Future Tense (23 page)

“Don't give me that—you're in league with her.”

“In league with her? She's way out of my league, mate.” He leaned closer and whispered, “She's had hundreds of husbands but she wanted to try a human one for a change…”

At this point in his narrative, my hair started to stand on end.

“…I suggested Jemmons, because, well, just because. Anyway, Roger wasn't around, was he—he was off travelling. So, I showed her that old replicant I had of him and she likes what she sees—so, anyway, to cut a long story short, she goes after him. I was only trying to help her out. The next thing I know, all hell breaks loose and she's back at Duckworth Hall saying she's lost her machine and I have to help her get it back. Well, it wasn't anything to do with me, was it? I mean, if she lost her machine that's her—”

“Wait—wait a minute,” I said. “Let me get this straight—the Princess is from another planet and wanted to marry Roger?”

“Yes. But she couldn't because they ran into Temporal Criminal Pursuit and got arrested. And then the Princess escaped in Roger's machine, leaving hers behind.”

“I think I'm with you. But why would she want to marry Rog? He's old.”

“Mature,” said the Duck. “Some women go for the more mature man.”

“Yes, but she had millions to choose from—why did she have to pick him?”

“She's only interested in her own kind,” said the Duck. “She wanted a traveller—got something in common then, haven't they?”

“So why didn't you marry her?” I asked again.

“Well, I, er, thought about it—but then when she came back, she saw you and you were perfect—what with you being immortal. You see, Roger would only have been able to serve her for another twenty or thirty years.”

“Serve her?” I said.

“Keep your voice down! I meant that in the Shakespearean sense of the word—you know, service—give her one!”

“Yeah, all right, I know what it means. So, you're just acting as her pimp then?” I said.

“Yeah-no! I'm not her blinkin' pimp!” he quacked. “I've been giving her advice, showing her round—”

“Trying to work out how you can fleece her more like—”

“Doctor? Are you there?”

He grabbed my sleeve and put his hand over my mouth. “Shh! She's coming back—if we don't do as she says we'll never get off this rock. You've got to go along with this engagement or she won't help us to escape,” he whispered. He called through to her, “All done, Your Highness. We've had our little heart-to-heart.” The Princess poked her head back into the bunk. “It was all a misunderstanding. I've brought Stephen up to speed with the arrangements now, haven't I, Stephen?”

“Yes, I think I get the picture,” I said.

The Princess crawled through and cosied up to me again.

“I would like a small wedding, darling—no more than fifty—” she started to say.

The Duck bailed out and slid down the ladder, so that just his head was sticking up.

“Fifty like you?” he quacked. “Er, the ideal number.”

“Thousand,” added the Princess. “Just my immediate family.”

The Duck's head disappeared and we heard a thud.

My bride-to-be tickled my nose with her manicured finger and stretched across me to draw the curtain.

“And now to bed,” she cooed languidly.

I snatched the curtain open again and sat bolt upright. “Now, just a minute!” I said. “This is out of order!”

“But what is wrong, my little pumpernickel? I thought all the crinkles had been flattened out.”

“Well, I've still got one sticking up,” I said. And could have kicked myself.

“Oh, Stephen,” she giggled. “You naughty-naughty boy!”

“No—I mean, this is most improper, Your Highness,” I said, trying to stall her.

“Improper? But why? I thought you Earthmen were always ready for a bit of the other.”

“Ah, yes, but no—not now we are officially engaged, Your Highness,” I said. “It's, um, forbidden before the marriage ceremony.”

“But I can't wait that long—the wedding could take hours to arrange once we are out of here!” she cried.

“Hours?”

“Surely a few dozen practice ones won't do any harm.”

“A few dozen? What—in one night?”

“It's not enough?”

“Enough? What planet are you off—Libido?”

* * *

It was a struggle but I eventually got her down from heavy petting to light petting, and then all the way down through kissing, flirting and writing each other's names out repeatedly, to the correct way to lay out the paper doilies at a wedding reception. I fobbed her off with every excuse and caveat in the manual of courtship etiquette—the one I was making up as I went along. It was like trying to stop the tide coming in, but I did a Canute and managed to persuade her to return to the women's dorm to start putting her trousseau together. I also told her she had to wear something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue, to which I added—just to try and delay the quickie marriage she had in mind—and something you can't find. That last one really stumped her.

