‘You know, but you don’t understand.’ Long Bob patted Simon on the shoulder. ‘No need to cringe,’ he said. ‘Not just yet anyhow.’
‘What is going on?’
Long Bob drew Simon off another glass and passed it to him. ‘What is going on, eh? Well, I shall tell you. After all, it won’t go beyond these four walls, will it?’
‘Positively not.’ Simon crossed his heart and swigged his cider.
‘Because you won’t be going beyond these four walls, ever again.’
‘Oh,’ said Liza. ‘That seems a shame.’
‘Thank you, Liza darling,’ said Simon. ‘I love you as I always have.’
‘His Majesty requires a sacrifice,’ declared Long Bob. ‘I nominate Simon. All in favour please say aye.’
‘Aye,’ said all in favour, all but Simon. All including Liza.
‘I nominate Dick’s dog,’ said Simon. ‘Come on now, a joke’s a joke. A sacrifice indeed. Could I use your toilet, by the way?’
‘Sit still.’ Long Bob fixed Simon with a most unsettling stare. ‘Sit still and shut up and I’ll tell you everything.’
Simon sat still and shut up and quaked very quietly in his boots.
‘Now is the special hour,’ intoned Long Bob. ‘Now is the time as no time’s been before.’
Simon knocked back his cider. Bad stuffs a-comin’, thought he. ‘The End Times,’ quoth Long Bob.
Oh dear, thought Simon.
‘The End Times draw near. Ominous signs and portents fill the heavens. Omens of the coming of Ragnarok.
‘Of Götterdämmerung,’ cried Military Dave.
‘Quite so,’ said Long Bob, ‘quite so. And unto us a child is born. Unto us a king is given. As the sky grows dark and the sun falls from its orbit.’
Orbit? thought Simon. Oh dear, oh dear.
‘As the air grows rank and the soil crops wither and the beasts of the Earth crawl upon their bellies, gasping, gasping,’ Long Bob did dramatic throat-clutching mimes. ‘Then he shall rise to save us. He who is rising even now. He whom you have seen. The new born one. The born again.’
‘Praise be unto him,’ called out the looker.
‘Praise be unto him,’ agreed the members of Roman Candle, in a three-part harmony.
‘Praise be unto him,’ sang out the other praise-be-untoers.
Simon somehow dared to ask. ‘Please, praise be on to who?
‘His Majesty . . .’ Long Bob flung his arms aloft, then bowed down to the table. ‘His majesty whose time is now. His Majesty Lord Satan.’
‘S . . . S . . . S . . . Satan?’ said Simon.
‘Satan,’ said Long Bob. ‘Or, as we correctly pronounce his sacred name . . . SATE-HEN.’
16
‘What happened back there?’ Raymond clung to Zephyr as she sped the bike along. ‘Those people dead. It was horrible. Horrible.’
He no longer carried the big mini-gun. He had just seen what death looked like up close. He did not wish to see it again. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Thank you?’ Zephyr smiled over her shoulder.
‘For saving my life. Could you stop the Harley now, I’m going to be sick.’
‘We don’t have time I’m afraid. But you’ll be all right. Just hang on tight, I know where we’re going now.’
And so Raymond hung on tight. The Harley took a left and then a right and he hung on.
‘There’ll be trouble about that back there, won’t there?’ he called to Zephyr.
‘Lots of trouble, I should think. So just hang on, we’re almost there.’
And there they almost were.
Ahead loomed a serious pyramid. It looked like marble, but it wasn’t. It was plastic. The auction house logo flashed from the golden cone on the top. In neon.
‘Is this it?’
‘This is it. Now let’s be swift.’
‘Be swift?’
‘Act like an Edenite. You know how it’s done.’
‘Act like an Edenite. And that’s what the upper world is called then, is it? Eden? As in the Garden of Eden?’
‘Later.’ Zephyr swung the big bike into an elegant avenue. Lines of obelisks (plastic), fruit trees (plastic) and nice clipped hedges (plastic as well, but they all looked very impressive to Raymond).
‘I hate this planet,’ he said.
‘Remember,’ called Zephyr, ‘bullshit baffles brains. You can do it. And if you can’t well then I’ll—’
‘No!’ That swordfish saw was still fresh in his mind. ‘I’ll handle it.’
