“Never heard of them,” said Soap.
“And Screaming Lord Sutch and the Savages.”
“God bless Screaming Lord Sutch,” said Soap[16].
“They’ll all be arriving soon,” said Ricky. “What time is it, do you know?”
Soap almost pressed a button on the wristwatch. Almost, but not quite. “I don’t know,” said Soap. “It’s broken. But tell me this also: will Wingarde and his guru be coming?”
Ricky nodded his big-haired head. He still had all the big hair, although it hadn’t been mentioned of late. “The little shit will be here. Throwing his weight around and making an arsehole of himself.”
“Good,” said Soap. “He and I have much to discuss.”
“Rather you than me,” said Ricky. “I can’t stand the bastard.”
The bastard was having his breakfast. The full English and heavy on the ketchup. He sat at a table on the roof terrace of the Virgin Mega City Rich Bastard’s Tower.
The roof terrace afforded Wingarde a fine view of Brentford. As he munched upon his egg, he could see all the earth-movers moving earth and the diggers digging away.
Wingarde raised a pair of binoculars and smiled as he watched the demolition ball cleaving its way into number seven Mafeking Avenue.
“Out with the old and in with the new,” crooned Wingarde, setting down his bins and tucking into some unburnt toast.
“You’re very chipper this morning,” said The Voice.
“Well, it’s all moving along nicely. You’re pleased with the progress, I trust.”
“Most pleased. And I’ve rewarded you well for your labours, have I not?”
“You certainly have.” Wingarde chewed upon a sausage. “Mmmmph mmm, mmph, mmph,” he continued.
“Don’t speak to God with your bloody mouth full.”
“Sorry, God.” Wingarde wiped his chin. “I was saying thank you very much. I really enjoy bossing people around.”
“I thought it might appeal to you and it suits my purposes well.”
“What exactly are your purposes?” Wingarde scooped up bacon. “I keep on asking and you keep on being vague.”
“Because it’s none of your damn business. But I’ll tell you this, Wingarde. That little town you see down there being ploughed away. From its earth will rise a mighty tower. A tower that will be a temple to science.”
“Built in praise of you, sir?”
“Built in praise of me.”
“But why build it in Brentford? Brentford’s such a dump.”
“Because, as anyone who knows their history will tell you, Brentford occupies the site of the Biblical Eden.”
“And that’s important, is it?”
“You are a fuckwit, Wingarde. But, oh look, here comes your guru.”
“I don’t know why I need a guru anyway,” whispered Wingarde. “When I talk directly to you.”
“I’ve told you before, he’s here to protect you. He has your best interests at heart, and mine also, although he does not know it.”
“Is that why you won’t let me tell him about you?”
“Something like that. So just keep schtum and be nice to him. OK?”
“OK,” whispered Wingarde, scraping jam on to a piece of toast.
“Good morning, Wingarde,” said Dr Vincent Trillby, striding up in dressing gown and slippers. To either side of him strode Balberith and Gressil, but Wingarde couldn’t see them, so he didn’t poo his pants.
“Good morning, True Father,” said Wingarde, which was accurate enough.
“All going well with the demolition work?” Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s bacon.
“Splendidly,” said Wingarde, pulling his plate beyond reach. “But I do have a bit of bad news for you.”
“Oh yes?” Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s coffee.
“Well, you know that wristwatch you had stolen?”
Dr Trillby nodded and spoke in a guarded manner. “A family heirloom,” he said. “Of great sentimental value.”
“Well, there’s been a spot of bother. I was sent some surveillance footage. The chap who nicked it turned up on the street.”
“At last,” said Dr Trillby. “I knew he would eventually.”
“Well, he tried to escape in a getaway car and a police helicopter blew it to buggeration. Slapped wrists all round. A bit of a cock-up.”
Dr Trillby’s face took on an ashen hue. He rocked upon his heels and clenched his fists and bottom cheeks.
“That’s you fucked, then,” said the voice of Leviathan.
“Pardon me?” said Wingarde.
“I’m talking to myself”
“Are you having another of your mystical turns? When the saints speak through your mouth?”
“Something like that!” Dr Trillby turned shakily upon his heel and staggered from the terrace. Once out of sight of Wingarde, and all alone in the very posh lounge (well, almost all alone), he flung himself down to the goatskin rug and drummed his fists on the floor.
“What a pity for you,” said the voice of Leviathan. “Your time-travel watch all blown to buggeration. You’ll just have to stay in this century with us.”
“Leave me alone!” blubbered Trillby.
“No way, we’re here to stay. And so are you, by the sound of it.”
“Listen.” Trillby ground his teeth. “Just listen. I’m not saying it hasn’t been fun. It has. But I returned to this century for one reason only. To fetch my wandering boy. I can see that he’s done very well for himself here, but his mother wants him back. And I’m going to take him back no matter what.”
“Not now your watch has gone boom.”
Dr Trillby drummed his fists and thrashed his legs about. “Oh, bollocks!” he shouted. “Oh, bollocks bollocks bollocks!”
“They’re a load of bollocks,” said Pigarse. “I’m not saying hello.”
“They’re the Beatles,” said John Omally. “And although I don’t think much of them myself they were Jim’s favourites, so you’ll be nice to them or else.”
“Or else what?” asked Pigarse. “I’ll give you a smack. I’ve done it before.”
“You’ve one hand bandaged. I wouldn’t try your luck.”
“Luck doesn’t enter into it when you fight as dirty as me.”
John made them all line up in the entrance hall. It was a very tidy entrance hall now. John had spent much of the previous day clearing it up, with no help at all from the Gandhimen. Under normal circumstances he would never have considered clearing it up, but, well, it’s not every day you get to meet the Beatles.
“Look,” said John, inspecting his troops. “They’re old men. They’re rock legends. Please show a bit of respect.”
Soap stuck his head out from behind the kitchen door. “Can I meet the Beatles too?” he asked.
“All right,” said John. “Get on the end of the line there, next to Pigarse.”
Soap got onto the end of the line and stood to attention.
“You twat,” Pigarse whispered.
The front door swung open and men in black entered. They flanked the doorway, flexing their shoulders and looking “useful”. And then into the hall walked an old gentleman, supporting himself on an ebony cane.
“Blimey,” mumbled Soap. “It’s Eppy. Brian Epstein.”
“Old shirt-lifter,” said Pigarse.
Brian Epstein hobbled along the lined-up Gandhis, saying things like, “So you’re a Gandhi, are you?” and “So you’re a Gandhi too?”
“I’ll nut him if he touches me,” said Pigarse.
The Beatles now made their appearance. Out of their wheelchairs but shaky on their ancient pins. They wibbly-wobbled along the line, saying the same sort of thing.
All except for Lennon, of course. Lennon hadn’t lost it.
“I really love your music,” he said to Litany. “You’re a very talented lady.”
“Thank you,” said Litany. “I’d love to sing to you before you go on stage. It would make a great difference, I promise.”