‘You will not,’ cried Finn MacCool, leaping from his chair.
‘Pardon me?’ Wormwood’s finger crept a little closer to the button.
‘You’ll not release your unholy monsters upon us,’ quoth Finn.
‘What?’ went Wormwood.
Generalissimo Lucozade de Guano was now on his feet. ‘There is a status quo to be maintained,’ said he. ‘We cannot allow an autocracy nor a monotheism. That is not the way we maintain the balance of equipoise.’
‘What are you talking about? And why doyou no longer have a South American accent?’
‘We speak with but one accent, Wormwood, and one voice. The voice of the Gods.’
‘Aw shit,’ croaked Wormwood. ‘What is this?’
‘Be wise,’ said Larry. ‘Who do you think runs this world anyway?’
‘I do, who else?’
‘The Gods.’ This was Kasper Hauser. ‘I, Vulcan, declare this.’
‘I, Baal, second the motion,’ said Israel Goldberg.
‘And I Allah,’ agreed Abdulla Ben Hassan.
‘Shinto,’ said Kurosawa Koshibo. And so it went around the table.
Finn MacCool raised his hand. ‘You are perplexed,’ said he.
‘I. . . I. . .’ Wormwood did not know what to do with his RELEASE finger, so he stuck it up his nose.
‘Then let me explain,’ said Finn kindly. ‘We share. I am the God of old Eire. My incarnations rule the green lands in perpetuity. These others here are the same. Men war but the Gods remain at peace.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘What are we saying, you stupid little man,’ Hecate, Goddess of Earth and the underworld and the English PM, declared, ‘is that each of us is a God in human form. Such it has always been with those who rule this planet. We allow a little to and fro. Nations rise and fall. Fashions change, Gods come in and out of favour. That is our sport. Our entertainment. The sun never set upon my empire. But that was a few years back.’
‘No!’ Wormwood did some dithering. ‘This can’t be right. You’re just people. Heads of state.’
‘He’s as thick as shit,’ said Larry Minogue, the great spirit of the Dreamtime. ‘Shall I clump him one or what?’
‘If there is any clumping to be done then I shall be the one to do it.’
‘Please yourself, Heccy. But listen Wormwood, we all know who you are, how come you never recognized us?’
‘Because you don’t exist is how. I am the Lord of Chaos. The negative life-force. All other deities are nothing to me. This is all crap. I run the show. No more words. You all get yours.’
And with that Wormwood pressed the button. The briefcase was biblically rent asunder. LEGION became manifest. Extruded through the ether and out into the dimension of matter. Divided and swam towards its chosen host.
Rex pressed his ear to the door. ‘What’s going on in there?’
Elvis shrugged. ‘Do you think they’re getting thirsty?’
‘Something like.’
‘I’ll get the trolley then.’
‘The door is locked. What was that?’
Now there are noises and there are noises. But the noises made by eleven Gods of old Earth belting numerous temple bells of brown stuff out of eleven rampaging demons and applying the threefold law of return upon their sender, was not exactly music to anyone’s ear. Except perhaps those who get off on such bands as Napalm Death, Carcass, or the obscure Brentford ensemble Astro Laser and the Flying Starfish from Uranus, who went dirt in 1978 (more’s the pity, because I was the lead singer). It was one big heavy feedback number.
24
THE END OF THE WORLD: The good news is that the world will never end. The bad news, that all of us have now and always will be living at the very moment just before it is due to. It is all part of a really big conspiracy. The biggest in fact. Engineered by the Big Big Figure himself. Number One. God.
Picture this, if you will A built-in fully maintained system at the heart of this planet equipped with a kind of celestial rewind button. Every time the Earth reaches the brink of destruction the mechanism is triggered and time rewinds to the point where the rot set in. Possibly a decade before, maybe even more Man is given another chance to make good. He fouls up again, the button is pushed again.
A nifty little trick up God’s all-encompassing sleeve and one He’s told no-one about. Free will for Man, as stated in the biblical terms of agreement, but with a foolproof failsafe. After all, who is ever going to rumble it?
But, you say, if such a system exists, then how come the world is in the mess it’s in? On the brink, in fact? Because mankind is only living in the present and the present must logically be the moment just before the rewind button gets pressed.
