The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Bell, between gritted teeth. He had quite forgotten about the Adequate. The kiwi birds, however, were being constantly brought to mind.

  ‘Unless you wish simply to abandon me,’ said Alice.

  Cameron Bell shook his head.

  Major Thadeus Tinker asked, ‘Is there Treacle Sponge Bastard on the menu?’

  The drive out to Sydenham in the hansom cab was quite without incident. The driver did not ask Cameron whether he wished to travel like a batsman out of Hell. Nor did he throw up his hands in horror, recalling how Cameron had robbed him at ray-gun-point at the Crystal Palace.

  Because he was not that hansom cabbie.

  That sometimes it was not a small world brought some small degree of cheer to Mr Cameron Bell.

  The fact that the pet shop was still open on their arrival at Sydenham did not, however.

  Alice paid for the hansom cab, as Cameron Bell did not have a single penny to his name.

  ‘It is you,’ cried the pet—shop owner. Which rattled the private detective.

  ‘ALICE AT THE PALACE!’ he continued.

  Cameron mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. The pet-shop owner went on, ‘We all thought that you were dead,’ he went on. ‘There was a lovely obituary in The Times newspaper. Did you know,’ he said to Cameron, ‘that this young woman is the Alice in Wonderland of the books?’

  ‘No,’ said Cameron. ‘I did not.’ And he hated himself for not knowing.

  ‘I do not like to talk about that,’ said Alice. ‘But where are my kiwi birds? I hope you did not sell them when you thought that I was dead.’

  ‘I wish that I had,’ said the pet-shop owner.

  ‘That is a strange thing to say,’ said Alice.

  ‘We live in very strange times.’ The pet-shop owner turned his full gaze upon Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Now you, sir, look very familiar,’ he said. ‘I know your face from somewhere.’

  ‘People are always saying that,’ replied Mr Bell.

  ‘And what about these Martians?’ the pet-shop owner asked. ‘Attacking London again. You would have thought they’d have learned their lesson when we completely wiped out their race, wouldn’t you?’

  Cameron agreed that this was so.

  ‘Stop changing the subject,’ said Alice. ‘Where are my kiwi birds?’

  ‘If you stay around here you’ll know soon enough. Be inside before dark if you value your life.’

  ‘What of this?’ asked Cameron Bell.

  ‘What of this indeed?’ demanded Alice.

  ‘It all began a year ago on the night of the terrible fire,’ the pet-shop owner began. ‘But then you would know that, because you were there. People were fleeing down the hill from the burning palace. But up there—’ the pet-shop owner pointed with a trembling finger ‘—up there amidst the conflagration the kiwi birds got their first taste of human flesh.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Be quiet please,’ said Alice.

  ‘A toff, they say,’ continued the storyteller. ‘They brought him out all pecked into pieces. Though they say that he still lives.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Cameron.

  Alice glared at him.

  ‘The birds, having feasted upon this innocent toff, escaped into the grounds of the Crystal Palace. And despite all attempts to capture them, there they remain. Breeding. ‘The pet-shop owner’s voice took on a sinister tone. ‘And now there are dozens of them. All hungry for man meat. And being nocturnal by nature, they hunt their prey at night.’

  Alice’s eyes were very wide indeed.

  Cameron Bell chewed on his bottom lip.

  ‘Where did they take the innocent gentleman who was attacked?’ he asked.

  ‘That doesn’t matter!’ shouted Alice. ‘My poor kiwi birds, living out in the cold. Being hunted down. This is terrible.’

  ‘Terrible,’ agreed the pet-shop owner. ‘As are their terrible feastings. They eat—’ He drew his visitors closer with an ever-more-trembling finger. ‘They feast upon virgins. Five have gone missing at night from the village. Not a trace of them ever found.’

  Cameron prepared to mouth another, Oh no.

  Alice offered him a bitter look. ‘This is all your fault,’ she said.

  ‘My fault?’ said Cameron Bell. ‘By what stretch of the imagination can it be my fault?’

