‘Well, that’s all remedied now. Mute Corp has generously donated a memorial. To those who have been Raptured in Brentford. It’s very tasteful. One hundred and fifty metres high, black glass.’
‘An homage to the nineteen-eighties Lateinos and Romlith building,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘The names of the blessed running up and down in liquid quartz lettering. And it will have constantly moving glass-sided lifts and a burger franchise at the top with beautiful scenic views of Suburbia World Plc.’
‘Aaaaaagh!’ went Derek.
‘Oh and there’s a message for you,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘From your business associate Mr Leo Felix.’
Derek ended his Aaaaaagh! with a groan.
‘He said, and I quote, “Tell Babylon to get his ass down to me showrooms, I an’ I got de crad barges in.” ’
‘Chop chop then,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘Pacey pacey. The devil makes work for idle hands. And things of that nature, generally.’
‘But Ellie. But… Oh God.’
‘Have you reported her missing to the police?’
‘Yes but…’
‘Yes but then that’s all you can do. Off to work with you now.’
‘I’ll need some more money,’ said Derek. The words just came out of his mouth. ‘Quite a lot more money.’
‘Would that be for the holographic Griffin?’ asked Mr Speedy. ‘The one that failed to appear at three p.m. yesterday?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ lied Derek. ‘And the electric cable for the perimeter fence and the giant feral tomcat and…’
Mr Speedy took out a wad of money notes. ‘Ten thousand,’ he said. ‘Your last. If you foul up, Derek, it will be prison for you.’
‘My bitch,’ sniggered Mr Shadow.
‘What?’ went Derek.
‘CCTV,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘Mute Corp run all the police-station circuits. Now get on your way and make things happen.’
Derek got off on his way.
As to actually making things happen…
Well…
‘What are those!’ asked Derek.
‘Crad barges,’ said Leo.
‘Houseboats,’ said Derek.
‘Crad barges,’ said Leo.
‘Houseboats,’ said Derek.
‘House barges?’ said Leo. ‘Where de travellin’ crad men lived.’
‘No,’ said Derek. ‘No.’
‘Listen, Babylon,’ said Leo. ‘You ever seen a crad barge?’
Derek scratched at his fretful head. ‘Well, no,’ he said. ‘Not as such.’
‘An’ yo know anyone who ever seen a crad barge?’
‘Possibly Old Pete,’ said Derek.
‘Old Pete an old friend of I an’ I,’ said Leo. ‘Old Pete tell you Babylon, dese are crad barges. Yo have a problem wid dis?’
Derek shook his fretful head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Stuff it. They look like crad barges to me.’
‘Dere,’ said Leo. ‘Dat not too painful. Yo wan’ to see de steam train?’
Derek shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘It can’t be any worse than the crad barges.’
Leo drew Derek’s attention to the low-loader parked before the showrooms. The low-loader hadn’t failed to draw Derek’s attention when he had entered Leo’s forecourt. It was not the kind of thing you could miss, it being so huge and all.
On the low-loader was something rather big and something all covered by tarpaulins.
Leo began to tug at ropes and unfasten hawsers and unclip those springy things that nearly have your eye out every time you use them to fasten the hatchback of your car to the bumper, because you’ve just bought something far too big from the IKEA and it’s the only way of getting it home without paying the delivery charge.
‘Damn,’ said Leo, dodging his dreads about. ‘Damn ting nearly had I an’ I’s eye out.’
Leo tugged upon the tarpaulin and Derek joined him in the tugging. Tug tug tug went Leo and Derek.
Fall away and expose to the world, went the tarpaulin and––
‘Oh,’ went Derek. ‘Oh my God!’
‘Pretty damn good, eh?’ said Leo.
Derek, all flappy jaw, made his head go nod nod nod.
‘It’s a…’
‘Steam train,’ said Leo.
‘No,’ said Derek. ‘It’s the…’
‘Steam train,’ said Leo.
‘Yes but
‘Listen,’ said Leo. ‘Dis a goddam steam train. Don’t go tellin’ I an’ I it ain’t.’
‘It is,’ said Derek. ‘It is. But it’s the Flying Scotsman.’
‘Don’t talk silly,’ said Leo. ‘Dere ain’t no Flying Scotchmen. I seen a housefly. I seen a horsefly. But I tink I see’d about everyting’ when I see a Scotchman fly.’
‘Stop singing,’ said Derek. ‘That isn’t funny. Where did you get this from?’
‘Yo said, no questions ahksed.’
‘The Science Museum?’ said Derek. ‘Or the National Railway Museum? Or––’
‘It de property now of de Brentford Folk Museum,’ said Leo. ‘And it won’t be the Flyin’ Scotchman tomorrow. It be de Brentford Flyer. I an’ I had me mate Cecil knock up a couple of new nameplates.’
‘Doomed,’ said Derek. ‘I’m doomed.’
‘We all doomed, Babylon,’ said Leo. ‘It just dat some of us more doomed dan od’ers.’
Derek didn’t stay around to view any more of Leo’s acquisitions. And Leo told him that he wouldn’t be able to acquire the five miles of perimeter fence until the following evening, so if Derek wanted it putting up ‘all around de goddam borough, yo can’t fool me, Babylon’, Derek was going to have to have his whistling Mute Corp employees working all through the night to get it up before Monday morning. So if Derek was leaving anyway, he’d best get on his way and make things happen.
Derek returned to the police station. The police station was closed for renovations. A sign upon the door instructed callers to post details of missing persons through the letter box, but to mind the wet paint.
Derek didn’t mind the wet paint and got some on his sleeve.
Derek wandered off across Brentford. He was in a real state now. He’d quit the job. He would. He’d run. He would, he’d run. He had ten thousand pounds in his pocket. But Derek ached, inside and out. He wouldn’t run. He might quit, but he wouldn’t run. He couldn’t run. He had to find Ellie. He had to find her, but he didn’t know how.
He didn’t know what to do.
‘I know what to do,’ said Derek, suddenly knowing what to do. ‘No I don’t,’ said Derek, realizing that in fact, he didn’t.
It was very busy busy, all around the streets of Brentford. Very busy busy, with a lot of whistling.
Derek went back to Mrs Gormenghast’s.
Mrs Gormenghast drove him away with a big stout stick she had lately acquired, ‘in case’.
Derek returned to the offices of the Brentford Mercury. He brought Mr Speedy and Mr Shadow good news regarding crad barges and a steam train called the Brentford Flyer and of five miles of perimeter fence that would be arriving after midnight of the following day, in one big roll which, according to Leo, could then be picked up from his forecourt. The thought of just how big a five-mile roll of perimeter fence might be was far too much for Derek, who had enough things on his mind to be going on with anyway.
‘Brentford Griffin?’ asked Mr Speedy. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘It’s all under control,’ said Derek, in a manner that suggested that it was.
‘Well, keep us informed,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘You don’t have to keep coming back here, just call us on your mobile.’
Derek chewed upon his lip, remembering Ellie’s note. ‘I’d prefer to speak to you in person,’ he said. ‘But I will be very busy for the rest of today and most of tomorrow. So I won’t be in, so don’t dock me any more pay, please.’
‘Any news of your missing girlfriend?’ asked Mr Speedy.
‘No,’ said Derek. ‘None.’
‘You didn’t tell us her name.’
‘It’s Ellie Anna Lovell,’ said Derek. ‘But please don’t put her name up on your memorial yet. I’m sure she’ll be back. I’m sure.’
‘Ellie Anna Lovell,’ said Mr Speedy. And he exchanged glances with Mr Shadow.
‘Why are you exchanging glances?’ Derek asked.
‘Oh, no reason,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘You just go off about the company’s business. We’ll see you when we see you.’
Derek clutched at his stomach. All the worry was making him feel very sick. ‘Goodbye,’ said Derek. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’
‘Nine o’clock on Monday, at the very latest,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘That’s when Suburbia World Plc will open to the public.’
Sunday came and Sunday went.
It really shouldn’t have gone quite so quickly, but it did. Derek spent it attending to company business. And wandering the streets shouting, ‘Ellie, Ellie, where are you?’
Many upstairs windows raised to Derek’s shoutings.
And many chamber pots were hurled down on his head.
