Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (13 page)

The Noggin
sniffed, flapped its hands, and disappeared down the large, brass
funnel let into the wall. It was five foot across, curving gently
inwards to a wide tube at the bottom. Long use had polished it to
deep gold. There was a wide handle above the tube, conveniently
placed to grab on to and climb into the tube.

‘Bugger,’ said
Dave and pulled the next mat off the pile, placed it at the top of
the funnel, climb in and sat on it. Ahead of him the funnel ended
in a dark tube about three feet across.

‘I really hate
this,’ muttered Dave and pushed himself forwards.

After thirty
seconds of high-speed terror, Dave shot out into a dim room and
careered into the opposite wall. It was like doing the Cresta run
on a tea tray in the dark. He glowered at the Noggin, which seemed
pleased with its self.

‘Yes, very
clever, make the bigun look like an idiot.’

The Noggin
shook its head and held out its hand. Dave passed the notebook and
it scrawled across the page.

‘What
want.’

Dave wrote ‘The
notebook of Samuel Coleridge about the Huddersfield catacombs’ and
passed it back.

The Noggin
peered at the notebook and scratched its armpit. It looked up at
Dave, shook its head, flapped its hands, and headed out of the
door. Dave followed.

‘Well, thanks
for the help,’ said Dave as he and the Noggin looked at the empty
gap in the bookshelf. The Noggin nodded and leaned forward. It took
a long sniff and then pulled at its ears for a while.

It flapped its
hands at Dave and set off. Dave followed and this time the Noggin
seemed to know exactly where it was going; not one sniff.

Once again,
stood in front of a large brass funnel set into the wall, Dave
tried to assert himself.

‘No bloody way.
We use the stairs.’

The Noggin
gently took the notebook from Dave’s hand and wrote.

‘Only way
publishing’

Dave, intrigued
by the opportunity to see behind the scenes at the Library, took a
mat and with reluctance, set off after the Noggin. This time the
tea tray toboggan run lasted much longer before Dave careered into
the light. He sat on a mat in a large circular room with a low
ceiling and ten or so tube exits set into the walls. Dave added his
mat to the huge stack in the middle of the room and followed the
Noggin. As they left the room, the Noggin grabbed Dave’s hand.

The corridor
was a bustling mass of busy Noggins. Dave knew they looked after
the books in the Library, but he had no idea there were so many. He
waded his way through the three-foot high flood of animated hair,
guided by a hand that reached up out of the crowd. Soon the crowd
diminished then disappeared, until he and the Noggin stood alone in
the long corridor. The Noggin reached up, took the notebook, and
wrote.

‘Shift change.
Go publishing’.

Dave followed
down a side corridor and through double swing doors into a bright
factory floor filled with machines and slowly moving conveyer
belts. All sorts of books carried along by the belts that
disappeared into holes in the wall. There was a quiet background
hum and a chemical smell. They walked between the machines, climbed
stairs and along catwalks until they reached a large padded door in
a quiet corner of the huge room. The Noggin put its hands over it
ears and nodded its head. Dave shook his head and the Noggin opened
the door.

Inside was a
row of long tables. On each table book pages laid out. At the end
of the row was an enormous metal desk with a large computer screen
behind it. A grey-haired Noggin sat at the desk examining a
battered leather notebook.

The Noggin
approached the desk and spoke. Dave didn’t understand, but the
words seemed respectful and the sniffing deferential. The
grey-haired Noggin finally shook his head and turned around to face
the computer screen. His hands moved and images flew around the
screen.

There was a
muted chime and the Noggin returned to Dave and handed him a small
leather bound book. The title:

Guide To the
Huddersfield Catacombs

(A work in
progress)

Dave opened it
and read the frontispiece:

This book is to
celebrate the tri-centenary of the establishment of the
Huddersfield allotments and the stewardship of Mr Dave Trellis.

Based on the notebooks
of Samuel Coleridge and other explorers.

With sincere thanks
from the residents of the allotments

Dave was
touched, the tri-centenary wasn’t until next year, it was nice to
know they had made an effort. He leafed through the contents. It
had maps, drawings, notes on denizens and their habits, advice on
where to go and how to get there, lists of required equipment and
an extensive section on things not to do. The Noggin took Dave’s
hand and led him out of the room.

