Gilnockie Tower

I (Phoebles) was the first to spot the Gilnockie Tower on account of I was looking out the bridge windows with the big spyglass.

            “Left hand down a bit, the tower is over there,” I says to Ferdy, who is doing the driving.   And he gives me a stern look, as if I’s criticising his navigation or summat.   I do have very keen eyesight, ’specially when I got the spyglass.   But Ferdy’s being OK too.  

            Polly sticks her head round the door.

            “Are we nearly there yet?”

            So I says, “Yup, we’ll be landing within the hour.”

            And she says, “In that case I am going to bugger off in my little red plane.   If things don’t go to plan you all may need back up later.”

            She’s dead good in that thing.   It’s a Polikarpov I-16 fighter, red all over with yellow stars and two 7.62mm ShKAS machine guns and two 20mm ShVAK cannons mounted in the wings.   And it’s dead manouverable.  She stopped off at the officers’ canteen to pick up a pre-ordered packet of Catapano goats cheese and Coln Valley smoked salmon sandwiches and to refill her hip flask with cheap vodka.

            “No point using the good stuff,” she said, “in the middle of a dog fight I spill more than I drink.”

            “You should get one of those Beerbelly™ WineRack bra’s for hands free drinking,” suggested the Pusser.

            “What’s a bra?” asked Polly.

            The best things about the Airship of State are deffo the food.   She has chefs instead of cooks and three-Michelin-star gourmet restaurants instead of mess decks and there is all day breakfasts available ALL DAY!

            Anyway, back to the story.   Polly gets in her plane and starts up the engine and stuff, while the crew are unbolting thing and hammering and swearing at the release mechanism.   Then there is a clunk and the red Rata drops away from beneath the airship.   And she is whizzing off towards the horizon doing barrel rolls as she goes.

            And I has another look through the spyglass.   It’s dead good, made of brass tubes that slide inside each other and when you stretch them out it’s really long and makes things look ever so close even when they’re not.   I’m looking at Gilnockie Tower again.   It is dour, built of grey stone and has a little flag on top.   We approach slowly from down wind and come in over the croquet lawn.   Lots of ghillies (sort of Scotch servants) in greeny-bluey tartan kilts and matching bonnets rush out to catch our mooring lines as we cast them down, and we are dragged and guided over towards the stables, where we are tethered close to the laird’s Silver Ghost.

            Once we have all tumbled out onto the gravel drive a window in the tower opens and someone shouts, “Come on in and get yourselves out of the cold,” ‘cos it is quite nippy out.   There’s a flight of narrow stone stairs on the outside of the tower, up to a small doorway on the first floor and the door is really heavy, three layers thick of oak planking laid at right angles to each other, which is called axe proof, and lots of iron strapping.   Inside, the reception hall is stark stonework, but we are met by a homely little woman in an apron and ushered into what she describes as the library.   The walls are lined with bookshelves and the shelves filled with books.   There is a tiny window, a huge inglenook containing a miserably weedy fire and a few stubs of candles scattered about for lighting.   Drawn up close to the fireplace is a large leather wing-backed armchair.

            “Come and warm yourselves by the fire,” says the chair.   Only it’s not the chair talking.   A tabby, greying-whiskered face appears round the side and a short, rather portly cat rises to great us.   He wears a maroon fez on his head, a crushed-velvet smoking jacket, a dress kilt of the same green and light blue, with a little bit of red, tartan as we saw on the ghillies, bed socks and carpet slippers.   His green eyes survey us through wire-rimmed spectacles.

            “I am the Gilnockie of Gilnockie,” and he shakes all our hands, and Ferdinand’s wing stub, vigorously.   We grab what seating we can and draw up to the fire.   Boz and Slasher have wobbly stools, Ferdy, Barrymore and Ginsbergbear are cosied up on a wooden bench and I found a beanbag that looked really comfy, but it has just swallowed me and I don’t feel very dignified.

            “Catriona will be in shortly with porridge and mugs of malt whisky.   No point wasting time, while we wait we can start the negotiations.”

             Slasher was the first to speak.   “Has there been any follow up to our chat last time I was up this way?”

