The Terminus Read online

  “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.

  Chapter 11: God

  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 insid
e 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: