Johnny Yen - One Man'sa Odyssey [5/7]

[Keith Topping]

Chapter Five

Over The Hills Where The Badgemen Play

'Who shot JFK? We have proof it was the C.I.A,
Who shot Roy Race? We have proof it was the C.I.A,
Who shot John Paul? We have proof it was the C.I.A,
Who shot John Lennon? Mark Chapman shot John Lennon'

The Higsons: 'Conspiracy' (1983)

1963 -

Here's one you've seen before.
Time is flickering. Surging from one second to the next. Look - the
sky is electric blue, speed blue, cotton wool clouds hanging limply in
the hot, sticky sky.
It's twelve thirty, eastern standard time. The crowd hush and then
volume rises, expectantly as, six minutes behind schedule and with a
route that has only been changed within the last thirty six hours, the
motorcade passes the county jailhouse and the Daltex building, slows to
11 miles per hour and takes the corner from Houston onto Elm and into
the tree-lined open stretch of Dealey Plaza.
It's twelve thirty and five seconds. Nellie Connally turns towards the
back seat of the lead limosine and smiles charmingly. "Jack, you can't
say Dallas doesn't love you now..."
It's twelve thirty and ten seconds. On the railway bridge crossing the
triple-lane underpass of the freeway in front of the motorcade, Sam
Holland, James Simmons and Bill Dodds notice movement to the left, in
the bushes.
Gordon Arnold throws his cigarette butt to the ground half way up the
leafy embankment known locally as the Grassy Knoll. Behind him, at the
picket-fence, he can hear a click like the cocking of a rifle. A child
is running parallel to the lead car. On the opposite side of the plaza,
Mary Moorman stands with her camera, waiting for the car to reach her.
Jean Hill steps down to the curb...
It's twelve thirty and fifteen seconds...
Jean calls out. "Hey, Mr President. Look over here..."
Time is stick in a groove. In fractional, slow-mo, inching along.
Inching as though it knows...
C'mon, you've seen this one before...
It's twelve thirty and twenty seconds.
Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three, twenty four.
Tick.... tick.... tick....
A sound, like a car backfire, pops through the still air. There is
movement in the motorcade, heads turning, eyes straining in the early
afternoon sunshine. Their movements become jerky and uncoordinated.
Pop, pop...
Charles Brehm hits the ground low and rolling, years of combat
training experience telling him that shots are being fired. On the other
side of Elm, in front of the Knoll, William Newman also drops, covering
his own head, and those of his wife and two small children.
Mary Moorman's camera flashes, capturing the instant. Jean Hill stands
frozen to the spot, as around her, the carnage begins.
Everything is frozen. Like a photograph. Grainy. Unstable...
Pop...
Abraham Zapruder, standing on a low concrete wall in front of the
railway yard parking lot, holding his tiny 8mm home movie camera, trains
his lens on the passing motorcade, and ignores the explosions going on
all around him. His camera momentarily jerks as he sees a splash of red.
Behind him, in the railway tower, watchman Lee Bowers becomes aware of a
general confusion coming from his left, behind the picket-fence, atop
the Grassy Knoll. Smoke, a flash of light, movement...
At the base of the triple underpass, below Sam Holland and his
friends, James Tague feels something clip his left cheek, and finds
himself smeared with blood.
Pop...
At the other side of the Plaza another amateur cameraman, Orville Nix,
caputres the moment with equal clarity, fragments of skull, bone, skin
and brain in a cone shape above the limousine.
It's twelve thirty and thirty seconds, a loud explosion from the
Knoll. The head-shot. Another splash of red in Zepruder's vision, a
scream from inside the car. Violent movement...
Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back... and to the left.
A radio reporter working for the local station, three cars back is
speaking to his audience.
"Something appears to have happened in the motorcade, stand by
please..."
The limosine driver turns and looks back at the mess behind him. John
Connally is slumped on his knees, his lung collapsed, his rib shattered.
The president his also slumped sideways, bleeding blood and brain
fragments into his wife's lap.
Major Philip Willis, standing with his wife and teenage daughter ten
yards back from the presidents car as it approaches Stemmons freeway,
snaps a photo of the scene. Mary Moorman, parallel to the presidential
car also caputres the moment in still frame. All across Dealey Plaza
ciné camera's are witnessing eight seconds of horror in Dallas.
Grainy super8mm colour film that will be blow up and viewed for
decades. Truly powerful, apocalyptic footage.
It's twelve thirty and thirty five seconds. The motorcade speeds on.
Sercret service men are running from all directions, dark glasses and
dark suits, guns drawn from hip-holsters. A woman is screaming "from the
bushes, from the bushes". Jean Hill takes two steps into the road and is
almost hit by the last car in the motorcade. The radio reporter is still
telling his
audience that something has happened. As yet, he doesn't know what. He
isn't the only one.
Further up the Plaza policemen are running towards the Texas School
Book
Depository, some towards the Daltex.
"They've shot the President."
Jean Hill moves further across the road towards the rising William
Newman, who is turning and looking behind him. "Up there" says Newman,
pointing towards the picket-fence.
It's twelve thirty and forty seconds. Patrolman Joe Smith is running
from the corner of the Depository, urged forward, heart pumping, he
follows the direction that Hill, Newman, Zepruder and others are
indicating. There are people everywhere. Smith barges through them. The
smell of gunpowder and, curiously, static electricity.
From somewhere close by there is a sound, like an old man with
tuburculosis; wheezing, grating, mechanical and unearthly. Something
alien. To his left, a dirtied off-white Pontiac is, mystriously,
shimmering. Smith turns away, his attention drawn by a man who is
pulling documents from his pocket.
He steals a glance again, and the car is gone, but in the confusion,
he cannot be certain of what he has seen anyway...
The ground is thick with mud, cigarette butts and scuffed bootmarks.
The man in a sports shirt has pulled out an official looking wallet,
containing a badge and a photo.
'Okay' says the man, flatly. 'There's nothing up here. The shots came
from down there... The Book Depository.'
Smith is looking at the badge. The badge is glowing...
The Badgeman's eyes are dull, lifeless, a flat, clam ocean on a rainy
day in November. Smith feels himself falling into them. Into the ocean.
'The Book Depository' he mimmicks, with an unemotional voice.
'Good' says the man, and turns, walking off into the railway yard.
Behind Smith, the sound of chaos and shouting seems to be at the other
end of a long, long tunnel. Miles away.
'The Book Depository' says Smith again, turning and looking towards
the red brick building a hundred yards away. 'The shots came from the
Book Depository.'

