Apocalypso

by Robert Rankin

  ‘I’m not upset. I know she only wanted me to father her children.’

  ‘What?’ said Porrig’s mum.

  ‘I don’t think women really enjoy sex at all,’ said Porrig. ‘I think they’re driven by their hormones to reproduce and they—’

  ‘Shut up, Porrig!’

  ‘Sorry, Mother.’

  ‘Actually, I think he might be onto something with that one,’ said Porrig’s dad.

  ‘And you shut up too and stand by the window where I told you. You’re messing up my feng shui and I won’t have it.’

  ‘Look,’ said Porrig. ‘It’s quite clear that you don’t want me around any more. Ellen doesn’t want to marry me and as I’ve been left this inheritance, now would probably be as good a time as any for me to go off and make my way in the world.’

  ‘Inheritance?’ said Porrig’s mother.

  ‘ALPHA 17. The planet. I told you.’

  Porrig’s mother began to laugh.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘Oh, no reason, dear. Sometimes I just break into spontaneous laughter due to the sheer joy of being alive.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Porrig.

  ‘It’s quite true,’ said Porrig’s dad. ‘It used to happen every time I took my trousers off. That’s probably why we never had any more children, now that I come to think about it.’

  Porrig’s mother shushed her husband into silence. ‘Porrig’s right,’ she said. ‘Now would definitely be the time for him to leave home and make his way in the world. What with him being left a . . . left a . . .’ She crumpled once more into laughter.

  ‘Planet,’ said Porrig.

  ‘Planet, dear, that’s right.’ And Porrig’s mother collapsed onto the carpet, where she rolled about, laughing hysterically and kicking her legs in the air.

  ‘I am going upstairs,’ said Porrig. ‘I am going to pack my bags and I will be leaving first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Sleep well then, dear,’ howled Porrig’s mother, gasping for breath and drumming her fists on the floor.

  Porrig went up to his room, pulled his battered suitcase from beneath his bed and packed.

  He slept very badly that night. His dreams were full of spacecraft and of alien ambassadors who came in peace but left in a right huff after his welcoming speech. There was a magistrate who said things like, ‘Porrig Arthur Naseby, you stand before me accused of causing intergalactic war, how do you plead?’ And Porrig’s mum was there laughing and shouting, ‘Guilty! Guilty! Off with his head!’

  Porrig was awoken early by a scream, a thud and a shattering of bottle glass, as the milkman, tripping on the piano wire, dropped his crate and struck his head on the front door.

  Porrig shook himself fully awake. ‘Time to be off, I think,’ he said.

  In the bathroom he showered and dried and dressed. And gathered up his razor, comb and toothbrush. He thrust these into a pocket of his jacket and stood for a moment before the bathroom mirror, considering his reflection.

  A young man gazed back at him. A young man of nineteen years, moderately handsome, firm of jaw and twinkly of eye. It was not the face he would have chosen, had he been given the choice, but it was not a face to be bewailed. Porrig grinned at the face and the face grinned back at Porrig. Simultaneously.

  ‘Right then,’ said Porrig to his reflection. ‘This is it.’

  And it was.

  His parents were still asleep and so Porrig left a note which thanked them for having him and wished them all the very best for the future. He closed the front door quietly behind him, stepped over the prone body of the milkman and set off to the station with a whistle.

  The sun rose over Brentford, beaming blessings on the borough. Sparrows sang their simple songs. Chaffinches chewed cherries on chimney-pots and a dark dog did a doo-doo in a doorway. Pete the parish pervert was probably playing with his pecker in the park, but as Porrig wasn’t passing by that way he didn’t see him.

  Porrig did, however, pass by Mad Jack’s Used Car Emporium. And here he paused to push a postcard through the letter-box. On this postcard were written words of apology, explaining that Porrig had, through no fault of his own, been forced into taking an early retirement. Porrig had been very careful indeed when penning this missive to couch it in terms that would not be likely to cause offence or risk retribution.

