The Greatest Show Off Earth

  ‘I dreamt it. I dreamt the whole thing.’ Raymond dragged a pyjama sleeve across his face and raised a fist toward the ceiling. ‘It was a dream. A dream. A nightmare!’ Raymond shuddered. ‘Whatever was I drinking last night?’ He ran a tender hand across his brow. He did have a bit of a headache. It must have been the old Death-by-Cider. He’d have to give that up. Nightmares about man-eating potatoes he did not need.

  Mind you. Raymond made a perky face. It would make a pretty good story if it was typed up. Plenty of excitement. Bit of a cop-out ending though, having the hero fall through the roof of a circus tent and then just wake up in his own bed. Perhaps if he went back to sleep for a couple of hours he could dream the rest.

  ‘No thank you.’ Raymond pushed back his blankets, swung his bare feet onto the carpet. Rose, stretched, farted, sighed. Padded over to the mirror on top of the chest of drawers. Gazed into it and smiled. Repulsive. He was, as all men always are, quite repulsive first thing in the morning.

  Why was that? Raymond wondered. Why was it when women always looked so very fine? All tousled and warm and puppy-smelling. Apart from the glaringly obvious, he really had no idea at all.

  Raymond glanced down at the bedside clock. 7.30. He wouldn’t even be late for work today. A couple of aspirins and a cup of tea and he’d be ready to rock and roll.

  Raymond shuffled over to the window and drew the curtains. Outside the planet Saturn filled three-quarters of a star-pricked sky.

  Raymond yawned mightily, dropped his pyjama bottoms, kicked them into a corner and pulled open the underpants drawer.

  Now what should it be today then, eh? The red lycra ‘Adonis’ posing pouch with the padded crotch ‘for the perfect profile’? Or perhaps the black spandex botty-hugger with the velcro quick-release side straps, ‘for the man in a hurry to be going places’? Whatever possessed his mother to keep buying these things for him? And why, when she did, didn’t she just put them straight into his drawer. Raymond was forever finding them under his mother’s bed, or in the laundry basket. Usually after he came home from an all-night angling session. And she never seemed to get his size right. Some of them were far too big.

  Raymond shook his head. ‘I think I’ll just stick with the gingham boxer shorts.’ He plucked out a pair and stepped into them.

  ‘And do I have a clean shirt?’ Raymond raked at his stubbly chin. ‘And if I do, should it be a long-sleeved or a short? And, for that matter, why is the planet Saturn outside my window?’

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ he continued.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about that, Raymond.’ It was a woman’s voice. And what a voice, it sent little shivers up and down his spine.

  ‘Who said that?’ Raymond glanced back at his bed. It was unoccupied. ‘Who’s there? Who?’

  ‘I’m here. I do so apologize about Saturn, you woke up before I could finish.’ ‘Where are you hiding?’

  ‘Here. I’m here.’ The voice came from the chest of drawers.

  ‘You’re hiding in my chest of drawers?’

  ‘I am your chest of drawers.’

  Raymond rammed a knuckle into his mouth and began to shake all over. It had finally happened. He was slightly mad (oh dear).

  ‘I’ve lost it,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve gone stone bonker.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t.’ The voice was sweet. And so sympathetic. Not the way you would expect a chest of drawers to sound at all. ‘The professor thought that you’d feel more comfortable if you woke up in your own surroundings, after all you’d been through. So I created this room from the stored memories in your subconscious. It’s what I do, you see. It’s my act. And I was just about to start on the view from your window when you woke up, and then I couldn’t reach your memories any more. So you see, it’s all quite simple. Do you really wear the ‘Adonis’ by the way? It must ride up terribly when you bend down to tie your shoe laces.

  ‘Get a grip now, Raymond,’ The lad began to rock on his heels. ‘All right, so you’re getting the voices. It doesn’t mean you’re mad just because you’re getting the voices. There could be a perfectly logical explanation. Oh my God.’

  Raymond fell to his knees before the chest of drawers and crossed himself over his own chest region. ‘Are you the blessed Virgin Mary?’ he enquired.

  ‘The blessed who? Oh I’m most dreadfully sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I am Zephyr. Would you mind jumping up in the air please?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I can’t hold the room any longer. Just a small jump.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t hold it.’