‘Do you have
any concept of the staircase?’ said Dave and shook his head. He
looked at the huge brass funnel in the ceiling. It reached down to
within a few feet of the floor and Dave could feel a draft going
into the funnel. He had an idea of what was to come and he didn’t
like it. Dave bowed and took a ceremonial sniff of the Noggin. It
smelt of old hay. He ducked under the rim of the funnel and jumped
up.

Fergus stopped
reading. It was fascinating and frightening all at the same
time.

JFK
assassinated by a four man patrol from A squadron 22 SAS for almost
starting world war three. The British lost their entire spy network
in Russia in the scramble to stop the missiles launching.

Marilyn Munroe
not murdered by the Mafia, but living on to a happy retirement in
Lake Tahoe.

The French
deliberately stranding the British Expeditionary Force at Mons to
slow the German advance.

The huge
practical joke of UFOs and Howard Hughes’s sense of humour.

The vast
Diamond hoax and the amount of Lead in national Gold reserves

After a break
he would try a different book, something lighter. As he walked
towards the nearest loo, he noticed an archway drawn in yellow
light on the wall at the end of the corridor. Fergus decided on a
quick peek in the visitor’s wing. As he crossed over the threshold
Fergus felt some resistance and a twinge somewhere deep in his
head.

On the other
side Fergus turned round. From this side there was no wall, just
the corridor stretching away. He examined a nearby bookshelf and
did not recognise the strange curled script. He walked on feeling a
little disappointed. Then he recognised something. It was the
writing on the spine of a book sitting on an almost empty bookcase.
Among the books, a slim volume titled ‘History of the Huddersfield
Allotments’. Fergus picked up the book and slipped into his back
pocket. There were six copies of Dave’s book there too,
outnumbering the Bible three to one.

Refreshed and
seated on a comfortable sofa in the junior reading room, Fergus
began to read the ‘History of the Huddersfield Allotments’. On a
personal level, it was more surprising than ‘The True History of
the Last Hundred Years’.

Dave wasn’t
sucked up the tube like a dust bunny in a vacuum cleaner as he
expected, instead it was an exotic paternoster with no belt or
steps. Dave floated upwards; he waved at Noggins going down the
other way.

The tube curved
over Dave’s head and he started going down. The tube opened out
into a large brass funnel and he dropped the last few feet to the
floor. Dave ducked out of the funnel and found himself in a simple
circular room with more tubes set in the walls. There were signs
above each tube, but the symbols made no sense at all.

Dave hardly
noticed them. He was looking through the glass panelled double
doors in front of him. Beyond was a garden; a garden with a pub in
it. Not, you understand, a ‘Pub Garden’, with its tired benches,
geraniums in tubs and drifts of cigarette ends, but a large formal
garden that had, placed neatly on the edge of its lawn, a modest
white washed building with a sign ‘The Write Inn’.

A neat stone
wall marked the boundaries, beyond was only sky. It was a roof
garden that could be anywhere. Dave’s feet enjoyed the soft bounce
of the immaculate lawn and his brain was happy – it was heading for
a pub.

‘What do you
think you’re doing here?’ said a loud female voice.

Dave turned
round to see a tall woman sitting upright in a cast iron garden
chair. She wore an expensive black suit, the skirt slightly short
of prudent. It was perfect power dressing for the modern woman.

She sat in a
small patio, hidden from direct view by shrubbery. On the table, a
platter of bread and cheese and two bottles of red wine. Dave felt
the embarrassment of an interloper, but enticed by the beauty and
shape of the woman. Her expression changed to amusement and she
snorted.

‘Oh it’s you.
Finally got up the gumption to tell the petty bureaucrats to get
stuffed no doubt.’

‘Pardon?’ said
Dave.

‘Mr David
Trellis, the Planetary Plenipotentiary, and Steward of the
Allotments, welcome to the joys of a full library card. Come and
join me. I haven’t seen you since the wedding.’

At last Dave
understood. The graceful, athletic build, the fabulous figure, the
lovely face and the amused glint in the eye. She was one of them.
Even so how could any man be graceless in the presence of such
beauty?

