Web Site Story (10 page)

'Barman,' hailed Derek. 'Barman, please.'

Old Pete didn't read any poems that night. He wasn't much of a poet, Old Pete, even in the holy cause of the well-won-fine-free-pint. He knew his limitations. And anyway, he was busy tucking into the free champagne that the Arts Centre was dishing out to him to celebrate his win in the over-eighties backwards walk.

Old Pete's chum, Old Vic, was a poet though. And a mighty one to boot. Old Vic had been a prisoner of war. In a war that few remembered now, but they still made movies about. Mostly inaccurate ones where they got the hairstyles wrong, but as that is Hollywood tradition, it's neither here nor there.

Old Vic was first up upon the rostrum to recite his latest poem. Old Vic always received a standing ovation, even from those who remained sitting down, for, after all, he
had
been a prisoner of war. Hands clapped aplenty, fingers were stuck into mouths and whistles were blown out between them. Certain hats were cast into the air, but these were those of visiting poets who came from strange lands to the South where poets always wore hats.

'Thank you,' said Old Vic, waggling his wrinkled hands about to staunch the outpourings of welcome. 'I've had to have a bit of a think this week about what I was going to write about. I thought I might do a poem about bream. Lovely fish the bream, very silvery. Quite unlike the perch, which is fatter and has green and reddy bits. Or indeed the dab, not unlike the bream, some might say, but a slimmer slippery fellow and one liable to make his escape through your keep-net if you only have thirteen-gauge netting, rather than a ten-gauge.'

There was some laughter over this from a group of local anglers. Imagine anyone being daft enough to put a dab in a keep-net with thirteen-gauge netting. That was a good'n.

'Bravo, Old Vic,' called anglers, raising their glasses and making rod-casting motions with them.

'Careful,' said a pimply young man. 'You're spilling your beer on me.'

'Ssh,' went the anglers. 'Listen to Old Vic. He was a prisoner of war.'

'Cheers lads,' said Old Vic, tipping the anglers the wink. 'But I decided not to write a poem about bream this week.'

'Aw,' went the anglers. 'Shame.'

'Maybe next week lads. But this week, not bream. I have to say that I toyed with the idea of writing a poem about muleskinning.'

A cheer went up from a group of muleskinners over from Cardiff for the annual muleskinners' convention that is always held at the Function Rooms at the Station Hotel.

'Evening lads,' called Old Vic. 'Good to see you here again. I'll pop over to have a word later, I need a new eight-foot bull whip, I wore the last one out at the Easter fete.'

'Three lashes for a quid,' said Derek. 'He always gives good value. The money goes to charity of course. Small and shoeless boys in search of a good hiding, or something.'

'Eh?' said Kelly, tucking into her tucker, which had lately arrived at the bar counter. 'Could you pass the cranberry sauce, please?'

Derek passed the cranberry sauce.

'Now,' Old Vic continued. 'I must confess that I didn't write a poem about muleskinning.'

Kelly looked up from eating. 'What a fascinating man,' she said in a tone that was less than sincere. 'I've no doubt that he's about to tell us that he didn't write a poem about unicycling vicars either.'

'Let the old boy have his say,' sshed Derek. 'He's a venerable poet. And he was a prisoner of war.'

Kelly said, 'Pass the ginseng dip.' And Derek passed it over.

'Any unicycling vicars out there?' asked Old Vic.

Another cheer went up.

'Sorry,' said the ancient. 'Maybe next week.'

'My money is now on Yugoslavian junk bond dealers,' said Kelly to Derek. 'Or possibly Venezuelan gorilla impersonators, deaf ones of course.'

'So,' said Old Vic. 'I considered all and sundry, but I've decided to do a poem about the time when I was

'A Prisoner of War!'
chorused all and sundry, except for Old Vic.

'Ah, I see,' said Kelly. 'It's a running gag.'

'It doesn't work if you don't come every week,' said Derek.

'I'm not altogether certain that it would, even if I did. Pass the crow's foot puree, please.'

Derek passed the crow's foot puree.

'I was once a prisoner of war,' said Old Vic. 'You won't remember the war in question. It's the one that they make movies about, although they always get the haircuts wrong.'