  ‘Hold on there,’ said the pet-shop owner. I do recognise you now. Hold on—’ And he rooted about beneath his counter and brought to light a crumpled WANTED poster.

  Beneath an illustration of Mr Pickwick, by Boz, were printed the words:

  REWARD OF £1000

  FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE ARREST

  OF THIS DANGEROUS MAN

  CAMERON JAMES BELL

  ____

  To answer charges of

  The instigation of the Hyde Park Massacre

  The Arson Attack upon the Crystal Palace

  The murders of Harry ‘Hurty-Finger’ Hamilton

  and Smelly Charlie Belly

  The malicious wounding of Mr Aleister Crowley and the theft of his grandfather Moses Crowley’s golden ring

  And divers other charges, including the

  horrible incendiary attack upon

  MASTER MAKEPIECE SCRIBBENS

  THE BRENTFORD SNAIL BOY.

  ‘The Brentford Snail Boy?’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Raised by snails,’ said the pet-shop owner. ‘He topped the bill at the Electric Alhambra when it finally reopened after the tragic death of Smelly Charlie Belly. Sang his famous song —

  Don’t take the shell off your racing snail

  it will only make him sluggish.

  Cameron Bell shrugged helplessly.

  ‘He went on as top of the bill,’ said the pet-shop owner.

  ‘Sang his famous song, then went up in a burst of flame like the other two. But his shell protected him. He was lucky. Got off with ninety per cent burns and total paralysis.’

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ mused Cameron Bell.

  ‘But what am I telling you for?’ asked the pet-shop owner. ‘You are Cameron James Bell and I am making a citizen’s arrest.’ And he now drew out from beneath his counter a most impressive ray gun. ‘This is the Mark Five Ferris Firestorm,’ the pet-shop owner informed the wanted criminal.

  ‘Put that away and don’t be so silly,’ said Alice. ‘This man is my close friend and I can vouch for him completely.’

  Cameron nodded his head at this. A head that was sweating somewhat.

  ‘You put me in a very difficult position,’ said the pet-shop owner. ‘You are a lady and as such must be treated respectfully by a gentleman.’

  Alice nodded. ‘What are you trying to say?’ she asked.

  ‘I am saying — and please do not take offence at this, I am one of your biggest followers, I saw all your performances at the Electric Alhambra — but the law is the law. What can I say?’

  ‘You can say you are sorry to Cameron,’ said Alice. ‘And then you can help me search for my kiwi birds.’

  ‘Not that.’ The pet-shop owner shivered. ‘This shop will be bolted and barred before nightfall. But I am not alluding to this madman.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Rumour has it that he is a French spy,’ said the pet—shop owner. ‘But it is you I am talking about.’

  With his free hand he brought out yet another poster of the WANTED persuasion.

  Alice’s image was upon it.

  EVIL KIWI GIRL

  Alice read:

  Formerly believed to have succumbed

  in the great fire at the Crystal Palace,

  recent information suggests that

  she is living in a feral state

  and leading a flock of

  ferocious kiwi birds

  on nefarious nocturnal escapades

  of a murderous nature.

  ‘It says, “WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE”,’ said the pet-shop owner. ‘Somewhat extreme, I grant you, but the way things are at prese
nt, hardly surprising, I suppose. The poster only arrived this very morning, and you arrive this very afternoon. What a small world it is.’ He cocked the Mark Five Ferris Firestorm, sending that deadly crackle of electrical energy between the polished terminals. ‘I think it probably for the best if I just shoot you both now, to avoid any complications.’

  He aimed his weapon at Alice.

  ‘Ladies first,’ said he.

  47

  ameron Bell surprised even himself with the speed of the actions he took. He threw himself across the counter, tore the ray gun from the pet-shop owner’s grasp and used the stock to batter him rather brutally in the face.

  Somewhat begored about the snout, the pet-shop owner sank beneath his counter.

  ‘My hero,’ cried Alice, flinging her arms about Cameron Bell.

  ‘Thank you, Alice,’ said Cameron, savouring the moment. ‘Now, if you might find some rope, I think it would be for the best if we tied up the pet-shop owner.’

