Knees Up Mother Earth by Robert Rankin Page A

compliment, I’ll take it.” The shopkeeper raised his glass. “Honey catches more flies than vinegar, you know.”
    Neville thrust Old Pete’s tipple before him and stalked away along the bar to serve a wandering bishop who’d stopped in for a swift one before heading down to the annual congress in the deconsecrated Anabaptist Chapel on the corner of Moby Dick Terrace.
    “So,” said Old Pete, “apart from dodgy videos and girly magazines, how goes the world with you, young Norman?”
    “Fraught as ever.” Norman made the face of one who knew the meaning of ‘fraught’. “But I had a bit of luck this afternoon. Answered an ad. A chap giving away crates of computer parts.”
    “Giving away?” Old Pete mused upon this concept, but concluded that it meant nothing to him.
    “Took me ten journeys in the van.” Norman dragged the last bit of liquid pleasure from his pint glass. “Couldn’t even get the van into my lock-up afterwards.”
    “Someone will nick that old van of yours.”
    “I can assure you that they won’t.” Norman grinned as evilly as his amiable visage would allow. “It has certain security features built into it. I built them in myself.”
    “It will be gone already, then. I have an old handcart I can let you have at a price that might at first appear reasonable.”
    “I’m fine,” said Norman. “One hand washes the other, you know, and a washed pot never boils.”
    “So what are these computer parts? A lot of superannuated old toot, I’ll wager.”
    “Well, they’re certainly not new. There’s nearly forty crates of them, labelled on the side as parts from something called a Babbage Nineteen-Hundred Series.”
    Old Pete coughed suddenly into his rum, sending a jet of it up his right nostril to cause him further distress. He coughed and wheezed and Norman took to smiting him between his crook-backed shoulder blades.
    “Lay off me, you hoodlum!” Old Pete raised up his stick and Chips bared his teeth towards the Samaritan shopkeeper’s ankles.
    “I’m only trying to help.”
    “Then leave me alone.”
    “You seemed to be having some kind of fit.”
    “I’m all right.” Old Pete pushed Norman away, took up what was left of his rum and tossed it down his throat.
    “Same again for the both of us,” called Norman to Neville.
    Neville, who appeared to be having some kind of dispute with the wandering bishop, did not hear him.
    “You did say Babbage, didn’t you?” Old Pete was almost his old self once more. “Babbage Nineteen-Hundred Series?”
    “That’s what it says on the crates.” Norman waved his hands towards Neville. “Same again over here, Neville, please.”
    Neville, however, was still engaged in words with the wandering bishop. Heated words, these seemed to be, although Norman could not quite hear what they were.
    “Burn them,” said Old Pete. “Burn the lot of them now, Norman.”
    “That’s a bit harsh.” Norman regarded the old scoundrel. “Every man has the right to worship in the church of his choice. I’ve nothing against wandering bishops. In fact, I really like their hats.”
    “The crates, Norman, you buffoon. The computer parts. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll burn them all.”
    “Burn them?” Norman’s face was one of considerable surprise. “Why would I want to burn the crates?”
    “Let’s just say that what’s in ’em is dangerous. Very dangerous. I know what I’m talking about and I’m giving you sound advice. Trust me, I’m a pensioner.”
    “You’re drunk,” said Norman. “Alcohol has addled your brain.”
    “Norman.” Old Pete leaned forward on his bar stool and grasped Norman’s tweedy lapels. “You don’t know what you’ve got there. You really don’t. I thought all that stuff was done with years and years ago. It mustn’t start again. Do you understand me?” And Old Pete shook feebly at the lapels of Norman.
    “I don’t understand. Calm yourself down.”
    Old Pete’s fingers trailed away.