The smell of rubber and heat and salt and vinegar crisps.
Hush, whilst I show you a dream.
This is a city built from clay and industry, turning on the wheels of
money and greed. Hush, as I bring you a tale from the pastel shades and
the flowing watercolours.
White ankle-socks and suntans. Spotted dresses, hairbands and smiles.
These are a few of my favourite things...
Walk on the pavements that smoke beneath your tired, emotional feet.
Look up at the hazy urban, inner-city skies, painted technicolour-blue
and populated by fluffy cotton-wool clouds.
Past the doorways and alleys peopled by the down-and-outs, and the
victims, and the damned. The public toilets, cold and impersonal,
turning your stomach to a mixture of vomit and diarrhoea, with their
stink of domestos and faded dreams, of broken promises and unrequited
love. The price of this art is junkies and whores, and a blank
generation,
grown in the shadows of the now-culture, who, whilst their brighter
peers are busy saying 'yes' to life, are learning the uses of the word
'no'.

This city is a dream, built on outside influence and false passion for a
fantasy well past its sell by date. A youth haven where the politicians
and the establishment still carry the values of the ages past.
When the world is still owned by the old, what can the young do but
sing and dance, dressed up in gaudy colours? Protest about the faceless
'They' who are in charge of the great 'Whatsit'.
An extended urban playground of the rich and the bored.
There is no seamier side to this comic-strip wall of absolutes and
positives. Here, there is no death. No dog shit. No corruption.
Just love.
This is where the circle begins, and ends. Where chance meetings will
affect the world.
And it all begins with a boy, and a girl and a Timelord.

1992 - Star Jumpers are in a recording studio, rehersing new material
when Kelvin burst into the room waving a copy of the NME in Johnny's
face.
'Have you seen this shit?' he asked angrily.
'What's the problem?' asked Johnny.
'It's that wanker Steve James. Listen to this', he picked up the paper
and began to quote from a live review of Star Jumpers with the headline
Is There in Truth no Jumper? '"Danton once said that in the course of
existance, there will come a time when the dead cannot die and
the living cannot be born. In this state of flux, all manner of
staleness and decay engulfs the land. He must have been thinking about
Star Jumpers when he said it. It is not without a certain irony given
the current state of education in this country that the Star Jumpers are
most
students favourite band" blah, blah, bastard blah' Kelvin turned the
page. '"Kelvin's voice sounds a bit rough these days. That's what you
get with six months sucking the devil's cock. Self-indulgant, self-
obsessed and self-important, the Star Jumpers are a cancerous growth on
the British music scene. They deserve only contempt. I have seen the
future of rock and
roll. And I don't like it."'
'Giz a look' said Marty, grabbing the paper from Kelvin's hand.
'That bastard's stitched us up good and proper. If ah get me hands on
him, ah'll rip his ear off and spit in the hole' threatened Kelvin.
'Don't take it so personal, Kel' replied Johnny.
'Why the smeg not, eh?' said Kelvin angrily.
'Because he's full of shit, and so are his opinions' answered Johnny.
'That won't stop him being listened to, though' noted Marty, throwing
the paper down to the studio floor.
'Why don't we just go round and petrol bomb the twat?' offered Spooky.
'Nice one, Paul!' said Kelvin, clenching his fist.
'Don't talk like a friggin mong, what'd that solve?' asked Marty.
'It'd make me feel a hell of a lot better' replied Spooky.

