Web Site Story

by Robert Rankin

  Old Vic wasn’t there to chuckle, so Old Pete’s dog did instead.

  Derek hung his head in shame.

  ‘I’m very impressed,’ said Old Pete. ‘I like this headline on page five. “HEAVEN DECLARED ON EARTH. BUT ONLY FOR THE FOLK OF BRENTFORD.” According to this, Brentford has been singled out by God, as the first site of The Rapture. And apparently he loves the place so much that he’s rewarding everyone who doesn’t get Raptured by having Mute Corp turn the place into an Earthly paradise. And there was me thinking that there wasn’t a God. It just goes to show how stupid I am.’

  ‘It does?’ said Derek.

  Old Pete slowly shook his ancient head. ‘No lad,’ said he. ‘It doesn’t. And be warned, anyone who tries to take advantage of the borough and its people will find themselves tarred and feathered and dancing at a rope’s end, lacking their wedding tackle.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Derek, crossing his legs.

  ‘So let’s hope that doesn’t happen, eh?’ said Old Pete brightly. ‘Let’s all enjoy this unexpected largesse.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Derek.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ said Old Pete. ‘So I expect that you, like me and everybody else in the borough, will be cashing in your share certificate on Monday and pocketing the moolah, before getting on with the tarring and feathering. Not to mention the snippings-off of wedding tackle.’ Old Pete made some snippings with his old and wrinkled fingers.

  ‘I think I will drink elsewhere,’ said Derek, rapidly taking his leave.

  Derek ambled through the busy streets of Brentford. And they were busy. Lots of whistling workers. And lots of happy shoppers (but no little chefs). The borough had definitely perked up. People weren’t hiding in their homes any more, awaiting The Rapture. They were out and about, sunhats and summer frocks, old straw hats and Hawaiian shirts. Everybody looked very jolly indeed.

  ‘Perhaps it is all for the best,’ Derek told himself. ‘Perhaps they’ll all get to like it and enjoy the money and not tar and feather anyone. And…’ And Derek patted his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve just made another ten thousand pounds.’

  A certain skip came into Derek’s step. But it was accompanied by a certain amount of head-clutching also.

  The used-car showrooms of Leo Felix lurked on the banks of the Grand Union Canal, close to the weir, but closer to the road bridge that led from the High Street into the neighbouring town of Isleworth, that nobody in Brentford knew anything about.

  The used-car showrooms of Leo Felix were colourful showrooms, painted in red, gold and green and elegantly decorated with five-foot-high cannabis-leaf motifs. It is believed that Leo oversaw all the decorating himself and never called in a designer who had once been very popular on the tele.

  There were a number of automobiles outside. These were not new automobiles. Nor apparently were they second-hand automobiles. These were, so the brightly coloured cards upon their windscreens informed potential purchasers, ‘previously owned vehicles’.

  Their prices seemed unreasonably reasonable.

  Derek, still with some skips in his step, some-skipped down the incline from the side of the bridge and entered Leo’s forecourt.

  ‘Yo, Babylon,’ called the ancient son of Zion. ‘Come inside off of me forecourt, yo spoilin’ de look of de place wid yo stubbly face and yo big red bloodclart eyes.’

  Derek waved towards Leo, who was lounging in the shadowed doorway. ‘Morning Leo,’ he said.

  ‘Come on in den, come on in.’

  Derek came on in.

  It was rather dark in Leo’s showroom. Two previously owned cars stood glinting vaguely. Both were Morris Minors.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Derek, sighting them. ‘You have two already. Only forty-eight to go, then.’

  ‘Babylon,’ said Leo, looming at Derek. ‘Babylon, yo not bin truthful wid I an’ I.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Derek.

  ‘Folk museum, Babylon. Dat what I an’ I talkin’ about.’

  ‘How’s it all coming along?’ asked Derek, feigning bright and breeziness. ‘Any luck with those crad barges?’

  Leo held a rolled copy of the Brentford Mercury in his hand. He unrolled it slowly and showed it to Derek. ‘Babylon try to get one over on Ganga Man,’ said he. ‘Babylon care to see if he can outrun me Rottweilers?’ Leo called out to his dogs. ‘Marcus,’ he called, ‘Marley, Yellowman.’ Three big Rottweilers came a-bounding out of the darkness and took to licking Leo’s hands.

