CHAPTER 2

THAT geezer’s stone bollox,’ said Squidge.

Squidge became a Contrarian after a priest berated her for sticking chewing gum on the left big toe of a statue of old JC himself during communion.

Now a member of the Central Nucleate Peripheral Sectarians, she adopted the name Squidge, as all members must except for Chief Contrarian Auldomee Roote, after a sub-atomic particle. Squidge, she claimed, was the undetected bit that sallies between matter and anti-matter and in general keeps the universe together.

No-one dared remonstrate with her over the issue. That was the way it went.

The thirteen members of the Sectarians turned to look at her and then as one lurching somnambulist turned back in unison to the TV just in time to see Major John Smith-Beecham-Nurd plink off the screen, replaced by a wriggling, extremely healthy looking baby’s bottom.

Lepton leaped up and slammed the TV off. Quark, who drifted off to sleep whenever a television was on nearby, woke up.

‘I miss anything?’ he asked.

Down stood up and stretched and Up sat down next to Strange. Everyone stood when Top Quark returned from the toilet.

‘Easy,’ said Top Quark.

They resumed sitting but for Squidge.

‘Easy? Easy? That’s easy for you to say. You spend the last hour taking a shit, have no idea what’s going on and you come back in and say easy?’ Squidge waved a hand in feeble dismissal of Top Quark.

‘Ah Squeegee baby, you’s just upset is all.’

Squeegee baby was having none of it

‘I’ve told you I hate being called Squeegee baby,’ she screamed. Her left hand involuntarily spasmed shut in anger and almost depenisized Auldomee Roote who turned green with pain but pretended nothing was out of the ordinary so as not to let on what Squidge was doing to him.

Top Quark was from a small rat infested mining village twenty miles from Cardiff but liked to think he came from Yibin and entertained those who didn’t know him with recollections of his childhood spent eating yams on the banks of the great Chang river.

He’d earlier tried to make out he was from the Bronx until he met someone who was from the Bronx. Now he kidded himself that Yibin was so far in the middle of nowhere that no-one would know any different. It never occurred to him that a Welshman will never look like a Chinamen no matter how hard he might squint.

It didn’t make any difference to Squidge. And that seems like a stupid enough place not to end this chapter so it will carry on.

It didn’t make any difference to Squidge. And that seems like a stupid enough place not to end this chapter and to neither repeat this paragraph so it will carry on. However, it will not be repeated. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later. Maybe. Maybe not. Enough.

When the phalanxes of Savage Timber Company guards advanced with chainsaws on the captive Contrarians who had chained and padlocked themselves to the Woodhenge timbers and thrown the keys into the nearby River Avon, observers thought they were about to cut through the chains and simply remove the protesters.

Instead they watched horrified as mayhem erupted and the grass turned Bahama sunset red with severed twitching limbs and blinking severed heads. It was over in less than three minutes. Not one Contrarian remained in one piece.

One observer however was not horrified and rubbed his hands together with glee whispering to himself ‘Nice. Nice.’.

At the age of two Arnold Profukuov had slaughtered a toad and made a blood oath to wreak revenge on Jack Flopp. It didn’t matter to him that Jack was not among the Contrarians horrifically mutilated in what became known as the Woodhenge Chain Saw Party.

None of the guards brought in by the Savage Timber Company were ever brought to book. The government said the event simply did not happen and that was the end of the matter. The thousands of bits of bloody human parts lying scattered around Woodhenge were said to have belonged to Chinese Boat People who were thrown out of an aeroplane passing over Wiltshire. No reason was given as to why they were thrown out and nobody thought to ask.

The New World Order Party party had illegally siphoned treasury funds to pay the private security guards’ wages and wanted no truck in being seen to not do things right.

As television camera crews scoured the scene of carnage, a nondescript vagabond shuffled aimlessly about with a battered ruck sack. No-one paid him any particular mind except Arnold, who simply wondered about him.

No-one saw the vagabond delve into his rucksack and clandestinely draw out a small metal black box, which he placed under a bloody left foot encased in a well cared for size ten Dr Marten boot.

No-one that is except Jack Flopp, who was at the front end of a pantomime cow nonchalantly observing the humans from over a nearby hedge.

If anyone had been close by they would have heard the cow quietly crackle into a radio transmission.

‘It’s in place,’ said Jack sotto voice and farted. The cow turned from the scene and sauntered away into some trees. No-one wondered why it was gasping and spluttering with suppressed coughs. A moment later two figures emerged from the trees and, arguing loudly, walked to a jeep.

On the Woodhenge killing field some of the uniformed police who were scouring the area pointedly arrived at the booted foot and prodded it over.

One reached down and grasped the now bloodstained metal box.

‘It’s here!’ uniform one shouted. ‘I’ve got the black box.’

‘We’ve got it! We’ve got it!’ uniform two parrotted in a loud, parrot type voice.

‘Try not to overdo it, huh?’ said uniform one.

All sorts of officials appeared from out of the woodwork, some emerging from the earth beneath some of the woodwork and with camera crews and reporters gathering round like vagrants at a soup kitchen the black box suddenly found itself enjoying Andy Warhol’s predilections of fame.

A boss type character drew himself tall and began to speak.

‘This, as you may know, is a black box flight recorder. Also as you know there was no aeroplane crash but we were informed on good authority that the Chinese Boat People always ensure that one of their party carries a black box as they have been tossed out of aircraft many times.

‘The instruments contained in this box will tell us much. That’s all. Thank you.’

With that boss type walked off to a Range Rover protectively clutching the black box. Boss type of course worked for the New World Order Party party. Once inside the Range Rover he opened the box and began munching on one of the chocolate biscuits it contained.

Chapter Three now available