The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions

by Robert Rankin

  George and Ada sat in the elegant tea pavilion of the Ritz, which was furnished in the Oriental style: black lacquer, white enamel, chinoiserie and dainty chintz.

  George wore a dark and elegant morning suit that had been paid for in cash from a tailor that George had not previously visited. Ada wore the most delightful confection of rich dark-red velvet. Full skirt with bustle, dainty cape and quilted bodice, miniature top hat with tiny afternoon goggles.

  Ada glanced at her engagement ring and smiled a smile upon George. ‘What time is your appointment, dear?’ she asked him.

  George took out his gold watch and perused its face. ‘An hour from now,’ he said. ‘At half past four.’

  ‘And you do know what to say?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ George patted at a little sheaf of papers. ‘I have written out a brief synopsis of our adventures together. Leaving out, of course, anything that either of us might find embarrassing. Putting emphasis upon the exciting side of it all.’

  ‘And have you made any mention of the subterranean Martians?’

  George made so-so gestures with his hands. ‘I am in two minds,’ he told Ada, ‘whether to sell, if sell indeed I can, this book as a fictional adventure, rather than a true-life tale. I do not know whether it would be appropriate to use the word “Martian” at all.’

  ‘Perhaps just Lemurian, then,’ said Ada Lovelace. ‘The wreck of the Empress of Mars, escape from cannibals and flying monkeys, the discovery of the most sacred object in the universe and a lost civilisation – this book has much to recommend it, I am thinking, without making mention of Martians. You must judge the publisher’s reaction when you outline it to him. Use your intuition.’

  ‘My intuition?’ said George. ‘Perhaps you should be visiting this publisher.’

  ‘George,’ said Ada, ‘I would certainly not be believed. I would appear a mere slip of a silly girl. Publishers are men and they like to publish other men. You will be fine. Everything will be fine.’

  ‘Not one of my favourite phrases,’ said George, ‘but everything will be fine.’

  They enjoyed a delightful tea of cakes and crumpets washed down with Twinings Afternoon Blend and a glass of chocolate-flavoured port to give George a little perk in the right direction.

  At precisely four-thirty, George Fox entered the offices of Leonard Smithers. A gentleman with a reputation for publishing a more racy brand of literature, Mr Smithers had published the work of Aubrey Beardsley, Oscar Wilde, Max Beerbohm and the sinister Aleister Crowley. George considered that this was the man to publish his fabulous tale.

  The interview did not last long. Leonard Smithers was a man with a certain reputation. A man who took his luncheons in a mostly liquid form. A man who enforced a spoken opinion with a thrown object. A volatile fellow.

  When George left the office of Leonard Smithers, a short half-hour after he had entered it, he did so with a certain faltering step. Things had not worked out exactly as he had hoped.

  Certainly George had received an advance. And a very large advance too. The cheque that now fluttered in his fingers sported several zeroes. But George felt saddened too regarding this advance.

  Mr Smithers had not been impressed by George’s tale, whether pitched as fact or very-far-fetched fiction. He knew a thing or two about the occult, he told George, and was well aware of the legends surrounding the Japanese Devil Fish Girl. One of his authors, a Mr Crowley, had written a piece regarding this singular deity. The mother Goddess to all mother Goddesses. The mother too of God himself, as some religions claimed. It was whispered by those in the know of the occult world and inner Government circles that the ecclesiastics of Venus had recently launched an expedition to seek the statue of this Goddess. That they actually knew the location of the island on which it was to be found. But that also too the Jupiterians sought Her. That it was becoming a political issue which might lead to an interplanetary incident, and that something called a ‘D notice’ had been posted, forbidding any mention in newspapers, magazines or books regarding this matter.

  George had been most surprised to hear all this.

  Mr Smithers then suggested that perhaps George had in fact been sent by a rival publisher, seeking to sell him something that when published would cause Mr Smithers to be put out of business by the arrival of certain Gentlemen in Black, who would close down his office and carry him off to Heaven only knew where.

  Mr Smithers had asked George whether he knew of the term ‘conspiracy theory’. George had told Mr Smithers that he did.

  And then George went on to say that if it was the case that nothing regarding the Japanese Devil Fish Girl could be published, that actually suited him very well and he would be happy to amend his manuscript to rename her the Cantonese Goldfish Girl, if needs be.

  But it was at about this time that Mr Smithers, well in his cups and foaming somewhat at the mouth, openly accused George of being an agent for the Gentlemen in Black and hurled a clockwork ashtray at his head.

  ‘Get out of my office and stay out!’ he shouted at George.

  So, as George strolled along Threadneedle Street, towards the Bank of England, where he intended to open an account with Mr Smithers’ cheque, he did so with a certain faltering step. And a certain degree of sadness.

  It is not a pleasant thing to have a publisher hurl an ashtray at your head and rant and rave about getting and staying out. Why, if it had not been for the employment by George of a slim glass phial of colourless liquid topped by a screw-on cap, George might not have got nearly so large an advance.

