Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (9 page)

‘Here will this
do?’

Suddenly the
stone became very hot. Fergus dropped it on the ground and sucked
his singed fingers. He wished he hadn’t; they were covered in
soil.

INFORMATION –
THIS KNOWLEDGE WILL PROTECT THE CONCLAVE. USE IT.

WHAT IS YOUR
ORIGINATION?

Fergus was
confused for a moment and looked at the hot stone lying on the
ground. It looked normal, so he turned it over with his foot. The
other side was perfectly flat, glazed and covered in minute
writing. It was too small to read. Fergus took off his leather
belt, wrapped it around the stone and set off back to the
pavilion.

After three
paces before he felt an excruciating pain in his back. He stopped
and turned around to see more blue letters written in the air.

WHAT IS YOUR
ORIGINATION?

Fergus sighed.
A deal of sorts had been struck and despite his impatience he sat
down and started talking about his parents. It upset him and he was
surprised by the bitterness in his voice.

It took much
longer than expected; the Murgatroyd demanding details on all sorts
of trivia. Birthday celebrations, schooling, relatives, and the
like. By the time it finished, the afternoon had turned to
dusk.

Fergus hurried
back to the Pavilion hoping that Dave had a magnifying glass. As he
strode across the lawn he noticed someone sitting on the edge of
the allotment, their feet hanging over the drop to the lower
terrace. It looked like Boadicea, except the dungarees were gone
and she dressed in brown biker leathers.

One half of
Fergus wanted to read the stone and avoid the awkwardness of
meeting Boadicea again. The other half wanted to bounce over like a
puppy and say hello. The puppy won.

Before he
reached Boadicea, she turned round and smiled.

‘Hi, I was
looking for you. I saved some decent wine; come and sit down.’

Fergus sat down
next to Boadicea and she shuffled over till their thighs touched.
She handed him a glass and filled it from a bottle perched on the
wall.

Fergus sat
watching the last of the sunset, enjoying the wine and the feel of
Boadicea’s thigh next to his.

‘This is lovely
and so are you,’ said Fergus.

‘Thanks,’ said
Boadicea, ‘you’re quite interesting yourself.’

‘Handsome
surely? Interesting is for books and ancient monuments. Why am I
interesting?’

Boadicea turned
to face Fergus and looked him up and down.

‘You’re like a
wolf in a dog pound. You don’t look that different, but you have a
dangerous feel, a certain wildness. When someone says ‘sit’ all the
other dogs obey, but you think about it. Think that may be today is
the day to run or the day to fight. You may even have it in you to
be a warrior.’

‘Not me, I am a
lover not a fighter.’

Boadicea looked
down.

‘Being a
warrior is not about fighting. It is willingness to fight if
needed. It is taking beating and humiliation if that is best for
kith and kin. It is standing back when food is served and standing
in front when trouble comes. It is being honourable and most of you
humans are not good at it.’

Fergus snorted.
‘All that bluff and honour is part of another age, excuses for the
testosterone fuelled outrage of the frustrated.’

‘No it’s not,’
said Boadicea, ‘It is part of being, part of life. An important
part. Learn to be a warrior if you want to walk at my side Fergus
Loaf.’

Fergus studied
his wine for a moment.

‘I can learn,’
said Fergus quietly, ‘But hitting people with swords isn’t what I
want to do with my life.’

‘Yes, but you
let other people do it for you. Isn’t that hypocritical?’

Fergus felt the
conversation was going wrong. Not the slick, funny chat he planned
in his head; time for an emergency change of conversation.

Shoes? No, she
wore sturdy leather boots. Hair? Not that either, it was a long,
braided plait. Clothes? Ah yes, clothes.

‘I like your
outfit,’ said Fergus, admiring the figure hugging leather cat suit
that made her seem wild and rebellious. It looked expensive too,
with ornamental gold metalwork on the arms and legs.

Boadicea
smiled; a lovely thing to see.

‘It’s
ceremonial and bit tight now; I had it fitted when I was seventeen.
It’s also hot and sweaty.’

She reached up
to her neck, pulled the zip right down and shook air into the top
of the suit. Fergus had a clear view of her shapely breasts. His
mouth went dry and the blood left his face; it was needed
elsewhere.