A group of visiting English hairdressers who worked for Pinewood Studios cheered at this.

'I call this poem "Blood and snot for breakfast again and only human finger bones to use for a knife and fork.'"

Kelly choked on her surf and turf and a small fight ensued between pimply young men who wanted to pat her on the back.

Old Vic launched into his poem.

'We was up to our eyes in pus and puke

There was only me and Captain Duke

Who could still stand up on where our legs had been

Which were oozing mucus and rotten with gangrene.'

Pimply men took turns at Kelly's back.

'We boiled up some phlegm to make a cup of tea

In the skull of the corporal from the infantry

Captain Duke drank the lot and left none for me

But I didn't mind, because I'd spat in it.'

'All right,' said Kelly. 'Stop patting my back or I'll break all your arms.' The pimply men stopped patting and Kelly sipped wine and tucked once more into her tucker.

'I spread some bile upon my maggot-ridden bread…'

'Pat,' gagged Kelly, pointing to her back.

Old Vic's poem was only seventeen verses long and when it was finished it drew a standing ovation even from those who remained sitting down.

Kelly heard the cheering, but she didn't join in with it. For Kelly was in the ladies, bent rather low above the toilet bowl.

'Are you OK?' asked Derek, upon her return to the bar.

'That wasn't funny,' said Kelly, who still looked radiant, as only women can, after a bout of vomiting. 'That was disgusting.'

'Perhaps the mandrake salad dressing didn't agree with you.'

'I'm going,' said Kelly. 'I don't want to hear any more.'

'I'll be on in a minute,' said Derek. 'You wouldn't want to miss me, would you?'

'Do your poems involve any pus or mucus?'

Derek thought for a bit. 'No,' he said. 'They're mostly about sex.'

Kelly stared at him. 'And what would you know about sex?'

'Oh I know a lot about it,' said Derek. 'It's just that I don't do a lot of it.'

'I overheard a pimply bloke saying that poetesses are easy. Surely if you're a regular performer you get your end away every once in a while.'

'Don't be crude,' said Derek. 'But actually it
is
true, poetesses
are
easy. Well, at least the fat ugly ones with moustaches are.'

Kelly gave Derek another one of those looks. 'That would be the fat girls are grateful for it theory, would it?'

'Listen,' said Derek.
'I'm
not fat, but I can tell you, I'm really grateful for it.'

'Whose round is it, then?' asked Kelly. 'If I'm staying, you could at least have the decency to buy me a drink.'

'I think we'd started buying our own,' said Derek.

'No, I think you were still buying mine.'

'Barman,' hailed Derek. 'Barman, please, barman.'

Next up upon the rostrum was a poetess. She was not a fat moustached poetess who was grateful for it. She was a young and beautiful and slim poetess who could afford to be choosy.

She recited a poem about her cat called Mr Willow-Whiskers. Who was apparently her furry little soulmate.

Kelly was forced to return to the ladies and lose the rest of her supper. At length she returned, still radiant, to the bar.

'That's definitely enough for me,' she said. ' "Mr Willow-Whiskers with his soul of crimson sunset". That was enough to make anyone throw up.'

'The pimply youths seemed to like it,' said Derek. 'They're asking for her autograph.'

'I've never been comfortable with poetry,' said Kelly. 'It's either well meaning, but bad, or beautifully constructed, but unintelligible. I quite like limericks though, have you ever heard the one about the young man from Buckingham?'

'I have,' said Derek. 'It's truly obscene.’

‘Well, I'm off. Enough is enough is enough.’

‘I'm up next,' said Derek. 'Please stay until I'm done.'

Kelly smiled. 'And your poem will be about sex, will it?'

Derek grinned. 'I've been working on my delivery. The way I see it, with performance poetry, it's not so much what you say, as the way you say it. My poems aren't actually rude, but I inject into them a quality of suggestiveness which gives them the appearance of being extremely risque.'

'Derek,' said Kelly. 'We're friends now, aren't we?’

‘Yes,' said Derek nodding. 'I think we are.’

‘Then as your friend, allow me to say that you are a complete and total prat. No offence meant.'

'And none taken, I assure you. But you just wait until you hear my poem. It involves the use of the word "plinth", which as everybody knows, is the sexiest word on Earth.’

