Trencher Read online

  TRENCHER

  Richard Armitt

  www.koru-cottage.com

  Copyright © 2021 Richard Armitt

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 979-8-74-026015-0

  Cover design by: germancreative

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my tribe, Sophie, Rufus, Harvey and Bonnie.

  We're like the Avengers, only better.

  And, of course Mr. Gavin Wall, but he's a bit more D.C. than Marvel.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  above the clouds

  Herbert's surprise

  rules for breaking

  Death Valley

  Popping Mr. Popper

  fire in the sky

  brig has a problem

  Mack

  unexpected Re-entry

  august snowfall

  brig vs the chief

  building bridges

  the clock is ticking

  trencher came back

  less than seven minutes to the event

  the leather apron

  One more trip chief

  back again for vengeance

  Jackal’s lair

  Brig's faith

  an audience with reid

  predictable ends

  time for hunting

  henry's story

  a spot of break and enter

  one way trip

  turning tables

  back to the future

  there's always time

  back to hell

  screw the paradox

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  Foreword

  Trencher started life in 2013 as a well received, but not optioned screenplay. Having a fondness for the story it was time to expand on the premise. Hopefully this is the first in a series of novelisations based on my other screenplays.

  Building on the storyteller’s vision and passion for an existing project, adding depth and insight with the aim of reaching a wider audience. It’s been a journey to bring Trencher back into my mind and a fun ride, fingers crossed the reader thinks so too.

  above the clouds

  London, 2088

  A raging storm and thick grey clouds swamped the skyline of London, where old Docklands had given way to towering monstrosities of steel and glass. Vicious shards of construction slicing at the stars with feral claws. Above the jagged panorama and below the boiling clouds a small vehicle bumped its way through the thermals and squalling rain. Like a giant bulbous insect that has swallowed two people, the flying car was mostly glass and whining turbines, at first glance flimsy, but on inspection far from it. Stencilled obviously across its flanks “J-Van17” in a weathered type that suggests Police, or Military or mysterious Government Agency.

  Inside the van dials and gauges illuminated the windshield with an orange heads-up display, the rain beat an incessant patter on the roof while rivulets streamed across the glass. The pilot and passenger were staring straight ahead into the night one lost in thought, the other lost in their sandwich. Mack had the controls tight in his hands, his weathered face giving away all fifty-five of his years, his hooded eyes never leaving the unfurling sky before them. He spoke to his passenger without looking over, his was a familiar, but gruff tone built up from the bones of a solid friendship.

  “How many times Trench?” he asked, his passenger looked across at him through a mouthful of sandwich. “How many times? Never. Eat. In. The. Van.”

  Trencher held up a wavering finger while she cleared her mouthful. “I’m hungry, so sue me.”

  “On my salary? Come to think of it, not even on yours.”

  Trencher was chewing again, the van rattled in the wind and she flicked a bouncing red handful of curls away from her face. “Well, if you didn’t spend it all on that cat, it might be worth the fight.”

  Mack checked the readings and pushed the J-Van down and to the left. “Don’t go there.” He straightened up the van’s trajectory, “He’s my Fleaball and besides, he’s real.”

  Trencher cracked an impish smile and took another huge bite. “I can’t help myself; you know.”

  “There’s cheese all over your seat, you’re in my bad books, note that”, he said.

  “Well, like I always say. History doesn’t remember...”, started Trencher before Mack cut her off.

  “Good girls, yeah you keep saying. Maybe get it on a T-Shirt or something.”

  “Maybe I should. Get one for you too, we could be T-Shirt buddies”, she said. Mack grunted and found the outside sky more interesting again. “You don’t want a bite then?” asked Trencher to the comfortable silence filling the cockpit between them. The J-Van rattled and shook as the wind and rain blew up again outside.

  Herbert's surprise

  London, 1888

  A hallway, a grand one by Victorian London standards lined with sumptuous dark green velvet drapes covering oak panelling, a thick and heavy burgundy carpet hugged a parquet floor of intricate design. Oil lamps flickered as they found a slight waft of air, that air was thick under the heavy metronome tock of a grandfather clock stood guarding the front door. The solid front door gave a touch, the brass doorknob swiveled in time with the noise of a key turning the barrels of the lock.

  The door swung inwards, and the cold early evening brought in a man, dressed for rain and shaking a collapsing umbrella. Herbert exuded an air of classic Victorian Gentleman, a young one with his twenty-two years, but educated and capable all the same. His attention turned immediately to his raincoat which he shrugged away from his smart three-piece plaid suit, he frowned at the spattering of water on his carpet, his suit however was mercifully dry.

  He draped the coat over one arm and plucked his hat from his head revealing slick hair to complement his delicate pencil mustache. He put his hat down on a nearby table and removed his pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with his free hand, shook some drops from them and found a handkerchief to rub the steam from the lenses. He looked towards the rear of the house and called out, “Mrs. Watchet! Mrs. Watchet!”, he listened out for a moment to see if he was heard, “It’s the Devil outside tonight, you should hurry home.” Before placing his spectacles comfortably back on his nose.

  Mrs. Watchet, a waspish housekeeper that took pride in running a clean ship rounded the corner that led to the kitchen, she already wore her outdoor coat tightly buttoned up to her neck, umbrella in hand she started barking at Herbert without breaking stride for the door. “There’s pie in the kitchen Sir, the dining room is set and yes, I will take my leave if that suits” Herbert was not paying attention, he was intrigued by the coat rack next to him.

  “You have a guest too; he waits in the drawing room. I believe he was unexpected; I gave him tea and cake while he waited.” She waved loosely at a long grey coat hanging in the rack. She dropped her hat onto the tight bun of grey hair on her head.

  “He?” Queried Herbert, “That coat doesn’t belong to a man.”

  “Well, it was upon his shoulders Sir.” She paused for a moment and feigned a shiver, “Found him a touch unsettling to be honest, something familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  Herbert glanced at the corridor leading to the Drawing Room. “There he was, on the doorstep and most insistent, even without a proper appointment. I mean, I’m
used to your fancy academic friends, but he’s different.”

  Herbert relaxed his shoulders and forced a broad smile for her benefit. “Well, I have had a most unusual day so far. I would think ending it with an unexpected guest is appropriate.” He ushered her to the door with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Anyway, Mr. Watchet will be wondering where you are. See you tomorrow and mind the weather, it is quite treacherous out tonight.”

  She swung open the door and stepped onto the porch. “And you left the Study window open again, there was snow all across your desk.”

  “Snow.” He glanced at the coat again, “Inside. Yes, I will be more careful.”

  “Goodnight Sir”, she grimaced at the weather and popped up her umbrella.

  “Goodnight.”

  As she turned away and he shut the door firmly, twisting the key in the heavy lock. He reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a massive handgun, a semi-automatic of shining brass and steel.

  A weapon that had no place in the hands of such a gentleman. A weapon that had no place in 1888.

  Holding the gun in his left hand behind his back he stepped up to the door of the Drawing Room and reached out to the handle. The door swung open to reveal Herbert’s sumptuous Drawing Room. Dark wood panelling shrouded the walls, thick velvet drapes fell from the ceiling to the floor where the windows were. The room was big enough for a couple of wingback chairs next to the fireplace and sat amongst a forest of green, leafy pot plants on stands was his huge oak desk, topped with green leather.

  It was the room of a well-heeled academic, a man whose name was destined to be known. Directly across from the doorway a young man sat fidgety in the visible chair, he started at the sight of Herbert and jumped to his feet.

  “Hello?” ventured Herbert. A quiet moment passed while they took each other in, Herbert noted the man’s attire was on the edge of being unusual. He was clean-shaven, Herbert gave him that, and his head was topped with a gathering of tight dark curls. His black denim jeans, loose dark sweater and hidden shirt of red check just didn’t sit well with the surroundings. He was clutching a brown wrapped parcel tight to his chest.

  “I”, the younger man started, “I, um, watered your Aspidistra” he waved erratically at the array of green leaves.

  Herbert managed a wry smile, “Very kind of you, Mr...?” as he stepped inside, ensuring there was side table between them.

  “I’m Henry.”

  “But I don’t know in the slightest who Henry is, Henry.” Henry stepped forward extending his hand for shaking, it quivered nervously.

  “I have travelled so very far to meet you, Herbert.”

  “Evidently.” Herbert looked Henry up and down again, he slowly brought the gun from behind his back and into view before graciously shaking the hand, then he spoke again as he swapped the gun from his left hand to his right. “I think we should talk some more before I weigh up the truth in that.”

  He indicated Henry should sit back down with a twitchy wave of the gun. Henry took his seat as instructed. “You will sit there, quite still while I pour us a brandy and I will sit opposite you with this.” He waved the gun for effect, “and you will regale me with tales of your hopefully spectacular journey.” He moved to his drinks cabinet, lifted two glasses with one hand and poured brandy from a decanter. He paused and looked over at the wide-eyed younger man.

  “You do drink?”, Henry nodded.

  Herbert handed a glass to Henry, before sitting down with his own. “A tale that starts forthwith about how you came by such a marvelous coat and more importantly before that, how do you know my name.”

  Henry smiled and calmly laid the parcel on the floor at his feet, he took a sip of the brandy, letting the intake of his breath warm the alcohol over his palate. “Of course.” He took another sip, “By the way, it’s a Great-Coat”

  “Henry, it’s a fabulous coat, but I would rather like to know how you came into its possession.”

  “No, I mean to say, it really is...”

  rules for breaking

  London, 2088

  “...called a Great-Coat. I don’t know why, but I like it.” As she wrapped the remains of her sandwich for later, stuffing the silver packet into a deep pocket.

  “Looks like an antique.”

  “Well, that’s because it is.”

  “Smells like an antique.”

  “How dare you.” She feigned a sour look, then sniffed at the sleeves. “No, fresh smoke and spices, maybe sandalwood.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From a soldier, sorry, an officer.”

  “Trench.”

  “Berlin.” she nervously nipped at a nail, “I was cold, and he wasn’t using it. It was just sat there on the back of his chair, in a library.”

  “Obviously not a gift then.”

  “He kind of wasn’t going to need it anymore.” Mack whistled a long sigh.

  The van rattled as they passed through an air pocket, “When was this?”

  “Yesterday, afternoon. I had some time off.”

  “You know what I mean. When exactly.”

  Sheepishly she looked away, “Nineteen Forty something.”

  “Dammit Costigan!”

  The van rattled and lurched, winds picked up and dark clouds boiled ahead, Mack switched his view from the sky ahead, to his displays and to his passenger. “So, yesterday, you were in a library, in Berlin, in the nineteen forties!”

  “Yeah, it was an accident.”

  “That’s not an accident Trencher, that’s breaking the law.”

  “Our coordinates were off.”

  “Our?”

  “Brig was aiming for Vienna.”

  “That fills me with confidence, your super enhanced A.I. hologram friend can’t compute.”

  He wrenched the controls a pinging circle on the heads-up display showed their destination coming up. “What exactly are you two up to?”

  Trencher took a deep breath. “We have an agreement. I love to travel; she likes the books.”

  “The law applies to us too, you know. Inter-dimensional Tourism Act, remember that.”

  “She needed a new book.”

  “Brig doesn’t have hands that can hold a book.”

  “She’s a knowledge sponge. She loves the idea of them.”

  “The books that you sell?”

  “I don’t sell all of them, just the expensive ones. I do read to her.”

  “In German?”

  “Still waters run deep Mac.” She stretched her shoulders and cracked her knuckles. “It’s the physicality of them, the yellowed pages, the musty smell, the feel of the cover. You don’t know.”

  “I don’t want to know. If they find out, we’d both be screwed.”

  Their destination came into view, the roof of a giant residential block, bathed in the strobes of red and blue Police lights. Trencher peered down at the busy landing site, “you don’t have to worry about me. Brig has my back.”

  “Yeah, right”, Mac turned his attention back to the landing schematics up on his display and the van began its lazy pirouette to the rooftop.

  Trencher stared out the passenger window, straining to see the figures on the rooftop as they approached, the rain had slowed, but still the window carried streaks that obscured her view. Mack’s voice cut the quiet, “Okay. Business time. We are here for Mr. Dennis Popper, triple homicide suspect, dirty piece of work. Two ground Cops tracked him to this building, pulled a weapon and wounded one, the other he threw off the forty sixth floor.”

  “Sounds like a done deal.”

  “As done as it gets.”

  “Roger that Tonto.” She pulled a black cube from the folds of her coat, smaller than a Rubik, bigger than a matchbox. As her fingers stroked the buttons on its surface the cube glowed amber from inside, the light illuminating between the cracks of the twenty-six smaller cubes making it up, “Timekey is set.” said Trencher methodically.

  There was a slight bump as the van landed on the rooft
op, followed by a jolt, then the hydraulics took over and it settled gently. Brief plumes of steam escaped up the sides of the vehicle before the doors popped open. “Trench”, he said, lightly holding her arm, “You need to be careful, you and Brig.”

  She smiled back at her partner, “I know, thanks”, she nodded her head back towards the window, “You know, I think I see Davies out there.” Trencher winked with theatrical grace.

  “C’mon”, grunted Mack reluctantly, “Magic time.” They slid out of the van in unison, with practiced steps they fell in side by side and advanced on the huddled group of cops with Dennis Popper on his knees between them.

  The rain started falling again.

  Death Valley

  Southern Mexico, 66 Million Years Ago

  Many, many, many thousands of years before now there was a valley in Southern Mexico. A lush valley full of greenery and tall trees, surrounded by a majestic landscape. Standing in an aimless sedated pack in that valley was a teeming mass of people, all sorts of people, all creeds, all colours. All of them wore disposable white surgical gowns and not one of them was aware of the giant fireball in the sky bearing down on them.

  The sky was burning with the fiery meteor that would soon strike the valley and become a historical event most famous for bringing about the destruction of the dinosaurs. Winds were beginning to whip up, dust swirled around their feet and still they stood glassy eyed, until one of them shivered and blinked. Shaking a groggy head, one was apart.

  One member of the mass had woken and was warily casting a rheumy gaze around him. This was a hard man, a dangerous man, his face disfigured where it wasn’t covered by his scraggy blond hair and wildly unkempt beard. He was known to his friends and foes as Jackal, he had killed most of them for minor crimes against him so there wouldn’t be many that knew him anymore. He steadied himself reaching out to the shoulder of a tattooed figure beside him and the man didn’t move. Jackal slid around the front of the man and peered into his glassy eyes. There was nothing, no reaction, no give, no spark.