INTRODUCING JAMES BINGHAM, AND THE END OF TIME

Deng was dreaming as the acceleration pounded into him again, the engines of the SS Clockwork firing for the third time that century. His face was already blackened with bruises, by a force heavy enough to break every bone in his body. Fortunately, there were no bones in his body- they had been removed before the trip, and replaced with a plastic skeleton. That was strong enough to take anything- although it did squeak annoyingly when he had first tried jogging with it, all those years ago. That was what he dreamt of, as he was projected deeper and deeper into the hollow wastelands between the galaxies- jogging, along the beach at home, over sand-dunes and in and out of the sea. It had been a very long dream. He was losing track of how far he had run.

Jodphurs sat in a high-backed plastic chair that was bolted to the floor. He was in the visiting room of the 'Michael Howard Home for People with Colourful Differences', and he was on the wrong side of the security screen. In front of him sat the woman who thought she was his wife.

"James, I was talking to Steve the other day", she continued, behind the plastic window; "you remember Steve, don't you darling? The literary agent?" From where Jodphurs sat, he could see past the woman and out of the visiting room window- everything was so green out there. There was a huge field, with trees, and the sky was blue. Jodphurs had never seen a blue sky until just recently. The woman- Rosylin she called herself- was still talking.

"Anyway, he's still interested in getting that manuscript of your's published. Wouldn't that be wonderful? What do you think?"

"I think," said Jodphurs after due consideration, "that I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." But maybe this was a lie. Maybe he did recognise something in what she was saying. Maybe he was this James person. But how could that be? How could any of this have happened? Jodphurs tried to piece together the events in his mind, but everything was so confused. He remembered the Edolphist regime, and the bomb craters; but he also remembered marrying this woman who was sat opposite. He remembered meeting her in Hyde park on a summer day in 2047; but he knew that London was radioactive swamp- Hyde park was a place he had read of in history books. Those books had changed though- it was as if he had lived through two different histories, and had only just now come to realise it. It was two months to the day that he had found himself in London with the Great Monk and Anthea- two months since they had looked at each other with blank faces; all three of them suddenly struck with the knowledge that their amnesia was spreading. They had already forgotten how they had got there, and the events immediately prior to the trip- now they began to forget who they were, and to remember whole new lives that they had never lived. The life of James Bingham, for example.

"Look, James, I brought some home movies in for you." Rosylin held up a credit card screen, which lit up with the images of her with two young children. There was a man in the picture as well, happy and smiling with his hand on Rosylin's shoulder- a tall man, with a long, goatish face.

Deep in space a computer clucked, and ticked, and monitored. It was happy. Everything was going well, and all its indicator lights were blinking green- except one, which it liked to blink red just to break up the pattern. It didn't matter- the only person that might see the lights was currently in a clinically enforced coma, and had been for three thousand years. The computer would have to wake Deng up soon though- the destination was growing near. In the video screen just to the left of the indicator screen- on which the computer had been watching video tapes of Ren ∓ Stimpy cartoons for the last two thousand years- there was now the image of a twisted galactic spiral. It pulsed and enlarged itself as the computer watched. Above, in another monitor, a larger image loomed. The screen was full of the greyness behind the ship- the tidal wave chasing it through the galaxies. The edge of the universe, constantly gaining on the craft as it crumpled and collapsed behind them- leaving nothing in its wake. Nothing at all. The computer whistled quietly as the tactical display confirmed the obvious for the second time in as many minutes- the focus of the contracting universe, the last central point to be left before it blinked out of existence altogether. It was a small planet, located in a familiar looking spiral galaxy.

"What are we going to do?" Jodphurs asked the small, smartly dressed individual sat next to him in the day room. "I mean, we can't all be mad, can we? I could understand it if were just me, but you remember Basildon too, don't you? The way it was? You were there!'" The Great Monk looked up at him sadly, through his authentic Oakley's, and twiddled with his diamond studded cuff-links.

"I hear ya, man, I know where ya comin' from kid. Thing is, I kinda like this other life, ya know?" The Monk, or the 'Big M' as he was known to the hordes of patient fans keeping vigil outside the clinic, smiled broadly. "Doc says to me, he says, 'Mr Mankorama, I'm a big fan and I'm gonna strike a deal wit ya'. Dude's gonna have me out of here in a week, long as I drop this 'Monk Man' shit and sign a few album sleeves for him, hear me?"