Mankind lives in a state of terminal decline staring into oblivion Makes you think, doesn’t it?
Hugo Rune, The Book of Ultimate Truths
I have been thoroughly misquoted. Certainly my name has appeared in connection with Mr Rune, but at no time did I ever endorse any of his preposterous theories. I have always been in agreement with the learned Mr Koeslar, that grave doubts exist regarding Rune’s sanity. I wish to make it plain that 1 totally disassociate myself from Hugo Rune. The man is a stone-bonker!
Sir John Rimmer, interview with the National Enquirer
‘THUNDERBIRD,’ said the cloud again, because with all the coming and going we had quite forgotten about what Christeen was doing in the sub-plot.
‘Okay,’ said Christeen. ‘Do you want to tell me all about it?’
‘ALL ABOUT WHAT?’
‘About whatever it is you’re up to.’
‘CRUISIN’,’ said the Thunderbird. ‘CRUISIN’ FOR CHICKS THAT’S WHAT T’BIRDS DO.’
‘Not in 2060 they don’t.’
‘2060?’ (It said it in big letters.) ‘SURELY SOME MISTAKE HERE?’
‘Not mine I assure you.’
‘2060. NOT I960?’
‘Not.’ Christeen shook her head.
‘BRROOOM BRROOOM,’ went the Thunderbird. ‘I THINK I’M LOST.’
Fido stuck his cold nose against Christeen’s knee. ‘If this is some attempt by Rankin to introduce yet another story line into an already overcomplicated plot, then I think he’s on a wrong’n.’
‘YOU AND ME BOTH,’ the Thunderbird agreed. ‘NO, I WAS ONLY PUTTING YOU ON I’VE COME TO DELIVER YOUR NEW GODS WHERE DO YOU WANT THEM?’
‘Alpha Centauri,’ said Christeen.
‘TOUCHE. BUT SERIOUSLY . . .’
‘Which ones have you got?’ Rambo piped up.
‘GOT A TRUNK FULL TAKE YOUR PICK.’
‘Stay out of this.’ Christeen clipped Rambo about the ear. ‘You’ve done quite enough damage as it is.’ She made a fierce face at the cloud. ‘Clear off,’ she said.
‘NO CAN DO, I’M AFRAID FOLK HAVE BEEN INVOKING. I’M ONLY DOING MY JOB.’
‘Well do it elsewhere.’
‘IS THIS CHICK FOR REAL?’
‘She’s a little confused,’ said Rambo, rubbing his ear.
‘I am nothing of the kind. I know exactly what’s going on.’
‘I don’t,’ said Fido.
‘Nor me,’ said Eric.
The old woman in the plastique mac now chose to stick her head out of Rambo’s door. ‘If it’s the Saucerfolk,’ she called, ‘then it’s for me.’
‘It’s not for you. Go back inside.’
‘I thought you had agreed to stay out of this,’ Rambo waggled his ringer at Christeen. ‘Remain neutral.’
‘I’m warning you.’
‘I REALLY DON’T HAVE ALL DAY. WHERE DO YOU WANT THESE GODS?’
‘We don’t want them. Take them away.’
‘We want some of them.’ Rambo put himself beyond hitting range. ‘Can we choose?’
‘DEEP QUESTION,’ said the Thunderbird. ‘YOU MUST BE THE BIG CHEESE ROUND HERE, RIGHT?’
‘Right,’ said Rambo.
‘Wrong,’ said Christeen.
‘Right,’ said Eric.
>
‘Wrong,’ barked Fido. ‘That’s even, if dogs count.’
‘I’VE GOT CERBERUS IN THE TRUNK. SO DOGS DO COUNT.’
‘Far out. This car I like.’
‘NOW LET US CONSIDER THE MAN’S DEEP QUESTION. CAN MAN CHOOSE HIS GODS? DOES MAN CHOOSE HIS GODS, OR VICE VERSA, RIGHT?’
‘Right,’ said Rambo.
‘Don’t start that again.’ Christeen made a fist.
‘So what’s the answer?’ Rambo asked.
There was a big long silence. It would have been a much bigger and much longer silence had not Fido chosen to break it. ‘Rambo just asked a car the meaning of life,’ he tittered immoderately. ‘Some dickhead, eh?’
