Part 3, Chapter 2, of RFV.

TWO

 

    Two hours later, Roger was lost. Despite Angus’s warning he’d seen something that interested him in the jungle and had wandered in for a closer look.

    After studying an extremely pretty flower and having a look round, things didn’t seem so bad and confident that he could find his way out, he’d strolled around awhile, looking at unusual plants and trees. A mistake. A big mistake.

    When he’d seen enough and had decided to make his way out of the jungle, things started to get a bit naughty. For a while he tried to retrace his steps but every time he thought he recognised a landmark it turned out to be something different. Now, like a fart in a diving suit, he was trapped.

    Everywhere he looked there was nothing but jungle. He felt its clammy oppressiveness closing in on him. Strange howling animal sounds assailed his ears, adding to his panic. Horrible unimaginable things slithered about in the undergrowth. He could feel malevolent eyes watching him, just waiting for him to falter.

    He stumbled on, heedless of the branches scratching at his Fleet Pilot’s outfit. He kept stepping into things on the jungle floor. Squishy squelchy things that screeched when he stepped on them, spurting up green and yellow goo.

    He stopped to catch his breath and leaned against a tree. As he was mopping his face, he heard twigs snapping in the bushes behind him. Terrified, he held his breath and listened. More snapping twigs and rustling, this time nearer. Something was hunting him.

    Wild-eyed and panting, he turned and stumbled on through the dense foliage. There was another screech and green and yellow goo fountained into the air.

    “Sorry,” he mumbled, scrambling on.

    He came to a clearing and halted. The rustling sounds followed him. He turned and looked and the low hanging branches close to him started moving.

Roger screamed then turned and darted into the clearing only to trip over a weed-covered log and sprawl headlong on to the grass.

   Whatever creature was stalking him reached the clearing and he could hear sure steady sounds as it padded across the grass towards him. He lay panting, too terrified to move or even look over his shoulder.

    Roger screwed his eyes shut and held his breath as the creature stopped behind him. He could hear its rasping breath and an unpleasant odour wafted over him as it bent closer. Something grabbed his shoulder and he was just about to scream when…

    “Thought Ah heard summit crashin about in strawberry patch!” an elderly female voice rasped.

    Roger opened his eyes and looked round…and recoiled at what he saw! She must have been in her mid-sixties, with her hair in curlers and a headscarf over them. She squinted through the smoke of a cigarette which dangled from her lips. She wore a full-length faded floral apron over a man’s pullover. A pair of yellow woollen socks stretched half-way up varicosed legs and tatty slippers completed her outfit.

    “Come in an have cuppa tea, love. Kettle’s just boiled,” she rasped.

    “I say, that’s jolly kind of you,” Roger squeaked, standing up. He brushed bits of grass and clumps of fear from himself. “My name’s Roger White,” he went on. “Fleet Space Pilot.”

    “Ah’m Doris Grime, love” she told him. “Ah run Bed an Breakfast place here wi husband Thropely.”

    “A Bed and Breakfast place!?” said Roger, a little surprised. “Here on Klyzemadex? Do you get enough business to keep it going?”

    Doris nodded, dislodging half an inch of cigarette ash. “Oh yes, love. We get travellin salesmen from Albatrex planets an aliens that’s passin through. That keeps us goin.”

    She took a last draw of her cigarette then flicked it into the bushes. When it landed, something screeched and green and yellow goo shot into the air.

    Chatting away, they strolled off across the clearing, went through some trees at the far side of it and soon came to the guest house. It was an old fashioned cottage and smoke drifted up from the chimney.

    “Come in an meet others, love,” said Doris and walked through the open French windows into the lounge.

    Two older men and an alien chap were sitting in the room, reading newspapers.

    Doris lit another cigarette. “This is Roger White,” she told them. “He’s a Fleet Pilot.”

    “Good morning,” Roger said politely to them all.

    “This is Stan,” Doris told him.

    Stan was wearing a collarless shirt and baggy trousers which were held up by a belt and braces. A couple of days white bristle adorned his cheeks and head and merry brown eyes twinkled in his lined weathery face.

    “Allo lad” he said grinning and showing a well-kept set of dentures. “See Earth’s been destroyed.” He held up the newspaper he’d been reading.

    ‘EARTH WIPED OUT BY DUST CLOUD!! BILLIONS HOMELESS!!’, announced the front page. Below it was a picture of Earth blowing up.

    Roger was surprised. “Oh, so you already know about Earth,” he said.

    “That’s right, lad,” Stan told him.

    “Stan lodges wi us an runs Sex Shop in foyer,” Doris told Roger. “But his main function is to have reminiscences wi me husband Thropely.”

    Roger supressed a snigger.

    As Doris was about to introduce the others she noticed that the fire was burning a bit low. “Best put some coal on before it goes out,” she announced.

