Apocalypso Page 21

  ‘The quickness of the hand deceives the eye.’ Apocalypso reached forward and produced a parsnip from Porrig’s right ear.

  ‘Can I borrow your book?’ asked Porrig. ‘I’ll let you have it back when I’ve finished with it.’

  ‘All right,’ Apocalypso smiled. ‘I can see by the look in your eyes how important it is.’ He took the parsnip between his hands, gave it a squeeze and a rub and lo and behold . . .

  ‘The book,’ said Porrig. ‘Thank you very much. And I will return it. Law of dharma and all that kind of thing.’

  ‘If you’re ever in Brighton you can drop it into my shop. I’ll have to think of a name for it, won’t I?’

  ‘How about ALPHA 17?’ said Rippington.

  Apocalypso smiled once more, champagne glasses clinked and a further toast was raised.

  ‘We must go,’ said Porrig. ‘But just one thing before we do.’

  Porrig chinned the bishop.

  Back at the shop in the kitchenette, Rippington asked him why.

  ‘Because he was touching up my mum.’ Porrig sought tea to brew, but all the tea was Wok Boy’s and this made Porrig sad.

  ‘Perk up though,’ said Rippington, scaling the leg of the table. ‘We got the job jobbed and we did it with style.’

  ‘It was certainly some adventure.’ Porrig sat down at the table and helped the imp onto it. ‘Travelling back to the past. Saving Apocalypso from thirty years of hell and even meeting my mum when she was young. That was quite something, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And you got the book. And you didn’t have to steal it.’

  Porrig picked up the book and gave it a brief leafing through. ‘Do you really think we can stop that horrible monster with this?’

  ‘The quickness of the hand deceives the eye. And talking of quickness, we got back here before the curator’s even arrived. We couldn’t do better than that, could we?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Porrig put down the book and took up Wok Boy’s cup. ‘But I only wish—’

  ‘What do you wish?’ asked Wok Boy, appearing at the open door.

  ‘Oh!’ went Porrig.

  ‘What?’ went Wok Boy.

  ‘But you’re—’

  ‘But I’m?’

  ‘Alive! But you’re alive!’

  ‘But you’re . . .’ Wok Boy paused.

  ‘But I’m what?’

  ‘But you’re wearing a woman’s corset and fishnet stockings.’

  ‘Forget about that. You’re alive! You’re alive!’

  ‘Of course I’m alive. Why wouldn’t I be? But let’s talk about you. How long have you led this double life? Why didn’t you tell me? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, I’m wearing ladies red underwear myself.’

  ‘You pervert,’ said Porrig. ‘But you are alive. How did you survive? How come you didn’t drown?’

  ‘Are you on something, Porrig? I got a pain in my head and fell down the stairs. I must have rolled under the shop shelves, I’ve only just come to. Any tea on the go?’

  Porrig made a very doubtful face.

  ‘Let it go,’ said Rippington. ‘He’s alive, which is something, I suppose.’

  ‘Incredible.’

  ‘Don’t start that again. Just brew him some tea and explain to him what’s on the go.’

  ‘So,’ said the Commander-in-Chief, of whom little had been heard for a while. ‘What’s on the go?’

  We’re in Croydon, sir,’ said the adjutant. ‘We’ve just driven down here in convoy from London.’

  ‘Croydon, eh? Must have dozed off. What are we doing in Croydon?’

  ‘You and your chums pushed all the little flags on the big board towards Croydon. To stop the train with the monster on board reaching London.’

  ‘You think little flags will stop the bounder, then?’

  ‘When each flag represents a regiment of tanks and the tanks have all been assembled here, yes, I think it might do the trick.’

  ‘So are the tanks all here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, they are.’

  ‘Even my special one?’

  ‘Even your special one with your name on the side and the fitted cocktail bar.’

  ‘Let battle commence then. Which way’s the railway line?’

  The adjutant pointed through the windscreen of the staff car. ‘Up ahead, where all the tanks are parked. But the train is packed with hostages.’

  ‘Military personnel?’

  The adjutant shook his head.

  ‘Casualties of war, you mean.’

