Apocalypso

  ‘And you know this secret?’

  ‘For my sins, yes.’

  ‘Tell me then,’ said Porrig. ‘I promise I’ll keep it to myself.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to keep it to yourself. I want you to tell everyone about it. This secret has led to a worldwide conspiracy and the whole world must know about it.’

  ‘So, tell me.’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘Look,’ said Porrig. ‘This is all very fascinating and I would love to hear this big secret of yours, if it’s really true. But I’m not entirely certain what I should or shouldn’t believe—’

  ‘Believe in this,’ said the old bloke and he took from his waistcoat the polished ebony snuff box he had showed to Porrig in the train. ‘This is true. The feather from the angel’s wing. I am doomed to wander this planet until I can return it. This is the curse that was laid upon me.’

  ‘I don’t see how immortality can be a curse.’

  ‘At your age, no you wouldn’t. But I’m getting on for two hundred. It aches, Porrig. It hurts. I hurt.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you. During my long life I have seen more than any one man should see. We were not created to live so long. To see so much. I want only to rest. I have done my best to atone for my sins. When I met your uncle and saw the danger of what he was doing, I tried to help him. But he would not be shaken into sense and now he is gone and I am left alone. Alone, but for you, Porrig.’

  ‘Why me?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘Because you are the beneficiary of your late uncle’s will.’

  ‘I wasn’t even born when he died.’

  ‘No, but he knew you would be. He divined it. You can do that kind of stuff here, you know.’

  ‘I’m so confused.’ Porrig shook his weary head. ‘Just where is here? You still haven’t told me.’

  ‘Rippington told you. ALPHA 17 the—’

  ‘Seventeenth hows-your-father of the Alphonic whatsaname.’

  ‘It’s all in here.’ The old bloke made a magical pass and a book appeared in Porrig’s hand. It was a bigger book than the little big book had been. But not so big as some of the big big books Porrig had passed by on his journey through wherever he was.

  ‘Is the secret in here?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘Everything’s in there. Everything about me and about this place and about what I want you to do. I have gone to a great deal of trouble setting this all up for you, I hope you won’t disappoint me.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you want me to do.’

  ‘I want you to draw and print and distribute a comic book. I want the secret spread amongst the young. I don’t want another generation living in ignorance of the truth.’

  Porrig lifted the front cover.

  ‘No,’ said the old bloke. ‘Not here. You read it when you get back to the shop. And keep it safe.’

  ‘All right, I will.’ Porrig tucked the book into his pocket. ‘Can I go back now?’

  ‘Indeed. We’ve said enough for the time being. You read the book and then we’ll have another talk. All right?’

  ‘All right.’ And Porrig shook the old bloke firmly by the hand.

  ‘Ouch,’ said the old bloke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Porrig.

  The old bloke led the way and Porrig followed. There was more of the same: the corridors and the rooms and the balconies. But Porrig was getting the measure of it. He pretended not to follow and when he’d had enough (which was really quite soon) he said, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

  Would you like us to be?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Then we are.’

  They stood before a little door. ‘You’ll have to stoop,’ the old bloke said.

  ‘And does this come out in the shop?’

  ‘No. I think it comes out under the pier.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I’m reasonably sure.’

  ‘Oh goody,’ said Porrig.

  “‘Tone”,’ said the old bloke. ‘Now get a move on, we don’t want you to be seen.’

  The old bloke opened the door and Porrig squeezed into the opening. A cool breeze blew on to his face. It smelled of the sea.

  It smelled of reality.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, then,’ said Porrig.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch, I—’ A terrible crash cut the old fellow short. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what that was.’

  Porrig pressed out through the opening and found himself straightening up beneath the pier. A lovely moon-bathed night it was, though nothing short of nippy.

  Porrig took a deep breath of home and peace and then something scuttled past his feet.

  ‘Rat!’ cried Porrig, leaping up. ‘I’ll see you—’ But the small door shut and now was only wall.

  ‘Whenever I see you,’ said Porrig.

  He turned up the collar of his jacket, marched along the front and up the steps onto the prom. It was nearly two in the morning now and the prom was deserted. Porrig put some extra pace into his marching.