            “Ah well…   There have been meetings.   The Moss Troopers are Felis Silvestris Grampia, like myself, and will follow their own inclinations regardless of what I suggest.   But for the most part the Border Reivers are fed up to the back teeth with your aggressive policing.   It is getting in the way of commerce and legitimate cattle thieving.   They are willing to sign up to a truce while they see how it pans out.   I have also been in touch with the pirate king.   Do you know him, Captain Rotskagg Blenkinsopp?   He doesn’t have quite the authority his title suggests, but the Corsairs can’t move in the North Sea at the moment without one of your airships turning up, so they’re willing to talk.”

            There is a commotion at the door and the lady in the apron, who it turns out, is Catriona, wheezes into the library pushing a rattly old catering trolley.   It’s got steaming bowls of thick, dishwater-grey porridge, a huge bottle of Bunnahabhain single malt whisky and a blowtorch.   She pours the whisky over the porridge and then flambés it with the torch.   There is a scary whump of flame and some of the nearby books catch light.   She calmly throws the burning tomes to the floor and stamps them out.  

            “There’ll be haggis for tea, if the Gillies have managed to bag one, with champit tatties and bashed neeps.”

            “Thank you, Catriona, we can barely wait.”

            Then we all tuck in to our porridge, which is REALLY salty, not like at home, and I’m not liking it much, but you got to be polite.   Conversation is replaced by munching for a while and then Boz pipes up:

            “I’ve got an idea.   It’s the Tamworth Ranters’ Gala coming up soon, and that’s always good for a laugh.   Lets all meet there and after the fun we can have a conference.   If you sir…” he addresses The Gilnockie, “ …bring some of your chaps and this pirate king along, we’ll get Larry to join us and we can thrash out a deal.”

            “Sounds good to me,” says The Gilnockie of Gilnockie, “Will there be booze?”

            “Good Burton ale,” says Ginsbergbear, puffing quietly on his Peterson briar.

            “But no weapons,” chips in Barrymore, “and that includes bagpipes.”

            “What about Les Chats Souterrains?” asks Ferdy, “No one’s mentioned them yet.”

            “Ah…”

That’s when I become aware of a whirry buzzing noise from outside.

            “Last time I heard a sound like that we were running for our lives in Castleton,” says I.

            “Oh no,” groans Boz.   And we all rush up onto the battlements in time to see the metallic Frisbee glinting pink and mauve in the setting sunlight.

            “Is that a real flying saucer?” shouts The Gilnockie.

            “Les Chats Souterrains’ foo-fighter,” says Ferdy, “We really don’t need this right now.”

            It’s got revolving, flashing lights and flies straight over the croquet lawn level with the battlements, and it is so close we can see the pilot’s face, all white and demented in dark goggles.   The flying saucer whizzes right past us, cranks its death ray round and targets The Airship of State.   And it doesn’t do the dirigible any good at all.   There are a series of explosions and a sort of crumpling metal greeouch noise and our airship transport collapses in on itself in flames.

            “Bugger.” Says Slasher McGoogs, looking pointedly at Boz, “Someone’s going to get that stopped out of his pocket money.”

            “If they’ve scorched my Roller,” screams The Gilnockie, “I’m going to get really cross.”

            The foo fighter is just beginning to train its death ray onto the upper floors of Gilnockie Tower when a stream of bullets is pinging off it’s hull.   Out of the majestic, orange disc of the sun races a little crimson Rata, and it will be opening up with its cannons any moment.   The saucer recoils and then hurtles off towards the east at an incredible speed, enthusiastically pursued by Polly, shooting as she goes.   But there’s more…

            “Hens’ teeth!” exclaims Slasher McGoogs as he peers over the parapet and his Mauser Red9 materialises in his right paw.   A wraithlike army is pouring out of the deciduous woods that border the castle grounds.   White cats in brass goggles are forming up to surround the tower, their white leather greatcoats conspicuous in the flickering firelight of our ravished airship.   They are carrying scaling ladders and grappling hooks, and as the sun goes down Les Chats Souterrains are pushing their dark goggles up onto their pickelhaubs or down to hang round their neck.   There are Moss Troopers in the ranks as well, large, fierce tabbies in dented tin-hats, a motley assortment of mismatched armour, basket hilted broadswords and targes.   And there are a few mercenaries from the continental wars too, distinguishable by their flamboyant wide brimmed hats with ostrich feathers, slashed jackets and vicious Tua handit swerdis.   (That’s what the locals call them.)

