Porrig paid up the excessive fare and accepted his short change without complaint.
As irony would have it, the offices of Ashbury, Gilstock and Phart-Ebum were on the first floor, above a job centre that specialized in work for the homeless. Porrig gazed up at the building. It was Georgian. It was Grade Two listed.
Porrig went inside and humped his suitcase up the stairs. Then, recalling that his suitcase had been stolen, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and humped himself up instead, bewailing his lot as he did so.
He knocked on the door of the solicitors’ office and it was opened by a young woman dressed in white. She was beautiful, pale and ethereal, with large dark eyes and Pre-Raphaelite hair. Her slender body was sheathed in a dress that seemed spun from sugar and Porrig was drawn at once to contemplate the glory of her breasts.
‘Yeah?’ said this vision of loveliness. ‘Wotcha want?’
‘I am Pádraig Arthur Naseby,’ said Porrig.
‘Oh yeah. Your case comes up next week, don’t it?’
‘No,’ said Porrig, shaking his head. ‘I’ve come about my legacy.’
‘Sorry. It’s just your name, it sounds like—’
‘Yes,’ said Porrig. ‘I know what it sounds like. But I’m here to claim my rightful inheritance.’
‘You’d better come in then.’
Porrig followed the vision into the office and observed that she had a nice bottom too. The vision placed her nice bottom upon her office chair and began to root about through a lot of paperwork. ‘It’s in ere somewhere,’ she said.
Porrig stood before her desk, feigning an interest in the bookshelves while casting many a furtive glance towards the breasts of glory.
The vision looked up from her sifting of paper. ‘Like the look of my tits, do you?’ she asked.
Porrig, taken somewhat by surprise, could only mutter that he did.
‘Well, don’t get your hopes up. Unless you’ve inherited a million quid.’
‘You’d have sex with me for a million quid then, would you?’
‘Sure I would.’
‘What about for half a million?’
‘Yeah.’
Porrig dug into his trouser pocket. ‘What about for twenty quid?’
‘Twenty quid? What do you think I am?’
‘I think we’ve established what you are. I thought we were just haggling over the price.’
‘You’re quite a comedian, ain’t ya?’
‘Not really.’ Porrig grinned. ‘I think Oscar Wilde said it first. Or perhaps it was Winston Churchill. It’s usually one or the other.’
The vision dug into further papers and finally unearthed a file with Porrig’s name on. This she opened to have a good old nose inside. At length she looked up and smiled. ‘Well, you ain’t inherited a million,’ she said. ‘So it looks like you’ll have to go on diddling with yourself and not ever having a girlfriend.’
Porrig eyed the outspoken vision. Could this be a match made in heaven? he wondered. Probably not, he concluded.
‘So who do I have to see?’ he asked.
‘You’ll have to see Mr Phart-Ebum.’
‘Ah,’ said Porrig. ‘So that’s how it’s pronounced.’
Mr Phart-Ebum was about as broad as he was long. He wore a suit of orgone blue and a flower in his buttonhole which might have been a Sumatran dogwort, but was probably only a Cambodian marsh lily. He waved Porrig into an overstuffed chair and paced to and fro before the casement.
Porrig gazed approvingly about the elegant office. It looked just the way a solicitor’s office should look. All those mahogany bookshelves and leather-bound legal tomes. And the Persian kilim and the partner’s desk and the humidor and the Victorian drinks cabinet and the framed certificates and charters and— ‘It’s a sad old business,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum.
‘Is it?’ Porrig asked.
‘Death,’ said the solicitor.
‘No,’ said Porrig. ‘I can hear you just fine.’
Mr Phart-Ebum raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that supposed to be funny?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Porrig.
‘You have blood on your nose.’
‘I was attacked at the station. My suitcase was stolen.’
‘Then we must call for the police.’
‘No, don’t bother with that. It was all my fault. I got what I deserved.’
‘That’s a most philosophical attitude.’
‘Not really. It’s just that I’ve had dealings with the police before. I have a tendency to say the wrong thing. It does not endear me to policemen.’
