The Greatest Show Off Earth

by Robert Rankin

  But now, as he sat, somewhat upon the edge of his stool, he realized that it must be true. For the proof stood right there before him.

  Not that Mr Hilsavise owned a dog. He didn’t. Nor a cat. Mr Hilsavise was in love with his work.

  And Simon supposed, his work must be in love with him.

  It was all there. The pumpkin head. The cauliflower ear. The eyes of beetroot red. The hands were two bunches of bananas. And a whole lot more. But it all looked as it always looked . . .

  Full of menace.

  If this man wasn’t in league with the devil, then it was purely due to an oversight on the part of the Prince of Darkness.

  The gardener’s apprentice smiled his winning smile. But it didn’t come up a winner this time.

  ‘Where is my flat-back?’ asked Mr Hilsavise.

  ‘I took it home to give it a clean,’ Simon lied.

  ‘Oh I am so terribly sorry,’ said the apple-barrel-chested giant. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘No idea of what?’ was not the question Simon should have asked.

  ‘No idea that your home was now the car-park behind the supermarket. Been evicted, have you?’

  ‘Er no, ha ha ha.’ Simon tried really hard to make it sound like laughter. ‘The flat-back’s there for safety’s sake. Perhaps you noticed the wheel clamp I put on it. That should keep the joyriders at bay, eh?’

  ‘These would be the joyriders who have driven off on my Allen Scythe, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s in the garage, having an oil change. At my own expense, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Mr Hilsavise came slowly along the bar. The sulphurous smell preceeded him. Brimstone, that’s what they used to call sulphur. Mr Hilsavise loomed above Simon. ‘The horse field at the bottom of the-lane-that-dare-not-speak-its-name, nine-thirty tomorrow. I will be there. You will be there. My flat-back will be there. My Allen Scythe will be there. Do I make myself absolutely clear?’

  Simon’s head bobbed up and down. His teeth were trying very hard to smile. Between the chattering.

  ‘Because if you’re not. And they’re not . . .’ Mr Hilsavise leaned hideously near and whispered certain explicit details into Simon’s ear. Simon’s legs and eyes crossed simultaneously.

  ‘Good lad.’ Hell’s horticulturist patted Simon’s trembling shoulder. Returned to his Guinness. Drank it down and left the bar.

  Andy, who had been maintaining a low profile throughout the foregoing, now presented Simon with his beer and nibbles.

  ‘Dry roasted nuts?’ he enquired.

  ‘Your hearing’s most acute,’ said Simon.

  And that was the start of it.

  Simon should just have drunk up and gone home. Kept a clear head for his day of destiny.

  But he didn’t.

  He finished his pint and he ordered another. He would buy out Mr Hilsavise. He would buy out the whole village. Set himself up as the squire. Things of that nature.

  By eight the bar was busy and Simon was in high spirits. The Scribe was at the bar to Simon’s left. Here on one of his non-scribing evenings he was, as ever, bitterly bewailing his lot. To whit that scribes of far less talent than himself were earning millions, whilst he was forced to live upon a pittance, made bearable only by the consumption of large quantities of alcohol.

  Simon really wasn’t all that interested. His interests lay with the tall young woman seated to his right. She was something of a looker and had come in by herself. Out of politeness Simon had engaged her in conversation.

  ‘It’s called short-term memory loss,’ he explained.

  The looker nodded her striking profile. ‘Must make life very difficult for you,’ she said with a yawn.

  ‘It has up until now,’ replied Simon, who always liked a challenge. ‘But I have a substantial inheritance due tomorrow which will make me a man of independent means.’

  ‘Really?’ said the looker. ‘And when did you learn of this?’

  Now a lesser fellow would have fallen into that and said ‘Why just this afternoon’, but not Simon. After all, he was playing on the home ground, as it were.

  ‘It was bequeathed to me when I was a child. Would you care for another drink?’

  ‘A Bloody Mary would be nice. I love your teeth, by the way.’

  And that was the start of the next bit of it.

  The looker had another Bloody Mary and another. Simon could see Raymond’s line of credit growing shorter and shorter. But he could also see the looker growing more and more ‘relaxed’.