‘Plinth?' said Kelly.

'My God,' said Derek. 'Say it again.'

A round of applause went up as Mr Melchizedec, Brentford's milkman in residence, concluded his poem 'Oh wot a loverly pair of baps'. It didn't include the word 'plinth', but as his style of delivery owed an homage to the now legendary Max Miller, the two Olds, Pete and Vic, were now rolling about on the floor, convinced that they had just heard the filthiest poem in the world.

'Check this out,' said Derek, grinning at Kelly and pushing his way through the crowd towards the rostrum.

Kelly yawned and looked at her watch. She'd let Derek do his thing, then she'd get an early night in. She wanted to look her best for her first day at Mute Corp, tomorrow.

Derek mounted the rostrum and smiled all over the crowd.

The crowd didn't seem
that
pleased to see him, although Kelly overheard a fat poetess with a moustache whisper to her friend, a poetess of not dissimilar appearance, that 'he looks like he's up for it'.

'Thank you,' said Derek, to no-one in particular. 'This is a poem dedicated to a lady. She's a very special lady. She doesn't know that she's a very special lady, but to me she is.'

'What's her name?' called out Old Pete, lately helped up from the floor.

'That's my secret,' said Derek.

'I'll bet it's this bird here,' said Old Vic, pointing towards Kelly. 'The bird with the nice charlies.'

Kelly glared pointy daggers, Old Vic took to cowering.

'The poem is untitled,' continued Derek.

'So what's it called?' Old Pete called.

'It doesn't have a tide.'

'A poem
should
have a title,' said Old Vic. 'Or at least a rank. We all had ranks in the prisoner-of-war camp.'

'Yeah,' called a pimply youth. 'You were all a bunch of rankers.'

The barman (who had been conversing in Brentford Auld Speke to a wandering bishop, down from Orton Goldhay for the annual congress of wandering bishops that was held in the function room above the Four Horsemen public house) shouted out, 'Oi! We'll have no trouble here.'

'It
should
have a title,' said Old Vic. 'It
should
!'

'All right,' said Derek. 'It's called "Sir Untitled Poem", OK?'

Kelly looked at her watch once more. Perhaps she should just go.

'"Sir Untitled Poem,'" said Derek, launching into 'Sir Untitled Poem'.

As Kelly had feared, 'Sir Untitled Poem' was pants. It was one of those excruciating love sonnets that lonely teenage boys compose when all alone in their bedrooms, and then make the mistake (only once!) of reciting to their very first girlfriend on their very first date.

It would, however, possibly have ranked as just another poem of the evening, had not something occurred during its reciting.

It was something truly dire and it put a right old damper on the evening. So truly dire, in fact, was it, that the wandering bishop, who had been chatting with the barman, found himself very much the man of the moment, several pimply youths found themselves in the loving arms of fat moustachioed poetesses, and Old Vic finally found another subject worthy of a poem.

Not that he would recite it at the Brentford Poets for a while. What with the Arts Centre being closed for extensive refurbishment, what with all the mayhem and destruction and suchlike.

But before this truly dire event occurs, as it most certainly must, it will be necessary for us to take a rather radical step and return to the past, so that the truly dire event might be truly understood.

We must return to the evening before last.

To the cottage hospital and the bed of Big Bob Charker.

The time is eight of the evening clock.

And Big Bob isn't happy.

Big Bob Charker lay upon his bed of pain. Not that he was aware of any pain. He wasn't. Big Bob was not aware that his nose had been broken, nor that he had suffered extensive bruising, a degree of laceration and a fractured left big toe.

He was not alone in his ignorance of the left big toe injury, the doctors at the cottage hospital had missed that one too.

Big Bob Charker was aware of nothing whatever at all.

If he had been capable of any awareness whatsoever he would have been aware that his last moments of awareness were of his awareness vanishing away. Of everyday objects becoming strange and alien. Of colour and sound becoming things of mystery, of speech becoming meaningless. Of everything
just going.

But Big Bob was unaware.

Big Bob lay there, eyes wide open, staring at nothing at all. Staring at nothing and knowing nothing. Nothing whatever at all.

