Apocalypso

by Robert Rankin

  APOCALYPSO

  The Author’s Cut

  ROBERT RANKIN

  Apocalypso

  Originally published by Doubleday, a division of Transworld Publishers

  Doubleday Edition published 1998

  Corgi Edition published 1999

  Kindle Edition published 2012 by Far Fetched Books

  Diddled about with and proof-read by the author, who apologises for any typos or grammatical errors that somehow slipped past him.

  He did his best, honest.

  Copyright Robert Rankin 1998

  The right of Robert Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  1

  Porrig was lying in the gutter, but he wasn’t looking at the stars. He was rubbing at the lump on his forehead and bewailing his lot. Bewailing his lot was something Porrig did on a more or less regular basis. It came naturally to him. He was good at it.

  Porrig sighed as he rubbed and wondered exactly where he’d gone wrong this time. It did not take him long to reach a conclusion. Porrig had unwittingly stepped into the path of the common man’s arch enemy. Political Correctness. He had said the wrong thing in the wrong company and he had paid the price for so doing.

  He had received the thrashing.

  He had missed the pudding course.

  The dinner party had, until Porrig said his wrong thing, been going rather well. The five people present had all been enjoying themselves. Porrig’s fiancée, Ellen, had been enjoying herself. Her two girlfriends from college had been enjoying themselves. And Collette, Ellen’s sister, whose dinner party it was, had been enjoying herself also. Porrig, perhaps, had not been enjoying himself quite so much as the rest of them, because he hadn’t seemed to be able to get a word in very often. But he had been enjoying himself up to a point, which was better than not enjoying himself at all.

  And not enjoying himself at all was something Porrig did almost as often as bewailing his lot. In fact the two walked hand in hand. So to speak.

  The dinner party conversation had revolved about ‘Sisterhood’ and the Feminist Movement. Much of this was lost upon Porrig, who did not have a sister and who normally associated the word movement only with the word bowel. But at least the conversation seemed to be about women and Porrig was always happy to talk about women.

  And so, when there was a momentary lull in this conversation (it being either twenty past or twenty to the hour, those mysterious times when rooms unaccountably go silent), Porrig took the opportunity to remark casually that when it came to women he was very much a ‘breast’ man himself.

  The strangled gasps and horrified expressions informed Porrig that he had committed a social gaffe.

  Porrig grinned foolishly. ‘Did I really say “breast” man?’ he asked.

  Four female heads nodded grimly.

  ‘I do apologize,’ said Porrig. ‘What I meant to say was “breast” person.’

  But it hadn’t helped.

  Porrig was taken to task. Cruel words were spoken and for a moment or two it seemed to Porrig that he was no longer Porrig at all, but some vile embodiment of all things that were male, and therefore loathsome.

  But he took it like a man, Well, person. Because, after all, he had been in the wrong.

  And then, for some reason that was quite beyond Porrig, one of his fiancée’s college friends brought up the subject of men’s socks. About how ‘fetching’ men looked when wearing nothing but their socks. This got a big laugh around the table.

  Porrig, sensing a lightening of the situation, responded by stating the practicality of men’s socks. How rarely they needed changing, for instance. And this got a big laugh too.

  Feeling that he was now in safe territory, Porrig continued. Men’s socks triumphed over certain articles of feminine attire, he explained, in that they were so easy to put on and take off And he went on to illustrate this by relating a humorous anecdote concerning the difficulties he had once encountered when trying to get a young woman out of her tights in the back of a taxi.

  Porrig wasn’t certain who had thrown the first punch, but he was sure that it hadn’t been him. He sighed once more and picked himself up from the gutter. Was his wedding still on? he wondered. It seemed to be off more times than a prossie’s knickers. Porrig groaned. That was wrong too, wasn’t it! He hadn’t meant to think that. Sex therapist’s knickers, that was probably it.

  Porrig dusted down his trousers. Were those stains red wine, or were they blood? Most likely they were both. Porrig took the opportunity to bewail his lot once more. It wasn’t his fault that he got himself into these situations. Well, it was, but it wasn’t . . . okay then, perhaps it was.

  Porrig wasn’t a bad person, he was kind and he was caring. But he lacked for a certain something. Some social gene had not been encoded into his make-up. He said the wrong things and he did the wrong things, but not through malice or badness.

  Just because.

  He tried so very hard to get things right, but his well-intentioned arrows always fell a little bit short of the mark. He was always that little bit out of step. Always that little bit wrong!

  By day Porrig cleaned and polished used motor cars for a man of doubtful integrity who was known locally as Mad Jack. Porrig had learned early in his life that it is always best to tread warily whilst in the company of any man who has the epithet ‘Mad’ attached to his name. When at work Porrig chose his words with the utmost care. Mad Jack referred to his lone employee as Dumb Porrig. Both seemed happy with this arrangement.

  By night, however, things were different. By night the real Porrig emerged from his daytime chrysalis. The real Porrig was a cartoonist. A graphic novelist. A creator of comic-book heroes.

  Not that he had, as yet, managed to get anything published. But he kept trying. Oh how he kept trying. And he was careful too. Very careful that all his comic-book heroes should be politically correct. His latest, for example, was the very exemplar of political correctitude, being a small black boy, who, in the company of his lovable pet pooch, righted social wrongs and put bad guys to flight.

  Exactly why The Adventures of Johnny Foreigner and Dildo the Dog had so far failed to impress prospective publishers was also quite beyond Porrig.

  Still, perhaps they’d go for his new hero, who was not only black, but wheelchair-bound. Jazz the Spaz.

  Porrig wandered home. He lived quietly with his mum and dad in Moby Dick Terrace. ‘Quietly’, beca
use his mother had forbidden him from speaking in the house, and ‘with his mum and dad’ because no-one else seemed keen to offer him lodgings. The Brentford house stood directly opposite to that once owned by the now legendary Archroy, renowned world traveller and discoverer of Noah’s Ark. Archroy’s house had a blue plaque above the front door. Porrig’s didn’t.

  But it will one day, thought Porrig, although why he should think such a thing was anybody’s guess.

  Porrig did not enter by the front gate, but climbed carefully over the fence. The reason for this outré behaviour was that Porrig’s neighbour, Mrs Chisholm, was in the habit of setting traps for him. She had recently joined a Pentecostal Church, The Twenty-third Congregation of Espadrille, and become convinced that Porrig was an agent of the Antichrist.

  Porrig had tried to put her right, but strangely his pleas of innocence had gone unheeded and his kind offer to pluck the hairs which sprouted from a mole on the lady’s face had been misconstrued. Wary treading was now necessary in his front garden.

  Porrig stepped over the piano wire that was stretched between the rose bushes, turned his key in the front-door lock and went inside.

  He was now forced to shin over the armchair that blocked the hail. This was not a barricade to keep him out, nor was it the work of Mrs Chisholm. This was only his mum having another bash at feng shui.

  On the hail table was an envelope. Porrig observed that it had his name written upon it. The writing was in green ink. The writing was in a careful hand. Porrig took the envelope and went upstairs.

  Porrig’s bedroom was not without interest. It contained many books, as Porrig was an avid reader, devouring the works of such luminaries as Johnny Quinn and Hugo Rune with great gusto. Whether or not he actually took in much of what he read was a matter for debate (though not for a particularly serious one).

  There was Porrig’s drawing table, of course, to which were pinned his latest efforts at penmanship. And it did have to be said that he was a fine artist: skilful and delicate, with a lightness of touch which captured perfectly the mood and disposition of his characters. Sadly, however, this was blown all to hell by the excruciating phrases that issued in speech bubbles from their mouths.

  Porrig sat down on his bed and perused the envelope. It was definitely his name on the front, but as there was no address and no stamp, it had certainly been delivered by hand. Which might not be such a good thing. A letter bomb from next door, perhaps? Porrig shrugged this off. Many faults had he, but the duffel-coat of paranoia did not hang in the wardrobe of his failings.

  Porrig read aloud his name. It was spelt Pádraig, but as it was pronounced Porrig that was what everybody called him.

  ‘Pádraig,’ read Porrig. ‘Pádraig Arthur Naseby’. Porrig shook his head; he really hated that name. No matter how you read it, it always sounded like ‘The Accused’. ‘Pádraig Arthur Naseby; you stand before me accused on ten counts of Political Incorrectness. How do you plead?’ Guilty. Always guilty.

  Porrig’s name was a lot he constantly bewailed. He would change it by deed poll as soon as he could get around to it. And as soon as he could make his mind up as to a replacement. He fancied something posh. One of those double-barrelled lads so beloved of the aristocracy. Screen-Saver perhaps, or Sellby-Date.

  Pádraig Arthur Naseby indeed!

  Porrig opened up the envelope. Inside it he found, of all things, a letter, similarly addressed to himself. Porrig unfolded it. Top quality paper, all waxy, with a watermark and everything. From a solicitor’s office: Ashbury, Gilstock and Phart-Ebum, Grand Parade, Brighton, Sussex.

  ‘Brighton, Sussex,’ read Porrig. ‘I’ve never been to Brighton, Sussex. And Phart-Ebum, that’s a good name. I rather fancy that. Porrig Phart-Ebum, it has a definite ring.’

  Having got that over, Porrig read the letter.

  Dear Mr Naseby (it read),

  I am instructed by the executor of your late uncle’s estate to inform you of your inheritance.

  As you must surely know, your uncle entered into many different fields of endeavour subsequent to his retirement from the stage. Not all of these were entirely successful, and the full extent of his debts, along with the rightful ownership of certain properties have yet to be established.

  However, his will is most clear upon one point: that the full ownership of ALPHA 17 be passed onto you and you alone.

  In order that we may facilitate matters apropos and a priori, it is requested that you present yourself here at your earliest convenience.

  Please bring proof of your identity. We look forward to meeting you.

  ‘Et cetera,’ said Porrig.

  And, ‘Cheeses of Nazareth,’ said Porrig.

  And, ‘Uncle who?’ said Porrig.

  And, ‘ALPHA 17,’ said Porrig. ‘An uncle I know nothing of has died and left me a planet.’

  Said Porrig.

  2

  Porrig’s father, Augustus Naseby, lurked in the standing room. This had, until recently, been the sitting room, but, with his wife’s feng shui on the go again, the armchairs were now distributed about the house and the only furniture that remained in the sitting room was a low coffee table with a flowerpot on the top and a drawerless chest of drawers. But these were beautifully positioned.

  Porrig’s father lurked behind the drawerless chest. Lurking was something he excelled at, he had it down to an art. At his son’s appearance in the doorway he shrank down and kept very still.

  ‘Father,’ said Porrig. ‘I must speak with you.’

  ‘To wit to woooo,’ went Porrig’s father.

  ‘No,’ said Porrig. ‘You cannot fool me by doing that. You are not an owl, you are my father.’

  Augustus Naseby straightened up and addressed his son. ‘Is it yourself then, Porrig?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ said Porrig.

  ‘And sure would you look at yourself there.’

  Porrig shook his head. ‘Why the Irish accent?’ he enquired.

  ‘I’m thinking of converting to Catholicism. I just wanted to know what it felt like before I commit myself.’

  ‘And what does it feel like?’

  ‘Pretty good. If you do a Northern Irish accent you get served much quicker in pubs. But why are you speaking at all, son? You know it’s not allowed in the house.’

  ‘I have something very important to say. It’s about your brother.’

  ‘God rest his soul.’

  ‘Ah. Then you know already.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That he’s dead.’

  ‘Who’s dead?’

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘But you said, “God rest his soul.”’

  ‘It’s an Irish expression. They say it all the time.’ Augustus Naseby crossed himself.

  Porrig sighed.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said his father. ‘You know it depresses me.’

  Porrig sighed again and his father flinched. ‘Do you or do you not have a brother? Or did you? Yes or no?’ Porrig folded his arms. ‘Come on, I want to know.’

  Porrig’s mother, Myra Naseby, now entered the room carrying a goldfish bowl with a piece of cheese in it.

  ‘Shut up, Porrig,’ she said.

  ‘Mother, this is important. An uncle has died and left me a planet.’

  Myra Naseby burst into tears. ‘You wicked boy,’ she blubbed, ‘with the cruel and evil things you say. Why can’t you be like your brother?’

  ‘I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said her husband. ‘I did what was expected of me on our wedding night. Once was enough, surely?’

  Porrig sighed again. His mother shrieked and his father ducked back down behind the drawerless chest.

  ‘I intend to get to the bottom of this,’ said Porrig. ‘One of you must have had a brother. He couldn’t have been my uncle otherwise.’

  ‘Go to your room,’ said Porrig’s mother. �
�And don’t ever come out of it again.’

  Porrig’s arms were folded and they stayed that way. ‘Which one of you had a brother?’ he demanded to be told.

  Augustus Naseby stuck his head up from his hiding place. ‘Look, Porrig,’ he said, ‘there’s something your mother and I have been meaning to talk to you about and now would seem to be the right time.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Porrig.

  ‘Oh yes indeed to be sure.’

  ‘In an English accent might be nice.’

  ‘Quite so. You see, Porrig, you aren’t our real son.’

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘You’re not. You were created in a laboratory as a cure for the common cold.’

  ‘No,’ said Porrig, shaking his head.

  ‘No?’ said his father.

  ‘No. I have heard all that stuff before. How the fairies left me on the doorstep. How Mother was artificially inseminated during an alien abduction. How I came in parts from a toy company and was brought to life by some magic dust that a witch woman gave you for pulling her out of the canal. How . . .’

  ‘How we opened up a can of sardines and—’

  ‘That too. Why do you insist on making these things up?’

  Porrig’s father shrugged.

  Porrig’s mother said, ‘It’s because we don’t like you, dear. It’s nothing personal. Well, actually it is.’

  ‘All right,’ said Porrig, ‘that’s fair enough.’

  ‘You mean you don’t mind?’

  ‘Why should I mind? You can’t be expected to like everyone you meet. I certainly don’t like everyone I meet. In fact, there are some people I really hate. For instance—’

  ‘No,’ said his mother. ‘Please don’t. That’s one of the things, you see. I know you’re only being honest, that you mean no actual harm by what you say, but you offend everybody you meet. Ellen was on the phone before you came in. She said you’d offended her friends and that the wedding was off and she never wanted to see you again.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Porrig.

  ‘I’m sorry if that’s upset you, dear.’