All the proceeds from the film and TV rights of his life story would, he said, be donated to the needy, to help house the homeless.
Porrig bowed, had his hand shaken by the Prime Minister and received a kiss on the cheek from the Queen.
The slap-up nosh at Windsor Castle was attended by many celebrities; Arnold Schwarzenegger, who had been picked to play Porrig in the forthcoming Hollywood movie, gave him pats on the back; Sigourney Weaver offered him ‘the eye’. Porrig sat beside Elton John, whose tribute record about him was currently topping the pop charts.
The toast was proposed by a small grey figure with a little baldy head and blue cat’s eyes.
‘To Porrig,’ said Rippington, for it was he. ‘To Porrig for being such an unmitigated no-mark.’
‘How dare you!’ said Porrig.
‘You pig’s behind,’ said Rippington. ‘Did you really think you could just shift yourself into an alternative reality where you had already defeated the monster and were now getting all the rewards?’
Porrig nodded with enthusiasm.
Rippington shook his little head.
‘No?’ said Porrig.
‘No!’ said Rippington.
‘Oh,’ said Porrig. ‘Damn!’
Porrig sat in the kitchenette drinking a cup of mauve tea.
It was raining outside and the radio, although on, had nothing whatever to say. The last news to come out of it was an official report which said that the centre of London had been sealed off owing to traffic-light failure.
Porrig sipped his tea and sighed to himself. Perhaps he’d make a start on that comic book. Or perhaps he wouldn’t.
Wok Boy appeared at the kitchenette door. ‘Check this out,’ he said.
Porrig turned and took what he was handed. It was a free paper. Its headline read: ‘CREATURE DEAD’.
And under this were the words: ‘MONSTER KILLED BY COMMON COLD.’
‘Yes!’ went Porrig, raising a fist.
‘No!’ said Rippington, shaking his head. ‘Though it was a nice touch bringing Wok Boy back to life.’
The Silver Surfer sped down from the sky and—
‘No!’ said Rippington.
The Earth’s crust cracked open and swallowed the creature and—
‘No!’
‘No?’ said Porrig.
‘No!’
‘Then what about if—’
‘No!’
‘I don’t get it.’ Porrig threw up his hands. ‘Why do you keep saying no?’
‘Because you don’t get it. You can’t do it this way. These are alternative realities.’
‘But I thought that was the point of having them and visiting them and being in them. Because they were alternative. It doesn’t matter how the creature is destroyed, does it?’
‘No. It doesn’t matter at all. As long as it is destroyed. In this reality. The one it’s really in.’
‘Oh,’ said Porrig. ‘So how am I expected to do that?’
‘You have to find a way of altering this reality.’
‘But how?’
‘I think what the curator has in mind is that you visit one of the existing separate realities and acquire something there to help you here.’
‘Acquire something? You mean steal something.’
‘Borrow something.’
‘What sort of something?’
Rippington waved his little magic wand. ‘Something like this, perhaps.’
‘A magic wand. Why can’t we use yours?’
‘Because mine doesn’t do very much. You’ll need something much more powerful.’
‘And where am I going to find it?’
‘I know a place,’ said Rippington. ‘I read about it in one of the big books.’
‘Then let’s go there.’
‘There isn’t time. The curator may be back at any minute. And I’ll get in big trouble and I’ll—’
‘Look,’ said Porrig. ‘I will take all the blame. You can say to the curator that I forced you to take me. Tell him anything you like.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
Porrig mimed vicious punchings. ‘About this place,’ he said.
‘Fiddle-de-de,’ Rippington hesitated. ‘It’s not a very nice place and it’s rather dangerous.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Oh yes. It’s one of the less desirable versions of this place. In fact it’s probably the very least desirable version of this place.’
‘I don’t want to go there,’ said Porrig.
‘I think it’s probably the only place where you’ll get what you need.’
‘And what is this place called?’
Rippington stroked his pointy little chin. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m from ALPHA 17, which isn’t such a bad place. And this here is BETA 23, which probably isn’t such a bad place either, most of the time, but probably isn’t quite as nice as ALPHA 17. This other place, the one you have to go to, is somewhat down the other end of the niceness scale. Down at the not-at-all-nice-at-all end.’
