The Greatest Show Off Earth

  But they’re only human. And within such a closed community rivalries occur. And jealousies. And passions that ferment like mildewed Bramleys in a Death-by-Cider barrel. And once in a while they boil over. And get stains all over the mat.

  History does not record who threw the first custard pie. Nor at whom it was deliberately thrown. But it struck one of the Siamese triplets. The one who had this grudge against Phoenix the Fireproof Fan Dancer. And it was she who flung the plate. And Disecto who caught it on the ear. And it was while he was thrashing about in search of his fallen head, that someone tipped the soup tureen into the lap of one of the sword swallowers. And the soup was hot.

  The other sword swallower hit one of the high-wire walkers and this man fell on top of Raymond, who was trying to help the professor up. And Raymond lashed out at the high-wire walker and hit Mr Aquaphagus by mistake. And Mr Aquaphagus drew his sword. And was promptly set upon by three dwarves, two clowns, Hercules the circus strongman, Polly, of Polly’s Performing Poodles, Leonora the lion taming lady and Puff the Magic Dragon.

  And then, at exactly this moment, the police burst in.

  13

  ‘Right, my lad, you’re nicked!’ The police who had done the bursting in were looking pretty good. They wore those really spiffing riot helmets with the plexiglass visors and those bullet-proof vests that make you look like Mr Michelin. All in those tasteful tones of metropolitan blue.

  Very nice.

  The one who shouted ‘Right, my lad, you’re nicked!’ wasn’t wearing a helmet. Which was a shame, because he had one of those awful Arthur Scargill comb-over jobs and he’d have looked a good five years younger with the helmet on.

  But he wasn’t wearing one.

  But he was carrying the gun.

  ‘You’re .. .’ He turned this gun a full muzzle-sweeping three hundred and sixty degrees of the bar. ‘Nicked?’

  Paul looked up from his newspaper. ‘You’ve missed him,’ he said. ‘He left ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Ten minutes ago?’ Inspector D’Eath stalked up to the counter. ‘I told you to keep him talking. When you phoned me, I said, “Keep him talking.”‘

  ‘Do you think that I’m mad?’ asked Paul. ‘According to you, the man is a suspected serial killer. I waited until he’d left the premises before I telephoned. I was thinking of you.’

  ‘Thinking of me?’

  ‘All the extra paperwork. If I’d tried to keep him talking, which I couldn’t have done anyway, because he’d left before I phoned you, but say I had tried to keep him talking, and he’d got suspicious and maybe brought out a chainsaw or something and it had turned into a siege situation and maybe innocent victims got in the line of fire and the pub got burned down and—’

  ‘Yes yes yes. I get the picture. The paperwork.’

  ‘Exactly. But I have this.’ Paul brought out something wrapped in a handkerchief. He placed it carefully on the counter and teased away the wrappings.

  ‘It’s a whisky glass,’ said Inspector D’Eath.

  ‘It’s his whisky glass,’ said Paul.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you can take fingerprints from it.’

  Inspector D’Eath shook his head, releasing all those nasty strands again. ‘Why should I want to take fingerprints from it? We’ve been to his house. His fingerprints are all over that.’

  ‘You’ll be able to get a match then. You did say fifty quid for a verifiable sighting, didn’t you?’

  ‘Nice try.’ The inspector smiled. ‘What I actually said was, fifty quid for information leading to an arrest.”

  ‘Semantics,’ said Paul. ‘Same thing.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing at all. I have to know where the suspect is at this very moment.’

  ‘Fifty quid,’ said Paul. ‘For the information. Fifty quid.’

  Inspector D’Eath made an exasperated sighing sound. ‘Do you know where the suspect is now?’

  ‘Fifty quid,’ said Paul.

  ‘You do know.’

  ‘Fifty quid.’

  ‘Constable, pay this man fifty pounds and get a receipt for it.’

  The constable with the sister said, ‘who me?’

  ‘Who me, sir,’ said Inspector D’Eath.

  ‘Thank God,’ said the constable. ‘I thought you meant me.’

  ‘I did mean you, lad. Pay this man fifty pounds.’