But Sunday came and Sunday went and Derek, now in a state of high anxiety, raved about the streets and raved into pubs and was thrown out of pubs and raved about the streets some more. On any normal day he would no doubt have been arrested. But there was nothing normal whatsoever about this particular Sunday. There were no policemen to be seen, only whistling workers. And there seemed to be fewer and fewer Brentonians about. The streets were virtually deserted.
Derek saw Mad John, but he didn’t bid him hello.
Mad John was in the doorway of the charity shop, rooting out shoes from the black bin liners. He looked up briefly as Derek raved by, but feeling assured that this wasn’t some upstart out to get his job, continued with his rooting and his shouting at shoes.
Eventually Derek went home.
He had no other choice. He was all raved out. And he had done all that he could for the Company. Leo had told him that everything was under control and that he should go and rave somewhere else or he really would have the dogs set on him. So Derek finally went home. There was really nothing else he could do.
And Derek, now with three days’ stubble on his face, threw himself onto his bed and wept. She had gone. She had vanished. Raptured away. Suddenly it seemed all so possible. He could no longer ignore all the vanishing Brentonians. Pretend it wasn’t happening. It was. It really was.
Never a religious man, nor even a religious boy, Derek now questioned his faith. It didn’t stand a lot of questioning. He didn’t have one. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God. It was just that, well, he was young, and God was for old people. Old people coming close to death and beginning to worry.
But what if there was a God? Perhaps he should believe. He didn’t want to end up in hellfire and damnation for eternity. Perhaps now would be the time to do a bit of praying. Best to stay on the safe side.
But that was for old people. Yes, sure there were young Christians and young Runies, plenty of them. Runeianity was the fastest-growing religion of the day. The Prime Minister, Mr Doveston, was passing a bill to declare Runeianity the official religion of Great Britain.
And Runeianity did have the edge on Christianity when it came to having a good time. Hugo Rune had declared in his autohagiography, The Gospel according to Hugo Rune, that the only way to conquer the sins of the flesh was to try them out first. ‘You have to know your enemy’ Rune explained, and who was there alive to argue with such wisdom?
But Derek wasn’t a Runie, nor was he a Christian. Nor was he anything else. But now, in his hour of need and his hour of loss, he really truly wished that he was.
Derek rose from his bed and locked his bedroom door, then he cleared a space on the carpet and knelt down in that space.
‘Dear God,’ prayed Derek. ‘I expect you’re a bit surprised to hear from me. Although if you know everything, then I suppose you’re not. But I do want to ask you a favour. I know that people only pray to you when they want something. So that’s why I’m praying to you. But you know that anyway. And it’s not for me. Well, it is, sort of. But mostly it’s for someone else. It’s for Ellie. Ellie Anna Lovell. One of your flock. I love her, God, and I miss her so much. Being away from her breaks my heart and I’m so afraid that something terrible has happened to her. And you’d know if it has. And if it has, will you please do something about it? Will you please bring her back to me, God? If you do, I promise that I’ll try not to be such a prat in future. And not greedy. In fact I’ve got ten thousand pounds here and I’ll give it all to charity. To the society for small and shoeless boys in need of a good hiding, or something. Anything you want, just you name it. I know it’s not really my money, but you can have it. Please bring Ellie back to me unharmed. Please God, I beg you. Please. Amen. Love, Derek.’
And having prayed, Derek felt a lot better. No less fretful and no less worried, but a lot better in himself that he had prayed and so was, beneath all the greed and prattishness, ultimately a good person.
And, he noticed now, he was also a very hungry person, having not eaten a single thing all day. And a very thirsty person too.
So Derek went out again. Finally found a pub that he hadn’t been thrown out of for raving, and as it was now too late in the evening to order a surf and turf, ordered ten packets of crisps instead and drank a great deal of Scotch.
And finally, crisp-filled and drunken, Derek staggered home, set his alarm clock, with inebriated care, for seven o’clock the following morning and dropped down, fully clothed and smelling bad and very stubbly now indeed, upon his single bed.
He did not sleep the sleep of the blessedly drunk. Derek slept the tossing terrible sleep of the sweating tossing troubled. Horrible dreams tormented him.