Before the hulking pyramid there was a grand-looking gateway. This had one of those lifty-up barriers and one of those little security guard’s huts. You know the ones. They have them at the gates of car-parks and factories and things like that.
They’re always the same and they always contain a hook to hang your coat on, a miniature television set, an electric fire for winter, an electric fan for summer, an electric kettle for the rest of the year and for boiling up water for tea, a seat with a personal cushion and a selection of ‘harmless girlie magazines’ which, when brought forward as evidence by the prosecution, are generally referred to as ‘hardcore pornography of the most debased and sordid kind’.
They always have the same sort of smell inside them, these huts. A musty, organic kind of smell. Best not dwelt upon.
As Raymond and Zephyr approached, a large dark hawk-head appeared from the hut. He had a neat blue uniform. He was carrying a clipboard.
Raymond did not give him the benefit of the doubt. He simply hated him on sight. Zephyr drew the Harley to a halt. Raymond climbed down from the pillion and made a fuss of his jacket and trousers, straightening lapels, dusting out creases. He quiffed out his hair at the front.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the guard, when he could stand no more of it.
Raymond glanced in his direction, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Raise the barrier at once,’ he sniffed. ‘I wish to go inside.’
‘Nature of business?’ The guard took up Raymond’s haughty sniff.
‘Export representatives from Eden. Get a move on now and let us pass.’
‘I don’t think so. Do you have an appointment?’
‘We do not require one. Stand aside upon the instant.’
The hawk-head shook his hawk-like head and consulted his clipboard. ‘You will require not only an appointment, but official government clearance, entry permits stamped with today’s date, positive proof .of identity, and I will need to see your interworld passports, your visas and your vaccination certificates.’
‘Pah!’ said Raymond.
‘And it will be necessary for me to give the young woman an intimate body search.’
‘Why?’ went an outraged Raymond.
‘Are you kidding?’ asked the guard.
‘Stand aside, you odious lout.’ Raymond took a step forward. The guard before the barrier barred his way. Tough-looking hawk-head, the guard.
Raymond puffed out his chest. ‘I demand that you let us pass this minute. We are here to inspect the latest consignment of “George”.’
‘Sorry, pal. It’s more than my job’s worth. Back the way you came and have a nice day now, won’t you.’
Zephyr made urgent tongue-clicking sounds.
‘I can handle this,’ said Raymond. ‘Now just you see here,’ he told the guard. ‘I am acting under direct instructions from my good friend Binky.’
‘Binky? Do you mean—’
‘His Royal Majesty the Grand Duke. Yes.’
‘You are a personal friend of His Royal Majesty?’
‘I am.’ Raymond preened at his hair. ‘A personal friend.’
The guard looked Raymond up and down. ‘And my arse smells of snowdrops from a curate’s garden. Take a hike.’
‘Take a letter, Ms Zephyr,’ said Raymond.
The pencil and the notepad materialized once more in Zephyr’s hands. ‘Certainly, sir,’ she said.
‘To His Royal Highness Grand Duke Fogarty, The Palace o
f Celestial Pleasure, Number One, The Big Posh Road, City of Fogerty. Dear Binky. Following your explicit instructions, I proceeded with great urgency to the auction house to inspect the consignment of “George” to be served tonight at the special state dinner in honour of your poor sick son Colin.
‘However, when I explained the nature of this royal mission, to whit, that contaminated specimens were possibly being held for sale, which, if served, would likely poison yourself, your royal household, poor sick son Colin included, I was denied access.
‘It is therefore my recommendation that in the interests of health and hygiene, the entire auction house complex be razed to the ground and the would-be assassins brought in for interrogation, trial and execution. The gatekeeper will, I have no doubt, offer up the names of his fellow conspirators, when put to the rigours of extreme torture for a week or so. His full name is . . . ‘ Raymond paused. ‘What is your full name, by the way?’ he asked the guard.
But the guard was already lifting the barrier. ‘Go straight on through,’ he said politely. ‘And do have a nice day.’
‘That was very good,’ called Zephyr, as they swept into the pyramid.
