The Greatest Show Off Earth

by Robert Rankin

‘Indeed I do.’ Simon fell back in mock alarm. ‘But am I not Raymond’s best and trusted friend?’

  ‘You are his only friend at all, I so believe.’

  ‘And have I not just paid the postage on his parcel, as only would a best and trusted friend?’

  The old grey beard went up and down.

  ‘Then do not seek to drive a wedge between true friends. Put an IOU into the till on my behalf and same again, landlord, please.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Andy taking Simon’s glass. ‘What was it you were drinking by the way?’

  ‘I’ll have Death-by-Cider,’ said Dick Godolphin, suddenly at Simon’s side. ‘As my good mate here’s buying.’

  ‘Would that I could,’ replied the drinker with the newly acquired twenty-five-pound credit line. ‘But even if I could, I bet I wouldn’t.’

  Godolphin muttered curses of the Romany persuasion and prepared once more to buy his own.

  Dick was Bramfield’s token gypsy poacher. Every village has to have one. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or a worn-out cliché. Or something. Dick was short and dark and fearsome to behold. He wore a waxed cap and a tweed jacket, which was half right and possessed a pair of eyes which, in the words of D.H. Lawrence of Arabia, “Shone out as black as piss-holes in the snow.”

  Dick had a wife who was forever in the family way and a lurcher that forever humped his leg.

  He dwelt in the vampire world between the time of pub-close and the dawn of day. During these unhallowed hours he sallied forth, his lurcher on his leg, to reap a horrid harvest in the fields of rabbitkind.

  Oblivious to the season or the weather or the signs that said ‘Keep Out’, Dick limped across the uplands and the downs, scattering flocks of sheep before him and putting the fear of God into the crop-circle makers. On a good night he would bag as many as four fat bunnies, which would fetch as much as a pound a piece from the local butcher.

  To the average town dweller, this might appear an extremely difficult way of scraping a living. But what do townies know about country life?

  Not a lot. That’s what.

  Dick was the last of a dying breed. Or one of the last, at least. And he felt it his holy destiny to continue with a fine old country way, which without the likes of him might vanish for ever, along with the hand-drawn plough, the tied cottage and the squire’s right to have his pick of the village virgins whenever there was an R in the month.

  And so he eked out his humble living with little to support him but a pound a bunny, the social security payments and the handsome weekly stipend awarded him by The Society for the Preservation of Rural Crafts.

  God bless you, Dick Godolphin.

  ‘Piss off, Dick,’ said Simon. ‘And get your dog off my leg.’

  ‘Down, Lurcher,’ said Godolphin. ‘Come to heel.’

  ‘Here you go,’ said Andy, passing one more pint to Simon. ‘Sign here upon this beer-mat if you will.’

  ‘I’ll sign for the entire twenty-five pounds. You don’t want a lot of beer-mats cluttering up your till.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Andy. ‘Same again, was it, Dick?’

  ‘Same again,’ said Dick.

  Simon sipped his second pint and sidled with his eyes. Most of the regulars were in, gathered in their favoured comers on the mock-Tudor pews or the low stools with the reproduction Queen Anne legs. Others ranged along the bar holding forth on this thing or the other. Sex and scandal. Wars and rumours of war. Everything and nothing, as is oft the way in pubs.

  Simon watched them at it. Long Bob the chicken farmer, headless behind the-beam-that-strangers-always-bang-their-skulls-on-when-they-come-out-of-the-Gents, laughing uproariously amidst members of the village rock band, Roman Candle (the parachute accident, not the firework); Military Dave, who was something in the refinement of engine oil, hunched above a triple vodka dreaming of Brooklands; the Scribe, who apparently wrote for a living, although none could ever find his books in the shops; two fragrant checkout girls from the supermarket in the high street. And so on and so forth.

  Simon knew them all, many from as long ago as school. Same old faces. Same old jokes and, Andy willing, same old rounds of drinks.

  But here sat he. And he was no longer the same. He had seen his best friend sucked away to Venus by a flying starfish. He could never now be quite the same again.

  And so he sat and sipped and sidled mentally about the best way he could capitalize upon this knowledge that was known to him alone. It would have to be handled with care as the precious package it was. If he could persuade a Sunday newspaper to believe his story there might well be large cash payments to be had. But there was the far greater likelihood of being branded a nutcase.