  Suddenly Raymond was no longer kneeling. He was flat on his back. The carpet yanked from beneath him. And as he gaped up the ceiling went with it, as did the walls, the window, his bed, the whole illusory shebang. The room folded in upon itself, collapsed and vanished into the underpants drawer with an unappealing plughole gurgle.

  Leaving Raymond all alone with nothing but his chest of drawers. All alone. But where?

  Raymond glanced around and about. He was on the deck of a ship. And a fine big one by the looks of it. If a trifle ancient. The deck was all salt-bleached, pocked and barnacled. Rust around the cabin doors. Faded canvas on the lifeboats. Peely paint on the rows of steamer chairs. More of a dry dock museum-piece than an ocean-goer. On a nearby lifebelt letters spelt out the name SS Salamander. That rang a distant ship’s bell somewhere.

  And it was cold on deck. Decidedly nippy. Especially when you were only wearing your PJ top and your gingham boxer shorts. And then there was old Saturn, filling three-quarters of that star-pricked night-black sky.

  ‘Aaaaaagh!’ went Raymond. ‘We’re in outer space. I’ll die: I’ll suffocate. My eyeballs will pop out. Aaaagh!’

  ‘Oh dear. I am so sorry. All a bit of a shock I suppose.’

  ‘Airlock,’ mumbled Raymond, clamping his hands over his face.

  ‘You won’t suffocate. There’s plenty of air out here.’

  ‘Mrnmph. Ummph?’

  ‘Of course there is. Trust me.’

  ‘Mmmph um mmphummph mmph mm mmph?’

  ‘I’m not a talking chest of drawers, I’m Zephyr. Take your hands away from your face.’

  ‘Mm!’

  ‘Oh go on.’

  ‘Mm! Mm mmphing mm mmph.’

  ‘You’re not holding your breath. I can see your chest going in and out.’

  ‘Mm mm!’

  ‘You’re not!’

  ‘Oh all right!’ Raymond took his hands away from his face. He was breathing. There was air. ‘I am breathing,’ said Raymond. ‘There is air.’

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘Yes, but how can there be air in space?’

  ‘Nature abhors a vacuum,’ said the chest of drawers. ‘And if space wasn’t full of air, how could the heat from the sun reach the planets? Tell me that.’

  ‘Well,’ said Raymond. ‘I suppose . . . no hang about. Hold on here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I get this. All this.’ Raymond made expansive gestures. ‘You don’t fool me.’ ‘I don’t?’

  ‘You don’t. All this. I’m still dreaming, aren’t I? I’m still asleep.’

  ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘Little things.’ Raymond made a ‘little things’ gesture with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Such as, that I am currently conversing with a chest of drawers, on the deck of an ocean liner, in orbit around the planet Saturn.’

  ‘And breathing air,’ said the chest of drawers helpfully. ‘Don’t forget about breathing air.’

  ‘And breathing air, yes, thank you.’ Raymond got a smug old grin on. ‘You see what must have happened is, that I woke up, but I didn’t actually get up. I probably just turned over and went back to sleep. So I’d best wake up now, or I’ll be late for work.’ Raymond closed his eyes.

  ‘What exactly are you doing?’ asked the chest of drawers.

  ‘Waking myself up.’

  ‘By closing your eyes?’

&n
bsp; ‘I know what I’m doing. If I’m dreaming with my eyes open. Then if I shut them I’m bound to wake up.’

  ‘What a very strange person you are.’

  ‘Me strange? There’s nothing strange about me.’

  ‘I’ve got a top drawer full of second-hand men’s knickers that wouldn’t agree with you.’

  ‘Second-hand?’ Raymond almost opened his eyes. ‘I’m not talking to you any more. You’re only a dream.’

  ‘And you dream about this sort of stuff often then, do you?’

  ‘No. Mostly I dream about trains.’

  ‘Oh come on, Raymond. Open your eyes.’

  ‘No.’ Raymond folded his arms.

  ‘It will be worth your while. Trust me. I promise.’

  ‘No. Leave me alone now. I’m waking myself up.’

  ‘You’ll have to open your eyes when you wake yourself up, surely.’

