Apocalypso

by Robert Rankin

  ‘What do you mean, ah . . . ? What are you saying ah like that for?’

  Rippington shifted from one small foot to the other. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to mention it to you just yet, what with all this nastiness and everything. I thought perhaps I’d wait until you had gathered your wits together. Maybe over a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Spit it out, Rippington.’

  ‘Well, it’s about your dad. You see, Dilbert Norris knows all about your dad. He sent out his thoughts all over the world to see who was really in charge and your dad’s name came up top of the list and . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And so Dilbert is now on his way to London.To the Ministry of Serendipity. To meet your dad for lunch.’

  ‘You mean that my dad is going to collaborate with him?’

  ‘Er, no. When I said that he’s going to meet your dad for lunch, what I meant was that your dad will —’

  ‘Will what?’

  ‘Be lunch,’ said Rippington.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Porrig. ‘Call out the army!’

  17

  The Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces. The Supreme Commander of the allied forces. The Acting Head of allied forces and network high command forces supreme chief of forces forces allied armed forces forces forces chief commander commander commander, King of Denmark and Lord of the entire universe and handsomest soldier in the whole of the world and good at games and captain of the cricket team and lkjdlqierflxr23p.

  ‘Stop that!’ A fellow with the title of adjutant, which means an officer who acts as an administrative assistant to a superior officer, slapped the wrist of the Commander-in-Chief. ‘That’s my typewriter and I won’t have you using it without my permission.’

  ‘I want a typewriter of my own,’ whinged the Commander-in-Chief. ‘To type up my memoirs.’

  ‘Paper costs money,’ said the adjutant. ‘And who’s going to pay for it? Not me out of my salary.’

  ‘I could put it all on a floppy disc.’

  ‘Oh, could you now? And what exactly is a floppy disc? Do you know?’

  The Commander-in-Chief made a puzzled face. ‘Out of Plasticine.

  ‘That doesn’t help,’ said the adjutant. ‘You don’t know what a floppy disc is, do you?’

  ‘I know what a tank is and if you’re waging war on four fronts and the enemy is chucking everything it has in your direction, where’s your floppy disc then? Tell me, sir, tell me.’

  ‘I do believe that computers play a large part in the sophisticated weaponry of today.’

  ‘Ptah!’ said the Commander-in-Chief.

  ‘The Egyptian god?’

  ‘The very same fellow. Hell’s bells, I’m bored.’

  ‘We’re all bored,’ said the adjutant. ‘But some of us have work to do.’

  ‘I never have any work to do.’

  ‘Well, of course you don’t. You’re the Commander-in-Chief.’

  ‘So why don’t I ever have any work to do?’

  ‘Because you are the Commander-in-Chief. You give orders; you delegate. That’s what the army is all about. You order me to do something and I pass that order down the chain of command.’

  ‘Do you want to play I-Spy again?’

  ‘No, because you cheat.’

  ‘I don’t cheat. You’re the one who cheats.’

  A telephone began to ring.

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ said the Commander-in-Chief.

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ said the adjutant, snatching up the receiver.

  The Commander-in-Chief twiddled his thumbs. Then, tiring of this, he put his thumbs back in their special carrying case and twiddled his tie instead.

  The adjutant replaced the receiver. ‘Mother Mary’s holy handbag,’ said he.

  ‘Was that my friend the Pope?’

  ‘No, it was my friend Augustus Naseby from the Ministry of Serendipity.’

  ‘And what did he want?’

  ‘He says we are to go to Green Alert.’

  ‘Green Alert?’ The Commander-in-Chief stiffened in his breeches. ‘Green Alert?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘State of the Nation threatened? That Green Alert?’

  ‘That very one.’

  ‘By Jumbo’s jockstrap!’ The Commander-in-Chief fell back in his big posh leather-backed chair with a cough and a wheeze and a whistle. This was the big one he’d been waiting for. His call to arms once more. His call to further honours.

