“Eh, have we much of that booze left?” enquired Brian Clough, who was using his hands to de-gunk his sleeves and trousers of gloopy bright-green jelly ectoplasm and not managing a particularly good job of it.
“Two bottles, cocker,” Mark E Smith replied like a helpful supermarket shelf-stacker, peering into the flaccid makeshift bag that had been fashioned from a tablecloth. “Your tree had rest.”
“My tree?” Clough shook with bewilderment. “Why’s it mine? It’s got nowt to do wi’ me.”
“Well,” Smith shrugged, “you seemed to have an understanding.”
“Understanding?” Clough stopped abruptly. “What are you gettin’ at? Now, enough of your bollocks, young man. What pop is there left?”
Smith peered at the labels in an assisting double flash of lightning. “Branca Bitter and, er, Kummel… something, Kummel Arco,” he spoke above the ensuing grumble of thunder. “Better suited to your city centre swinebar. Do you have them in Nottingham yet? We’ve a few in Manchester now. Not my sort of thing – too Del Boy Trotter, and I’ve told the band to keep well away. You can’t be seen to be turnin’ soft – The Fall fans wouldn’t stand for it, anyway. But as needs must tonight, we’ll finish off these tipples. Should be interesting. We’ll be popular with the ladies.”
“What, ones that’d snuffed it in 1940s?” Boycott grimaced. “Heaven ’elp us. If my poor dad could see me now.”
“We might see him before the night’s out,” Tony Wilson proffered.
“And we’ve these, don’t forget,” Smith added, lifting a container from the depths of the limp sack. “Three Pot Noodles. Cheese and tomato flavour, too. We’re kings. Just need a 555 or a Vanguard to smooth events out.”
“Pot Noodles?” Boycott said with a crumpled face. “Were they brought out in War?”
“They’re a mystery, that’s for sure, bonny lad,” Healy followed. “We were saying, we think they’re fairly new, y’knaa, 1978, that sort of time. Recent. I mean, you don’t think Pot Noodles are the product of… well, the Devil, like? And this is the processing fact-a-ry?”
“And there’s a subterranean supply chain to bring in the freeze-dried vegetables and cheese powder,” Wilson added. “Maybe the ingredients are piped directly from the Hades warehouse itself. Imagine running a party in that space! Whatever the providence, I’m thoroughly looking forward to boiling up some grey rainwater to try it out – that’s if we’re left at peace long enough by the malign forces that stalk this particularly abhorrent setting to fork some cryodessicated morsels into our mouths.”
Not for the first time, options appeared south of disheartening. This was Falklands-conflict SAS territory – with a supernatural zing. Should they find shelter under the roof of horrors in their midst or chance their arm in Cumbria’s deathly winter night? Wilson believed they were at their mental finishing point but certainly wouldn’t be the first to utter sentiments of such negativity. He favoured the outdoors approach but knew he was in the minority. Surely, thought Wilson, Peter O’Toole would have raised the alarm by now.
The two bottles of exotic beverages, three cheese and tomato Pot Noodles and chunks of wood were carefully transported by industrious hands and bundled tablecloth across overgrown and unmanaged terrain towards the haunted hall, following its brickwork to better shelter from the relentless battering of wind and rain.
“It’ll be a relief to get these blasted contact lenses out,” Boycott admitted, not for the first time. “You should only wear ’em a couple of ’ours a day. You see, your eyes dry out. Then, after a bit of shuteye, I suggest we get some curtains to spell out SOS on lawn art ’ere when it gets light. Maybe a passin’ jumbo on its passage to America can telephone local police – ‘Callin’, callin’, looks like an emergency near Scottish border, over.’ That sort of thing.”
“Planes to America wouldn’t fly over Carlisle, man!” Healy scoffed. “Maybe to Iceland or Greenland, but why would they come this far north? Surely Cornwall’s the right direction.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” corrected Wilson. “Some of the transatlantic traffic heads north towards Scotland and then west across the Atlantic. It’s to do with the curvature of the earth, darling. Not that they’d spot an SOS message spelt out in curtains. They’d be at 35,000 feet, re-setting their watches to Eastern Standard Time and buying duty free. But there’ll be flights from Glasgow that come over here – although not in these wild conditions. Planes will be grounded or diverted.”
