‘What can you see?’ Jack called down. ‘What am I missing?’
‘Put your arm up,’ Rex told him. ‘Look through.’
Jack slowly raised his right arm to his face and stared into it.
‘The Glamour,’ said he.
‘The what?’ Elvis waved his arms in the air. ‘What is all that?’
‘Enchantment,’ said Jack. ‘The Glamour, a variation of gramarye or glaumerie, old Scottish. First undoubted use of the word was in the eighteenth century in Ramsey’s The Gypsy Counties. A kind of mesmerism cast over the senses so that things are, or are not perceived, according to the wishes of the enchanter. Fascinating. Quite fascinating. One would generally need to use a fairy ointment made from four-leafed clovers to break the spell. But how, here, I don’t understand.’
‘How could we walk up walls, dissolve handcuffs? It’s all an illusion.’
‘But the faerie?’ gulped Jack. ‘Fairies don’t exist.’
‘Fairies, demons, devils, men in black. Each culture has its bogeymen. Each with a new name in keeping with the current fashion. The present belief system. But under the guise it is always the same bogeyman. The negative.’
‘I get it.’ Jack did. Elvis didn’t. ‘Living in the now. Always in the now. No past, no future. Only the present.’
‘And always the same bogeyman.’
‘Please explain,’ Elvis implored. ‘I’m just a down-home boy at heart.’
‘It’s like this, chief . . .’ the sprout piped up. ‘You see . . . how can I put this ... I mean, well, you know when you . . . er . . .’
‘Should I best not bother with it, Barry?’
‘Best not, chief.’
‘Just one small point, though.’ It was that look of enlightenment once more. ‘Does Crawford get it? Because if he don’t, he’s going to blow us all to kingdom come.’
‘Don’t quite know where you’re coming from there, chief.’
Elvis sighed. ‘Think about it, green buddy. We can see what Crawford’s really dealing with, but Crawford can’t see what Crawford’s really dealing with. And that thing down there sure looks ticked off to me.’
‘Something’s happening,’ cried Jack. ‘Look up there. What’s that?’ It was the column of light they had seen when they approached the pleasuredome. Now it seethed and swam with uncatalogued colours. Twisting between earth and sky.
Crawford didn’t see it. Or if he did, he wasn’t letting on. He was far too busy strutting his stuff.
‘You never caught on,’ he crowed at Wormwood. ‘I let you get on with it. But I have controlled it all. Controlled you. You danced to my tune. I am the military. I am Bio-tech. I am the power.’
‘He’s got the ranting off perfect now,’ Elvis remarked. ‘It’s a pity Cecil’s not here to see it.’
Jonathan raved on. ‘You infected the computer matrix with your monsters, but I winkled you out. You’re where I want you now. All together in the one shell.’ As he danced around the frozen president, Wormwood’s head turned with him, rotating upon its silicone neck. Finally, when he could stand it no more, which wasn’t long, he spoke. But it was not his voice. It was the voice of the many which dwelt within him. The voice of LEGION. It was very basso profundo.
‘I AM LEGION WE ARE MANY.’
‘You are yesterday’s news,’ sneered Jonathan, displaying his remote control once more. ‘And this is the auto-destruct.’
‘Don’t do it!’ This was another chorus of voices. Those of Elvis, Rex and Jack.
Jonathan pressed the button.
Now one might have expected a devastating explosion of nuclear proportions. But one would be betting on a wrong’n there. Because, let’s face it, if a blockbuster like that was on the cards, then Jonathan would certainly have taken himself off to the bomb-proof bunker, now wouldn’t he?
It was more like the pop of a champagne cork. Appropriately festive. Wormwood’s snarling head shot up into the air. It reached the apex of its flight somewhat eye to eye with Elvis, who offered it a cheery wave as it headed on down.
‘The brown stuff’s gonna hit,’ said the astute Mr Presley.
And it did.
The pleasuredome dissolved into nothingness. The three men on a balcony became three men plummeting groundward. The crowd ran screaming (which was incidently the title of Jack’s third bestseller). The earth moved. And how. There were thunderings and lightnings. A weeping and a wailing and a gnashing of teeth.
The black beast of the pit rose up. Swelling into the sky. Jonathan backed away squawking like a lunatic.
‘IT IS OURS WE PREVAIL.’