  ‘I don’t have fifty pounds, sir.’ The constable saluted. ‘My wallet is at home in my sports jacket.’

  ‘Sports jacket?’ Paul shook his head. ‘I’ll bet he’s got slippers too.’

  ‘He has,’ said the constable who didn’t have a sister, but had once seen a search warrant. ‘I’ve seen them. And I’ve seen a search warrant as well.’

  ‘Constable pay this man fifty pounds now.’

  The constable with the taste for casual leisurewear shook his head fiercely. ‘I haven’t got fifty pounds, sir. But Derek has.’

  ‘I never have,’ protested the constable without the sister, whose name was Derek. (The constable’s name was Derek, that is, not the sister that he didn’t have (her name was Doris).)

  ‘He does, sir. He’s saving up for a motor scooter.’

  ‘A motor scooter?’ Paul shook his head once more.

  ‘A motor scooter, and he always carries his money with him.’

  ‘I bloody don’t.’

  ‘You bloody do.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Inspector D’Eath slammed his gun down on to the counter. There was quite a devastating bang as it went off. A lot of smoke too.

  The constables dived into each other’s arms and from there to the floor where they huddled in a gibbering heap.

  Paul didn’t even get a shake on. Not a twitch. He looked from the now shattered whisky optic to the now sweating face of Inspector D’Eath and from there to his paper.

  ‘Discharge,’ he said.

  ‘Discharge?’ Inspector D’Eath sniffed the smoking pistol.

  ‘Ten down, “as in fire from a gun”. Discharge. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Constables, get up off that floor and pay this man fifty pounds. At once!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘All right,’ said the inspector, as he watched Paul counting coinage into his trouser pocket. ‘Where is the suspect, now?

  ‘He’s at the Scribe’s house. Forty-nine, fifty, thank you.’

  ‘And where does the scribe live?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Paul.

  Inspector D’Eath cocked his pistol.

  ‘Try the phonebook.’ Paul produced one from beneath the counter. ‘His name’s Sprout. Kilgore Sprout.’

  ‘So what do you think, Mr Sprout?’

  Simon had his feet up on the Scribe’s sofa.

  It was a knackered old sofa, all draped over by those dreadful woolen multi-coloured shawl things that cat owners delight in to cover up the claw marks on the furniture and make the place look ‘homely’.

  The Scribe’s house was right at the bottom of the-lane-that-dare-not-speak-its-name. Tucked down behind that of the mad old major. It had a big high hedge around it. And Simon, who had lived all his life in the village, and thought to have crept around every inch of it, had not until now known that a house was even there.

  It was ‘homely’ within.

  The sitting-room had that middle-class, professional-country-person-who-earns-his-money-in-the-City look to it. Stacks of glossy magazines, with matching spines. And in date order. One of those computer contrivances that you hear so much about, the ones that look like an electric typewriter with a little television set screwed on the top. Word Procurers they’re called. An inglenook fireplace, where you could burn logs on a wintry day to heat up the sky.

  Not exactly Simon’s cup of meat.

  ‘What do I think?’ The Scribe sipped a sweet sherry. He’d brought in the three-quarter-finished bottle from the kitchen. The one he kept for guests who ‘weren’t staying long’. ‘Kindly take me through it one more time, if you will.’

&nb
sp; ‘It’s very simple.’ Simon took a small sip from his full glass and found it now to be an empty glass. ‘From what you’ve told me about the character you’ve based on me, he’s a bit of a bastard, yes? But with a heart of gold. A lovable rogue.’

  ‘Well, I had him down as just the bit of a bastard actually. All bastard, in fact. But continue, none the less.’

  ‘He should do something big and exciting.’ Simon put down his minuscule glass and reached for the sherry bottle. The Scribe drew it beyond his reach. ‘I’m not just saying this because you’ve based the character on me. But because, if it was me, I’d do something big and exciting. You wanted my advice, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but the kind of advice you’re giving me, is not quite what I’d had in mind.’

  ‘Of course not. That’s why you’ve got to the sticky bit in the plot and you need some fresh input.’