            “That’s the overmighty Black Douglas down there,” growls The Gilnockie, “treacherous dog.”   Black Douglas glances up and they wave to each other.   I can make out the uniforms of Le Régiment Étranger over by the ornamental carp pond where cats are checking the magazines on their PPSh-41 Machineguns.   A sea of frowning white faces with beady pink eyes stare up at us.

            The Gilnockie’s ghillie-weetfit rushes onto the battlements with his master’s brace of Purdy shot guns.   “We’ve shuttered the windows and barricaded the door.   Have you seen that mob down below, sir?   They don’t look very friendly.”   Several ghillies appear with arms full of pikes, halberds and scimitars that had, until minutes ago, decorated the walls of the dining hall, and others have brought the contents of the gun cupboard.   Catriona is the last up with a bundle of tweed country jackets to keep out the chill.

            I am just starting to feel a bit better about our chances when another bunch of ruffians emerge to form up behind Les Chats.   These are huge ginger haired highlanders in kilts and Borderers in scraps of ancient, ill-fitting armour, cuirasses and plackarts, mail, greaves and vambraces.   For the most part they carry old Sten Guns and assault rifles, Czech Sa vz 58Ps, Enfield Bullpups, Sturmgewehr 44s, Cristobal carbines and stuff I can only guess at; trophies from countless raids and conflicts, passed down from father to son.

            “Those were my boys,” says The Gilnockie, “Looks like they’ve sided with the opposition.   Sorry.   We could be out on a bit of a limb, here.”

            But the newcomers aren’t exactly mingling or being welcomed.   Les Chats are starting to look uncomfortable and mumbling amongst themselves.   And now the cavalry has arrived, in olive green fatigues and balaclavas, hefting AK-47s.   I can see a tall white horse ridden by a slim chap in a flamboyant hussar uniform with his face hidden behind a ski mask under his shiny black shako.

            That’s, Subcomandante Everyman,” I shout.   And Boz looks quizzically at Slasher McGoogs:

            “I thought you were Subcommandante Everyman.”

            “Not this time old chap,” he replies.   Because it is the Snake Pass Zapatistas and there is their black banner with a scull and crossbones, and Snowdrop canters out of the woods on her tachanka with Strawberry manning the Maxim Model 1910.

             Les Chats Soutarrains have split into small groups, with their hands in their pockets, staring at their feet or whistling innocently.   The scaling ladders have been abandoned on the lawn and are being avoided by their erstwhile owners.   The white menace is melting away with the cats of Le Régiment Étranger covering their retreat whilst trying hard to look as if they are not, and the Zapatistas strike up a merry La Cucaracha to encourage the departure.

We are all rushing down stairs and wrenching away the heavy timbers that brace the outside door and are dashing out to meet the Zapatistas.   Les Chats Souterrains are all gone, Black Douglass and his Moss Troopers have disappeared and the mercenaries are trying to negotiate a change of paymaster, without much success.   Subcomandate Everyman springs down from his charger.   He strides over towards us, removing his shako and ski mask.   And it is Aunty Stella!

Phoebles

Somewhere north of The Wall

Rise of the Lizard Kings

England was not yet an anarchist utopia, but under Larry’s random and light pawed guidance it was becoming co-operative.   Its people were quietly becoming self reliant, involved and innovative – and in some small way, happy.  

Superficially Limehousesailortown was unchanged.   Steamers, clippers and tramps still jostled for a place at the quayside; bars, stews and music halls still spewed rowdy, boisterous, swaying parties of intoxicated matelots out onto the narrow streets; ships’ cats still slunk in and out of dingy catnip dens.   Homesick seafarers still sought temporary solace in companionable, rentable substitutes for their dimly remembered mothers and sweethearts; but somewhere along the line the claustrophobic alleyways had lost their edginess.

