Also by Robert Rankin
The Brentford Trilogy:
The Antipope
The Brentford Triangle
East of Ealing
The Sprouts of Wrath
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls
Knees Up Mother Earth
The Armageddon Trilogy:
Armageddon: The Musical
They Came and Ate Us
The Suburban Book Of The Dead
Cornelius Murphy Trilogy:
The Book Of Ultimate Truths
Raiders Of The Lost Car Park
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived
There is a secret trilogy in the middle there, composed of:
The Trilogy That Dare Not Speak Its Name Trilogy:
Sprout Mask Replica
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag
Waiting for Godalming
Plus some fabulous other books, including:
The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
The Witches of Chiswick
The Brightonomicon
THE
TOYMINATOR
ROBERT RANKIN
FOR
JAMES CAMPBELL
FRIEND AND MENTOR.
Who inspired the writing of this book,
as with many others
And who put me back together
when I had all but fallen apart
No finer friend could any man have.
Thank you Jim.
Contents
Also by Robert Rankin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Copyright
1
The rain came down in great big buckets, emptied from the sky.
The city’s population stayed indoors. Those of the clockwork persuasion greatly feared the rain, for rain brought on the terrible rust, the terrible corrosion. Those of fur dreaded sogginess, and those of wood, the stains. The rubber ducks were happy, though, but then they always are.
The city was Toy City, formerly Toy Town, and it stood there, somewhere over the rainbow, just off the Yellow Brick Road and beyond the mysterious Second Big O. And it stood there at this present time a-soaking in the rain.
The city’s population blamed the rain upon the recently deposed mayor. In fact, the city’s population now blamed almost everything upon the recently deposed mayor. And not without good cause for the most part, although blaming him for the inclement weather was, perhaps, pushing it a bit.
Not that the city’s population were above pushing it a bit, for had they not risen up against the mayor and marched upon the mayoral mansion with flaming torches, pots of tar and many bags of feathers? And had they not dragged the city’s mayor from his mayoral mansion, performed unspeakable acts upon his person and cast him beyond the city’s gates, with the advice that he should never return, come wind or, indeed, come rain?
Indeed they had.
It had all been most unpleasant.
And if the tarring and feathering and the endurance of unspeakable acts and the casting forth from the city had been most unpleasant for the mayor, these things were as nought when compared to those things that were done to him by the kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker, when the ejected mayor returned to the city under cover of darkness to seek sanctuary at his manse. Having cleaned up the ex-mayor, the kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker had demodified him. Which is to say that he removed all the modifications that he had made to the mayor in return for a great service that the mayor had performed for the city, in fact a great service for which he had been granted the office of mayor.
The kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker did not demodify the mayor in order to add insult to injury. He did not do it out of cruelty. Rather he did it out of compassion, blaming himself, he said, for making modifications that should never have been made – playing God, as he put it. He apologised profusely to the ex-mayor as he put him through the process of demodification. He told the exmayor that it was all for the ex-mayor’s own good and that the ex-mayor would thank him for it one day, and then he had given the ex-mayor a nice cup of tea, patted him upon the head and sent him upon his way, offering his own words of advice, to whit, that the ex-mayor should in future keep within his remit and not aspire to a position above his natural station in life.
‘Now go and be good,’ said the Toymaker, slamming shut his front door behind the ex-mayor.
The door of Tinto’s Bar hadn’t opened all evening. What with the rain and everything, business had been slack. Business, in fact, was no business at all and Tinto’s Bar was empty.
‘I blame it on the ex-mayor,’ said Tinto, to no one but himself, as he stood behind his bar, a dazzling glass in one dextrous hand, a bar-cloth in the other. ‘I remember the good times, me. Well, I would if there’d ever been any.’
Tinto’s Bar was long and low, all patterned in black and white chequerboard. A long and low counter it had, with a row of chromium barstools. There were tables and chairs that were shabby, but served. A dolly called Nellie, who worked the weekends. A pot man called Henry, who didn’t.
Tinto the barman was something to behold. He was of the mechanical persuasion, powered by a clockwork motor, his body formed from pressed tin and glossily painted, though much of the gloss was now gone. His head was an oversized sphere, with a smiling face painted on the front. His body was a thing-a-me-oid (a cylinder with a hemisphere joined to each end of it), painted with a dicky bow and tuxedo. His arms were flat, though painted with sleeves and shirt cuffs, and the fingers of his hands were fully and wonderfully articulated.
Now, in the light of things that are shortly to occur, it might be well to mention that Tinto was a practising member of The Church of Mechanology, which was one of The Big Four religions in Toy City along with The Daughters of the Unseeable Upness, Big Box Fella, He Come and The Exclusive Brotherhood of the Midnight Growlers. Mechanologists held to the belief that the Universe was a vast clockwork mechanism, with the planets revolving about the sun by means of extendible rotary arms and the sun in turn connected to the galaxy by an ingenious crankshaft system, the entirety powered by an enormous clockwork motor, constantly maintained, oiled and kept wound by The Universal Engineer.
