The Abominable Showman

by Robert Rankin

  The count, now bathed and hatted, shook his hatted head.

  ‘All in time and very soon,’ he said. ‘Now hasten to the grand landing deck and make sure that all is prepared to welcome Our Lady of Space.’

  ‘You definitely think she’s coming then?’ said Atters.

  ‘Many will know my wrath if She is not.’

  ‘And me among the first I trust,’ said Atters.

  33

  I do have to say that The Leviathan really was a beautiful sight. Beyond hung the great blue disc of planet Earth, where I viewed the Americas and the Atlantic Ocean. And above in the star-strewn blackness of space, that vast and stately vessel. I could see the Crystal Palace glass house high atop it, glittering like clustered diamonds in the rays of sunlight. Or, rather, as I now know, in the rays of holy radiance that flung themselves toward Mankind through the mighty lens of Heaven.

  I could see too the many glazed plazas where the rich folk came and went. The panoramic windows of the countless restaurants, the docking bays where smaller space craft nested. And what must surely be one million portholes. It was a sight to inspire much awe, a sight of abounding wonder.

  And if it had not been for the fact that I was right on the verge of peeing my trousers, I am sure I would have appreciated it.

  ‘It is the balance of equipoise, you see, chief,’ said Barry. ‘Or Newtonian physics, each force having an equal and opposing force, and all that kind of caper. Beauty balanced by ugliness, pleasure by pain and things of that nature, generally.’

  As I was hardly able to speak, I sullenly ground my teeth.

  ‘Hey hey, chief,’ said my verdant tormentor. ‘Little light flashing there on the dashboard. Another message coming in from The Leviathan.’

  ‘Grrmmmph mmmph,’ was my answer to this. Which Barry, who was possessed by the power to read my mind, correctly interpreted as, ‘I don’t give a ****.’

  ‘You should though, chief,’ he said. ‘Because if you press the little button below the light, the automatic pilot will kick in and the ship will fly itself down to the grand landing deck, and, well, land.’

  ‘Automatic pilot?’ I managed to say.

  ‘Perhaps I should have mentioned that earlier,’ said Barry.

  ‘You bloody *****,’ I pressed the button and rushed off to the toilet.

  Swells were gathering on the grand landing deck. Toffs of every colour and hue, of this planet, that and the next. Tall elegant Venusian princelings haughtily consorted with their own, whilst burghers of Jupiter quaffed ale and broke wind amidst great gales of laughter. Many titled Englanders wafted, waffled and waved at their fellows. Small boys in smart uniforms came and went with trays of champagne, canapés and sausages on sticks. Lady Agnes Rutherford conversed with two of the owls. Sir Jonathan Crawford did chattings with the other.

  ‘Quite an occasion, this,’ he said, to the man with the boot-blacked face.

  ‘It is well-smart, innit,’ replied Al Jolson.

  ‘So much beauty, so much wonder,’ his lordship did gesturings round and about. ‘We live in interesting times.’

  ‘I an’ I agree,’ said Mr Jolson.

  ‘I do wish though,’ said Sir Jonathan, ‘that I could appreciate it all for what it is, rather than what it represents.’

  ‘Eh?’ said he of the boot-blacked face, the white gloves and the rather snazzy blazer.

  Sir Jonathan did confidential lowerings of the voice. ‘All built upon the backs of others,’ he said. ‘Upon their misery.’ He tapped at his nose. ‘I am sure that you know what I mean,’ he said, and he gave it another tap.

  ‘Eh?’ went Mr Jolson, and he shrugged.

  ‘The slave trade,’ whispered Sir Jonathan. ‘Count Rostov’s people have dealt in human cargo for generation after generation. This is how they built their empire and all that you see around you.’

  ‘Ain’t he Russian?’ asked Al Jolson. ‘I an’ I always thought he was a cat that really was gone, if you know what I an’ I sayin’.’

  ‘Not as such,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘But I am reliably informed that even now, black slaves stoke the boilers of this very space ship.’

  ‘Stoke de boilers?’ Al Jolson waggled his gloved hands about.