  Back to the shop and up to bed was what he wanted. A cup of decaff and a read of the old bloke’s book.

  And then what?

  Porrig shook his head. The secret? The big secret? The big secret that he was to reveal to the world?

  ‘Got any change, mate?’ The voice came out of a doorway. Porrig kept his head down and kept right on walking.

  ‘Oi, mate! I said, got any change?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Porrig. ‘Please leave me alone.’

  The beggar-for-change lurched out of the doorway. He was a fair-sized beggar and rather drunk with it. He came after Porrig at the stagger. ‘Hold on, mate,’ he called. ‘Just a bit of small change. Enough for a cuppa.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Porrig, increasing his speed.

  ‘I’ll bet you have.’ And the beggar was on him.

  Caught from behind, with his arms pinned to his sides, Porrig struggled and kicked. ‘Get off me. Get off me.’ The beggar threw him down and Porrig rolled into the gutter. ‘Get off me, I—’

  The beggar put the boot in.

  He kicked and he kicked at Porrig. Porrig’s cries for mercy went unheard in the night. When the kicker tired of kicking, he went through Porrig’s pockets, stole his wallet and the small change that he had.

  And he also stole the old bloke’s book.

  Then he stumbled off into the darkness of an alley, leaving Porrig to bleed on his own.

  Porrig lay beside the kerb, a tangled piece of wreckage. Unloved. Uncared for. All alone.

  Not altogether alone.

  For beneath a car parked near at hand two blue cat’s eyes had seen it all. And now the owner of these eyes crept out from his hiding place and climbed to his feet. Two little grey feet on the end of two spindly grey legs.

  ‘So this is heaven,’ Rippington said. ‘I can’t say I’m all too impressed.’

  And taking a swift sniff at Porrig, he followed the beggar-thief into the alley, his two small feet scuffling.

  Not unlike a two-legged rat.

  11

  Porrig lay in a coma, all alone in a horrid little room at the Brighton General Hospital. And no-one came to visit him.

  No-one.

  Not a single rock star, nor a sports personality, nor even a television presenter, even though they do have it written into their contracts. Oh yes. They have to do it at least once a year, if required. And they never refuse, because if they did and people found out, it would be the end of their careers.

  But they only have to do it for children. Never for adults. It wouldn’t be news if they did it for adults. It wouldn’t be given that nice little human interest slot at the end of the six o’clock news. And it wouldn’t log up any points towards the knighthood.

  So nobody famous visited Porrig. Nobody came to hold his hand and sing to him, or tell him stories while the news crews filmed them. Porrig was simply left all on his own in his coma.

  There to fester and be
wail his lot.

  Because, as is often the case with people in comas, Porrig could hear everything that was going on around him, although he was powerless to respond. Which must be really horrible, if you think about it. Especially if you could hear what Porrig was hearing right at this very moment.

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Eight days,’ said the nurse.

  ‘And no response at all?’

  ‘Absolutely none.’

  ‘But he’s otherwise in good condition?’

  ‘Fine. His ribs are mending nicely and there’s no major organ damage.’

  ‘A prime specimen then. But identity unknown?’

  ‘We’ve put the obligatory blurry photo in The Big Issue. But no-one has come forward to claim him.’

  ‘Then we’ve fulfilled our contractual obligations. One more day and he’s ours.’

  ‘Ours, doctor?’

  ‘For the spare parts, nurse. Eyes, heart, lungs, liver.’

  ‘But he’s still alive. He might recover.’

  ‘I’m sure that given time and care, he would. But hospitals have to pay for themselves nowadays.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, doctor. But it does seem a shame.’

  ‘He’s only a vagrant, nurse. A no-mark. I don’t think he’s ever likely to do anything earth-shattering, is he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘But his untimely demise will not only free up a bed, it will profit the hospital by at least fifty thousand pounds.’

  ‘As much as that?’

  ‘Of course. His organs will be auctioned off to private hospitals. Some part of him may well end up inside someone rich and famous and important.’

  ‘That’s comforting.’

  ‘Of course it is. So, give him another day and if he shows no sign of recovery, switch him off.’

  ‘Will you sign the release forms, doctor?’

