Apocalypso (10 page)

‘Dr
Harney,’ said Sir John. ‘You understand pidgin, what is he trying to say?’

‘Spit’m
it out,’ said Dr Harney.

‘Shoot’m,’
said the native. ‘Heart-bump’m fair-had-me-going. One hundred dollar-pounds.’

‘He’s
demanding compensation,’ said the doctor, ‘because Danbury pointed the pistol at
him. He has a bad heart, he says.’

‘Outrageous,’
said Sir John.

‘Godlady
picker-pick.’ The native pointed to the photo. ‘Brown-bots blong stone-bonker.
Noway-Hosay, big-fala blong stone-bonker, dig deep long-pockets, ya boo sucks.’

‘Ah, I
see.’ The doctor now smiled. What he is saying is that if we are daft enough to
believe that he and his fellow islanders worship Carol Vorderman, then we’re
also daft enough to cough up one hundred quid for pointing a gun at him.’

Well,
is that so?’ Sir John reached into a safari suit pocket pouch, withdrew a set
of brass knuckles, fitted these over his right fist and then dealt the native a
weltering blow to the skull.

The
native collapsed in an untidy heap and lay on the beach a-rubbing at his head.

‘Do
I
make
myself
understood?’ asked Sir John.

The
native nodded soberly.

‘Right
then, no more of your nonsense. Lead us at once to our accommodation. Danbury,
you stay and guard the supplies until our chap here returns at the hurry up
with some native bearers. Up and at it then, Mr Brown-bot, there’s work to do.’

Danbury
chewed upon his lip. ‘There’ll be tears before bedtime,’ he said.

‘Chop
chop,’ said Sir John. ‘Pacey pacey.’

The
native rose and led Sir John and Dr Harney up the beach and off into the palms.
His smile soon returned to him and he engaged the doctor in conversation. He
was eager to know all about England. Were New Labour living up to their
election promises? Had the Spice Girls released a ‘concept’ album yet? What
exactly did the word ‘oxymoron’ mean? How tall did you have to be to join The
Twenty-third Congregation of Espadrille?

Dr
Harney, who knew when the piss was being taken, answered these questions
politely and then posed a few of his own, regarding life on the island.

The
native explained that his name was Monty and that he was head man of the
nearest village. He apologized to Dr Haney about the business of the hundred
dollar-pounds, but excused himself by saying that, as one who had travelled
widely, he had always found ripping off the gullible foreigner to be the rule
rather than the exception. He would just have to work a bit harder at honing
his skills.

Dr
Harney asked what duties were expected of a head man and was told that the post
was largely honorific, as the local populace recognized few laws and fewer
leaders. The head man was, none the less, empowered to impose three laws of his
own choosing, for which the penalty was death. Death by slow torture, followed
by being eaten.

However,
said Monty, as a humanitarian himself, he had imposed three laws that were
unlikely to be broken. Impersonating an Egyptian was one, and goosing an
elephant was another. And so he therefore maintained an air of authority and
the goodwill of his people, without the need to participate in torture,
butchery and anthropophagous gut-fillings.

At
length Monty led Dr Harney and Sir John into a clearing.

‘You
said that there were three offences punishable by death,’ said the doctor. ‘You
told me the first two, but you didn’t mention the third.’

Monty
put his fingers to his lips and whistled. From all sides sprang natives. They
were heavily armed natives, bearing stout sticks and pointy spears. They
surrounded Dr Harney and Sir John in a scrum that was far from unruly.

‘Third
law,’ said Monty. ‘No hit’m head man.’

Danbury Collins sat on the
beach, his back against a wooden crate, his shoe and sockless feet dug in the
sand. Danbury gazed out over the beautiful bay, from the palm-fringed shore to
the sea of deepest blue. It really was paradise here and no mistake. One
hundred yards off the coast four long canoes moved easily across the water,
each manned by ten long-limbed and finely muscled natives. They went about
their noble task and paid no heed to Danbury.

The lad
sighed gently as he watched them. What a life that must be. Fishing and
fornication. No mobile phones, no motor cars and no McDonald’s Big Macs. If it
hadn’t been for the presentiment of doom that clung to him like an unwanted
lover, he could quite have gone for it. Whipped off his kecks and leaped into
the water.

But the
water was not really a good place to be. Something lurked out there. Beneath
the waves a monster dwelt. A monster that should never be allowed to surface.

But, of
course, it could all be rubbish. Perhaps there was no spacecraft. Perhaps it
was just an odd rock formation. Perhaps the whole shebang was a pile of poo.

But
Danbury knew better. He had the ‘certain feeling’ that big bad trouble lay out
there and although shooting an alien did have its fun side, the responsibility
was no laughing matter.

The
fishermen had cast their nets and were now rowing home. Danbury looked on as
they applied themselves to their oars. It was all perfect unison and great
heroic strokes. They would certainly have put the wind up an Oxford or
Cambridge crew. As they reached the beach they clambered down into the water,
took up the stern-lines and pulled on them with a will.

The
lines stretched out into the sea, where nets bulged big with jumping fish.
Ring-tailed spromlings, diamond-finned loonbellies, rainbow snoutmaskers and
bum-waggle gin-pit splay-jawed grum-doodlers.

Danbury
rose and stretched and viewed the fishermen. There was such dignity to them: a
proud people fishing as their fathers had done before them. And their fathers’
fathers. And their fathers’ fathers’ fathers. And their..

My, how
they sweated and strained. And my, how they still paid no heed at all to
Danbury. The lad broke wind and watched and wondered.

The
nets drew ever closer and the natives plunged in thigh deep, shouting and
cheering and hauling their catch towards the land.

The
nets now broke the surface to display their shining bounty. Danbury saw a
silver dome-like body crest the waves.