‘And what is it called?’
‘Well, I can’t remember exactly what it’s called, but I do recall the frequency.’
‘Which is?’
‘OMEGA,’ said Rippington. ‘OMEGA 666.’
‘OMEGA 666!’ said Porrig. ‘Oh hell!’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Rippington. ‘That’s what it’s called.’
‘War is hell,’ said Major-General Sir Stanley Burke-Hampshire. ‘MacArthur said that, doncha know?’
‘What, old Foot-fiddler MacArthur?’ asked Sheep-fondler McFondler.
‘Don’t be a damn fool,’ said Saddle-sores McSnapdragon. ‘He’s talking about old Mole-muncher MacArthur, pride of the Cameroon Highlanders.’
‘I’m talking about General MacArthur,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘American chappy. I think George C. Scott played him in the film. Damn good film too, if I recall. Lots of tanks.’
‘If you top brass chaps are ready,’ said the adjutant, ‘I have the big board laid out. Perhaps you’d care to discuss strategy.’
‘Who’s this cove?’ asked Snapdragon.
‘My adjutant,’ said Sir Stanley.
‘I had an adjutant once. Got involved in some ghastly business in Hamburg. Impersonating an Egyptian.’
‘Impregnating an erection,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘He was making love to a traffic cone. All covered in lard. He gave the policemen the slip.’
‘Haven’t had one since,’ said Snapdragon. ‘Can’t be bothered with them.’
‘If we might get on?’ said the adjutant.
‘See what I mean?’
‘So,’ said Sir Stanley to his adjutant. ‘Big board out, you say? Lots of tanks on the big board?’
‘Lots of tanks, sir.’
‘Let’s have a look at it then.’
The adjutant led Sir Stanley and his two campaign chums to the Ministry of Defence operations room. It was not quite as large as the Ministry of Serendipity operations room, but it was more elegantly lit.
‘Nice lighting,’ said Snapdragon.
‘Big board,’ said Sir Stanley.
And it was a very big board. It was a big map on a big board. A big map of southern England. There were lots of little English flags sticking in it: some in London; others in Sussex and Kent. In Brighton there was another flag: a German flag with a swastika on it.
‘Good God!’ said McFondler. ‘Not the blasted Boche again?’
‘Damned monster from outer space, apparently,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘Didn’t have any monster flags though. Lots of German ones going spare. Used one of those.’
Snapdragon studied the map. ‘How many regiments you got?’
‘Six,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘All tanks.’
‘Got any planes?’
‘Can’t be having with planes, go too fast. Know where you are with a tank.’
‘This space chap got any planes?’
‘Got a flying saucer, apparently. Hasn’t been flying it though. Got some native chappies carting him about.�
��
‘Odd bod,’ said McFondler.
Snapdragon glanced all about. ‘Need sticks,’ he said.
‘Tanks a lot better than sticks,’ said Sir Stanley.
‘No no.Sticks for here. To push the little flags about.’
‘Good point. Adjutant, fetch sticks.’
The adjutant fetched sticks.
‘Right,’ said Sir Stanley, waving his stick in the air and nearly putting Snapdragon’s eye out. ‘Where exactly is the monster now?’
‘Right here,’ said the adjutant, flourishing a stick of his own. ‘At the rear of a procession that is approaching Brighton Station.’
Brighton Station: still as beautiful as ever, graceful curving roof of glass, cathedral to the god of steam.Empty now of passengers, but not deserted altogether.
For lo. And indeed, behold.
Who is this we see?
Who is this sitting behind the ticket window, all on his own and reading a copy of Bogie World?
Russell The Railwayman.
It is he.
Russell munched upon a sandwich that his mum had made for him and chuckled through the spam at a cartoon in his magazine. It was a drawing of two railwaymen looking down at a coupling. One said, ‘That’s supposed to be a 8134/7.’ The other replied, ‘Looks more like an 8137/4.’
Russell The Railwayman chuckled once more. ‘That’s a good’n,’ he said.
