Apocalypso

  ‘I do,’ said Sir John. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘You take care, man.’

  ‘I will,’ said Sir John.

  The unmarked boat pulled up alongside The Leviathan. The silence was palpable. The lapping of the waves made no sound at all. The liner was there, but it seemed to be removed. Separate.

  Sir John took hold of a trailing cable and with no more words spoken began to climb carefully up the side. Danbury shrugged and pushed the doctor forward. ‘You go next,’ he whispered, ‘and I’ll try to catch you if you fall.’

  ‘I won’t fall,’ said Dr Harney. ‘I will use my caterpillar tracks and scale the mighty mountain. Goog googajube.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Danbury.

  Mist and silence and three men climbing.

  Below, the captain, muttering something.

  And above . . .

  Sir John reached the deck and peeped over. ‘Dear God,’ he said.

  Beneath, the two men on the cable watched the gaunt frame haul itself beyond view.

  ‘He’s there,’ whispered Danbury. ‘Come on, doctor, let’s get after him.’

  ‘Chug chug chug,’ replied the doctor. And then the three of them were there. Standing breathless on the deck.

  And then.

  ‘They’re dead,’ said Sir John. ‘Hundreds of them. It looks like they died from starvation and exposure.’

  ‘They’re . . .’ Danbury held down a wave of rising vomit. ‘They’re naked. Why are they naked?’

  ‘Because that’s how He wished them to be.’

  ‘You called it He.’

  ‘You had better learn to call it He too,’ said Sir John. ‘Come on, there’s nothing we can do for these people.’

  The Leviathan’s ballroom, lollipop lovely, was lit throughout by lilac luminescence. Floral fripperies fanned from fluted fabrications. Deco decor, cream and chrome, sunrays and swastikas, blended with bits and bobs of Bauhaus. Over all arched ormolu ornamentation in the ostentatious opulent over-the-topness of Otto Osterbrooke. It was a triumph of taste over tackiness tenderly rendered and royally realized.

  Very nice indeed.

  And transformed into hell.

  The dance-floor was invisible beneath the naked bodies. Thousands bowed in prayer. The air was ripe and rotten with the smell of sweat and vomit. And with fear, with overwhelming fear.

  On the bandstand, flanked by natives, lazing on a mound of cushions, was the thing. The beast. The false god.

  Dilbert Norris.

  Enemy and erstwhile conquerer of man.

  Buddha-big was Dilbert all about the belly regions, monstrous of head and black of eye. His skin shone with a glossy viridescence; olive, lime, myrtle and a mouldy mossy green. His great bald head was swollen like a pumpkin. The mouth, a yawning maw, turned up and leered, moist and evil.

  Sir John, struck dumb by the horror that confronted him, dropped slowly to his knees. Danbury did likewise, tugging down the doctor.

  Dilbert viewed his uninvited guests, repositioned his preposterous posterior and teased away tooth plaque with a human thigh bone.

  Sir John Rimmer raised a trembling voice. ‘O Great One,’ he called. ‘We bring greetings from the Isles of Britannia.’

  Dilbert ran a long black tongue about his teeth, each one the size of a Sainsbury’s one-pint milk carton and the two in the front as big as the one-litre bargain pack. Then he spoke, in a voice that could be likened to the sound that a sink plughole makes when plunged with a plunger (only greatly amplified and three octaves deeper).

  ‘Presents,’ gurgled Dilbert.

  ‘Presents, O Great One?’ Sir John kept his head down.

  ‘Presents,’ said Dilbert, making motions with foliate fingers.

  Sir John Rimmer chewed upon a length of false beard. He had indeed a present for the creature, but he wanted first to flatter and to gauge the situation. Although the situation here was very far from fab.

  ‘The bounty of our islands is more than any single man could carry,’ said Sir John. ‘And all shall be yours to be taken at your whim.’

  ‘My whim, eh?’ Dilbert’s mouth rose further at the corners, exposing lesser teeth that were approximately the dimensions of thirty ml Tipp-Ex correction fluid bottles.

  ‘As it pleases you, Great One.’

  ‘You might at least have brought me some big fat women.’