  He’d had honours before, of course. Lots of the blighters. Big honours in brass with ribbons attached, when he’d served his King and his country. He’d bravely fought and bravely won and returned to a land fit for heroes.

  But what he’d done, and when, and how, you’ll hear no word of here. For although many pages could be spent chronicling his long and noble career, it would all be so much guff and time wasting. Because, as may well be realized already, the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces was a character with less depth to him than a coat of paint and so utterly two-dimensional that should he turn sideways he would surely cease to exist.

  Of the looks of him it might be said that he was passing six feet in an upwards direction and nearing three across ways. He had one good eye, a gun-metal thigh, a heart of oak and the constitution of an Egyptian. And one with a proper fez too.

  Of the habits of him it might be said that he enjoyed shunamitism, algolagnia and frottage. But for those who do not know what such things are, it is probably for the best that you keep it that way.

  ‘Green Alert, eh?’ said the Commander-in-Chief. ‘Well, if it’s Green Alert you’d better get on the blower and call up some of me top brass chums to give us a hand. Get me Chunky Wilberforce, Tubby Molesworth, Snake-hips Henderson, Frog-bottom Battersby—’

  ‘Shagger Shanks-Greebly?’

  ‘Him too.’

  ‘Saddle-sores McSnapdragon?’

  ‘And him.’

  ‘And what about Sheep-fondler McFondler?’

  The Commander-in-Chief looked at the adjutant.

  The adjutant looked at the Commander-in-Chief.

  ‘You’re making these up now, aren’t you?’ said the Commander-in-Chief.

  ‘So are you!’

  ‘But I’m the Commander-in-Chief and if I want to make up a few campaign chums to take with me on a Green Alert, that’s my privilege.’

  ‘All right,’ said the adjutant. ‘I suppose it is allowed. So which ones do you want me to call up?’

  ‘Just the last two.’

  ‘But I made them—’

  ‘But me no buts, sir.But me no buts. Saddle up me horse and break out the brandy. And, adjutant?’

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Tell McFondler to bring an extra sheep.’

  ‘I’ll tell him to bring two,’ said the adjutant. ‘Then we can each give them a fond and innocent stroking.’

  ‘I brought two coffees,’ said the man in the white coat. ‘How did you get on with the Ministry of Defence?’

  Augustus Naseby took one of the coffees. ‘I spoke with the office of the Commander-in-Chief.’

  ‘Knobblyhead McNackershaw?’

  ‘Knobblyhead took an early retirement. This is a new bod. Major-General Sir Stanley Burke-Hampshire.’

  ‘What a very strange name. I trust the fellow’s not some kind of pervert.’

  ‘Any progress to report?’

  ‘The coffees are still hot. But that’s about all.’

  ‘And what news of the monster?’

  ‘Well, I assume that the monster will be all sorted out, now that the cream of the nation’s military minds are being applied to the problem.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Augustus, without too much conviction. ‘So where exactly is the monster now?’

  ‘The surveillance cameras are keeping an eye on it. It seems to be making its way towards Brighton Station. Didn’t you say something about your son Porrig moving to Brighton?’

  Augustus Naseby made a bitter face. ‘My son Porrig,’ he
said. ‘In all the excitement I’d quite forgotten about Porrig.’

  But Porrig had not forgotten his dad. And Porrig didn’t want his dad to end his days in a monster’s guts. Certainly Porrig’s dad was what you’d call a dodgy customer. Certainly he could not be trusted. Certainly he was treacherous and downright unspeakable. But he was Porrig’s dad. And your dad is your dad, no matter how he behaves. You still go on loving him. Oh yes you do. He’s your dad.

  ‘I really hate my dad,’ said Porrig as he trudged through the deserted streets.

  ‘You don’t,’ said Rippington. ‘You love him really.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Porrig tried ringing for help, to alert the army or contact his dad, but the phones didn’t work. None of them.

  ‘What are all these postcards of big-fronted ladies?’ asked Rippington as Porrig flung down the phone in the umpteenth phonebox.