The sound of chanting drifted to his ears. Russell raised the wet towel from his head and listened. The chanting grew louder. The chanting sounded frantic.
‘Chanting,’ said Russell. ‘And sounding rather frantic.’
A naked chest lurched into his eye-line. Russell stared hard at the chest. It was a male chest. It had hairs on it. Chanting and a naked chest. Russell put aside his magazine.
The chest began to lower and a head became visible. The face on this head was not happy. It was a haunted face. A grave and fearful face. It was the face of Sir John Rimmer.
‘When does the next train to London go?’ asked this face.
Russell smiled at the face. ‘You’ve missed it,’ he said.
‘Missed the next train? How can we have missed the next train?’
‘Only joking,’ said Russell. ‘Graham Moffat said it in the 1937 film classic Oh Mr Porter, starring Will Hay. One of the few comedy films ever made about the railways. They never did a Carry on, you know. Apparently they had one planned, but Bernard Breslaw had taken a Shakespearean part with Sir Peter Hall at the National and Jim Dale had emigrated to America. Although I can’t say I ever rated Jim Dale, what do you think?’
‘I . . .’ Sir John’s mouth opened and shut and then opened again. ‘The next train, when is the next train?’
‘Hold on just a moment, sir.’ Russell peered past Sir John towards the chanters who were pouring onto the concourse. ‘You’ll have to stop that chanting,’ he shouted. ‘And go home at once.’
Sir John’s mouth flapped. ‘The next train, the next train,’ he said.
‘I’m only here for a couple of days,’ said Russell. ‘Just arrived. I put in for some relief work because of the clubs and the pubs. I do stand-up comedy, you see, hoping to make the big breakthrough any time now. You’ll get contaminated, you know, standing there without your shirt.’
‘The next train,’ went Sir John.
‘Keep the noise down out there,’ shouted Russell. ‘You can’t do that without a licence. Go home, please.’
‘The next—’
‘Excuse me,’ said a lady in a straw hat, with wet towel veil attachment.
Russell smiled at his mum. ‘How can I help you, madam?’ he asked.
‘Me,’ said Sir John. ‘Help me.’
‘One at a time now, sir. I think this lady was here before you.’
‘Buffet cars,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘I want to enquire about buffet cars in the Norfolk area.’
‘And what exactly is the nature of your enquiry?’
‘I want to buy one.’
‘Tickets,’ went Sir John. ‘Many tickets. All tickets. Now. London. Beware. He comes.’
‘He comes? Who comes?’ Russell asked.
‘Obey with haste. Beware the pain.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ Russell asked. ‘Or are you contaminated?’
‘Obey. Now. Train. London.’
‘Keep it down out there!’
‘Since privatization,’ said the lady, ‘I thought I might open a macrobiotic restaurant.’
‘Just excuse me for a minute, madam.’ Russell waved Sir John aside and yelled through his microphone: ‘Just listen to me! You can’t chant on station property and you must form an orderly queue.’
‘They’re not listening,’ said the lady. ‘Put it out over the tannoy.’
‘Right,’ said Russell. ‘I will.’ He flicked the necessary switch and a big burst of feedback screamed about the station.
‘Attention,’ shouted Russell. ‘Your attention please. The mmmmphphn mmmmpphmmm mmmm regulations require mmmmph no chanting mmph hmmmmnh orderly line at the ticket-office window and mmmmphm mmph . . . wet towels . . . mmph.’
‘He’s mumbling.’ Sir John waved his hands in the air. ‘About the train? Is he talking about the train?’
‘He has lovely diction,’ said the lady. ‘He doesn’t really mumble, he’s just softly spoken.’
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Sir John Rimmer.
Chant chant chant, went the chanting chanters. Hump hump hump, went the humping strugglers. Yawn wave and blow-upon-the-fingernails-in-a-distracted-Noël-Coward-sort-of-a-way went Dilbert Norris, most impressively.