  Sir John now chewed upon his bottom lip. ‘We might fatten up some of the ones you have here,’ he said carefully. ‘In fact we might fatten them all. Have them feast upon a banquet in your honour.’

  ‘Nah,’ sink-plunger slurpy-gurgled Dilbert. ‘These ones please me not.’

  ‘They might please you better, were they plump and jolly.’

  ‘I think not. But he’ — Dilbert pointed — ‘he might do.’

  Sir John raised his head a mite to follow the direction of the dendriform digit. ‘Dr Harney?’ he whispered.

  Dilbert nodded his shiny verdant bonce up and down. ‘He looks very plump and jolly.’

  ‘I hoped he might please you, Great One.’

  Sorry pardon?’ gasped Danbury.

  ‘Bear with me,’ whispered Sir John.

  ‘Bung him over here,’ called Dilbert. ‘Let’s stew him up in his juices.’

  Sir John’s head swam, but he steeled himself enough to shout, ‘He dances well.’

  ‘He dances well?’

  ‘A merry jig. To gladden and amuse.’

  ‘He would amuse my innards more.’

  ‘Dr Harney,’ said Sir John. ‘Will you dance for the nice god?’

  ‘There’s a bit of mosaic on this floor that looks like a poodle,’ said Dr Harney.

  ‘He’s still out of it,’ whispered Danbury. ‘Do you want me to prance about and create a diversion, or something?’

  ‘Dr Harney!’ Sir John nudged his fellow in the ribs. ‘The nice god will not be kept waiting. Dance, if you will.’

  ‘Dance?’ The doctor’s head rose. ‘Who wants to dance? Oh, stripe my bottom red with a razor, everybody’s got their kit off’

  ‘Get up and dance,’ said Sir John in the firmest tone he could manage.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said the doctor. ‘This is what I call a party.’

  At the Ministry of Serendipity the atmosphere was far from party-like. The men in white coats and the smart-looking women, the government types who were privy to top secret information, Porrig’s dad and the pig sat, or in the case of the pig, stood, before the big world map on the wall. This had, through the wonders of technology, now been translated into a gigantic TV screen.

  They were listening to the voice of Sir John Rimmer and watching, up on the screen, the images that were being relayed to them via the micro-camera that had been sewn into the false blue beard.

  ‘I don’t like this at all,’ said Augustus. ‘That horrible-looking thing behaves as if it really is a god. If Sir John can’t kill it and it were to get loose in England, there’s no telling what might happen.’

  The pig nodded thoughtfully. ‘The angel Espadrille won’t be best pleased,’ he said.

  ‘Stuff the angel Espadrille. But this won’t do. It’s bad enough having a monster from space on the rampage. But one behaving like a god, without the Ministry’s permission, that can’t be tolerated.’

  ‘Ever the humanitarian,’ said the pig. ‘Where are you off to now?’

  ‘I think I’ll go off for a lurk.’

  ‘You don’t think that perhaps you should apply yourself to the problem at hand? How exactly is Sir John Rimmer supposed to dispose of this thing?’

  ‘He’s got a bomb in his beard.’

  ‘A bomb in his beard?’ The pig made a face of amazement, which wasn’t easy, but he managed it. ‘But what about the people?’

  Augustus Naseby shifted uneasily. ‘It’s not a very big bomb. Just big enough to take the creature’s head off. Sir John is hoping to persuade the creature to try on the beard.’

  ‘Truly inspired,’ said the
pig. ‘And this Ministry runs the affairs of the whole wide world!’

  ‘At present it does.’

  ‘Well, good luck to the man with the exploding beard.’

  The man with the exploding beard was keeping his head down. Dr Harney was gambolling aimlessly about making the sounds of a big brass band.

  Dilbert held up a fat finger. ‘This is rubbish,’ he said. ‘This fellow can’t dance. Let’s have him over here and see what he tastes like.’

  Several natives leapt down from the bandstand and grabbed at the dancing doc.

  ‘No, wait,’ cried Sir John.

  ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘Wait, O Great One, please, I beseech.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dilbert. ‘Beseeching. I’ve always loved beseeching. I’m glad to hear that beseeching still goes on in this century. What exactly are you beseeching about?’