The penthousebedsit was pretty much the same as well.   A kettle whistled on the range, the little black and white TV set was showing Land and Freedom – its brown Bakelite case had become loose and an eerie mauve glow escaped around the cathode ray tube.   Monochrome posters of Ernesto Guevara and Albert Camus eyed each other from opposing walls.   Ginsbergbear was lounging in an old armchair, feet up on the mantelpiece and catnip shag dangling from an as yet unlit Peterson briar, Boz was trying to concentrate on the latest, slightly crumpled, copy of International Catnip Times whilst Phoebles pointed out good bits that he had written and Ferdy, having warmed the teapot, was toasting pikelets under a small gas grill.  The pals were relaxing between adventures when…

There came a coded rap on the door.   Phoebles opened it and Slasher McGoogs was standing before him.   He was wearing a pair of St Michael’s aertex Y-fronts over a cerise spandex hooded one-piece.   The hood formed a close fitting mask over his upper face and a serpentine gilded S was emblazoned on his chest.

“B****r me!” expleted Boz.

Ferdy raised an eyebrow, “I know the nation’s dress code is somewhat more relaxed under Larry’s leadership,” He glanced pointedly at Phoebles’ voluminous Smarty-spotted trousers and rainbow bracers, “but surely there are still limits.”

“It’s not easy, suddenly finding you’re a superhero after all those years of covert operating.”   Slasher stalked into the room and perched on the edge of the dining table.

“Er, I’m not sure the table is all that sturdy.” Boz warned, but Slash ignored him.

“Turn up the sound on the telly, I don’t want to be overheard.”   He could barely be heard at all as the film climaxed in a crescendo of gunfire and Spanish shouting.

“My contacts within the Aldershot Ghurkha Community warn of rumours from their homeland that the Merovingian Lizard Kings are on the move and strange discs have been seen in the sky above the mountain peaks.   Agents in the north report of Reivers raiding south of the wall, and Les Chats Souterrains have been seen mingling amongst the revellers at the Castleton Goth Festival – Speedwell Cavern has been closed to the public.   Corsairs aboard black whale hunters with 40mm Bofors or twin 12.7mm DShK’s mounted on the prow have been hi-jacking Arctic Coleyfishtrawlers and holding their cargo’s to ransom!”  

Boz gasped.  “Coleyfish pirates?   Destitute fishmongers?   A coleyfish famine?   This is a disaster!”   Ferdy tried to calm him.

 Ginsbergbear had not really been paying attention during the exchange and was idly flicking channels on the old TV.   Up popped the DOG CHANNEL.

“In lill ole England during the terrible insurgency against democracy their prime minister and some of his aids were cut off and surrounded by drug crazed and heathen anarchists.   Knowing that if they were captured they would be tortured horribly, in ways I cannot describe on television, they determined to take their own lives rather than be captured.   As the screaming demons closed in yelling their blood curdling war cry and the English Gentlemen prepared to meet their end, the baying horde suddenly stopped, stunned into silence, and knelt in prayer.   The astounded British ministers looked about and over them stood DOG in Glory, glowing pink and gold.

And DOG spake, ‘Let my people be!’

“Needless to say, the terrorists fled.

“Although the forces of Anarchy and Atheism are currently in the ascendant, DOG and Democracy will one day prevail.   The Army of DOG is being assembled and we need your donations.   For every $ we receive an amount will be put towards armbands, stickers and Boneos.   Contribute today.   Support the cause.”

“More trouble.” Mused Ginsbergbear.

“Don’t worry about them,” said Slasher, “They’re too busy fleecing their own to really bother us.   The true danger lurks in the caves of Derbyshire.” 

 Phoebles was aghast.   “You expect us to take on the Merovingian Lizard Kings, the Dark Lords of myth, the shades behind all that is twisted in the world?   Isn’t that a bit ambitious?”

“Just a little nibble at the trouser cuffs of their ambition, a tentative toe into the custard bowl of Machiavellian malevolence.   See what we can stir up.”   McGoogs’ eyes blazed behind the mask.   Ginsbergbear had begun to pay attention and Boz swallowed, “We can’t just sit back and do nothing – the coleyfish.”