It had been three years since Johnny Chester had felt angry enough to
hit someone, but at the moment the Doctor's evasion was bugging him
really, really badly.
'Come on Doc' he said as they sat in Golden Gate park beside the huge
boating lake, casually feeding the swans. 'let's have a few answers...'
'Very well' said the Doctor, putting down his hat and the bag of
crumbs. He looked at Ace and smiled weakly. 'Ace, could you... err...
you know?'
'Okay' she said, standing. 'How long do you want?'
'Ten minutes. Make it fifteen...'
'Will you tell me afterwards?' she asked, her lip slightly trembling.
She hated it when he did things like this.
'I'm not excluding you from anything' said the Doctor. 'It's just
there are a few things Johnny has to know about before I can start with
the explanations. I'll tell you everything when you get back.'
'Good' said Ace, turning and leaving them.
'Was that really necassary?' asked Johnny.
'Wait until you've heard what I have to tell you, then you can
decide.' He paused, and looked up at the bright sun, squinting as he lay
back with his gripped hands for a pillow. 'You want to know more an
about the C.I.A, the reason why you were shot, what I'm doing and why.
Am I correct?'
'Of course' said Johnny.
'All of that, I'll tell you when Ace gets back' said the Doctor,
closing his eyes and breathing deeply. 'But before I do that, there's
something you have to know.'
'Big secret?'
'Yes' said the Doctor, 'yes it is.
He stopped and picked at the brim of his hat, skuffed like a timeless
melody sung in a jazz club on the lower east side. It doesn't matter
which lower east side, London, New York, San Fransisco... Anywhere
really. 'I want to tell you a story about three young men' said the
Doctor.
'Okay' replied Johnny.
'This is long ago.'
'Long, or Long in inverted comma's...'
'Long in double inverted comma's' replied the Doctor with a wicked
smile of acknowledgement. 'They were called, the Hunter, the Chronicler
and...' he stopped and looked directly at Johnny.
'The Doctor' said Johnny flatly.
'Not then' said the Doctor, 'but yes...' He stopped and tossed his hat
to the grass. 'We were the young elite.'
'Does all of this have anything to do with old Gallifrey?' asked
Johnny.
'Oh' said the Doctor, 'I see you've been talking to your parents.'
'You don't need to put yourself through this' said Johnny, 'I know
about Psiamillon, about the K'anpo, and the "walkabout"...'
'The D'haroraei, from which your Aborigine's learned about Dream-
Time.'
'The Dreaming' said Johnny, 'I've researched it. On your
recommendation I should add.'
'Yes' said the Doctor with a twinkling smile. 'I remember.'
'You should also remember that you once told me that discovery is only
half of any equation.'
'Oh my stars' said the Doctor humourously, 'I hope there was no one in
earshot when I started giving out rubbish like that.'
'You're my guru' said Johnny, touching the Doctor's hand.
'Johnny, don't...'
'No' said the young man forcefully, 'you can't back out now. You've
said and done too much...'
For a second the Doctor wondered if he had stumbled back into Johnny's
netherworld. Then he said 'Have you ever read Kant?'
'Of course' said Johnny, 'just because I've got long-hair and a funny
accent doesn't mean I'm semi-literate!'
The Doctor began to defend himself then found Johnny smiling back at
him.
'You must excuse me' said the Doctor, 'I seem incapable of recognising
humour today in everyone except myself.'
'Self-pity?' asked Johnny, 'now that isn't like you at all.'
'No' said the Doctor, 'it isn't is it?'
At that moment Ace appeared on the top of the hill behind then eating
chocolate and shrugging her shoulders.
'I couldn't find anything interesting to do' she said, 'have you
finished being conspiritorial yet?'
'Perfectly' said the Doctor, 'sit down, I've got another story to
tell.'

'When I was at the acadamy, I was recruited by C.I.A' said the Doctor.
'This sounds horribly illegal' said Ace.
'Hush' continued the Doctor, 'I was fifty in Earth terms. A mere
handful of heartbeats to a Gallifreyan. I had been studying for several
cycles.'
'How long is a cycle?' asked Johnny eagerly, 'in Earth terms?'
'About three years. One attends the lower acadamy from age three
cycles to age seven cycles, then higher acadamy from eight to twenty in
preparation for life either in the chapters or in the guards.'
'At school till you're sixty?' asked Ace. 'They ought to try that
here, I'd kill unemployment stone dead!'
'How were you recruited?' asked Johnny.
'It was the Monk' said the Doctor simply.
'The Time Meddler?' asked Johnny. The Doctor nodded.
'He was an spook...'
'Whatever happened to him?' asked Johnny.
'He's still running' said the Doctor matter-of-factly. 'Wherever he
is, they'll never find him. He's the cleverest man I've ever met. In
fact, he's almost as clever as I.' The Doctor paused and chuckled at
Ace's obvious irritation. 'The Monk was recruited by an acadamy elder
who was, in turn, recruited by one of the Prydonian legislature,
probably Borussa. They had their tenticles everywhere. At that time they
were very active in a subtle, covert way. They 'turned' me, the Master
and many others. We became active in underground politics... Things move
slowly on Gallifrey, they dislike revolutions and dislike
revolutionaries even more. I worked on relatively minor agency matters
until I began to become more involved in Prydonian
policy making. Then I was compromised and the C.I.A participated in my
escape from Gallifrey.'
'Susan?' asked Johnny, itching to know something that had always
puzzled him.
'That' said the Doctor 'was unfortunate. A mistake on my part. I
thought she would be a useful hostage should the Timelords ever catch up
with me.'
'She was your grand daughter' said Ace with what could have been
horror in her voice.
'True' said the Doctor, 'she was also the heir to Psiamillon and that
made her important. Far too important to be left to fend for herself on
a hostile world. Have you any idea how the families of traitors are made
to suffer in the Capitol? She came willingly. She didn't understand all
of the implications, but she knew that to stay would have meant
isolation, maybe even death. With me, she had a chance.'
'So you came to Earth?' asked Johnny, picking up on the scraps of
information he already possessed.
'No' said the Doctor, we lost ourselves in time. Susan was no more
than an infant when we left Gallifrey. We hid on Minyos where the C.I.A
had a lot of influence. Then we spent time travelling on the outer rim,
far away from Gallifrey. When we reached Earth we thought we had the
perfect safehouse. No one from Gallifrey except the C.I.A knew much
about it. They
had quite a few agents on station here. Of course, they'd set up the
C.I.A in America as a front operation for their activities...'
'Which were?' asked Ace.
'To alter the course of the planets history. To push them in a
direction that suited the C.I.A. To interfere. It isn't called the
Celestial Intervention Agency for nothing. It was then, on Earth in the
early 60s, before I met Johnny's parents, that I first began to have my
doubts about
working for them. They sent me on a few inconsequential errands, but,
when people started dying, then I knew I had to get away.'
'Kennedy?' asked Johnny.
The Doctor nodded sadly. 'Yes. There were others too. Anyone that had
the potential to give Earth the capabilities of time travel was a danger
to them. I ran, what else could I do? I interfered where I could. I kept
on messing up the Monk's operations, sometimes intentionally, sometimes
by accident.'
'But you continued to work for them' said Ace accusingly.
'Not intentionally. I'll admit that I saw their hand directing events
during those years. Particularly invasions of Earth. The Great
Intelligence didn't have the hardware to invade unless they had help.
The Cybermen were novices at that stage. I knew there were agents at
work on Earth. Tobias Vaughan was, he told me so. I helped the Master on
one occasion when I knew for certain that his strings were being pulled
by someone very high up in
the Agency. I think the most clear interference was that business with
the Daleks gaining time travel technology. There was no way they should
have possessed that knowledge unless someone somewhere was helping them.
And then, of course, the Gallifreyan's caught up with me on the
P'naaworld.'
'And?'
'And I was very glad about it. Even then, the C.I.A got their fingers
in. Goth was one of my judges and he got me sent to Earth where they
could use me. He was deep-cover C.I.A. I suspected he was a badge at the
time but I could prove nothing. So, they got me into pointless battles
with the Master while they got on with the real work of messing around
with Earth politics and science. Do you know, they even sent agents to
infiltrate UNIT. There was Thomas Bruce, I'm sure you remember him...
And that man Filer. Has your father ever told you about him?'
'Yeh' said Johnny, 'some American that got pissed at one of uncle
Greg's parties and tried to seduce Jo Grant.'
'Apart from that' said the Doctor, 'he was C.I.A. Smelled a mile away.
Since my exile ended, I haven't had much contact with the Agency, but
I've always tried to subvert what they were doing. On Karn, on Peladon,
especially on Traken... They don't like me very much. I believe they're
trying to get to me through you.'
'So what are you going to do?' asked Johnny.
'I'm going to go and see the top man' said the Doctor, 'and I'm going
to take him out.'