  ‘Now hold on a minute,’ said Derek. ‘We had a deal.’

  ‘For de folk museum?’ said Leo. ‘Or was dat for de multi-million-dollar Mute Corp company?’

  ‘I’m only doing my job,’ said Derek. And as the words came out of his mouth, he really hated himself.

  ‘Dis ain’t personal, Babylon,’ said Leo. ‘Well, actually it is. De white man bin shaftin’ de black man since fo’ever. Dis town here, dis Brentford, I never have no trouble here. People treat me like one of dere own and I treat them like one of me own. Respec’, Babylon. Do you understand that? Respec’? No I don’t tink dat you do.’

  ‘I do,’ said Derek. ‘I do.’

  ‘I an’ I tell you what,’ said Leo. ‘You an’ I an’ I have a deal. We smack hands. So I an’ I be fair wid you. I an’ I get you everyting you wan’ by tomorrow, how’s dat?’

  ‘Dat’s, I mean that’s perfect,’ said Derek. ‘I couldn’t ask for anything more than that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Leo. ‘Dat’s my half of the deal. Now all you have to do is two likkle tings.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Derek.

  ‘Gi’ me all de money in your pockets,’ said Leo.

  ‘Oh,’ said Derek.

  ‘Dat’s one,’ said Leo, stroking the neck of Marcus.

  ‘Now, come on,’ said Derek.

  ‘Dat’s one,’ said Leo. ‘You show no respec’. Hand it over, Babylon.’

  Marcus growled and so did Marley and Yellowman.

  Derek dug deep into his pocket and brought out all the money.

  ‘I tink dat’s mine, ain’t it?’ said Leo.

  Derek hung his head once more. ‘It is,’ said he.

  Leo took the money and pressed it into the colourful trouser pocket of his colourful trousers. ‘Yo get all de stuff you order,’ he said. ‘I an’ I keep me side of de deal. I an’ I show respec’.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Derek. ‘And I’m sorry. All that cash. The temptation was too much.’

  ‘I an’ I understand,’ said Leo. ‘Business is done.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ said Derek, turning to leave.

  ‘I an’ I said dere’s two tings,’ said Leo.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Derek. ‘What was the second thing?’

  ‘Yo got ten seconds’ start, Babylon,’ said Leo. ‘Den I release me dogs.’

  It’s remarkable just how fast you can run at times. Even with a hangover. Derek ran like the rabbit of proverb. And if there wasn’t a rabbit of proverb, Derek ran like the hare. He ran and he ran. Away from Leo’s showrooms. Out of Leo’s forecourt and up Brentford High Street. Derek ran all the way back to the offices of the Brentford Mercury.

  And it’s a fair old run, especially with a hangover.

  Once inside, Derek slammed shut the outer door and leant upon it, breathing horribly.

  But no howlings or bayings of dreadful hounds were to be heard from without.

  But had Derek been possessed of Superman’s hearing abilities, he might have been able to hear the laughter.

  The laughter of Leo, back in his showrooms.

  Where he still patted his dogs.

  Derek took his liquid breakfast, which was now a liquid lunch, in The Shrunken Head. He didn’t play the Space Invaders machine though, he just swigged at Scotch.

  He was doomed, he just knew it. He was done for. The best thing he could do was shape up and ship out. Quit the borough, do a runner, before the excrement hit the rotating blades of the air-cooling apparatus. They’d kill him. The locals would str
ing him up. Mute Corp had no idea what they were dealing with here. This wasn’t like other places. This was Brentford.

  Derek swigged further Scotch.

  ‘I’m unhappy,’ he said to no-one but himself. ‘I’m a loser. A total prat. That’s what Ellie thinks I am. And I am. I really am. I’ve fouled up every which way. Oh God, I don’t know what to do.’

  Derek did even further swiggings and returned once more to the bar counter. ‘Same again,’ he said.

  The barman was reading the Brentford Mercury. The celebrations going on at the Swan did not seem to have extended themselves to The Shrunken Head. Different kind of clientele, perhaps. Or some other reason. Derek didn’t really care.