LEGION’s words shook the ether. Howled through the void. The great domed head rose, black-eyed and fearsome. From the mouth parts snakes coiled and thrashed.
It was the head of Lord Cthullu. The Great Old One that can never die.
‘ALL IS OURS WE PREVAIL.’ ‘The brown stuff just hit,’ said Elvis. ‘Anyone care to join me in a chorus of “My Way” before the roll is called up yonder?’
Rex shrugged. ‘This isn’t the way I’d planned it, but okay. And now the end is near and so . . .’ ‘What’s that?’ Jack asked.
‘“My Way”,’ said Rex. ‘Surely everybody knows “My Way”.’
‘No. Not that. That up there.’ Jack pointed towards the column of light which still pulsed and flashed away. But now within it something was taking shape, solidifying.
‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’
‘It’s a 1957 Pontiac, isn’t it?’ said Rex.
Jack shook his head. ‘Lincoln,’ said he. ‘Continental I960.’
‘Looks more like a Buick 6 to me, chief.’
‘Buick 6 my my sweet Fanny,’ said Elvis. ‘What you see there is a Thunderbird. My Thunderbird.’
‘IT CERTAINLY IS,’ brroomed the cosmic T’bird, for it was none other. ‘HI ELVIS. LONG TIME NO SEE. WHAT’S HAPPENING GUY?’
‘Hi.’ Elvis waved foolishly. ‘Never said a goddamn thing when I used to drive it,’ he told his dumbfounded companions.
‘To be quite frank,’ said Jack. ‘I wasn’t expecting a Thunderbird.’
‘There’s folks getting out,’ said Elvis. ‘Don’t they look kinda familiar?’
Rex nodded. ‘It’s the heads of state from the UN.’
‘Small world, huh?’
‘WE PREVAIL,’ screamed the beast. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME? . . . . . .
IT IS OURS WE PREVAIL
IT IS OURS WE PREVAIL
IT IS OURS WE PREVAIL
it is ours we prevail
and so forth. (It’s a bit hard to do echoes in print.)
‘And who exactly is this “we”?’ Britain’s lady PM and all-prevailing goddess enquired. The black beast swayed towards her. It came and went in a maelstrom of whirling energy.
‘We gave you fair warning, sport,’ said Larry Minogue. ‘Maintain the status quo, we said. Share and share alike.’
One by one the Godheads of state issued from the glittering Thunderbird. It was very Steven Spielberg really and not a little Stephen King.
‘We have an agreement about this sort of thing,’ Finn MacCool explained. ‘We’ve told you before. This is the nineteen nineties. Democracy and things of that nature.’
‘And business,’ Baal chimed in. ‘Don’t forget business. If we can’t run this planet at a profit, what hope is there for any of us? It’s a competitive universe out there.’
‘THERE IS NO HOPE FOR YOU.’ To Mega Therion foamed and thrashed and carried on fit to bust, as they say. ‘ALL DIE NOW - ALL DIE NOW.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ scolded Mrs Hecate. ‘No-one dies now. Whoever heard of such a thing. Gods cannot die as you well know. Nap a mite perhaps. But not die.’
‘GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG!’
‘You’ve got a what?’ And who said she didn’t have a sense of humour?
‘Götterdämmerung,’ said Larry. ‘It’s a town near Darwin. From the Abo word meaning koala fart. It’s koala fart, ain’t it mate?’
‘IT
IS THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS.’
Larry nudged Hecate. ‘Two fast bowlers short of a test team, eh?’
‘Mind who you’re nudging, please.’
‘It’s been a funny old day,’ said Jack Doveston. ‘I don’t know quite what I expected. But it wasn’t this.’ Rex and Elvis shared shrugs. ‘They’ll change all this in the movie,’ said Elvis. ‘You can’t have the lead characters just sitting around doing nothing.’
Rex patted the lad on his now less than golden shoulder. ‘Give it time,’ he advised. ‘It’s far from finished yet. You’ll still save the world. Just you wait.’
‘You guess? Hear that, Barry? Rex says I’ll save the world. Is that cool or what?’
‘It’s cool, chief.’
‘Now, are you going to come quietly or is there going to be a lot of fuss?’ Hecate PM made with the folded arms and the stamping foot. ‘We are waiting.’
‘Midnight,’ cried the beast in the voice of Wormwood. ‘The Millennium is upon you. Return to your countries and watch them burn. Gods die when there are none to worship them. You are too late. The game is mine.’
