“But hold on,” said Soap. “Firstly, you said that Litany had lost her powers, and secondly, it’s Virgin who bring out the records. They would simply stop the records from being produced.”
Omally grinned beneath his facial plumage. “Firstly,” said he, “Litany’s powers have finally returned. Time heals all wounds, so they say. And secondly, there will be no records. This is going to be the Gandhis’ farewell gig and they are going to go out on a high note. A note that will be heard all around the world. Heard by millions and millions of people and recorded upon millions and millions of video recorders. This is going to make history, Soap.”
“Make history?” Soap’s head nodded. “That might do it, yes.”
“And it will stuff that little sod,” said John.
“What little sod is that?”
“The chairman of the company, of course. The evil little rat. And to think that when we were offered the record deal I thought it was a good omen. Him having the same name and everything.”
“I’m lost,” said Soap. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the revolting little tick who runs the company. The vile bastard who is responsible for the destruction of Brentford. I’m talking about Wingarde Pooley.”
“Wingarde?” Soap made the face of surprise. “I met a young bloke called Wingarde.”
“I’m sure you did. Probably when you were nicking his guru’s watch.”
Soap now made the face of outraged innocence. “I didn’t nick any watch,” he said.
“Come off it, Soap,” said Omally. “There’s been wanted posters out on you ever since it happened. He must really want that watch back.”
“Watch?” And Soap recalled his struggle with the editor of the Brentford Mercury and how he’d ended up here in the future clasping nothing but the—
“Watch,” said Soap. “There is a watch. But it didn’t come from any guru.”
“It came from Wingarde’s guru. True Father, as he calls him. Here” – John rooted around amidst the boxes and the bubblewrap – “I have one of his holy medallions somewhere. They give them away free with CDs and stuff. Ah, here’s the fellow.”
Omally flung a golden plastic disc in Soap’s direction.
Soap took it up from the floor and gave it a bit of perusal.
From the centre of the disc a face grinned out at him. It was the face of Leo Justice.
“Oh dear,” said Soap. “I do know this man. He’s the editor of the Brentford Mercury. His name is Leo Justice.”
Omally shook his head and vanished behind his beard. “That man’s name is Mageddon,” he said. “Robert Mageddon. But he likes to be known as ‘Most High’.”
“Robert Mageddon?” said Soap. “R. Mageddon? Armageddon? What kind of name is that?”
Omally shrugged and gathered in his beard.
“Well, I’ll tell you this,” said Soap. “The last time I saw him he was calling himself Leo Justice and posing as the editor of the Brentford Mercury.” Soap peered hard at the face on the medallion. “I don’t know who you really are,” said Soap, “but I’ll find out, you see if I don’t.”
Soap flipped the medallion into the air, caught it and rammed it into his pocket, where it lay all nestled up beside the stolen watch. The accidentally stolen watch. The accidentally stolen watch that was not only a watch but also a personal lifespan chronometer and a time-travelling device. The very time-travelling device which had, through Soap’s rough handling of it, caused him to be thrown into the future.
And had Soap taken this watch from his pocket and examined its back, he would have seen the owner’s name printed in tiny little letters upon it. The real name of the owner, that is.
And that name was not Leo Justice.
Nor was it Robert Mageddon.
That name was Dr Vincent Trillby.
The waiter brought me channel bends and ring-seals,
His goggles were the finest I have seen.
And he moved so very swiftly on his winged-heels,
While a crowd of parrots struggled at his chin.
His dress was smooth and styled in tweed and casters,
The swell of ray guns showed beneath his cloak.
He was trimmed throughout to combat all disasters,
His dovetailed keyring jangled as he spoke.
His offices were wall to wall with letters
That told of all the places he had known.
And he never feared the ridicule of betters,
For he moved in women’s company alone.
Far overhead the coal-black kites are flying,
And underfoot the worms turn in the grave.
And if I said I loved him, I’d be lying,
For who can love a lord if you’re a slave?
Upon the table one-eyed Jacks are winking,
And cars move by in endless metriform.
And he can hear most every word I’m thinking,
For he’s a deviation from the norm.
18
Dr Vincent Trillby was a deviation from the norm.
A scientist from the future, possessed by demons and now playing guru to a time-travelling fanboy who took orders from The Voice of God. Not your everyday man on the Brentford omnibus.
A question that might be asked, and not without good cause, is this: If Wingarde took his orders from The Voice of God, why then would he need a guru?
Good question.
And one deserving of an answer.
It is a well-known Holmesian adage that, once you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, no matter how unlikely it might appear, must be the truth.
So let us, as would Holmes, apply the science of deduction to this problem. And then, having solved it, we will plunge headlong into all the ensuing chaos and action, at least secure in the knowledge that we actually know what the bleeding hell is going on.
So.
Let us first consider Wingarde. He has shot dead his many-times-great grandfather. Surely, then, he himself would cease to exist? He would never have been born. But here Wingarde is. Large as life and very much more powerful. How?
All right. Consider this. What if Wingarde, although a Pooley by name, is not actually a real Pooley? Which is to say, what if Wingarde Pooley Snr is not the biological father of Wingarde Pooley Jnr? What if Wingarde’s mother had been having an affair and had got herself pregnant?
These things happen. It’s something to do with single men not washing their dishes, and a full explanation can be found on pages 25 and 26 of this book.
So, if this is the case, and let us assume that it is (because it is!), who might Wingarde’s real father be?
Well, obviously someone his mother found very attractive. Someone glamorous, perhaps. Someone powerful. Because power is a great aphrodisiac.
How about someone really powerful? How about the director of the Institute? How about Dr Vincent Trillby!
All right, let’s try that one on for size. Does it fit? It does. And it would explain what Dr Vincent Trillby is doing in the twentieth century. Searching for his wayward boy.
It makes perfect sense. And as perfect sense is much better than no sense whatsoever, we will stick with it as an answer.
But what about those demons? And what about The Voice?
Are these connected? Well, yes and no.
Firstly, then, the demons.
Picture this scenario.
Amidst all the chaos at Institute Tower, the various Trippers coming and going and hitting each other, Dr Vincent Trillby’s mobile phone rings. Dr Trillby answers it. “Trillby speaking,” he says.
“It’s Marge,” says Marge, in tears (for Marge is Wingarde’s mum).
“Whatever is it, Marge, my dear?” asks Dr Trillby, dodging Tripper number eight. “You sound upset.”
“It’s our darling boy,” weeps Marge. “Our darling Wingarde. He’s gone. He’s run away.”
“Now calm yourself, Marge. He’s run off before. I’m sure he’ll come back. Don’t worry.”