Dr Druid stared down at his patient. 'I hate to admit this,' he told a glamorous nurse. 'But this doesn't make any sense to me at all.'

'Could it be conjunctivitis?' asked the nurse, who had recently come across the word in a medical dictionary and had been looking for an opportunity to use it.

'No,' said Dr Druid, sadly shaking his head.

'What about scrapie then?'

'I don't think so,' said the doctor.

'What about thrush?' asked the nurse, who had more words left in her.

'Shut up,' said the doctor.

Pearson Clarke (son of the remarkable Clive and brother to the sweetly smelling Bo-Jangles Clarke, who bathed four times a day and sang country songs about trucks to those prepared to listen) grinned at the nurse and then at Dr Druid. Pearson Clarke was an intern with ideas above his station. His station was South Haling and most of his ideas were well above that. 'You should run a brain scan,' said Pearson Clarke.

'I have run a brain scan,' said Dr Druid. 'It shows that this patient has absolutely no brain activity whatsoever.'

'That's impossible,' said Pearson Clarke. 'Even deep coma patients have brain activity. They dream.'

'This man doesn't dream,' said Dr Druid. 'Nor do the other two patients, the driver and the woman with the unpronounceable name.'

'I can pronounce it,' said Pearson Clarke. 'It's pronounced…'

'Shut up,' said Dr Druid. 'It's as if this man's thoughts, his memories, his personality, everything has been erased. Wiped clean. Gone.'

'That isn't how the brain works,' said Pearson Clarke. 'That can't happen. A patient can lose his memory. But the memory is still there in his head, he simply can't access it. Mostly it's just temporarily impaired. Bits come back, eventually.'

'I'm sure I recall telling you to shut up,' said Dr Druid. 'Although my memory might be temporarily impaired.'

'Impetigo,' said the nurse.

'Shut up, nurse,' said the doctor.

'Joking apart,' said Pearson Clarke. 'The brain-scan machine might be broken. You know that thing people do, photocopying their bottoms? Well, Igor Riley the mortuary attendant

'Son of Blimey and brother to Smiley Riley, who swears he has a genie in a bottle?'

'That's him, well, Igor Riley has been scanning his bottom in the brain-scan machine. He might have, well, farted in it, or something. It's a very delicate machine.'

'I'll have
him
sacked in the morning then.'

'Rather you than me,' said Pearson Clarke. 'A bloke in a pub once punched Igor Riley in the ear. Igor told his brother and his brother got his genie to turn the bloke into a home-brewing starter pack, or it might have been a…'

'Shut up,' said the doctor. 'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.'

'Please yourself then,' said Pearson Clarke, grinning at the nurse, who grinned right back at him.

'I think it's Tourette's syndrome,' whispered the nurse.

'I f**king heard that,' said Dr Druid. 'But, as I said, before I was so rudely and irrelevantly interrupted, I am baffled by these patients. We might be witnessing something altogether new here. Something as yet unlisted in the medical dictionary.'

'That's me screwed then,' said the nurse. 'And I thought I was doing so well.'

‘I’ll teach you some more words later,' said the doctor.

‘I’ll just bet you will,' said Pearson Clarke. 'But listen, if this isn't listed, it will need a name. How about Clarke's syndrome? That rolls off the tongue.'

'Yes,' said Dr Druid. 'Druid's syndrome. I like that.'

'Eh?' said Pearson Clarke.

'Oh look,' said the nurse. 'Look at the patient, doctor.'

'Yes,' said Dr Druid. 'I am a very patient doctor.'

'No doctor, the patient. Look at the patient.'

'What?' asked Dr Druid, looking. 'What about the patient, nurse?'

'He's flickering, doctor. Look at him.'

Dr Druid looked and his eyes became truly those of the tawny owl. Big and round, like Polo mints, with black dots in the middle. Possibly liquorice.

'Oh,' went Dr Druid. 'Oh.' And 'Oh dear me.'

For Big Bob Charker was nickering.

Flickering like crazy.

His head was coming and going like the image on a TV screen when a heavy lorry goes by outside, or at least the way they used to do in the old days.

Dr Druid reached down and tore the sheet away.

All of Big Bob was coming and going, all the way down to his fractured left big toe.