  ‘Never you mind. Let’s go back to the shop.’

  ‘Why the shop?’

  ‘So I can get some dry clothes on and my head together. And telephone for help.’

  They returned to the shop.

  The phone there didn’t work either. No phone in Brighton worked. The Ministry of Serendipity had cut the lines.

  Porrig took to some big time lot-bewailing.

  ‘Come on,’ said Rippington. ‘Have a cup of tea.’

  Porrig put the kettle on. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked the small grey fellow.

  ‘Since when have you taken to employing the royal “we”?’

  ‘We have to do something. This is a major disaster here.’

  ‘See what’s on the wireless set.’

  Porrig shook his head and rubbed it with a towel. ‘Why the wireless set?’

  Rippington tapped at his near noseless nose. ‘You never know,’ said he. ‘Perhaps something quite as big as this might get a mention on the news.’

  Porrig switched on the radio that stood on the kitchenette table. It was Wok Boy’s radio. Porrig felt sick inside.

  The radio crackled, then issued the news.

  It was general news and first reports. First reports are always worth listening to. They may be a bit sketchy and vague, but real news is sketchy and vague. Real news is messy stuff, red in tooth and claw and things of that nature. And first reports are real news, because first reports have not been tidied up and sanitized and given a spin by the men who pull the strings.

  ‘The first reports coming in about a major incident in the Brighton area,’ said a voice on Porrig’s radio, ‘are a bit sketchy and vague, but we are awaiting official reports of what has occurred and will be bringing these to you as quickly as we can. On the world front the new Pope, Gregory the Umpteenth, has declared television presenter Carol Vorderman a living saint, while here at home Porrig is drying his armpits on a tea towel and wondering just what he should do next.’

  ‘Hang about?’ said Porrig.

  ‘However,’ the voice on the radio continued, ‘it is expected that he will soon reach a decision.’

  ‘Who’s saying this?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ Rippington scratched at his little grey head.

  ‘No. On the radio. Someone is talking to me.’

  ‘That’s what radios do, isn’t it?’

  ‘To me personally.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rippington. ‘To you personally. And you get these voices often, do you? The voice of God is it? Or Elvis? Does Elvis speak to you?’

  ‘Elvis? How come you know about Elvis?’

  ‘Porrig, everybody, everywhere knows about Elvis.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you just listen to me, you little rat. I’m not losing my mind. Someone is speaking to me on this radio. Personally to me. So shut up and listen.’

  Rippington shutted up and listened.

  ‘—accused of impersonating an Egyptian while under the influence of alcohol and found in possession of pamphlets which claimed that chickens were planning to take over the world, pleaded guilty to—’

  ‘It’s stopped now,’ said Porrig.

  ‘Make sure you dry between your toes,’ said the voice on the radio, ‘and put on a vest. You don’t want to catch a cold.’

  ‘I know that voice,’ said Rippington. ‘It’s—’

  ‘The curator,’ said the voice of the old bloke. ‘And just what are you doing there?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rippington. ‘Porrig kidnapped me from ALPHA 17.’

  You lying wretch,’ said Porrig. ‘And you know why he’s here. You sent him.’

  ‘Just pay attention, both of you,’ said the voice on the radio. ‘There really isn’t much time. You have to stop the monster, Porrig.’

  ‘Me? Stop that thing? Get real, please.’

  ‘It can be done, Porrig, and I will instruct you on how you will do it.’

  ‘No,’ said Porrig firmly. ‘No no no. I nearly died down there in the sea. That thing can force thousands of people to kill themselves by doing nothing more than thinking it. I’ll draw your comic book, but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I’m no superhero. Never could be.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to be a superhero. I will tell you the words of the ritual that enables one to move from this reality to others. You will take it down on paper and learn it by heart. I will be with you shortly and then I will instruct you how to use it.’

  ‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’ Porrig asked. ‘You’re the big magician.’

  ‘Do you wish to save your father’s life or not?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then get yourself a pencil and paper.’