‘Well, let us get down to business. You have the letter I sent you and some form of identification?’
Porrig had both and he showed these to Mr Phart-Ebum who nodded his head. ‘All is in order then,’ said he.
‘Good,’ said Porrig. ‘So, about my planet . . .’
‘Your planet?’
‘ALPHA 17. That’s a planet, isn’t it?’
Mr Phart-Ebum shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not.’
‘Oh,’ said Porrig. ‘But it does sound like a planet.’
Mr Phart-Ebum nodded. ‘But it’s not. You have not been left a planet.’
‘Oh,’ said Porrig. ‘What a disappointment.’
‘You have been left a bookshop.’
‘A bookshop?’ said Porrig.
‘Not a very large bookshop I hasten to add, and not a particularly successful one.’
‘I would have preferred a planet,’ said Porrig.
‘I’m sure that you would. But a bookshop it is, you can take it or leave it.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Porrig.
‘Good man. Now there’s some paperwork for you to sign and then I’ll take you down and show you the premises.’
Porrig shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind clearing up a couple of things that have been puzzling me.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as exactly who this uncle of mine was. Neither my mum nor my dad will own up to him.’
‘He was your mother’s brother. They were not a close family, there was some acrimony. Although she did attend the funeral.’
‘Did she? Then why wasn’t I invited?’
‘Because you weren’t even born. Your uncle died thirty years ago.’
‘I’m not getting this,’ said Porrig, ‘If he died before I was born, how could he leave me his bookshop?’
‘He left it to the first-born son of his sister. Should she ever have a first-born son.’
‘Then how come it’s taken all this time for me to get it?’
‘Legal complications.’
‘You mean fat cat solicitors lining their pockets.’
‘Would that be an example of the wrong things you say?’
‘Fairly typical,’ said Porrig.
‘But in this case wholly justified. Your uncle did leave a great deal of money, but it was all swallowed up by legal costs. This was before my time here, of course. Such practices would no longer be tolerated. You will find that I am utterly scrupulous and quite beyond reproach.’
‘I’ll just bet you are,’ said Porrig.
And Mr Phart-Ebum raised his other eyebrow. ‘Do you want to sign the papers and see your property?’ he asked.
‘I do.’
‘Then here they are.’
Porrig signed what he was given. Naturally he neglected to read the small print. He’d had a rough day. Rougher so far than any he could remember. He just wanted to sign the papers and get a look at his bookshop. And perhaps get some lunch and a pint or two of beer. He was going to have to find somewhere to stay, too. He had quite a lot on his mind.
And so he didn’t read the small print and he signed away a substantial sum of money into the Swiss bank account of Mr Phart-Ebum.
The solicitor smiled solicitously and then gathered up all of the papers.
‘Will I get copies of those?’ Porrig asked.
But Mr Phart-E
bum did not reply.
The vision in white had gone out for a bite, which, although poetic, meant that Porrig was denied another opportunity to ogle her breasts. But he wasn’t too fazed. He was a man of substance now. A man of property. A man who owned a bookshop. And although he had not exactly received the flags-out and ticker-tape welcome, he felt that this town would be lucky for him. That he could make a new start here.
Something different. Something new. A new beginning.
He would work hard, he would change his ways, he would try not to offend and he would succeed.
In the words of Oscar Wilde he would ‘live long and prosper’.
And so Porrig followed Mr Phart-Ebum as he led him through the streets of Brighton, a-whistling once more and completely unaware of the utterly horrendous things that fate was even now preparing to chuck in his direction.
It was going to have to be a good long chuck, because the events which would lead to these horrendous things occurring were presently unfolding in a far and distant place.
But it would certainly be an accurate chuck, and although it would ultimately affect the lives of half the people living on the planet, it would affect no life more than that of Pádraig Arthur Naseby.
And so, without further ado let us leave Brighton and travel south to far and distant climes.
To the island of Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo.
Yes indeed.