"Yes... man", Jodphurs sighed, as the 'Big M' waddled over to the window to wave at a female fan who had removed her top as a sign of respect. Jodphurs wasn't alone here, he knew that the Monk also knew exactly who he had been- it was just that he really enjoyed being who he had become now. As for Anthea...

"LEMON CREOSOTE!'", cried Deng, as the needle withdrew from his neck and he regained full consciousness. He had no idea why.

"Commander, we have reached the final stage", chirruped the computer, hoarsely. It had not spoken for two thousand years. Deng looked glazed and sullen, until the interface probe connected with the hole in the back of his neck and he regained his memory. A three thousand year-old recording of his mental condition was downloaded into his cerebral cortex in a matter of milliseconds, and suddenly he felt a lot better.

"How near are we?" he asked the computer, "Are we on schedule?"

"We are ahead of schedule", answered the computer. It sounded very happy. It also sounded very nervous. It was at this point that Deng noticed the message flashing on the secondary computer's status display- "FATAL ERROR"

"Why is the secondary computer flashing an emergency signal?"

"Because", replied the computer, "It has become very jealous of my role aboard this mission."

"So it is incorrect in highlighting a Fatal Error?"

"Incorrect in the sense that it is very impolite", the computer clucked, before terminating the power supply to its discourteous sibling.

Anthea stood in the middle of the room, naked except for the sofa cushions he kept strapped around certain areas of his body. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that they happened to be the entirely wrong areas.

"And if we are to accept the legitimacy of foreign currency upon these shores, it must be within a coherent unified policy of monetary exchange!'" Some of the other inmates nodded, but mostly out of habit. The sight of Reginald Perspecken, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, masquerading as a hormonally altered woman called Anthea with a tendency towards extreme violence, had become familiar to them. Passe, even.

"What is more, such an exchange must be linked to the international monetary agreement", he continued, adjusting a paisley throw-pillow, "before any settlement on individual dividend can be reached." They applauded. Jodphurs eased the fork from his shoulder and decided against interrupting him again in mid-speech. As Anthea began to expound the benefits of a single tier tax system, the other diners in the canteen chomped sullenly through their food, pausing occasionally to clap, or offer a round of muttered "Hear Hear"'s.

"Jodphurs, you must help me get out", barked Anthea. He had sat back down at the table now, speech forgotten. "If I have to leaf through one more mail-order catalogue for my styling tips, many innocent people may have to die. Besides, I have a treasury to run, you know- I have some interesting ideas for the taxation of poor people that I'd like to test out. It'll be based on a sliding scale of fashion awareness- exemption for a Gaultier original, top rate for a C∓A tank-top." Anthea had been a very confused person when the three of them had been brought in. Jodphurs was signed in as 'James Bingham', and the Great Monk as 'Mr Hot Mankorama'- but neither could compete with the 'Right Honourable Reginald Perspecken, MP'. Anthea had become a right wing economist with a cabinet position- the effect of this, on his already dubious sanity, had been rather startling. The day that the police had rounded the three of them up, in London outside McBuckingham palace, they had drawn quite a crowd- quite a few fans of the 'Hot Mankorama', wondering why he was in London wearing treacle, and a mob of students who were rallying to throw eggs at Mr Perspecken MP. Anthea had surprised them with the cocktail dress- but they were even more surprised when he pulled a bazooka from his tote bag and began to retalliate.

"Could you repeat that?" Deng was beginning to feel unwell again. "Our current speed relative to the destination point, is five times the speed of light- and dropping, with maximum safe decceleration", the computer muttered, sulkily; "therefore, the destination will be reached within ten minutes."

"And that last bit."

"Our approach speed will be three times the speed of light."

"Which would mean?"

"The ship will, theoretically, come to a full stop approximately ten miles beneath the destination planet's surface."

"And you say theoretically because..."

"The ship will be destroyed upon impact. Look", the computer protested haughtily, "this doesn't make me feel good you know. I'm beginning to feel that I don't have your full trust, and that hurts me. I have done my best to perform my primary function and ensure the safety and success of this mission..."

"This mission would have been better served by a pickled cabbage with jump leads. The secondary computer recognised your mistake, and it's primary function is to make the tea!'"

"I can supply a wide range of hot beverages and light snacks", interupted the secondary computer, "as well as monitor the hygiene levels of Lavatory no.2." Deng got up, unsteadily, and lurched over to the command console. He was going to have to get used to his body again- he hadn't used it for a while. With a sharp tug under the desk he disconnected the speaker cables- now neither computer could talk to him, except through the screens. He punched some buttons, and the information appeared before him. He prayed that these calculations were correct- the universe depended on them. The coordinates were there, all three sets- and the universe was in luck. They were all nearby one another. No need to waste too much time rounding them up- and time, was most certainly, of the essence.

"Happy landings, you two" he told the screens above his head- one replied "Twat!'", and the other read "Hot Chocolate is currently available from nozzle four." He stepped into the teleport booth, tapped one of the coordinates into the keypad, and immediately felt his body ripped apart by a billion tiny hands.

"James, I do understand your feelings on this matter." The doctor leered at Jodphurs across the desk, before tapping some keys and scanning the file information which appeared between them. "I see here that you come from an alternate universe where Britain was a totalitarian state run by a madman called Edolph. Direct descendent of Hitler, I see. Do you admire Hitler?" Jodphurs looked at him with blank incomprehension. Suddenly the doctor shot up out of his chair and pointed at the back of the room- "Look, there's a three foot tall hamster!'" Jodphurs span around in his chair, but saw only a blank wall. "That's just a little technique of mine, to test the depth of a patient's psychosis. Look!' There's an angry Moose!'" Jodphurs just stared at him, contemptuously. "Look!' There's a man materialising behind you!'"

"Fuck off", commented Jodphurs, somewhat unfairly considering the circumstances. Behind him, a billion tiny hands were reassembling Deng- whose nose flickered for a moment, before the process was completed and he sneezed loudly.

"LEMON CREOSOTE!'" shrieked the shocked Jodphurs, as he spun around to see Deng wipe himself with his sleeve. It seemed the best thing to shriek, for some reason.

"Are you Jodphurs K. Bingo?", sniffled Deng.

"It's possible, but nobody is too sure at the moment."

"Are you James Bingham, then?"

"Most probably. It's definitely one of the two."

"Well actually it's both", explained Deng- "it's just a question of which you remember being."

"That's what I've been trying to explain to him"- Jodphurs motioned to the dumbstruck doctor- "I remember being both." Deng made a whistling sound through his teeth, as if everything was becoming clearer.

"If I might just interrupt at this point..." the doctor began from behind his desk. In a flash, Deng produced a mean looking pistol from his belt and fired a blue pulse of light right between the psychiatrist's eyes.

"Cool", muttered Deng, "I've been waiting for ages to try that out on someone."

"Why?", the doctor tried to continue, in a dodgy french accent; "Why must I work like a dog?" Jodphurs stared at him, and then back at Deng.

"What did you do to him?", he asked, eyeing the dangerous looking pistol.

"I've just stunned him, for an hour or so. The microwave pulse fired by the gun reprogrammes the victim's mind- his consciousness has been rerouted through the section of the brain responsible for TV enjoyment."

"Bianca's just doin' my head in, Phil." The doctor seemed happy;"And a sagitarian will be celebrating toooooo."

"The poor fool is effectively mindless." Deng was quietly satisfied. "Now listen- my name is Deng. We have to find the men you know as the Great Monk, and Reggie Perspex."

"You mean Anthea. No problem- but why?"

"Because we have only an hour in which to save the universe."

"You're just a walking sci-fi cliche really, aren't you?"

"That's affirmative. Wait here- I'll be back." Deng left, holding out a bleeping handset which was tracking the other co-ordinates. Jodphurs turned to look at the burbling doctor.

"I could have just told him that they were in the day room", Jodphurs pointed out. "What kind of a name is Deng, anyway? Some kind of futuristic 'Dougie' alternative?" The doctor looked pensive for a moment.

"I love you Des. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!'"

Jodphurs, Anthea, and the Great Monk sat together in the day room. Deng stood in front of them, just to the left of the television screen suspended from the ceiling. 'Today's the day' was showing. Deng had dispersed the other patients with his pistol- although it had had little effect on most of those who had been sat in front of the TV, obviously. Eventually they had wandered off, humming the theme to 'Blakes Seven'.

