Apocalypso Page 6

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Porrig, wishing not only that he was dead, but indeed that he never had been born. Although not a one for religion, he now prayed hard that the angel the old bloke on the train had told him of might fly down from heaven this very instant and carry him off to a far better place.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ he went once more.

  Passers-by in the street made the sign of the cross and hurried on by with their shopping.

  ‘God Almighty!’ Porrig kicked about and tried to gain his feet. He stumbled up, put out his hand to support himself on the wall and in doing so pressed down the light switch.

  Lightning flashed and tore about the shop and Porrig ducked his head. ‘I’m sorry, God,’ he mumbled. The lightning stopped and Porrig blinked his eyes.

  Not lightning.

  Neon ceiling lights.

  The lights had come on to illuminate . . .

  A stunningly beautiful bookshop interior, all polished ebony bookshelves and Victorian leather-bound books.

  Sadly, no.

  The lights had come on to illuminate a long, low-ceilinged room, furnished all about with shelves. But not one book upon them.

  ‘Not a single book,’ said Porrig. ‘Not a single one.’

  But plenty of cardboard boxes.

  Porrig managed one more sigh, straightened himself up as best he could and peered at the boxes. There were dozens of them on the shelves. All open-topped and packed with something or other. Porrig dug into the nearest one and pulled out . . .

  ‘A comic book,’ said Porrig. He moved along the shelves, peeping into the boxes. ‘They’re all packed with comic books. And they’re . . .’ Porrig examined the one in his hand. It was Marvel Comics’ issue number one of The Silver Surfer.

  Porrig gaped at it, then gaped at it again. ‘Issue number one,’ he gasped in a very choked kind of a whisper. ‘Issue number one.’

  This shop was full of thirty-year-old comic books. And if they were all like this one, all in mint condition . . . untouched and unread, pristine, perfect . . .

  Porrig stared at the treasure in his hands. He didn’t need to strain his brain to know what this was worth. If there was one thing he did know about, it was comic books. He had the price guide at home, but this was easy stuff. Your starter for ten.

  Magnus Magnusson: The price please of Marvel Comics’ issue number one of The Silver Surfer?

  Pádraig Arthur Naseby: One thousand, four hundred and fifty quid!

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ prayed Porrig. ‘Please let it be true. Please don’t let me be lying unconscious on the floor dreaming this.’

  Porrig dared another look at the comic. If he were dreaming it would probably change into a pork sausage. Things often did in his dreams, although he had never been able to find out why. The comic book was not a sausage. It was still The Silver Surfer.

  Porrig’s hands began to tremble; he glanced about in sudden fear. Fear that someone might burst in and steal it all away.

  Porrig rammed shut the door and locked it from the inside. Then he took a great breath. Turned slowly to survey the room. And then went just a little mad.

  He rushed along the shelves, going from box to box to box, pulling out comics (though with great care) and letting free cries of delight.

  The Mighty Thor, Dr Strange, The Fantastic Four, Spiderman, the entire early Marvel back catalogue. All new. All unread. All in mint condition.

  ‘I’m rich!’ Porrig danced a silly jig. ‘I’m rich. I’ve done it. I’ve hit the mother lode.’ He found himself now at the rear of the shop and here he came upon a big plan chest.

  Porrig eased out a drawer, bringing to light something beautiful. Porrig stared down at it. A poster. A 1960s poster. A Martin Sharp poster. The famous Bob Dylan ‘Blowing in the Mind’ poster, printed in black and red on gold card. Porrig dug into the drawer. There were five copies. And beneath this, five copies of the ‘Putting together of the Heads’ 1967 legalize cannabis classic.

  ‘Jesus and Mary!’ Porrig had seen photos of these in an auction catalogue. How much had they gone for?

  ‘Lots,’ said Porrig. ‘Lots and lots.’

  And the ones in the auction had been second-hand, and these were perfect. Perfect. Porrig opened further drawers and revealed further wonders. Mike English posters. The Hapshash and the Coloured Coat ones of Hendrix and the Floyd and The Incredible String band. Porrig pushed in the bottom drawer and sat down on the floor.

  This was it. The collector’s dream come true. The place that every collector fantasizes about. The warehouse no-one has opened for years and years. Great granddaddy’s attic. Aunty Nora’s cellar.

  Uncle Apocalypso’s shop!

  And this was it. He’d found it. He, Porrig the no-mark. He’d hit the jackpot.

  But why?

  Why him?

  ‘Because I deserve it,’ said Porrig. ‘Because I am the only person in the whole wide world who really truly deserves it. I have been sorely tried and cruelly tested and I have been found not wanting. It is my destiny to be wealthy and successful. It is my fate.’

  And satisfied with this load of old tosh, Porrig actually offered up a prayer of thanks. A real one. ‘Thank you, God,’ prayed Porrig. ‘And thank you too, Uncle Apocalypso The Miraculous, with the capital T.’

  Porrig wept a little tear for his defunct uncle and also for himself, because he was now a man of possessions and a man of possessions can be a worried man. Porrig’s first reaction upon seeing his treasure had been to slam and lock the door, which had worried him at the time. The sheer instinctiveness of the act. Instant covetousness and instant paranoia. All of this was all too much. Half of it would have done. A quarter. But all? What was he to do with it? How could he sell it? Whom could he trust? One of the big auction houses? Anyone?

  Porrig now felt a wee bit wobbly. He climbed slowly to his feet and took another look around. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t go to pieces.’

  Then he spied the staircase. More upstairs? More stock? The stair light also worked and Porrig peered up the narrow stairway. ‘Easy now,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t rush it. One rotten stair and you’ll be joining your uncle.’ But the stairs looked safe and Porrig took a step or two before he paused and looked back into the shop.

  Something wasn’t right about that shop.

  Something that should be there, wasn’t.

  And Porrig now knew what that something was.

  ‘Dust,’ said Porrig. ‘There’s no dust.’

  He examined his hands.

  They were clean.

  Porrig returned to the shop. He ran his finger along the nearest shelf. Dust free. Not a speck.

  Now that did not make any sense at all. A shop locked up for thirty years and not a trace of dust?

  ‘Let’s check upstairs.’

  Porrig checked upstairs He did tread with considerable care, but the stairs held. The stairs, with their nicely well-swept carpet, held. On the first floor he was met by another surprise. Another working light displayed a room full of machinery. It was all most impressive. All buffed up brass and steel. It was . . .

  ‘A printing press.’ Porrig whistled. ‘It’s a printing press.’

  He circled the machine, admiring all its polished bits and bobs. This was a real deluxe jobbie. Ideal for . . .

  ‘Printing comics.’ Porrig whistled once again. Why, with a rig-out like this I could print my own comic books. No more rejection slips from publishers.’

  This was bliss. Oh perfect day. And Porrig engaged in another foolish jig.

  Then he explored a bit more. He came upon a small bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. They were nothing special. But they were both impeccably clean.

  ‘Still no dust.’ Porrig shook his head. So what about the front room with the broken windows and the roosting pigeons? Porrig opened the door and switched on the light.

  The curtains were drawn. The room was pristine. A bed of burnished brass, covered by a colourful quilt. A pitch pine wardrobe a
nd a matching dresser. Landscapes in gilded frames and a very nice rug indeed.

  Porrig crossed the room and flung aside the curtains. Pigeons fluttered up in a panic, but didn’t fly into the room. A sheet of glass barred their way.

  It was sealed to the bedroom wall a foot inside the outer broken panes.

  ‘Clever,’ said Porrig, nodding his head. ‘A clever deception to make it seem from the outside that . . .’ He paused and a little chill ran down his spine. ‘That this is a derelict building, which clearly it is not. Someone’s living here.’

  Porrig returned to the kitchenette and opened the fridge. It was packed with food. He took out a carton of organic milk and sniffed at the top. It was fresh.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Porrig. ‘I’ve got a squatter.’

