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Bristol was the hub of the operation as from Route 1066’s literature it was evident the time portal was located there in the presence of its unique clock displaying different times. It was in the West Country’s most populus city that they next stopped. The Front Line in the battle.
Brabazon Lodge was an imposing four-storey late-Victorian red bricked country house with a distinctive nod to the gothic set in spacious grounds near Henbury comprising of resplendent gardens with well manicured hedges and bushes. Everything about the place conveyed a sense of relaxation and the wrought black iron fencing around the perimeter and sturdy gates with spikes topped with gold paint promoted the feeling its refined confines were for an exclusive clientele, something to aspire to one day sampling while acknowledging that unlike the trees magnificently resident at designated points within, it was unlikely to bear fruit.
Glen Mower took all this in as well as the people milling about the grounds in casual night attire. Some of them looked shell-shocked. One middle-aged chap with a pencil moustache and a chisled face full of apprehension seemed to be battling fear with every step he took and was being guided by two Brabazon Lodge attired assistants holding an arm either side of the reluctant patient as he was made, it seemed, to peruse the beautiful grounds.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him, Matey,’ Kai Diamonde advised. ‘He’s in the best place possible. He was hypnotised into believing Nelson didn’t exist thus he was De-Nelsoned for the great cause. Sadly, he was running through a square in London and ran straight into Nelson’s Column not knowing it was there. When he recovered from his brutal injuries he was scared to walk anywhere ever again.’
‘This is all so very odd, why would great historians agree to be hypnotised to believe someone important in history never existed?’ Mower asked.
‘Oh, not many do it voluntarily, Matey. It’s so the UN Security Council can then get them to write about the period and then has files to call upon to assess the damage should some pillock time-traveller’s stupidity lead to that historical figure no longer doing what they’re famous for.’
‘It’s like one of those hospitals,’ Glen observed, ‘where those afflicted by the horrors of the trenches were sent to convalesce.’
‘That’s sort of what it is, Matey. These are the victims of the current war we are waging. A secret war that we cannot divulge to the public for fear of causing mass panic.’
‘But,’ Mower ventured, ‘if these historians have been hypnotized to believe certain historical figures don’t exist, why aren’t they brought out of the trance once they’ve written their new history not involving that particular historical character. If I have got it right?’
‘You have,’ Diamonde responded with a sense of achievement that his pupil was slowly grasping the order of his new world. ‘Only historians are serious creatures and they would be shocked to the very core if any of those dudes discovered they had written such work. And the HMC would be open to all sorts of litigation and an hour long edition of Panorama on the BBC if they even got a whiff of what had been done to them.’
The two visitors ascended a black metal spiral staircase at the side of the building which took them to an entrance on the first floor which led to a well stocked library. They were greeted by what seemed to be the librarian and a couple of burly security guards all in the distinctive Brabazon cream livery.
‘I’d offer you my hand, Mister Diamonde,’ said an old duffer carrying a book and sporting a luxuriant moustache. His searing blue eyes matched the colour of his Chelsea football shirt. ‘But I’d be afraid I wouldn’t get it back.’
Kai sauntered towards the chap with an embracing smile and they warmly shook hands.
‘Great to see you, Matey. This is,’ he said turning towards his companion, ‘Glen Mower. Glen this is Professor Ernie Labrock.’
‘Professor Labrock, wow!’ Mower exclaimed, ‘I read your book on the European economies between the wars. It was bloody good.’ The compliment made the old man smile but then, although wearing the wrong sporting top, the learned historian threw a curveball.
‘So you’re the reason none of us can smoke today,’ he said. ‘Unless we want a bucket of water chucked our way.’
Glen was both baffled as to why such an eminent academic would want to set fire to himself and alarmed that his misdemeanour that had landed him before the beak was also known to him. He was about to question him when Kai asked something completely different.
‘Still keeping you away from Stamford Bridge and pubs, Matey?’
‘Oh, ah, well yes,’ Professor Labrock muttered. ‘Chelsea FC still paying for me to be kept in comfort here. Don’t want me at the stadium at all.’ He seemed to suddenly be on shaky ground and immediately sought sounder turf elsewhere in the library.
‘He’s been De-Harold The Seconded,’ Diamonde explained. ‘Chelsea want him kept away from their home ground because he now knows nothing of winning at Stamford Bridge.’
‘And why is he not allowed into pubs?’ Mower pondered, not quite believing he was entering into such a bizarre conversation.
‘Because, Matey, they usually play darts in pubs and because he has no knowledge of King Harold The Second and his fate at the Battle of Hastings he’s likely to be in grave danger of getting a stray arrow in the eye.’
‘
Jonty Morgan Humourist 