  ‘Don’t eat the doctor,’ said Sir John.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I have brought you a special gift and I’d like you to have it now.’

  ‘Oh goody. Bring it over then.’

  Sir John rose slowly to his feet and, stepping carefully between the worshippers, who still knelt naked and shivering, he approached the evil being on the bandstand.

  ‘It is the badge of highest office,’ said Sir John. ‘And I, as one who has awaited your return, along with the millions of other loyal devotees on the British Isles, am honoured to present you with it.’

  ‘Millions, did you say?’ Dilbert stroked his chins.

  ‘Many millions. Surely you did not think that you would be forgotten?’

  ‘Naturally not,’ said Dilbert, adjusting his backside once more.

  ‘I was chosen to greet you and present you with this.’ Sir John Rimmer fingered the abundant blue beard.

  ‘You are offering me a beard?’

  ‘As a token of our affection and loyalty. For you to wear as you are carried in splendour through the streets of our capital. Which is to say, your capital.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Dilbert. ‘Bung it over here, then.’

  Sir John Rimmer removed the false beard and handed it to a native. The native bowed before Dilbert and offered it up.

  Dilbert looked down upon the beard and then up at Sir John Rimmer.

  ‘Well,’ said he. ‘And well well well.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘Well!’ said Dilbert.

  ‘Well what, exactly, O Great One?’

  ‘Well, firstly it is a pretty poor beard. It is made from a low-quality polyester derivative and dyed with synthetic chemicals. Secondly, the wearing of such a beard could seriously harm my precious person.’

  ‘The chemicals are in no way harmful,’ said Sir John.

  ‘No, but the bomb in it is!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sir John.

  ‘Yes, ah, you piece of excrement! Do you know why I let you on board?’

  ‘No, O Great One.’

  ‘Don’t O Great One me. I let you on board because I wanted to get a look at you and you!’ Dilbert pointed at the beard, and in the operations room at the Ministry of Serendipity his big fat finger blotted out the giant telescreen. ‘You, the maggots at the Ministry of so-called Serendipity. I know you’re there. I can sense your thinking. I can read all your thoughts. I did not choose to have this ship sail to your shores upon an idle whim. It’s because you are there. You who rule the entire planet through your departments and your connections. I am coming to you. I am coming for you.’

  Then the screen blanked out.

  ‘It rather looks as if we’ll have to rearrange our schedules,’ said Augustus Naseby.

  ‘That won’t please the chickens,’ said the pig.

  15

  Chickens clucked in a Brighton back yard and a rooster crowed in a new dawn. Porrig, who had been playing the night owl, was not to be found up with the larks.

  The sunshine came softly through his window today and Porrig could no doubt have tripped out easy, had he wanted to. However, as he never had done so before and knew nothing of Donovan, he didn’t.

  Porrig stretched and wriggled. It was very crowded in his bed. Wok Boy snored away next to him and Rippington lay next to Wok Boy. And although Rippington didn’t snore, he did make some very odd sounds in his sleep: snufflings and mutterings, none of them too pleasing to the ear.

  Porrig put his hands behind his head and sighed towards the ceiling. Sunlight danced through pigeon shadows. No sign of any BIG STORM.

  Porrig sighed once more and took to bewailing his lot.

  It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. An empty shop below and these two blighters in his bed. And his plans for super-hero-dom? Doomed to failure as he might have guessed.

  Rippington had been all in favour. He’d offered Porrig sneak looks into the books of magic in exchange for his safe return to ALPHA 17, and he said he’d even throw in a rather natty outfit that had once belonged to a prince of Denmark.

  Porrig had flung open his bedroom door at the midnight hour, but nothing had happened. The mysterious portal to ALPHA 17 had not materialized. The gateway from this world to that remained shut.

  It could only be opened by use of the magic ritual and, since Porrig didn’t know it, that it seemed was that.

  ‘Told you,’ said Rippington. ‘If it opened by itself every night, I’d have ducked through it last week while you were in the coma. You only got through because you disobeyed the curator’s instructions. He won’t let that happen again.’

