by Robbie Carnegie

Since the store had opened at nine o’clock, only two customers had crossed the floor from the lifts to the ladies and gentlemen’s outfitters departments. It was now half past twelve. It was a busy day at Grace Brothers.

Mr Lucas lolled behind his counter, his suit and hair the last word in 1970s fashion. "Cor blimey," he muttered, "How did I get stuck working here. Nothing ever happens."

Beside, him, Mr Humphreys was meticulously re-folding a pile of Y-fronts, "It’s all right for you," he exclaimed, "Someone’s been rummaging in my drawers again!"

 

Across the other side of the floor, the formidable figure of Mrs Slocombe stood deep in conversation with her assistant Miss Brahms, "So I said to Mrs Axelby from bedding, ‘I will not stand to be treated like this. Those builders across the road have been leering and yelling every time I go past’. My pussy’s been all agitated for over a week!"

 

In the centre of the floor, the monarch of all he surveyed, strolled Captain Peacock, carnation in buttonhole, moustache trimmed precisely, the stiff-backed military bearing that always drove the ladies wild. Happy memories of hours spent at Christmas parties with a blow-tickler in the stationery cupboard lent a smugness that was not unaccustomed on his features.

His reverie was shattered by a particularly tuneless whistling, as out onto the floor bustled Mr Mash, the store’s general dogsbody. He was pushing a large shape, draped in a dust sheet.

"What are you doing here, Mash?" Captain Peacock snarled, "You know you’re not allowed on the floor during shop hours."

"Sorry, Captain Peacock," Mr Mash sucked on his teeth noisily, "But old Jug Ears in there wanted me to bring this up as soon as it arrived."

"I take it you mean Mr Rumbold, and I would remind you to treat your superiors with a bit more respect," Captain Peacock despised the man, with his music hall cockney charm, and his somehow rather fake old man act. His white hair and moustache always looked surprisingly false. Today they looked particularly suspect.

At that moment, Mr Rumbold himself entered the floor. "Ah, Mash," he cried, "Good. You brought up the new display. Captain Peacock, could you call the staff together, please."

Captain Peacock fixed Mr Rumbold with an icy stare, but lifted his head hautily, "Mr Granger, are you free?"

The shambling old figure of Mr Granger appeared from behind his glove store, looking around him, expectantly, "At present, Captain Peacock."

"Then would you gather your department over here."

Mr Granger glared at him, then snapped, "Mr Humphreys, Mr Lucas, are you free?"

"I’m free!" Mr Humphreys trilled, flouncing to Mr Mash’s displayed, followed by a nonchalant Mr Lucas.

Mr Rumbold had turned his attention to the ladies intimate apparel. "Mrs Slocombe, Miss Brahms, are you free?"

"I believe so, Mr Rumbold," Miss Slocombe adopted her best "posh" accent, her heels tap-tapping on the tiled floor as she and her assistant made their way to join their colleagues.

"Good, everyone’s here," Mr Rumbold looked particularly pleased with himself. "I’ve called you all together to show the latest thing in display models, a mannequin that puts all others to shame." Mr Rumbold made a signal to Mr Mash, who began to haul on the dustsheet, "Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce the Auton 72!"

Beneath the sheet stood a figure, dressed in a smart suit, its face surprisingly blank. Mr Rumbold beamed proudly.

"Is that it?" Mr Lucas piped up.

"Just looks like any old dummy," Miss Brahms chimed in.

Captain Peacock looked pained, "Really, sir, couldn’t this have waited?"

"Ah," Mr Rumbold continued, "Just wait until you see this! Mr Mash!"

Mr Mash produced a remote control and pressed a button. Immediately, the model began to move, raising its arm in an approximation of a man hailing a cab.

The staff were impressed. They had seen plenty of automated dummies before, but here there was no sound of mechanisms, no faulty gestures, its movements were fluid and natural.

"There," Mr Rumbold beamed, "Isn’t that worth the wait?"

"Very impressive," Mr Granger grumbled.

"Oooh, it gives me the willies," Mrs Slocombe announced.

"Aren’t you the lucky one," Mr Humphreys nodded.

"There’s something about it," Mrs Slocombe continued, "The way it moves, I don’t like it."

"Mrs Slocombe, the Auton 72 represents a considerable capital outlay for Grace Brothers. I’m sure you’ll come to agree that it represents a leap forward for our display."

"Well, if that’s your attitude, I shall have to reconsider my position, and I am unanimous in this!" Mrs Slocombe stormed.