  ‘No, you sign them, nurse. I have to get up to the children’s ward. Carol Vorderman is coming in to sit with a little blonde-haired comatose girl. I’ve got to go into make-up and rehearse my lines.’

  ‘Break a leg, doctor.’

  ‘Thank you, nurse. And one other thing.’

  ‘Yes, doctor?’

  ‘Don’t forget to lock the ward door. We wouldn’t want a repeat of that unfortunate business last month.’

  And Porrig was left all alone to indulge in some really heavy duty lot-bewailing.

  Just another vagrant, eh? Another no-mark, eh? Not likely to do anything earth-shattering, eh? Cut him up for spare parts, eh? And what was the unfortunate business last month?

  Eh?

  Porrig groaned inwardly. He really had had quite enough.

  On the ninth day of his hospitalization things perked up for Porrig. He didn’t wake from his coma, or anything like that, but things did perk up.

  At six in the morning the fire alarms went off.

  Porrig sighed considerably at this. To be roasted alive was not the kind of death he might have chosen. Like most men, he favoured the ‘shot by a jealous husband while caught in the arms of a page three girl, at the age of eighty-seven’ kind. But life can be a stinker. And the fire alarms went off.

  Nurses marched purposefully about, mostly in the direction of the children’s ward. Doctors passed his door at a determined pace. The walking-wounded hobbled towards the fire exit.

  Porrig lay all alone. Typical, he thought. And me worth fifty grand!

  But then he heard people bustling in and Porrig was dragged from his bed, trailing various important tubes and wires, bunged onto a trolley, covered with a big blanket and bumped through this door, that door and the next.

  Porrig felt the chill of the car-park, then further bumpings, then a kind of folding up and a forcing into a confined space and then a lot of movement.

  Porrig lay speechless, his knees up under his chin, somewhere dark and musty and on the move. Somewhat later there was some stopping, more hustling about, some carrying, some opening of doors and dragging up stairs and then a flopping onto a bed where he was left alone once more.

  Oh dear, thought Porrig. I bet I’m in the dissecting room.

  ‘I don’t know what one of those is,’ said a voice Porrig recognized. ‘But you’re not in one.’

  I am not alone, thought Porrig.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Rippington.

  ‘It’s you!

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘And me,’ said someone else.

  Wok Boy, thought Porrig.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Rippington. ‘You can speak to him,’ he said to Wok Boy. ‘He can’t reply, but he can hear and understand you. I can read his thoughts.’

  ‘How are you doing?’ Wok Boy asked.

  Rippington listened. ‘He says he’s in a frigging coma, how do you think he’s doing?’

  ‘Ungrateful turd,’ said Wok Boy. ‘I should have left him there.’

  Rippington listened. ‘He says he’s sorry. But how come you did get him out and how come I’m here?’

  ‘I saw your photo in The Big Issue. I knew what they’d do to you if you didn’t wake up. I busted someone out of there last month. As for this wee man, you tell him, Rippington.’

  ‘I followed you out of ALPHA 17,’ said the imp. ‘And I don’t like it here, I want to go home. I came in through your cat flap. I knew your address because I heard you thinking it when I first met you. Wok Boy was sleeping in your bed, I didn’t half scare the breakfast out of his bottom.’

  ‘And he got back the book the old bloke gave you from the thief who gave you the kicking.’

  ‘I did,’ said Rippington. ‘I’m such a nice fellow.’

  Wok Boy leaned over Porrig. ‘What’s he saying now?’ he asked.

  ‘He says something about it being all too “pat” and he doesn’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Do you think if I gave him a couple of clouts around the head it might bring him out of his coma?’

  ‘Worth a try,’ said Rippington.

  So Wok Boy clouted Porrig in the head.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Wok Boy.

  ‘None,’ said Rippington. ‘Although he now says that he believes everything we’ve told him and he wants to know whether you’ve read the old bloke’s book’

  ‘Well, I did have a little peep.’

  Rippington listened once more to Porrig’s thoughts.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Wok Boy.

  ‘Nothing complimentary,’ said Rippington. ‘But he does want to know what’s in the book’

  ‘Well, you tell him, you’ve read it too.’