5
The tropical island of Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo lies in the Pacific Ocean, roughly three thousand miles north-east of the Tuamotu archipelago, and enjoys the benefits of both the equatorial counter current and the south equator drift.
It is one of those earthly paradise lads, fringed about with waving palms, all dreamy sunsets and dazzling dawns. The natives enjoy a simple life of fishing and fornication. They shun material possessions and formalized religion, speak a basic language consisting of 352 words and engage in weekly bluggas (or booze-ups), where they all get commode-hugging drunk on a local brew called blug, a cocktail of island fruits and fermented, cows’ urine.
Exactly why the likes of Thomas Cook and Richard Branson have so far failed to capitalize on this primitive people might well be explained by a translation of the island’s name.
The first Westerner ever to come ashore was the infamous pirate captain Leonard ‘Legless’ Lemon in the year 1692. His ship, The Shagger, dropped anchor in the bay and lowered a longboat. Leonard was met on the beach by a fishing and fornication party and enquired the name of the island.
‘Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo,’ he was told. Which means: ‘Clear off back to where you came from, you white rat-bag, or we’ll bung you in the cooking pot.’
The mistranslation of this by Leonard’s Maori interpreter, who took the phrase to mean: ‘You’re all welcome ashore for a spot of the old jigger-jig and a slap-up fish supper’, led to some unpleasantness and the origin of Leonard’s nickname.
But that of course was long ago and since then many men have visited the island. Certainly few in the early days left with the requisite number of limbs, but over the years the natives have come to embrace certain aspects of Western civilization: nylon fishing lines, fruit-flavoured condoms and selection of pharmaceuticals to stave off the more debilitating effects of blug.
There is also now a small religious community dedicated to the worship of Carol Vorderman. The members of this cult hold that the shapely presenter with the laughing eyes and the calculating personality is a three-fold divinity, capable of trilocation, owing to her ability to appear on three television programmes simultaneously.
But apart from this the islanders keep themselves pretty much to themselves and resist the temptations of the outside world. And so it was only after much persuasion and negotiation, coupled with the promise of a signed photo of Carol, that a three-man party was finally allowed permission to fly out to Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo.
And thus it came to pass that even as Porrig toiled through the streets of Brighton, these three men, whose collective fate would soon become entangled with his own, were unloading supplies from a seaplane and rowing them ashore.
Of the three, one stood out immediately as being the leader, by virtue of his bearing and his height. Sir John Rimmer, the famous paranormal investigator and celebrated biographer of (amongst others) Hugo Rune, was a giant of a man. Nearly seven feet from toe to topknot; he carried with him an air of supreme authority.
It was rumoured that while still a child and not yet knighted by the Queen, his teachers had called him Sir. It was a good story and one of many that Sir John had put about himself. It wasn’t strictly true, in fact it wasn’t true at all, but it was a good story and it added to the image.
Sir John’s boyhood had in truth been a time of torture and torment. His father had been the now legendary Sebastian ‘bodice-ripper’ Rimmer, playboy adventurer and mucker to the late King George. And while Crowley was being damned by the yellow press as ‘the wickedest man on Earth’, Sebastian Rimmer was having at it with man, beast and backgammon board, frigging away the family fortune and indulging in practices which would have had even Crowley averting his eyes.
The difference between Aleister Crowley, self-styled Great Beast of the Apocalypse, and Sebastian ‘bodice-ripper’ Rimmer, philanderer and ne’er-do-well, was that Sebastian did it with charm. And charm is like charisma, which is somewhat like stage presence. You either have it, or you don’t.
Sebastian had it, big time. So Sebastian had it good.
He was fêted. Folk loved him, forgave him, cancelled his debts and increased his credit line. He rubbed his tailored shoulders against the good and great and, though many times he put a foot wrong, he never stepped in the doo-doo.
The son was dwarfed by the father: although he outgrew him physically, he could never outgrow him in charm. Sir John was a charmless child who grew into a charmless adult. And those who lack for charm, make up for it in bluster.