  He had only used the ‘F’ word twice in describing his employer.

  Porrig went a-whistling on his way and the sun rose ever higher over Brentford.

  Ahead lurked trouble with a capital R.

  In the ticket office at Brentford Central Station sat Russell The Railwayman. He had originally been christened Russell Hubner, but had changed his name by deed poll. Working on the railways can do strange things to a man (as will certain women if you pay them enough). But this aside, Russell had changed his name with a definite purpose in mind: to pursue a career as a stand-up comedian. There had once been a singing postman. There had also been a singing nun. A laughing policeman had been sung about, as had a fisherman called Pedro who was always whistling. But where were all the railwaymen, eh? Working on the railways, that’s where! Russell meant to change all that. Well, for himself at least.

  But so far things had not worked out too well. In fact they had not worked out at all. His attempts to take the world of comedy by storm had been met with indifference. And when not with indifference, then with outright hostility. His regular appearances at The Flying Swan’s Thursday Talent Night were received with catcalls and the throwing of furniture. The world of comedy did not seem ready for a ribald railwayman.

  But why?

  Well, it did have something to do with Russell’s ‘delivery’. He was a natural mumbler. And when it came to stage presence, you either have that or you don’t.

  As for his material, limited as it was to Russell’s specific interests, the bogie arrangements on pre-war locomotives and the music of Abba, it did not appeal as widely as it might have done. Russell’s only real fan was his mother.

  And so Russell festered in the ticket office of Brentford Central Station, bitter and resentful and taking his spite out on the travellers.

  And one was approaching even now. A young man with a bulging suitcase. Possibly off on his holidays.

  Russell peered through the grimy glass of the ticket office window. ‘The first of the day,’ he mumbled. ‘And with only five minutes to catch the Victoria train. He’s going to have to hurry if he doesn’t want to miss it.’

  Porrig dragged his suitcase into the booking hall and set it down upon the tiled floor. Squaring up before the counter window, he said, ‘A single to Brighton please and . . . er . . . Hello, where have you gone?’

  Beyond the range of Porrig’s vision, Russell had sat down in a corner and opened up the latest edition of Bogie World. ‘Shan’t keep you a moment, sir,’ he called.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Porrig stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and gazed all about the booking hall. The station was Grade Two listed, as were most of the older buildings in the borough. When Sir John Betjeman allegedly wrote of Brentford, in his famous poem Town I do thee love he knew what he was doing.

  Oh beauteous borough, fairest jewel

  Set in the crown of London’s west

  By the Thames so coolly cool

  And blah de blah and beer is best.

  John might well have had a few pints under his belt at the time, but he certainly wasn’t tugging turtles from his trousers, (as the old saying goes). Because when it came to tasteful architecture, Brentford had it. And then some.

  Porrig idly perused the railway timetable.

  The trains that ran to Victoria, where he must make his Brighton connection, ran on the hour.

  Porrig idly perused his wristwatch.

  It was now four minutes to the hour.

  ‘Oh,’ said Porrig, and, ‘Excuse me, please, but can I buy a ticket?’

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment, sir.’

  ‘Hurry up. I’ll mi
ss my train.’

  In his hidden corner Russell smiled. ‘A live one,’ he whispered. ‘Be with you in a minute, sir,’ he called.

  Porrig scuffed his heels upon the tiled floor. He had always considered himself to be an easy-going fellow. And it could be truthfully stated that, as with the duffel-coat of paranoia, the red cagoule of anxiety did not hang in the crowded wardrobe of his failings.

  The double-breasted blazer of impatience did however. In fact it took up much more than its fair share of space.

  ‘Hurry up,’ cried Porrig, ‘get a move on.’

  A lady in a straw hat now entered the booking hall.

  ‘Good morning to you, young man,’ she said. ‘Do you know what time the next train goes?’

  ‘Any minute now,’ said Porrig. ‘I’m waiting to get a ticket.’

  ‘Do you mind if I wait with you then?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Porrig.