"So be it," Mr Rumbold turned on his heels and left the floor, followed by the scuttling figure of Mr Mash.

 

Back in his office, Mr Rumbold mopped his brow, "I’m sorry, Mr Mash, I tried my best. I’m sure she’ll come round to my way of thinking."

Mr Mash seemed to grow in height, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity, his voice suddenly urbane and sinister, "Oh, she’ll come round. Sooner or later, all will realise the power of the Autons."

"Yes, Mr Mash."

"Not Mr Mash, you fool. From now on, you may call me ... Master."

"Yes, Mr Mashter."

"No, just Master, cretin," The Master sighed. Sometimes world domination seemed more trouble than it was worth.

 

"Look at that thing," Mrs Slocombe muttered to Miss Brahms, "The eyes seem to follow you around the room."

"You’re not really going to resign over that are you?" Miss Brahms asked, concerned.

"Well, of course not. I didn’t think it would get so far. I’ve never known old Jug Ears to be so masterful."

 

Over in menswear, Mr Lucas was appraising the model, "Yes, not bad I suppose. But until it can move its legs it’ll never look truly lifelike, will it?"

As if on command, the dummy’s foot twitched, then it took a halting step. Then another, then it stepped of its plinth.

"Er, Captain Peacock," Mr Humphreys called, "I think we’ve got a problem with our friend here."

Captain Peacock turned, to see the dummy advancing on him, "Well, really," he exclaimed, "We can’t have this. Mr Humphreys, call Mr Mash, and get him to switch this thing off. We can’t have this sort of thing during shop hours."

With lightening speed, the Auton swung out an arm, narrowly missing Captain Peacock’s head, its fist crashing through a glass display cabinet. Captain Peacock staggered away, "Mr Humphreys!" he shouted, "Call Mr Mash!"

"I’m trying!" Mr Humphreys called back from behind the menswear counter where he, Mr Granger and Mr Lucas were now sheltering, "He’s completely disappeared!"

The Auton took another swing, demolishing a less lifelike dummy. Captain Peacock continued to scurry away from it, "Then call Mr Rumbold, call the police, call anyone! Just get this thing switched off! Now!"

At that moment, the lift doors swung open, and three figures emerged. The first was a man of extreme age, pushed in a wheelchair by two young women dressed in ludicrously short skirts. Their tops were also extremely tight.

The Auton stopped in its tracks, for a second transfixed by the sight before it, a sound suspiciously like, "Corrrrrr," escaping from its plastic lips.

It was all the hesitation that was needed, as Mrs Slocombe pounced, pulling a pair of capacious bloomers over the Auton’s head. It thrashed blindly about, then tripped and went sprawling, its legs secured in the by the straps of a lacy bra.

Mrs Slocombe shouted out, "Come on, you lot, jump on him. I can’t be expected to get my leg over without help!"

The assorted staff leapt on the Auton, pinning it to the floor. It continued to strain to get up, but, after a few minutes of such aborted attempts, the light in its eyes faded and it went still.

 

A few hours later, the staff of Grace Brothers’ ladies and menswear departments rested in the company canteen.

Captain Peacock nodded thankfully at Mr Humphreys, "Good thinking, calling the army."

"I didn’t," exclaimed Mr Humphreys, "I called the police, but they turned up anyway. That nice Sergeant Yates seemed to know just what he was dealing with when it came to that awful dummy."

"Well none of you’d be here now, if it wasn’t for Mrs Slocombe," Miss Brahms protested.

Mr Rumbold dabbed his bald head with a handkerchief, "Well, I must say you were right to be suspicious of that mannequin, Mrs Slocombe. I don’t know why I let myself be talked into taking it on."

At that moment, the door opened, and in was wheeled the old man with his two shapely escorts, unmistakably the owner of the store, Young Mr Grace.

"Don’t stand up," he waved, "I just came to say you did a grand job in stopping that thing today. Especially you, Mrs Slocombe. Remind me to keep away from your knickers in future!"

"A shrewd warning, Mr Grace," Mr Lucas interrupted.

"Well that’s all I had to say. Carry on! You’ve all done very well!"

"Thank you, Mr Grace," the staff murmured.

"’Ere," Miss Brahms spoke up, "So what did happen to Mr Mash?"

 

In the basement of Grace Brothers department store, a dark, bearded man, dressed in velvet, opened the door of an old store cupboard and slipped inside. A mechanical wheezing, groaning sound filled the air, and the cupboard disappeared.

The End

 

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