  ‘This is all a hoot, isn’t it?’ said the barman, pointing at the paper. ‘This should bring a bit of trade to this establishment.’

  ‘You think it’s a good thing then?’ asked Derek hopefully.

  ‘God, yes,’ said the barman. ‘I’m hoping to persuade the residents’ committee to give it a week before they start the tarring and feathering. But I’ll probably be on my own for that one. I’ve heard that the lads at the Flying Swan are planning a charabanc trip to the West End.’

  ‘Really?’ said Derek. ‘Why?’

  ‘I think they’re planning to blow up the Mute Corp headquarters. A people’s protest, that kind of thing. From what I heard, it seems that the locals are getting well fed up with always having to fight on home territory. So this time they’ve decided to carry the war directly to the camp of the aggressor. It’s a bit revolutionary, but after all, these are the twenty-twenties.’

  ‘The Mute Corp headquarters?’ Derek’s face fell terribly. ‘They can’t do that, can they?’

  ‘I’ll bet you they can,’ said the barman. ‘Old Vic’s leading the war party. He used to be a POW, you know. He knows all about blowing things up. He told me that he once blew up a Nazi watchtower at his camp, using an explosive formulated exclusively from his own bodily fluids. You wouldn’t think that was possible, would you? Although I would, I’ve heard the old blighter fart.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Derek. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re “oh no-ing” about,’ said the barman. ‘You don’t have any friends working at Mute Corp, do you?’

  Derek’s pale face nodded up and down in time to his nodding head. In perfect synchronization, in fact, because it was all joined on. ‘Ellie,’ he said. ‘The woman I love.’

  ‘The beautiful bird you were in here with yesterday?’ asked the barman. ‘The bird with the sweet nose and slender legs?’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Derek.

  ‘Sorry mate. But she’s a babe. You lucky sod. I’ll bet she’s something between the covers, eh? You wouldn’t care to tell me all about it, would you? I’m a married man myself and other than forging my signature and painting our house purple because it’s the colour of universal peace, my missus doesn’t go in for anything much any more. She seems to be obsessed with charity work. I went home the other evening and found her giving that Mad John a bath.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Derek again. ‘I have to warn her.’

  ‘Well, you have plenty of time,’ said the barman. ‘They’re not going to do the dirty deed until Monday. They want to cash in their shares first.’

  Derek breathed a big sigh of relief. ‘Phew,’ he said.

  ‘So there you go,’ said the barman, handing Derek his Scotch. ‘That’s one pound one and sixpence, please.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Derek. ‘All right.’ And he rooted about in his pockets in the hope that he still had some change. He didn’t have much, but he did have enough and he also had something else. A screwed-up note that he’d picked up from his doormat, but hadn’t yet read.

  Derek paid the barman and then he read the note.

  And then the bleary bloodshot eyes in his pale and designer-stubbly face grew wide and Derek screamed very loudly.

  Horrible, it was.

  20

  There was no-one home at Mrs Gormenghast’s.

  Derek banged and hammered at the door, but no-one answered. He thought he saw the net curtains move in the upstairs front window and he thought that he saw the face of Mad John peeping out. But Derek dismissed this as only his fevered imagination.

  Derek was all in a lather. Ellie’s note was a warning. It warned him not to use his mobile phone. Indeed, not to use any telephone. And not to touch his computer, nor indeed anything that might have computerized innards. And it said, ‘Come at once, as soon as you read this note,’ and it said, ‘You are in terrible danger.’

  Derek fretted. He didn’t know what to do. Go to the Mute Corp headquarters? Surely that was where Ellie was. But would she be there? If she was warning him not to touch any computers and that there was terrible danger, surely she wouldn’t be there, amongst all those computers. Derek thought not.

  So at least she would be safe if Old Vic and his cronies actually blew up the building.

  She would be safe.

  Wouldn’t she?

  But where was she?

  Where?

  Derek fretted further. If she wasn’t at Mute Corp and she wasn’t at Mrs Gormenghast’s, then where was she? Oh no! Not that? Derek fretted furiously. Not vanished? Not her too. He’d turned his thoughts away from all that mad stuff. Ellie had to be somewhere, and somewhere safe. She had to be. Surely. He loved the woman, for God’s sake. Nothing bad could have happened to her. It couldn’t have. No. No. No.