  ‘Sir, you cannot open fire on civilians. Especially our civilians. It’s against the Geneva Convention.’

  ‘Never go to conventions meself. Always that damned Dave Golder and his chums from SFX propping up the bar. A chap can never get served.’

  ‘Stupid man.’

  What did you say?’

  ‘I said the train will be passing through in a matter of minutes. We’ve been trying to contact the driver. Get him to slow it down enough so that we can derail the train gently, with the minimum loss of life.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘None at all. We’ve been unable to get through. We don’t even know who’s driving the train.’

  The driver’s name was Russell. Russell The Railwayman.

  Russell had never actually driven a train before, although it had long been one of his ambitions. He’d applied to take the course, but his mum hadn’t been keen. She’d put him off; it was dangerous, she told him.

  Russell had explained that there was more chance of winning the National Lottery than of being killed in a train crash. But his mum, who had already won the National Lottery three times, but was keeping quiet about it, was adamant. And a boy’s best friend is his mother.

  At least it was for Norman Bates.

  Russell was enjoying himself. He hadn’t enjoyed the terrible pain that Dilbert had thought upon him, that had driven him into the cab of the train and demanded that he do the driving. He had no idea quite how he’d started the train and no idea whatever about how to stop it. But he was enjoying himself now: rushing through the red lights and taking the corners at dangerous speed. He’d learned early that the faster he went, the less the pain the monster inflicted upon him. He’d soon got the message.

  And so Russell whistled a brisk Abba medley and pushed his foot nearer to the floor.

  Ahead of him lay trouble with a capital T.

  This T stood for Tanks.

  ‘Tanks is what you need,’ said Wok Boy, having heard Porrig’s breathless tale. ‘Tanks or — failing tanks — nukes.’

  ‘Porrig’s got a book,’ said Rippington.

  ‘Porrig always has a book,’ said Wok Boy. ‘He should start putting his books downstairs in the shop. There’s plenty of space on the shelves now.’

  Porrig arose to take issue regarding the matter of his empty shelves, but painfully recalling the previous beatings he’d received at the fists of Wok Boy, he sat down again. ‘I want my comics back from that trannie,’ he said in a sulky tone.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask him yourself. You and he being of the same persuasion, as it were.’

  Porrig kept his rage in check, he had more important things on his mind. ‘The old bloke will be here soon,’ he said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’ And as an after-thought he added, You can explain to him how you mean to get the comics back.’

  ‘I’ll make the tea while you get changed,’ said Wok Boy.

  Porrig went off to the bedroom to rummage about for clean clothes. There weren’t any. His best trousers and shirt were somewhere in the past being worn by his own mother before he was even born. Porrig sat down on the bed and sighed. It was all too much really. Much too much.

  A couple of weeks ago he had been an engaged-to-be-married cleaner of cars in Brentford. Now what was he? Interdimensional time-traveller and potential saviour of mankind? Him?

  Absurd.

  Porrig removed his mother’s stage-wear and rooted out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with tolerable armpits. He slipped
his unsocked feet into a pair of plimsolls and examined his reflection in the mirror.

  And sighed again.

  He’d have taken once more to bewailing his lot, but the sound of a car drawing up outside caused him instead to drag himself over to the window.

  A black cab was parked in the street below and stepping from it was a rather smart young woman in a tight-fitting suit. She slammed shut the cab’s rear door and strode towards the shop.

  ‘What now?’ Porrig asked himself. ‘More trouble?’

  The smart-looking woman entered the shop and marched up the stairs. ‘Porrig,’ she shouted. ‘Porrig, where are you?’

  Porrig hastened from the bedroom. ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘Hurry up. come on.’ The smart-looking woman hustled him into the kitchenette.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Wok Boy. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Agent Artemis,’ said Agent Artemis. ‘From the Ministry of Serendipity.’

  ‘One of your dad’s minions,’ said Wok Boy to Porrig.

  ‘Never mind about minions. Where’s the book?’

  ‘What book?’ said Porrig.

  ‘Don’t waste my time with what book. The one you just stole. Apocalypso’s book.’

