Chapter Four

Chapter Four - What the hell?

"I beg your pardon?" Giles was clearly distressed.

"Gone," Jeff said, "travelling."

"The town's done what?"

"Watch," said Jeff, "drive and keep an eye to the distance meter . . ."

He drove, and watched the meter.

"Oh my tits that's weird. It just . . . jumped!"

"The space is still there. But the time is gone."

"My word. Didn't you have any idea that this could happen?"

"Obviously there's more to this Grennitch business than meets the eye."

Giles turned of the engine.

"So what exactly happens when we drive past where Grennitch should be?"

"I'm not sure. It's as if we travelled straight through it. I mean, the car recorded the distance. But we didn't see anything. Nor did we collide with anything. What I believe is that the town is gone. It's somewhere else, and wherever it is, it doesn't exist because it has no space to exist in. But it has all the time in the world. So when we cross that area - it would probably look like a big black space, if we could see it. Which we can't. And we just continue across it as if we'd have kept going, but it's just recycling one instant, or jiffy, again and again - there's no time moving. Which is why we don't notice ourselves driving across. You'll see that you still have the same fuel levels, and the tires won't be worn out, but the meter still records the rotations even though they took place on nothingness. Zero resistance. It's very weird. I'm not certain that it should be possible. This is poorly researched."

"Soooo... What now? For now I believe you. Stupid as that may be."

"They could be anywhere. Here's the tricky part; they no longer occupy any space whatsoever - it's all still here. So what's moving through time is the essence of Grennitch, everything that gives the space substance, but without the space I don't know what good they can do."

"What are you saying? Where is Grennitch?"

"Oh," said Jeff, turning back to face the windscreen of the disastrous Renault-ghost-car-Porsche-bucket, "it's right there."

Indeed it was, like it had been plonked there for generations. Which of course it had, but a minute ago an observer would have taken some convincing.

"Tell you what, let's not go in there right now," suggested a nervous Giles. "Agreed. I knew we shouldn't have come straight here, why did you have to be so eager to find country road? If we'd had some lunch and gotten my bags first like you said then we never would have been upset by what just happened. But no, you had to go proving that the car really was a Porsche 911 and not a-"

"- careful!" Giles butted in, "Don't let's upset the Porsche, which is what she is and always was and always will be? Alright? Good." Giles patted the dashboard reassuringly, "There there girl, don't you worry about mean old Jeff, he's just grumpy because he's a small man with large head. They're all the same."

"Pillock," quoth Jeff absently.

"Quiet you toad. Let's get your bags and have something to eat while we think this out."

"Hurry up then, you inflated nipple of a man."

Giles pulled a u-turn and headed back for city country.

They retrieved Jeff's bags without incident and ordered some pizza on the way home. Getting pizza delivered in London has been and will always be a surreal experience. It's just something that shouldn't happen. It's an American thing. I don't think it belongs in other countries. However, it is something that only people FROM other countries can do well. You'll notice in movies that pizzas always arrive via a stern and competent generic Latin-American actor or a stupid, late, ridiculous American schoolboy. This is not a racist statement on the part of Hollywood (like how every black actor has to say "Hell no" twenty times a film) but Darwinian genetics. Americans are pizza-receivers. Delivering pizza is for them against nature. Just like a cat barking. They can (I am sure of this) - but they never would.

Almost immediately they entered the apartment the buzzer sounded and a thick foreign accent proclaimed "I have pizza for 2b."

"You go," said Giles. And Jeff went.

Shortly afterwards Jeff returned.

"He wants money."

Giles gave Jeff some money and the appropriate transaction was concluded. One large, slightly damp pizza found itself entering, by degrees in around the conversation, the digestive systems of the two men. And the circle of life continued.

"Tho," said Jeff through a mouthful of Double Pepperoni, "Wath eh than thow?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's the plan now?" clarified Jeff, downing some toxic bubbly beverage or other.

"Well, the way I see it, we need to understand what really happened to Grennitch. Your theory is nice and all . . . but to be honest, it's a bit shit. I think we should call in an expert."

"Giles, mon amigo, I am the only expert. I built the technology they're using. Nobody else would really get it, because they all use 'logic' to solve problems. My science is based on a different view of the universe. Like it or not, things aren't what they seem. The universe has rules . . . but they aren't what we think they are. After matter and energy being different forms of the same basic 'stuff' became clear scientists began to worry and decided they could deal with it in the same terms they'd been using all along. Nobody wanted to get fired, you see."

"You're telling me nobody understands the universe but you and Finbar?"

Jeff sighed. "Must we call him Finbar?"

"We must."

"Fine. But I want my objection logged. Anyway. Yes, only I really know how it all works. Well . . . Okay, there is one other person. Dr Martindale. He wrote a book about it. His terms were different to mine, but I think he was thinking along the same lines. But unfortunately, he is dead."

"What? How?"

"Bubonic plague. It was an old book."

"Well why even bring it up?"

"To prove that I know what I'm talking about, Giles you old thing, and not just waffling on. I am the only one who can help you with the technical side of this. But what happened to Finbar? Where is he right now? You're the detective."

"You've made your point. Okay."

Giles finished his pizza.

"I'm going out. There are one or two people I need to contact. This mystery can be solved. When you have eliminated the improbable, whatever is left, however impossible, must be the solution. Or something. Either way, don't make a mess while I'm gone. And for Heaven's sake don't build anything."

And so Giles left the apartment. Walking the London streets he briefly considered the feasability of wearing a deerstalker hat but decided against it, deducing from his past experience and different name that he was not, in fact, Sherlock Holmes. So he just walked in the light drizzle that had appeared, and made his way to a pub, which an old, battered sign proclaimed to be: T e Ea l o rt A s. The Earlscourt Arms. An illustrius title for a broken-down old boozer.

The dinge in the bar was palpable. It must have been specially installed by professional dinge-installers, to cater for a competitive niche market. That niche best described by words like "shady" and "dodgy" and "geezer" and "it smells bloody horrible in here". Giles walked up to the bar itself and order a pint of Magners.

"Pansy," said the barman (who looked exactly like the fat bloke with a dirty towel you are imagining at this very moment. He could look no other way).

"Just give me the drink," said Giles, "I didn't come here to get ridiculed."

"Really? 'cause you look like that's exactly what you came for. Word of advice," the barman leaned closer, over the stained wooden counter, "get a bloody man's drink."

"Fine. Give me . . . I don't care, an ale or whatever." Giles was rattled by the intensity of the barman's stare.

"Here. Two pound fifty."

"Right. Thanks."

"No problem. You lookin' for Jimmy?" He indicated a suspiciously nondescript door towards the rear of the establishment with a nod of his head.

"I might be," siad Giles, calmly.

"I can't see a pansy like you coming in here and ordering a little girl's drink unless someone'd told him this is where 'e could find Jimmy." Another exaggerated nod from the barman towards the door.

"So where is Jimmy? Just in case I want to talk with him?"

"I'm sorry, mister, that's not the right question to ask in a place like this. You could get into trouble, asking a question like that. No sir, you wouldn't want to go around doing things like that."

"So why were you nodding at that door?"

"I was doing no such thing. I have a crick in my neck is all. You want Jimmy. That's fair enough. But unless Jimmy wants you, there's no good you lookin'. So why would," he dropped to a raspy whisper, "a master-criminal and theif like," back up to a normal tone, "Jimmy want to speak to the likes of you?"

"That depends. Who's asking?" Giles was tired of this nonsense and wanted to be done with the stupid barman.

"Jimmy. Now you might just be in a lot of trouble, sunshine, so why don't you sit down and tell me all about it?"

Giles looked doubtful and expressed this look vocally.

"How do I know you're really Jimmy?"

Jimmy signed and took a pocket-watch from, of all places, his pocket.

"Recognise this?" he said, holding up Giles's watch.

"Okay. Can I have it back, please, Jimmy?"

"When you tell me what's going on. Why've you come looking for me?"

"I think you already know. It's the same reason you stole my watch just now. It's a matter of time. You see, I have this friend, and he's in a bit of a predicament..."

So it was that Giles told Jimmy (master criminal, legendary thief and one motherfucker of a barman) the story of how Jeff had come to his place late at night and asked him to be detective. Jimmy listened patiently until the end of the tale.

"This Jeff bloke sounds like a right twat. How'd 'e build a time machine then?"

"Who knows? Genius often snuggles up to plankdom, I find. Trust me, this guy knows his time. But my question for you is: does any of this ring a bell? You must hear about O'Malley from time to time? Surely in a place like this a helpful barman can pick up all kinds of things."

"Well that's true enough," said Jimmy, casually examining a diamond engagement ring, "I picked this up just this afternoon."

"Don't change the subject. I need O'Malley. Imagine what he could do with a time machine."

Unfortunately for Giles, Jimmy could well imagine what could be done with a time machine. His mouth almost watered at the thought.

"O'Malley? Never 'eard of 'im," said Jimmy. The lying bastard.

"Really? That's strange. I heard he drinks here."

"You heard wrong. You should get them ears checked. Going around hearing things," said Jimmy, "could get a man into all sorts of trouble."

"So you won't help me? What? You're supposed to help me! You're the guy in the pub! How can you not help me?" Giles was confused. This wasn't going as per his Conan Doyle collection. "Can you at least sell me a pipe?"

"We're not all good guys. What's in it for me? I'm the best theif in the country. There's nothing in it that I can't steal if I want to. You, my friend, had best be off."

"Ah, fuck it. Last time I waste my time in this dump."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it a waste. I hear they're looking for staff in the Grennitch Inn. Maybe I'll run into you again, Giles mate."

"You're just going to... my God, you can't actually think you can STEAL the time machine? What's wrong with you? Apart from the klepto thing, which let me tell you isn't a good start and the ladies hate it, what's actually the problem in your head? You are the BARMAN for fuck's sake. You're not suppposed to do this. It's un-Christian!"