Chapter 14

I awoke to find myself face to face with the Duck, who had white froth all around his mouth and a toothbrush sticking out of the side. He removed it.

“Late night, mate?” he smirked.

“That is the weirdest woman I have ever met in my life,” I said. “What planet did you say she was from?”

“Dunno. Did you—you know?”

“What time is it?” I yawned.

“Time to go and meet the Colonel.”

“What do I want to go and meet him for?” I said. “Don't we eat in this place?”

“You'll be lucky. Breakfast finished an hour ago.”

I sat up and pushed him. “Well, why didn't you wake me? I'm bloody starving!”

“I thought I better let you sleep in,” he grinned. “After your night of unbridled passion. What was she like? Bit of a goer, is she?”

“Oh, shut up.”

I shoved him off the ladder and climbed down. I stood in the aisle and had a good scratch. The Duck dug in the breast pocket of his biggles and handed me a lump of bread.

“Here, I saved you this.”

I looked at it, thought about throwing it at him, and started trying to gnaw into it. It was rock hard.

At that moment Jemmons swung round the corner, with a towel slung over his shoulder.

“Morning, shipmates!” he waved jauntily.

I waved back tiredly and leaned against the frame of our bunk. The Duck ferreted in another one of his cargo pockets and produced a battered looking toothbrush with half the bristles missing. He rubbed some of the froth off his brush onto the bent stubs and handed it to me.

“Here, you can have a go with my old one. Give it back when you've finished,” he said. “Hiya, Jemmers—been for your run, mate?”

“Aye. I like to keep in shape,” said Jemmons.

“Yeah, well,” said the Duck, looking him up and down. “You should.” He turned back to me and looked down at my bare feet. “We've got to find you some shoes. What size do you take?”

“Mime,” I said. I had the toothbrush and the lump of stale bread stuck in my mouth at the same time. I was having one of my private jokes.

“Grow up,” said the Duck. He looked round and spotted a pair of boots under the opposite bunk. “We'll borrow Archie's—he won't mind—you can give 'em back after our interview with the Colonel.” He bent down and swiped them. “Damn—he's taken the laces out—some people just don't trust anybody, do they? Here, you'll have to grip with your toes.”

I stepped into the well worn out, army-style boots.

“There you go,” smiled the Duck. “Slip-ons.”

I attempted to walk and left both boots behind me. They were at least two sizes too big for me. I walked back patiently and stepped into them again and adapted my gait to a shuffle, rather like one of those cross-country Nordic skiers, and they stayed on.

The Duck nodded. “Perfect.” He nudged Jemmons. “Hey, Rog, guess who Stephen slept with last night.”

“Who?”

“Only the Princess.”

“The Princess?” exclaimed Jemmons. “You slept with the Princess?”

“Nothing happened,” I said. “And nothing ever will happen—I'm only keeping her sweet till we get out of this mess. And guess who dropped me in it.”

Jemmons's eyes switched to the Duck. “Aye, that sounds about right—he tried to fix me up with the little monster, but I wasn't having any of—”

I wondered why Jemmons had suddenly stopped and looked at the Duck. The Duck pretended to be stroking his hair, but I could tell he'd been signalling like mad to Jemmons.

“What?” I said.

“I just don't want him to put you off,” said the Duck. He pointed a finger of admonishment up at Jemmons. “And I'll thank you not to call my son's intended a little monster.”

“I wouldn't call her a monster,” I said. “But she is very peculiar. She's got cold hands, I know that.”

“Naaah!” quacked the Duck. “I thought you said nothing happened.”

“Can we get off this subject? What about the Colonel?” I said. “Let's get him over with.”

I shuffled up the aisle and Jemmons fell in with me.

“Hey!” called the Duck. “Aren't we forgetting something?”

Jemmons and I both looked round. The Duck indicated me.

I shrugged. He walked up to me and snatched his toothbrush out of my breast pocket.

“Mine, I think!”