‘What’s the
matter? Never seen boobs before?’

‘Um, sorry,’
said Fergus, ‘didn’t mean to stare, but they are truly
magnificent.’

Boadicea looked
into his eyes. Fergus drowned. He reached out and pulled her
forward into a kiss. It went on for three score years and ten.
Fergus reached inside her top and cupped her breast. After a short
while she broke away and gently removed Fergus’s hand.

‘I have to go
soon,’ said Boadicea.

‘Coffee
perhaps? At your place?’ asked Fergus.

‘That would be
lovely, but you’d never get past Mrs Yorkshire.’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Yorkshire,
the housekeeper. I live in St Catherine’s Hostel for Young
Ladies.’

Fergus knew of
St Cats, a magnificent Victorian mansion converted into a hostel
for daughters of the great and the good. The rules were strict, the
residents strange and aloof. It was a Shangri-La of lovely women,
entry was impossible; Coffee was not a prospect.

‘In any case,
you’re not a warrior yet.’

‘And how do I
get to be a warrior? Adopt a menacing look and stomp about in a
bearskin loincloth?

‘Well, you
could do worse than talk to Dave or at least read his book.’

‘His book?’

‘Yes, it’s a
big hit off-world. You know the thing; a prophet is never
appreciated on his home world. Dave is considered a master in the
ways of the warrior.’

‘Could’ve
fooled me, he just seems like a grumpy old man in a cardy.’

‘To cause your
enemies to underestimate you is the act of a great warrior. Never
let them see you coming. In this one thing you act like a warrior,
Fergus Loaf,’ said Boadicea and grinned.

‘You mean I
hide my light under a bushel?’

‘I doubt you
would get that under a bushel,’ said Boadicea and nodded toward
Fergus’s tented crotch.

Fergus raised
his eyebrows, ‘Well, you have that effect on me.’

‘Mmm, shame I
don’t with our men. They are more interested in the battlefield
than the bedroom.’

‘And yet you
want me to become a warrior?’

‘Yes, I am
woman, I want it all, and I’m worth it.’

Fergus looked
at Boadicea.

‘Yes, you
are.’

Boadicea
sniffed then reached over and kissed Fergus on the lips.

‘I really,
really must go. Mrs Yorkshire keeps a strict curfew,’ she passed
the bottle of wine to Fergus and stood up.

‘Go and see
Dave. He needs some company and perhaps he can help you become a
warrior. Goodbye Fergus.’

‘Tarrah
gorgeous,’ said Fergus and watched Boadicea’s leather clad behind
walk away across the lawn. It was a wonderful thing to behold.

Fergus sat and
finished the wine, thinking about what Boadicea said, how she felt,
and the possibility of feeling more. Then he remembered the stone.
He jumped up and trotted over the lawn towards the Pavilion.

Fergus walked
into Dave’s kitchen. On the table was an opened bottle of whiskey;
he poured himself a generous measure.

He knocked on
the living room door.

‘Come in
lad.’

‘How did you
know it was me?’

Dave nodded
towards the three dogs curled up in baskets around the flickering
fire.

‘It was someone
they knew and someone they thought should be here. They think you
can help.’

As there was
nowhere else to sit, Fergus made himself comfortable in one of the
empty dog baskets.

‘You alright
Dave?’

‘Of course I’m
alright, I’m always alright… You know about Abbey don’t you?’

‘Enoch showed
me the whole recording,’ said Fergus.

Dave sighed. ‘I
wanted to talk about things anyway, get a different perspective.
These bloody spiders are an ancient problem. In a way, it is good
news, as they really are a terrible menace, if I had let that first
one go, then we would be ten foot deep in the buggers by now. That
makes past events a bit more bearable.’

Fergus sat
quietly waiting for Dave to continue.

‘Any road,
things aren’t as bright as Enoch makes out. With what we’ve got
there’s a chance they could break out and escape into the
countryside. Even worse, they could break into the catacombs and we
would never get them out.’

‘Surely they’d
starve?’ said Fergus.

‘No lad, there
is a whole ecology in the catacombs. It is far, far bigger than you
imagine. It’s a new world down there, populated over centuries by
off world visitors. There are vast caverns with light and plants
and even forests. They could live there for a long, long time.

