century: today you are going to travel through time!’ the lad declared in pompous tones. ‘Don’t look so astonished. Murray’s Time Travel is not satisfied simply to take you to the future. No! Thanks to our efforts, you will also have the opportunity to witness possibly the most important moment in the history of mankind: the battle between the brave Captain Derek Shackleton and the evil automaton Solomon, whose dreams of conquest you will see perish beneath the captain’s sword.’
His companions clapped and roared with laughter. Encouraged by their response to his performance, Bradley threw back his head and put on a grotesquely wistful face. ‘Do you know what Solomon’s great mistake was? I shall tell you, ladies and gentlemen. His mistake was that he picked the wrong lad to perpetuate the species. Yes, the automaton made a bad choice, a very bad choice. And his mistake changed the course of history,’ he said, with a smirk. ‘Can you imagine a more terrible fate than having to fornicate all day long? Of course you can’t. Well, that was the poor lad’s fate.’ He spread his arms and nodded in a mock gesture of regret. ‘But not only did he carry it off, he also managed to grow stronger, to study the enemy, who watched him copulating every night with great interest, before going to the city to approve the newly fabricated automaton whores. But the day the woman gave birth, the lad knew he would never see his son grow up – his son who had been brought into the world to fornicate with his own mother, thus initiating a vicious circle that would perpetuate itself through the seed of his seed. However, the lad survived his execution, brought us together and gave us hope . . .’ He paused for effect, then added: ‘. . . only he still hasn’t taught us how to fuck properly!’
The laughter grew louder. When it had subsided, Jeff raised his tankard. ‘To Tom, the best captain we could ever have!’
They all toasted him. Surprised by his companions’ gesture, Tom could scarcely conceal his emotion.
‘Well, Tom, I suppose you know what happens now, don’t you?’ Jeff said, clapping his shoulder once the cheers had died down. ‘We heard a rumour about some new merchandise at our favourite whorehouse. And they’ve got almond-shaped eyes – do you hear me? Almond-shaped eyes!’
‘Have you ever slept with an Asian woman, Tom?’ asked Bradley.
Tom shook his head.
‘Well, no man should die without trying one, my friend!’ Jeff guffawed as he rose from the table. ‘Those Chinese girls can give pleasure in a hundred ways our women know nothing about.’
They made an almighty din as they left the tavern. Bradley led the procession, vaunting the Chinese prostitutes’ numerous virtues, much to the delight of Mike, who smacked his lips in anticipation. According to Bradley, Asian women were not only obliging and affectionate but had supple bodies they could contort into all sorts of positions without injuring themselves.
Tom had to suppress a groan. If he wanted any woman to make love to him just then it was Claire, even if she did not have almond-shaped eyes or an unnaturally flexible body. He remembered the intensity of her response when he had taken her, and wondered what his companions, those coarse ruffians, would think if he told them there was another way of feeling that was more sublime and exquisite than the primitive pleasure they knew.
They hailed a cab and clambered aboard, still laughing. Mike squeezed his large frame in next to Tom, almost pinning him against the door, while the other two men faced them. Jeff, who was behaving in an overexcited, rowdy manner, gave the order for the cab to set off. Reluctant to join in the general gaiety, Tom gazed out of the window at the succession of streets, alarmingly deserted at that time of night. He noticed the driver had taken a wrong turning: they were going towards the docks, not the brothel.
‘Hey Jeff, we’re going the wrong way!’ he cried out, trying to make himself heard above the racket.
Jeff Wayne turned and looked at him sternly, letting his laughter die menacingly in his throat. Bradley and Mike also stopped laughing. A strange, intense silence enveloped them, as though someone had dredged it up from the ocean floor and poured it into the carriage.
‘No, Tom, we’re not going the wrong way,’ Jeff finally said, contemplating him with a sinister smile.
‘But we are!’ insisted Tom. ‘This isn’t the way to . . .’
Then he understood. How had he not seen it before? Their exaggerated high spirits, the toast that had felt more like a farewell, their tense demeanour in the cab . . . Yes, what more proof did he need? In the funereal silence that had descended, the three men looked at him with an air of false calm, waiting for him to digest the situation. And, to his surprise, Tom discovered that now the time had arrived for him to die, he no longer wanted to. Not like this. Not at the hands of these casual assassins, who were simply demonstrating Gilliam Murray’s unlimited power to turn anyone into a murderer with a handful of banknotes.
He was glad at least that Martin Tucker, whom he had always considered the most decent among them, was not there, that he had been incapable of turning his back on his friend and perpetrating this cheerful collective crime.
Tom heaved a sigh, disillusioned by the fickleness of the human spirit, and gazed at Jeff with an air of disappointment. His companion shrugged, refusing any responsibility for what was about to happen. He was opening his mouth, perhaps to remark that such was life or some other cliche, when a blow to his throat from Tom’s boot stopped him, crushing him against the seat. Taken aback, Jeff let out a loud grunt of pain, which in turned into a high-pitched whistle. Tom knew this would not put him out of action, but the attack had been sudden enough to take them all by surprise.
Before the other two could react, he elbowed the bewildered Mike in the face as hard as he could. The blow dislocated the other man’s jaw, and a spurt of blood from his split lip hit the window.
Undaunted by Tom’s violent response, Bradley pulled a knife from his pocket and pounced on him. Although supple and quick, fortunately he was the weakest of the three. Tom grabbed his arm and twisted it violently until he dropped the weapon. Then, since the move had placed Bradley’s head only a few inches from his leg, Tom kneed him brutally in the face, hurling him back against his seat, where he lay slumped, blood streaming from his nose.
In a matter of seconds he had overpowered all three men, but he scarcely had time to congratulate himself on his swift, punishing action because Jeff, who had by then recovered, flew at him with a savage roar. The force of the attack flung Tom against the cab door, the handle digging into his right side like a blade. They wrestled awkwardly in the reduced space, until Tom felt something crack behind him. The door had given way. Seconds later he found himself dangling in mid-air, clutching Jeff as the cab raced on. Tom hit the ground with Jeff, the breath knocked out of him. The impact caused the two men to carry on rolling for a few moments, until they disentangled themselves from their grotesque lovers’ embrace.
When everything stopped spinning Tom, whose whole body ached terribly, tried to heave himself to his feet. A few yards off Jeff, alternately cursing and howling, was trying to do the same. Tom realised it would be one against one until the others arrived, and that he must take advantage of this.