  And then he heard a sound downstairs.

  Porrig froze.

  Someone was entering the shop, and not by the front door. This someone was whistling in that carefree ‘this is my house and I’ll whistle in it if I want to’ kind of way.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Porrig. ‘No no no.’

  So what to do? Confront the squatter? Order him off the premises? Use force if necessary? How much force? And how big the squatter? The one squatter, was it? Or maybe there was more than one . . .

  Porrig sought a weapon: a rolling pin or a big kitchen cleaver. Porrig found a diminutive pink plastic dish-washing brush. He took it up and held it in a menacing fashion. No dirty squatter was going to deprive him of his inheritance. He would fight to the death to protect what was his.

  Well, maybe not to the death, but he’d give the blighter a sound brushing up for his trouble.

  ‘Try and steal from me, will you?’ whispered Porrig.

  But then a thought struck him. It was a thought so terrible that Porrig tried at once to force it from his mind. But the thought wouldn’t budge. It stayed and it grew. And it grew.

  ‘Now what,’ said this thought, ‘if all that stuff downstairs doesn’t actually belong to you at all? What if it actually belongs to the confident whistler who’s just walked in? He could well have come across this empty untenanted building years ago and taken up residence here. Which would mean that none of it’s yours, Porrig.

  ‘None of it, you useless no-mark loser!’

  ‘Oh no.’ Porrig’s knees became weak and he sank onto the kitchen chair. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.

  But oh yes it could. It would all make sense that way. All of it. Someone living here and carrying on their own business. It was probably those swine from The Flying Pig next door, using the place as an annexe.

  Porrig sought a knife to end it all. Enough was enough. He had suffered much more than any man should suffer. It was time to take the gentleman’s way out.

  As no knife was forthcoming Porrig solemnly took up the pink plastic brush and began to rake at his wrist.

  And then he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

  The whistling grew louder.

  Then—

  ‘Hello there,’ said a voice.

  Porrig abandoned his suicide attempt. He looked up and he stared.

  In the doorway stood the pimpled youth from the station. He was holding Porrig’s suitcase.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ Porrig leaped for the throat. ‘You thieving rotter. You’re gonna die.’

  He caught the youth off balance and the two tumbled out of the kitchenette and onto the landing. Porrig was no fighter, but his mind was now so scrambled up that he fought like the madman he was. The youth, however, was not without some martial skills; he parried Porrig’s every blow and countered with no small number of his own.

  In fact, to use the parlance of the fighting fraternity, he kicked the bejasus out of Porrig.

  ‘No more.’ Porrig curled up in a ball on the landing floor. ‘I give up. Let me crawl away to die.’

  The youth, who’d been putting in the boot, straightened up. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’ve had enough?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ whimpered Porrig.

  ‘Only I really do enjoy a bit of violence. It’s in my nature, you see. I come from a broken home.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ moaned Porrig. ‘I really am.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be. It was me who broke it.’ The youth made unpleasant sniggering sounds. ‘Come on, take another pop at me. You never know, you might strike lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Porrig gave a sickly laugh. ‘Me, lucky? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh well, as you please. Do you want a cup of tea then?’

  ‘A cup of tea?’ Porrig uncurled a little and peeped up at his tormentor. ‘You’re offering me a cup of tea?’

  ‘Or coffee, whichever you prefer. It’s decaff, of course. Gotta look after your health.’

  ‘My health?’ Porrig clutched at his ribs. They were broken, he was sure.

  ‘I stick to a wholefood diet,’ said the youth proudly. ‘Strictly vegetarian and macrobiotic.’

  ‘That’s probably why you have such a spotty face,’ observed Porrig and the boot went in again.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said the youth in a genuine tone. ‘You’ve got a lairy mouth and I’ve got a short temper. Not a very good combination, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Porrig groaned.

  ‘So we’ll both have to try a little harder. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Porrig, through gritted teeth.

  The youth helped Porrig up, led him into the kitchenette and set him down on the chair. ‘I’ll put on the kettle,’ he said.