Anyways,
they’re coming back and we have to deal with them. I can’t trust
the future of Earth to an optimist like Enoch. The dogs don’t care.
They’d have to leave, but their civilisation would survive. I can’t
take the risk. I’m going to call in the authorities and everything
we have here will be destroyed.’

‘Perhaps not,’
said Fergus and held up the stone. Dave stared at him.

‘I had a chat
with that murgatroyd Atherton, traded what I knew about my heritage
for some information.’

‘Well, it was
yours to trade. What did you get in return? It’s difficult to
believe those miserable buggers would part with hard facts for
vague family stories.’

‘Once I
explained the possibility of a nuclear strike blowing up the
planet, it pretty much gave me the information. That we have
nuclear weapons seemed a bit of a surprise,’ said Fergus.

‘True, they
seem to think us mere monkeys half the time.’ Dave paused. ‘Mind
you they must be up to something. They couldn’t give a fart about
humanity. Something must be stopping them leaving. Well, that’s a
problem for another day. What did you find out?’

Fergus held up
the stone again.

‘The writing is
too small to read,’ said Fergus.

‘And it’s in
Latin,’ said Dave.

‘Really? How
can you see from over there?’

Dave looked
embarrassed.

‘You aren’t the
only one to benefit from off-world technology. Any road, we’ll get
it transcribed. It won’t take long, there’s all sorts of technology
floating abouts,’ said Dave and yowled at one of the dog’s. It
stood up and looked at Fergus, who handed it the stone. The dog
trotted off, nosed the door open and left.

‘So Dave,
what’s this book of yours all about?’

Dave tilted his
head and looked at Fergus.

‘So you want to
know about my book? Wouldn’t have anything to do with a
leather-clad Celtic temptress would it?’

‘Hmm, guilty,
but still I’m told it’s a big hit off-world.’

‘Apparently; I
wouldn’t know for sure. Never get any royalties and don’t know who
put it out there, though it does have the feel of Palaver about
it.’ Dave walked over to the shelves lining the walls.

‘Here you are
lad, first and only edition.’ He handed Fergus a slim book.

‘I published it
myself, back when I cared more about such things. That’s a signed
copy by the way.’

The book title
was ‘One Woman, One Life One Shed’. Fergus opened the flyleaf and
saw Dave’s signature. He also saw the publication date; 1952. He
looked up at Dave.

‘I know lad,
I’m older than I look. Anyhow, reading that won’t solve your
problem. I know only too well that her kind are big on the warrior
ethos, but it’s an attitude not a philosophy. It’s about actions
not thoughts or words. What you need is the ‘Johnny Cash
approach’.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Walk tall,
walk straight, and look the world right in the eye.’

The dog
returned carrying a plastic binder. Dave took it from the dog’s
mouth.

‘You didn’t
have to slobber all over it,’ said Dave and wiped his hand on his
cardigan.

The dog growled
and muttered.

‘I may be
ungrateful, but I am not ungracious. I apologise,’ said Dave and
the dog walked to a basket, turned round a few times and lay
down.

‘You paid for
it, so perhaps you might want to read it first,’ said Dave and
handed the folder to Fergus.

In it was a
single page.

From:
Quintus Petillius Cerialis

To:
Emperor Hadrian

Date
ii Aprilis DCCCLXII (Translator note – 2nd April 110 AD)

Eboracum (Translator note –York)

The
main fort near Cambodunum (Translator note –Huddersfield) is
destroyed, with the loss of all 500 men. The local villagers flee
an unknown menace that kills people and livestock. Scouts report
invulnerable demons occupy this place.

I
despatched the Legio IX Hispana to restore order. They were routed
and those that survived fled to Mamucium (Translator note
–Manchester). I request men be sent to replace this lost
legion.

A
delegation of Druids arrived and claimed these demons are from
another world, and travelled here through an enormous gate hidden
in the depths of the earth. Their teachings speak of such things.
They offered to send a party to caves near Cambodunum and travel
deep into the earth. Once at the appointed place a giant bell rung
to summon the Keeper of the Gate. This requires a human sacrifice.
They claimed they could persuade this entity to rid the world of
these demons. In payment they required Druid sanctuaries at
Stonehenge, Avebury and Wayland’s Smithy. This I
promised.