Apocalypso (20 page)

‘I’ll
tell the old bloke when I see him,’ said Porrig. ‘He’ll probably break both
your legs.’

‘You
ungrateful bastard. I thought you might change.’

‘I have
changed. But you stitched me up. I heard you, don’t deny it.’

‘I don’t
know what you’re so fussed about. He wasn’t that good a shag.’

‘He?’
said Porrig.

 ‘The
transvestite. Very convincing tits though. Silicone.’

‘What?’
went Porrig.

‘You’re
not telling me you thought it was a woman. I mean, I swing both ways, me. You
have to sometimes, life on the streets and all that. But you didn’t really
think
he
was a woman…

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig, returning once more with haste to the kitchen sink.

At precisely ten-o-two and
thirty-two-seconds-almost, a free newspaper came through the door of Porrig’s
shop. Wok Boy picked it up and brought it up. Porrig was lying on the bed
reading his great-great-grandfather’s book.

‘This
is bloody odd,’ said Wok Boy.

Porrig
looked up without interest.

‘Look
at the headline. “BEWARE THE BIG STORM”.’ Wok Boy went over to the window.

What
big storm? It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Perhaps
it’s a misprint,’ said Porrig, still without interest.

‘No, it
isn’t. It says that a BIG STORM is heading up the English Channel and that all
ships and boats and whatever must go at once to the nearest harbour and tie up
until further notice.’

‘Oh
good,’ said Porrig. With my luck it will probably blow the roof off the
building. Which should appeal to you.’

Why me?’

Well,
you like a good blow, don’t you?’

‘Oooooh,’
said Wok Boy. ‘Do I smell the unsavoury twang of homophobia?’

‘No,
just bitterness. When are you going to get my comics back?’

When
are
you
going to start on the old bloke’s comic?’

‘I don’t
know whether I am.’

‘But
all the stuff in the book?’

Porrig
shook his head. ‘I’ve been giving that a lot of thought while I lay in my bed
listening to you and the trannie, and I don’t know how much of it I actually
believe. My daft father running the world from some paranormal ministry in
London? That’s absurd.’

‘But it’s
true. If the old bloke says it’s true then I for one believe him. And you’ve
been to this ALPHA 17 place yourself. Rippington told me. That’s where he’s
from.’

‘And he’s
going back,’ said Porrig. ‘I don’t trust him either.’

‘He
wants to go back. He hates it here. Rippington reckons that this is the most
stupid reality there could possibly be and he can’t imagine why anyone would
ever want to live in it.’

‘Yeah,
well, I often feel that way myself.’

‘Yeah,
well, now you have the chance to do something about it, don’t you?’

Porrig
shook his head once more. Why me?’ he asked.

‘Oh,
get a grip, Porrig. Why you? Because you know, perhaps. Because it’s your
father, perhaps. Because you could draw the comic book, perhaps. Has it ever
occurred to you why you’re such an arse with people?’

‘It’s
just the way I am. I can’t help it.’

‘Bollocks.
You’re an outsider. It’s like what all this is about. Being in tune with your
own. Being on the same wavelength.’

‘I don’t
know what this has got to do with me.’

‘Crap
and bollocks. Have you ever really fitted in, Porrig?’

Porrig
thought. ‘I’m sure I have.’

‘You
never have. You’re a genuine loner. You’ve got no real friends. Your family
have basically disowned you. Nobody likes you.’

‘Hold
on,’ said Porrig. ‘Don’t get carried away.’

‘People
don’t like you and you don’t like people.’

‘I do
like people.’

‘You
don’t. You could have given that beggar some small change. But you didn’t and
you got kicked into a coma.’

‘So
that makes me a bad person, because I won’t shell out money to drunks?’

‘I didn’t
say you were a bad person. You’re not a bad person. You’re a different person.
You’re in the wrong key, Porrig.’

‘I don’t
follow you, sorry.’

‘Are
you happy, Porrig?’

‘No,’
said Porrig.

‘Have
you ever been happy?’

Porrig
thought once more. ‘Not that I can remember,’ he said sadly.

Well,
think about it and think about what’s in the book. All those separate
realities, all a fraction apart. An endless number of possibilities. Worlds
within worlds within worlds. You’re not in harmony with this world, Porrig, so
perhaps you’re in the wrong one.’

What?’

‘You
are sure about who you are, aren’t you?’

‘Of
course I’m sure. I mean…’ Porrig thought back. He thought back to the last
time he’d seen his parents.

‘Sardine
can,’ said Porrig slowly.

‘Pardon?’
said Wok Boy.

‘My
father. He used to say all this stupid stuff. He was saying it the night before
I left home. About how the fairies brought me, or I came free with a packet of
cornflakes.’

‘Or
they opened a can of sardines and—’

‘Stuff
like that,’ said Porrig.

‘Makes
you think,’ said Wok Boy. ‘Maybe you’re not one of us.’

‘Us?
You’re not one of
us.’

‘I
never pretended I was.’

‘And I’ve
been pretending, is that what you’re saying?’

‘You
didn’t know any different. It’s not your fault.’

‘That’s
comforting.’

‘Is it?’

‘Not
really, no. But it makes some kind of twisted sense. But if I don’t belong in
this particular reality, which one do I belong in?’

What
about this one?’ Wok Boy fished into the waistline of his unspeakable jeans and
drew out a comic book.

Porrig
took it from his hands and lightly brushed the cover.
‘The Silver Surfer,’
he
said softly. ‘The first one I saw in the shop downstairs.’

Well, I
couldn’t let the trannie have that one, could I?’

‘But
what are you saying?’

‘It’s
another reality, isn’t it? The world of imagination. The world of comic books.
Superheroes and super villains. Peter Parker’s always in the shit, just like
you. But he’s also Spider Man. And you’re much more at home in the world of
comics than you are in this one. Am I right, or am I frigging right?’

‘You’re
right,’ said Porrig, leaping to his feet. ‘You are right. You
are
right.
I see it all now. I am different. I
am
an outsider and
I am
the
one person who can expose the Ministry of Serendipity.’

‘Eh?’
said Wok Boy.

‘Best
the super villain. My dad, the super villain. With my awesome super powers I
shall sweep down upon the Ministry and—’

‘Hold
on,’ said Wok Boy.

‘Hold
on, what?’

‘Super
powers? What super powers?’

‘The
ones I’ll get off Rippington as a reward for taking him back to ALPHA 17.’

‘Now
just hold on.’

‘Everything
falls into place,’ said Porrig, posing before a long bedroom mirror that ha4
somehow escaped previous mention. ‘I shall be a mighty avenger for the
oppressed people of the world. People like you, Wok Boy, losers, dim-wits,
those kind of folk. I shall smash the mighty from their seats of power, bring
justice and freedom and—’

‘No!’
shouted Wok Boy, flapping his hands. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just meant
that you should draw comics because that was what you do best, I didn’t mean—’

‘ALPHA
MAN!’ cried Porrig. What?’

‘I
shall call myself ALPHA MAN, after ALPHA 17. And you shall be my companion and
comedy relief partner. ALPHA MAN and WOK BOY, I can see it all now.’

Porrig
snatched up the bed cover and flung it cloak-fashion about his shoulders. And
then he rushed from the room shouting ‘Up and away,’ and, ‘Rippington, where
are you?’

What a
wanker,’ said Wok Boy, shaking his head and putting his feet up. ‘And what
exactly is all this about?’ He cast an eye of suspicion over the free
newspaper. “‘BIG STORM”,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘What BIG STORM?’

14

BEWARE
THE BIG STORM

said the papers. And ‘BEWARE
THE BIG STORM’, said the TV weathermen. And ‘BEWARE THE BIG STORM,’ said Carol
Vorderman on at least four channels at once. And not to be caught napping after
the last BIG STORM, folk took their washing in, tied down their dustbin lids
and rushed to the shops to purchase candles and condoms.

At the
Ministry of Serendipity, Porrig’s dad monitored the progress of things. They
have one of those operations rooms there, with the big lighting-up map of the
world on the wall and lots of computer desks with smart-looking women in
tight-fitting suits and black stockings, who carry clipboards around and lean
over men in white coats, who study telescreens and drink coffee out of plastic
cups.

The
Americans do it with more style, but they copied the idea from us.

Porrig’s
dad had a special clipboard of his own, a black one with a light on the top,
and he studied this and talked to the smart-looking women and the men in white
coats and lurked about in corridors and had secret meetings and things of that
nature generally.

‘Progress
report,’ said Porrig’s dad to a particularly smart-looking woman.

‘All
the media are carrying our bogus report of the BIG STORM, sir. Shipping has
been cleared from the English Channel and the location and movement of
The
Leviathan
is being monitored by satellite. It’s approximately thirty miles
off Land’s End and travelling towards the Channel.’

‘And
Sir John Rimmer?’

‘Sir
John has been flown to Land’s End. He’s wired for sound, so we will be able to
listen to what transpires. His companions have flown out with him.’

‘Do
they mean to go aboard
The Leviathan?’

‘Apparently
so, sir. Things are likely to be rather unpleasant there. But Dr Harney and
Danbury Collins decided to go with him. Loyalty, I suppose.’

‘Loyalty?’
Augustus shook his head. The word meant very little to him.

Would
you care for some coffee in a plastic cup?’ asked the smart-looking woman.

‘No
thanks, I think I’ll just go and have a lurk in the men’s bog.’

The helicopter was one of
those black unmarked affairs that governments deny all knowledge of owning. It
rested upon the green sward (which is not to be confused with the green sword,
or even the green smorgasbord) and it made that glorious CHB CHB CHB CHB CHB
CHB CHB noise with its rotors that comes across so well in quadrophonic sound
at the cinema.

Danbury
Collins cast approving eyes in its direction. ‘Do you see the armaments on
that bastard?’ he asked Dr Harney. ‘Heat-seeking missiles, 7.62, M134 General
Electric mini-guns. They’ve even got the loudspeakers for playing Wagner while
you shoot up “Charlie”.’

‘Fascinating,’
said Dr Harney. ‘And are you still carrying your little “piece”?’

‘Damn
right,’ said Danbury. ‘I have a “certain feeling” that it might just come in
handy.’

‘Are
you sure that you actually want to go through with this?’

Danbury
shrugged. ‘Come on,’ he said. We couldn’t really let Sir John do it all by
himself, could we?’

‘You
never cease to amaze me,’ said the doctor. You’re a good lad, Danbury. Ah, see,
here comes himself’

Sir
John Rimmer climbed down from the helicopter. He looked very much like himself
once more. In fact he looked just himself. But then, as he
was
himself,
this was only to be expected. Sir John was sporting a fine new beard. A blue
one this time, supplied to him by the MoS amateur dramatics society. As used in
their recent production of
Blue Beard,
no doubt.

And it
did look dramatic, set off against the crimson robes he now wore.

He
greeted his two companions. ‘Greetings,’ he said.

Wotcha,’
said Danbury. We had to come down on the train. I like the . .

‘Careful,’
said Sir John. You promised, no more beard gags.’

Danbury
rubbed thoughtfully at the lump on his head: his reward for the one about the
lion’s den. ‘No more beard gags,’ he said. ‘After all, this is a serious
business. Have you planned what you mean to say to the creature?’