‘Thanks,’ Raymond grinned. ‘But I just copied the professor, of course.’
‘Yes, but you did it your way.’
‘Well, not really. I did it Simon’s way, as it happens.’
‘This would be the Simon you mention about every five minutes?’
‘He’s my best friend.’ Raymond clung on as Zephyr did some nifty cornering. ‘I tried to pretend I was him, you see. Use his nerve. Use his bullshit to baffle brains. He’s really good at that kind of thing. Simon can always talk his way out of trouble.’
‘Sounds a most interesting man this Simon.’
‘Oh he is.’ Raymond laughed. I’ll tell you what. I can’t imagine there ever being a situation that he couldn’t talk his way out of. Cool as they come is Simon. Cool as they come.’
Simon had a sweat on. ‘S . . .S . . .S . . . Sate -Hen?’ he stammered. ‘You can’t be saying this.’
‘It’s in the bird.’ Long Bob did fluttering bird-like finger motions. ‘I never knew it, you see. I thought that chickens were just chickens. But they’re not. They know. And now we know.’
‘We know,’ chorused the table sitters. ‘We of B.E.A.S.T. know all.’
Simon knew he shouldn’t really ask, but he really had to know. ‘What does B.E.A.S.T. stand for?’ was the question.
‘B.E.A.S.T.?’ Long Bob leaned closer to Simon. Simon shrank back in his chair. ‘B.E.A.S.T.,’ said the chicken farmer, ‘stands for Bramfielders Eagerly Awaiting Satanic Transmogrification, of course.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Simon grinned painfully. ‘I thought that was probably it. Satanic Transmogrification, right.’
‘We are the chosen ones, you see. For He is hatched unto us. Thousands of generations of fowl, billions and billions of chickens, all leading towards Him. I had a dream, you see. A vision. They opened my eyes. They spoke unto me.’
‘The chickens?’ asked Simon.
‘The chickens,’ said Long Bob.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, thought Simon.
‘I was drunk,’ said Long Bob.
‘I wish I was,’ said Simon.
‘I fell down. In the chicken shed. And they spoke unto me. They can speak, you know, chickens. If they want to. They spoke to me. They told me that they had chosen me.’ Simon didn’t speak.
‘Chosen me to be the father of The Born Again.’ Simon didn’t speak once more. ‘And so I gave my seed unto the great mother hen.’
Simon did speak now. ‘You shagged a frigging chicken?’ he said.
Long Bob’s hands caught Simon by the throat and dragged him from his chair. ‘Hold your blasphemous tongue!’ roared the father of Sate-Hen.
‘All right, I’m sorry.’ Simon’s hands were now in amongst the money. It felt so good. And he really wanted it back. But with the money, or without the money, his first priority was immediate escape. His second to call in the Army to nuke out the Horror in the Henhouse. (A Kilgore Sprout tale of terror.) Simon recalled that brigadier who ran U.N.I.T. in Doctor Who. He’d be the fellow to phone. U.N.I.T. versus B.E.A.S.T. That sounded about right.
So. It was time to be off.
‘Right, that’s enough.’ Simon jerked free of the chicken farmer’s grip. ‘That is quite enough. You’re doing it all wrong. I just knew that you would. It’s lucky I arrived when I did.’
‘Is he pissed?’ asked Military Dave. ‘Or what?’
‘You are not even supposed to be here.’ Simon told Dave. ‘You are supposed to be at home, awaiting an important phone call.’
‘What is he talking about?’ Dave looked bewildered.
‘And you three.’ Simon turned to the men of Roman Candle. ‘You should all be at The Jolly Gardeners for the fight.’
‘Fight?’ asked a Candle called Kevin. ‘What fight.’
‘The one you have with Paul the barman.’
‘Why?’ It was Kevin’s turn to look bewildered.
‘I can’t tell you that.’ Simon turned to Long Bob. ‘I can’t tell him that, can I?’
‘Can’t you?’ Long Bob looked a little bewildered. But mostly he just looked barking mad. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The book.’ Simon gave Long Bob a wink of an eye and a flash of some teeth. ‘The book from the future. The book you so desperately want. The book that I have.’
‘Aha!’ cried Bob. ‘Aha!’
