by Mike Ashley
11
In which matters go so far that the inhabitants of Sunny Meadows, the reader, and even the author, demand an immediate denouement
The Advisory Board of New Town thought the demands of their neighbours some kind of practical joke. Indeed, they thought it quite a funny one, and laughed each time someone mentioned it. Then, a member of the Board, or perhaps a family member, looked up the records and found that it was true that New Town Athletic had beaten Sunny Meadows Wanderers 1-0 in February 1974, and that Bomber Wilkins had scored from the penalty spot. They found it even more amusing that this absurd challenge was actually based on historical fact! How charming a conceit! But a re-match . . . Why actually play football when you can watch the sim matches on the vee? Why play when you can see reconstructions of Pele, Best, Platini, Zidane and the Nevilles battling it out on the big screen?
This response did not go down well with the newly invigorated citzens of Sunny Meadows. “They’re rubbing salt in the wounds,” one grumbled. “They’re scared,” said another. “And what about the Challenge Shield in ’93?” said another. “That was a clear off-side!”
And so, the good people of Sunny Meadows gathered before the rainbow-hued frontage of the Dewberry Mall. Dr Bull had a good view of this, for the mall was just across the street from the NutriMent depot, the very heart of his operation. He and Gideon went out on to the street, to stand on the fringe of the crowd. He wanted to see how far this would go.
“We’ll show them!” cried someone near the front of the crowd. “We’ll march on New Town and beat the living crap out of them.”
“Anyone got a car?” asked a more sensible voice nearby.
“Fascinating,” mumbled the doctor. “They’re really going to do it, Gideon. I may have to refine my models. They’re really going to take action . . . Gideon?”
His assistant was no longer there.
Suddenly, at the front of the still-growing crowd, a young man stepped up on to something so that he was head and shoulders above his fellows. “Stop,” cried Gideon, for it was the doctor’s assistant who now addressed the crowd. “This should not be happening. It has gone too far. You are under the influence of an altered biochemistry. This must—”
He was going to say “stop”, but the word was prevented from escaping his lips by Dr Bull’s very firm grip around his assistant’s windpipe.
The crowd fell on the two. It looked like being a good scrap, and they were all up for a good scrap right now. Nobody understood what the fight was about, but they all started to land blows and kicks when—
12
In which the denouement takes place
When a formidable explosion blasted them into silence. They stood, and turned. What had been the NutriMent depot was now a burning shell of a building.
And Maddy Wheatfen stood just outside its hanging gates, looking rather self-conscious at having so much attention focused on her. Her skin was blackened, and her blouse was in tatters, which only compounded her self-consciousness. She hadn’t meant the whole place to blow up, when she set fire to the outlet feed vats . . . it just, kind of, did. In a particularly satisfying way.
“Let him go,” she said, waving towards the biggest heap of struggling bodies and hoping they would work out what she meant. “Dr Bull.”
Maddy had realized, while throwing NutriMentPlus cakes at the birds on the river the other day, what it was that had happened to her community. It was the feed, the pipes carrying NMP supplies direct to the consumer, exactly what you need before you even know you need it, wherever you are. What a sophisticated way of getting other substances to each individual in exactly the right dosage! What a marvellous means of experimenting on an entire population. She had done some reading on the vee. Journals and stuff. She had understood enough to confirm that Dr Bull was capable of such an arrogant act.
“He got carried away,” she said. “We all got carried away.” She saw Nicholas in the crowd, looking almost as shamefaced as he should for getting so worked up over a silly little ballgame. “It’s good to get carried away sometimes, but just not too much, okay? I think it’s time we all got back to reality, just a bit, don’t you think?”
But reality would never be quite the same again for the good folk of Sunny Meadows (which could, really, have been almost anywhere). All had been transformed by recent events, and Maddy found it hard to believe that a single person here would return to the ways of old.
Released from beneath the crowd, Dr Bull lost no time in slipping away, followed by his ever-faithful assistant. Maddy wasn’t sure if the expression on his face was the chastened one of someone who had learnt a hard lesson, or if he was simply planning to claim the insurance and go off and set up elsewhere. To tell the truth, she wasn’t sure which of those outcomes would be best.
She caught Nicholas’ eye again. He smiled, and she smiled back. He came to her, and kissed her, and wrapped her in an embrace so powerful that she had to rise on tiptoes and then her feet even left the ground for a moment. Or maybe she imagined that part.
It was all chemistry, she thought. That’s what Dr Bull would argue, and she was happy to believe him for now.
THE VERY FIRST AFFAIR
Johan Heliot
Doubtless the satire of Dr Ox helped recharge Verne’s own batteries for he now embarked on the book that comes closest to rivalling 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea as his best known and most popular – Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours, or Around the World in Eighty Days. The novel was serialized in the Paris daily magazine Le Temps from 6 November to 22 December 1872, which apparently tripled its circulation during that period as readers waited anxiously to find how Phileas Fogg had overcome his latest problem and whether he could meet his deadline. The book, published early the following year, outsold all of Verne’s other titles during his lifetime.