  ‘Or whatever the electrical equivalent might be.’ Sir Jonathan slotted a cigarette into an ivory holder. ‘He has numerous slaves on his Siberian plantations. And in the Mongolian Vodka Mines, of course.’ He raised a knowing eyebrow to Al Jolson.

  ‘Of course,’ this fellow agreed.

  ‘And society turns a blind eye to it all,’ said his lordship. ‘It is a crying shame that there is no man with the nerve and the resolve to strike down this monster.’

  Al Jolson shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  Sir Jonathan sighed. ‘I can just imagine the hatred you must feel for someone who would treat your noble race as nothing more than chattels.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Al Jolson.

  ‘At last!’ said Sir Jonathan, but only to himself.

  ‘My people?’ said Mr Jolson. ‘He has my people enslaved?’

  ‘Your proud and noble people, yes.’

  ‘Bloodclot!’ said Al Jolson. ‘Babylon bloodclot!’

  ‘Oh the humanity,’ said his lordship.

  ‘You ain’t joshing me, white boy?’

  ‘Heaven forefend,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘That scoundrel should be brought to justice for his race crimes. But it won’t happen, too many friends in high places, white friends.’

  ‘All right,’ said Al Jolson, in an old Etonian tone. ‘You’ve made your point, Jonathan. I get the picture. Chap’s clearly an absolute rotter. Deserves a good punch upon the nose.’

  ‘Deserves more than that,’ Sir Jonathan Crawford now whispered even more outrageous lies into the ear of Al Jolson. Concluding with the words. ‘Death is too good for him, although it will do for now.’

  ‘I will go and fetch my fowling piece,’ said Al Jolson. ‘I brought a matched pair of Purdeys with me to have a go on the clay pigeon range.’

  ‘Guns won’t do it,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘He is protected by magic.

  ‘I am schooled in Obeah and Voodoo,’ said Al Jolson. ‘I did a night school course at the Slade. I have a certificate and everything.’

  ‘Then good luck, my black brother,’ Sir Jonathan put his hand out for a shake.

  ‘I’m not your brother, you mixed-race swine,’ said Jolson.

  ‘You little green swine,’ I said to Barry, when I returned from the toilet. Not that I couldn’t have said it before, but I chose when I would say it.

  ‘Glad we have that cleared up,’ said Barry. ‘But see, we are coming in to land.’

  Which we were, so I sat myself down.

  ‘What I will do,’ I said to the sprout. ‘Is talk briefly about my life before I came aboard The Leviathan. Relate some comic anecdotes about my Brentford boyhood, touch upon family matters. A little pathos here and there never went amiss in an acceptance speech, either.’

  Barry made loud sighing sounds.

  ‘You should be proud,’ I told him. ‘To be in such a head as mine. History will record me as the boy who entered Heaven, spoke with God and then piloted a spacecraft back to a showboat orbiting Earth. Do you think the medal I receive will be silver or gold?’

  Barry made further sighing sounds.

  But I ignored him and The Pilgrim gently touched down.

  There followed a brief period of technical jiggery-pokery. We had alighted onto an open deck and now a glass canopy closed above us. Air pumps engaged, our ship’s port opened, a gangway rose to meet it.

  I rose too, with great dignity. For this was my moment, after all. I dusted down at my uniform.

  And then I heard the ruckus.

  There was much noise and laughter, much trampling of feet.

  I left the cockpit to confront the silly boys. All of whom it seemed to me were leaving the spaceship at once.

  ‘Now just you stop!’ I told them. ‘Stand sti
ll and wait here. And don’t move at all. Your captain is going out first.’

  But did they listen?

  No they did not.

  They got themselves all caught up in the doorway then tumbled down the ramp.

  To great applause.

  Great applause!

  I made a very fierce face and marched after them. Then pushed and kicked them hither and thus and made my way down to the waiting crowd and the count whose name was Rostov.

  He had a rather puzzled expression on his face and kept looking past me, even though I grinned heartily at him and gave him the big thumbs up.

  He stood upon that modest rostrum, his back to the crowd, his face towards me. He gave a shrug and raised his hands then asked me, ‘Where’s the professor?’

  I mounted the rostrum and shook his hand, then waved towards the crowd.

  ‘Stop all that,’ said Count Rostov. ‘Where is the professor?’