We went via the washroom, so I was at least able to rinse my hands and face. Jemmons let me use his towel. The Duck kept hurrying us. We descended into the long oblong well of the basement I had looked down into the day before. A great hum of humanity emanated from it—interspersed with tuneless whistles, cackles, and shouts. Now it was full of black suited convicts going about their daily routines. Some were pushing trolleys piled high with dishes and cutlery, others were washing up, or emptying slops into tureens or down drains, and still more were hanging about in groups, sitting at tables or standing in the aisles, just talking. The warm, clammy air smelt of bread ovens and laundry, and the body odour of sweaty human beings. I was glad I hadn't eaten breakfast.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To G Wing,” said the Duck. “The Colonel runs things over there, so behave yourself.”

“I don't do saluting,” I said.

Jemmons and I were walking alongside each other. The Duck, who was leading us, nodded to just about everyone we passed, and they in turn nodded respectfully back. Though I hated to admit it—he did seem to have some authority in the Castle. We strolled on and on through the massive underground hall, flanked on both sides by a tangled network of pipes and boilers, past rows and rows of dining tables with their regiments of chairs, through flexible plastic doors into a laundry section, busy with workers loading and unloading enormous washing drums and driers. The noise and steamy stench was suffocating. Finally, we came to the end and a screen of bars blocked our way.

The Duck went straight to the gate in the middle and pressed a buzzer. Two leather-clad guards—a bit like bikers—emerged from a side room inside the reception area and came over. I noticed one of them was carrying a Bible, with his finger stuck in it, saving a page.

“Doctor?” smiled the one with the holy book. “How can we help you?”

“Three to see the Colonel,” said the Duck, indicating himself, Jemmons, and then me.

The guard's eyes strayed over to me. I gasped and quickly stared down at my feet. It was John—the android—the one I'd met and befriended on Tree's barge.

“Is he expecting you?” he asked.

“We've got an appointment.”

“Wait here.”

He nodded to the other one, who whipped out a phone and punched in some numbers, turning away from us, so that we couldn't read his lips or hear what he was saying. He wasn't on it more than a few seconds, before he turned and nodded to John the android, who unlocked the iron gate and let us through. He showed no signs that he recognised me. I decided to do the same. They frisked us and sent us on our way, which lay down a dingy walkway no wider than a train carriage, which seemed to go on for miles.

“How much farther is it?” I said, struggling to keep my shuffle up to pace.

“Stop whinging—it's only down the end,” said the Duck, who was striding ahead.

“G Wing's on the other side of the Castle—the lay-out's the same,” said Jemmons.

“You mean I've got to walk through another basement?” I groaned.

* * *

Yes I did, and another checkpoint, and up another flight of stairs, and through the maze of bunks that was G Wing. Unlike H Wing, the prisoners in G Wing had arranged their bunks in the form of a giant maze, so that when you entered at one end you had to walk twice as far to get to the centre, which was very annoying, for a man in my footwear, but it was where the Colonel liked to hold court. I, of course, whinged, so Jemmons offered to give me a piggyback through the maze part. But I was too proud to accept, so I just took off my boots and carried them. And that's why I was barefoot when I entered the Colonel's inner sanctum—a corral of bunks with only one way in and out.

The moustachioed Colonel was easy to spot—he was dressed in an immaculate British Army officer's uniform with three pips on the epaulets, and was sitting at an impressive looking plastic desk, flanked by two guys in smart black boiler suits, without the usual customized cargo pockets. Several of the Colonel's other ranks were there, leaning against bunks, lying on bunks—there was even one sitting on top of a bunk, keeping a look-out.

“Ah, Zirconion—sit down,” said the Colonel, in that rather absentminded, upper-crust tone British Army officers used to adopt in the good old days before Dunkirk. He spotted my feet and pointed his baton at them. “Why isn't that man wearing his boots?”

“Yes, I'm ever so sorry about that, Colonel,” said the Duck. “Some blighter swiped his laces. You can't trust anyone in this place, can you—excepting yourself, of course.” He rounded on me. “Put your boots on! Presenting yourself to the Colonel without your boots on—whatever next!”

I dropped my boots on the floor and stepped into them, with the wrong feet.