‘SOME DICKHEAD,’ the Thunderbird agreed. ‘AS IF I’D LET ON!’
‘There’s a key turning,’ said Elvis.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Rex.
The key turned. Elvis and Rex watched as eleven heads of state, glowing oddly about the extremities, filed from the summit room.
‘Bye,’ Elvis waved. Rex peered into the now smoke-filled room.
‘What the . . .’
‘We’ll take it from here.’ Rex found himself thrust aside.
‘Mr Russell,’ said Elvis. A team of paramedics stormed into the room.
They fell upon the lifeless body of Wormwood and loaded it on to a trolley. ‘Stand aside please. Make way.’
‘Elvis, what is happening?’
‘I don’t know, for pity’s sake.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Make way. Stand aside please.’ There was a lot of coming and going. Mostly, in fact altogether, going. Wormwood, shrouded in blankets, was trundled off at great speed. ‘Stand aside!’
‘I don’t like this,’ said Rex.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Have you pressed the wrong lever down or what?’
‘Me?’ Byron made a face. ‘You’re doing all the lever work. It’s my machine. I should be fiddling with it.’
‘Well, push that one down and we’ll see what happens.’
Byron pushed the lever down.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Rex again.
‘Like what?’ Jack Doveston was driving. And driving away from the city.
‘Like what? What do you mean?’
‘You said you don’t like something.’
‘Did I? Where are we going?’
‘You said you wanted to drive out and look at the new development. More twenty-first-century eco-homes. Are you going to buy one of those bunkers, Rex?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘No.’
‘Then maybe. I don’t know.’
‘You’re not getting anywhere, are you?’ ‘Perhaps there’s nowhere to get.’
‘Don’t fall apart on me now. I still trust you.’ Jack made an encouraging smile. Rex tried to return it. ‘How’s the writing going?’
‘Not well. You never give me any clues. You tell me you’ve read my stuff. I just wish you’d tell me what it is that I wrote.’
‘Nice sentence, Jack. How’s the job?’
‘How’s Spike?’
‘I love her,’ said Rex.
‘Yeah. Well I figured that. I was your best man, remember?’
‘You were my what? Stop the car.’
‘Car? Thanks for the compliment.’ Jack stopped the runabout. It was a motorcycle body welded on to a two-seater back-half from a VW and covered with a weatherproof plastique canopy.
‘What did you say, Jack?’
‘About what? Best man? Rex, are you doing this to me again?’
‘What year is it, Jack?’
‘1995. Oh no, Rex, what are you saying?’
‘Jack turn the car round. Drive back to the Tower.’
‘Not the Tower again Rex. There is no Tower. It’s gone, torn down with the rest of the city.’
‘The Tower is gone? And Elvis?’
‘You buried him, Rex. Nearly a year ago. You’ve lost it again, haven’t you?’
‘Again ? What do you mean again? Has this happened before?’
‘Your memory. Hell. You were straight a couple of minutes ago. Now you can’t remember again, right?’
‘Right. What is happening to me?’
‘If I knew that, maybe I could solve your problems.’
‘I’ve got problems?’ Rex was examining himself, he didn’t find much to recognize.
‘Rex. You’re obsessed. You know all these secrets. You have all these plans. Nobody wants to listen any more. You’re really pissing your friends off. You need treatment.’
‘Jack. I know you. Who am I?’
‘Rex, you are Rex Mundi. Religious affairs correspondent for Buddhavision. Easy come, easy go. You’re on a good salary. A bit of a dreamer, but at least you’re working. Your wife and child are grateful for that.’
‘I have a child?’ Rex groaned.
‘Little Rex. Sweet kid. Remember your theory, the kid will be your own grandfather? You don’t? Well never mind, dumb theory anyhow. Do you want me to drive you home?’
‘Yes,’ said Rex. ‘Drive me home.’
Somehow he knew exactly where home was going to be and he wasn’t wrong. Jack dropped him outside the bunker door and chugged away.
‘I can’t have this,’ said Spike. Rex studied her face, she was obviously still quite young, but prematurely haggard. ‘You go out, you don’t come back. You come back, everything is new to you. Who’s this, what’s that, what time is it? You want to see a shrink Rex. Get yourself together or get yourself out.’
‘Spike, I just don’t know.’