  ‘Well it’s very exciting, this new scenario you’ve come up with. Where your character doesn’t give his winnings to charity, but, in fact, has them stolen from him by these urban terrorists. And he goes after them and steals the money back. Do you think he’d really be brave enough to do that though?’

  ‘You bet I, er, he would. That giving the money to charity business is too far fetched. That’s where the plot’s gone wrong.’

  ‘I could rewrite it so he never wins the money in the first place.’

  ‘No, don’t do that . . . He wins the money, has it stolen and then steals it all back.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said the Scribe, pouring Simon half a glass. ‘I never liked the giving-it-to-charity bit. It was the publishers’ idea that I put that in.’

  ‘Damn right it was,’ muttered Simon. ‘Who did you say the publishers were, by the way?’ As if he didn’t know.

  ‘They’re called B.E.A.S.T. Although I don’t know what it stands for. Have you ever heard of them?’

  ‘Never.’ Simon shook his head.

  ‘All right,’ said the Scribe. ‘So he goes after these terrorists that you’ve invented. But how does he know where to find them?’

  How indeed? thought Simon. ‘That’s the clever bit,’ he said. ‘You’ve been writing this so far. And you’re about halfway through it, right? So you don’t want to go introducing too many new characters, do you? They’d have to be holed up with some character that you’ve written about already.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Scribe. ‘But which one?’

  That’s what I want you to tell me, you stupid sod, thought Simon. ‘Well, you tell me. If you were going to write about a secret terrorist group based in the village. Where would you base them?’

  The Scribe scratched at his bald spot. Simon made free with a dental dazzle.

  ‘There’s an abandoned gamekeeper’s hut just outside the village.’

  ‘Too small,’ said Simon.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Know of it. They’d be with some local character.’

  ‘The vicar?’

  Simon shook his head once more. This particular gambit had seemed so straightforward, when it had come to him in The Jolly Gardeners. His line of thinking had run thus: If the Scribe is the one who has been commissioned to write Raymond’s future biography, and is actually writing it now, without knowing that he’s really writing truth instead of fiction; then, if Simon could persuade him to bump up the part he was playing, by getting back the money, for one thing, well, that would be the kiddie, wouldn’t it? And once more the possibilities would be endless, for the man who knew the future before it arrived. And that man would be he, Simon.

  Bastard!

  ‘I have it,’ said the Scribe.

  ‘You have?’ asked Simon.

  ‘I have. It was staring me right in the face. Long Bob’s chicken farm.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, he’s up to something, isn’t he? Remember I told you the bit about how your character sees him trying to train his chickens?’

  ‘I think you mentioned it.’ The Scribe hadn’t.

  ‘Well. He’s behind it all. He’s a crazy, right? And he’s breeding this new strain of chicken. Planning to take over the world. That kind of thing.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Simon. ‘What else?’

  ‘Well. He needs the money for this diabolical project. The terrorists are in his pay. Yes, I see it all. It’s a religious cult. An End Times religion.’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Simon. ‘That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’

  ‘Messianic.’ The Scribe reached for his exercise book. ‘This is the kind of stuff I like to write. I’m not going to do the publishers’ stuff any more. I’m going to write it my way.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Simon. ‘I hope that will work.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Never mind. Right then. Well, I think I’ll go home now. Get an early night.’

  ‘Not in my book, you won’t.’ said the Scribe, scribbling away. ‘In my book you’ll be off to Long Bob’s to steal back your money. Oh yes indeed.’

  ‘Would that life was like fiction, eh?’ Simon gathered himself up from the sofa and disentangled himself from one of the dreadful woolen multi-coloured shawl things. ‘But in real life, I shall be going home to bed. In case anyone might ask.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why they would.’ The Scribe was busy a-scribing.

  ‘Fair enough. Goodbye then.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ The Scribe didn’t look up, so Simon snatched away the sherry bottle and tucked it into his pocket.

  ‘Goodbye to you,’ he said.

  Simon took his leave along the abandoned railway track, which led down behind Raymond’s house to the lower end of the village.