  Simon set in to do some serious thinking. And then he was clouted in the ear.

  ‘Ouch!’ went he, collapsing to the floor.

  The sudden silence born to this appalling breach of social etiquette died an equally sudden death as its cause became apparent. It was Liza, Simon’s long- suffering girlfriend, and as she struck down the lad on a more or less regular basis, even Andy turned a Grecian-sightless to it. He drew the line at her putting the boot in though.

  ‘Nine o’clock!’ cried Liza as the regulars returned to their merry converse. ‘You’d be round at nine, you said.’

  In his head upon the floor Simon’s memory struck a sexual chord. But as his face was now receiving the unwelcome attentions of Dick’s lurcher, he was a bit stuck as yet to voice an eloquent apology.

  ‘I’ve been dangling in that bloody split-cane basket for an hour. My bum looks like a barbecued beefburger.’

  ‘Get your dog off my face, Dick,’ Simon spluttered.

  ‘Up, boy,’ said the poacher. ‘Come to heel.’

  Simon struggled to his feet. All sickly smiles. ‘I thought we agreed to meet here, Liza. I wondered why you were late. I was just coming round.’

  ‘You lying . . .’ Liza tried to swing a foot. ‘Get your bloody dog off my leg, Dick.’

  ‘Listen, Liza, please.’ Simon spat out pubic dog hair. ‘Something unexpected came up. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Very sorry?’ Liza flexed her nostrils. Fine young nostrils they were too. Set where nostrils should be set, beneath a pretty nose upon a pretty face, framed all about by an extravagance of fine young auburn hair. ‘What is that smell?’ she asked.

  ‘Smell? What smell?’ Simon began to fan at himself.

  ‘Smell,’ said Liza.

  Around the bar the regulars began to sniff. Though the smiting of Simon hadn’t been much of a thing in itself, the mention of the split-cane basket and the barbecued bum had drawn some interest. This latter talk of smells now had them hooked.

  Hooked, as in fish, possibly.

  ‘Fish!’ said Liza. ‘It’s fish. You stink of fish.’

  ‘Fish?’ said Simon. ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘It is fish,’ said Andy. ‘I noticed it when you came in. I was far too polite to mention it, of course.’

  Sniff sniff sniff, went the regulars and, ‘Fish fish fish,’ they said.

  ‘It’s not me,’ wailed Simon. ‘It’s Dick’s dog.’

  ‘It bloody is you, boy.’ The poacher leaned all too close and savoured Simon’s wang. ‘You honk of fish.’

  ‘Wet fish, not frozen,’ said the landlord.

  ‘You dirty pervert.’ Liza levelled a foot at Simon’s shin. A fine young foot it was too. Set where a fine young foot should be set. In a white leather shoe with a winkle-picker toe and a three-inch stiletto heel. Simon took to hopping all around and howling also.

  ‘Perhaps it’s part of Simon’s act,’ said Long Bob the chicken farmer, ducking his head to grin about the bar.

  ‘Act?’ The word was passed about to the accompaniment of shrugging shoulders.

  ‘Act?’ said Liza, louder than the rest. ‘What act is this?’

  ‘The act I saw him and Raymond rehearsing when I passed by the allotments earlier. That thing that mime artistes never tire of boring their audiences
with. You know the one I mean.’ Long Bob began to mime the mime in question.

  ‘Not bad,’ said one of the Roman Candles. ‘Can you do the one where you seem to be walking along, but you stay in the same place?”

  ‘Oh I can do that,’ said someone else. ‘That’s easy.’

  ‘I can juggle with three dead rabbits,’ Dick told Liza. ‘While balancing a pint of lager on the end of my wi—.’

  ‘Simon screamed Liza. ‘SIMON!’

  But suddenly Simon was nowhere to be seen. The special chemical inside his brain had made another of its split-second decisions.

  Raymond’s parcel was missing from the bar counter and all that remained to suggest that Simon had ever been there, was a half-gone pint, an IOU, an irate girlfriend with a lurcher once more up her leg, half a dozen full-grown men trying to get out of imaginary telephone boxes and a haunting smell of fish.

  Which was really quite a lot when you come to think about it.

  3

  Raymond was a sad and sorry schmuck.