With height to his advantage (and some advantage that was), Sir John took to looking down upon the world. Aloft, aloof and alone, he sought to make a name for himself and one that would be remembered.
Sir John Rimmer.
Just plain John wouldn’t do. And, as it was unlikely that he would ever actually be knighted, John changed his name by deed poll to Sir John. It was perfectly legal and made up for any lost time.
And it carries quite some clout in certain circles.
Much time might be spent and much ink shed in setting down a record of Sir John’s exploits. They lacked not for adventure, nor for courage, nor for self-publicity. But where the fact ended and fantasy began, who can truly say? It was certainly true that he was presently employed by a mysterious government department known as the Ministry of Serendipity. A body whose currency was ‘The Strange’. The Ministry had fingers in many odd pies and very long arms indeed. But exactly what Sir John’s involvement was with the ministry, is something that will soon be explained.
For now, what more of the man?
Of his looks: they were impressive, with his great height and practised noble bearing. But to these he added a finishing touch: the beard. Many a great man has had a great beard. Karl Marx, Ernest Hemingway, Giant Haystacks, ZZ Top. But Sir John Rimmer’s out-greated them all. It was a blinder of a beard, a magnificent piece of face furniture. Ruby red and teased and twirled into a riot of beribboned ringlets, it was a beard to reckon with and it reached right down to his belly.
On this particular day, and in this particular region, the beard was in company with ‘tropical kit’. Sir John wore a sola topi and one of those Sir Richard Attenborough safari suits. And it does have to be said that few men living can dress like that and carry it off.
Sir John was accompanied upon this occasion, as upon many previous, by his two loyal, although singularly less famous companions. The first of these was Dr Harney, Fellow of the Royal Society and advisor to certain covert government operational units on the retrieval and study of downed alien spacecraft. Al
l governments have such advisors, because most governments have one or two downed alien spacecraft knocking about in their military aircraft hangars. Not that they’ll own up to-it, and why should they, eh?
Dr Harney’s upbringing was somewhat different to Sir John’s. He came from a normal background. All right, so what is normal? Well, how about average? How about functional? How about ordinary?
Dr Harney’s dad was ordinary. He had an ordinary job at an ordinary factory. His mum was an ordinary mum, who, in those days when ordinary mums didn’t go out to work, stayed at home and brought up her ordinary children in an ordinary house in an ordinary street in an ordinary town. One of those houses in one of those streets that Porrig had gazed upon as he travelled down to Brighton on the train.
Ordinary. Everyday. Safe.
Well, that’s what it looks like if you don’t screw up your eyes.
Dr Harney had been an ordinary child. Not too dim and not too bright. Good enough at games to avoid ridicule, but not good enough to shine. He drifted along through his ordinary childhood into ordinary adolescence. And he would no doubt have drifted into ordinary adulthood had not someone bunged him a tab of acid.
It was his sixteenth birthday party, it was 1967 and ordinary folk were turning on. Someone turned on Dr Harney and Dr Harney screwed up his eyes, then opened them very wide.
Dr Harney took the hippy trail. Dr Harney sought enlightenment. Dr Harney fell in with strange folk and took many strange drugs. And Dr Harney was no longer ordinary. No longer everyday. No longer safe. He took a doctorate of parapsychology at Cal Tech. He became Dr Harney.
Now he was middle-aged, a jolly freckle-faced fellow, whose conical head, enveloped in a froth of white hair, had the appearance of a mountain peak capped by cloud. He was far from ordinary, and he was here. And very much the brains behind Sir John.
The third member of this redoubtable party was Danbury Collins, the psychic youth. Danbury was a furtive-looking fellow with hollow red-rimmed eyes and hairs upon the palms of his hands. Although frequently to be found engaged in a certain private practice, he possessed rare gifts which made him invaluable to Sir John: the ability to programme video recorders, for instance, and to know which queue to join at a supermarket checkout. Danbury had never once stepped in dog poo, nor been fouled by pigeon guano. His giro always arrived on time and if he ever visited the shoe sales, no matter which style he chose, they always had his size in stock.
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