The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

by Robert Rankin

  And then one more.

  And then another one more.

  And then there was an iron staircase leading down.

  And then another passageway.

  And then Jack was back at the open cell door.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jack. ‘Now there’s a thing.’

  Jack retraced his footsteps.

  Now it would be tedious indeed to continue with this kind of stuff for too long, what with some of us knowing the secret of knowing when to stop. So let it just be said that after a great deal more passageway perambulation, Jack eventually came upon a door that led to a street. And, having picked its lock, opened it. And on that street, which was not one that Jack recognised, there stood an automobile.

  It was long and low and expensive-looking. And Jack, who still had some lock-picking left in him, availed himself of this automobile and drove it away at some speed.

  Jack drove and drove until the car ran down, rewound it and drove on some more. He eventually found himself in an area of the city that he recognised, and finally he drove up Knob Hill towards the house of the kindly loveable white-haired old toymaker.

  It was a fine old house. A fine dark house: all turrets and spires and gables. Its leaded glass windows were deeply mullioned and its slated roofs pitched at queer angles. There were buttresses fashioned with grinning gargoyles and all kinds of glorious architectural fiddly bits. These fussed around and about the house and offered the eye of the beholder much to dwell upon.

  There were no fences or gates, only a bit of a gravel drive. Jack parked the car upon this, told Eddie, ‘We’re here,’ and removed himself at speed to the toymaker’s door.

  The door was a singularly magnificent affair. It put Jack in mind of Humpty Dumpty’s door. It was old-style grand.

  At its centre was a large, carved smiley face with a huge brass ring through its nose. This ring was the knocker. Jack reached out towards it.

  ‘Don’t even think about touching that,’ said the carved smiley face. ‘You can’t come in. Goodbye.’

  Although little about Toy City now surprised Jack, the carved smiley face on the door caught him somewhat unawares.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jack. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh?’ said the face. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself?’

  ‘I have to see the toymaker,’ said Jack.

  ‘Say please then.’

  ‘Please,’ said Jack.

  ‘No,’ said the face. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I have to see the toymaker. It’s urgent. It’s a matter of life and death.’

  ‘It always is,’ said the face. ‘No one ever comes just to pay a visit. Or bring presents. Oh no, they turn up here at all hours of the night saying “my arm’s fallen off ”, or “my spring’s coming loose”, or “a rat’s gnawed my foot”, or …’

  Jack reached out his hand.

  ‘Don’t touch my knocker,’ said the face. ‘I’ll bite you.’

  ‘I have a bear here that needs fixing.’

  ‘There you go,’ said the face. ‘See what I mean? I knew it. I just knew it. Go away. Come back tomorrow.’

  ‘Let me in now,’ said Jack.

  ‘And what happened to please?’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack. ‘Stuff you.’ And he pulled out the wire from Eddie’s growler and prepared to pick yet another lock.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the face.

  ‘Letting myself in,’ said Jack.

  ‘You can’t do that. It’s more than my job’s worth to let you do that.’

  ‘Do you have a brother by any chance?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Certainly do. He’s the gatekeeper at the chocolate factory.’

  ‘What a surprise,’ said Jack. ‘Well, I’m letting myself in.’

  ‘But you can’t do that.’

  ‘And what are you going to do about it?’

  The face made a thoughtful face. ‘You’ve got me there,’ it said. ‘If you were in my position, what would you do?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jack. ‘You discourage folk from entering, don’t you?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said the face. ‘Lot of selfish timewasters. I keep ’em out. Stop them from bothering the toymaker.’

  ‘And that’s your job, is it?’ Jack was growing frantic.

  ‘Not as such,’ said the face. ‘I act on my own initiative.’

  ‘So when was the last time you actually let anyone in?’

  The face made an even more thoughtful face. ‘Can’t remember,’ it said. ‘Ages ago.’

  ‘So no one ever gets to see the toymaker?’

  ‘He’s busy. He designs toys.’

  ‘How do you know what he does?’ Jack’s fingers were now at the keyhole.

  ‘I can see what you’re doing,’ said the face.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  The face made a thoughtful face, perhaps even more thoughtful than the previous one. Then suddenly it made an enlightened face. ‘Raise the alarm,’ it said.

  ‘How?’ Jack asked.

  The face began to frantically knock its knocker.

  ‘Inspired,’ said Jack. ‘You certainly are a credit to your profession.’

  Knock Knock Knock Knock Knock went the knocker. And at length the door opened.

  Jack looked in.

  And a very old face looked out at him.

  It was a very old face, but it was a big one: a big face on a large head that was attached to a little body.

  Now it is another fact, well known to those who know it well, that very famous people always have big faces. They have big faces and little bodies. Why this is, no one knows for sure – even those who know facts well don’t know it. But it’s true and there it is.

  Jack said, ‘Sir, are you the toymaker?’

  ‘I am the kindly loveable white-haired old toymaker,’ said the toymaker, and he indicated his hair and the kindliness of his features. And they were kindly. Very kindly.

  ‘Then, sir, please, I need your help. My friend has been grievously injured.’

  ‘I can only help toys,’ said the toymaker.

  ‘Intruder!’ shrieked the wooden face. ‘Call the police!’

  ‘Be quiet, Peter,’ said the toymaker.

  ‘My friend is a toy,’ said Jack. ‘He’s a bear.’ Jack opened his coat.

  The toymaker peered in. ‘From what I can see, he looks a little under the weather,’ said he. ‘You’d best bring him in and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jack.

  ‘And enough of that sir business. My name is Mr Anders. You can call me Anders.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too polite.’

  ‘It’s my first name. I’m Anders Anders.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jack.

  The toymaker swung wide the door and, much to the disgust of the carved knocker face, ushered Jack inside.

  It’s strange how some homes are so much bigger on the inside than you would expect, isn’t it?

  So it came as a huge surprise to Jack to find just how really small the toymaker’s house was inside.

  Jack had to duck his head.

  ‘It’s a spatial ambiguity thing,’ the toymaker explained as he led Jack towards his workroom. ‘Something to do with the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter. Easily explainable in terms of quantum physics, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Jack.

  ‘Well, let’s get your little friend onto the workbench and see what can be done for him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s do that.’

  The workroom was exactly as Jack might have expected it to look.

  Tools of many persuasions were racked on every wall between shelves and shelves of gingham and lace and kapok and countless jars containing glass eyes that stared out blankly at Jack. Sewing machines and other machines jostled for space upon a workbench crowded with half-completed toys. Beneath this, rolls and rolls of fur fabric of every bear shade were piled upon one another in furry confus
ion. From the low ceiling hung dolls’ arms and legs of all sizes and shapes.

  A coal fire burned brightly in a tiny fireplace and beside this stood a comfy-looking chair.

  ‘Onto the bench with him then,’ said the toymaker.

  Jack carefully eased Eddie from his pocket and laid him down on the workbench.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the toymaker. ‘This is a very sorry-looking bear. I think we’d be better just to bin him.’

  ‘No!’ said Jack. ‘No, please, he’s my friend. Save him if you can.’

  ‘Your friend,’ said the toymaker. ‘He really is your friend?’

  ‘He is,’ said Jack. ‘I care about him.’

  ‘Nice,’ said the toymaker. ‘Very nice.’ And he looked once more upon Eddie. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I know this model. It’s one of the old Anders Standards.’

  ‘I was given to understand that he’s an Anders Imperial,’ said Jack. ‘He has a “special tag” in his ear.’

  Mr Anders viewed the “special tag”. He raised a quizzical eyebrow and then he laughed. ‘Toys will be toys,’ he said. ‘And this one, you say, is your friend?’

  Jack nodded. ‘My bestest friend,’ he said.

  ‘Nice,’ said the toymaker once more. ‘Everyone should have a bestest friend. And a bear is as good as any to have. But this little bear is all but gone. Perhaps I should empty out his head and give him a complete refill.’

  ‘No, please don’t do that. He’s Eddie, let him still be Eddie.’

  ‘You really do care, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ll leave his head alone then and just re-stuff the rest of him.’

  ‘He needs a new growler,’ said Jack.

  ‘He’s lost his growler? What a careless little bear.’ The toymaker shook his kindly white-haired old head. ‘Well, you go and sit yourself down in that comfy-looking chair and I’ll see what I can do to save your Eddie.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Jack took himself over to the comfy-looking chair and sat down upon it.

  ‘You can’t sit here,’ said the chair.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jack, leaping up.

  ‘Quiet, you,’ the toymaker told the chair. ‘He’s my guest. Sit down again, my boy.’

  ‘Jack,’ said Jack. ‘My name is Jack.’

  ‘There’ll never be a shortage of Jacks in this city,’ said the toy-maker, and he set to work upon Eddie.

  Jack sat down once more. The chair made a grumpy sound and did what it could to make itself uncomfortable.

  Jack watched the toymaker at work.

  So this was him: the man behind it all. The man who somehow brought toys to life. The man with the Big Secret. And here he was in his workshop, putting Eddie back together. And being so kindly and loveable and white-haired and everything.

  And then it all hit Jack. All of a sudden. Like.

  The toymaker didn’t know, did he? He had no idea at all about what was going on out there in Toy City. He didn’t know what a ghastly dystopia of a place it had become. He was all cosseted away here, guarded by the knocker on his front door.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Jack asked the toymaker.

  ‘It will take a bit of time. Perhaps you’d better come back in the morning.’

  Jack thought about this, but, no, he had nowhere to go. He was a wanted man. The police were after him. And the wild woman with the winged hat. She’d probably know by now that he’d escaped, and stolen her car.

  ‘I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind,’ said Jack.

  ‘Then get yourself some sleep,’ said the toymaker. ‘That chair is very comfortable.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jack as the chair made rocky fists beneath his bum. ‘I am rather tired, as it happens. And rather hungry too, as that happens also.’

  ‘I’ll wake you for breakfast then,’ said the toymaker.

  What a nice man, thought Jack and, even with rocky fists under his bum, was very soon fast asleep.

  15

  Jack did not enjoy a lot of restful slumbering. Jack spent the night assailed by terrible dreams. And they really were terrible, filled with murder and mayhem and him running and running, pursued by all manner of monstrous nasties. Jack tossed and turned and fretted and mumbled and finally awoke to find that he had been thoughtfully covered by a colourful quilt, but had the silly big face of a bear grinning down at him.

  ‘Waaah!’ went Jack, leaping up.

  ‘Easy, chap.’ The silly big face vanished as Eddie Bear fell to the floor.

  ‘Eddie, it’s you. You’re fixed.’

  ‘I’m as good as.’ Eddie fairly beamed.

  Jack looked down at Eddie. Eddie looked up at Jack.

  ‘Eddie,’ said Jack.

  ‘Jack, chap?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Eddie,’ said Jack. ‘That isn’t your voice.’

  ‘New growler, chap,’ said Eddie. ‘Posh, ain’t it?’

  ‘Very posh,’ said Jack. ‘But I don’t like the chap business.’

  ‘Sorry, chap. I mean, sorry, Jack. And thank you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Jack. ‘And oh, I smell breakfast.’

  Jack and Eddie took their breakfast with the kindly loveable white-haired old toymaker. It was a banquet of a breakfast; a belly-busting beano; a guzzling gourmand’s groaning-board blowout. It consisted, amongst other things, of creamed crad, honeyed ham, devilled dumplings and grilled greengages, not to mention the sautéed salmon, spiced spinach, parboiled pumpkin and peppered persimmon. Nor indeed, the caramelised carrots or the fricasséed frog.

  And during the course of this eclectic and alliterative breakfast, Jack did his best to engage the toymaker in conversation.

  ‘Sir,’ said Jack, ‘I’m so very grateful to you for saving my friend. If I had any money, then I’d gladly pay you. But if there is anything I can do for you, please tell me and I’ll do it.’