The idea of circumnavigating the globe in eighty days was not entirely original to Verne. Several sources have been suggested, including the 1871 edition of Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Guide, which not only suggested the journey could be completed within “78 to 80 days” but also described a route almost identical to that undertaken by Fogg. Verne’s genius was not only to combine this with a series of cliff-hanger adventures and fascinating characters, but to add the twist of the extra day arising because of crossing the International Date Line, a fact that Verne cleverly keeps hidden until the end. The idea had first been used by Edgar Allan Poe in a short story “A Succession of Sundays” (1841), which Verne had reviewed in 1864, but whereas Poe used it as a puzzle, Verne used it to considerable dramatic effect.
The character of Phileas Fogg, like Captain Nemo, is mysterious and enigmatic. We never really get to know him, despite our closeness to him throughout the adventure. Verne created two other fascinating characters in the novel, Fogg’s servant, Passepartout, and the stupid Detective Fix who, on the trail of a bank robber, pursues Fogg around the globe. We shall meet both these characters, and learn a lot more about them and Fogg, in the next two stories.
You can call me Passepartout, since I’ve already gone by that name. But you may rest assured that’s not my true identity. Furthermore, I’m not the only one who has lied in this respect in this tale. The masks will come off when it’s time. Don’t you worry about that.
Phileas Fogg’s crazy wager had everyone in the world on the edges of their seats for eighty days, at the end of 1872. I was at the peak of my form at that time. Despite my tender age, I had already practised numerous trades – acrobat, fireman, gymnastics instructor – all of which required perfect physical condition, muscles and flexibility. I was in such good shape that, despite my modest stature, I easily defeated larger men in most of these disciplines. It was for that reason that the French Information Services, founded in June 1871, after we lost the war to Prussia, contacted me. The Statistics and Military Reconnaissance Section (for that was its true name) was responsible for obtaining any information France considered vital, using any means available. For that purp
ose, the Section needed vigorous, strong-willed men, with a taste for adventure.
That suited me to a T, although nothing could have prepared me for the most remarkable adventure that could possibly be imagined.
At that time, you see, few people were aware that travel between worlds was possible. Even fewer were able to make such trips.
So, when I was assigned to the service of this unusual Englishman for my first mission, I had no idea about Phileas Fogg’s true nature. Yet, his very name should have aroused my suspicions! What could be more nebulous than “Fogg”? What could be more inconsistent, more deceptive?
The man I met on Wednesday 2 October 1872 appeared to be in his forties and in relatively good physical condition, apart from a slight stoutness. He towered head and shoulders above me and his hair was a blonde mop. In other words, he could have been anyone, since there was absolutely nothing particular about his appearance and certain specialists were already highly skilled in the art of disguise.
Everyone now knows the conditions in which the wager concerning the journey around the world was placed, that very day, in a hall in the Reform Club, in Pall Mall, not far from another famous club – I’ll return to this later. Obviously, there was nothing of chance about it. The Statistics Section could never have guessed the form in which the challenge would be issued to Fogg, since no one had even heard tell about the eccentric Englishman just a few days earlier!
At this point, I would like to provide some clarification about traveling between worlds and the information collected by the secret services in this respect. Those who specialized in communicating with spirits, namely famous metapsychics such as Camille Flammarion and mediums of the calibre of a Daniel Dunglas Home, all agreed that, although there was nothing difficult with respect to traveling in the form of an astral body, they still knew nothing about the theory that made this “common marvel” possible. For some time, it had been accepted that the entities with which the metapsychics communicated were not the souls of the deceased, but rather spiritual residues of individuals who were quite alive, yet living in other worlds. The mediums’ abilities to concentrate and certain mental predispositions granted either by Nature or Chance provided invaluable bridges between our inaccessible neighbours and ourselves.
In short, when the Statistics Section got wind of Fogg’s extravagant project, my superiors’ hearts skipped a beat. I was immediately assigned to get as close to the Englishman as possible and collect as much information about the man as I could.
I have no intention of going into our expedition in any detail at this time. Everyone knows our itinerary, the methods of transportation we used, the successive ports of call on our journey, from London to Suez, from India to China, from San Francisco to the Far West, and so on. The fictionalized versions of our adventure (particularly that of M. Jules Verne), the theatrical adaptations (I’m thinking of Adolphe Dennery’s wonderful play) and, more recently, Mr Méliés’ unparalleled screenplay have all popularized the ‘terrestrial’ episodes of our tribulations.
But that is not the main point. Far from it. As is so often the case, we have to dig through the silences in the story to get to the heart of the matter. After all, that which is written, which is left to posterity, is only a general consensus. That which is left unsaid, intentionally, because we fear that it will fly in the face of common sense, deserves the full attention of enlightened minds.
Initially, I was overwhelmed by the frantic pace of the race, the haste with which we left London for France. I played the role of the zealous servant, inasmuch as possible. Fogg appeared satisfied. For my part, I was glad that his finickiness required me to remain close by, since that facilitated my true mission which was, as I remind you, to seize the moment when my “master” would deploy a portion of his inexhaustible energy to contact another world.
As for my employers, no one doubted that Fogg was a talented medium, since he had taken up the gauntlet cast down at the Reform Club. Now, and I am returning to this matter because the time is propitious, it appears that this august gathering was known in occult circles for the quality of its members, a quality that owed nothing to birth, nothing to fortune, as in the case of most gentlemen’s clubs – with the noteworthy exception of one other club, also located in Pall Mall, which I will touch on soon. No, as you see, what brought the members of the Reform Club together, apart from their allegiance to the Crown, was their passion for the Journey. A passion which all could appease, depending on the purity of their gift. These gentlemen met to turn the tables and communicate with foreign spirits, in the intimacy of their downy nest. We obtained this information from a servant who, although he officiated with the required discretion inside the Club, led a life of debauchery outside it. His turpitudes had led him into the arms of highly unscrupulous trollops, and it was a matter of no consequence for the Section to exert a little pressure on the libertine flunky by threatening to reveal the details of his escapades to his wife.
Now you understand how this whole matter started, the first in a long series, yet the only one that was kept secret. The state of agitation that reigned at the Reform Club in the days following Fogg’s appearance was sufficient to alert the Statistics Section. Something was about to happen that would involve the most powerful metapsychic society of the day and a perfect stranger – no matter what M. Verne says! My adoptive land could not refrain from reacting; she sent me to London so that I could pierce through Fogg’s mystery. Here is what I discovered . . .
The first incident occurred in the train that we took to cross through France and Italy, on our way to Brindisi. At one point, Fogg left our compartment, claiming that he needed to ‘stretch his legs’ and charging me to rest since, he added, before too long I would have no time for idling.
I nodded and allowed him to walk down the corridor of the car. Then, once I was sure that he would not detect me, I slipped out behind him. I saw him calmly walk through the doors to the next car. I was on the verge of abandoning my tail, so that I would not lose my cover so early on, when Fogg started behaving in a most unusual manner. I saw him as he stopped in the middle of the corridor, took out his pocket watch, and watched the hands turn for three long minutes, as if nothing else could possibly be more important. Then, he suddenly put his watch back into his pocket and disappeared into the closest compartment, so quickly that I doubt anyone other than myself saw him.
The velvet drapes were drawn, preventing me from observing. I approached the compartment on tiptoe and placed my ear against the wooden wall. In vain. The clackety-clack of the train wheels bumping along the track and the huffing and puffing of the nearby locomotive masked the echoes of any potential conversations. Disappointed, I returned to our compartment. Fogg reappeared there less than ten minutes later. He looked radiant and found it difficult to hide this.
I allowed a few minutes to pass before I stood up and declared, “If you please, I too would like to stretch my legs a bit.”
“Go ahead. It will be several hours before we reach Brindisi, unfortunately.”
He smiled as he made this last remark. I nodded and left the compartment. I immediately headed for the car where Fogg had had his mysterious rendezvous. The door of the compartment was still closed and the curtains were drawn. I caught the eye of a railway employee and said, “I have to take a message to Mr Dugenou. Is this his compartment?”
Obligingly, the fellow, who sported a bushy goatee and eyebrows, consulted his log. After a quick glance, he shook his head.
“You’re mistaken. There’s no Mr Dugenou on my list. And, in any case, this compartment is unoccupied.”
“It wasn’t reserved?”
“I didn’t say that. Only that the passengers weren’t here when the train left.”
I tried my luck. The man looked amenable enough.
“You’re certain there’s no Dugenou?”
“Absolutely. The reservation was made in the name of . . .” Once again he glanced at the log. “Ah, here it is, in the name of Smogg. An E
nglishman, of course.”
I was dumbfounded. The employee tipped his cap at me and walked off. I rejoined Fogg, who was dozing. Smogg! What nerve! Choosing such a transparent pseudonym was tantamount to provocation. Did he know who I was? Had he set such an obvious trap for me – and, I admit, one into which I had all too readily fallen – in order to remove any shadow of a doubt as to my person?
In any case, Fogg demonstrated no change in his behaviour toward me. As soon as we reached the heel of the Italian boot, we boarded a steamer, the Mongolia, heading for Suez and then Bombay.
More than willingly, I will say nothing of that professional nosy-parker who had dogged our heels from Suez. Fix, since that is who I mean, has no role to play in this story, despite the fact that Verne and his cohorts gave him a rather important one.
On the other hand, I will provide details about an episode that was either unknown to the novelist, or hidden by him, much like the compartment reserved by Mr Smogg. The Mongolia was steaming across the Arabian Sea with the Indian peninsula in its sights. We had been on board five days and a certain routine had taken over our activities. Yet, fewer than twenty-four hours before we were to arrive at Bombay, Fogg started to look nervous. Oh, there was nothing spectacular in the case of this man who controlled his emotions superbly . . . But I did see the pocket watch reappear on several occasions, up to ten times in a single hour, and for no apparent reason. That is until that evening, when Fogg decided that it was time to head off to the captain’s table for dinner. I presumptuously decided to inform him that we had been taking our meals in our cabin and that I was perfectly content with that arrangement.
“It’s a simple matter of courtesy,” he retorted. “This is our last evening on board. The captain has informed me that he would be honoured by our presence.”