For most impressive did he look, all things considered. Carried in his shining, spotless, buffed and burnished silver seven-pointed spacecraft on the shoulders of his Nubians and many others. Big and bad and bulbous, he was borne aloft through the great iron arch into the booking hall. Sunlight, angling down through the high glass roof, caught him to perfect imperfection. He was wrong, all wrong, this monstrous sprouty scumbag, sunrays dancing on his huge and horrid head. The eyes as big as basket balls and black as new-mined coal. The glistening skin; the upturned mouth all drippy wet. The bulging belly full with folk, a horrible sight was he.
The chanters chanted hymns of praise, their eyes rolled up in agony, their muscles knotted by the pain. Praise unto He who had returned to rule them once again.
Dilbert cast his swarthy peepers all about the place. This wasn’t bad, this gaff, most high about the roofy regions, as might be appreciated by one such as He. Most High Himself. He waved a bloated hand to urge His minions on and settled down upon his cushions, feeling mighty fine.
He’d triumph here, would Dilbert. They would know His power; they would feel the pain that went with disobedience, that, in fact, went with the vaguest hint, the smallest flicker of wilfulness. For He was God to these small mammals, God as they were gods to creatures smaller than themselves. This race that thought itself so powerful, so assured, He’d show them real power. They would know their master, they would worship, they would show Him the reverence that was His due. Respect, allegiance, loyalty and—
‘What in the names of Bjorn and Benny is that great green ugly-looking object?’ came the voice of Russell at three hundred decibels.
And with that, silence fell.
19
Is it silent in hell, do you think?
For is silence more horrid than noise?
Does hell echo forever with the screams of the tormented, or is there no sound at all? Imagine that, no sound at all. Screaming and screaming and screaming, but not a sound, just utter silence, for ever and ever and ever.
Horrible.
‘It’s horrible here,’ whispered Porrig, ‘but it doesn’t look like hell.’
Rippington flicked the tip of his little magic wand and held it close to his earhole. ‘OMEGA 666,’ he whispered back. ‘The frequency’s correct. What should hell really look like, then?’
Porrig made wild and unpleasant gestur
es. ‘Fire and brimstone and the gnashing of teeth. But this looks like a—’
‘Theatre,’ said Rippington. ‘That’s just what it looks like.’
And it did, because it was a theatre. An old-fashioned music hall theatre and one sorely gone to seed and dust and damage and decay. They stood in the foyer, gilt-cracked walls about them. Above a ceiling domed and done with cherubs. Pinkly bottomed jolly boys they’d been, but now the paint was flaked and the plumpsome cheeks and dimpled knees were pocked with leprous-looking scabs. The foyer smelled of damp and mould and misery. A chair or two of once royal stuff sagged in wormy ruination. A carpet, bare to threads and direly stained, moved obscenely as a rat went questing underneath.
Porrig shivered. ‘It’s fiercely cold too. Shouldn’t hell be hot?’
Rippington shrugged his skinny little shoulders. ‘I read in one of the big books all about how witches had congress with the devil—’
‘Congress?’ Porrig asked.
‘They said that the devil was cold as ice.’
Porrig shivered.
‘Let’s go in and see the show,’ said Rippington.
‘There’s going to be a show? In here?’
‘That’s what we came to see. Dress circle, do you think, or royal box?’
‘Stalls,’ said Porrig. ‘I’m not going upstairs and falling to my death through rotten floorboards.’
‘Can you fall to your death in hell, if you’re not already dead?’
‘Stalls,’ said Porrig. ‘Follow me.’
The door to the stalls hung off its hinge, but the house lights were up and the auditorium looked almost welcoming.
But almost is the same as ‘not quite’ and not quite is the same as ‘not’.
Porrig peeped in. ‘It’s empty,’ he said.
‘No it’s not.’
‘Who’s there?’ Rippington peeped in also, from between Porrig’s legs.
‘Over there.’ Porrig pointed. ‘And there and there too.’
‘Can’t see,’ said Rippington. ‘Give us an up on your shoulders.’
Porrig stooped and lifted the imp. Again he felt the cold grey flesh. Again he didn’t like it.
‘I don’t like yours either,’ said Rippington. ‘What’s there to be seen?’
Apocalypso Page 18