  He sat, all hunched up, in his beastly little bubble and glared at the planet Venus. He couldn’t see too much of it, but all that he could see, he hated.

  His bubble stood on a sturdy tripod affair at the centre of a bleak grey plaza, surrounded by low, dull, bleak and equally grey buildings of the industrial persuasion. By swivelling around on his little seat Raymond could make out a whole host of other bubbles similar to his own. These ranged in size from the teeny-tiny to the dirty-great-big and housed an amazing assortment of what can only be described as ‘things’. Some whirled and thrashed about in their transparent prisons, others just sat in attitudes of desolation similar to that of Raymond.

  Kidnapped by aliens! This really was about as bad as it could possibly get. Being taken hostage by Middle Eastern maniacs was a grim enough business. But at least on Earth there was always some hope of release.

  Simon had a theory that when you were taken hostage in the Middle East, your kidnappers always negotiated a deal with a London publishing house for a share of the royalties on the bestselling book you would be expected to write as soon as you were released. Simon said he’d seen a ‘leaked’ office memo to this effect. And also that most kidnappings were only supposed to last for a month. It was all the delays with the agents getting the contracts typed out that held things up.

  Raymond was of a far less cynical turn of mind than his friend. Although he had always wondered how come it was usually journalists who could write well that got kidnapped.

  But this was the planet Venus. Oh dear.

  Raymond sniffed. But for the bubbles, the plaza was otherwise deserted. Where were all the bidders? And what might the bidders look like? He perused once more the tag that hung from the cord round his neck. It was printed in English. So Venusians surely spoke the English tongue. And he was breathing. So they seemed to breath air also. But what were they? Some superior race, no doubt. He was probably going to be sold as a pet. There were possibilities there. Especially if they wanted him for breeding purposes.

  Raymond’s stomach made grumbling noises. The lad shivered, he was very cold indeed. They might have left him his underwear. To be put on public display in your birthday suit. The shame. The terrible shame. Must be for ‘stud’ purposes, Raymond told himself. Hence the no knickers. Mind you, what with it being so cold and everything. And.

  And . . . Oh dear.

  Raymond suddenly clutched at himself in a shameless manner and rammed his spare fist into his face. He needed the toilet. It had been creeping up on him. And now it was here.

  Oh calamity.

  Perhaps the little seat concealed a commode. Raymond tore at it with his non-groin-holding hand. It didn’t budge.

  What to do? What to do?

  Find a hole. Yes, that seemed a reasonable idea. After all, the air had to be getting in somewhere. Raymond’s hands floundered about inside the bubble.

  ‘Hold on. Hold on,’ he wailed at himself. ‘Just a second or two longer. Oh dear Lord. Oh dear. Oh Lord.’ A probing finger found itself in the outside world.

  There was a small round hole just beneath the seat. Raymond took a careful aim. ‘Oh Lord. Oh yes. Glory be.’

  He slumped down onto the seat. A poor naked schmuck with a warm wet foot and a really stupid grin on his face.

  ‘And that’s enough of that, lot twenty-three,’ It was the voice of a terrible suddenness.

  ‘Aaaagh!’ went Raymond. ‘Toilet paper please.’

  ‘Now just you calm yourself.’

  Raymond cowered and peered and then found himself very much impressed. Smiling down at him was a beautiful being. It was a man, but it wasn’t. It was better than a man. A sort of idealized version of what a man should be. It was well over six feet in height, dressed in a floor-length toga. It raised a calming hand.

  It was completely silver.

  But for the eyes. Golden eyes. Staring from a face which expressed wisdom, calmness and compassion.

  An angel? An angel with a clipboard?

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ asked this vision.

  Raymond tried to get his mouth into gear, but the words just wouldn’t come. ‘Would you mind if I just asked you a few questions?’

  Raymond shook his head.

  ‘Just nod or shake your head. Oh you did, didn’t you? Splendid. Specimen of Earth life. Male. Is that correct?’

  Raymond managed a mumbly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Splendid. And a very fine specimen too, if I might say so.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Name?’ asked the being.

  ‘Raymond,’ said Raymond.

  ‘George,’ said the being.

  ‘Hello, George.’ Raymond waggled his fingers in foolish greeting.

  ‘Not me George. You George,’ said the being.