"I am Deng", said Deng, "There is no time to explain. Needless to say that we are all caught up in a convoluted corruption of the space-time continuum. To those of you who don't know what that is, just imagine it as an orange skin- it's a meaningless analogy of course, but it might make you feel better. I come from a planet known as Synchro- this is located on the outermost rim of the universe. You probably think that is very far away, but actually it is getting nearer every second. In thirty-five minutes it will swallow up your sun. Five minutes after that, it will swallow this planet. When it does that, the universe will cease to exist- this planet has become the focus of its contraction, the central point. The reason for all this is you. On Synchro we had very early warning of this- naturally, our planet was the first to be wiped off the edge. Before this happened, we built this ship"- Deng pointed out the window, and the four of them had a grandstand view of the SS Clockwork meet with the ground at three times the speed of light. It had actually crashed fifteen minutes ago, but light had only just caught up. "Bit of a friday afternoon job, to be honest. Most of my fellow Synchronites didn't see the point, since they were going to die horribly five minutes after the launch. They didn't understand the principles of regressive time ripples you see." Three blank faces looked up at him. "The idea is, I fix the problem now, and the consequences of that problem will never have happened. The edge of the universe will be back where it should be, and so will Synchro."

"What is this problem, and how is it our fault?" asked Jodphurs, half-heartedly. He somehow knew it would be his fault.

"You don't remember this, but you meddled with the space-time thingy. Your memory of the event is shot, because the universe has been trying to repair the damage- since your minds are part of the physical universe, your memories have been altered by the changes you initiated- you've forgotten certain things, and gained memories. The reality you are living in now is not the reality you were born into- it's an alternative, created when you entered the past and altered it. Unfortunately, you also sent shock waves down the timelines- causing a ripple at the beginning of time, which in turn created an unstable, collapsing universe."

"So like, how do we patch up the big cheese?" The 'Hot' Mankorama had taken off his Oakley's, such was the seriousness of his question.

"We have to trigger another chain reaction- one which will return you three back to where- and when- you were before the incident. I will then be returned to Synchro, three thousand years ago- since I never would have been required to make this trip. All of our memories should revert, and we will all live happily ever after. Anyway- like I said, there's no time to explain. Are we all ready?" The others nodded, confused. Deng produced a small black box from his top pocket. "Our best scientists worked for ten years on this. They called it a 'Plot Shortcut'." He held it at arms length, and pressed the big red button on its side. The sky behind him darkened. Anthea turned the volume up on the TV- "Today's the day", began the announcer, "that England beat Germany 6-5 on penalties to go through to the final and win the Euro96 football championship, fifty-four years ago."

"No, that's not it", muttered Deng, dissapointedly; "It might be the batteries- hang on." He shook the box slightly, and then pressed it again.

"LEMON CREOSOTE!'"

Jodphurs, Anthea, and the Great Monk were sitting on a sofa in the BHS homecare section. A wisp of smoke rose from Anthea's hair. Deng was gone, whipped away by a spectacular display of temporal physics.

"This is Basildon. We're home." Jodphurs tried to sound cheerful, but failed. He was suddenly having trouble getting that home movie of Rosylin's out of his head, for some reason.

"I don't feel any different", remarked Anthea. "I still remember my plans for a better economy. I was going to get the Mint to start printing the bank notes on satin, you know."

"This jus' ain't right, man. This sucks. We ain't suppos' to be 'membering nothin', the man said."

"There's something else wrong. Do you remember, Deng said that I altered history?" The others nodded. "Well I remember now. It's come back to me- I didn't alter history. I was supposed to, I was supposed to have given this bloke some money in 1940- but I didn't. I didn't change history, I deliberately unchanged it!'"

Anthea was just about to ponder on this, when a shot rang out. The bullet came from somewhere behind the cash desk to their left, and passed through Anthea's forehead. She was dead. Just as the Monk and Jodphurs turned to help her, a second bullet blew a hole through one of the Monk's Oakley lenses.

"They're both dead", said Jodphurs. There wasn't much else to say, and besides, the third bullet cut him short. He slumped forward, and whispered- "Buggar."

It is the Basildon branch of BHS, 2050. The Edolphist Discipline Regiment has been called out to travel across the wasteland and sort out a triple murder. As they inspect the bodies on the sofa, a tall man leaves the store hurriedly. He and his associates, who follow him nervously, walk quickly towards the centre of town. At the edge of a bomb crater they pause. The taller man pulls a german military issue 1940's luger out of his pocket, and drops it into the radioactive ooze. He then leaves his two companions by the crater to watch the gun melt, as he turns his goat-shaped head towards the camera and speaks.

"It's all a bit complicated, this lark- don't worry about it. Just don't try any of this at home, for god's sake."