  ‘He chose to stay in Heaven,’ I said, ‘on the other side of the lens.’ And I waved some more towards the crowd and blew them kisses too. But the crowd now seemed a little bewildered and I viewed much shrugging of shoulders and murmurings behind hands.

  ‘If I might just speak,’ I said to the count and indicated the microphone that rose to the fore of the rostrum.

  Count Rostov put his hand over this. ‘What is going on, little chumrade?’ he asked me. I noted his teeth seemed gritted.

  ‘I will explain all,’ I said, in ready reply.

  ‘And where is She?’ The count turned away from the crowd and peered once more at The Pilgrim.

  ‘I can explain,’ I said and I took the microphone.

  ‘No!’ said the count and he turned back and snatched it away from me.

  ‘Aw,’ went the crowd, which I found quite encouraging.

  ‘This boy has nothing to say,’ said the count into the microphone.

  ‘Aw,’ went the crowd, slightly louder this time.

  I made a sad little face.

  ‘He has nothing to say,’ said Count Rostov.

  ‘I have much to say,’ I said. Loudly.

  Count Rostov tried to push me aside.

  I ducked and the crowd went, ‘Aw.’

  Someone then shouted, ‘Let the lad speak.’

  The count glared daggers at me.

  ‘I really can explain everything,’ I said.

  ‘You better had,’ said Count Rostov and taking me firmly by the shoulders he positioned me in front of the microphone.

  ‘Dear friends,’ I began. ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Lazlo Woodbine. A humble lad in Count Rostov’s employ. Such an honour.’ I smiled upon Count Rostov.

  He glared down at me.

  ‘I must announce to you,’ I continued, ‘that the expedition generously sponsored by Count Rostov to the great lens of Heaven and beyond was an outstanding success.’

  This drew very much applause.

  Count Rostov bowed flamboyantly.

  ‘I and my crew of twelve entered Heaven and spoke with God Himself.’

  The crowd made doubtful faces at this.

  ‘I did,’ I said. ‘We did. That was the purpose of the expedition. The count was right, the sun is not a star, it is a lens through which shines the radiance of Heaven.’

  The crowd now loudly applauded my words. A fickle bunch that crowd.

  ‘However,’ I said. ‘I must tell you this, before I continue and outline the many exciting adventures I had. Our Lady of Space does not exist.’

  The crowd went suddenly ‘WHAT?’

  Count Rostov too went suddenly ‘WHAT?’

  ‘What?’s went all around and about.

  ‘Our Lady of Space is a MacGuffin,’ I said. ‘Which is a plot device in the form of some goal, desired object, or other motivator that the protagonist is willing to do almost anything to pursue, protect, or control, citation needed.’

  ‘What?’ went Count Rostov, shaking now, in what can only be described as a paroxysm of rage.

  ‘But, let’s talk about me,’ I said. ‘You will know me as a boy from a humble background, who has achieved greatness not through family and connections, but rather through diligence and hard work. Funny story, actually, you see I –’

  But I got no further than that.

  Because Count Rostov dragged me away from the microphone, then turned me around and pointed. He pointed towards the open entry port of The Pilgrim. His pointy finger became a gently waving one as the count cried out –

  ‘She comes.’

  ‘She what?’ asked I.

  But the count went on. ‘She comes. Our Lady of Space.’

  34

  Count Rostov flung himself to his knees and the silly boys loafing on the ramp did the same.

  I stared towards The Pilgrim’s entry port.

  But I saw nothing.

  ‘Praise be unto our Lady of Space,’ the count cried out, in a voice that I must say lacked not for emotion.

  I gaped at the count, I gaped at the entry port, then I turned and gaped at the crowd of swells.

  Folk were falling to their knees. Some were saying, ‘Hallelujah,’ some were crossing themselves. I gaped back at the entry port, but there was nobody there.

  ‘What is going on?’ I asked of Barry.

  ‘It’s Our Lady of Space, chief,’ said the sprout.

  ‘But there is nobody there,’ I whispered. ‘Nobody there at all.’

  ‘If you say so, chief,’ said Barry. ‘But if you value my opinion just one little bit, I’d advise that you fall to your knees and start praying.’

  ‘What?’ went I.