  It was a wise choice. Because before he had gone but a hundred yards, he heard the distinctive wail of police car sirens. And the distinctive crunching sounds, as the cars bumped in and out of the-holes-that-no-one-takes-responsibility-for, in the-lane-that-dare-not-speak-its-name.

  Simon put a bit of spring into his step and set out, not for home, but for the chicken farm of one Long Bob.

  As it was now reasonably clear that the police had, in fact, burst into The Jolly Gardeners, rather than the grand salon of the SS Salamander, it follows that the punch up there was still in full swing.

  And it was.

  Someone in sequins flew over the table, smashed to the floor and came up again fighting. A lot of crockery was getting broken and a lot of priceless glassware done to bits. And in the middle of all the shouts and yells and screams and shrieks and whatnots, a great voice suddenly boomed, ‘So this is The Greatest Show off Earth!’

  Raymond, who now sheltered beneath the table, beheld a pair of golden boots and a portion of exclusive-looking trouser-work.

  The clashing of swords and the breaking of bits came suddenly to a most conclusive conclusion. Well, at least for a tinkle or two.

  The professor clubbed at the dwarf who was clinging to his breeches. Billy Balloon said, ‘Blow me down.’ And one of Polly’s Performing Poodles growled in the key of B sharp.

  “The Greatest Show off Earth? Ha ha.’ It was a curious voice. Raymond did not recognize the accent. And it had a fussy nasal tone to it. The words seemed almost to be coughed out, rather than spoken.

  Raymond didn’t like the voice. It made him feel uncomfortable. He felt reasonably sure that he was really going to hate the owner. And he wondered just what he might look like. Because it sounded like a he.

  So Raymond lifted the torn length of table cloth that shielded him from view and took an upward peep.

  And when he had done so, he let the cloth fall again, crouched down upon his knees and said, ‘Oh my God!’

  He had just seen what he thought he’d just seen, hadn’t he? Raymond took a tiny little second peep.

  He had.

  But it wasn’t real, was it? No, it just couldn’t be. Oh yes it could.

  Raymond took a third peep. And this is what he saw.

  From the golden
boots, Chisel-toed and Cuban-heeled, to the swish trouser-wear, tailored, fitted, black satin, chic, to the matching jacket, clenched in at the waist, golden buttons in two rising rows, golden belt with elaborate boss, a winged disc with profiled supplicants. Epauletted shoulders, scarab cartouche on left breast pocket. Ornamented cuffs, from beneath which showed delicate human hands, manicured and pampered.

  So far so swell and hoity-toity. The problem was the head.

  It wasn’t a human head. It was an animal’s head.

  It was the head of a wolf. No, not a wolf. Raymond did furtive perusals. One of those animals that sneak around after the carrion that lions leave behind. A jackal. It was the head of a jackal. And it wasn’t some carnival head. This was a living breathing job and a really magnificent specimen. The way the nostrils flared, the black lips curled, the yellow eyes, with their slitted pupils, blink blink blinked.

  Very impressive indeed. And the way he carried himself. Almost. . . Raymond paused. Almost.

  ‘Blimey.’ whispered Raymond. ‘It’s him. It’s that god. The Egyptian one. Off the tomb paintings. Thingy . . . er . . . Anubis. It’s Anubis.

  ‘Perhaps it is a mutiny.’ This was a new voice. A very strange voice. High and piping. Almost a whistle. The user of this voice stepped forward and Raymond copped an eyeful.

  About the same height (which was tall). About the same build (which was lean and athletic). About the same outfit, a detail of difference. But not the same head.

  This was his mate. The fellow with the bird’s head. The head of the sacred ibis. He looked amazing also. The feathers were black, with the rainbow sheen of starlings. The eyes bright red points of light. The beak was a dazzling yellow.

  Set. That’s who it was. Set. Or Thoth, he had a bird’s head as well. Raymond weighed it up. Set, he decided. Thoth was far too hard to pronounce.

  It was Set. And no mistake about it.

  ‘Blimey,’ whispered Raymond again and settled down hard on his bum. Two Egyptian gods, and both in a single day. This was some surprise.