“Zulus?”I ask.
Simon nods. He points. “Thahsands of‘em,” that’s not in the film, not said by Bromhead anyway but Simon’s on aworking-class kick with the baggy trousers and braces. He’s already done alittle dance. He winks. It was his turn to choose where we went and bless him, forthe old dear is fifty this year. I’m probably missing something but we’realmost certainly going to die unless we leave, and soon, but Rob’s alreadydigging about in a crate by the door.
“I don’t want to be stabbed,” I say, “bya spear.” No one’s listening.
“Martini?” this was Maurice. I’m notsure this is the right one. He arrived in a Rolls that smokes now outside wherehe shot it in the face with an elephant gun. Not a gun for shooting elephants (forthat would be cruel and he hates cruelty to animals). No this was a gun such ashe found to equip elephants in order to deter ivory hunters. He says it again, “Martini?”
“Henry!” says Rob who starts to hand outrifles. “Breech loaders, accept nothing less.”
We don’t, there’s only the elephant gunas an alternative and that takes nearly an hour to prepare. I’m hung over. Iwoke up only an hour before with my bladder halfway to the toilet and beingvery stealthy in case my stomach noticed. We all have off days. At times wehave off us, if we find the wrong one. We’ve been stuck flitting about between1955 and 1989 since 1986, and it’s now... I ask.
“1991,” say Simon. Then, “’Ave abanana.”
1991.
In the 80s they were all at universityflunking a variety of degrees, apart from Maurice who studied Librarianship AndSalem, and who not only made it to the exam, but passed. We only found outlater that the reason degrees were so sparse was that Sarah had them all.Sarah-world is a nice place to visit, only not for too long. It’s like Sex& The City, only in three week blocks and in the shadow of Glastonbury.More sort of three-weeks on, three weeks off, in the sticks. Her army of loverswork the oil rigs, and they’re all called Roy.
At university the boys all took BlueSunshine, or so Simon says, but given all includes Jerry that seems a littleunlikely. And that’s why we can do, what we do. Jerry would be here preparing to fight offthousands of Zulus but he’s skiing. He found a world where it’s always winterand never Christmas, and off-piste (we’re told) is to die for. He means it too;if you go off-piste he hunts you down like a dog with his packs ofpolitically-minded grumpy fighting-badgers. It’s a very unlikely life we lead.There’s more, and it’s not very complicated, but I’ve got this hangover.
I don’t know where we are either. Robsent round a maxi-cab. He doesn’t hold with mini-cabs, they don’t have thelegroom. And they need the legroom because they’re always driven by one of hislegion of giant super-models, not named but numbered. I was picked up by NumberNine. Literally, as like I say I’ve got this cracking head on me and NumberNine had her orders, and me by the scruff of the neck. Maurice says they pissPinot Gregio and shit croissants, and everything is out there somewhere so it’snot beyond the realms of possibility, in these infinite realms of possibility.Number Nine didn’t say where we were going, I ask and Rob does, it’s Hampshire.I answer, “Zulus, in Hampshire?”
“Zulus,” says Simon, “ravers, eitherone.” And then, “Guv.”
There used to be a villain, not myvillain, but there was one. He was called Firth. He had a first name but Robwas already taken so he changed his to ‘Mr’. He’d decided that we were spoilingthings what with having all the fun, traipsing about like teenagers given thechance to go anywhere, anywhen, anywhy. So he tried to kill us and somewhere heprobably succeeded. But he was very firm on rules and the big one was wecouldn’t go further than 1989. So he didn’t, and became a solicitor, and us?
We’re somewhere in a field in Hampshire,and Rob’s making notes. Maurice wants to do a bunk. He says, “Let’s all meet upin the year 2000?” and Rob’s pencil is feverish.
“Monday morning?” and the pencil snaps.
Simon’s going to stay with the commonpeople.
We’re a different class.
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