  So George did not exactly laugh all the way to the bank, but thinking of Ada and their wedding day, he did smile just a little.

  ‘The Cantonese Goldfish Girl?’ said Ada Lovelace. Over an intimate supper for two in the kitchen of the Byron household.

  ‘I had no choice,’ said George. ‘I do not wish Mr Smithers to get into any trouble. There seem to be some political issues involved.’

  ‘Well, naturally there would be, George. Do you not think that every race in the universe would seek to possess the most sacred object in the universe? Seek to take it to their own world?’

  ‘I had never really thought of it that way,’ said George. ‘Do you think then that if the Venusians knew where the statue was, they would try to steal it?’

  ‘I have absolutely no doubt of that at all,’ said Ada. ‘I read The Book of Sayito, remember. The Venusian version claims that the statue was originally on Venus and was stolen by iconoclasts.’

  ‘I do wish I had read this book,’ said George.

  ‘Well,’ said Ada, ‘I suggest that you and I keep very quiet about the temple on the island. Let us think of more cheerful matters. When are you having Darwin measured for his best man’s suit?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said George. ‘If I can ease him away from his opium pipe. He seems to have settled into this house more as a guest than a butler. He will not do anything for me any more.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ada, ‘then you did not hear. It was announced in the Tatler – Lord Brentford left the bulk of his fortune to Darwin. When the redecoratings are completed at Syon House, Darwin will be moving there.’

  ‘Well, that is a happy ever after for Darwin,’ said George, raising a glass of red wine in his hand and toasting the monkey’s good fortune. ‘What do these redecoratings consist of?’

  ‘The rose arboretum in the great conservatory is being uprooted and replaced with banana trees.’

  Darwin the monkey ex-butler seemed to enjoy being measured for his best man’s suit. He flicked through the tailor’s catalogue and indicated that he would also like a tweed shooting jacket with matching plus fours, a linen suit, a panama hat and two pairs of red silk pyjamas.

  The tailor, who was a regular reader of the Tatler, opened an account for Darwin and then drew his attention to a new range of headwear, aimed at gentlemen of modest hat size.

  Days passed one upon another, and the wedding day drew near.

  And George Fox woke
up upon a particular morning to find that it had arrived.

  George had taken temporary lodgings with Darwin at the estate of the late Lord Brentford, as it was not really the done thing to live in the same house as your intended. Even if her family were of Bohemian bent. The banana trees were planted now and George even helped to install a few climbing ropes in the ballroom and place a number of small empty cardboard boxes in the late lord’s study for Darwin to put on his head when he felt in the mood.

  George breakfasted, bathed and dressed in his finery.

  Tactfully parted Darwin from a cardboard box to which he had become romantically attached and then helped the ape into his spiffing attire.

  Examining themselves in one of the great hall mirrors that Darwin had not bespattered with dung, they nodded in agreement. A regular pair of toffs.

  The service itself was to be held in St Paul’s. Not actually in the cathedral, but at a coffee house around the corner. It was a Bohemian thing. A Byron family thing.

  George did not mind really. Although he had not lost anything of his piety. George had become a believer. But he felt that God would understand. God had, after all, spared both him and Ada. God had been good to George.

  The carriage of the deceased Lord Brentford was an old-fashioned, high-wheeled affair. But it held to considerable dignity and the horses were thoroughbreds.

  Darwin dismissed the coachman and insisted upon doing the driving. George was not altogether enthusiastic about this, but, he reasoned, reasonably enough, that he and Ada had got this far together and that nothing was that likely to stop them getting married.

  ‘But you will drive very slowly, just in case,’ George said to Darwin as they climbed into the carriage.

  Darwin raised his tiny top hat, then thoroughly whipped up the horses.

  Through Brentford, Kew, Chiswick and Hammersmith they travelled. And many stopped to marvel at the sight.

  George raised his hat to the gawpers and settled back on the plush leather seating. There had been no accidents thus far.

  The problem began just near Hammersmith Bridge. There were a great many carriages and omnibuses and hansom cabs and fellows on penny-farthing bicycles and steam-powered automobiles. And all were jammed up together and very stopped indeed.

  ‘Do we have a horn to honk?’ George asked.

  Darwin glanced towards a pile of horse dung in the road.

  ‘No!’ said George. ‘No throwing. Just honking, that is all.’

  But they had no horn, and although many others had, and honked these with a vengeance, the traffic moved not a single inch, which caused George great concern.

  ‘We must not be late,’ he said to Darwin. ‘I wonder if we might perhaps detach one of the horses and gallop it along the pavement?’

  Darwin looked most enthusiastic. George set to the task.

  He almost had the horse detached when a London bobby happened by.

  ‘Having trouble, sir?’ this bobby asked.

  ‘My wedding day,’ said George, ‘and all the traffic has come to a standstill. I am proposing to ride this horse along the gutter. This would create no problem, would it at all?’

  ‘That would hardly be sporting, sir, now would it?’ asked the bobby. ‘You might just be trying to get to the front of the queue. Some of these people have been queuing all night. They will not take kindly to you pushing through.’