Ellie under attack from something monstrous. Something that was all-consuming, everywhere. A black spiralling, tangling network of worms and snakes and evil curly things. And Derek was powerless to help her. He was on the outside of something and she was deep within. It was all too terribly terrible. And rather awful as well.
Alarm bells rang and rang and rang.
And Derek awoke to find his alarm clock ringing.
It was Monday morning.
Seven of the clock.
And Derek knew, just knew, that this was going to be the worst day of his life.
‘Ellie,’ he whispered. ‘Ellie, where are you? Please come back to me, Ellie. Please God, send her back to me. Ellie, oh Ellie, where are you?’
21
Ellie was no longer anywhere in particular.
When she performed the foolish, but purposeful, dance that Shibboleth had bobbed and bounced before her and vanished into wherever he vanished into, her first thoughts had been that she would very likely not be dancing out again.
She had put her trust in Shibboleth, and Ellie felt that this was probably a mistake. Normally she trusted but one person in the world. And this one person was Ellie Anna Lovell.
Bright light opened up before her. A sky of blue with a big fat smiley sun. And chorusing sparrows on treetop perches. And snoozing tomcats and all. She was standing in the Butt’s Estate, upon the area of grass before the Seamen’s Mission.
‘Brentford,’ she said. ‘I am back in Brentford.’
Ellie was not back in Brentford.
‘I’m not back in Brentford,’ she continued. ‘This isn’t Brentford. It’s wrong.’
‘Which bit is wrong?’ The old man sat upon a bench. He smiled a toothless smile at Ellie. ‘Which bit don’t you like, my little dear?’
‘Little dear?’ Ellie viewed the ancient. He had the look of a man who had once been someone. Even though his frame was sunken under the weight of many years, there was still an alertness in that face. A fearsome intelligence. A vitality.
He was dressed in what had once been an expensive suit of Boleskine green tweed mix. It hung from his shoulders and its trouser cuffs draggled in the dirt.
‘What immediately strikes you as wrong?’ the ancient asked.
 
; ‘All,’ said Ellie. ‘It isn’t real. It’s a simulation.’
The ancient fellow nodded, withered dewlaps dangled, turkey fashion.
Ellie’s composure was remarkable. ‘Where is Shibboleth?’ she asked.
‘The bad boy who entered before you? He is no longer part of the game.’
‘Game?’ Ellie looked down at the oldster. There was something familiar about him. She’d seen that face before, somewhere. But younger. Oh yes, of course.
‘Mr Remington Mute,’ said Ellie Anna Lovell.
‘Ellie Anna Lovell,’ said Mr Remington Mute.
Ellie approached Mr Mute. ‘I have much to say to you,’ she said.
‘I trust you also have much to ask me, little dear. Aren’t you puzzled as to your whereabouts?’
Ellie managed a smile. ‘I didn’t know what to expect,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t expect that whatever it was would be real. I thought perhaps some simulation of a cathedral with a great Net-serving computer system up on the high altar.’
‘That’s a bit old hat,’ said Remington Mute. ‘And I should know, I wear an old hat myself.’
‘And are you real?’ Ellie asked. ‘If I were to reach out and punch your old face, would you dissolve, or would you hit the deck?’
‘I fear that I’d hit the deck,’ said Remington Mute. ‘But I wouldn’t recommend that you employ your Dimac, you are in my world now.’
‘And are you happy in your world, Mr Mute?’
The ancient stretched out his arms. Hideous joint-cracking sounds issued from them. ‘No,’ said Remington Mute. ‘Things have not gone quite as well as I might have wished.’
Ellie stood, swaying gently upon her holistic footwear. Somehow this didn’t seem the time for a cosy chat. This seemed the time for action. Although exactly what that action should be, she didn’t know.
‘Raring to go, aren’t you?’ said Remington Mute. ‘Do you want me to set you off running? I could give you something to fight.’
‘Where is Shibboleth?’ Ellie asked. ‘What have you done with him?’
‘Would finding Shibboleth be good for a goal? Could we make a game out of that, do you think? You as a warrior princess with a sacred sword, or perhaps you’d rather be a ninja?’