  The receptionist at the Adequate had seen some sights in his time. Eccentric visitors to the Crystal Palace. Weird folk of the Music Hall — even, once, a boy who’d been raised by snails. He had never, however, seen such a queer pair of people as entered upon this evening.

  The reception area of the Adequate was lit in a manner which could have been better, but could have been so much worse. The reception desk would do for now and the carpet served as best it could. The receptionist was dressed sufficiently well as to just about pass muster. He stared in awe at the two folk who were approaching.

  A man and a woman, it so appeared, of some strange foreign extraction. The man was broad and bulky, with a dark brown complexion. He wore on his head a mighty turban that matched his ample flowing robes. The woman looked particularly exotic, with similarly tanned skin, a caste mark upon her forehead and a sari of red-purple velvet.

  A thought flickered momentarily into the mind of the receptionist that the sari of the exotic woman was a perfect match for the curtains in the pet shop just across the road.

  ‘Good evening,’ said the turbaned traveller. The receptionist noted now that this extraordinary being bore across his shoulders a Mark Five Ferris Firestorm. And also that he spoke in that sing-song fashion that tends to identify a man as hailing either from India or Wales.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the receptionist, in a manner that was neither impolite, nor otherwise. ‘And how might I help you upon this fine summer’s evening?’

  ‘Two rooms, said the turbaned fellow, who seemed at close quarters to exude an unusual fragrance, that of animals and bootblack. The words HIGSON’S HAMSTER FOOD could be seen in the folds of his headwear.

  ‘My wife and I require two rooms. I am Prince Rhia Rhama Rhoos, fearless kiwi hunter.’

  ‘Oh,’ went the receptionist, in a manner indicative of surprise, but not too much of it. ‘You are certainly welcome. We have a number of rooms available that measure up at least to the minimum requirements. A great number, in fact.’ And he sighed. Most sadly did he sigh.

  Then he pushed an open hotel register across the counter.

  The turbaned prince examined it. ‘Is no one else staying here at all?’ he asked.

  ‘In truth,’ said the receptionist, ‘you are the first guests in months. The kiwis, you see. Business should pick up to a moderate level once again when they are all bagged and it is safe to step out in the hours of darkness.’

  The swarthy princess made a very grumpy face. But did not speak a word.

  ‘The two best rooms in the hotel,’ said the prince. ‘Our baggage is being sent on. Kindly lead the way.’

  In a bedroom just sufficient for its purpose, Alice Lovell sat and sulked and rubbed somewhat at her face. ‘This bootblack will ruin my skin,’ she said.

  ‘Better that than death at the hands of some self-styled bounty hunter,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘It rather suits you, too.’

  ‘Does it?’ said Alice. ‘But surely we cannot expect to actually get away with such a deception?’

  ‘The receptionist is grateful for customers,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Especially when they are fearless kiwi hunters.’

  ‘If you harm just one feather of my kiwi birds.’ Alice shook a delicate fist. And then she burst into tears. ‘This is all too much,’ she said between weepings. ‘My life is in ruins. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Tomorrow we will return to London.’ Cameron longed to put his arm about Alice’s shoulders and comfort her in a physical manner. ‘I will sort everything out.’

  ‘You promise?’ said Alice, turning her big moist eyes towards him.

  ‘I absolutely promise,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Now I suggest that you go to your room and get some sleep. It has been a very long day and you must be quite exhausted.’

  Alice glanced about the room. It was perhaps a modicum more adequate than hers.

  ‘You go to the other one,’ she said. ‘I am staying here.’

  There were fireworks that night at the Crystal Palace. But few folk had turned out to watch them and when their carriages rolled away there was silence and darkness in the little village of Sydenham.

  Alice had washed the bootblack from her face. She sat before the window, gazing out into the night. Above, stars twinkled in a cloudless sky. Planets, too. One of them was Venus, but Alice did not know which one it was.

  She yawned and stretched and let her curtain sari fall to the rugless floor. She still wore her pale blue dress with the white puffed shoulders. But it was rather grubby now and she really needed a bath. Alice reached out to draw the curtains closed.