‘He’s talking missiles,’ groaned Elvis. ‘What time have you got Rex?’
‘Eleven fifty-five.’
‘Aw Hell.’
‘That’s it,’ said the lady who was not for turning. ‘Larry, kindly fetch the McGuffin.’
‘I thought you had it, dreamboat.’
‘Larry! The McGuffin!’
‘Here you go then.’ Larry brought out a vacuum cleaner. It was one of those wonderful old chrome spaceship-style numbers, much beloved by the likes of Sir John Betjeman. It even had all the original attachments.
‘Plug it in, please.’
‘Where shall I stick it?’
‘Larry, this is neither the time nor the place.’
‘Here you go then.’
‘Kindly read the prepared statement if you will.’
‘Okedoke. Wayne L. Wormwood. Earthly embodiment of Beelzebub. Also answering to the name of Satan, Lucifer, Diabolus, Father of Lies, Prince of Darkness, Old Serpent, Apollyon, Abaddon, Ahriman, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Spirit of Evil, Mephistopheles, His Satanic Majesty, Old Nick, Old Scratch, Old Horny, Old Clootie and He of the Cloven Hoof. Also incorporating LEGION. Names here listed. We won’t waste time on that. The Heavenly Council find you guilty of acts unbecoming. Failure to get the approved pink chitty before embarking upon a course of world domination. What say you to these charges and the other seventy-five I have yet to get stuck into?’
‘Suck my scaly cock!’ The beast produced this not inconsiderable member and waggled it provocatively.
‘And that’s quite enough of that. Pray continue, Larry.’
‘Cheers. You are sentenced to be swept up by the Cosmic Hoover and confined to the dustbag for a period of one thousand years. Revelation 20:2.’
‘It don’t say that in Revelation, does it Jack?’ Elvis asked.
‘It’s open to interpretation. But it’s near enough. Golly gosh.’
Mrs Hecate switched on the Hoover. The Hoover went suck in a cosmic fashion and the horrible beast, shrieking, howling, waggling its wanger and under no small protest, collapsed obscenely in on itself and was swallowed up by the ingenious flanged snout arrangement, which is generally used for rooting the dust out of pleated curtain pelmets.
‘You really had to see that to appreciate it,’ said Jack.
‘Or believe it,’ Rex added.
‘I saw it, but I . . .’
‘We know, chief.’
Larry unplugged the Hoover from wherever he had plugged it in and rewound the flex. ‘Here’s till the next time,’ said he. ‘I’d better be getting back to Oz. Don’t want to miss the New Year barby. Got a few cricketing chums coming over and Joe Bugner said he might drop in.’
‘Yokel.’ Hecate turned away and called up to the three men who were sitting on a rock wondering whether they should applaud or what. ‘We’ll leave it with you then, Rex. I’m sure you can manage. Goodbye Mr Doveston, Mr Presley.’
Rex waved. Elvis and Jack waved. The Godheads of state climbed back into the Thunderbird and drove off into myth, legend and popular theology. The way most of them do.
‘Well,’ said Jack, ‘well, I never did.’
Heads were beginning to appear here and there. Amongst them was that belonging to Jonathan Crawford. Rex, Jack and Elvis slid down a greasy bank and strode towards him. The young yobbo climbed to his feet and dusted down his clothes.
‘And good riddance to them,’ said he.
Rex approached him. ‘You’re taking this remarkably well.’
‘Well?’ Jonathan straightened his tie. ‘And why not? It was a foregone conclusion, wasn’t it? Wormwood shot his bolt. Serves him right is all I can say. All that Satanic stuff. It’s so medieval. This is the age of the computer. This is the modern world.’
Rex smiled upon him. ‘Your world, you’re thinking.’
‘And why not? Here, let me show you something.’
Jonathan fished his remote control from his pocket.
‘Okay Jack,’ said Elvis, ‘you reckon you’re a wise-ass, pardon me momma, so what’s he going to do with that?’
Jack scratched his chin. ‘Self-destruct?’ he said hopefully.
‘No,’ said Rex. ‘Think about it. Whose dream are we in?’
Headshaking became all the rage.
‘Mine,’ said Jonathan. He index-fingered the control. ‘And lo.’
‘Crikey,’ said Jack. ‘I never expected that either.’