  Raymond thought about this. ‘All right. I am going to open my eyes and wake up at home in my bed. Right. . . wait for it . . . now!’

  Raymond opened his eyes.

  He wasn’t home in his bed. He was still on the deck of the SS Salamander. And the SS Salamander was still in orbit around Saturn. But there had been one or two small changes.

  For one thing Raymond was no longer in his PJ top and boxer shorts. Now he was dressed in a really spivvy pale silk Giorgio Armani suit. White linen shirt, crepe de Chine tie, posh woollen socks, brogues by Hobbs of Piccadilly. The outfit Clapton wore that time when he played at The Brighton Centre. Raymond had always dreamt of having a kit like that.

  ‘Cor,’ said Raymond. ‘Well, I mean to say . . .’

  And, for another thing.

  The chest of drawers had vanished. But where it had been standing stood— ‘Hello, Raymond, I am Zephyr. Zephyr the Miraculous.’

  Raymond’s jaw dropped open and the space air jammed in his lungs. Smiling up at him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

  Now it is generally agreed, by those who generally agree upon such matters, that feminine beauty is the sum of its attendant parts. And in Western society at least, that these attendant parts are better when exaggerated or reduced in scale. The laws that determine which parts should be which are pretty rigid. Large eyes and tiny noses for example, find great favour, the reverse do not. Long legs are preferred to short ones. Slim waists to fat ones. Bums and bosoms come and go, but mouths stay always wide.

  It is all highly sexist, of course, and the standards set seem inevitably to be set by men. But then they would be, wouldn’t they?

  Raymond had cast adoring eyes over many women in his time, seeking for that perfect being to whom he might offer his undying love. And she did exist in the village. But only in kit form. A pair of long legs here, a wide mouth over there. One girl’s ears, another’s fingernails. It was getting them all together on a single woman that was proving to be the problem.

  It wasn’t a problem shared by Simon though.

  But Raymond wasn’t Simon, Raymond was a Romantic and when he found Miss Right-bits-in-all-the-right-places-and-exaggerated-or-diminished-according-to-his-personal-preferences, he would love her for ever.

  The sheer outrageousness of this seemed to escape Raymond completely. That one day, along would come this raving beauty, who fulfilled all of his wildest imaginings of how a woman should look; and that she would fall instantly in love with him, and that they would both live happily ever after.

  But he could always dream. And was he dreaming now?

  Raymond certainly hoped he wasn’t.

  Zephyr stood before him. And it was her. She was everything, had everything, that he could ever ever have hoped for in a woman.

  She had the ankles of Angela the check-out girl, the legs of the woman who taught step aerobics at the sports centre, the torso of the barmaid at The Bear Flag, the facial bone structure of Sue the solicitor’s secretary; and on and on. She even had the nice blue eyes of the lady in the post office.

  She had the lot. And naturally she was wearing the little black dress. ‘I love you,’ said Raymond falling at her feet.

  Zephyr smiled him a wide-mouthed smile. Raymond drew back in alarm. She had Simon’s teeth.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, rapidly closing her mouth before smiling anew. This time she displayed the teeth of the headmistress at the junior school. Raymond glanced down. She had her shoes on too. Raymond jumped up.

  ‘It’s another trick,’ he cried, as his heart sank all away. ‘You don’t look like that at all really, do you?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was only trying to cheer you up.’

  Raymond stared off into space. ‘I really am here, aren’t I? I’m not dreaming this at all.’ Zephyr shook her beautiful head. She did it just the way the lady librarian Mrs Conan did. Raymond always asked her lots of questions whenever he was in the library. He just loved the way her neck moved when she shook her head.

  ‘Stop that!’ said Raymond. ‘It isn’t fair.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Zephyr. ‘I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘What about this suit?’ Raymond clutched his Giorgio Armani to his bosom. Forsaken in love was bad enough, but not the suit also.

  ‘It’s yours. You can keep it. You look really nice in it.’

  Raymond fingered the fabric. It felt perfect. Just how he had imagined it would feel. But for how long?

  ‘How long can I keep it?’ Raymond asked.

  ‘As long as you want to. As long as it makes you happy.’

  “Thank you. Thank you very much. What do you really look like, Zephyr?’

