus O’Malley.” He came closer, swaying dangerously. “Would ye spare a few
coins, now? De Holy Virgin here, she’ll not want Seamus O’Malley to run dry. To
be sure, she’d not!”

Partly hidden
in the growth of facial hair, crooked brown teeth outlined a smile, and the
man’s request gave Gary an idea.
Not money, but a new look; it could also work wonders for the Irish
down-and-out and stretch that grin even further.

“I’m Gary
O’Driscoll. I’ll do a deal, sir,” he suggested.

“Now don’t ye
be callin’ me ‘sir’. Dey haven’t knighted me yet for my services to de whisky
industry, dough, bejesus, dey should!”

“We can do a
swap,” Gary continued. “My
futuristic, all-gloss, weather-resistant tracksuit for that fine-cut suit of
yours. Cap as well… the circular thing on your head.”

“My halo is
what you’ll be referrin’ to, eh?”

Gary
glanced at Beetie whose expression was a mix of puzzlement and amusement. He
winked and she smiled.

“My
time-travelling friend, Mike, might just take you back some day to when you
were a company director and before the demon drink got hold of you. Return you
to your wife and daughter.”

The Irishman
went still. Tears welled in his red eyes and his face changed.

“My daughter?
My little Caitlin?”

“If you
promise.”

“Promise? Holy
Mary, Mother of God, I’ll promise anyt’hing to see Caitlin again!”

“So here’s all
you have to do. Remove that suit and shirt. I’ll do the same with my tracksuit,
and we switch clothes. ‘Simples’… as the meerkat in the telly advert would
say!”

In his excitement,
Seamus O’Malley did a little drunken skip.

“Ah my little
Caitlin! Will he be long now, dis friend of yours?”

“As long as we
take to save the world of the future.”

“Oh, dat’s
not’hin’! Not wid de Holy Virgin at your side!”

“I told you.
Beetie’s very special. Nothing more.”

“Special, to
be sure! So you, young man, will soon be de proud owner of de very special suit
of Seamus O’Malley.”

Gary
had to support the Irishman whilst he disentangled himself from his trousers,
jacket and shirt.

“After twelve
long
years dey’ve
become moulded to my body, see!”

Gary’s
nose agreed. This probably
was
the first time in twelve years the
clothes had been removed from Seamus O’Malley. He found their smell even more unpleasant
than the stink of gee-rats, but he took them and, after hurriedly removing his
tracksuit, with a beaming Beetie looking the other way, he changed into the
Irishman’s shirt and suit. In Gary’s
green tracksuit, Seamus O’Malley gave the appearance of an over-sized
leprechaun, and when the man did a dance with his arms in the air Beetie
couldn’t control her laughter… which made both Seamus and Gary wonderfully
happy. The boy had never seen Beetie laugh so much. The ex-company director
stopped his drunken jig and gave a bow. She returned the bow, still giggling.

“Well now,
dat’s made my day! To make de Holy Virgin laugh! I’d never’ve have t’hought de
day would come!”

“Remember…
after my friend takes you back to your family you’ll not get another chance. If
you fight the drink and stay with your daughter and wife you’ll not need to
suffer this hell.”

“And a very
good day to you to too, Mr Gary O’Driscoll, sir!” Seamus O’Malley said, bowing
again.

Gary and
Beetie walked off together, leaving the contented drunkard proudly smoothing
his hand over the gloss-sheen of his newly-acquired twenty-third century
tracksuit. Gary had no idea what
the material was, but keeping the body at a constant temperature whatever the
weather, one of its features, would be perfect for the lifestyle of a tramp.

This time they
walked apart, and Beetie covered her nose. Gary
could barely wait for
six o’clock
and
the chance to discard the stinking garments.

The rhythmic beating got louder
the further Mike and Blinker squeezed on into the silver tube. Only a few
decibels short of unbearable, the sound suddenly gave way to a continuous,
wavering, electronic hum similar to the noise Mike had once heard from power
pylons in the countryside, accompanied by a flickering rainbow of light that
played colourful patterns on his hands. Mike halted.

“Would make Gary
witter on about ions and protons and bloody Albert Einstein, this sort of
stuff, but scares the shit out of me,” he whispered. An unseen force began
tugging at his body and he slid forwards an inch or two. “Holy chilblains… get
back, Blinker! Something there’s about to scramble us into minced meat. Quick!”
Mike attempted to crawl backwards against the increasing suction of the tube.
“It’s a bleeding vacuum cleaner! Pull on my legs!”

Blinker
gripped his ankles and, inch by inch, the boys eased themselves backwards, away
from the ghoulish light, the heavy beating and the pylon wire hum. Their
movements became easier when they finally broke free from a kind of invisible,
treacle-sticky ether.

“Sorry!
Not
a good idea. Should have listened to you, mate,” Mike whispered, turning with
difficulty. “Can’t get everything right, though! Not
even
me.
Back to the
Battle
of
Bannockburn
then!”

Blinker pulled
a puzzled face. Most of the time he hadn’t a clue what Mike was prattling on
about.

“The movie!
Braveheart? Mel Gibson? Robert-the-Man-Who-Loved-Spiders-Bruce beating the
English? Oh, never mind! Back to the hall.”

He followed
Blinker towards the severed end of the tube and the light of the now ominously
quiet hall. Cautious, Blinker peered out from the gaping broken end of the
tube.

“They’ve all
disappeared… or they’re dead… or both,” he said.

He jumped down
onto a bloodied slab and surveyed the carnage.

“Jesus!”
exclaimed Mike after joining him. “Braveheart’s nothing compared with this.”

Strewn about
were the dying, the dead and the dismembered... blood everywhere... hacked
bodies of heavies amongst slaughtered surfacers, and at the other end of the
hall, bloated gee-rats sniff-snuffling from corpse to corpse, chewing
contentedly on the remains. They’d even stopped chattering. One glanced up at
the boys with disinterest.

“Thank God the
daddy-rats have had their supper. Seems a lot of bodies… but there were
definitely more here than what we can see,” observed Mike.

“Surfacers?”

“Yeah! Weird
word when you think we’re under the sea. A load of them must’ve escaped. Let’s
hope they’ll realise we’re their rescuers – or else!

Mike and
Blinker climbed down from the slab, watchful of the gee-rats.

“Maybe the
surfacers will think we’re just another couple of zombies,” Mike suggested.
“Or...
do
they actually think?”

“Same as us.
Only The Agenda have played around with their brains. With chemicals. No idea
what they give them. Serves a purpose, though. Life-Force production. ’Course,
some reckon that’s what the Pentatron tablet’s all about. To harness Life-Force
over there in the Terminus. Also, Arthry says God’s about to come up with an
alternative. He and the Chairman fell out over Life-Force, like I said.”

“God the God,
God the Man or God the Teeth?”

Blinker
laughed.

“Only
one
God
for us, Mike.”

“Some might
disagree with you, dude! Anyway, ready for battle?” Blinker nodded, grinning.

“Battle of
Bannockburn, you said?”

“I must write to
Mel Gibson about this when we get back.
The
Battle
for the
Terminus.
Starring Mike
Bellini
and Blinker…
er… hey, what
is
your surname?”

Blinker
shrugged his shoulders.

“Shruggie, ay?
Good family name! Look, Blinker Shruggie, we’ll take a couple of machetes each,
right? Thank God you’ve no guns in this place.”

“Guns? Dunno
what you mean... but I could do with a spear,” said Blinker, searching the
bodies for a free machete. After picking their way around the gruesome remains,
with Mike uncharacteristically nervous they exited through the courtyard door
below the humming silver tube.

Expecting the
shouts and screams of an epic Hollywood battle, they
were hit by silence and tranquillity. Along the wall at the far end of the area
sat girls in colourful dresses, hands demurely folded in laps and staring
vacantly ahead. Otherwise, the place was deserted. No heavies, no warden, no
Arthry, no Teeth, no surfacers. Scattered bloodstains on the ground were the
only indication that anything had been amiss. The boys approached the girls,
Mike continually checking that no apparition from thin air was about to zap him
again. Twenty girls turned their pretty heads, all beautifully hair-styled…
varying shades of raven-heads, brunettes, and red-heads, but no blondes and none
as lovely as the girl who ran towards Gary
moments before the heavy mag-stunned Mike.

“Hi!” Mike
called to the nearest in a white dress with short frilly sleeves, her black
hair long and sleek. “My name’s Mike Bellini. What’s yours?” She smiled back,
but said nothing. “Me Mike, you Jane?” he tried, pointing from himself to the
girl. Still mute. He turned to Blinker. “Can
you
get anything out of
her… or these other doll-faced lovelies?”

Blinker shook
his head.

“They’re
doped, Mike.”

“Courtesy of
your leader, no doubt!”

Mike had
another go with the girl:

“Where’s
Toothy Face gone? The dude with the scary chompers. I want my specs back. He’s
a bloody thief, you know!”

The girl
stared blankly.

He tried
pushing open the door to the Terminus, but it remained firmly shut with not
even a keyhole to pick. He scanned the courtyard. No one else in sight.

“Where the
heck is everyone?” he asked Blinker. The other boy shrugged his shoulders yet
again.

“Dunno!
Probably went back into the city for something and left these beauties here.
There’s a shuttle bus every few minutes. In fact…”

A soundless
silver lozenge shot out of a hole in the wall, stopping abruptly. Its circular
door opened. To Mike’s relief, no one got out.

“Don’t those
pod things have drivers?” Mike asked.

“
Drivers
?”

“Never mind.
Let’s get these Page Three girls away from here. Put ’em in one of those
coloured buildings over there. A bit cheerier than the place with the corpses
and daddy-rats, ay. How about that blue one?
Matches your
tracksuit.
You
can sing songs to the girls whilst I work out
where the hell we go from here.”

The girl in
the white dress was still staring at Mike.

“You! Come
with me, you gorgeous creature!”

He took her
hand and helped her up. She showed no resistance. He repeated the exercise with
all the other girls. The sole response of each was an inane grin.

“Man, I can
imagine a riot at school back in the old place if they fed our girls whatever
they’ve given this lot. Girls who only smile and don’t talk! Bloody
heaven
!
Still, I think I prefer Veronica. ”

Like trailing
sheep, the girls followed Mike and Blinker across the courtyard to the blue
building. Mike ushered them inside and along a brightly-decorated corridor.
Doors bore recognisable girl’s names – Jennifer, Sara, Chloe etc – and opened
into small, girly bedrooms with pretty wall-paper, bedclothes, dressing tables…
the lot. None had handles on the inside.

“Bloody
kinky!” remarked Mike.

Not knowing
any of their names, he left each girl in a separate room regardless of the name
on the door. One room belonged to a ‘Belinda’.

“
Her
!”
announced Blinker. “My sister, Beetie! The Chairman and Arthry call her
Belinda.”

“Sister?
But…?”

Mike studied
the olive-skinned boy with suspicion. Beetie was a blue-eyed blonde.

“Yeah! We came
from the same Hatchery… but whereabouts that was in this place I can’t
remember. They make sure of this before you get put on the shuttle-bus. They
dress you in a tracksuit… the blue ones are my brothers and sisters… give you a
number and that’s it.”

“Remember,
your
surname’s ‘Shruggie’!”

“The first
thing
I
remember is me and Beetie on the shuttle-bus, and Beetie saying
how she hated me before I’d even opened my mouth.”

“Wouldn’t’ve
been a problem for me,” said Mike. “There’s never a ‘before’ bit, see. My Mum
says I was a born prattler.”

There was one
girl left: the black-haired one in a white dress. Mike had been reluctant to
get rid of her, for beneath her fixed smile he sensed someone different. It was
as if she was in pain and wanted to cry out or say something but couldn’t.

“Fancy being a
Belinda?” he asked her. Her gentle brown eyes gave nothing away.

“Let’s all go
in here with the new Belinda. Must be one hell of a drug those bastards stuck
into her!” The three entered the room and the girl sat on a bed whilst they
searched the place. “So bloody weird!” exclaimed Mike, looking at dresses laid
out on the bed beside the girl. He peeped inside drawers filled with feminine
undergarments then approached the desk.