  Rippington now stuck his little hands over his earholes. ‘Very bad language,’ he said. ‘Not nice at all. I’m going downstairs to read another of those comic things. You tell him all about the book’

  Rippington rat-like scuttled away. Wok Boy sat down on Porrig’s bed. Porrig winced inwardly as Wok Boy settled himself, punching flat a bed lump that was caused by Porrig’s foot.

  ‘Right then,’ said Wok Boy. ‘Story time.’ He pulled the old bloke’s book from his pocket and waggled it in front of Porrig’s face. ‘See this,’ he said. ‘No, of course you don’t. But it’s great stuff, this book. Real top-line X Files conspiracy stuff. I’ll tell it to you short and sweet because I’ve got a date over the road with this barmaid. Amazing breasts, works part time at Phart-Ebum’s.’

  Porrig groaned internally.

  ‘So,’ continued Wok Boy. ‘What you have first is your standard science fiction fare. Worlds within worlds, you know the kind of business. We are not alone on this planet. We share the same space with an almost infinite number of other realities. But they all function on different natural frequencies, so for the most part we can’t see them and they can’t see us. Once in a while freak conditions exist and then we get a glimpse of them. UFOs, ghosts, demons, angels, lake monsters, Bigfoot and bogy men generally.

  ‘Frankly, I would have considered all that a pile of old pants if I hadn?
??t met up with Rippington. So there you go. I hope you’re following this.’

  Porrig was and he groaned a bit more to himself.

  ‘So, we come to magic. And I’m talking about real magic here, not stage magic. In our reality we don’t have any magic, so black magicians perform elaborate rituals designed to summon entities from their own realms to perform evil deeds for them. Summon them in fact from a separate reality where magic does exist. Mostly it doesn’t work, thank the Goddess, but sometimes, every once in a while . . . WALLOP!’ Wok Boy whacked Porrig in the stomach. ‘Know what I’m saying?’

  Under his eyelids Porrig’s eyes crossed.

  ‘Your uncle,’ said Wok Boy. ‘Apocalypso The Miraculous. Black magician. They kicked him out of the Magic Circle because he cheated, used real magic. The old bloke was working as his assistant and he tried to persuade him to turn it in. But he didn’t and WALLOP!’ Porrig caught it in the once again in the bread-basket. ‘Legend of Faust, mate, he paid with his very soul.’

  Porrig pondered bitterly upon just how Wok Boy would pay. Heavily, he concluded.

  ‘So,’ continued Wok Boy. ‘We’re coming up to the last bit of the story and this is the best bit. The bit that the old bloke wants you to do the comic book about. Your uncle had managed through his rituals to access these other realities, but he was on the make and he was taking out more than he was putting back. You have to retain a balance, because everybody’s on the make, no matter what reality they’re in. That’s what you’d call a universal truth, I suppose. So, after he got his big comeuppance, the old bloke tried to put everything right. Destroy his papers, that kind of thing. But what he didn’t know was that your uncle had posted a copy of the ritual off to his sister in a letter. Your mum, Porrig.

  ‘So, the years pass and the old bloke is living in ALPHA 17 (because he knows how to do the ritual and move from one reality to another). He’s got some big problem he’s trying to sort out about an angel’s feather, although it’s not quite clear in the book exactly what that is. So, he’s there and one day he finds that someone is nicking stuff. Someone from this reality is entering that reality. He lies in wait and then he follows them and he doesn’t half get a big surprise.

  ‘He discovers that a special ministry has been set up in London. A kind of ministry of the paranormal and that the people working there are doing all kinds of deals with people and “things” from the other realities. Everyone being on the make, as I said. The old bloke is horrified, especially when he learns that this ministry is virtually running the world. And who’s in charge of this ministry, eh, eh?’ Wok Boy nudged Porrig painfully in his wounded ribs. You’ll never guess if I don’t tell you. So I’ll tell you. The person running the ministry, the Ministry of Serendipity, it’s called, is the person your mum showed the letter to. He tried out the ritual for himself, realized the potential, approached the government with it, for the good of the nation, of course, and now sits there in the ultimate seat of power running damn near everything.