The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends

by Robert Rankin

  And I thanked Mr Bell (for now I return to ‘First Monkey’), and I told him that I was very grateful that he had gone to so much trouble to bring me back to life.

  ‘What is a friend for?’ said Mr Bell. Which was a rhetorical question and I gave him a hug.

  *

  We lunched in a big refractory dome. And this one too was underwater and transparent, too, so we could see the big fish swimming above.

  They put me in mind of the sky whale and I told my friend all about the adventures that I had become involved in after I had died.

  Mr Bell listened with interest, but also tucked into his lunch. He had lost none of his appetite and I was glad for that. And of course he had survived his encounter with Arthur Knapton, the Pearly Emperor, at the Crystal Palace in eighteen fifty-one, and I was very glad for that, too.

  ‘So,’ I said, when I had done with eating, ‘it has all been a most extraordinary business and I for one am glad it is over and done with. Now we can return to eighteen twenty-four and finally enjoy Beethoven conducting the Ninth.’

  Mr Bell drew breath and stared at me.

  ‘Ah,’ said he, and he made a thoughtful face.

  ‘You did defeat Arthur Knapton, did you not?’

  Mr Bell made a slightly more thoughtful face.

  ‘You didn't, did you?’ I said.

  Mr Bell made so-so movements with his hands and fingers.

  ‘He is still on the loose, isn't he?’

  Mr Bell nodded sadly.

  ‘Tell me the worst,’ I said.

  And Mr Bell did.

  ‘As you will know,’ said Mr Bell, ‘when I set out to solve a case, I do so with precision and an eye for the finest detail. I leave nothing to chance, I am scrupulous, I am exact, I—’

  ‘And I will have to stop you there,’ I said, ‘because, as you have said, you did not apprehend Mr Arthur Knapton.’

  ‘It was not for the want of trying,’ said Mr Bell, ‘and not for lack of skills upon my part.’

  ‘Did you blow up the Crystal Palace?’ I asked.

  Mr Bell made that thoughtful face once more.

  ‘Did you save Queen Victoria from assassination, Mr Bell?’

  ‘Yes, I did that,’ said himself.

  ‘But at some cost to the capital of the British Empire?’

  ‘Certain landmarks that were there are no longer there,’ my friend confessed, and then he went on to tell me the whole story.

  It certainly did not lack for excitement, nor for ingenuity upon the part of my friend. Indeed, he came up with several ploys and stratagems which I have no hesitation in saying had to be unique in the field of crime solution. The business regarding Her Majesty the Queen and the see-through aspidistra plant was little less than inspired. And his employment of radio waves during the period he spent in suspended animation, prior to erecting the full-size facsimile of the Forth Bridge, was a work of genius.

  I must emphasise my admiration for the way he dealt with the conundrum of the Greek lady-boy and the travelling rhinoceros impersonator. And his bravery when confronted by quite so many fire-walkers whilst he foiled the evil intentions of the psychic triplets should have earned him the Order of the Garter at the very least.

  I oooohed and aaaahed and applauded when he spoke of how he dug the underground tunnels and perfected the means to walk upside down on the ceiling. And his description of how he confounded the army of killer ants was so funny that I was hard-pressed to keep my luncheon down.

  ‘But you did not catch Arthur Knapton?’ I said, when he paused to take breath and drink water.

  ‘Not as such,’ replied my friend. ‘But let me tell you about the countess and the sentient trifle.’

  And so it went on for some time. I would have liked, of course, to have related my friend's tale in full here. But as I lacked for pen and paper when he told it, I did not take it all down in detail, so I would hesitate to repeat it from memory lest I neglect some salient detail or miscount the number of dwarves.

  And as, of course, I was not personally involved in these particular adventures, I would not wish to ‘inflict’ them upon the unsuspecting reader.*

  ‘But you did not catch Arthur Knapton,’ I said, when all was said and done.

  ‘Regretfully, no,’ said my friend, a-shaking his head. ‘But I am confident that I will next time.’ Mr Bell lowered his voice and added, ‘Because I will have to next time.’

  ‘What was that?’ I said.