  ‘Me Raymond,’ said Raymond. ‘I mean, I’m Raymond. My name’s Raymond.’

  ‘Well, if anyone asks, say it’s George. It makes things easier all the way round.’

  ‘But I’m Raymond.’

  The being consulted his clipboard. ‘I have you down as George here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s a mistake then.’ Raymond suddenly brightened. It was all a mistake, that had to be it.

  ‘A mistake?’ asked the being in a kindly tone.

  ‘Yes.’ Raymond bobbed up and down. ‘You see I was on my allotment and there was this flying starfish called Abdullah. And I passed this initiative test set by the Sultan of Uranus for The Divine Council of Cosmic Superfolk.’

  ‘Did you get a certificate?’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond. ‘I didn’t get a certificate.’

  ‘Typical.’ The being flicked through sheets of paper on his clipboard. ‘Someone’s really fouled up this time.’

  ‘Then it is all a mistake?’ Raymond began to wring his hands in a pathetic pleading fashion.

  ‘Tell you what,’ the being smiled upon Raymond in a manner that seemed to momentarily warm him from head to naked toe, ‘will you trust me to sort this out for you?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Raymond’s head bobbed up and down.

  ‘Well, you just take a little rest now. Go to sleep for a bit and I’ll get it all fixed in no time at all. What do you say?’

  The golden eyes stared deeply into Raymond’s. ‘Go to sleep and it will all be well.’

  ‘Go to sleep. Yes. Thank you.’ The boy in the bubble smiled out at his silver saviour. His eyelids became heavy and his head began to droop. All would be well.

  ‘Sleep well.’

  And Raymond would certainly have drifted off completely into a soft and silvery slumber, had he not somehow managed to get a big toe jammed into the little air-hole beneath his seat.

  ‘Ouch!’ went Raymond, leaping up to free himself.

  And, ‘Ouch!’ went Raymond again, as his head struck the top of the bubble.

  And, ‘Aaaeeeiii!’ went Raymond, as sudden agony informed him that he had just sat down upon two spherical portions of his anatomy, which
should never ever be sat down upon. Bent double in paroxysms of pain, his eyes starting from his head, Raymond sought help from the silver being. But the being was striding away.

  And the being wasn’t listening. In fact, the being was laughing. Very loudly. And between great guffaws of laughter Raymond caught just the two words. One was ‘certificate’ and the other was ‘schmuck’.

  ‘You dirty rotten bas . . .’ Raymond made fists, but he unmade them on the instant and just stared dumb with disbelief. For something most extraordinary now occurred.

  The laughing striding silver being seemed to blur and then in mid-stride, without a broken step, it underwent a stunning transformation. No longer strode the sleek and shining superman, now strode instead a thing all shaggy spines and dragging wattles. But one still carrying a clipboard.

  Raymond rubbed at his eyes, his pains forgotten. He had seen that, hadn’t he? The being had just pulled off the finest quick-change act this side of . . . where? Here obviously. Raymond looked on in redoubled awe.

  The being in its new form now stopped beside another bubble. Inside this something thrashed around. Something all shaggy spines and waggling wattles. The being spoke to it and soon it quietened and sank down in a heap. And then the being strode away once more.

  Raymond watched it as it changed again to mimic the thing in a further bubble. And he saw it change twice more before it went beyond his line of vision.

  ‘Well bless my old brown dog!’ said Raymond. That was a sneaky trick and no mistake. Appear before your captive in an idealized form of himself, speak a few honeyed words to calm him down, then what? Hypnotize him to sleep, that was what.

  Raymond nursed his tender places. If he hadn’t caught his toe, he would have drifted off along with the rest of them.

  ‘I wonder what that fellow looks like without the special effects,’ Raymond wondered. ‘And I wonder what I should do for the best now. Play dead and see what happens next, I suppose.’

  And so that’s exactly what Raymond did.

  His stomach took to grumbling in a very hollow tone. He was cold and hungry and he hurt. His fellow captives slept on all around him. Perhaps they were cold and hungry too. Probably they were. Had Raymond been capable of adopting a detached attitude to the situation, he might well have felt some admiration for the ingenuity of the Venusian shape-shifter. No need to pay out on food for the lots before they were sold. And no screaming from the lots to put off the buyers. It was all very clever really.