At the entrance to the square was the imposing Council building. Gillian had one of the five seats on the Council, from where she could undermine me at every turn, as did that oaf, General Leigh. I realise that supposedly there’s a war on but the amount of sway the General holds over Compound life is outrageous. Next door to the Council building was a large Tesco and adjacent was Flix, the cinema. There were dozens of restaurants, a library, a leisure centre, a car park (bit of a misjudgement, that – with the exception of the little buggies that big cheeses like Leigh use to ferry themselves about, there are no cars in the Compound), the infirmary and a big TV studio. It was like being back on Earth, except for the twin suns burning in the sky and the frequent sirens going off to warn of an impending attack by Winged Terrors, flying ape-like beasts that swooped over the walls, picking off anyone unfortunate enough to be out in the open. I’d lost three good full-backs to them (well, two good ones and one who worked hard but, with respect, was never going to make the grade).
‘Keep up, son,’ I scolded Barrington12 as he slowed to stare into the window of the library.
‘SORRY, KEVIN KEEGAN,’ he replied with a strangely wistful air. ‘I JUST LOVE KNOWLEDGE.’
‘No harm in that,’ I told him, ‘but you’re a Barrington model – you already have everything there is to know about everything stored in your data banks. You’d never know it to look at you, but you’re probably the smartest guy in this Compound. You won’t learn anything new in the library.’
‘ALL LIFE IS THERE,’ he replied sadly.
A robot in the midst of an existential crisis. Just what I bloody needed.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘we need to stop Gerry going mad with the ice cream; I’m not made of money. If he’s given them double scoops, I’m going to absolutely kick off.’
As we hurried towards Giuseppe’s, the pleasant Italian restaurant beside the post office, a low rumbling sound could be heard.
‘PLEASE BE AWARE – I DETECT A SIZEABLE VEHICLE HEADING IN THIS DIRECTION.’
‘A what? There’s nothing like that here; the Compound’s pedestrianised,’ I said. ‘Are you quite sure they cleaned all the gunk out of your system?’
‘BARRINGTON12 ADVISES IMMEDIATE REMOVAL OF OUR PERSONS FROM THE CENTRE OF THE PATH,’ he went on. ‘OR IMMINENT DEATH IS PREDICTED WITH AN 83% CHANCE.’
The rumbling got louder and I couldn’t deny that it sounded like the engine of a large vehicle. We hurried over to huddle in the doorway of Flix as other Compound residents also scattered, looking equally confused as to what was happening.
I watched in dismay as it came round the corner – a large, black hulking mass on six wheels, each one taller than I was. A member of the Compound Guard was behind the wheel, eyes obscured by his intimidating black visor, and I had no doubt there were other guards packed into the back of the tank-like monstrosity. On the roof was mounted an enormous machine gun with another visored figure sitting behind it, his thick-gloved hands resting keenly by the trigger. I’d heard of the Harbingers before but had never seen one of the behemoths up close – they were the most disturbing sight I had ever seen (and I once rode a tandem bike with Arsène Wenger sitting in front of me while his shorts snagged under the seat and got pulled all the way down). In a small jeep following behind sat the members of the Compound Council, no doubt being provided with a demonstration by Leigh, their fellow Council member, of precisely how their finances were being spent. Bloody show-off. The jeep passed quickly, a glass-eyed guard behind the wheel, but I glimpsed them all huddled in the back, some deep in conversation – miserable Doreen McNab from the education board; Sir Michael Bowes-Davies, the eccentric philanthropist; Dr Andre Pebble-Mill, the Compound chief of medicine; and then Gillian herself, gazing forlornly out of the window – they must have picked her up very shortly after I left her office.
‘That’s… not good,’ I said in a quiet voice as the Harbinger rumbled past. I glanced up and there in the passenger seat on the near side to us, wearing a guard uniform decorated with medals but sans helmet, was the man himself – General Lawrence Leigh, head of the Compound military. He looked deep in thought, a grave expression on his craggy grey face. Our eyes met briefly and I could feel his disdain burning right into me. I gave as good as I got – I’m not scared of that arsehole. If he thinks I’m going to be intimidated by someone driving around with a machine gun attached to his vehicle then he hasn’t seen me deal with Steve McManaman after he’s swigged nine bottles of Sunny Delight and customised his Mercedes. I’m no pushover.
Moments later the vehicle was beyond us, turning a corner and vanishing from sight.
‘THAT WAS UNUSUAL,’ said Barrington12. ‘SUCH A DISPLAY OF MILITARY MANOEUVRES IS HIGHLY PECULIAR OUTSIDE OF THE EMMELINE MILITARY BASE AT THE NORTH END OF THE COMPOUND.’
‘Yes, thanks, I’m aware of that,’ I muttered. ‘I’m sure it’s just General Leigh trying to look like the big I-am. Showing off to the ladies, trying to look like a tough nut. You know how vain he is.’
We hurried on, and the square quickly reverted to its normal bustle as though a terrible war machine had not just roared directly through our midst. I didn’t believe a word of what I’d just said, of course. Something was very, very wrong.
*
‘There you are!’ Gerry greeted me as we hurried into Giuseppe’s. My heart sank as I saw Rodway at the table in the corner, tucking into a double-scoop butterscotch sundae. I was too late.
‘Sorry,’ I said as Gerry shook my hand eagerly like we hadn’t just seen each other barely an hour ago. ‘Got held up.’
‘Did you hear that thunderstorm just now?’ Gerry asked. ‘Big old rumble right outside here.’
‘Yeah,’ I replied quietly. ‘Seems to have passed now.’
No point in worrying him unnecessarily. Gerry was prone to overreacting – he refused to shop at HMV for years back on Earth in protest at their decision not to shelve Grease in the sci-fi section. ‘The bloody car flies off at the end, are you blind?’ he’d shouted in vain at the young lad behind the till as security ejected him from the premises.
‘Anyway, I’ve ordered you the Enormo-Bloat,’ Gerry said proudly. ‘Twenty-seven scoops of ice cream with fudge pieces, flakes, strawberries, whipped cream and gherkins. Obviously you can just peel the gherkins off. Everyone does.’
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I replied. ‘How much is that?’
‘Kev, don’t worry – the club’ll cover it.’
‘No, they won’t!’ I said, exasperated. ‘Gillian’s cut our funding again. She’s killing this club, Gerry. Do you know she turned down my request for a jukebox filled with Motown classics for the dressing room last week? She said it had nothing to do with the game of football. What a slap in the face for Marvin Gaye.’
‘Outrageous,’ Gerry agreed. ‘Everyone knows that Let’s Get It On is about a referee deciding that a match can go ahead after a pitch inspection. Y’know, Kev, I hate to say this, but… do you think we ought to maybe look elsewhere? I heard that Dave Moyes is on the verge of the chop from that swamp planet in the Fifka System. Who knows, it might be just the fresh start we need.’
I had to admit, it was tempting. Life at Palangonia FC was slowly but surely falling apart around me. A threadbare squad, inadequate training facilities – I’d even heard Gillian remark in passing at last year’s end-of-season party when I did a DJ set consisting of Rumours played back to back six times that she preferred early Fleetwood Mac to the Buckingham-Nicks era. I mean, what kind of madness had I involved myself with?
But as all of these thoughts zipped around my mind right there in Giuseppe’s, I looked over at the faces of my lads as they innocently stuffed their faces with ice cream and realised there was simply