  She wasn’t much of a talker for a looker. But Simon, being the professional that he was, coaxed her along with subtle flattery towards the wit and wisdom of her words. Presently she asked him, ‘Do you have a car outside?’

  Simon made the pretence of consulting certain notes in his wallet. ‘It appears that I have one of my firm’s executive demonstration vehicles on hold in the car-park behind the supermarket. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I just thought it might be nice to go and have a screw in it.’ And that was the start of the last bit of it.

  Simon got a carry-out with all that remained of Raymond’s credit line, then he and the looker left the pub. They walked arm in arm to the car-park behind the supermarket. The looker was giggling a lot. And so was Simon, who had drunk very much more than he meant to. By the time they had crossed the car-park and climbed into the flat-back, they were carrying each other’s clothes. And then it was rocking flat-back time. With Simon in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Yes yes yes,’ went the looker, doing the sexual pogo and striking her head repeatedly on the underside of the roof. ‘Yes yes yes, oh ow wow wow.’

  ‘Yes,’ went Simon. ‘Book shanka boom.’

  And of course it went on for hours. They stopped at intervals and changed positions.

  They finished the carry-out, opened the windows and smoked cigarettes. And then they went at it again.

  ‘You won’t forget me when you’re rich?’ asked the looker during a moment when she didn’t have her mouth full.

  ‘No no no.’ Simon kept the rhythm going. ‘Meet me to-mor-row.’ ‘When when when?’

  Simon took a breath. ‘Three-thirty, in the high street. I pick up the money then. It’s all in cash. I’ll take you out for something to eat. Something else to eat. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Boom Shanka Booooooom!’

  Quite unforgivable!

  And that was the end of the last bit of it. Because the next thing Simon knew, he was waking up alone, naked in the flat-back at nine o’clock in the morning with a lot of lady shoppers looking in. And this terrible hangover.

  So now he went into the bookies.

  ‘Good morning, Simon,’ said Mr Jones the Welsh turf accountant. ‘Lost, is it are you? Like the new hat.’

  ‘I have come to place a bet,’ said Simon, clutching his hatless but hangovered head.

  ‘A bet, you say? the bookie looked aghast. ‘But you don’t bet at all. Never heard of such a thing, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well you have now. I had this dream you see.’

  ‘Ah,’ went the bookie, ‘dream, is it? Well, I would strongly recommend against that. Go along off to work would be my advice to you. Pay off the wheel clamp and reclaim the Allen Scythe from Long Bob who stole it, so he did. There’s words of wisdom for you. Take them and leave.’

  ‘I’ll just place the bet for now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘It’s a dreadful mistake you’re making.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Simon, ‘I appreciate what you’re saying. But I am determined on this. I will place the bet and that is that.’

  ‘Be it upon your own head then.’

  ‘Be it so.” Simon took out his envelope and read off the horses’ names.’

  ‘And you dreamed these four horses would win?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon, as this was the lie he had decided upon.

  ‘They’re all rank outsiders.’

  ‘So much the better when they come in.’

  ‘I shall nev
er forgive myself when they don’t,’ said Mr Jones.

  ‘Here is my money,’ said Simon. ‘Now write me out my betting slip.”

  ‘That’s one hundred pounds, boy!’ Mr Jones fell backwards from his seat. Happily his wife, Mrs Jones, was at the mop and bucket to his rear and caught him.

  ‘You naughty boy, Simon,’ said herself, as she applied eau-de-Cologne to her husband’s wrists. ‘Frightening him with one hundred pounds all at once like that. And him Bramfield’s token ethnic minority and everything. Racial harassment so it is.’

  ‘Look, just get him back into his chair and make him fill out my betting slip. Please.’ Mrs Jones fussed her husband into his chair. She placed a Biro between his fingers and soothed his fevered brow.

  ‘Will you be paying the tax?’ asked Jones in a quavery wavery voice. ‘Bugger the tax,’ said Simon.

  Mrs Jones crossed herself. ‘Blessed saints and chapel hat pegs, whatever will become of us?’

  ‘ Oh deary deary me.’ Mr Jones shook his head dismally and filled in Simon’s betting slip. He pushed it under the security glass and accepted the two fifty-pound notes. ‘How do you ring up one hundred pounds on the cash register?’ he asked his wife.