  ‘Now see here,’ said Porrig. ‘I never stole it, I was given it. And how do you know about that?’

  ‘There’s no time to waste with explanations.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ said Porrig. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘There isn’t time. This is the book, isn’t it?’ Agent Artemis snatched up the queer-looking book from the table.

  ‘That’s mine, give it back’ Porrig made a grab at the book, but Agent Artemis stepped nimbly aside, took his left wrist and twisted it violently, nearly wrenching his arm from the socket.

  ‘Hang about,’ said Wok Boy.

  ‘Shut it, Wok Boy, or you’ll get the same.’

  ‘How do you know my na—’

  Agent Artemis elbowed Wok Boy in the stomach.

  Wok Boy doubled up and fell upon Porrig who was now taking up much of the floor space.

  ‘Before you hit me,’ said Rippington, ‘I’m not with these people. I’m an Avon lady.’

  ‘Shut it, Rippington.’

  ‘Ah, you know me as well,’

  ‘Of course I know you and you know me.’

  ‘You look a bit like Carol Vorderman.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Sigourney Weaver?’

  Agent Artemis leaned forward and gave Rippington a clip about the head.

  ‘EEEEEEEEK!’ went Rippington, falling from the table onto the strugglers beneath.

  ‘You useless bunch.’ The boot went in: a stylish high-heeled shoe. ‘You Wok Boy!’ Boot. ‘All those comic books!’ Boot.

  ‘You, Porrig!’ Boot. ‘Using the ritual without permission!’ Boot.

  ‘And you, Rippington!’ Clip ‘Letting him do it!’

  General booting and clipping.

  ‘Get off us!’ howled Porrig. ‘Leave us alone, you mad-woman.’

  ‘Woman?’ The boot went in once more. But this time it really was a boot.

  Porrig looked up and did blinkings.

  ‘Had you fooled there, didn’t I?’ said the old bloke, for it was he.

  ‘You?’ Porrig gaped and gasped.

  ‘Had those gits at the Ministry of Serendipity fooled too. The old quick-change routine, Apocalypso taught it to me when I was his assistant.’

  ‘Hang about.’ Porrig struggled unsteadily to his feet, rubbing his wounded wrist. ‘I know you told me that you were his assistant. But when you went on stage, were you dressed as a woman?’

  ‘Of course. Every stage magician has to have a beautiful woman as an assistant. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.’

  ‘Hang about, hang about. This is all falling into place now. Were you the assistant that went into the electronic wasp-filled torture box and didn’t come out again?’

  ‘The stupid trick went wrong. If I hadn’t used the ritual I would have been roasted.’

  ‘You would have been killed.’

  ‘Not killed, Porrig. I cannot die until I have returned the angel’s feather. But I didn’t intend to be roasted.’

  ‘Has the kicking stopped?’ asked Wok Boy, uncovering his head. ‘Oh no!’ he continued, seeing the old bloke.

  ‘The kicking’s stopped,’ said Porrig. ‘But my confusion continues. How come, if you weren’t killed—’

  ‘There’s no time now,’ said the old bloke. ‘Have you had time to read this book?’

  ‘Not really, and I still don’t see how—’

  ‘Then you’d best study it on the way. We’re going after the creature. We have to try and stop it before it reaches London.’

  ‘Er, excuse me,’ said Wok Boy.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the old bloke.

  ‘Well . . . just . . . er . . . you don’t want me to come, do you?’

  ‘No I do not! You can stay here and get my comic books back’

  ‘My comic books,’ said Porrig.

  ‘Porrig’s comic books.’

  ‘I’ll stay and help him,’ said Rippington.

  ‘Oh no,’ said the old bloke. ‘You’ll come with us. I have a use for you.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Russell as the first tank shell burst overhead. The train was going flat out now and Russell had been singing ‘Waterloo’.

  ‘Stop this,’ shouted the adjutant. ‘You cannot fire upon unarmed civilians.’