‘I’m Jayne, not Spike any more. I thought we agreed that when you wanted to get me pregnant. You sold us all out.’
‘My child . . .’
‘Don’t bother him, he’s asleep. He knows who you are. A waste of space, that’s what.’
‘Or a waste of time.’
‘Don’t give me time again. If I hear that one more . .. time ... I will die.’
‘We’re all going to die. Hold on. Who is the president?’
‘Rex! Sod off will you?’ Jayne took her leave. ‘Sleep on the couch,’ was her parting shot.
Rex slumped down on to the battered couch and stared into space. There had to be an answer to all this. He took up the remote control which was lording it on a cushion and idly pressed it. Before him the TV screen flared into life.
‘. . . boring down into the very core of the planet. Tapping vast wells of energy, undreamed-of mineral wealth and seeking out new sources of potential nutrients. The future today. For one and for all. This is the Dalai Lama for Buddhavision saying a big Om and returning you to the studio.’ The face on the screen was unknown to Rex, but the look in the eyes was all too familiar. Rex channel-hopped. ‘. . . trading on the New York stock market had to be suspended today due to a plague of rats which entered the bunker through ...’ hop ‘. . . for lice, ticks or parasitic worms try new Bug-Off personal livestock exterminant . . .’ hop ‘. . .don’t mess with this guy, he knows karate . . .’ hop ‘. . . goes with the sickle . . .’ hop ‘. . . well on the road to recovery President Wormwood, seen here with his family, took a few first steps today. Keep swinging Wayne, we’re rooting for you . . .’ hop. Rex hopped back. ‘Goes with the sickle’? He knew that line and he knew the movie. Roustabout, one of the Big E’s favourites. It rang big bells in Rex’s head.
Rex scrambled from the couch and rooted in the bookshelves. And there it was, somewhat scruffy and well thumbed. Armageddon: the Musical, an original Bloomsbury edition, now a rare collector’s item. Rex gently turned the priceless pages. Yes, there it was, page 110.
Elvis was in the Hong Kong Hilton watching that very movie. July 1994. Rex’s heart sank. He’d missed him.
But perhaps not, the book might well be wrong, perhaps it was a misprint. The movie was on TV. Although Hong Kong wouldn’t have the same channel. But yes it would, this was MTWTV. There were a great many ifs, ands, or buts. And yet. Rex snatched up the telephon
e and tapped E for exchange. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Get me the Hong Kong Hilton please. Hong Kong, New China.’
‘Just putting you through.’
‘Hong Kong Hilton, how may we help you?’
Rex chose his words carefully. ‘I should like to book your penthouse suite please.’
‘I’m terribly sorry but the suite is occupied.’
‘Ah,’ said Rex. ‘I suppose that would be Mr King.’
‘Mr King sir?’
‘I was given to understand that a Mr King was occupying the suite and that he would be moving out today.’
‘No sir, Mr Never has the suite.’ The voice on the line faltered.
‘Would it be possible for me to speak to Mr Never?’
I’m afraid not. Mr Never does not receive calls. In fact I have erred greatly in mentioning his name to you. He is something of a recluse.’
‘Perhaps you would tell him that Mr Mundi is on the line and that this is the call he has been waiting for.’
‘Sir, I don’t think . . .’
‘Mr Never will be very upset if he does not receive this call. He will no doubt choose to take his business elsewhere and pass on word of his displeasure to many of his influential cronies. He is a personal friend of Kurosawa Koshibo. I know old Noah, it would be just like him.’
‘Noah? Oh, I see, you are a close acquaintance of Mr Never. I will put you through at once.’ Rex waited. He hadn’t completely lost his touch.
‘Rex? Is that you buddy?’
‘Elvis. Thank God. What is happening?’
‘Bad stuff. Hold the line a second, Rex. I gotta video the end of this movie,’ Rex held the line. ‘There, that’s got it.’ Rex span around. There stood Elvis, gold lame suit, killer sideburns, the whole package. ‘Hi Rex,’ said the King. ‘Hi chief,’ chirped the Time Sprout.
‘Barry, you’re OK. But in Armageddon: the Musical, page 111 you . . .’
‘Yeah, chief. Confusing, ain’t it?’
‘Good to see you buddy.’ Elvis gave hearty handclasps. ‘Some real baffling boogie going down, huh?’