The Universal Engineer was pictured in religious icons as a large and jolly red-faced fellow in greasy overalls and cap. He held in one holy hand an oily rag, and in the other the Church’s Sacred Writ, known as The Manual.
Followers of The Church of Mechanology considered themselves special and superior to all other varieties of toy, in that being clockwork they were in tune and at one with the Universe.
It could be argued that The Church of Mechanology was something of an End Times cult, subscribing as it did to the belief that, as individual clockwork toys enjoyed only a finite existence, due to the ravages of rust, corrosion, spring breakage and fluff in the works, so too did the Universe.
Elders of the church spoke of The Time of the Terrible Stillness, when the great mechanism that powered the Universe would grind to a halt, the planet would
no longer turn upon its axis, the sun would no longer rise and even time itself would come to a standstill.
And at present, what with all the chaos caused by the exmayor when he was the then-mayor, there was much talk amongst the practising Mechanologists that The Time Of the Terrible Stillness was now rapidly approaching. In fact, the elders of each of The Big Four religions were presently preaching that The End Times were well and truly on their way, and everyone knew whose fault that was.
Tinto examined the dazzling glass and found it pleasing to behold. At least you knew where you were with a glass. If it was a beer glass, then you were probably in a bar. And as Tinto was in a bar, well, at least he knew where he was. Which was something.
‘I think I’ll close up early tonight,’ said Tinto to himself, ‘take a couple of bottles of five-year-old oil upstairs, watch the late-night movie, Rusty the Rotten Dog, drown my sorrows and pray for sunshine tomorrow. You have to make the effort, don’t you? And laugh, too, or so I’ve been told, because you’ll cry if you don’t. And crying really rusts tin toys, as salt water’s worse than rain.’
Tinto had recently taken to the reading of certain ‘self-help’ books. It was all very well being a practising member of The Church of Mechanology, or rather, in truth, it was not, it was just too damned depressing, and although Tinto could not actually remember any particularly good times, he was generally of a cheery disposition. Or he had been until recently.
Tinto was presently reading Become A Merry Old Soul in Thirty Days, penned by a certain O. K. Cole, a prominent Toy City Pre-adolescent Poetic Personality.* Tinto had even taken on The Fiddlers Three to play in the bar during Sunday lunchtimes. The Fiddlers Three had driven away his Sunday lunchtime clientele.
‘It never rains, but it damned well buckets down,’ said Tinto, ‘yet a smile costs nothing and brightens any day.’
A noise of an unexpected nature drew Tinto’s attention towards the door of his bar. For this noise came from its creaking hinges.
‘Custom?’ queried the clockwork barman. ‘On such a night as this?’
The hinges creaked a little more; some rain blew into the bar.
‘Who is there?’ called Tinto. ‘Welcome, friend.’
The door, a smidgen open, opened a smidgen more. The brown button eye of a furry face peeped into Tinto’s Bar.
‘Howdy doody,’ called the barman. ‘Don’t be shy, now. Hospitality awaits you here. That and beer and any seat that suits you.’
Smidgen, smidgen, smidgen went the door and then all-open-up.
And then … and then …
Tinto peered and had he been able Tinto would have gawped. And had his face been capable of any expression other than that which was painted upon it, there is just no telling exactly what this expression might have become. Tinto’s voice, however, was capable of all manner of expression and the words that now issued through the grille in his chest did so in what can only be described as an awed whisper. And those words were …
‘Eddie, Eddie Bear – is that really you?’
A sodden teddy stood in the doorway, a sodden and dejected-looking teddy. It put its paws to its plump tummy parts and gave them a squeeze, eliciting a dismal groan from its growler and dripping raindrops onto Tinto’s floor.
‘It is you,’ said Tinto. ‘It really is.’
Eddie Bear did shakings of himself. ‘I couldn’t borrow a bar-cloth, could I?’ he asked.
Tinto’s head revolved upon his tin-plate shoulders. ‘You,’ he said, and his voice rose in volume and in octave also. ‘You! Here! In my bar! You!’
‘Me,’ said Eddie. ‘Might I have a beer?’
‘You!’ Tinto’s head now bobbed up and down, his arms rose and his dextrous fingers formed themselves into fists.
‘I’ll go,’ said Eddie. ‘I understand.’
‘Yes, you … yes, you.’
Eddie turned to take his leave. Turned in such a sorrowful, forlorn and dejected manner, with such a drooping of the head and sinking of the shoulders, that Tinto, whose fists were now beating a rapid tattoo upon the highly polished bar counter, felt something come over him that was nothing less than pity.
‘No,’ said Tinto, his fists unfisting. ‘No, Eddie, please don’t go.’
Eddie turned and gazed at the barman through one brown button eye and one blue. ‘I can stay?’ he asked. ‘Can I really?’
Tinto’s head now bobbed from side to side. ‘But you—’
‘Were mayor,’ said Eddie. ‘Yes, I know and I’m sorry.’
‘And you were—’
‘Modified by the Toymaker. Hands with fingers and opposable thumbs, I know.’ Eddie regarded his paws and sighed a heartfelt sigh.