  Simon left the premises. He had a spring in his step.

  Mrs Jones watched him through the Venetian blinds. ‘So long, sucker,’ she said.

  And Mr Jones was out of his chair. He was jumping up and down with a clenched fist in the air and going ‘Yes!’ over and over again.

  Simon had enough small change to purchase some sandwiches, a bottle of Lucozade and a packet of cigarettes. And having done so, Simon left the village.

  He felt it prudent to seek haven in a neutral port until his ship of fortune dropped anchor in the high-street harbour. As it were.

  There was a long-abandoned game keeper’s hut that he knew of. It had a comfy mattress on the floor. This mattress had two deep depressions in it. They were just the size of Simon’s knees. Perhaps he went there to pray, who can say.

  He was certainly praying in it today though. Praying and waiting and worrying. What if it didn’t work? What if the horses didn’t win? One hundred pounds he’s paid out. One hundred pounds! But it had to work. He knew it had to work. And he knew that shortly he’d be very rich.

  But that was hours away. Hours and hours and hours.

  By ten o’clock Simon had finished his sandwiches and by eleven his cigarettes too. He really wished he’d splashed out on some aspirins instead.

  He tried to get some sleep. But he couldn’t. He tried counting seconds. He tried counting slats in the hut walls. He tried counting nails in the slats. He did press-ups. He did jumping on the spot. The he did holding his poor sick head and sitting very still for a while.

  About a million years later he did getting up to leave.

  As it was early-closing day, the high street was deserted. So no-one noticed Simon as he sidled on his way. But it didn’t ease his tension and by the time he’d reached the betting shop, Simon’s heart was trying to punch its way out of his chest, his mouth was as dry as a skeleton’s bum. And his head still ached.

  The betting shop had undergone a subtle change of atmosphere. No. ‘Subtle’ is not the word.

  Mr Jones was on the telephone. He was shouting things in Welsh. Things were being shouted back at him. A selection of village oldsters loafed about. They wore tweedy caps and those cardigans that you get given for Christmas when you reach a certain age. Two of them applauded when Simon came in. Another doffed his cap, tugged at the place where his forelock used to be and said, ‘Gawd bless you, guvnor.’

  ‘YES!’ went Simon inwardly.

  Mr Jones slammed down the phone, turned around and saw the gardener’s apprentice. ‘Aaaaaagh!’ went Mr Jones.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Jones,’ said Simon. ‘Mrs Jones.’

  ‘Aaaaaagh!’ went Mrs Jones, clinging to her husband’s arm.

  ‘Something troubling you?’ asked Simon.

  Mr Jones was lost for words.

  ‘You bloody bastard!’ said his wife.

  ‘Excuse me please?’ Simon flashed his dentalware.

  ‘Ruination!’ Mr Jones found words again. ‘You’ve bloody ruined me, boy.’ ‘You mean I won?’ Simon displayed the surprise he’d been rehearsing

  ‘Won? Bloody won? You’ve cleaned us out. Thousands and thousands and—’

  ‘Thousands? Simon asked. ‘My word. I trust you have enough to pay me with.

  ‘A whole week’s takings,’ mumbled Mr Jones. Which Simon overheard. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘I will pay you your winnings. The bastards at head office say I must.’ ‘Bastards? Simon shook his head. ‘What is all this talk of bastards?’ ‘Bastards like you,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Rich bastards!’

  ‘I find this change of attitude surprising.’ Simon didn’t. ‘Earlier today you seemed so concerned that I would lose my money. I thought you would rejoice in my good fortune.”

  Mr Jones’ lip was all of a quiver.

  Simon began to pat at his pockets. ‘Now what did I do with that betting slip?’ ‘What?’ went Mr Jones.

  ‘I put it somewhere.’ Simon began to pat himself all over. ‘Oh no, my wallet. My wallet?’

  ‘Lost, is it?’ Mr Jones began to rub his hands together.

  ‘It’s been stolen!’ Simon’s face was the old grey mask of horror.

  ‘Oh what a terrible shame.’ Jones began to bob up and down on his chair. ‘Can’t pay out without the ticket. Oh what a terrible shame.’ He and his wife began to laugh.