“Bloody hell,” remarked Clough as they strode towards the exterior wall of Hangingbrow Hall. “They teach you that at Oxford?”
“Cambridge,” corrected Wilson. “And yes, I have an interest in aviation, like all inquisitive grammar school boys. And you should probably read more.”
“Read? I work on instinct, me,” Clough proclaimed. “I keep my feet firmly on the ground.”
And with that, Clough vanished from view. If it wasn’t for the initial void of silence, his removal might not have been noticed for a while amid the shaking and rattling of the reedy grasses. The remaining four drifted to a something’s-up pause. Healy turned and retraced his steps with care, then kneeled and passed his hand through a dark hole that was like a puddle with no reflection.
“Rotten wood,” Healy stated. “Maybe once a door to a basement or a coal chute.”
Boycott knelt and surveyed the damage. “Brian!” he called down. “Briaaaan!”
“Be quiet, I’m here!” came the dull reply from below.
“Are you badly?” Boycott shout-whispered through the hole. “Broken ankle, perhaps?”
“A sprain possibly,” Clough responded and carefully rose to his feet. “No breaks. Eh, but it’s a fair drop down here, mind. Good job I landed on a load of boxes. Look like medical supplies. What the bloody hell is this place?”
“We’ll get you out Brian,” Boycott announced. “After survivin’ bein’ eaten by a tree and then sucked up by a whirlwind, this is small potatoes to us!”
Clough looked skywards towards the worn-out chute door and shook his head with weary resignation. Gathering his composure and surveying his surroundings, to the Nottingham Forest manager’s profound astonishment he found himself in a cleanly swept, extremely spacious laboratory setting with black power cables neatly webbed across the floor and the unmistakeable aroma of bleach and seaside salt. Gently tapping his shoes on the smooth concrete, Clough shifted slowly and quietly towards the largest aquarium he’d ever set eyes on. It must have been 50 feet long by 20 feet wide. Rather than containing a biome of coral with brightly coloured angelfish playfully skitting about sunken ships and half-opened caskets of treasure – which would have been lovely – he found himself peering at a huge slab of grey wrinkled skin and muscle. What the bloody hell is that? wondered Clough.
In the still water of the tank were highways of wires with electrodes attached to the body at various points and there, in the middle of the mass, was a closed eye. Clough slowly rotated to take in the staggering scene and attempt to understand the purpose of this bizarre location. Lighting was tastefully subdued in a James Bond lair sort of way and the room temperature was cool but not like the frosty grimness upstairs in the decrepit house. Incredibly, there were a dozen accompanying water-holding vessels, all containing… sperm whales. The sheer scale was breathtaking and made the hairs stand on Clough’s head.
Clough purposefully strode back beneath the rotten door in the roof and noticed, lowering from above, a collection of hastily-knotted-together branches giving the appearance of a ridiculously long witch’s broomstick. Clough looked upwards and said, “What am I supposed to do wi’ that?”
Boycott, with a hiss so as not to attract unwanted attention, explained, “Just grab ’owd a t’sticks, Bri, and we’ll do all donkey work.”
“You silly devils!” Clough reprimanded. “You think I’m climbing up your beanstalk? I’ll break my bloody neck! Anyhow, I think you lot should come down here.”
“What’s down there, like?” Tim Healy squinted over Boycott’s shoulder, peering down.
“Apart from the draught coming from the roof where you lot are, stood gawping, it’s warm and it’s dry,” Clough revealed. “Don’t ask me how. I reckon our chances of making it out of here in one piece are better down here than up there… We could get some kip for starters. There’s even radiators down here. Bloody radiators! And they’re working!”
Clump. Smith landed flat-footed and hard, swag bag of alcohol and Pot Noodles tied in a bundle around his wrist. He stood like an ice statue for a moment as the pain dissipated around his heel, arches and toes. “I’ll find some glasses,” he declared. “And a kettle and some forks.”
“You’ll wait,” Clough barracked. “We need Tony Wilson down here quick-sharp so his university brain can work this mess out.”