“How do these
things switch on?” he asked, pointing to the computer screen. It flickered
alive after being whispered at by Blinker. An image of a high waterfall against
a backdrop of tall mountains appeared.

“What on
earth…?” Blinker began.

“You don’t
know? Mountains, a waterfall… flowers. Sound of Music stuff! Julie Andrews?”
Blinker’s face remained blank. “Never mind! Must be loads of things you miss
out on stuck here under the sea. Can you… erm… sort of back-track? See what
they forced Beetie to watch?”

Blinker showed
Mike how, by moving his hand from left to right in front of the screen, it
changed. He stopped and stared when the Chairman’s face appeared.

“Might’ve
guessed!” he said “Shit-Face gets everywhere.” The Chairman smiled. “Yuk! Are
dentists extinct in modern London?”

“Shhh!”

The Chairman’s
mouth was moving, soundlessly.

“Can’t you
turn up the volume?”

Blinker
circled his hand and words emerged:

“... Belinda,
my dearest, listen!

‘O mistress
mine, where are you roaming?

O, stay
here! Your true love’s coming,

That can
sing both high and low:

Trip no
further, pretty sweeting;”

“Shakespeare
coming out of that ugly turd? It’s one of the sonnets, for God’s sake! I
always
come top in English, you know. There oughta be puke all over the
floor the way he’s murdering the verse! He’s a bleeding pervert! Old enough to
be Beetie’s… whatever… her distant ancestor! Gary
thinks the old fart comes from ancient Atlantis!” He glanced at the girl on the
bed. “D’you
think
he’s got a bunch of goofy
look-alikes in the Terminus? Dredged up from the Atlantic
with those time-specs… come here to pinch
our
girls? I’m beginning to…”

“Shhhh!”

Mike shut up.
The Chairman had finished his poetry recital:

“…your
preparatory lesson, Belinda. You’ve been such a good girl. I’ll tell you everything.
Soon I’m going to make you so very happy!”

“With those
bloody teeth? Come off it!”

“Shhhh!”

“Yes, your
preparatory lesson! You see, it’ll be like this…”

Both boys
leaned forwards, staring in anticipation, listening to every word, hoping to
find out what mystery lay beyond the door to the Terminus. Ten minutes later
when the goofy face had vanished, the Chairman’s ‘lesson’ over, Mike was still
gaping at the screen. He remained rigid, his hands tight balls of knuckle, his
features distorted by revulsion.

“I’ll kill the
bastard… and any other Atlantis creep I can lay my hands on. Kill the lot of
’em! I swear it!” He turned towards the girl on the bed. “One of us must stay
on guard all the time. Mustn’t let the rodent-toothed sugar daddies get anywhere
near her… or the others.”

Mike couldn’t
remember when he’d last experienced true anger. It wasn’t in his nature.
Overwhelmed by this volcano of fury, he was unable to think clearly. Even
Blinker appeared disturbed. Perhaps he truly had no idea this was what The
Agenda had been planning... a sex orgy in a mock-up paradise.

“Whatever my
sister says about me, I wouldn’t wish this on her,” he said.

“The buggers
will’ve gone back for Beetie. Teeth, Arthry… the whole bloody lot of ’em. Hold
hands, and they can travel together. They’ll kill Gary,
bring her to the Terminus and…”

“Windows!”
The girl on the bed said. “Keep away from
windows!”

Mike’s
eyebrows lifted.

“She spoke!
Windows? Microsoft? Is Bill Gates still knocking around?”

Blinker seemed
unduly nervous, but his twitching face gave away nothing.

“
Never
by
the windows,” repeated the girl, smiling stupidly.

***

“Yuk!”
exclaimed Gary as Beetie, laughing,
smeared a handful of dirt over his face.

“To complete
the image!” she explained.

They were
standing at the top of Hampstead Heath looking beyond the trees across
twenty-first century London spread out before them to a hazy horizon… a carpet
of human achievement, of cumulative twenty-first century technology, and as
fragile as a bone china plate.

Beetie wiped her
hands clean on Gary’s tramp suit.

“Thanks!” he
said. “Always wondered what it feels like to be a tramp... a gentleman of the
road.”