  Derek went home.

  At six of the evening clock, Derek returned to Mrs Gormenghast’s. Mrs Gormenghast opened the door to him.

  ‘No,’ she said, when he asked her. ‘Ellie has not returned.’

  Derek went home again.

  At just before eight of the evening clock, Derek returned once more to Mrs Gormenghast’s.

  ‘No,’ she said once more. ‘Ellie has not returned.’

  Derek went home again.

  He returned to Mrs Gormenghast’s at half-hour intervals. And then quarter-of-an-hour intervals and then by eleven of that same evening clock, he wouldn’t go away.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ said the police constable that Mrs Gormenghast called. ‘You were in that punch-up at the Arts Centre, weren’t you? I’d go home if I were you, sir, or I’ll have to run you in. And I don’t think you’d like that very much, as all the cells but one are currently being given a makeover by this long-grey-haired designer who used to be very popular on the tele. And the only one we could put you into is currently occupied by a bearded tattooed poet from Mute Corp Keynes, who turned up at the station claiming that someone had nicked his wristwatch the last time we had him in the cells…’

  Derek tried to get a word in. But the constable continued.

  ‘And he got really stroppy and we had to bang him up again and he keeps shouting out that he’s the daddy now. And he says he wants his bitch.’

  ‘My girlfriend has gone missing,’ Derek bawled to the constable. ‘Do something. Do something.’

  ‘Move along quietly now, sir,’ said the constable. ‘Or I’ll have to run you in.’

  Derek made fists but kept them to himself, and then he went home to bed. Not that he slept very well, he didn’t. Strange dreams came to him. He saw Ellie standing in the Butt’s Estate and she was talking to this old gentleman and the old gentleman was telling her something, something terrible, that scared her and there was violence and Derek saw Ellie running and running and then being swallowed up by something awful that he couldn’t see but could only feel. And it didn’t feel good, it felt horrible.

  Derek awoke in a bit more of a lather.

  And he went without a shower for the second day running and as he hadn’t washed, he was rather smelly too.

  Derek didn’t breakfast either, he just ran out of the house.

  ‘Police, police,’ called Mrs Gormenghast down her telephone. ‘That madman is back at my front door.’

  ‘Madman?’ asked Mad John, looking up from his puce
breakfast bowl.

  Saturday was Hell for Derek. He went around to the police station to report Ellie missing, but was told to get onto the end of the queue. People were now going missing all over the borough. They were here one minute and gone the next. Several Brentford Poets and poetesses had vanished and some mule-skinners and a wandering bishop and a bunch of pimply-faced youths (although no-one seemed too bothered about them). And some nurses and interns from the cottage hospital had vanished too. It was The Rapture, the desk constable told Derek. But not to worry, because it was all going to be Heaven on Earth in Brentford for all the un-raptured, thanks to Mute Corp. The company that cares. And while Derek was here in the police station, would he like to purchase some extra Suburbia World Plc shares? As the Brentford constabulary had just been issued a licence by Mute Corp to sell them.

  Derek left in a terrible fretting frame of mind.

  And the day didn’t go very well for him at all. Mr Speedy and Mr Shadow were waiting at the offices of the Brentford Mercury.

  ‘That’s another hour’s pay docked,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘And you’re on an official warning. One more strike and you’re out, as our American cousins like to say.’

  ‘My girlfriend has gone missing!’ shouted Derek. ‘Don’t you understand?’

  Mr Speedy scratched at his little head. ‘Not entirely,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you had a girlfriend. I thought you were just one of those sad and lonely lads who spend all their time playing computer games.’

  ‘Well, she’s not exactly my girlfriend yet,’ said Derek. ‘But she will be. I love her. And she’s gone missing. She’s vanished. It’s terrible. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Raptured, probably,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘We’ll have to add her name to those of the blessed on the memorial.’

  ‘Memorial?’ said Derek. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s being erected in the memorial park,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Did you know that Brentford was the only town to have a memorial park without a memorial in it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Derek. ‘Actually I did.’