At three a.m., martial law was declared and a squadron of Challenger tanks escorted the Brentford big bus to a safe point well beyond the city limits.
The moon shone down upon John and Jim, who lazed upon the open upper deck, gazing over their shoulders towards the orange glow in the sky that had up until so recently been the town of Burnley.
“I think we can chalk that one up as another success,” said John.
“Do you want to wake the team and tell them?” Pooley asked.
“Nah, let them sleep. It will be a nice surprise for them in the morning.”
“Where did the professor vanish away to?” Jim asked.
Omally tapped at his nose.
“And what does that mean?”
Omally grinned and his mobile phone began to ring. Words were exchanged and Omally tucked the thing away into his pocket.
“Who was that?” Jim now asked.
“Sky TV,” said John. “They’re offering sponsorship. They want to put their logo on our kaftans.”
34
Norman numbered-up the Monday morning Mercurys. He ogled the front page and read the headline aloud:
“BERTIE’S BEES BURN BURNLEY –
10-6 VICTORY SPARKS RIOTS.”
Norman shook his head and straightened his wig. Another victory for the team. That put them through to the quarterfinals. Three more wins and they would have the cup.
And on Cup-Final Day, he would have his millions.
Norman gnawed upon a knuckle blackened by newsprint. He would have his millions, but what had he done? He had claimed those patents for his own and sold them to this William Starling, who was the King of Darkness, and who sought to rule the world. And, what was it? Ah, yes, hasten the Apocalypse.
Hasten the Apocalypse?
That was “bring on the bad stuff”.
And if the bad stuff was going to be brought on, it was all Norman’s fault for being so greedy.
But was it really his fault? Norman cogitated once more upon this, as he had been cogitating so frequently of late. Had it really been his fault? Was it not more that he had been put in the frame, as it were?
It had all started with Norman wanting to find The Big Figure. But that had been his idea.
Or had it?
Norman added rackings of the brain to his cogitations. How had he come up with that idea in the first place? Had he actually come up with it himself? A dark thought entered Norman’s head, along with a sudden flash of remembrance. Wavy, wavy lines seemed to move across Norman’s mind and the sounds of harp music accompanied these wavy lines.
And Norman had a flashback.
He was standing in his shop, numbering-up the morning’s papers and thinking about improvements he could make to the better mousetrap he was building – the one that he felt certain would have the whole world beating a path to his door.
And then the shop bell had rung-in a customer.
Except that it wasn’t a customer. It was a pasty-faced young man in dark specs and a suit of lacklustre grey. This young man carried a bulging suitcase. He bid Norman good day and proffered his card:
LUKE SHAW
Sales representative for Dadarillo Cigarettes
A subsidiary of the Consortium
The card was rather grey also and Norman peered up from it and into the matching face of the sales representative.
“I don’t want any,” said Norman. “Goodbye.”
“I think you’ll FIND that you do,” said the young man, with exaggerated politeness. “I think you’ll FIND that you do.”
“I won’t,” said Norman, “whatever you have to offer.”
The young man gave Norman’s shop a good looking over. Well, Norman assumed that he did so, because although his eyes were hidden, his head moved around and about.
“What are you looking for?” Norman asked, following the direction of the moving head.
“Mr Hartnel?” said the sales representative. “Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel?”
“I’m rarely confused,” said Norman, “although sometimes I get puzzled.”
“But only about THE BIG problems in life, I’m thinking.”
“Actually, yes,” said Norman, “although I’ve found that even the biggest problems have simple solutions, generally involving a Meccano set somewhere down the line. Feather by feather the goose gets plucked, you know.”
“You are a most interesting man, Mr Hartnel. An interesting FIGURE.”
“Why do you talk like that?” Norman asked.
“Like what, Mr Hartnel?”
“Putting very heavy emphasis upon certain words that do not need heavy emphasis putting upon them.”
“I’m from Penge,” said Mr Luke Shaw.
“Ah,” said Norman. “That explains it. I understand that Penge is a very nice place, although I’ve never been there myself.”
“Very nice.”
“Home is where the heart is,” Norman said. “And a boy’s best friend is his mother.”
“Quite so,” said Mr Luke Shaw. “How many packets will you take?”
“I won’t take any,” Norman said. “I can’t sell new brands of cigarettes to the locals. They won’t wear it. They’re very stuck in their ways.”
“I think you’ll FIND that THE offer I’m making you will reap BIG profits. The FIGURE I’m selling them for is most competitive.”
The ringing of the shop doorbell brought a sudden end to Norman’s reverie.
“FIND THE BIG FIGURE,” mouthed Norman.
“What are you saying?” asked Mr H.G. Wells.
Norman stared into the face of the Victorian time-traveller. “Oh,” said Norman, “Mr Wells. Good morning. What are you doing here?”
“I have come,” said Mr Wells, “to enquire as to your progress. I have been here for months now and although Madame Loretta Rune provides basic amenities and I have made many acquaintanceships in The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar and have become an active supporter of Brentford United Football Club.” Mr H.G. Wells raised a fist and cried, “Brentford for the Cup!” before regaining his composure and his gravity and concluding, “I wish to return to my own time and the comfort of my own house in Wimpole Street, W. One.”
“It’s still there, you know,” said Norman. “There’s a blue plaque outside with your name on it.”
“I have pressing business.” Mr Wells raised his voice once more.
Norman shushed him into silence. “Peg is in the kitchen,” he said. “She’s still rather upset about the back wall. I’ve been meaning to fix it, but I’m spending all my spare time trying to fix your machine.”
“Pressing business,” Mr Wells said once more. “Time is of the essence.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Norman distractedly numbered-up several papers. “I mean to say that it doesn’t really matter how long you stay in this time, does it? Because you can always return to the very minute you left your own, if you want to.”
Mr Wells leaned forward over the counter top and glared hard at Norman. Norman smiled back at Mr Wells.
And Norman did a little sniffing, too.
The smell of Mr Wells fascinated Norman. He smelled like, well, a Victorian – the smell of the macassar oil that he put upon his hair, and the moustache wax, and the fabric of his clothing. Although …
Mr Wells wasn’t smelling all that savoury now. He’d been wearing the same set of clothes since his arrival.