The Great Surrey Street Massacre - 21104.01

By Douglas Scott

Douglas Scott relaxed onto a slightly faded leather barstool and luxuriated in sights, sounds, and smells which he had not enjoyed for over twenty years. Walking through the streets of Gorbals earlier that day; Scott had hardly recognized his old neighbourhood. Where old tenement blocks and flats had once stood, shining new detached houses stood gleaming amongst the snow. Everything had changed so much that Douglas was quite startled when he had turned the corner out of the Loch of Liff road to find the 'Brazen Head' still standing. The pub's 600 year old architecture had been like a mirage to a thirsty man, Douglas had not hesitated.

“Will it be the usual then?” a gravely voice enquired.

Scott looked up to see to see the barman come round the bar carrying a pint of lager in one hand and a tumbler of Scotch in the other... he placed down in front of Douglas. It was indeed 'his usual'.

Who the hell?

It was an awkward moment, one of those times when someone clearly recognizes you, but you do not recognise them in return. The barman had thinning hair which was struggling to hide a bald spot. He was a big man, and his considerable girth was severely testing the faded Celtic football club shirt. Behind him a younger man in his early twenties was watching with a smile on his lips, he was carrying a tray of drinks, but he was no barman. He had a look about him that Douglas recognized immediately.

Fleet!

In the end it was something about the younger man that sparked Douglas's memory and hen he stood to hug the barman, an old friend.

“Tommy MacDermott? Mac? Why you rare bastard... it's great tae see ya!”

“Aye Dougie you to! ”

They stepped apart smiling.

“You're a long way from Celtic FC Mac.”

Tommy grinned, he had been the only one of the gang to achieve that childhood dream.

“Aye well... the football is a young man's game.”

Mac gestured towards his relative.

“Dougie... this is mae bairn... Jimmy.”

Douglas raised an eyebrow and the younger man chuckled.

“That right” he said in flawless standard “I really am called Jim!”

“You poor wee bugger... Mac always did love all those stories aboot the Enterprise!”

Douglas took a quick glance around the pub. It wasn't busy and there was another young woman serving behind the other end of the bar.

“Will you join me?”

Mac needed no second invitation.

“Dougie... I thought ya would never ask, why don't we take a table? Jimmy bring the brews.”

The three were settled around a table in a booth at the back corner of the pub. Douglas gave Jim a speculative look and reflected on his perfect accent.

“Communications?”

“USS Archimedes, we're in for a refit.”

“I saw her in orbit... she's a fine ship.”

Watching the two Mac smiled.

“Jimmy took me a picture, its going on the wall.”

Which told Douglas that Mac was not just a barman but also the publican. The Brazen Head had it's own 'cool wall', a tradition that went back to the early twenty first century. As a rule it was mostly made up of Celtic Football club memorabilia. But traditionally it was up to the owner what went on the wall. Douglas imagined that with Mac in charge there would a fair number of Fleet items among the pictures of football player past and present. Jimmy grinned fondly at his father and then turned back Douglas.

“You're on the wall as well.”

Douglas almost choked on his beer and gave his smirking friend a dark look.

“Aye.. several times actually Dougie. Folk round here are reet proud of ye... the story everyone likes best is the one aboot when you punched that Admiral.”

Dougie grinned, and then turned to Jimmy.

“I'm willing tae bet Mac hasn't told you all of my adventures Jim. In fact he was part of by far the best one. There was this one time when we were kid's...”

I had woken this morning to as fine a summer day as any nine year old boy could want. The sun was in the sky, Mrs McNair's budgerigars were singing, and the whine of the robot milk cart could be heard outside. Its bottles clinking as it negotiated the uneven surface of Cavendish Place. Brakfast had been yesterdays haggis, rosti and scrambled eggs and I still had a half bag of slightly sticky sherbet lemons left. Plus it was still the summer holidays, so no school. Although that would have been true of yesterday, and would also be true tomorrow, today had one remaining crowning glory. For today was to be the day of the great Surrey street massacre! In my mind and those of the rest of the Cavendish Street 'crew' there could be only one possible outcome... victory!

Or so we hoped... but now, concealed in a wheelie bin of Surrey stree as lookout. I couldn't help but wonder who was going to be massacred today. The Kids from the 'other side' of Cathcart road had a ferocious reputation which was hard to ignore. But I knew that there was no backing down now, there had been lengthy negotiations to reach this point, and the hour of the 'USS Cavendish' was at stake.

“Sod this for a game of toy soldiers” I muttered to myself.

It had seemed so simple earlier on in our Ready Room; in reality a somewhat dingy disused allotment shed we had annexed for the purpose. We had improved it of course, I have very firm views about things which don't work as it should, and in our imagination it was now a plush room aboard the USS Cavendish where Captain MacDermott discussed his plan's.

We had all been type cast to a degree. As I was called Scott and liked to fix things Tommy had insisted that I was Chief Engineer which was fine by me. I suppose I could been something else if I wanted too. The others were all a little in awe of my 'language skills'. I think they thought that being able to swear like a marine, and have a sick note for it, was kind of cool. But I just found it embarrassing. Inside me there has always been a well spoken child fighting to get out, but sadly that was never going to happen.

Our security officer is 'flirty' Gerty. At ten years old she is at the stage where girls begin to grow like weeds and and are so much stronger than us boys. She's called 'flirty' because she is not afraid to trade kisses for sweets. Real kisses mind you, not pecks on the cheek. But the one time I tried it I found the experience interesting; but not as nearly satisfying as the licorice stick I had traded too her in exchange. Tommy had given her some dress up Vulcan ears and asker her to be his science officer. Gerty had rejected that idea quite firmly and Tommy had soon found himself pinned to the ground being forced to concede that a she would make an excellent Security officer. When our friend Jack had pointed out that the security officer had nearly always 'bought it', Tommy had immediately promoted her to first officer. A smart move which drew all our admiration had elevated Gerty from the dire fate of having to wear a red shirt and thus being compelled to die in all of our adventures. Gerty kept the ears though, and wore them all the time.

Jack Evans is our token Englishman. Although he was actually born in Wales, which is not so bad. His is kinda weedy and a total nerd. Tommy, who was a completed Jock, has made it his life's 'to make a real man' out of Jack. He had wanted him to be the security officer. But I think Jack was secretly relieved when Girty had usurped his position, he was perfectly happy to play the science officer. Jacks younger sister was also part of crew on occasions when we had to babysit her. A difficulty that we had turned into a blessing as no one else wanted to play Uhura's part because it was so boring.

Our helmsman's name was Sifiso, and even at nine years old he towered above the rest of us and was as black as the ace of spades. He was a Zulu and very proud of it... although his accent was as Scottish as any. Tommy had decided that Sifiso might as well play the helmsman, as he was quick to point out, Zulu was just one letter away fro Sulu.

Choosing he part of Chekhov had been easy as we had one of our own. A genuine Russian who had been born in St. Petersberg. This kind of genuine credibility was hard to come by and that, everyone agreed, was more than enough to overlook that fact that her name was actually Catherine Chekhov. She was very pretty and I had a secret crush on her.

Finally there was Donald Wallace, who had passed all of hist first aid badges in cub scouts, and was thus our ships Doctor. This crew being adventurous as it was his services were frequently brought into play. And that was us the crew of the USS Cavendish... ready to boldly go etc. so long as we weren’t thrashing the local kids at footy. Ever ready to defend the Federation against its foes and get home in time for supper. Which brings me back to why I am hiding in a large bin and peering through a crack under the hinged lid waiting for our enemies to arrive.

“What are you saying about to toy soldiers Douglas?” Catherine enquired.

I had been both delighted and mortified when Tommy had issued us with our missions.

“Och I dunno lassie, it one of things you say when your not sure whether everything is going reet.”

Catherine studied me with her grey eyes.

“I understand... it is... how you say? Reet mank and no mistake?”

The bin stank, so I could hardly disagree, and then a movement at the Cathcart end of Surrey street caught my eye.

“Heads up Lass, here come the Klingons!”

Out in the street Tommy and Gerty had also seen them. We watched as our Captain and security officer began to swagger towards the enemy. Catherine brushed a stray lock of blonde hair away from her face.

“Good... timing is everything.”

I nodded, thoroughly distracted by her close proximity. Suddenly inspiration struck and I rummaged around in my jeans pocket.

“Sherbet Lemon Cath? They're a fucking sticky but they're still grand.”

Catherine regarded my grubby paper bag gravely and then smiled.

“Thanks Douglas, I will!”

She reached in and popped one in her mouth with apparent relish, and returned her attention to our targets. Besotted, I grinned stupidly and then followed her example. On the street Tommy and Gerty were now facing up to the other gang, who were well armed and spoiling for a fight.

“Is it still on?” Brendon asked, puzzled that there were only two of us.

“Of course it is!” Gerty snapped “are you saying it isn't?”

The older kids looked at each other nervously, nobody liked getting on Gerty's wrong side.

“I believe they are 'in the bag' Douglas” Catherine decided.

I nodded and tapped my comm badge. It was only a toy, but with a range of well over ten miles it served us well enough.

“Scott to Bridge, the enemy are in the shite! Stand by for the Captains signal.”

Jack's sister replied and I immediately blushed red, even with a sick note she was considered much too young for my swearing.

[Dougie!] Jack added [Watch yer mouth!]

“I'm sorry Jack... just be ready... Scott oot.”

Catherine pretended not to notice.

“Scott to away team, the enemy are in... position, stand by!”

This time it was Donald's anxious voice that answered.

[I'm not to sure about this Dougie...]

Inwardly I groaned, this was no time for one of 'Brave heart's' famous hissy fits.

“Dinnae fash yersel Doc; they're bang to rights! Just wait for the Captain's word!”

I turned to Catherine.

“Ready?”

She just grinned. On the street the ritual insults had reached fever pitch.

“You'll never escape alive!” Tommy shouted.

He and Girty drew their 'phasers' and darted towards cover on the other side of the street, firing as they went. Water began to fly everywhere as our enemies replied. Catherine and I threw back the lid and opened fire from the relative safety of our plastic fortress, pumping furiously to eject the water from our 'phaser rifles'. We were lucky to have them as the crew only these two. The other gang had apparently washed taxi's for a week to buy one each. We whooped loudly; already caught up in the joy of battle.

But enemy numbers and fire power were beginning to tell. Tommy and Gerty had been forced to switch to their backup phasers already. But Tommy had chosen his battlefield well, and now our reinforcements arrived as Sifiso and Donald appeared armed with Sifiso's Dad's garden hose and an unlimited supply of water!

Brendon began to yell orders, he figured that it would be fairly easy to capture the hose. But we had one more trick up our sleeves. From the roof of the tenement Jack and his younger sister had begun to hurl water balloons which began to burst amongst our enemies!

[Now everyone, now!]

It was the final stage in our plan, Catherine and I climbed out of our hiding place and charged into history.

Douglas raised his glass to toast the memory.

“The Great Surrey street massacre!”

“So” he asked when he had drained his glass. “Do any of the others still live here?”

Mac's eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Gerty ran of to marry a football player... and she's regretted it ever since!”

“Jimmy Mac! I hae done nae such thing ya weasel!” a familiar voice said from over Douglas's shoulder.

Eyes widening, Scott spun around and rose to his feet.

“Hullo Dougie” said Gerty “dinnae listen to my lummox of a husband!”

Behind her the pub was now filled to capacity. All the old gang were there, not one was missing. It was quite a while before Douglas could confront the architect of this surprise.

“Happy Birthday Dougie!” Pam told him, her American accent quite out of place.

Lost for words Douglas drew her into his arms.

“I love you too” she replied.