‘And the one that I’ve read. All the way through, from cover to cover.’
‘He’s lying.’ The looker curled her most attractive lip. ‘Don’t believe a word he says.’
‘That’s good, coming from her,’ Simon directed all of his words towards Long Bob. Experience told him that if you start having three-way conversations, you can get easily side-tracked.
‘Why is it good coming from her?’ Long Bob asked.
‘Because of the stroke she tries to pull with all the money I win tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ asked Military Dave.
‘Are you still here? You’ll miss that phone call.’
‘Thanks.’ Military Dave got up to leave.
‘Sit down, Dave,’ ordered Long Bob. Dave sat down again.
‘What do you know, Simon?’ asked the chicken farmer.
‘All of it really. That’s why I’m telling you you’re doing it all wrong. You were not supposed to rough me up and threaten me. You are supposed to be winning me over to the cause. That’s how it’s written in the book. I join B.E.A.S.T. and I take all this money and I put it all on an accumulator tomorrow. And I win us millions and millions. That’s how you can afford to build the fortress and buy the TV station for His Majesty. Cor, there’s a bit in chapter thirty-two, where the TV station gets surrounded by this military taskforce, U.N.I.T. I think they’re called. And I save His Majesty by—’
‘Stop!’ Long Bob rammed his fists over his ears. ‘You’re not supposed to be telling it all to us now. We’re not supposed to know it all yet. That’s not how it works.’
‘Hang about.’ The looker pointed an accusing finger at Simon. ‘He can’t know all this, he’s got—’
‘Short-term memory loss,’ said Simon hurriedly. ‘That’s why the book came to me, I suppose. Tomorrow I won’t remember any of this. Anything I read in the book. Anything I’ve seen here tonight. I think I must have been chosen by some great power, to be a humble, but significant, pawn in a mighty cosmic game.’
‘He’s lying,’ said the looker. ‘Don’t you see, he’s making it all up.’
‘Well you would say that, wouldn’t you? And you do, it’s in the book.’
‘Long Bob, tell him . . .’
‘Shut up!’ Long Bob waved his hands about. ‘Shut up! I have to think about this.’
‘He does,’ said Simon, adding for good measure. ‘Except when he does it in the book, he’s supposed to be wearing this special uniform. Very elegant, it is.
’
‘Aha!’ went Long Bob again. ‘Describe this uniform to me. In precise detail.’ ‘Certainly,’ agreed Simon, who could recall in precise detail the weird uniform he’d secretly observed Long Bob wearing on the morning before last when Simon had come to take the big Allen Scythe over the bottom field beneath the chicken farm. Actually, Simon wondered whether now might be the time to broach the subject of the stolen Allen Scythe.
Probably not, he considered. ‘. . . and with a pair of chicken wings fastened to the helmet,’ he concluded.
All present, Simon included, were now staring at Long Bob.
‘It’s true,’ said that man. ‘In every detail. I was going to put it on later to show you all.’
Handy, thought Simon. ‘My fault,’ he said. ‘I think I must have arrived too early. Shall I go out and come back in again?’
‘No,’ said the chicken farmer. ‘I want to see this book. And I want to see it now.’
‘Not a chance,’ said Simon. ‘That might really screw things up. You’ll just have to trust me on this.’
‘Screw that,’ said the looker.
‘Let him finish,’ said Long Bob.
‘You see,’ said Simon momentarily lapsing into the truth, ‘there is no mention of B.E.A.S.T. at all in the book. In fact, the book says that I gave my winnings to charity.’
‘Ah.’ said Long Bob.
‘Ring a bell?’ asked Simon.
‘That’s what we agreed to put in the book, yes.’
‘And that’s why you’ll have to trust me. The book won’t work for you because you have to put lies like that in it to keep this operation secret. It will only work for me. Because I’m in it all the way, through and though, just a pawn, you need me to make everything work out.’ The truth that Simon had momentarily lapsed into, had now lapsed away. He was growing in confidence. Lying was really what Simon did best. Well, lying and sex. And looking after number one. They sort of tied for first place.
‘I must act on my own, according to what is decreed in the book. You will just have to trust me. And now I really must be going before the police arrive.’
‘Police?’ The cry was a communal cry.