  Zephyr tossed back her hair. It was rich and auburn. A fine young head of hair. It was the fine young head of hair of Simon’s girlfriend Liza. Raymond had never been aware before just how much he loved Liza’s hair. ‘Will you come and meet the professor now?’ she asked.

  ‘Who is the professor?’

  ‘Professor Merlin. This is his ship, sort of. You fell through the roof of his tent. After you demolished his very expensive holographic hoarding.’

  ‘Ah that. I did do all that, didn’t I?’

  ‘I’m afraid you did. But you can make up for it I’m sure. The professor wants to have you for dinner.’

  ‘For dinner?’ Within his well-cut Jekylls, Raymond’s knees began to knock. ‘Not that again. Not for dinner.’

  Raymond sought somewhere to run to. If all this was real and not just a bad dream, then Zephyr was probably the twin sister of Mr Chameleon the auctioneer.

  ‘Stay away from me.’ Raymond raised his fists. ‘No-one’s having me for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Zephyr put up her hands. They were the hands of Pat the papergirl. ‘I didn’t mean for dinner, I meant to dinner. No-one’s going to eat you, Raymond. You’re quite safe here.’

  ‘Then you’re not a Venusian, underneath?’ ‘A Venusian? Certainly not!’

  ‘And you don’t eat people?’

  ‘Raymond, if we wanted to eat you, do you think we would have gone to all the trouble of fixing you up after your fall and creating the replica of your room to make you feel comfortable when you woke up?’

  ‘I suppose not, but. . .’

  ‘No buts, Raymond. We wouldn’t. Now I’m sure you must be very hungry. So why not come with me and have dinner with the professor, he’ll explain everything to you.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Raymond dithered and then he shrugged and then he nodded. He really didn’t have anywhere to run to. And, although he now knew that Zephyr’s appearance was nothing more than a glorious illusion, conjured somehow from the gleanings of his subconscious mind, it didn’t make her any the less marvellous to gaze upon. And there was always the chance that her bottom would move when she walked, just the way that Sheila who worked at the farm shop’s did.

  So he followed her into the ship. And it did.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Raymond asked. ‘This Professor Merlin. He’s not a Venusian by any chance, is he?’

  Zephyr tossed her hair once more and grinn
ed back at him. ‘Of course he’s not a Venusian. Professor Merlin comes from planet Earth.’

  7

  Simon stared at the grey man on his doorstep.

  The grey man stared back at him through his greyly tinted specs.

  There was that moment of silence which is known as the pregnant pause.

  Simon chewed upon his lip. This wasn’t supposed to happen! Not yet anyway. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, in as steady a voice as he could manage.

  The grey man smiled a crooked smile. ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘Are you a Jehovah’s Witness? I bought a Watchtower from you once, I think.’

  ‘I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness.’ The grey man’s crooked smile became an evil grin. ‘I’m more a Jehovah’s Nemesis, as it happens.’

  ‘I gave already, I think. Goodbye.’ Simon started to dose the front door. The grey man put his foot against it.

  ‘You have your foot against my door, I think.’

  ‘I do.’ The grey man gave the door a mighty kick that nearly took it from its hinges. Simon tumbled backwards and came to rest at the foot of his stairs (which is where northern people often go to when taken by surprise).

  The grey man took two brisk steps into the hall and slammed the door behind him. Simon struggled to his feet. ‘Now just you see here,’ he began.

  ‘No, pal, just you see here. I’ve followed you all the way from The Bramfield Arms. You left in a bit of a hurry, didn’t you? Overheard something you shouldn’t have? Know something you shouldn’t know?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I have a dentist’s appointment, I think.’

  ‘I think, I think? Can’t you finish any sentence without saying “I think”?’ The grey man took another step forward. Simon stood his ground.

  ‘I have a letter somewhere here, I think.’

  ‘A letter? What are you talking about?’

  ‘In my wallet. I think.’ Simon fished the thing from his trouser pocket. ‘I have a medical condition.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ The grey man stared at him eye to eye. Simon could smell his breath. It didn’t smell good.

  ‘Let me show you.’ The gardener’s apprentice dug out a grubby-looking envelope with many folds in it. He held this up and the grey man snatched it from his fingers, sniffed at it suspiciously, opened it up and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper.