The Greatest Show Off Earth

  ‘The biggest one would be favourite,’ he said, as he trudged on, burdened heavily by dog and petrol can.

  The chickens were a-clucking. It’s a horrid noise that chickens make. Like the babbling of the insane.

  Simon didn’t care for chickens. Pigs he liked, except for their eyelashes, which were far too human-looking. But chickens, no. Stupid brainless things were chickens.

  The door to the big shed wasn’t locked. Just bolted. Simon drew the bolt. The plan was straightforward. Nip in, shut the door, switch on the light. The sheds had no windows, it wouldn’t be seen. Splash the petrol all about. Throw open the door, shoo out the chickens. Light blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance. Simple.

  ‘I’m gonna burn your hen house down,’ sang Simon, to the tune of an old Paul Young song.

  Now, it was dark in there. And the first thing Simon noticed was the smell. It was that smell that he had smelt earlier. The weird one, above and beyond the one of chicken pooh. It was really strong in here.

  ‘What a wang, now where’s that switch?’

  The second thing he noticed was the noise. Or rather the sudden lack of it. The chickens had ceased all their cluckings, which was strange, considering that a strange man with a dog on his leg had unexpectedly entered their shed.

  Simon’s searching fingers found the light switch and he thumbed it down. Neon tubes fizzed and popped and came alive to bathe the shed with a harsh and unforgiving glare.

  Simon blinked, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, a small but significant gasp of surprise escaped his open mouth. The outward appearance of the chicken shed certainly belied what lay concealed within. This was not your average run-down Bramfield chicken house. This was more like some animal research establishment, or something.

  It was clean. It was clinically clean. The floor was spotless, white linoleum, scrubbed. Along the newly painted walls, polished aluminium racks supported hundreds of glass-sided nesting boxes. Four tiers of them to each side and running the length of the shed. At the far end, a hospital screen concealed something. Now more than a little intrigued, Simon put down the petrol can and stiff-legged the lurcher, to see just what.

  Three steps along and he stopped. Something wasn’t right in here. And that something, or part of it anyway, was the chickens.

  Simon glanced about at them. They all sat very still and they were all staring intently at him. And though chickens can never look friendly, these birds looked decidedly - what? Evil, thought Simon, decidedly evil. And that wasn’t right with chickens.

  Simon gave a shiver. It was cold in here too. Colder than outside, it seemed. His breath steamed before his face. Was this place refrigerated. That wasn’t right, was it?

  Simon swung his lurcher leg and found it lurcher-free. The dog was now cowering at his side. Its hackles were up, its lips were drawn back, its eyes were fixed on the hospital screen.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Simon considered the dog and the chickens and his steamy breath and the hospital screen. ‘Right. Let’s have a look.’

  Simon sidled forward in the way that only he could do. Chickens to the right of him and chickens to the left of him shifted and grumbled. Every little beady eye upon him.

  ‘Stuff this.’

  And as each step took him nearer to the screen, the smell grew stronger. Simon still didn’t know what it was, but at least he knew now where it was coming from.

  The chickens were becoming more and more agitated, and as Simon put his hand out to the screen, their voices rose to one horrible compelling shriek.

  And then stopped. Fell silent, all as one. Which put the wind up Simon something wicked.

  ‘Let’s get this done and get out.’ Simon swung the screen aside.

  The smell was overpowering, but it wasn’t this that caused him to lurch back and gag into his hands.

  It was what he saw that did that!

  Revealed was a steel table, supporting a large, glass-sided incubator, linked to a refrigeration unit and lit from above by a row of white neon tubes.

  Within the incubator something lay on a red velvet cushion. Something naked and new-born-baby sized. Something vile.

  Much of it was human, much was not. The chest and stomach were covered by a soft feathery down. The plump little arms and legs terminated in unappealing chicken claws. The tiny head was bald, but for a Mohawk crest of jet-black feathers.

  Simon looked on in horror, as the head turned slowly towards him. Human eyes of piercing green, but where the nose and mouth should have been, a cruel beak.

  The eyes glared at Simon, the cruel beak moved, a long black tongue lolled out. Demonic, hellish, cold dark evil.

  ‘Dear God.’ Simon stood for a moment trembling.

  Then the special chemical inside his head conveyed to him a very explicit set of instructions. ‘Put things back as you found them and run for your life,’ they were.

  With a wobbly hand Simon rolled the screen back into place and backed down the shed with growing acceleration. As he neared the door he turned to run, tripped over the petrol can and fell flat on his face.

  ‘Torch it.’ Simon struggled to his feet. ‘I don’t know what you are,’ he whispered as he wrenched the cap from the petrol can, but you’re evil and you’re gonna burn.’

  ‘Oh no he ain’t, you know.’ Simon heard the voice and felt the cold hard touch of steel against his neck. A cold hard touch which he correctly deduced to be that of a shotgun barrel.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Simon said.

  B-b-b-b-bad to the bone. The Harley cruised along the thoroughfares of Fogerty. They were certainly handsome. A bit like the set from D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance, or was it The Birth of a Nation? The one with those huge sort of Babylonian steps and the statuettes of the elephants on vast pillars. Intolerance, it was definitely Intolerance.

  But not in the original black and white. This was in glorious Technicolor.

  ‘There’s nobody much about, is there?’ Raymond called to Zephyr.

  ‘All gone to the circus,’ Zephyr called back.

  ‘So where are the kidnapped people being held?’

  ‘At the auction house. Marked on your map.’

  ‘Marked on my map?’ said Raymond thoughtfully. Now I wonder exactly which map that might be? he thought, even more thoughtfully.

  ‘The one I tucked into your jacket as we were leaving the ship,’ called Zephyr the Miraculous.

  ‘Ah, that one, got it, thank you.’

  Naturally it was in English, as were the street signs of Saturn’s capital city. Many things would eventually be made clear to Raymond. Eventually, but not now.

  For now he would just have to content himself with cruising along behind this marvellous being, on the bike she had conjured from thin air, wearing the clothes she had conjured from thin air, and carrying the preposterous gun she had likewise conjured from that same thin, yet apparently quite malleable, air. It was all quite impossible, of course, but it was one hell of an adventure.

  ‘I can’t hold on to this ridiculous gun and read the map at the same time,’ called Raymond. ‘Some things really are impossible. Could you stop the bike for a moment please?’

  Zephyr pulled the Harley over to the side of the road, switched off the engine and swung the heavy machine effortlessly back on to its stand. Then she climbed from the saddle.

  ‘You really look great in that outfit,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Thank you.’ Zephyr did a little bow. ‘Now show me that map please, because we really don’t have a lot of time. And I don’t think we’ve stopped in a particularly nice neighbourhood.’

  Raymond glanced about. It wasn’t very nice at all. They had somehow wandered off the main thoroughfare and now, rather than being in Uptown Memphis, they were in Downtown Cairo. It had that certain look about it which says ‘stranger beware’. Raymond hated it without a second thought.

  Now, there are many things that can be guaranteed to draw a crowd on the street. An accident will do it, or two women figh
ting, or sometimes even a man on a soapbox. A Harley Davidson always draws one. And a Harley Davidson accompanied by a beautiful woman dressed head to toe in black leather. That will draw one. Be assured of that.

  Zephyr unfolded the map.

  ‘Having a spot of bother?’ asked a passing jackal-head, in a loud check suit. He put Raymond instantly in mind of Lon Chaney snr. in his now legendary performance as The Wolf Man. Or was it The Werewolf? Or was it Warner Oland in the 1935 production of Werewolf of London? And did it really matter anyway?

  ‘Perhaps I might be of assistance?’ asked wolfman in a greasy, if well-educated tone. Zephyr ignored him.

  ‘Tourist, are you?’ Wolfman did admiring lookings at both girl and bike, while pointedly ignoring Raymond. ‘Let me guess, you’re from Eden, aren’t you?’

  Zephyr turned away. Raymond pondered ‘Eden’. Was that how the outer Earth was known, Eden?

  ‘Lovely planet.’ Wolfman flicked imaginary dust from an ample lapel and grinned over Zephyr’s shoulder. ‘Went there for my hols last year. Pongs a bit though, don’t it? Be all the better once they’ve plugged those holes in the poles up, eh, doncha think?’

  ‘Think?’ Zephyr gave the jackal-head a haughty onceover. ‘I think, therefore I am from Eden. Hub of knowledge and racial purity. Go and foul a footpath, will you?’

  Seemingly oblivious to insult, or perhaps just like Simon, in revelling a worthy challenge, wolfman continued without pause on his line of chat.

  Raymond was growing uneasy and the arrival on the scene of two more Saturnians, with an eye for a Harley Davidson and a woman in black leather, did nothing to halt the growth of this unease.

  A pair of falcon-headed fellow-me-lads in sportswear and trainers.

  ‘Don’t touch the bike,’ said Raymond, as one reached out an inquisitive hand.

  ‘Say,’ said a falcon-head. ‘This is a really nice bike.’

  ‘Piss off,’ replied Raymond.

  A pair of sparsely clad hawk-faced females, who had lately appeared from what was very probably a house of ill repute, tittered at this.

  ‘And you,’ said Raymond.

  ‘What’s happening here?’ asked an ibis lady in a straw hat. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  ‘There will be in a minute.’ Raymond made meaningful motions with his great big gun.

  ‘That’s never real,’ sneered the young falcon fellow-me-lad. ‘Hey, Zip, come over here and show the man your gun.’

  ‘Zephyr, I think we really should be going now.’

  ‘Give us a ride on your motor bike,’ said the ibis lady in the straw hat. ‘Just once round the block.’

  ‘Leave the bike alone please. Zephyr, come on.’

  Now, it probably wasn’t the wolfman who pinched Zephyr’s bottom. It was probably the big-shouldered hawkman with the broad-brimmed hat, who ran the house of ill repute and had just come out to see what his girls were up to. It was the wolfman Zephyr turned and hit though. Right on the tip of the nose. A single hard sharp whack. Counte Danté would have loved it. The growing crowd were not best pleased.

  Zip drew out his gun. It was a Saturnday-night special (sorry).

  Raymond tried to fire his into the air, but as he had no idea how the thing actually worked, he swung it instead at the gun-toting falcon, missed and carried by the mini-gun’s considerable weight, fell off the back of the bike.

  Things now happened fast.

  Zip leapt astride the fallen Raymond, the other falcon leapt astride the bike. Hawkman grabbed Zephyr around the waist and hoisted her into the air. The ibis lady in the straw hat tried to drag away the mini-gun and the young falcon tried to get the Harley started.

  ‘No!’ shouted Raymond.

  Zip pulled the trigger upon him.

  There was a blinding flash, a very loud bang and then there was screaming and shouting.

  Raymond, whose eyes had been tightly shut, awaiting the arrival of Zip’s bullet, now opened them again. He was still in the land of the living. But now this land had gone mad.

  Zip was sprawled several yards away. A swordfish saw protruded from his chest. The rest of the fish flapped behind him in the gutter.

  ‘Aaaaagh!’ went Raymond.

  The young falcon was screaming, but not for the loss of his friend. The Harley he’d been sitting on was now a tiger. He held it by the ears, it turned its head and—

  ‘Aaaaagh!’ went Raymond once again.

  Hawkman too was screaming. Big and burley though he was, he was never a match for the bear he now held. The bear with the claws that went—

  ‘Aaaaagh!’ Raymond covered his eyes.

  And it was, Aaaaagh! all over the place. The ibis lady with the straw hat fought with what was no longer a mini-gun, but a snake with a bad attitude. Wolfrnan was down and out, a hyena at his throat. A storm of bats was going for the running, screaming rest.

  ‘Take me home,’ wailed Raymond, adopting the foetal position. ‘Take me home, I don’t want any more.’

  ‘Be calm now.’ Zephyr’s voice was at his ear. ‘Get back on to the bike.’

  ‘The bike?’ Raymond opened an eye. The bike was back. Standing there amongst the bodies and the blood.

  ‘The bike. Get on. We’re out of here, as they say.’

  ‘Out of here,’ said the man with the shotgun. ‘Out of here now, I say.’

  ‘I was just cleaning up,’ explained shivering Simon. ‘Long Bob employs me to keep the place clean. I was just getting some stains off the floor with this can of methylated spirits. All done now, I’ll be off home then.’

  ‘You’re a lying bastard, ain’t ya?’ said Dick Godolphin, for indeed it was he. ‘But full marks for trying. Get a move on now or I’ll shoot you dead.’

  Simon’s knees wouldn’t work properly. They kept knocking together when he walked. His teeth were chattering too. And all the further lies he told Dick the poacher, as that man prodded him across the farmyard, sounded hollow, even to Simon himself.

  Because Simon now was really truly scared.

  ‘Stuck your nose in the wrong place this time,’ Dick told him. ‘Now you gotta speak to the man.’

  ‘I’ll give you lots of money,’ Simon pleaded.

  ‘We got all your money already,’ said Dick. ‘Now we got you too.’

  Simon wrung his hands and made a face of great despair. ‘Your bloody dog is up my leg again.’

  Happily the farmhouse door was only on the latch. Happily, that is, for Simon, whose head it was that bashed it open, as Dick Godolphin clubbed him with his gun.

  Simon fell directly into the kitchen, stirring the jollifiers from their jollifying. Liza spilled from the lap of Military Dave. ‘Simon,’ she said, adjusting her bra through her T-shirt. Through Simon’s T-shirt. ‘What a surprise this is.’

  ‘What a surprise indeed.’ Long Bob put down the jam jar he had been drinking from. ‘Anybody with him?’ he asked Dick.

  The poacher shook his head. ‘The bastard’s all on his own. He was about to torch the chicken house. His Majesty — ‘

  Long Bob put his finger to his lips. ‘You really are a nuisance,’ he said to the fellow on the floor with the lurcher up his leg.

  Simon clutched at his skull. The headache was back. ‘This man is mad,’ he declared, pointing at the poacher. ‘I was taking an evening stroll when he pounced on me with his gun. He should be arrested. Kindly allow me the use of your phone and I’ll call the police.’

  ‘You have to give him full marks for trying,’ said Military Dave.

  ‘I already did,’ said Dick. ‘I give him a good clout with my gun too.’

  ‘Where is the book?’ asked Long Bob. ‘Does he have the book?’

  ‘Book?’ went Simon. ‘What book is this?’

  Dick kicked Simon in the ribs. ‘Ouch,’ went Simon doubling up.

  Dick bent down and rooted through Simon’s pockets. ‘He don’t have the book,’ said Dick.

  And Simon didn’t. Because Simon had left the book in the hideaway bu
sh. Which seemed to him as good a hideaway for it as any.

  ‘Where is it, Simon?’ Long Bob loomed above. ‘We know you’ve got it, otherwise you could never have won on the horses. We need that book very badly. It wasn’t intended for you. Where is it?’ :

  Long Bob took a kick at the cowerer. The cowerer rolled nimbly aside, dragging Dick’s dog with him.

  ‘The Scribe’s got it,’ Simon lied. ‘I was round at his place just now. He’s had it all along. It was him that told me which horses to back.’

  ‘The Scribe told you?’ Long Bob stroked at his big full beard. It was not a beard that had been previously mentioned, but it was a beard he had about him nonetheless. And he stroked it now.

  ‘Dick,’ said Long Bob, ‘go and see the Scribe. Tell him what Simon’s just told us. Bring the book back to us.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Simon. ‘In fact, if you like, I’ll go for you.’

  ‘You’ll stay right here,’ said Long Bob. ‘Let us all pray that he does not return with disappointing news.’

  Let us pray he does not return at all, prayed Simon. ‘Oi, Dick, you scumbag, don’t forget your dog.’

  The farmhouse door closed upon one man and his dog and Simon climbed most painfully to his feet. ‘Any chance of a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Sit down and shut up.’

  ‘Absolutely, Bob, yes.’ Simon dropped into the one vacant chair and smiled a sickly smile about the table. As no positive response was forthcoming, Simon hunched up and peeped at his winnings. Oh so near, yet oh so far away.

  Long Bob placed a jar of cider between Simon and his dreams. ‘You’re in a bit of shit here, aren’t you?’ said the chicken farmer.

  ‘Shit? Me? Simon flashed his teeth as best he could. ‘I am a tad confused, as it happens. What exactly is going on around here?’

  ‘You saw for yourself in the shed.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  Long Bob sniffed at Simon. ‘I can smell him on you. I can smell your fear as well.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Simon took the jar up in a shaky hand and gulped away its contents in a single go.