'That left big toe looks wonky,' Pearson Clarke observed. 'There's a fracture there or my name's not… Oh crikey!'

And there was Big Bob Charker.

Gone.

Just gone.

Dr Druid stared and gasped and then he turned around. The beds of the other two patients stood empty. They had just gone too.

Out of a tiny transparent dot of nothing whatever at all, things rushed back to Big Bob at a speed beyond that of travelling light. A speed that well and truly was the speed of travelling thought.

Big Bob did blinkings of the eyes and clickings of the shoulder parts. 'Ow,' and 'ouch,' quoth he. 'My nose, my bits and bobs, my poor left big toe. I am sorely wounded, wherefore-art hath this thing happened? And for that matter, where the Hell am I?'

Big Bob now did focusing and situational-taking stocks. 'I'm in hospital,' he said to himself. 'I'm in a hospital bed,' and then he saw intern Pearson Clarke and Dr Druid and a nurse with a very nice bosom. 'Why look you upon me in this startled fashion?' asked Big Bob. 'Thou seem to have the wind up. No don't turn away.'

But Dr Druid and Pearson Clarke and the nurse, who Big Bob now noticed also had a very nice bottom, had turned away, and were staring at two empty beds.

Big Bob followed the direction of their starings.

'Oh hello Periwig,' he said. 'Thou art here too. And the lady who wore the straw hat, hello.' And Big Bob waggled his fingers.

Periwig Tombs stared back at him. The lady said, 'Where am I?' And, 'Where is my hat?'

'We're in hospital,' said Big Bob. 'Weren't we on the tour bus a minute ago?'

Periwig shook his large and bandaged head. 'I am perplexed,' said he. 'What happened to us, doctor?'

'They're gone,' croaked Dr Druid. 'They vanished. You saw them vanish, didn't you?' Dr Druid shook Pearson Clarke by the lapels. 'You did see it. Swear to me you saw it.'

'I did see it. Yes I did. Stop shaking me about.'

'Doctor?' said Periwig.
'Doctor?'

'Gone.' Dr Druid buried his face in his hands.

'Oh yeah,' said Periwig. 'I get it. Very amusing. They're winding us up, Bob. Pretending they can't see us.'

Big Bob watched Dr Druid clinging to the nurse. He was blubbering now and he really seemed sincere.

'Periwig,' said Big Bob. 'I don't think they can see us. Are we dreaming this, or what? What is going on?'

'Some kind of stupid joke,' said Periwig. 'Can you walk, Big Bob?'

'My left big toe really hurts, but yes I think I can.'

'Then let's get out of here.'

'game on,' came a very large voice from nowhere and everywhere both at the very same time.

Big Bob Charker and Periwig Tombs and the lady, lacking the straw hat, covered their ears. Dr Druid and Pearson Clarke and the beautiful nurse blubbered and boggled on oblivious.

'Who said that?' asked Big Bob, staring all around and about. And gingerly uncovering his ears.

'you each have three lives,' the very large voice said. 'if you choose to play. if you choose not to play, you will be instantly downloaded.'

'I'm not bloody playing anything,' said Periwig Tombs. 'In fact I…'

And then he was gone.

Just gone.

'Periwig?' Big Bob's eyes came a-starting from-his sockets. 'Periwig, where have you gone?'

'player one has been downloaded for data reaction. player two, do you "wish to play?'

'Is that me?' Big Bob was trembling.

'no you're player three. player two, lady with the unpronounceable name.'

'Me?' said the lady. 'I'm a little confused at the present. Why can't the doctor see us and who am I talking to?'

'Oh,' said Big Bob. 'I understand.'

'Do you?' asked the lady.

'I do,' said Big Bob. 'I'm sorry to have to break this to thee. But thou art dead and me also. Surely this is the voice of God.'

'ha ha ha ha ha,' went the voice, from everywhere and nowhere all at the very same time.

'Oh my goodness me,' said the lady. 'And me hatless and all. Did I get struck by lightning? It was such a joyous sunny day.'

The large voice went 'ha ha ha' once again.

'I fear that this is not the voice of God,' said Bob the Big. 'In fact, I fear it is the other.'

'player number two. do you wish to play or not? counting down. ten seconds. nine. eight. seven.'