"Where do you think you are, mate?"

"The Earlscourt Arms, of course. Where the friendly staff will always help you out. Especially budding solo private detectives. It's the law. I'm nearly sure." By this time Giles had become quite agitated at the unexpected turn of events. He hadn't been a detective for long and already things were going to shit.

"Oh. That place. Sorry pal, this is the Earlscourt Alms. You've been operating under a misapprehension. Round here we steal your ideas and milk them for our own good. Gosh. Didn't you know? Blimey. What a fuckwit."

"What? Really?" Giles looked at a beermat. There is was. Alms.

"Ah, FUCK."

On falling in love

Cobbles were pushing up at the soles of my feet with that patient upward drift they seem to acquire if you walk on them for long enough. And believe it, I had walked for long enough. I was thinking about her again, staring at the stones and seeing just enough to avoid the occasional Big Mac half-eaten and discarded, scorned even by pigeons this early in the evening. The desperate ones would come back later. God, we were so wrapped up in each other back then. So . . . encapsulated by it all. It swept us away in a tide so strong we forgot the feel of dry land on our feet. I remember thinking that we had a chance, a real chance, to fall properly in love. That's when it hit me that "fall" was altogether a far too accidental term. Falling properly in love, as I saw it, meant throwing yourself into it, launching blindly and hoping for the best. Bungee jumping hand in hand, if you will, in the confidence that something will hold you up.

Even if you can't see it.

Even if, sometimes, it isn't there.

"Nige?" she said, slapping me in the face with the cold, wet towel of reality.

"What? Oh, sorry Niamh. I was . . . miles away."

"It's okay, honey. What were you thinking about? You looked . . . deep."

"Actually, I was thinking about the first time I fell in love. Sorry, maybe I shouldn't say this . . ."

"No, go on. Tell me about her."

"What's to say? I was sixteen and she was a pretty girl who liked me. That's what passes for love when you're sixteen, isn't it? Funny how things change." I wrapped my arm around her, trying to take some of the bite out of the wind. "Come on, let's get something to eat. Where do you like?"

And just like that I was back in the real world, Nigel Nobody walking his girlfriend Niamh through town on the way to a pizza place. The food was so hot it burned, but we ate hungrily. Like it was our last meal for a week. I kissed her goodnight when we got to her apartment, and she hugged me so tight it seemed impossible that we could ever separate. That we could ever wanted to. God, I loved her that night. Eventually we gently relaxed the hold we had on each other and she turned around to open her door.

"I had fun tonight, Nige. Give me a call during the week, okay?"

"Absolutely. Talk to you soon."

So things were on the mend. It had been a few weird weeks, what with one thing and another. But finally it looked like we were falling properly in love.

I smiled on the walk home, wishing I could afford a gift for her. Something to knock her off her feet. I wanted her never to forget the way things were tonight. My pockets housed lint and little else. There were no presents for Niamh that week. Nor the week after.

I felt bad about it, although after we broke up a month or two later I looked at it as money saved. Funny how things change.

Yubyub

Wilt sits at his writing desk, scribing dutifully.

An attractive female aide approaches.

AIDE: Excuse me, Mr. Flowers, I don't mean to interrupt but-

WILT: - But you did so anyway, so come on then, out with whatever it is.

AIDE: Sir, there's a man here who says he's your father.

WILT: My father? My father? Don't you know the rule?

AIDE: Well, yes, I know the rule Mr. Flowers, but under the circumstances, I . . . didn't feel it was appropriate to make the decision myself, sir.

WILT: What circumstances would these be?

AIDE: I'd better let him tell you himself sir, it is rather a private matter.

WILT: Okay. Let him in. But go grease up the catapult anyway.

AIDE: Yes sir.

EXIT AIDE

ENTER WILT SNR

WILT: Hello father, what is it you want?

WILT SNR: Son, I have something to tell you. Your mother and I, well we've put of telling you but I think it's the time, your mother and I . . . we never married.

WILT: Oh. My word. Well that is a shock.

WILT SNR: I'm sorry son. But I got a letter last week from your solicitor suing your mother and myself for £3,000,000 for sub-standard childhood presents. That money went on your schools son. Remember how you kept getting expelled for doing harm to the other students? How by the end they wouldn't let you near crayons, never mind anything that was actually sharp. Poor Neville hasn't walked since, you know. Anyway son, we did carry you through those years and we were there when you left prison and decided to be a writer and I thought really, what with the lawsuit and everything, the time was right to tell you: you are a bastard, Wilt. A bonafide bastard.

WILT: SHARON!

SHARON(OFF-STAGE): Yes?

WILT: HAVE YOU DONE WHAT I ASKED?

SHARON: Just finished sir.

WILT: Father, you should leave now.

WILT SNR: Bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard. How could you?

WILT: SEND IN THE CHAPS!

WILT SNR: What? What are you going to do??

WILT: Good-bye, Father. I hope you have life insurance, I'd hate for mother to have to sell the house.

TWO HEAVIES ENTER

To Be Continued . . .

Like everything else around here.