A
flat-tailed chufgrumbler, was that? Or a bandybrowed hooleyplop?

Surely
not a rare duck-loined blanket-shark?

Danbury
squinted.

The
native fishers hauled and dragged and cheered and shouted, as up from the
depths and onto the beach came a silver-grey metal object of considerable size.

Danbury’s
jaw dropped open and his bowels began to move.

‘Oh no,’
said Danbury. ‘Oh no no no.’

But it
was,
yes,
and up it came, to the cheers and shouts and hauls and pulls:
an elegant aeroform resembling a star with seven points.

‘Put it
back.!’ shrieked Danbury. ‘Get it back in the water!’

The
natives ignored him. They were poking it with their spears. Poking, prodding,
laughing and joking. They were not to be bothered by a stonebonker white-fala
jumping up and down.

As
Danbury looked on in horror, he could see the steam starting to rise. As the
massive craft lay there on the baking sand, the seawater was beginning to
evaporate on its hull. The seven-pointed spacecraft was already warming up
nicely.

‘Put it
back! Put it back!’ Danbury unholstered his weapon and fired it into the air. ‘Stand
away from that spaceship,’ he ordered. ‘No, I mean, get it back in the water.
Quick. Pacey pacey. Get a hurry up.’

And
then someone struck him from behind and Danbury Collins said no more.

He had plenty to say
though when he regained consciousness.

Like ‘Aaaaaagh!’
and ‘Ow!’ and ‘Oh my head!’ and Where am I?’ and What is going on?’

‘Be at
peace there,’ said the voice of Dr Harney.

‘I’ve
gone blind. I’ve gone blind.’

‘No,
you haven’t. You’re in the dark.’

Why am
I in the dark?’

‘Because
you’re locked in a shed.’

‘Oh, I
see. No, I bloody don’t. Why am I locked in a shed?’

‘There’s
been a spot of bother,’ said the doctor.

‘A spot
of bother? A spot of… Oh shit, I remember. The spacecraft. They’ve brought
up the spacecraft.’

We
know,’ said the voice of Dr Harney.

‘You
know?’

‘There’s
been a lot of chit chat going on outside. A lot of chit chat in American
accents. It would seem that the MJ 12 mob from Area 51 got here before us. They
paid the natives to bring up the spacecraft. It’s been taken aboard a tramp
steamer and is being shipped off to an American naval base.’ Well, well,’ said
Danbury. ‘The things you can hear through the walls of a locked shed.’ The lad
tried to get up, but he couldn’t. ‘I can’t get up,’ he observed.

‘That
would be the ropes,’ said Dr Harney. ‘They do somewhat impede movement.’

‘Somewhat.
Oh my poor head.’

‘You’ll
be all right.’

‘Oh no
I won’t.’

‘No,
you’re probably right about that.’ Danbury groaned. Will someone please tell me
just what is going on?’

‘I told
you, a spot of bother.’

‘You
couldn’t perhaps be a little more specific?’ Well, you know how Sir John
clumped the native?’

‘I do
recall that, yes.’

Well,
the native was the head man of the village and clumping the head man is a
punishable offence.’

‘I
suppose it would be.’

‘Punishable
by death.’

‘Help!’
screamed Danbury. ‘Let me out. I didn’t clump anyone. I’m innocent.’

‘I
tried that myself,’ said the doctor. ‘They weren’t having any. “All white-falas
guilty,” the head man said. Apparently he’s inviting his cousins over for the
big blow out.’

What
big blow out?’

‘After
they’ve tortured us slowly to death, they are going to cook and eat us.’

‘Do you
remember me saying that I had a “certain feeling”?’

Dr
Harney made a grunting noise.

What
about the Americans?’ Danbury asked. ‘They won’t let these savages eat us,
surely?’

‘I think
the Americans have all buggered off in their boat.’

‘Oh
shit!’

‘And so
I was rather hoping that you might favour us with something. You being the lad
who never steps in dog doings and always comes up with a rose between his
teeth.’

We’ll
just have to shoot our way out.’

‘I
think you’ll find that they’ve taken your father’s revolver.’

‘I
think you’ll find that they’ve missed my mum’s Luger. It’s strapped to my left
ankle.’

What
foresight you do show.’

Well, I
did have a “certain feeling”.’

‘Bravo.’

‘But I’ve
just had another.’

What
exactly do you mean?’

A key
turned in a padlock and the door to the shed swung open. Sunlight beamed in and
so did Monty the head man.

‘Chow
time,’ said Monty.

‘That’s
what I mean,’ said Danbury. ‘But
that
ain’t
the half of it.’

Chow time on a certain
tramp steamer was at 1800 hours, southern Pacific time. And it was shortly before
chow time that the radio operator called in a message to the American naval
base to say that the ship was steaming smartly along at forty-five knots in a
north-north-easterly direction and that the ‘consignment’ was safely stashed in
the forward hold.

It was
shortly after chow time that he called in to say that a fault had occurred with
the refrigeration unit in the forward hold, but that the engineers were working
on the problem.

About
an hour later there was one further message, although those who heard it at the
American naval base could not make out exactly what this message was. It
appeared to be a lot of incoherent babbling, followed by a terrible
high-pitched scream.

And
then all communication with the tramp steamer
Apocalypso
was lost for
ever.

8

‘Apocalypso The
Miraculous,’ read Porrig, somewhat earlier. ‘That’s what it says on the card.’

‘I read
about him in a book,’ said Wok Boy. ‘He was very famous in his day. He’s dead
now, of course.

‘But if
he’s Dog-face the Dimac Man, the old bloke I met on the train this morning, and
that’s the same old bloke you’ve been working for here, then—’

‘Then
he’s not dead. But it won’t be the real Apocalypso, the real one is definitely
dead.’