  ‘There isn’t,’ said the toymaker, munching on marinated mallard.

  ‘Anything at all,’ said Jack, toying with his tenderised tit.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the toymaker, skilfully spearing stuffed starfish with his filigreed fork.

  ‘I’m very good with clockwork.’ Jack diddled with a deep-fried dogfish. ‘I was apprenticed.’

  ‘Where?’ the toymaker asked as he pursued a pickled pea around his plate.

  Jack told him where.

  The toymaker raised a snowy eyebrow. ‘And you left there to come to the city?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Jack, ‘but if there’s anything I can do … if you need an apprentice or an assembler or—’

  Eddie kicked Jack under the table.

  ‘When I’ve finished the work I’m presently engaged in, of course.’ Jack scooped up and swallowed a sliver of souffléd sugar beet.

  ‘And what work is that?’ asked the toymaker.

  ‘I’m—’

  Eddie kicked Jack again.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Jack and he glared at Eddie.

  Eddie put his paw up to his mouth and made shushing sounds.

  The toymaker looked from Jack to Eddie and then back at Jack once more.

  ‘It’s lowly work,’ said Jack. ‘Compared to what you do, it’s absolutely nothing.’

  ‘I don’t consider what I do to be work.’ The toymaker pushed a portion of potted plums onto his plate. ‘What I do is fun and games. Everything I do is fun and games. The fun for me is in the game. The game is in the fun.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack, ‘but, sir—’

  ‘Call me Anders,’ said the toymaker. ‘Anders Anders is my name.’

  ‘Mr Anders, then. Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anders Anders, ‘can you?’

  ‘May I ask you a question?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Then please will you tell me, how is it done?’

  ‘How is what done?’

  ‘The toys, how do you bring them to life?’

  ‘You can’t ask that.’ Eddie, whose fa
ce was full of flambéed flamingo, spat much of it all over Jack.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Jack, wiping himself.

  ‘You can’t ask Mr Anders that! Bad chap!’

  ‘He can,’ said Mr Anders. ‘He can ask.’

  ‘Then how do you do it?’

  ‘I said you could ask. I didn’t say that I would tell you.’

  ‘And so you won’t?’

  Mr Anders shook his kindly loveable white-haired old head. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Then please just tell me this,’ said Jack. ‘Is it magic?’

  The toymaker shook his head once more. ‘Not magic,’ he said. ‘Science. And that is all I will say. One day I may well take on an apprentice. And one day, perhaps, that apprentice will be you. But not today and not for a long time yet to come. So, for now, would you care for some more of this frazzled falafel?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Jack.

  ‘Me too,’ said Eddie. ‘And another of those bevelled brownies.’

  When the breakfasting was finally done with and Jack and Eddie, bigbellied both, bade the toymaker farewell, Jack offered his hand and the ancient fellow shook it.

  ‘I’m very grateful, sir,’ said Jack. ‘I really truly am.’

  ‘Anders,’ said Anders Anders. ‘Just call me Anders.’

  ‘Thank you, Anders,’ said Jack. ‘I am deeply grateful.’

  ‘That goes for me too, chap,’ said Eddie. ‘Chap, sir. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

  ‘Look after each other,’ said the toymaker. ‘And be good.’

  The door closed upon them. ‘And don’t come back,’ said the carved face of Peter upon it.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack. ‘Wasn’t he the nice one.’

  ‘A regular gent,’ said Eddie.

  ‘You know I’m sure that if we’d asked him nicely, he’d have seen his way clear to fitting you out with opposable thumbs.’

  ‘Waaah!’ went Eddie.

  ‘Waaah?’ queried Jack.

  ‘Waaah there,’ Eddie pointed a paw with a non-opposable or any otherwise thumb. ‘It’s her car! She’s here.’

  ‘Calm down, Eddie,’ said Jack. ‘I stole the car.’

  ‘Right,’ said Eddie. ‘Well done, chap.’

  ‘Please stop it with the chap thing.’

  ‘I can’t help it. It’s the new growler. It’ll wear in, bear with me.’

  Jack laughed.