'Tell me what to do,' the lady implored of Big Bob. 'Say you'll play,' answered Bob. 'Say it rather quickly.'

‘I’ll…'

'zero,' said the large and terrible voice. For terrible indeed it was, there was just no getting away from it.

'No,' cried Big Bob. 'Please have mercy.'

But the hatless lady simply vanished.

She was gone.

'player three…"

'I'll play. I'll play. I'll play,' cried Bob. 'Doctor please help me, please, can't you hear me?'

But Dr Druid was leaving the ward, the glamorous nurse's arm about his shoulder. Pearson Clarke was leaving too, he was trying to look very brave, but he •wasn't making much of a job of it.

'Come back.' Bob struggled up from his bed and hopped about on his good right foot.

'player three.'

'Yes I'm listening, I'm listening. What do you want me to do?'

'the game is called go mango,' said the large and terrible voice. 'there are three levels based on the three ages of man. ascend through the levels and find the treasure. find the treasure and you win the game.'

'Treasure?' said Big Bob, trying to remember whom it was he knew, whose brother was a pirate. 'Buried treasure?'

'you have three lives. you gain energy from the golden stones. in order to access weapons, you will have to crack the codes.'

'Weapons?' Big Bob hopped about. 'Please, I really don't understand.
Am I
dead? Am I in limbo? Why speakest thou of weapons?'

'game on,' said the large and terrible voice.

'No, wait, ouch my toe.'

'game on…'

'… no hold it.' It was a second voice that spoke. As large and terrible as the first, but ever so slightly different.

'game on,' said the first voice once more.

'no hold it. that's not fair. he can't run on one foot.'

'he can hop.'

'hopping isn't fair. give him both his feet to run on.'

'Art
thou
God?' asked Big Bob.

'all right,' said the first large and terrible voice. 'both feet. he won't make it past the first level anyway.'

'Level?' said Big Bob and then he went, 'Aaaaagh!'

Because his left big toe stretched out from his foot like an elasticated sausage and then sprang back with a ghastly twanging sound. 'Ouch!' and 'oh,' and 'aaah,' went Big Bob. 'Ah, my toe is better.'

'happy?' said the first voice.

'Not really,' said Big Bob.

'not you!' said the first voice.

'happy,' said the second voice. 'game on then, i'll kick your arse this time.'

'you wish,' said the first voice. 'and go mango.'

Big Bob now felt a kind of shivery juddery feeling creeping up and all over. He stared down at himself and was more than a little surprised to discover that he was no longer wearing the embarrassing tie-up-the-back gown thing that doctors in hospitals insist that you wear in order to make you feel even more foolish and vulnerable than you're already feeling. Big Bob was now wearing a tight-fitting one-piece synthavinylpolilycraspandexathene superhero-type suit with a big number three on the front. It actually made him look rather splendid, what with his great big chest and shoulders and all. On his feet were golden boots, and they looked rather splendid too.

Very Arnold Schwarzenegger. Very
Running Man
perhaps?

'Very nice indeed,' said Bob the Big. 'Although somewhat immodest about the groin regions. But how dost…'

'run you sucker,' said the second voice. And Big Bob suddenly felt like running. He felt very fit indeed.

'Find the treasure and I win?' he said.

But the voices said no more.

'OK.' Big Bob took a step forward. And 'Oh,' he said, as he did so. He certainly felt light upon his feet, a single step carried him forward at not inconsiderable speed. He appeared to be possessed of extraordinary fitness and agility. He'd never been a sluggard before. He'd always kept himself in shape. But now. But now.

But now.

'Oh yes,' said Big Bob. 'Oh yes indeed.' And he took another step and then another. And off he went across the ward and right out through the wall.

Bob paused upon his springing steps. He
had just
done that, hadn't he? He had just stepped right through the wall? Why had he done that? Why hadn't he just used the door?

Big Bob turned to look back at the wall. But the wall •wasn't there any more. He was standing now in the middle of the Butt's Estate. Brentford's posher quarter. On two sides of him rose the elegant Georgian houses built so long ago by the rich burghers of Brentford. Behind him the Seamen's Mission and before him the broad and tree-lined thoroughfare that led either in or out of the Butt's, depending on which way you're travelling.