Downstairs, the lounge-bar was all but empty – two worn out Kittens of Chaos were recovering along a red plush chaise longue over hookahs and tiny cups of treacle-black Monsoon Malabar, Sam was mangling a boogie-woogie improv, flat fingered across the tobacco stained ivories of an aging upright, smoke-grey derby pushed to the back of his head, striped shirt with white collar and cuffs folded back from the bony wrists, breakfast stained flannel waistcoat ruckling as he played.

“Your usual, boys?”

Dark Flo was doing service behind the bar.   She was slight and pallid with sunken eyes and raven hair that hung about her face like dead crows on barbed wire; waif-like, vulnerable and yet hard as black-iron nails.   She could pull a perfect pint, Yorkshire head judged to the millimetre, with one hand tied behind her back and the other skewered to the bar by a Bowie knife.   She might dispense or relish pain with equal measure, quell a riot with her contortions at the pole, or empty the bar with a single, gentle command.   For now she pulled pints of tawny London Porter and served them up with Talisker chasers.   Before Slasher McGoogs she assembled a shot glass of Tres Amigos Anejos, saltcellar and a half lemon on a cracked white bone china saucer.

Phoebles and Boz moved over to their favoured table in the bay that looked out onto Narrow Street and sat on the window bench.   Ferdy and Ginsbergbear pulled up bentwood cane-bottomed chairs and McGoogs perched on a leatherette-padded stool.   They huddled conspiratorially.

 “My plan is that we explore the caves south of Mam Tor and discover what is going on.” began Slasher McGoogs, producing a dog-eared copy of The Potholer’s Handbook for Derbyshire, IIIrd Pocket Edition, 1956; printed on storm resistant paper.   Within the chapter headed Castleton Caverns it included a handy sketch map of the Speedwell and Peak cave system.   It did not show Titan, which at the time of printing was still to be discovered, but Slasher had roughly pencilled in the location of the gigantic chamber.

“Have you cleared any of this with Larry?” asked Boz.

“I have told Larry nothing.   I despise despots and Larry is Gato Número Uno.”

“That’s hardly fair,” chipped in Phoebles, “We and the Revolutionary Committee did all agree he should be PM.”

“And it’s not as if he’s done any harm since taking office.   In fact he’s done sweet FA.   I’m amazed he doesn’t get bored.” Added Ginsbergbear.

“If I may interject at this point.” interjected Ferdy, “Mr Larry can in no way have ‘done sweet Fanny Adams’ despite the accusations in Mr Fluffy’s Chicken News on US telly.   Firstly she was not all that sweet – she was a grubby little tyke.   Secondly, she was ‘done’ many decades ago and her story has passed into myth.   And thirdl…”

The tail end of a steel wire ladder dropped past their window into the street outside.   It was followed by the descent of a pair of improbably long legs and finally by the top half, only, of a bottle-green chauffer’s uniform.   As the door to the catnip den opened and Barrymore, Larry’s indispensable factotum, entered the inmates could hear the Vwwshsh of the twin VW vectored screw engines of the incumbent Prime Minister’s personal dirigible.   She lifted her goggles and perched them above the peak of her cap as the wire ladder began to drift slowly down Narrow Street.

“Stay!” commanded Barrymore into the discreet mouthpiece that curved elegantly out from under her headgear.   The drifting ceased instantly.

“Blimey!” exclaimed Boz, “Is the Den bugged?”

“Certainly not, Mr Boris.   I just happened to be passing and am graced with unusually acute hearing.   Larry wanted you to know that he has despatched the Coleyfishspytrawler Lord Ancaster towards Antarctica to investigate the rumours.”

“What rumours?” asked a slightly ruffled Slasher.

“Ah, Mr McGoogs, a pie without your sticky paw in it?   Makes a refreshing change.   There’s reports of unusual activity at the US airbase – UFO under the ice – that sort of thing.   Leave it with us.   You have Larry’s full approval for your own little enterprise.”  

“Man… Larry knows of our enterprise?” Ginsbergbear spoke, “I’m not sure even we know about our enterprise yet.”

Sashaying over to the door Barrymore looked back over a coquettishly inclined shoulder, pinned them with her golden, kohl lined eyes  and said, “Carry on.”

Wrapping one leg around the wire ladder with the sensuality of a trapeze artist, she ascended into the heavens.