Smith was dumbstruck: “Moby-Dicks! Good name for a special-interest flick, that. Not my sort of thing, obviously.”
Healy arrived with a thud and rolled expertly on the floor, like he’d done this sort of thing hundreds of times before – which, of course, he had in the Paras in the early Seventies.
Smith faced the ceiling. “Wilson, you’re wanted!” he barked.
“When you want me, I won’t be there,” Wilson called back. “But when you need me, when you need me, you’ll find me.”
“Tone, get fuckin’ down here!” Smith shouted.
Wilson landed roughly and jerked forward, spilling his small collection of firewood. “Thinking about it,” he spoke, “did I need to bring fuel down here?”
“That’s your BA (Hons) education filling up your head with useless information,” Clough smiled. “You’ve no space for the day-to-day stuff. People like me are not clogged up by that sort of crap – and neither is Geoffrey Boycott up there.”
They both gazed upwards to see Boycott dangling by his fingertips, commanding, “Get a mattress from somewhere and urry’. I need to be fit for Somerset!”
“Just jump, it’s not far!” Healy called up. “Remember to distribute the shock, bonny lad.”
“I’ve had enough shocks already today!” Boycott snapped back with a boiling red face.
Boycott leapt and stretched his arms and legs like a flying squirrel. He clattered to the floor and screwed his face up. “Oh Lord, no,” he complained.
“Bad fall?” Healy enquired.
“No,” Boycott shook his head. “I’ve left me bag up there in grass. That was me last hope of dry socks and takin’ me contacts out.”
The underground environment was a world removed from the unhinged supernatural battleground above them. There was peace and tranquillity in the bowels of the building amid the massive tanks of sleeping sperm whales. Lighting was solemn, while the temperature, although in the realm of cool, was a damned sight more civilised than the Arctic inconvenience of the main hall and fridge-interior chill of the bedroom. And yet, the feeling of menace had not subsided.
“University man,” barked Clough, fingers linked behind his back, “what do you make of this?”
Wilson, his analytical mind whirring like the mechanism of a superb Swiss watch, admitted, “I don’t know.”
Boycott nodded with depressing pleasure. “This so-called super-brain can’t make ’ead nor tail of situation.” Just as the batsman was about to expound on the amounts of money wasted on tertiary education, he was beaten to the spotlight by a reinvigorated Wilson.
“I don’t have firm answers but…” and Wilson placed his fist on his chin, assessing the clues laid out before him. “You have to wonder why sperm whales specifically. No other whales here, you’ll note. We know these animals have a supply of oily liquid – spermaceti – in their head. They ran lamps from the stuff in the Victorian era and what was particularly good about it is it didn’t solidify in cold conditions. It could conceivably be used as a fuel. To power what, well, the possibilities are endless. But a whale could give a huge amount of oil – 2,000 litres or so from the head alone. Could it naturally regenerate this oil if it were progressively pumped out? I don’t know the answer to that. Not all that long ago, penguins were thrown on fires for whaling operations. Penguins burn well. They’re oil-rich. Bernard Manning’s probably the same.”
“Burning penguins?” Smith sniffed. “Not something Harrisons coal merchants offer round my way.”
“And then there’s ambergrise,” Wilson continued.
“Amber-what?” Healy questioned. “Bearing in mind I’m ready for a kip and this is getting like a night-time lullaby.”
“The jewel of the sea,” Wilson revealed.
“I’ve ’eard of this,” Boycott jumped in. “You can find it on beaches and it’s worth a small fortune. Poncy perfume places use it in Paris and they’ll stick their ’ands in their pockets for privilege an’ all.”
“Yeah, Orkee, but what is it?” Healy demanded.
“Short answer please, gentlemen,” Clough said.
“It’s only produced by sperm whales,” Wilson informed. “They eat squid, which have beaks. Not easy to digest, a beak. From what I gather, the sperm whale produces a secretion to deal with the beaks and it either vomits these bits out or it’s pushed out the wrong end. It floats around in the sea. It has properties which make perfume last longer.”
“So Tramp and Yardley is basically fish sick?” Boycott summarised.
“And here is a man who doesn’t mince his words,” Wilson said, gesturing to a non-existent TV camera, breaking the fourth wall.
“Err, they’re not fish, they’re mammals…” Healy corrected, but his voice trailed off; he felt the extra information was not required at this time.
“I wouldn’t like to sprinkle this sod’s flakes of an evening,” Clough japed. “What I’d like to know is how do you get something this size all the way here? Who supplied it? It’s not from the bloody fishmongers at Workington, that’s for sure. How much is one? Cos that thing there is bigger than Kenneth Burns!”
“Jerries were allies wi’ Japs in War,” Boycott grimaced. “Japs ’ave a natural loathin’ of sea creatures. They’re not lovers of land ones, come to think of it. They’re a very cruel race. Well, if you’ve seen Bridge On River Kwai you’ll ’ave an inklin’ of what they’re capable of. What they do at sea is deplorable. Wicked, even. They don’t like dolphins much, who largely ’elp ’umans in time of crisis and are really spaniels of water. This might be Jap-related.”
Wilson approached the tank, placed his hands on the glass and examined the whale’s closed eye. What brutality was occurring here? Suddenly there came a jolt within the aquarium and the eye opened to its maximum wideness, giving the Manchester impresario the biggest fright since witnessing the deranged death struggle of a kids’ TV woolly mammoth 45 minutes earlier. The huge slug-like body rippled and the still of the water was disturbed, splashing over the sides of the hefty container.
“Did you never pay any attention to the notices in pet shops about touching fish tanks?” Healy spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“You’ve only gone and woke devil up!” Boycott scolded.
A red light shone on a nearby control panel and a tube that led into the tank gently vibrated. The swishing and splashing continued, then the whale’s movement lessened until the creature lay still once again and its soulless cow’s eye closed.
“I’d say it’s been sedated,” Wilson proclaimed. “We are witnessing the perversion of nature and we have to ask, ‘What are we going to do about it?’”
“Might be worthwhile finding bathroom cabinet in here and see what delights can be found within,” Smith grinned. “Imagine what a whale trank would do. You’d wake up in a different dimension.”
“Find some glasses first,” Clough suggested. “I’m thirsty.”
It was at that moment that a chorus of threatening click-clacks came from the shadows and out of the umbra stepped an ageing gentleman in ragged German SS uniform with a scar theatrically running down his cheek. He was surrounded by a handful of armed soldiers equally shabbily dressed, each pointing firearms from waist height towards the five bedraggled heroes.
“I sink you haff all caused quite enough fuss for one night,” the SS Gruppenführer jovially stated. “For you, Tommies” – and he chuckled, having waited decades to utter this classic comic-book phrase – “ze Var is owfer.”
“It’s been over for nearly 40 year, pet!” Healy reminded. “Do they not deliver newspapers here?”
“Is he English?” the German pointed. “He appears to speak more of a Scandinafian, how vould you say, brogue?”
“He’s got funny accent, flour,” Boycott explained. “They can be ’ard to comprehend from up Newcastle way. They’re like Vikings. I struggle meself wi’ ’em sometimes.”
The German turned to the gun-wielding soldiers and remarked, “Vhat a curious collection of indifiduals we haff stumbled across who are invadink our hidden military industrial complex and special supernatural gateway. I could not understand a single vord of vhat he said eifer.”
“What are you hiding from exactly?” Wilson enquired.
“Ah that is much better,” the German promptly replied. “You haff a clear way of ze speakink. So, ya, it is true, ve are vaitink. Bidink our time. You see, ze Var is far from complete. But don’t trouble yourself wiz zese uncomfortable questions at zis instance. All vill be refealed. Come, let us make you more comfortable. Ve are not… barbarians!”
One of the soldiers swished his gun and ordered, “Mach schnell!”
“Can I bring this bag of booze and Pot Noodles?” Smith enquired.
“Drop it!” a soldier ordered.
Smith placed the bag carefully on the floor and held his hands up.
“If you are all good children, ve might offer you a small aperitif and a little sauerkraut,” said the SS leader.
The Gruppenführer led the way and Clough, Boycott, Wilson, Smith and Healy followed with weary heads bowed. The accompanying soldiers filed behind, with one stating, “Try anysink funny and I’ll blow your eyeballs off.”
Despite the aching seriousness of their plight, Wilson and Smith exchanged camouflaged schoolboy smirks, the sort where you’re almost making an O-shape with your mouth in order to counteract the urge to laugh out loud. They were frogmarched past voluminous tanks of sleeping giants, with their nodules, sensors, cables and electrodes maintaining a gruesome peace.
Through a hospital-style swing door, they entered a long, electrically lit corridor that even featured the occasional framed photograph on the wall. It was assumed these were Bavarian landscapes, black and white images of a home they missed and hoped to see once more when they had become masters of the world. They stood aside as a single file of German soldiers silently shifted towards them and it was only when the men were passing that it became apparent that they were free-floating apparitions in period wartime uniform.
“They’re deceased!” gasped Boycott.
“Yes, it is quite a place, zis,” said the SS Gruppenführer. “Ve haff an understandink here, you see, wiz ze owners of ze land – and ze territory beneath! But you vill get your info all in good time.”
“So,” Clough ventured, “when will be set free? We’ve all got busy jobs to get back to, and family, with people relying on us.”
“Oh, really!” scoffed the German. “You English are quite somethink. You know Ze Führer was taken wiz your spirit of adventure. You are all as vily as foxes and twice as cunnink, too.”
“Well, ya Führer’s not here now is he, bonny lad?” Healy reminded.
“Bonny… lad?” The German military man looked with disdain from the corner of his eyes: “In fact, you vill speak to Ze Führer here zis fery efenink. Ve’ve been expectink you.”
Wilson stopped in his tracks. “Hang on, darling, you don’t mean to say…?”
“Jawohl,” smirked the Gruppenführer, “you are lucky zat he has no ozer engagements.”
“But he took his own life, cock, right at end,” Smith dismissed. “You know that. He didn’t want to be transported to Moscow in a cage like a wild animal, so he bit a phial of killer poison and necked it. If I’d have had some, I might have made a night of it and ended up at Ostrich. But it killed your gaffer. He had no gumption. That’s on record. And then his wife. And they shot bloody Alsatian an’ all, poor bugger.”
“All true,” accepted the German. “But death is merely a passage to ze next reality, as you vill also discover before ze sun rises. Now, you musn’t be confused by heafen and hell and all zat misinformation, but realise – or start to question – zat ze Christian version of efents purposefully glosses over ancient facts.”
“What are you talking about, facts, man?” Healy complained. “God, Jesus, the Disciples…”
“Gods,” the Gruppenführer said. “More zan one. And demi-gods, too. Once more you shall see for yourself on your little adventure this fery night.”
“So what’s the score upstairs, like?” Healy demanded. “It’s like a Hammer House version of Scooby-Doo.”
“For sure, but do you not sense ze incredible power of zis place?” the Gruppenführer followed. “Zis single collection of crumblink bricks wiz its trapped souls, and the vell of spirits and secrets beneath, vill ultimately hand power back to ze Germans. Ve have access to arcane knowledge from unknown superiors. Black forces, infisible hierarchies… ah, here ve are.”
With a key, the Gruppenführer opened the door to a cell and beckoned the captured celebrities to enter. The five shuffled into the dimly lit, windowless space. The SS man stood in the entrance slapping a glove against his hand. “Vhen you speak to Ze Führer, please refrain from lookink directly into his eyes,” he instructed. “He doesn’t like zat.”
“A bit like Prince,” Wilson said.
“And he has ze small patience,” the Gruppenführer added, “so it’s perhaps better if ze five of you don’t be yappink your questions towards him like puppies zat are jufenile. Please, one of you choose to be ze interfiewer. Who is best at askink ze meaningful teasers?”
“That’ll be this young man here,” Clough pointed at Wilson. “Does a lot of work for Granada.”
“The region in Spain?” the German queried.
“Granadaland,” Wilson proudly proclaimed. “A vast area in the North-west of England. The greatest television company in the world. Populism with intellect at its core but with a serious socialist underpinning.”
“Vell, ve are National Socialists,” stated the Gruppenführer. “Ve are hindered wiz Border TV here. Ve sometimes catch Mr And Mrs wiz Derek Batey. We do not understand Ze Krankies, though. Is it a joke act? Perhaps zey are, as you vould say, niche? Please, vhat is your name, television man?”
“Anthony H Wilson.”
“Vould I know any of your programmes?” asked the German.
“World In Action?”
“Oh ve turn zat ofer. It is too serious for our efening’s viewink. Please make yourselfs at home in your prisoner cell and ve vill call back in 20 minutes. Mr Wilson, choose your questions carefully. Zey could be your last.”
And with that the door clunked and the lock rattled.
There was a low wooden bench, a bedstead with no mattress and a toilet with no sign of toilet roll. Mark E Smith peered into the bowl and was satisfied to find clear water at the bottom. Looking upwards, Smith noted a metallic fitting with slats and said, “Well, at least they’re humane enough to provide us with some fresh air.”
“As if we ’an’t ’ad enough already,” Boycott said wearily.
Healy sat back on the bench and placed his head in his hands. “So, how are we gonna get out of this scrape this time, lads?”
“Well, you reckon you’re our leader,” Smith smirked. “Why don’t you come up with some decent ideas yourself instead of constantly asking us lot for our input?”
“What’re you talkin’ aboot, man?” Healy shot back. “I’ve never said I’m the gaffer or put meself forward as the main gadgie in the 24 very long hours I’ve been in your acquaintance. Although I have to admit there’s too many chefs for my liking here.”
“I’ll tell you who’d be good in a situation like this,” Boycott spoke.
For a moment nobody replied, because they didn’t want to know the answer. Eventually, Clough lifted his head and said, “Tell us, Geoffrey.”
“Mike Brearley,” Boycott grinned, accentuating his lower-case “b” pushed to 90 degrees scowl. “Best captain I played under for England. When ’e ’ad ’is thinkin’ cap on, anythin’ were possible. I only saw ’im blow ’is top twice. One time with Phil Edmonds and other time wi’ me! I told ’im in Australia before second test match in 1980 that I’d done me neck in playin’ golf and he went bananas. Unlike Healy ’ere who assumes ’e’s in command – which is no bad characteristic to ’ave, I might say – Brearley was good at drawin’ out experience of them around ’im in order to get best result for team.”
“Listen,” said a disgruntled Healy, narrowing his eyes, “if you think I’ve had designs on becoming your foreman from the moment I clapped eyes on you, then I’m afraid you’ve been very much mistaken!”
“You play the chief on your television show,” Clough cut in.
“That’s make-believe!” Healy roared. “Dennis Patterson isn’t me! He sounds like me, looks like me, but I’m no whizz with a bag of cement, man, and the last person you’d want to build a wall around your garden is Tim bloody Healy!”
“The gentleman doth protest too much!” Smith guffawed.
There was a clatter from the lock and the door creaked open. The SS Gruppenführer appeared in the space surrounded by his gun-wielding crew and said, “Ve could do wiz a spot of Abus lubricatink spray on zis lock.”
The five dutifully rose to their feet. “That was a quick 20 minutes,” Clough pointed out.
“Vhen you’re hafing fun ze clock flies, does it not?” the Gruppenführer genially replied. “Now, Mr Wilson, you haff your questions in good workink order, I assume.”
“All things are ready if our minds be so,” Wilson smiled. “Shakespeare.”
“Maybe Mr Wilson, Ze Führer will find you amusink,” the Gruppenführer brightly smiled. “He is a fan of your Shakespeare, especially Ze Merchant Of Fenice. Ve broadcasted it on German radio shortly after Kristallnacht, you know.”
“So we’re going to have a meeting now with the ghost of Adolf Hitler,” Mark E Smith spoke. “Just to clarify that fact. And will there be any refreshments? My client here, Mr Wilson, would like a rider. Branca Bitter, Kummel Arco and three Pot Noodles, cheese and tomato flavour, is all we ask.”
“Now please, gentlemen, come zis vay,” the Gruppenführer rebuked. “You are such a bunch of chatterboxes.”