‘You have me at
an advantage madam; I don’t recall your name.’

‘Zuza. We
danced at your wedding – how could you forget. I flirted and made
you an offer you shouldn’t have refused. Then again I only did it
to annoy Maeve. How is she by the way?’

And Dave
remembered; Zuza was Maeve’s best friend until the wedding day; his
wife hadn’t spoken to her since.

‘I am sure
she’s fine,’ said Dave, ‘I thought you would have met when she went
home.’

‘Oh I haven’t
been there for ten years,’ said Zuza, ‘Anyway, congratulations on
finally joining the Library.’

‘Ah, well
that’s bit of a moot point.’

‘Oh? Still the
poodle then?’

‘It’s more
complicated than that,’ said Dave, ‘fancy hats and titles don’t
make things work.’

‘You’re
supposed to be the leader of the human world; a little respect is
due, along with a little backbone.’

Dave raised his
eyebrows and stifled an impulse to defend himself.

‘I am sure you
right, as in all things.’

‘Ah, the ‘lead
from the back’ ethos. Your hair shirt is showing Mr Trellis.’

‘And gold braid
and parades would make things better?’

‘Your record of
running the allotments does make your point I suppose. Here, have
some wine and bring me up to date on Maeve and your lovely
daughter. Abbey isn’t it?’

Dave sighed. He
took the offered glass of wine and stared into it for a while.

‘Abbey’s dead
and Maeve left me,’ said Dave.

Zuza looked
shocked.

‘What
happened?’

‘The allotments
were attacked and Abbey was killed. No, that’s not true. I took a
course of action that killed her. Maeve was distraught. We found
being together only reminded us of our loss and she left. Went on
an expedition to… To the other place.’

‘A glorious
quest.’

Dave stared at
Zuza.

‘Why is it that
every generation you lot charge off, like a hoard of armoured
lemmings, on a pointless, suicidal mission to the ends of the
Causeway.’

‘We want to go
home.’

‘You are home.
That stuff is just legend.’

‘It is not. The
Exodus is a well-documented, historical fact,’ said Zuza.

‘Can’t be that
well documented. Didn’t anyone think to make a map?’ asked
Dave.

‘We are
warriors, not cartographers.’

‘Aye, all gold
and gauntlets. Once more unto the breech and damned be he who says,
hang on a minute, shouldn’t we keep track of where we are
going.’

Zuza sighed. ‘I
am sorry for your loss, but arguing won’t do any good. Anyway, many
expeditions return.’

‘Not after this
long.’

‘Why not search
for her, you have excellent resources?’ asked Zuza.

‘I thought
about it. Still do, but she left me and finding her wouldn’t change
anything. Abbey would still be gone.’

Dave sipped at
his wine and looked around at the garden, embarrassed at talking so
openly to a casual acquaintance. They chatted about the garden and
enjoyed the sunshine. Zuza shared her food and wine; it was for a
while, a pleasant interlude.

‘Well, I best
be going. I have people waiting and a planet to save,’ said
Dave.

‘Always so
melodramatic, Mr Trellis.’

‘In this case
it’s true, not that you lot would care. Mind you, if it all goes
pear shaped, you might find a couple of million refugees heading
down the M7 towards your little medieval fantasy land.’

‘You
wouldn’t.’

‘I bloody
would. Where else is there to go.’

‘And we would
stop you; It is our land,’ said Zuza.

‘Good luck with
that. I look forward to your traditional armoured knights meeting
our traditional AK47s. Full metal jackets on both sides.’

‘It wouldn’t
come to that; we have co-existed peacefully for eons.’

‘Well,
whatever, I have to get a move on. Good day,’ said Dave and
stood.

‘Goodbye Dave
and good luck. Oh, and you want the third tube to the left of the
door.’

Zuza smiled at
him and for a moment Dave saw Maeve’s beautiful face. He fought
down the bitterness and forced a smile, then walked across the
lawn, back to the tube room, holding the precious book to his
chest.

Dave found
Fergus in the Junior Reading Room.

‘Sorry I’m late
lad, got talking. Come on, the mutt will be waiting. Always
punctual are your dogs and snide about tardiness.’