High above the city streets, the office was shaded and dark, heavy
blinds drawn against the afternoon sun.
What light there was came from a low-centred table lamp on the desk at
the far end of the thickly carpeted office. Behind it, masked in shadows
sat the head of the C.I.A watching the wall of televisions screens to
his left, giving him images from the many corners of the circle.
If you ask "what's the world coming to", he could have told you.
It's coming to me.
The telephone rang and the head flicked on the intercom, letting the
hiss of static hiss into the cool darkness of the office.
'Carter. Intel...' said Carter flatly.
'Yes.'
'Contact has been established' said Carter. He could hear the sigh
from the top office and let him voice drop away before adding. 'I
believe the A.L.F is 'The Doctor'. File reference...'
'I know the Doctor's file reference' said Control angrily. Carter
heard the hitting of desk with fist and winced. The bearer of bad news
and all that... 'What do you know?' asked Control.
'Seems to have connections to Chesterton.'
'Of course he has' hissed Control, 'he's Chesterton's Godfather.
Chesterton's father is one of the Doctor's oldest friends. Chesterton's
wife was the Doctor's lover in the 80s. Haven't you read his file.'
'Yessir' said Carter defensively, 'but a lot of that is supposition.'
'Supposition?' raged Control, 'are you saying I don't have my facts
correct special agent Carter, because if you are you can kiss your sorry
arse goodbye.'
At moments of stress, Control's accent would slip slightly and traces
of his quasi-English origins would spill though. It was happening now.
Carter found himself thinking of Frankie Howerd and almost laughing.
Almost... But not quite.
'The Doctor appears to have left England by means unknown.'
'It's called the TARDIS, look in the file Carter...'
'...And we have reason to believe he is heading your way.'
Control giggled gleefully (or insanely, Carter couldn't tell which).
'Oh good' he said. 'Then you'd better make sure he doesn't get here.'
'Orders sir?' asked Carter.
'Exterminate' said Control through his gritted teeth, 'with extreme
prejudice.'
'Understood' replied Carter and the line went dead.
'Come and get it' whispered Control under his breath. It had been a
long time in coming and it was significant that it should have happened
now, just when he had assumed the Doctor to be dead. But that would have
been far too melodramatic even for the Doctor. The Doctor would have to
do the full Reichenbach-Falls-thing.
Well awright. Let the swine and his piglets come into the valley of
the scorpions. Let them crawl before him.
Control stepped into the light and removed the dark glasses from his
eyes. Red pin-pricks lit up the room from the hollow sockets. Control
pressed a button on his desk and spoke clearly into the intercom.
'Miss Nelson, can you please send Bruce in to see me. Oh, and hold all
calls today, I have a blinding headache.'
When Bruce arrived, he found the room in semi-darkness, as always. The
ambient light from the two-dozen television scenes illuminating
Control's face.
'Tom' said Control lightly, 'we have a situation.'
'Yeah?' queried Bruce with an even tone.
'We are to have a visit from an old friend...'
'No shit' said Bruce, picking his teeth with disinterest.
'The Doctor' continued Control. Bruce suddenly became interested.
'I thought he was dead' said the agent nervously.
'It seems that rumours of his death have been greatly exaggerated.'
Bruce fingered his gun. 'But you said Gallifrey wouldn't need to
bother themselves with a piss-ant operation like us.'
'I said Gallifrey. I didn't count on the Doctor taking matters into
his own hands.'
'Can we cut a deal with him?' asked Bruce, knowing the answer before
the question left his lips.
'Of course not, you know he's his own man.'
'The shit's really gonna hit the fan when he gets here. He's
powerful.'
'So am I' said Control flatly, 'we had the same teacher...' Bruce
didn't seem interested when Control began to talk about the Time of
Chaos and other alien bollocks that Bruce couldn't handle.
'What are we going to do about the Doctor?' asked Bruce.
'Oh, we'll do what we always do. We'll eliminate the threat...'

Next: Part 6 - Oh, Dad, She's Driving Me Mad!

--
Keith Topping