  And ‘Praise Our Lady of Space,’ went folk in the crowd.

  ‘Now just hold on,’ I said. ‘There’s nobody there.’

  But no one seemed inclined to listen. More and more and more folk sank to their knees.

  ‘This is lunacy,’ I protested. ‘It’s the Emperor’s new clothes all over again. In fact –’

  But that was the very last I said for a while. Because Count Rostov gestured to the silly boys and the silly boys rushed at me and dragged me off. And one of them, and I am quite sure it was the bigger boy, hit me on the head with a stick or something, because after that things went quite black for me.

  ‘Black magic,’ said Al Jolson.

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  The two were no longer on the grand landing deck. They had slipped away prior to the falling-to-the-knees part of the proceedings and were now in Fangio’s Bar a-tasting beer.

  ‘They are my very favourite chocolates,’ continued Al Jolson. ‘Black Magic. Although I do like Milk Tray, and of course Choccy-Yum-Yum-Hollow-Bunnies and Fruit Gums.’

  ‘Fruit Gums aren’t strictly chocolate though,’ said Sir Jonathan, lighting the cigarette that he had slotted into his ivory holder sometime earlier. ‘But I feel we are wandering off-topic here, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Speak as you find,’ said Al Jolson. Adding ‘Jah willing,’ just for good measure.

  ‘History will favour you,’ said his lordship. ‘They’ll probably put up a statue of you on that spare plinth in Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘A statue of I an’ I,’ said Al Jolson.

  ‘A statue of you and you,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  ‘Assuming that this fellow can actually be killed.’

  ‘It will have to be done by magic. Are you certain that you are up to the task?’

  Al Jolson gave Sir Jonathan a rather withering glance. ‘You know perfectly well that I can because you have seen me do it before.’

  ‘I saw something,’ said his lordship, nodding his head.

  ‘You saw me point the bone at that cloakroom Johnny and shout the blighter dead.’

  And of course Sir Jonathan did recall this curious incident. Which was why he had suggested Mr Jolson to Lady Agnes as the ideal ‘magician’ to deal with Count Ilya Rostov.

  ‘He lost my damn hat,’ said Mr Jolson. ‘You can’t go losing a fell
ow’s hat when he’s having a night on the town. I had to walk the length of the Strand without my topper on.’

  It had been a shameful business indeed, Sir Jonathan also recalled.

  ‘That cove won’t lose a fellow’s hat ever again,’ said the black magician. ‘It took more than a week, I recall, to scrape his bits off the ceiling.’

  ‘So I can leave it to you to dispatch the racist Rostov?’

  ‘In all truth,’ said Al Jolson. ‘I already had a pop at him. Put an exploding whoopee cushion in his sedan chair for a bit of jolly.’

  ‘A bit of jolly?’ Sir Jonathan asked.

  Al Jolson beckoned Sir Jonathan closer. ‘Something you must know,’ he said.

  His lordship shrugged and said, go on.’

  And Al Jolson went on. ‘This is going to come as something of a shock to you,’ he went on, ‘but I am not really a black man.’

  Sir Jonathan raised an eyebrow and a sigh.

  ‘I’m as white as you,’ said Mr Jolson. ‘Well, whiter actually, as you have a touch of the space brush on your mother’s side.’

  Sir Jonathan buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Don’t take it so hard, old chap. I am here on undercover business for Mu.’

  ‘Mu?’ enquired his lordship, lifting his head.

  ‘The Musicians’ Union,’ said the all-white Mr Jolson. ‘The count does not pay his performers full union rates. Down on Earth we would take him to arbitration. Up here, however, no rules apply. So the Musicians’ Union has condemned Count Rostov to death.’

  ‘So you were intending to kill him anyway?’

  ‘Well, originally so. But there seems to be other assassins aboard all taking a pop at him. So I thought I’d just keep my head down and when all the bloodshed was over, return to Earth and claim my bounty money from the MU.’

  ‘Even though you hadn’t actually done the deed?’

  ‘Babylon can pay! Ah, excuse me, slipping back into character there. Did two years at RADA you know. Would you like to hear my impersonation of a Scotsman?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘But listen, do. Count Rostov cannot be killed by conventional weapons. You will need to point your bone and shout your shout.’