T
1970:
he Minister blew his nose, annoyed
with the cold virus. Or rather,
annoyed with the bugger who’d invented
it. Now that it seemed there
really was an actual, concrete bugger
to blame such things on, he felt entirely
at liberty to do so.
It was a dismal day and, in all likelihood,
it was going to remain dismal. It was, after
all, a Thursday afternoon in February, and
everyone knew what they were like. February
Thursdays: one more thing to take up
with the bugger he’d come to see.
A long row of tall, leafless poplars lined
the road like big wooden feathers, tickling
the sky’s grey-white tummy. In response,
the sky was laughing so much it was wetting
itself — copiously. Round a bend in the
road and, from behind the poplars, a com-
SHORT STORY
pound of low, pale brown buildings seemed
to move into view. The Minister looked down
at his notes, frowning. He wasn’t nervous. A
lesser fellow might have been, but not the
Minister. He knew himself to be a decent,
church-going sort of chap, unspectacular but
well meaning. Some of the flash harries in
the cabinet might well have been starting to
sweat at this point, but not the Minister. He
had nothing to worry about.
To tell the truth, The Minister had been
doubtful about this project from the word
go. Seemed the sort of thing best left to the
Yanks, really. All that ‘one small step for
man’ sort of stuff. Not really cut out for it,
this side of the pond. But these chaps had
been so persistent, and the project hadn’t
cost an awful lot, so it had been given the
go ahead.
And now look what had happened.
The Rolls drew up at the gates of the
compound. The Minister barely glanced at
the sign announcing that they were now entering
The British Experimental Time Travel
Unit, before his eye was caught by the something
in his notes: the bill from that kosher
butcher chappie in Golders Green; seemed
a bit steep.
The guards waved the Rolls through and it
glided to a halt outside reception. Across the
road, a couple of big yellow time machines
stood, looking a bit the worse for wear. One
seemed to have conked out completely, as
an overalled and weary Scouse technician,
Woodbine hanging from the corner of his
mouth, had the engine cover up and was
bashing away with a ten-pound hammer to
very little effect. The other seemed in rather
better shape, apart from having been heav-
GOD
Richard Clay
ily daubed in what the Minister’s nostrils
and one previous encounter assured him
was brontosaurus poo. Not nice.
Doctors Perkins and Everard were bouncing
with excitement within, keen to give him
the full details.
“We’ve conducted extensive interviews,
Minister,” Perkins chirped, “and we’ve called
in expert help. He’s been seen by the Archbishops
of York, Canterbury, the Dalai Lama,
and the Pope’s due the day after tomorrow.
We’re getting that Hubbard fellow flown in
on Tuesday, and the Americans say they’ll
send Charles Manson along with him. But so
far, everyone’s agreed. It’s really Him. He’s
the Real Thing…”
“I see,” The Minister rasped, irritably,
as someone helped him out of his hat and
coat. “That much is perfectly clear. What’s
not so clear is all this Schroedinger malar-
key. I don’t like the sound of it. The Missis
is particularly keen for me to make sure you
haven’t been shooting any actual pussies,
do I make myself understood?”
“Oh, perfectly, Minister…”
“And we haven’t…”
“Not one…”
“Better bloody well not have done,” the
Minister snarled. “Found out much else?”
“Well, He was interviewed this morning by
a team of the top rabbis, and they’re sure of
one thing…”
“What’s that, then?”
“He’s Jewish.”
“Hmm… Well, I suppose we already knew
that, if we’re honest. Oh, very well, but I
think you ought to have a serious chat with
this kosher butcher chappie. Looks to me
like the bugger’s fleecing you, and what’s all
this about that bloody Paisley fellow?”
“Bit embarrassing, that, to tell the truth.
Somebody reckoned it might show some
even-handedness to invite him over for a
chinwag, as it were, but things didn’t go according
to plan…”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it turned out any attempt to get him
within a 10 mile radius of this place and he
became ill. Body temperature went right up,
dehydration and, as far as we were able to
ascertain, a total loss of self control. The fellows
who know about these things reckon he
was showing all the symptoms of imminent
spontaneous combustion.”
“Oh bloody Hell!”
“Indeed.”
“So is there anything we might hope to
retrieve from this ghastly mess?”
“Oh, plenty…”
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