  ‘I am trying to get to my wedding,’ said George. ‘And what are they all queuing for anyway?’

  ‘Come now, sir,’ said the bobby. ‘You are not pretending that you don’t know, surely? Where have you been, outer space?’ And he laughed. Heartily.

  ‘I am so glad I amuse you,’ said George, ‘but I have been rather involved in organising my wedding of late. Is it some sporting event or royal occasion?’

  ‘Well, certainly Her Majesty will be attending. It is after all the kind of thing that only occurs once in any lifetime.’

  George had the horse detached now and was climbing onto it. ‘Well,’ he said to the bobby, ‘I am sure it must be something terribly exciting, but it holds no interest for me whatsoever. I have my wedding to attend.’

  ‘You will kick yourself if you miss it,’ said the bobby. ‘It will only be in London for a week, before it is toured to every capital city in the world. Tickets are a guinea a piece but worth every penny, I’ve heard.’

  ‘I am sure it must be,’ said George, ‘but I must be off.’ The bobby, however, held hard on the horse’s reins. ‘They say that She is the most beautiful thing in all of creation,’ he said. ‘Brought to London by the world’s greatest explorer and archaeologist. Who, having endured terrible hardships, conquered all and won Her for the Empire.’

  ‘Most beautiful thing?’ said George slowly. ‘Won Her for the Empire?’

  ‘Professor Cagliostro Coffin,’ said the bobby. ‘Hero of the Empire. Lord Coffin as he will be when he has received his knighthood from the Queen for bringing the statue of the Japanese Devil Fish Girl to London.’

  37

  ‘Oh for the love of God, no!’cried George. ‘He has stolen the statue of Her.’

  ‘Calm down please, sir, if you will,’ said the bobby, still retaining a firm hold upon >^ the horse’s reins. ‘ “Stolen” is such an ugly word. It is not technically stealing if you are a British archaeologist and you acquire items of historical significance in the savage realms and liberate them to civilisation.’

  George gawped somewhat at the bobby. ‘You have no idea just how awful this is,’ he told him.

  ‘No, sir, but I soon will – I have ordered a copy of Lord Coffin’s book. He has apparently written a thrilling account of his deeds of bravery. How he constructed an airship and set out in search of adventure. And of the heat ray he installed upon his airship, with which he exterminated all the cannibals and flying monkeys on the island, before he liberated the statue. How—’

  But George had heard quite enough.

  ‘Darwin,’ he called, and the monkey leapt up behind him. And, ‘Away,’ shouted George and dug his heels into the thoroughbred’s glossy flanks.

  ‘Hold on there, sir,’ bawled the bobby, finding himself dragged and tumbled. ‘You can’t just go—’

  But his helmeted head struck the rear of a carriage and he sank into unconsciousness.

  George shouted, ‘Tally-ho,’ and, ‘Fly like the wind,’ and, ‘Get me to the church on time,’ and other implorements of haste upon the part of the horse. Now freed from the shackles of plodding carriage service, this equine beasty put its best hoof forward without further encouragement and plunged along the pavement.

  Ladies and gentlemen, pram-pushing nannies, children with dollies and hoops, a Pomeranian doggy or two and Biff the performing bear – all took to leaping, dodging, scurrying, fleetly sidestepping and otherwise and everywise moving at speed from the path of the onrushing charger.

  Darwin the monkey clung to George and chattered away in joy. George clung grimly to the horse’s reins, and the knowledge that he had never actually learned to ride a horse, nor even sat upon one before, was never far from his mind.

  It is a fair old gallop from Hammersmith to St Paul’s.

  The crowds grew thicker the closer George drew towards Wren’s mighty cathedral. And the coffee shop just around the corner.

  The horse leapt with ease a hot-chestnut stand that barred its way and also a Hokey-Pokey Ice Cream seller. A child distributing pamphlets jumped nimbly aside, his pamphlets spiralling into the air, a blurry cloud that met George full in the face. He snatched one away from his eyes and glanced at what was printed upon it.

  The Japanese Devil Fish Girl

  THE GREATEST ATTRACTION OF THIS

  OR ANY AGE

  Eminent Professor’s Archaeological Find

  EMPIRE’S GREATEST HERO DISPLAYS

  THE MOST ANCIENT AND SACRED

  STATUE IN THE UNIVERSE

  • For one week only • 1 gns All classes • Open 24 hours •

  WEST NAVE �
� ST PAUL’S CATHEDRAL

  George did terrible sighings and dug his heels in harder.

  George was late for his wedding. But still he was there before Ada. But soon the lovely girl arrived looking radiant in a wedding gown of the Pre-Raphaelite persuasion. Hair garlanded with wild flowers and silken trappings that might have graced Lady Guinevere when she married the great King Arthur.

  ‘You came upon horseback,’ said Ada. ‘How romantic. ’

  ‘Have you heard what he has done?’ cried George. ‘He has stolen the statue. Stolen the most sacred object in the universe.’