  ‘Just my little joke.’ Simon produced his wallet. ‘Knew it would make you smile.’

  ‘You bloody—’

  ‘Now now now.’ Simon waggled a finger. ‘Let’s have no more of that.’ He took out the betting slip and placed it upon the counter beneath the security glass. The hand of Jones moved towards it.

  ‘Naturally a witnessed photocopy is lodged with my solicitor.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Jones, snatching the slip.

  ‘And I worked out the sum of my winnings down to two decimal places. I do hope no disparity will exist between my computation and your own.’

  The bookie made clenched fists.

  ‘Just pay the bastard out,’ said Mrs Jones.

  ‘YES!’

  Simon’s bank was only six shops along from the bookies. And even with the two heavy carrier bags cutting rings into his fingers, a pretty short jog.

  Well, no-one about. Early closing day.

  Early closing day!

  The half-a-million-dollar man stared at the big locked door of the bank. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Oh damn.’

  And then he said, ‘Oh shit!’

  To the accompaniment of that distinctive wheel-screeching sound which always screams ‘Big Trouble’, a car swerved out from its parking place across the road. It was an old car, one of those Jags so beloved of the criminal fraternity in shows like The Sweeney,

  It didn’t half shift. It was over the road and up on to the pavement before you could say ‘shit’ (again).

  Simon ran like a mad thing.

  But what sort of chance did he have? Not a lot. Unless the Jag suddenly ran out of petrol, of course. Which it didn’t. Of course.

  It swept along the pavement, knocking down the new litter bin which had been erected by public subscription, and mangling the postmaster’s bike. Simon’s shoes burned rubber.

  Now it could have been one hell of a chase. Down side roads and leafy lanes. Across fields. There could have been lots of gates getting burst through, chickens fluttering, near collisions with oncoming tractors. That kind of thing.

  But real life’s not like that. Simon didn’t get five yards. The Jag brought him down in the locked entrance way of the supermarket. Not fatally. Just a clip. But sufficient to get the job done. Professional.

  Car doors flew open. Masked men leapt out. Three masked men and big chaps all. With sticks.

  And one woman.

  Sh
e wasn’t wearing a mask.

  And even from where Simon now lay, with three right boots pressing down on his chest, she looked like a looker.

  She looked like the looker.

  She was the looker!

  ‘Aw shit,’ Simon gasped. ‘Aw shit shit shit.’

  The looker looked down. She was smiling. ‘Remember me?’ she asked.

  ‘Aw shit,’ said Simon once again.

  ‘Just take the money,’ said the looker. ‘Don’t hurt him, it would be a waste. The money’s all we want.’

  ‘No,’ wailed Simon. ‘No no no.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the looker. ‘Yes yes yes.’ And she wasn’t pogoing this time. Just standing still. And smiling. The three masked men took their feet from Simon’s chest and prised the carrier bags from his still so tightly gripping fingers.

  ‘Who are you?’ blubbered Simon. ‘The IRA, is it?’

  ‘IRA?’ The looker laughed. ‘Not the IRA. Something more than that. Not that you would understand. This money is needed to help fund a perilous mission. To take up arms against an evil adversary. To fight for the cause of justice. You are giving up your money for something that is true and honourable. Simon, B.E.A.S.T. salutes you.’

  The masked men clapped. One of them said, ‘Nice one, mate.’ Strangely no record exists of exactly what Simon said next.

  10

  Now, time passes differently in space, and Raymond was still at the feast in the grand salon of the SS Salamander. Only moments having elapsed since he’d spoken those words, of which strangely no record exists.

  The banqueters had done with their applause and returned to their banqueting. Professor Merlin poured Raymond another drink.

  ‘Pin back your lugholes, Raymond,’ said the showman, ‘for I must lay some deep do-do on your doorstep.’

  Raymond replied with an inebriated, ‘Eh?’

  ‘Things that you must know. True things, all true. The gold brick and untarnished. What you hear may not be to your taste and you may wish to dismiss it. This will not, however, disenfranchise it of its verisimilitude.’

  ‘Eh?’ went Raymond once again.

  ‘Firstly, I must regretfully inform you that you are not drunk.’