  The Commander-in-Chief made circular finger-movements to the gunner. ‘Right a bit, stop, up a bit, stop.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the adjutant, trying to stand up in the special tank (the one with the Commander-in-Chief’s name on the side and the fitted cocktail cabinet) and striking his head on the little trapdoor thingy. ‘Sir, with all respect, I must insist that—’

  ‘Fire!’ said the Commander-in-Chief.

  Bang and recoil and Doppler effect whistle and

  WHAM!

  Russell ducked in the cab. ‘That was close,’ he mumbled. ‘Why are they shooting at me?’

  ‘Sir, please, there are thousands of people on that train.’

  ‘Adjutant, if you’re going to fuss around like a silly big girl, then I’ll have to have you chucked out of my tank’

  ‘But, sir —’

  ‘Down a bit, left a bit.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘Fire!’

  A signal box exploded, spewing flaming wreckage onto the track. Russell shielded his face as the train tore through the mayhem.

  ‘Mum!’ screamed Russell. ‘I want my mum!’

  The gap was less than two miles and was closing very fast.

  Inside the special tank a special telephone rang. The adjutant snatched up the handset. ‘Yes,’ he shouted into it. ‘Yes . . . What? . . . Yes I understand. Cease firing, sir.’

  ‘That’s it, you great Nellie, out of my damned tank.’

  ‘But, sir, that was a communication from the train, patched through to us from GHQ. Sir John Rimmer is on the train. He’s called to say stop firing, the monster is not on the train, repeat, the monster is not on the train.’

  ‘It’s a damned trick. Get out of that seat, gunner, I’ll take this next shot meself.’

  ‘Sir, please. Sir John Rimmer says that the creature was in the last carriage and that it had the last carriage detached from the train ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Can’t take any chances. Could be a damned trick’

  ‘Sir, it’s no trick and we’re in the path of the train. Back the tank out of the way.’

  ‘Here it comes, by crikey.’ The Commander-in-Chief pointed through the forward port. ‘No time for namby-pambying about now. If you can’t take the meat, stay out of the butcher’s trousers, what. And where do you think you’re off to, gunner?’

  ‘I can’t take the meat, sir.’

  ‘Damned silly
big girl.And you too, adjutant? Come back, you poltroon.’

  ‘Back!’ shouted Russell, fleeing the cab and rushing into the first carriage. ‘Everyone to the back of the train. We’re going to crash. We’re going to crash.’

  A tall man in underpants stepped past Russell.

  ‘Not that way, sir. Move to the back’

  ‘You move and hurry,’ said Sir John Rimmer. ‘I will try to stop the train.

  Thunder and rattle and now blowing whistle, the train hurtled forwards. Less than a mile in it and that gap closing fast as before.

  Sir John Rimmer sat in the driver’s seat, all firm jaw and stiff upper lip, one hand on the whistle, two bare feet upon the brake. He took a deep deep breath and held it and he didn’t close his eyes. If this was to be his death, he’d stare it full in the face and meet it like a man.

  No false beard, no bloated pride, near-naked and alone.

  ‘So be it,’ said Sir John.

  So be it.

  And as these things do when they happen, this thing did as it happened. All in slow motion and just like a dream.

  Or an art house movie montage.

  The eyes of Sir John staring ever ahead become the skidding train wheels, then become the crescent of a thumbnail as the thumb goes pushing down upon the blood red FIRE button in the tank, become the eye now of a dog, Sir John’s dog, fetching sticks for him in boyhood; running legs now the running legs of passengers, the passengers falling, tripping, stumbling, a face now fills the screen, expands, the mouth becomes a pit, then a tunnel and the train screams through the tunnel; whistles, screams and people scream and eyes and wheels and eyes and wheels and— Cut by the producer, who cares not a fig for art, and wants some action.

  So, cut to the eyes of Sir John.

  Cut to overhead shot of train rushing forward.

  Cut to overhead shot of tank, someone climbing in.

  Cut to skidding train wheels.

  Cut to passengers tripping and falling.

  Cut to interior of tank, thumb about to press FIRE button.

  Cut to eyes of Commander-in-Chief, looking up.

  Cut to eyes of Sir John, sweat dripping, knuckle rubbing across.

  Overhead shot, gap closing fast.