  Porrig did as he was bid and then took down the seeming gibberish the old bloke dictated to him.

  ‘Is that it?’ Porrig asked, when he seemed to have finished.

  ‘That’s it. Now learn it by heart and I’ll be with you soon.’

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘—and speaking from his hospital bed Sir David Attenborough said that he bore no ill will to the islanders of Gwa-tan Qua Cest’l Potobo and would soon be up and hopping about on his one remaining leg.’

  ‘Hang on!’ shouted Porrig, ‘Speak to me!’

  ‘That is the end of the news.’

  ‘Hang about!’

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Rippington. ‘Which is nice for him.’

  Porrig sighed a big and heartfelt one. ‘And so it’s going to be up to me, is it? Slay the beast and save the country? Ludicrous. Madness.’

  Rippington sauntered across the table and sat himself down on the kettle. ‘Ouch,’ he cried, rising again.

  Porrig examined the words he had written; they still seemed like gibberish. ‘This is all nonsense,’ he said.

  Rippington peeped at the paper. ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I think you’ll find that it’s all in the way that you read it.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Each of these words represents a note. A musical tone. But they’re not notes you’ve ever heard of. These are the notes that exist in the cracks between the piano keys.’

  ‘So I’m supposed to sing out these words in the correct tones to make the magic work?’

  ‘That’s it. Remember when you came to ALPHA 17 and I asked you what key you were in and you didn’t know?’ Porrig nodded. ‘Well, each of the realities is in a different key. A different frequency. You sing out these words and you can tune from one frequency to another.’

  ‘Singing has never been my strong point.’

  ‘It has mine,’ said Rippington. ‘And I know all these notes.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Sing out the notes.’

  ‘No way.’ Rippington shook his little head. ‘I don’t have the authority.’

  ‘But you want to go home, don’t you? We could go to ALPHA 17.’

  ‘We could and it is tempting. But the curator would be furious. He’d have my liver and lights.’

  ‘All right. Forget ALPHA 17. There’s another way of doing this. A
way to get everything sorted really quickly. And I do mean everything. The monster, the Ministry of Serendipity, my dad. Everybody and everything.’

  Rippington looked up at Porrig. ‘Are you really thinking what I think I hear you thinking?’

  ‘I give up. Am I?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Rippington. ‘I was only bluffing that time. Your thoughts are so confusing I can’t make a hog’s head or a pig’s tail out of them.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to trust me. And if you do, we’ll get the whole thing sewn up before the old bloke gets here and you can go back to ALPHA 17 a hero.’

  ‘A hero, eh?’

  ‘You’ll be a hero and I’ll be a hero and all the world will be happy and everything will be well and all before the old bloke gets back.’

  ‘Now that,’ said Rippington, ‘would be what I’d call a most remarkable feat.’

  18

  It was a most remarkable feat. Remarkably achieved. Single-handedly achieved. Remarkable.

  The President of the United States, in his speech, said just how remarkable he thought it was. The Prime Minister of England, who always agreed with anything the President said, agreed that it was indeed remarkable. Various crowned heads of Europe, who hadn’t said anything much for a very long time, said that they too considered it remarkable. And the new Pope Victor the Various said that even he found it remarkable.

  The motor cavalcade that progressed slowly through the streets of London, carrying Porrig to Buckingham Palace, where he received his knighthood, was cheered for every inch of the way by crowds that were thrilled to their hearts and souls by the utter remarkabilty of just what Porrig had achieved.

  To have single-handedly defeated the monster, which had by this time taken control of all the known world, but for the island of Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo, was indeed remarkable.

  In his speech, Porrig, displaying the modesty and self-restraint and also the caring kindly manner for which he had always been so loved, said that anyone in his position would have done the same. He did not wish to take all the credit for himself. He thanked his parents for the love and thoughtfulness they had shown him over the years and hoped that now the world had experienced something so awful as the monster’s reign of terror, that nation would speak peace unto nation.