“Get a grip, Zirconion!” cried the Colonel. “Find the culprit and make an example of him. We run a tight ship on G Wing. A damn good flogging—that's what the men need.”

“Yeah, and I bet you'd volunteer to let them give you one,” I said.

“What? What did he say?”

“Nothing, Colonel. Now, about our little agree—” said the Duck.

“Sergeant-Major Willis!” barked the Colonel.

“Sah!” screamed a guy a few feet to my left—right in my ear—clicking his heels together and jumping to attention.

“Get that man a set of laces—boots for the use of—from stores at once!”

“Sah!” screeched Sgt-Major Willis, marching away on the double.

“Cheers, mate,” I smiled.

The Colonel fixed me with his double-dash eyes, his military moustache quivering with rage. “You will address me as ‘Sah'!” he bellowed.

“He's new, Colonel,” said the Duck. “He doesn't know the drill—I'll soon lick him into shape.” He turned on me again. “Stand up straight when you're talking to a superior officer!” he quacked.

“I'm not in the army,” I said. “If he wants to play soldiers—that's up to him—but I'm not signing up.”

“Give that man a damn good flogging!” yelped the beetroot-faced Colonel, springing from his chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Chalmers—Bauhaus! Lash him to the wheel!”

Two men moved towards me from my left, but the Duck got to me first and punched me in the stomach. I doubled up and dropped to my knees—the Duck got me in a Jap stranglehold and forced my face down on the floor.

“Eat dirt—you insolent scum!” he quacked.

“You're-you're-stran-gl-ing-me,” I stammered.

But the Duck kept squeezing.

“For pity's sake let him up, Doctor,” I heard Jemmons pleading. “You'll throttle him!”

“Do you submit?” said the Duck.

“Naff-off!” I croaked.

The Duck squeezed even tighter.

“Submit?”

I shook my head.

He jerked my neck back.

I nodded and slapped the floor.

“Say it!” he quacked.

“Sub-mit!” I gasped.

He let go and shoved me aside.

“Most impressive, Doctor,” said the Colonel.

“Not so tough now, is he? I get a lot of his sort—they think they're hard—but they think again when I get through with 'em.”

“An admirable display of discipline,” nodded the Colonel.

“Well, I have done the SAS unarmed combat cour—agh!”

I pulled both the Duck's ankles from under him, leapt to my feet and put the boot into him twice, before my boot flew off and I was dragged away by Chalmers and Bauhaus. I remember seeing my other boot drop off and some of the Colonel's men kicking it around like a football for a lark—until the Colonel bellowed at them.

* * *

I was taken down into the basement and tied by my wrists to the pressure control wheel of a boiler. It was so high up the pipe that my feet barely touched the ground. I remembered seeing a film about some guy who was hung up like this and seemed to recall he died because something happens to the heart, so I was a bit concerned. I was also worried that the Colonel himself might come down and whip me. I mean, I know there are some people who would pay good money for that sort of thing, but I'm not like that. In the event, I was only hanging around for about half an hour before the Duck and Jemmons came to my rescue and quickly cut me down.

“You pratt!” quacked the Duck. “You could have got us flogged—I had to do some pretty nifty footwork up there to get you off. Colonel Tippet was all for making an example of you to his men.”

Jemmons held my head steady in his arms and poured some water over my lips from a small saucepan.

“Boots,” I panted. “Archie's boots.”

“Don't worry about the bloody boots—I've got 'em,” said the Duck. “And the laces. They're the least of your worries. The Colonel's only refused to help with the escape—if you go!”

“He's a bas-bas-bastion of old school discipline,” I said.

“He also controls half the bleeding nick—the half we have to escape from,” said the Duck. “The Colonel's agreed to create a diversion while we're up on the west wall. And that happens to be right above us. With any luck every guard on G Wing will have his hands full.”

“Just wish we had a better plan,” I said, as Jemmons helped me up.

“Yeah,” said the Duck. “—Hey? It's my plan!”

“Exactly.”

“Listen, mate, it's all about descent time,” he said, helping Jemmons to walk me away. “I've done all me sums—we'll be off that wall before they even know we're away. I'll have us down quicker than a tart's knickers. As long as you watch what you're doing, there's no risk.”