  Porrig sat and hugged at his ribs. The youth filled up the kettle. ‘My name’s Wok Boy,’ he said. ‘Though I won’t tell you why. And yours is Porrig, of course.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’m sorry I had to nut you at the station. We got off to a bit of a wonky start, didn’t we?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Well, I was supposed to meet you and extend you a warm welcome.’

  ‘You what?’ said Porrig once again.

  ‘Meet you and bring you here. But I didn’t know it was actually you until I had a look in your suitcase. But then when I went back to the station, you’d gone. I figured you’d show up here eventually, so I just dossed about for a bit. I didn’t want to be here in case that slag Phart-Ebum came inside. He didn’t, did he?’

  ‘No he didn’t. Look, what’s going on?’

  ‘I really am sorry I had to nut you at the station, but you did ask for it, didn’t you?’

  ‘What is going on?’ Porrig asked once again. ‘What are you doing here? Why were you supposed to meet me? How do you know about Phart-Ebum? Why—’

  ‘One thing at a time. What sort of tea do you like? Orange Sunset or Peach Truffle?’

  ‘Peach Truffle?’

  ‘Oh good, that’s my favourite too.’

  ‘Stop messing me about,’ said Porrig.

  ‘Easy, pal,’ said Wok Boy, displaying a well-made fist.

  ‘All right,’ said Porrig. ‘Just one question. The stuff downstairs. Who does it belong to?’

  ‘You, of course.’

  ‘It’s really mine?’

  ‘It’s really yours.’

  ‘I don’t get this.’

  ‘It’s really simple,’ said Wok Boy. ‘There’s no great mystery.’ He lit the stove and put the kettle on to boil. ‘This old bloke employed me to clean up the shop. Clear out all the old rubbish that was in it. Give the place a lick of paint. Bring down all these cartons of comic books he had stored in London. Restore the printing press. I’ve been working here for months getting everything prepared for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘He wanted everything to be exactly as you’d have wanted it to be. It’s all yours, all of it. All he wants you to do for him is draw him a comic.’

  ‘What comic?’

  ‘I don’t know what comic. He didn’t tell me everything. But it’s something very special. He’s got a real bee in his old bonnet about it. You are an artist, aren’t you?
You can draw?’

  ‘Of course I can draw. Didn’t you see my stuff when you nosed through my suitcase?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Gyp the Crip, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Jazz the Spaz.’

  ‘You no-mark,’ said Wok Boy.

  ‘How dare you!’

  Well, get a grip. Jazz the Spaz? Whatever goes on in your head?’

  ‘Look, forget about my head., It’s confused enough as it is. This old bloke who’s done all this for me. Who is he? What’s his name?’

  ‘He never told me his name. The people round here all call him the wizard. But he doesn’t look much like a wizard to me. Actually he looks more like a dog. He’s got these two white tufts of hair that stick up like big ears and—’

  Porrig’s eyes grew wide. ‘Two white tufts of hair,’ he said slowly.

  ‘And he’s well hard,’ said Wok Boy, popping two pink teabags into cups. ‘I wouldn’t want to mess around with him, even though he’s old and frail-looking. He says he knows—’

  ‘Dimac,’ whispered Porrig.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Oh yeah, and he said I was to give you this.’ Wok Boy dug into the pocket of his greasy jeans and brought out a crumpled envelope.

  Porrig took it and tore it open.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Wok Boy asked.

  ‘A business card,’ said Porrig. He took it out and stared at it.

  On the card was printed a seven-pointed star.

  A seven-pointed star and a name.

  Porrig read the name aloud.

  The name was Apocalypso The Miraculous.

  7

  ‘Nuke it,’ said Danbury.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Sir John.

  ‘Nuke it and I’m not kidding.’

  Sir John Rimmer diddled with his twiddly-diddly beard. ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m trying to say nuke it.’ Danbury threw up his hands. ‘I have been on edge ever since I stepped down from the plane.’

  ‘And fell in the water,’ said the doctor.