  Porrig climbed out of bed and took himself off to the kitchenette. Here he brewed green tea, sat down at the table and grumbled.

  He’d have made a damn fine superhero. He was certainly screwed up enough. And if his daft daddy really was in charge of this ministry that damn near ran the whole world, then he did feel that it was his duty to do something about it. Something more than just drawing a comic book.

  ‘It’s as good a start as any.’

  Porrig jumped from his chair and glowered at Rippington.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the imp. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘You lying little toad.’

  ‘No need for insults.’

  Porrig sat back down. ‘I’m fed up,’ said he.

  ‘Me too, my no-mark friend. I want to go home. But we’ll each get what fate offers us, I suppose.’

  ‘Fate?’ Porrig shrugged and his thoughts returned to his conversation on the train with the old bloke.

  ‘I’ve seen that feather,’ said Rippington.

  ‘Feather?’

  ‘The feather from the angel’s wing that you were just thinking about. It glows in the dark and it smells really sweet.’

  ‘He sent you, didn’t he?’ said Porrig.

  Rippington climbed onto a chair. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Oh yes you do. The old bloke let you out of ALPHA 17. You’d never have got out if he hadn’t let you. Why did he let you, Rippington?’

  ‘To keep an eye on you, of course. He has pressing business in the city of London. Secret business. I’m here to see that no harm comes to you.’

  ‘How comforting.’

  ‘So I wouldn’t drink that tea, if I were you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that’s Wok Boy’s cup. The one I—’

  Porrig spat green tea across the kitchenette.

  ‘Where would you be without me?’ asked Rippington.

  Porrig made a bitter face. ‘I’m going out,’ said he.

  ‘In your pyjamas?’

  ‘No, I’ll get dressed first. And then I’ll go out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Rippington.

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because it might not be safe.’

  Porrig eyed the imp. ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘Well, have you looked outside this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You might be surprised by what you see.’

  ‘And what might I see?’

&
nbsp; ‘Nothing.’

  Porrig let out a serious sigh. ‘And nothing will surprise me, will it?’

  ‘I think that it might. But listen, what do you hear?’

  Porrig listened. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘And isn’t that surprising?’

  ‘No.’ Porrig listened again. ‘I mean, yes. I should be able to hear something. Someone.’

  ‘But you can’t. Because there’s no-one about.’

  Porrig walked out of the kitchenette, across the landing and back into the bedroom. As he passed the bed he gave it a good kick. When he reached the window he looked out.

  There was no-one about. No-one. Not a person. The street was deserted.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘They’re all indoors,’ said Rippington. ‘With their windows closed and wet towels over their heads.’

  ‘Wet towels?’

  ‘To avoid contamination.’

  ‘Contamination?’

  ‘You’ll get your notification any minute now. They did all the nice people’s houses and shops first. They’ll get round to you in a minute.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘The man from the Ministry.’

  ‘The man? Oh hang about, someone’s coming.’

  ‘That’ll be the fellow.’

  ‘Eh?’

  The fellow approached. He was a very odd-looking fellow, all decked out in a head-to-toe one-piece radiation suit sort of affair. And he was wearing a gas mask. With a gloved hand he pulled a leaflet from a big pouch he carried and approached Porrig’s shop door.

  ‘Mailman,’ said Rippington.

  Porrig went downstairs to see what was what. He returned a few moments later, now knowing what was what and saying, ‘What? What? What?’ in a very loud voice. He gave the bed another kick.

  Wok Boy awoke, going ‘What?’

  ‘This!’ shouted Porrig pointing to the leaflet. ‘This!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This.’

  ‘Read it out,’ said Rippington.

  So Porrig did.

  DANGER

  [it began in big black letters]

  CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION

  CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION

  [it continued]

  Warning is hereby given to the people of Brighton and surrounding towns that a spillage of chemical toxins from a foreign vessel caught up in last night’s BIG STORM is being carried by the prevailing winds towards the southern coastline of this country. All residents of Brighton and surrounding towns are advised to remain indoors until the danger has passed. Please stay calm and sit quietly with a wet towel over your head.