Apocalypso (30 page)

‘No,
not that. Destroy the ritual, throw it away. Your book of
stage
magic.
How you do your tricks.’

‘That
is a great deal to ask.’

‘I
suppose it is. But please tell me this: how exactly did you escape from the
torture box without the aid of the ritual?’

‘Trade
secret,’ said Apocalypso.

You
are
retiring,’ said Rippington. We’d keep it a secret.’

‘All
right then. And as you’re the only ones in the room who don’t know how it was
done. But you’ll be disappointed. It was only a trick’

Rippington
climbed onto Porrig’s lap, much to Porrig’s distaste. ‘I’m sitting comfortably,’
Ripping-ton said.

‘Then I
will begin.’ Apocalypso sipped champagne and spoke through the bubbles. ‘Firstly,
the absurd outfit — the fez and the sandals. Heavily insulated with rubber to
spare me from electrocution. The “killer wasps” were ordinary hover flies,
sprayed with iron filings to conduct the electrical charge, which instantly
killed them when they were released. Now, had I actually been lowered slowly
into the flames I would surely have cooked. So an accident was contrived to add
an extra thrill for the audience and ensure my safety. The chains snapped by
remote control, as did the cables, cutting off the power. The box plunged down
between the roaring gas jets and dropped onto cushioned pads beneath the stage.
I stepped out, donned bishop’s garb and a mask and returned to the stage.’

‘Incredible,’
said Porrig.

‘Thank
you,’ said Apocalypso.

‘No,’
said Porrig. ‘I meant in-credible as in not credible at all. I was there, I saw
it close up. I don’t believe a word of that.’

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

We know
something with a rubbing part like that,’ said Rippington. We really should be
going now.’

‘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.

What?’
went Porrig. What?’ went Wok Boy. ‘But you’re—’ ‘But you ‘re—’
‘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 bloody 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 blighter, 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?’

‘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 Simo and his chums from SEX
propping up the bar. A chap can never get served.’

‘Stupid
bastard.’

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
tram.

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 time the 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
afterthought 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’s rubbing part a tweak.

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

You
bloody 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!’ Tweak ‘Letting him do it!’ General
booting and tweaking.

‘Get off
us!’ howled Porrig. ‘Leave us alone, you bloody madwoman.’