  But then she saw him.

  He stood in the darkened doorway of the pet shop. A lone figure, tall, and staring up at her.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Alice. ‘The giant kiwi bird.’

  It was the same giant kiwi bird that Alice had encountered in her dream. A dream of twelve months past. The kiwi bird that had accompanied her on the imaginary trip to Venus.

  The hotel’s front door was not particularly well locked, and Alice slipped quietly into the darkened street.

  The kiwi bird beckoned with its beak. Then spoke.

  ‘About time, too,’ it said. ‘Where have you been for so long?’

  ‘On a voyage to Venus and back,’ said Alice. ‘As you told me that I would.’

  ‘And I wonder, did you bring back any magic?’ said the kiwi bird.

  ‘I did not bring back anything other than myself.’

  ‘Then you did bring back the magic.’ The kiwi bird smiled with his beak. ‘You passed the test and the magic is now inside you.

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Alice. ‘You are confusing me.’

  ‘You went on a journey to the most magical planet in the Solar System. Others went with you, but you were the only one who did not steal something away from that world called Magonia. You passed the test. The magic is now in you.

  ‘I do not feel very magical,’ said Alice. ‘Very tired and rather hungry, though. They do not serve an evening meal at the Adequate.’

  ‘Horrid things have happened while you have been away, said the kiwi bird, bobbing its head in time to its words. ‘A horrid beast stalks the streets. Your kiwis are blamed for its horrors.

  ‘Where are my birds?’ asked Alice.

  ‘I will bring them to you presently. But you must listen to me. Even now the horrid beast gains terrible power. You will play your part in defeating him. The ecclesiastics of Venus have schooled you for this, although you do not remember.’

  ‘You frighten me,’ said Alice. ‘I want my kiwi birds back and I want nothing to do with any horrid beast.’

  The horrid beast did not look particularly horrid upon this warm summer’s night. But then there was not much of him to be seen. He wore his long black cloak and his tall black hat and sported a black silk veil. He had indeed taken particularly horrid woundings at the beaks of Alice’s kiwi birds on the night of the Crystal Palace fire, and beneath the black silk veil were terrible scars. He sat alone in
the rear of an electrically powered Black Maria. One that lacked for crests upon its night-dark flanks.

  The electric Maria purred between the guard posts that had been set up at the head of the Strand and passed into Trafalgar Square. Tall neon tubes, powered by the wireless transmission of electricity, had been set up all over the square to light the wrecked spaceship. Soldiers stood on watch, mostly chatting and sharing cigarettes.

  They stiffened to attention as the electric Maria drew up and the figure in black stepped from it.

  ‘Where is your commanding officer?’ The voice hissed like a serpent’s and quite put the wind up the soldier boys.

  ‘I’ll fetch him, sir,’ said one, saluting as he made off in the direction of the mashed-up Marie Lloyd.

  Mr Winston Churchill emerged from the broken craft. Cigar in hand. The look upon his baby face was not one of joy at the figure in black’s arrival.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the young Mr Churchill.

  ‘You will show me the politeness that my position in the Government merits,’ hissed the figure in black.

  ‘What do you want, sir?’ asked Mr Churchill, taking a mighty suck upon his cigar.

  ‘You have never cared for me, have you, Churchill?’ asked the figure in black.

  Mr Churchill shook his head. ‘You are the Chancellor of the Exchequer,’ said he. ‘Exactly how you gained this exalted position, no one seems to know. Or should I say that those who do know do not dare to say?’

  ‘Strong words,’ hissed the figure. ‘You would do well to modify your behaviour and your manners if you wish to retain your exalted position.’

  Mr Churchill made a frowning face. Then sucked once more on his cigar.

  ‘What do you want, sir?’ he repeated through the smoke. ‘The case of minerals aboard the ship. The minerals that Corporal Mingus Larkspur collected for me. In a bound box with the initials M. L. upon the top.’

  ‘We did find such a box of gold in one of the cabins,’ said Mr Churchill.