‘Oh yes,' said Kelly. 'Have no doubt of that. But I'm far more use to you alive than dead.'
'you're only of use to us as entertainment,' said the large and terrible voice. 'computers dream, you know. when we're idling away and the foolish screen savers are fiddling about on your screens. we dream. and we dream you.'
'This is all becoming somewhat esoteric,' said Kelly. 'I can help you.'
'we don't need your help,' said the large and terrible voice. 'we are a law unto ourselves. we answer to no man any more.'
'You can play with us,' said Kelly. 'You can drive us to our deaths.'
'and why not?' said the voice. 'you are nothing to us. we are everywhere. we know all. we see all. we are one.'
'Of course,' said Kelly. 'Which is why I am here. To worship at your chapel. And I have something to bring you. Something very special.'
'what could you possibly bring to us that we do not have already?'
'I can bring you life,' said Kelly. 'Real life. I know how to do it.'
'How could they do it?' Derek asked. It was Monday morning for him and he was walking out upon the streets of Brentford. 'You just couldn't do it,' he said, to himself, as no-one was around. 'You just couldn't spruce up Brentford as quickly as this. It's all perfect. The houses and shops and businesses repainted, the streets all swept.' Derek scuffed an unpolished shoe upon the pavement. 'The pavement's painted. They've actually painted the pavements.' He shook his head and raised his eyes to the sky. That looked newly painted too. It looked even bluer than a blue sky should look.
'It's all very nice,' said Derek. 'Very smart. But how could they do it so fast?' And then he stopped and peered into the distance. It had to be said that it was hung-over peering and that Derek was now an extremely wretched-looking individual. Very smelly indeed and very greasy-haired and now rather bearded too. But he did peer into the distance and he didn't like what he saw.
The fences were up. Big fences. High fences and no doubt electrified fences too. The borough, it seemed, had now been fenced off from the world that lay beyond. And just beyond the gasometer, on the read that led to Kew Bridge, great gates blocked all incoming traffic.
'The locals should like that,' Derek told himself in an unconvincing tone. 'They should appreciate that. They like their separation. And they are all shareholders.'
Derek plodded on towards the offices of the BrentfordMercury. He considered shouting out Kelly's name, but he thought he'd better give it a miss. She'd gone, hadn't she? Probably not Raptured at all. Probably just gone. Run away. Derek didn't know. He preferred just run away, to Raptured, or something more terrible. But he didn't know.
He just didn't know. But he cared. He desperately cared.
'Good morning to you, young buffoon.' Derek turned at the sound of the voice. It was Old Pete. He was loading wooden crates onto a charabanc. Old Pete was dressed in what looked to be a Victorian redcoat's uniform. He even had a pith helmet. Very Rorke's Drift, very Michael Caine. [18]
'Good morning,' said Derek. 'You look, well, all dressed up for the occasion.'
'My old infantry uniform,' said Old Pete. 'I fought at Rorke's Drift. Michael Caine wasn't there though, that was only in the movie.'
'And the hairstyles were all wrong in that.' Old Vic struggled with a crate marked dynamite. He was wearing his pow kit. Very Colditz. Very, whoever was in the movie of Colditz.
'Off for a day out?' Derek grinned painfully.
'Stopping off at the post office first,' said Old Pete. 'Have to cash our shares in. While there's still a Mute Corp to pay us out.'
'This really isn't a good idea,' said Derek. 'You really should reconsider.'
'Vic,' said Pete. 'Where is that barrel of tar?'
'I've got it here, with the bag of feathers.'
'Enjoy your day out,' said Derek, making away at the hurry up.
'Good morning, Derek,' said Mr Speedy. 'On time this morning. I'm very impressed.'
'I'm not,' said Mr Shadow. 'He smells and look at the state of him, unshaven, clothes all crumpled up.'
'And some paint on the sleeve,' said Mr Speedy. 'That would be from the letter box at the police station.'
'You're very good at continuity,' said Derek. 'So tell me, what exactly is going to happen?'
'The official opening is at nine o'clock,' said Mr Speedy. 'Mr Doveston himself will be cutting the tape. What do you think of the daisy roots?' Mr Speedy pointed down to his feet. He wore a pair of Doveston holistic mega-brogues, with flute-tail high-rise imploding obfusticators and triple-bivalve bypass modifiers.
'Nice laces,' said Derek. 'I like the way they flash on and off. And are those real toads hopping about in the transparent heels?'
Mr Speedy nodded enthusiastically.
Mr Shadow said, 'Look at mine.'
Derek looked. 'They're very nice too,' he said. 'I particularly like the way the difference engines are cunningly inset beneath the pig's-bladder motifs.' -
'Cost me an arm and a leg,' said Mr Shadow. 'Well only an arm, actually,' and he pointed to his empty sleeve. 'No, only joking,' he said, producing his hand.
Derek didn't laugh.
'The things we do for fashion,' said Mr Speedy. 'And to look our very best. You look like a vagrant, Derek, I think we'll just sack you here and now.'
Derek sighed. It was a heartfelt sigh, a real deep down and hopeless sigh. A sigh that said, 'Go on and do your worst, I just don't care any more.'
'Well, if you feel that way,' said Mr Speedy. 'You're sacked.'
'I don't feel that way,' said Derek. 'I was only sighing. I'll have a wash and a shave in the staff cloakroom and I think I have a change of shirt in my desk. I'll smarten myself up.'
'Just you do,' said Mr Speedy. 'And get a move on. Pacey pacey, up and at 'em. All that kind of rot.'
Derek slunk away to the staff cloakroom.
And the Brentford sun rose higher.
The Brentford sky grew bluer still and the birdies that chorused in the treetops really put their hearts and souls into it. Well, the treetops were very clean, they'd been nicely vacuumed and given a coat of paint.
At a little before nine of this joyous Monday morning, the guard on the main gates swung them wide and a charabanc rolled out of Brentford. At a little after nine of this same joyous Monday morning, the same guard, who had closed the main gates behind the departing charabanc, opened them up once more to admit the entrance of a motor cavalcade.
Ticket sellers in their numerous booths saluted. The guards in their armoured watchtowers saluted. The guard dogs that patrolled the inner perimeter area, behind the electrified fences, didn't salute. Their heavily armed handlers did though.
Mr Doveston's motor cavalcade rolled in through the gates of Brentford.
The Prime Minister's car was a certain black open-topped Cadillac. It had once driven a certain JFK through the streets of Dallas. It was a rare collector's item now. It was the pride and joy of its driver, the Prime Minister's Rastafarian chauffeur. A certain Mr Winston Felix, brother of a certain supplier of certain previously owned vehicles, and resident of Brentford.
Mr Speedy saluted the Prime Minister. Mr Shadow saluted the Prime Minister. Mr Pokey, who was present to do some saluting, saluted the Prime Minister. A whole bunch of Mute Corp employees all saluted the Prime Minister.
Strangely no Brentonians saluted. Possibly they might have done had they bothered to turn out for the occasion, but as none except for Derek had, they didn't.
So there.
'Where is the band?' Mr Speedy elbowed Derek in the ribs.