    She walked to the fire and bent over to the coal pail, presenting a lumpy apron-covered rear to the room. Stan eyed it and grinned. He winked at Roger who flushed.

    “That’s better,” said Doris, standing up again. She glanced at the other two men. “These are two minor characters,” she explained, “but Ah’ll introduce ye anyway.”

    Roger nodded politely.

    “This is Sir Ashley Whig,” Doris told him, indicating a chap sitting on a couch, “He’s a disgraced television reporter.”

    Sir Ashley was half-drunk. He waved a glass at Roger, slopping some whisky over his already food-stained rumpled suit. His face had the wonderful unhealthy florid glow of the full time lush and was topped by some unnatural looking dishevelled wavy brown hair.

    “H’lo ole chap,” he slurred.

    “Hello Sir Ashley,” Roger said pleasantly.

    “Lovely arse there, Doris ole girl!” Sir Ashley commented. “Any chance of us runnin off? Spot of jolly eloping, what? Could start new life on another planet.”

    Doris cackled. “Bugger off, Sir Ashley!” she retorted. “Ah could never elope wi man who can’t maintain good firm erection for at least an hour!”

    Sir Ashley sighed and poured himself and his suit another drink.

    “This is Fed,” Doris said, indicating the next minor character. “Fed’s travellin salesman from Albatrex Two. Specialises in bunion cream an sex toys.”

    Fred was a long thin human looking person but had two extra arms. He nodded pleasantly at Roger.

    “Fred’s quite handy when yer makin omelettes!” Doris remarked and cackled. “Well now that scene’s set for this part o’ novel, come into kitchen an have some tea,” she said to Roger.

    Roger followed her down a short corridor and at the end of it she opened a door for him.

    “Through there, love,” she told him.

    Roger walked into the kitchen then immediately flattened himself against the wall, his eyes wide with terror. Two hairy bear-like animals were rummaging about but when they saw him they growled, showing huge sharp teeth and moved towards him. Roger tried to flatten himself further against the wall and involuntary squeaks of fear escaped from his lips. Large claws reached for him but were brushed aside casually by Doris who came in.

    “Shoo! Shoo! Out!” she ordered the creatures, slapping them round the head and pushing them towards the open back door. “Go on �" out! Piss off out!” she yelled, pushing them out the door then closing it. “Bloody raskas,” she said. “Don’t know why Thropely keeps ’em.”

    Roger tried to appear casual. “Raskas?” he asked, his voice slightly high. “Whatever are they?”

    “Oh they roam about in woods,” Doris told him. “Thropely feeds ’em an teaches ’em tricks.”

    Roger frowned. “Tricks? You mean like card tricks?”

    Doris cackled as she poured the tea. “Nae, lad. Simple tricks like fetchin a ball or stick. Like dogs.”

    “Oh, I see.” Roger said and drank some tea. “So how long have you been here on Klyzemadex?” he asked.

    Doris wrinkled up her wrinkled up face as she thought about it. “Oh about fifteen years, Ah reckon.”

    “And why come here to Klyzemadex?”

    “We wanted t’ get away from Earth, love,” Doris replied. “We thought o Albatrex but it goes for Thropely’s asthma there.”

    “But how did you get here?” Roger asked in amazement. “It’s billions of miles away from Earth. This part of the Universe hasn’t even been explored yet.”

    Doris cackled. “Oh it were Thropely, love. He came back from pit one day an said, ‘That’s it, our Doris, as soon as Ah’ve had tea Ah’m goin into shed  t’ build Retro Charged Ionic Converter.’ ‘Whatever for, Thropely?’ Ah said. ‘Are ye fed up wi pigeons?’ ‘Nae lass,’ he said, ‘Ah’m fed up wi bad grammar in pit! Soon as Ah’ve built Retro Charged Ionic Converter an fitted it t’ Ship, we’re off t’ planet called Klyzemadex. You, me an Stan.’ ‘Why Klyzemadex, Thropely?’ Ah asked. ‘Because it’s a young planet where grammar is still pure. Place where a man can string out long sentences an not put preposition at end. Place where kids can grow up an not get grammar molested,’ he told me. ‘But Thropely,’ Ah said t’ him, ‘what about our Doreen’s weddin?’ ‘Bugger our Doreen’s weddin!’ he replied. He were like that were Thropely. Ah can remember time when--”

    Just then the door opened and an elderly man came in, interrupting Doris’s recollections. He had on a cloth cap and was wearing a frayed dark waistcoat over a collarless grubby shirt. Braces and belt held up his old corduroy. trousers. He was unshaved and didn’t have his false teeth in. He grinned then farted.

    Doris cackled. “Nice one, Thropely,” she said. “We’ve got visitor so put yer teeth in. This is Roger.”

