“Who’s Tripper number three?”
“He’s Tripper number one, who’s returned from the future where Dr Trillby has told him that he’s a stupid boy too, and to go and have another try at the newspaper.”
“And does he have the bloody nose?”
“No, because he never got punched.”
“But if he didn’t get punched—”
“He does get punched. By Tripper number two.”
“Why?” asked Jim.
“Because he tries to grab the newspaper off him. And that’s when Tripper number four gets into the fight.”
“Who’s Tripper number four?”
“He’s Tripper number three, who goes back further into the past to find a stout stick to defend himself against Tripper number two. Are you sure you want me to go on with this?”
“No,” said Jim. “I don’t. How many Trippers were there in the end?”
“Dozens. Coming and going and going and coming. I counted at least six of them fighting in the solar lounge at one time. But, do you know, I never did see whether any of them had the newspaper.”
“So I assume that the time travel project was abandoned.”
“Sometimes it is,” said Geraldo. “And sometimes it isn’t. Things have become a little unstable in the future.”
“But they did put it online?”
“Oh no,” said Geraldo. “They never actually put it online.”
“This is all beyond me.” said Jim. “If they didn’t put it online, how did you get here?”
“I nicked it,” said Geraldo proudly. “As I said, I watched and heard everything, because I had hacked into Porkie. So when Tripper explained how to download the program, I hastily downloaded it as well.”
“But after you saw all the chaos, how could you even think of using it?”
“Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“Well,” said Jim, “the prospect of time travel is very appealing. I could certainly win a lot of money on the horses.”
“Yeah, and screw up the future. We took a vow to change nothing. We’re fanboys and all we wanted to do was travel back to the twentieth century and see all the great bands play. All the originals.”
“Like the Beatles, for instance?”
“Exactly. We agreed to meet up at different gigs. But Wingarde never showed up here, and now I know why. He’s been travelling about through time, saving famous rock stars from early deaths.”
“It’s a very noble thing to do,” said Jim.
“It’s chaos,” said Geraldo. “And it’s all my fault. I should never have trusted him.”
“You weren’t to know,” said Jim.
“Yes, but I should have known. It’s in his genes, you see. He can’t help the way he is. His father was the same and his grandfather before that. All trying to live down the family name.”
“Why?” Jim asked.
“Because they had an ancestor in the twentieth century who made a fortune.”
“What’s so bad about that?” Jim asked.
“It was the way he made it. He cheated and so his name became a household word, meaning a dirty rotten scoundrel.”
“Oh,” said Jim. “It wasn’t Branson by any chance, was it?”
“No,” said Geraldo. “It was Pooley. The scoundrel who pulled off The Pooley.”
Sing us your old sea shanty, Ted.
Said crowds of little nippers.
As ancient Ted sat in his shed
Cooking his ancient kippers.
Well, said Ted, there’s one I know
Of days on masted brigs.
With scupper hold and casks of gold
And outboard schooner rigs.
Eh? went the nippers, levelling bricks at him.
Ted sang his shanty.
’Twas in the year of ’fifty-two
Aboard the black ship Didgery Doo,
With Captain Rolf and his mutinous crew
That I went out a-whaling.
We left the port five days behind
Out west the great white whale to find.
We waved at Drake on the Golden Hind
As he leaned over the railing.
At last with rations running low
And Rolf boy running to and fro,
We spied a whale off the starboard bow
And shouted, cool and groovy.
And Captain Rolf put down the mate
And came across on a roller skate,
And said, I think we’ll have to wait,
I’ll miss the midnight movie.
So after we had watched the show
We lowered little boats to row,
And got our harpoons out to throw.
But by that time the whale had buggered off.
“And?” said the nippers. “What happened next?”
“Nothing,” said Ted. “That was it. I did see a mermaid on the way home. But I’ll tell you all about that another day.”
The nippers entered into a brief discussion, arrived at a consensus agreement and, without further ado, stoned old Ted to death.
9
“Stone me,” said Jim Pooley.
“And that’s the God’s honest truth, I’m telling you,” said Geraldo, rattling his empty glass once more.
Jim considered the phrase “You are a lying git” but dismissed it as redundant. The tale simply had to be true. He had never told anyone about The Pooley. Certainly all who knew him knew of his quest for the six-horse Super-Yankee. But he had wisely refrained from mentioning the name he intended to give it.
Jim finished his pint and set down his glass. The health-farm glow had fled from his cheeks and he felt far from well.
“I need the bog,” he said.
“Then give me the cash and I’ll get in the round.”
Jim fumbled in his pocket and dragged out a oncer. “Take it,” he said. “Get a pint for yourself and a vodka for me.”
“Fair enough. No, wait just a minute.”
“I can’t,” said Jim, making haste to his feet. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“But this poundnote. Is it all right? Who’s this bearded bloke on the front?”
Jim took to flapping his hands as he ran to the bog. Generally in moments of acute agitation he flapped his hands and turned around in small circles. But this time he had to flap on the hoof.
“I hope it wasn’t something I said.” Geraldo took his empty glass to the counter.
Within the bog of the Flying Swan, Jim made for cubicle three. And here he emptied the contents of his stomach into the white china bowl.
“Oh my God,” went Pooley. “Oh my God.” And he reached for the chain to flush away the horrors.
“Don’t pull that,” said a voice from above.
“Oh my …” and Jim’s hand hovered.
“God,” said the voice. “This is God.”
“God?” said a pale and trembling Jim, glancing all round and about.
The bog was empty but for himself. But for himself and—
“God?”
“Don’t pull that chain,” said God once more. Jim’s hands began to flap.
“And don’t flap your hands,” said God.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jim, who was now on the point of collapse.
“And down on your knees when you’re talking to me.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I’m sorry.” Jim knelt down in the cubicle, his nose too near to the horrors. This was all he needed! A telling-off from God!
“Pooley,” said God.
Jim shuddered at his name.
“Pooley, I am displeased with you,”
“But it isn’t my fault,” said Jim to God. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“What, never?” God asked.