They were all once more in the pleasuredome. Standing in the presidential manse. Chandeliers shone. Music played. Fountains did likewise. Rich people picked themselves up from the floor and tried to pretend that nothing had happened. ‘Some acid,’ said one of the Gadarene Swine.
‘A little innovation of yours?’ Rex asked.
‘Exactly. Frequency, Rex. Like I told you. Everything vibrates at a particular frequency. Molecules, matter. Even space and thought. Once you’ve worked out the frequency you’re rolling. You can control the lot. A bit of temporary feedback when I popped Wormwood’s head. But it all worked out for the best, didn’t it?’
‘You’ve got less than three minutes,’ said Rex. ‘Wormwood launched the missiles at midnight. The Nuclear Holocaust Event. Half the world gone. If you are in control you had better stop it.’
‘Stop it?’ Jonathan roared with laughter. ‘Stop it? I set it up. Those are my missiles. How many times do I have to tell you? I am the military. I run things. I allowed Wormwood enough rope to hang himself. Now all the others go with him.’
‘The Gods,’ Elvis gasped. ‘He wants to kill the Gods.’
‘The guy is barking,’ said Jack.
‘Hardly. You haven’t been paying attention. You cannot kill the Gods. You can only put them to sleep for a while. Gods exist only as long as there are those to believe in them. Overthrow the temples. Wipe out the faith and the Gods sleep. Everything obeys some universal law or other. Even the Gods. I am going to give them a well-earned rest. They have disposed of Wormwood. I am disposing of them.’
‘But all those people,’ Elvis cried, ‘all those people, for pity’s sake.’
‘People are crap,’ said Crawford. ‘There’ll be enough left after the holocaust. Banged up in their bunkers. The Big Three can share out the spoils. I control Buddhavision. If I can’t be president, then I’ll be the Dalai Lama.’
‘You,’ said Rex. ‘It wasn’t Wormwood. It was you.’
‘But I’m not in your history books. How do you explain that?’
‘I don’t.’
‘I do,’ said Gloria Mundi. For it was suddenly she.
‘What do you want?’ Jonathan asked.
‘I fired you.’
‘Gloria,’ said Rex.
‘It’s your sister,’ said Elvis. ‘Hi Gloria.’
‘It’s who?’
‘Rex’s sister, Jack. I met her in the last book. Some honey, huh?’
/> ‘Gloria Mundi? What kind of name is that?’
‘I am peeved,’ said Gloria and she certainly looked it. ‘Half a paragraph here. A sentence there. A reference somewhere else.’
‘A mention in Chapter three,’ said Rex helpfully.
‘Well, it really won’t do. And where is your dear wife, Rex?’
‘I think she’ll be here any moment.’
‘Then I’ll get my bit in now. You!’ she pointed at Jonathan. ‘You are in very big trouble. You just wait till your father gets here.’
‘My father? What do you know about my father?’
‘Enough. And he’s not pleased. Why do you think I was brought back here? Why do you think Rex was brought back here?’
‘Wormwood brought me back,’ said Rex.
‘Oh no he didn’t.’
‘Rex has this theory,’ said Jack.
‘I’ve heard his theory. Rex always has a theory. Surely you’ve learned that.’
‘Well I . . .’
‘Shut up,’ shouted Jonathan. ‘All of you shut up. This is my show. My dream. I can cash you out whenever I please. No loose ends.’
‘Too many loose ends,’ said Gloria. ‘A mess, all of it.’
‘You’d better say your piece now, Gloria,’ Rex advised. ‘Time is running out.’
‘He’s to blame.’ Gloria pointed the finger of shame at Elvis.
‘Me?’ The King stepped back in shock. ‘What’d I do?’
‘You improvised.’
‘Yeah. Sure I did. But I had this revelation. I was on a divine mission. Destroy the Antichrist and save the world from the nuclear holocaust. Rex, tell her.’
‘Don’t listen to him. By faking your own death and going on the rampage you changed history. You dropped me right in it. In your pool as it happened. And you gave this little shit (Jonathan again) the opportunity he’d been looking for to go out on his own.’
‘You lied to me,’ whined Jonathan. ‘You told me you could get me into the future. Wait till my brother gets here, you said. He’ll sort it all out.’
‘You brought me back?’ Rex turned upon his sister. ‘Why?’
‘To serve you right. As I got dumped on I didn’t see why you should get away with it. I put your name up as the ideal Tomorrowman.’