  ‘Next time will be the last time,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘The very last time to stop him. If I fail next time, then that is that.’

  ‘And we can go and see Beethoven?’

  Mr Bell shook his head once more. ‘If I get it wrong next time, it will be all up for us and we will never travel anywhere through time again.’

  ‘But we have agreed that I must,’ I said, ‘because I must die by both barrels of Lord Brentford's fowling piece.’

  ‘If I fail,’ said Mr Bell, ‘then all will be confounded.’

  ‘Please explain what you mean by that,’ I said.

  ‘Recall how I told you that Arthur Knapton escaped in the pedal-driven ornithopter that was hidden inside the artificial elephant?’

  ‘And you pursued him by means of an improvised rocket pack comprising two fire extinguishers?’

  ‘Quite so. Well, it was during our confrontation on London Bridge—’

  ‘Which you blew up.’

  ‘That was not entirely my fault. Regardless, it was during this confrontation that he cursed me for foiling his plans to assassinate Her Majesty and plant himself upon the throne of England, and he vowed to take a terrible revenge upon my person and upon all the people of England.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘You certainly got him riled.’

  Mr Bell chewed on his bottom lip. ‘Well, he vowed a terrible vengeance,’ he said. ‘For eighteen eighty-five.’

  ‘That year rings a bell,’ said I.

  ‘It should,’ said Mr Bell, ‘because it is the year that the Martians invaded Earth.’

  ‘And failed,’ I said, ‘because we all know what happens to Martians on Earth – they die from Earthly bacteria. That is called an Eternal Verity, by the way – something we simply know to be true, cos it is.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Except this time, in eighteen eighty-five, the Martians will not fall prey to Earthly bacteria. Because this time those Martians will all be inoculated with penicillin by Mr Arthur Knapton, Pearly Emperor and apparently also King of Mars.’

  ‘Oh your dear dead mother,’ I said.

  ‘Oh my dear dead mother indeed,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  * And we all know how it works. In theory. (R. R.)

  * Outrageous! (R. R.)

  36

  ‘n eighteen eighty-five,’ said Mr Bell, ‘I was a student at Oxford. Happily, the Martians never laid waste to the country that far north.’

  ‘Well, they will this time,’ I said, ‘if we are unable to stop them.’

  ‘Bravo, Darwin,’ said my friend, and he patted me on the shoulder. ‘I knew you would not let me down. In for a penny, in for a pound, as it might be.’

  If we had inhabited the pages of a comic book, I am certain that a question mark would have formed above my head at this moment. ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked Mr Bell.

  ‘You volunteered yourself without being asked by me,’ he replied. ‘You said, “If we are unable to stop them.’”

  ‘Well, stop them we must,’ I said.

  And we shook hands upon that.

  We returned to the Marie Lloyd and within her we travelled back in time.

  ‘Would it be presumptuous of me to ask,’ I ventured, ‘whether you have any plan of campaign whatsoever germinating, as it might be, as some seedling in your mind?’

  Mr Bell was opening champagne. ‘I plan to share this with you,’ he replied.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘A bath and some sleep. I will cogitate upon these pressin
g matters. I will not let you down this time, I promise you.’

  I gave myself a scratch and said, ‘I trust you.’

  ‘But tell me,’ said my friend as he poured champagne for me, ‘how do you feel in yourself? How do you feel?’

  ‘I feel very well indeed,’ I said, ‘and glad to be once more alive. Being dead was not so bad, but I prefer life any time.’ I took my champagne. We clinked our glasses. I toasted Mr Bell.

  ‘So,’ said he. ‘To eighteen eighty-five.’

  In the early months of that momentous year, the man of the hour was that fearless explorer, big-game hunter and pioneer of the air Colonel James Richardson-Brown. Lionised by high society, admired by ladies and envied by men, Colonel James had slashed his way through the jungles of darkest Africa in search of lost cities, bagged lions on the plains of the Serengeti and taken potshots at aerial kraken from the bewickered basket of a hot-air balloon. His lectures at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, were given before packed audiences with the assistance of his amour and travelling companion, that silken lovely Miss Defy, a winsome creature of proven courage and outstanding natural beauty.

  Together they reflected the glory of the British Empire and personified all that was right with the world.

  Mr Cameron Bell had, in his youth, been a great admirer of Colonel James Richardson-Brown, and, it had to be said, a solitary worshipper of the gorgeous Miss Defy.* It seemed natural therefore to my friend that he should seek out this hero and heroine of the Empire and enlist their help to protect the realm from the forthcoming Martian invasion.

  I landed the Marie Lloyd at night, to the rear of the Bell family home in Kent, switched off the ignition and hung the key once more about my neck.

  Then to be assailed by a dreadful odour.

  ‘Whatever is that?’ I asked in dismay. ‘Has something died hereabouts?’

  ‘That's quite enough of that,’ said Mr Bell, who was as always impeccably dressed. Impeccably dressed but smelling (as I believe the phrase goes) like a tart's handbag in summer.

  ‘It is eau de cologne,’ said my friend, wafting his fragrance in my direction.

  ‘It is awful,’ I told him.

  ‘To you it is.’ Mr Bell did dustings at his dust-free lapels. ‘It is not concocted to attract those of the simian species. Ladies, I am told, find it quite irresistible.’

  ‘Ladies?’ I queried. ‘And who told you this?’

  Mr Bell gave a little throat-clearing cough. ‘Aaaaagter Cxrronay,’ he said.

  ‘I did not quite catch that,’ I said.

  ‘Aleister Crowley,’ said my friend. ‘It is composed from civet, ambergris and musk – ladies adore it.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, and, ‘All becomes clear. You are thinking to entrance this Miss Defy woman with your godless perfume?’

  Mr Bell's face became tomato red.

  ‘It just will not do,’ said I to Mr Bell.

  ‘I know my own business best,’ said himself.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It will not do. It is far too late in the story to suddenly introduce a “love interest”. Or, I would argue, even a “strong lead female”. I do not think we have encountered a single woman throughout the entire course of our adventures. And whilst this is inconceivable and will certainly preclude Nineteenth Century Fox from wishing to acquire the film rights, some might argue that we have created the very first “buddy book”.’

  Mr Bell's mouth opened and closed but no sounds came from it. When finally they did, they came in words to the effect that breaking down the fourth wall was not a good thing, and I should for the remaining pages of the adventure keep such thoughts to myself.

  I shrugged and nodded. ‘You smell very nice,’ I said to Mr Bell.

  ‘That is much better. So, dress for a day in the city. Bring some light armaments, and if you are thinking to do something witty, such as smearing the soles of your shoes with dung, do not!’

  ‘As if I would,’ I said to Mr Bell, and repaired to my cabin and my wardrobe.

  An hour later, moonlight found us in an acquired carriage, pulled by an acquired horse and travelling in the direction of central London.

  ‘Colonel Richardson-Brown will be signing copies of his latest best-selling epistle The Life of the Air Kraken at Foyles* this evening, with a champagne reception later at The Ritz.’

  ‘I do like champagne.’ I smacked my lips. ‘And I do very much like The Ritz.’

  ‘Then you will find the evening very much to your liking. I must convince the colonel and his lovely lady –’ and Mr Bell's cheeks coloured once more ‘– of the reality of the forthcoming Martian invasion. This will not be easy.’

  ‘You could show them your ray gun, or even give them a guided tour around the Marie Lloyd.’

  ‘If it proves necessary, then so it must be.’ Mr Bell had a very intense expression on his face and I could see that he was a very worried man. This was hardly surprising, really, because it was after all his abortive attempt to capture Arthur Knapton at the Great Exhibition of eighteen fifty-one which had caused that rotter to vow terrible vengeance and unleash his bacteriologically immune Martians upon the world. Mr Bell must certainly have been feeling some guilt and some consternation. I have to say that I did not feel particularly confident.

  We drove on in silence.

  It was wonderful to be back in London. So much was exactly as I had remembered it. Certainly, as this was eighteen eighty-five, the great city lacked for the tall Tesla towers which broadcast electricity across the Empire's capital without the need for cables, and none of the back-engineered technology gained from the abandoned Martian spaceships was in evidence. No mighty airships passed overhead, no electric hansoms purred by. But it was London. My London. Mine and Mr Bell's, and we were glad to see it again. Although we worried for its survival.

  ‘You had best exhibit discretion regarding your vocal capabilities,’ said my friend. ‘And you do look very smart and smell very nice.’

  ‘Carbolic soap,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘Clean in body and thought and deed. That is me.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  There was quite a queue outside Foyles, of lords and ladies dressed in the height of fashion. The lords affected noble poses, shoulders back and chins thrust upwards. The ladies fluttered fans before their faces. As well they might, given the preponderance of male perfume that burdened the evening air.

  Mr Bell did not, of course, have an entrance ticket. He did, however, have his handshake and his imagination. And without a by your leave from myself, he lifted me suddenly into his arms, shouted, ‘Exotic animal delivery for Colonel Richardson-Brown,’ and pressed his way to the front of the queue. Where he employed his handshake.

  We had very good seats, right at the front, and I thoroughly enjoyed the lecture. There was no doubt that the colonel was an extremely good-looking and charismatic young man, or that the astonishing Miss Defy was anything less than adorable.

  But as the colonel's tales continued, tales of adventure and bravery and derring-do, growing ever in extravagance and wonder, I began to smell something that was not composed of civet, ambergris and musk.

  I began to smell a rat.

  ‘Mr Bell,’ I whispered to my friend. ‘I do believe that the colonel is, how shall I put this, being a little economical with the truth.’

  The colonel was at this moment holding forth about his encounters with a yeti on the slopes of Kangchenjunga. And miming the employment of a martial art he named as Dimac to demonstrate how he had saved the lives of numerous Sherpas, to then be carried shoulder-high to their village where he was immediately added to the pantheon of Tibetan Gods.

  Mr Bell shushed me and sighed. I noted a rather foolish expression spread over his face. It was clear that he had eyes and ears for none but Miss Defy.

  *

  The book signing went almost without incident. My appearance at the signing table in the arms of Mr Bell occasioned Miss Defy to draw out a derringer and express a wish to ‘bag’ me.

  I enj
oyed the champagne and The Ritz, though.

  Mr Bell and I dwelt on the outskirts of the crowd.

  ‘You do know,’ I whispered to my friend, ‘that he makes most of this stuff up. I will wager you he's never travelled further south than Brighton.’

  Mr Bell did chewings at his lip. ‘I have made my observations of the colonel,’ he said, ‘and have drawn certain conclusions of my own.’

  ‘Such as that his complexion is not “tanned by the relentless sun of the Sahara” as he averred, but tinted by coconut oil from Boots the Chemist?’

  ‘Harsh,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But true. That Miss Defy is a beautiful woman, don't you think?’

  ‘Enchanting,’ I said. ‘But do you really believe these people can actually help us?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Mr Bell.

  And I trusted him.

  Presently the champagne was done and in ones and twos the gentry drifted away. Eventually all that remained were the colonel and his small entourage: publisher, publicist, broken-nosed guardian and his lovely companion.

  And us.

  ‘Colonel,’ said Mr Bell, marching up to the colonel and offering a smart and faultless salute.

  ‘At ease,’ said the colonel, giving some kind of salute in reply. Then, sighting me, he continued, ‘Chap with the ape, do keep that under control.’

  Mr Bell ignored this slight. ‘I have an urgent matter to discuss,’ said he. ‘The future of the Empire rests upon it.’

  ‘Future of the Empire, eh?’ The adventurous author tugged out his pocket watch. ‘Can give you a couple of mins, I suppose. Spit it out.’

  ‘A private matter,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘No secrets here,’ said the colonel.

  Mr Bell leaned forwards and whispered certain words into the colonel's ear. I was not privy to these words, but I assumed that Mr Bell had drawn something incriminating from his observation of the colonel and was making the hint that this incriminating something might well be publicised should the colonel not deign to offer him a private audience.

  The colonel coughed and flustered. ‘Best come up to my rooms,’ said he. ‘We will discuss these matters in private.’

  ‘Do bring your charming companion,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I have every intention of bringing mine.’