    Thropely searched his pockets for his dentures then shook his head. “Must’ve left ’em in shed,” he said. “Allo lad.”

    “Hello,” said Roger. “Have you heard about Earth?”

    Thropely nodded. “Can’t say as Ah’m that upset,” he admitted. “State o grammar back there was downright insult t’ ear. Wanton splittin o infinitives. Chaotic long sentences. Tenses all t’ c**k.” He shook his head. “Regional accents like ours are one thing but Ah can’t stand bad grammar.”

    “I see,” said Roger, nodding.

    “What’s for dinner, our Doris?” Thropely asked.

    “Ah’ve got nice alien’s brain in oven!” Doris replied, beaming.

    “Ye still know way t’ man’s heart, our lass,” said Thropely, grinning and revealing pink gums. “Come out t’ shed, lad,” he said to Roger, “an see pigeons.”

    Roger followed Thropely out and they strolled down a paved garden path to a large wooden shed. Inside, pigeons were cooing and fluttering around but there were also a couple of dead ones on the floor.

    “Some of ’em don’t seem t’ take t’ climate ’ere. Just seem t’ drop,” Thropely said, picking up the dead pigeons and putting them in a sack. “Now where did Ah leave teeth?”

    As Roger admired the pigeons, Thropely hunted round on a shelf full of seed bags for them. Eventually he found them, wiped them on his trousers then put them in.

    “Ah, that’s better,” he said, turning back to Roger. He thrust his hands into his pockets, cleared his throat then farted. Directly behind him, a pigeon fell backwards off a low perch and landed with a gentle thump on the floor, dead.

    “So where did you live on Earth?” Roger asked.

    “Oh it were lovely small village called Grimbledyke,” Thropely told him. “Where Yorkshire used t’ be in England.”

    “And you lived as miners?”

    “That’s right, lad. We shunned modern livin an followed lifestyle o ancestors in 1950’s. They were all miners. Coal miners.”

    “So you built the village?”

    “Took over run down village an re-created it as 50’s style coal minin village wi shops an pubs an pits.”

    “And you actually went down the pits and dug for coal?”

    “Nae lad, we went down an played snooker.”

    Roger looked puzzled.

    Thropely laughed. “Course we dug for coal. That were whole point. We liked lifestyle.”

    “Oh yes, I can see the attraction of going all that way down into the darkness, enduring those harsh conditions with the dangers of floods and cave-ins.”

    Thropely grinned as he remembered. “Aye, them were the good points but it had its drawbacks as well though.”

    Roger gave up. “What about the Germans who live here then? The ones who pretend they’re Nazis from the 1940’s?”

    “Them b******s!” spat Thropely. “They came here soon after us. Thousands o ’em. They’re after takin over whole planet.”

    “Why do they want to take over the planet?”

    “Just cause they’re German, lad. It’s in their nature.”

    “So where do they live just now?”

    “Anywhere they like! They’re all over place. Even got Army barracks an Army compounds an stuff like that.”

    “And they all wear uniforms?”

    “Aye. Ye’ll meet them sooner or later.”

    Roger glanced down at his Fleet Pilot’s outfit. ‘They’ll probably think I’m an Officer,’ he thought delusionally.

    “Anyway, Ah’ve summit important t’ say, lad,” Thropely announced, staring at Roger, “So Ah’ll come straight t’ point. It’s about that woman in there,” he said, indicating the cottage with his thumb. “Ah know ye find her attractive so there’s no need t’ deny it. Ah saw the way ye looked at her.”

    Roger frowned. “You mean Doris?”

    Thropely nodded. “There’s not many women on Klyzemadex,” he went on, ”an them that are become all the more desirable for it.”

    Roger’s mouth dropped open. “But she’s--”

    “Me wife,” Thropely said. “So think on, lad. Now come on in. Dinner’ll be on table.” He turned and lifted two of the pigeons off their perches. “Ah’ll let these two have a bit of a fly,” he told Roger, grinning.

    They left the shed and strolled back up the garden path. Thropely released the pigeons then went in to the cottage but Roger stopped to watch as they flew up into the sky.

    “How graceful,” he muttered in admiration, watching them.

    The pigeons flew upwards then banked and turned with perfect ease until a large two-headed eagle swooped down from nowhere and grabbed them. Roger watched open-mouthed as it flew off towards some hills, the dead pigeons in its talons.

    Roger shook his head then went in and joined the others at the kitchen table. He was just about to explain what had happened when Doris turned to Thropely.

    “Have ye fed two-headed eagle?” she asked.

    “Aye lass,” he replied. “Just gave it some pigeons.”

    Doris shook her head. “You an yer pets,” she said. “Ah don’t know why ye keep it.”