‘And—’
‘Eyes,’ said Eddie, mournfully, ‘blue glass eyes with eyelids. All gone now. I’m just plain Eddie Bear.’
Tinto said nothing, but beckoned. Eddie crossed the floor towards the bar counter, leaving behind him little paw-shaped puddles.
‘Sit down, then,’ said Tinto. ‘Have a beer and tell me all about it.’
‘Could you make it something stronger than beer, please?’ Eddie asked, climbing with difficulty onto what had once been his favourite barstool. ‘I’m soaked all the way through and whatever I drink is going to get watered down.’
‘I’ve got a bottle of Old Golly-Wobbler,’ said Tinto. ‘It’s pretty strong stuff – even the gollies are afeared of it, and you know how those bad boys like to put it away.’
‘Make it a treble then, please,’ said Eddie.
Tinto, who had been reaching up for the bottle, which stood upon a glass shelf between the Old Kitty-Fiddler and the Donkey Punch (a great favourite with male ballet-dancing dolls), hesitated. Tinto’s head revolved towards Eddie. ‘You do have money?’ he asked.
Eddie shook his sodden head and made the face of despair.
‘Thought not,’ said Tinto. ‘Then you’re only getting a quadruple measure.’ For Tinto had trouble with maths.
‘That will be fine, then.’ And the corners of Eddie’s mouth rose a little. But not any more than that.
Tinto decanted a measure of Old Golly-Wobbler, which might well have been a quadruple, into the dazzling glass that had so recently afforded him a small degree of pleasure because he knew where he was with it, and pushed the glass across the bar top towards the bedraggled bear. The bedraggled bear took it up between his trembling paws and tossed it away down his throat.
‘Much thanks, Tinto,’ said he. And Tinto poured another.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ said Eddie, when further Golly-Wobblers were gone and a rather warm feeling was growing in his tummy parts. ‘I tried my best, I really did. I tried as hard as.’*
‘And that’s where you went wrong,’ said Tinto, decanting a glass of five-year-old oil for himself and emptying it into his grille. ‘No one wanted change, Eddie. Folk hate change and they came to hate you for trying to bring it about.’
‘But things needed changing, still need changing.’
‘No they don’t,’ said Tinto, and he shook his head vigorously. A nut or screw inside came loose and rattled all about. ‘And now you’ve given me a headache,’ said Tinto. ‘When will all this madness end?’
‘Pour me another drink,’ said Eddie.
‘And you’ll pay me? That would make a change. And a pleasant one, too, I’m thinking.’
‘Things do need changing,’ Eddie said. ‘Toy City is a wretched dystopia, Tinto, you know that.’
‘I don’t,’ said Tinto. ‘What does dystopia mean?’
Eddie told him.
‘Well, I’ll drink to that,’ said Tinto.
‘And so it needs changing.’
‘Doesn’t,’ said Tinto. ‘Certainly it’s grim. Certainly toys don’t get a fair deal. But if we didn’t have something to complain about, then what would we have to complain about?’
Eddie Bear put his paws to his head. ‘I saved this city,’ said he, ‘saved it from the Toymaker’s evil twin. He would have wipe
d every one of us out if it hadn’t been for me.’
‘And your friend, Jack,’ said Tinto.
‘Yes, Jack,’ said Eddie. And he made a wistful face. ‘I wonder whatever became of Jack. He travelled into the world of men—’
‘The world of men?’ said Tinto. ‘A world populated entirely by meatheads? There’s no such world. That’s a myth, Eddie. A fantasy.’
‘It isn’t,’ said Eddie, making imploring ‘more-drink-please’ gestures with his paws. ‘There is a world beyond this one. Jack met a man who came from there. And that’s where Jack went.’
‘Didn’t,’ said Tinto, and he poured another drink for Eddie.
‘Did too,’ said Eddie.
‘Didn’t,’ said Tinto. ‘A little bird told me that he changed his mind, decided it was more fun to stay in the city with his girlfriend – that Jill from Madame Goose’s bawdy house.’ Tinto made the sacred sign of the spanner over the portion of his chest where his heart, had he possessed one, would have been, out of respect for the late Madame Goose who had come to an untimely end. ‘That Jack hung around with that Jill for a while, but she soon spent all his money and he was reduced to working as a griddle chef in a Nadine’s Diner.’
‘He never was,’ said Eddie.
‘True as I’m standing here before you, large as life and twice as special. She left him, of course.’
‘And a little bird told you this?’
‘A robin. His name was Tom.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it.’ Eddie downed his latest drink and began to fidget about on his barstool.
‘Don’t do it,’ said Tinto.
‘What?’ said Eddie.
‘What you’re about to do.’
‘And what am I about to do?’
‘Try to balance on your head on that barstool.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Eddie.
‘You were,’ said Tinto. ‘I know you well enough, Eddie. I know you’re all filled up with sawdust and that when you drink, the drink soaks down to your legs and so you stand on your head so the drink goes there instead. And then you get drunk and silly and I have to throw you out.’
Eddie shrugged and sighed. ‘My legs are now rather drunk,’ he confessed. ‘But Jack, still in Toy City? I can’t believe it.’