  Russell’s smiling face now appeared at the window of the ticket counter. ‘So then, madam,’ he said, ‘how may I help you?’

  ‘Oi!’ yelled Porrig. ‘I was here before her.’

  ‘Come now, sir,’ said Russell. ‘Ladies first.’

  ‘I’ll miss my damn train.’

  ‘No need for bad language, there’s plenty of time before the train gets in.’

  ‘No there isn’t.’

  ‘Yes there is, sir. Now, madam, what can I do for you?’

  ‘A return please,’ said the lady.

  ‘Return to where, madam?’

  ‘Return to here, of course.’

  Russell laughed.

  The lady laughed.

  Porrig did not laugh.

  ‘The old ones are always the best,’ said Russell.

  ‘I prefer the young ones myself,’ said the lady.

  And they both laughed again.

  ‘The train’s coming.’ Porrig pointed up the track. ‘I can hear it.’

  ‘Long way off yet,’ said Russell. ‘Now, madam. Where did you want to travel to, before you return to this station?’

  The lady in the straw hat cocked her head on one side. ‘I can’t really make up my mind,’ she said. ‘Where do you think would be nice at this time of year?’

  ‘What?’ went Porrig.

  ‘Well,’ said Russell to the lady. ‘It all depends on how much you want to spend. The West Midlands are very nice. Particularly the town of Harcourt, which was noted for its steel mills. Before the war they produced many of the 4-2-4 bogie couplings that were used on the old LNER.’

  ‘That takes me back,’ said the lady.

  ‘It’s coming into the station,’ shouted Porrig, jumping up and down.

  ‘Have a care, sir, that floor is Grade Two listed.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better serve this chap first,’ said the lady. ‘He’s getting himself in a bit of a state.’

  ‘If you’re quite sure,’ said Russell.

  ‘I am,’ said the lady.

  ‘All right then, sir, what do you say?’

  ‘A single to Brighton and make it quick.’

  ‘Not to me, sir. To this lady.’

  What?’

  ‘Two little words, sir.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Say thank you to the nice lady.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘I’m waiting, sir. Courtesy costs nothing, you know.’

  ‘The train’s in the station. I’m going to miss it.’

  ‘They’ll be taking on the mail. There’s plenty of time. Come on now, sir. Say thank you to the lady for letting you push in front of her.’

  Porrig clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘All right,’ he gasped. ‘All right. Thank you. Thank you. Now give me a ticket to Brighton.’

  ‘I don’t think you said please then, did you, sir?’

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Porrig.

  ‘I’m prepared to accept that,’ said Russell. ‘After all, it’s not compulsory for passengers to be polite to us. Only that we be polite to them.’

  ‘A single to Brighton. Please, please, please.’

  ‘A single to Brixton. Coming right up.’

  ‘Brighton,’ said Porrig.

  ‘It certainly is a bright’n today, yes, sir. But I expect it will cloud over later.’

  ‘Brighton!’ shouted Porrig. ‘Brighton! BRIGHTON!’

  ‘Oh, Brighton. I thought you said Brixton. I’m a bit deaf in my left ear, you see. Actually, it’s quite a funny story how it happened. They were doing these tours of the engine sheds at Crewe and I—’

  ‘Give me my ticket. Give me my ticket.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. Now what kind of ticket was it that you wanted? Was it the super-saver, the value-variable, the weekend-wonder, the mmmmmmmble bmmmmmlemmm—’

  ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying. You’re mumbling! I . . . look, just give me anything, anything, the train isn’t going to wait.’

  ‘First class or second class?’

  ‘Anything! Anything!’

  ‘The choice is yours, sir. I can’t influence you either way. It’s more than my job’s worth to do that.’

  ‘Second class then, the train’s going to go. It’s going to go.’

  ‘Second class it is then, sir. Nine pounds, seventeen and sixpence.’

  Porrig flung a ten-pound note across the counter.

  ‘I don’t think I can change that, sir. Do you have anything bigger?’

  ‘Bigger?’

  ‘It’s these new computer tills.’

  Porrig snatched back his tenner and rummaged in his trouser pocket. He had brought with him all his savings. He produced a twenty-pound note and flung this across the counter. Russell handed him his ticket. ‘Now,’ said Russell, ‘let’s see if I can get the hang of this till. I think you have to press this button, or was it this one?’

  ‘Wasn’t that the guard’s whistle?’ asked the lady in the straw hat.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Porrig, abandoning his change, snatching up his suitcase and making a dash for the platform.

  Russell and the lady watched him go.

  ‘A good turn of speed,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘Do you think he’ll catch it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Russell. ‘Just. I’ve never had a passenger miss one yet. I pride myself that I can get it down to the very last second. That’s the humour of it, you see. It’s all in the timing. It wouldn’t be funny if they missed their trains.’

  ‘You’re a comic genius, Russell,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘And you’re wasted here. But your day will come, son. Your day will come.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. And I really do appreciate you coming down here each morning to work on these routines with me.’

  ‘A boy’s best friend is his mother,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘And the extra money comes in handy. Give me my share of the young buffoon’s change and I’ll get off up to the shops. Pork chops be all right for you tonight?’

  ‘Magic,’ said Russell The Railwayman.

  3

  The station master had blown his whistle and the train was leaving the station. Porrig rushed across the platform, puffing and blowing and bewailing his lot. In the last compartment of the very last carriage some Good Samaritan espied Porrig’s plight and opened the door for him. Porrig scrambled onto the train.

  He slammed the door shut, swung his suitcase with difficulty onto the rack and threw himself down onto one of the bench seats.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Porrig in a breathless fashion.

  The Good Samaritan smiled in reply. ‘That was close,’ he observed.

  Porrig made a bitter face. ‘Swine,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Swine. Some officious git in the ticket office and some old cretin of a woman who pushed in front of me. I don’t know about making pensioners resit their driving tests. They should make them do their O levels again. And swim ten lengths of the local baths. And if they can’t’ — Porrig drew a finger across his throat — ‘euthanasia,’ he said. ‘The
best thing for them.’

  ‘That is perhaps a tad extreme.’

  ‘You’ve got to be cruel to be kind,’ said Porrig. ‘Put them out of our misery.’

  Porrig grinned up at his fellow traveller. ‘Oh God,’ said Porrig.

  The Good Samaritan grinned at Porrig. He was a very old Good Samaritan. Very old. He was small and he was wiry, a bit like an ancient whippet. In fact there was a definitely canine look to him altogether. He had a shock of white hair that stuck up in two earlike tufts and his face had the appearance of a bloodhound that had been given cosmetic surgery in some vain attempt to pass it off as a poodle.

  ‘No offence meant,’ said Porrig.

  ‘None taken, I assure you. But then I can swim ten lengths of the local baths and I do have an IQ of one hundred and ninety. The only way you could offend me would be by attempting to mug me. And I wouldn’t recommend that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘Because I am a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, and I’d kick your teeth right down your throat.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Porrig. ‘Thanks again for opening the door and I’m sorry about the tactless remarks.’

  ‘Forget it, lad. You’re still young and youth is its own excuse for stupidity.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind too.’ Porrig settled back to gaze from the window. The train was gathering speed now and the picturesque town of Brentford was falling away behind. Ahead lay the big metropolis, another train and Brighton.

  And then what?

  Porrig really had no idea at all. But something. Something different. Something new. A new beginning.

  ‘Do you believe in fate?’ asked the old fellow.

  ‘Fate?’ Porrig shrugged. ‘If you mean do I believe that things are preordained, then no, I don’t. Things happen because things happen.’

  ‘How old did you say you were?’

  ‘I didn’t. I’m nineteen.’

  ‘And how old would you say that I am?’

  Porrig idly perused the ancient. ‘You look pretty knackered,’ he said. ‘Eighty, perhaps.’

  ‘A great deal older than that.’

  ‘You’ll be dead quite soon then.’