Apocalypso (6 page)

The tropical island of Gwa’tan
Qua Cest’l Potobo lies in the Pacific Ocean, roughly three thousand miles
north-east of the Tuamotu archipelago, and enjoys the benefits of both the
equatorial counter current and the south equator drift.

It is
one of those earthly paradise lads, fringed about with waving palms, all dreamy
sunsets and dazzling dawns. The natives enjoy a simple life of fishing and
fornication. They shun material possessions and formalized religion, speak a
basic  language consisting of 352 words and engage in weekly
bluggas
(or
‘piss-ups’), where they all get commode-hugging drunk on a local brew called
blug,
a cocktail of island fruits and fermented, cows’ urine.

Exactly
why the likes of Thomas Cook and Richard Branson have so far failed to
capitalize on this primitive people might well be explained by a translation of
the island’s name.

The
first Westerner ever to come ashore was the infamous pirate captain Leonard ‘Legless’
Lemon in the year 1692. His ship,
The
Shagger, dropped anchor in the bay
and lowered a longboat. Leonard was met on the beach by a fishing and
fornication party and enquired the name of the island.

Gwa’tan
Qua Cest’l Potobo, he was told. Which means: ‘Bugger off back to where you came
from, you white bastard, or we’ll bung you in the cooking pot.

The
mistranslation of this by Leonard’s Maori interpreter, who took the phrase to
mean: You’re all welcome ashore for a spot of the old jigger-jig and a slap-up
fish supper’, led to some unpleasantness and the origin of Leonard’s nickname.

But
that of course was long ago and since then many men have visited the island.
Certainly few in the early days left with the requisite number of limbs, but
over the years the natives have come to embrace certain aspects of Western
civilization: nylon fishing lines, fruit-flavoured condoms and selection of
pharmaceuticals to stave off the more debilitating effects
of blug.
There
is also now a small religious community dedicated to the worship of Carol
Vorderman. The members of this cult hold that the shapely presenter with the
laughing eyes and the calculating personality is a three-fold divinity, capable
of trilocation, owing to her ability to appear on three television programmes
simultaneously.

But
apart from this the islanders keep themselves pretty much to themselves and
resist the temptations of the outside world. And so it was only after much
persuasion and negotiation, coupled with the promise of a signed photo of
Carol, that a three-man party was finally allowed permission to fly out to Gwa’tan
Qua Cest’l Potobo.

And
thus it came to pass that even as Porrig toiled through the streets of
Brighton, these three men, whose collective fate would soon become entangled
with his own, were unloading supplies from a seaplane and rowing them ashore.

Of the
three, one stood out immediately as being the leader, by virtue of his bearing
and his height. Sir John Rimmer, the famous paranormal investigator and
celebrated biographer of (amongst others) Hugo Rune, was a giant of a man.
Nearly seven feet from toe to topknot; he carried with him an air of supreme
authority.

It was
rumoured that while still a child and not yet knighted by the Queen, his
teachers had called him Sir. It was a good rumour and one of many that Sir John
had put about himself. It wasn’t strictly true, in fact it wasn’t true at all,
but it
was
a good story and it added to the image.

Sir
John’s boyhood had in truth been a time of torture and torment. His father had
been the now legendary Sebastian ‘Ringpiece’ Rimmer, playboy adventurer and
mucker to the late King George. And while Crowley was being damned by the
yellow press as ‘the wickedest man on Earth’, ‘Ringpiece’ Rimmer was having at
it with man, beast and backgammon board, frigging away the family fortune and
indulging in practices which would have had even Crowley averting his eyes.

The
difference between Aleister Crowley, self-styled Great Beast of the Apocalypse,
and Sebastian ‘Ringpiece’ Rimmer, philanderer and ne’er-do-well, was that ‘Ringpiece’
did it with charm. And charm is like charisma, which is somewhat like stage
presence. You either have it, or you don’t.

‘Ringpiece’
had it, big time. So ‘Ringpiece’ had it good.

He was
fêted. Folk loved him, forgave him, cancelled his debts and increased his
credit line. He rubbed his tailored shoulders against the good and great and,
though many times he put a foot wrong, he never stepped in the doo-doo.

The son
was dwarfed by the father: although he outgrew him physically, he could never
outgrow him in charm. Sir John was a charmless child who grew into a charmless
adult. And those who lack for charm, make up for it in bluster.

With height
to his advantage (and some advantage that was), Sir John took to looking down
upon the world. Aloft, aloof and alone, he sought to make a name for himself
and one that would be remembered.

Sir
John Rimmer.

Just
plain
John
wouldn’t do. And, as it was unlikely that he would ever
actually be knighted, John changed his name by deed poll to
Sir John.
It
was perfectly legal and made up for any lost time.

And it
carries quite some clout in certain circles.

Much
time might be spent and much ink shed in setting down a record of Sir John’s
exploits. They lacked not for adventure, nor for courage, nor for self-publicity.
But where the fact ended and fantasy began, who can truly say? It was certainly
true that he was presently employed by a mysterious government department known
as the Ministry of Serendipity. This body’s currency was ‘The Strange’. It had
fingers in many odd pies and very long arms indeed. But exactly what Sir John’s
involvement was with the ministry, is something that will soon be explained.

For
now, what more of the man?

Of his
looks: they were impressive, with his great height and practised noble bearing.
But to these he added a finishing touch: the beard. Many a great man has had a
great beard. Karl Marx, Ernest Hemingway, Giant Haystacks, ZZ Top. But Sir John
Rimmer’s out-greated them all. It was a blinder of a beard, a magnificent piece
of face furniture. Ruby red and teased and twirled into a riot of beribboned
ringlets, it was a beard to reckon with and it reached right down to his dongler.

On this
particular day, and in this particular region, the beard was in company with ‘tropical
kit’. Sir John wore a solar topi and one of those
Sir
Richard
Attenborough safari suits. And it does have to be said that few men living can
dress like that and carry it off.

Sir
John was accompanied upon this occasion, as upon many previous, by his two
loyal, although singularly less famous companions. The first of these was Dr
Harney, Fellow of the Royal Society and advisor to certain covert government
operational units on the retrieval and study of downed alien spacecraft. All
governments have such advisors, because most governments have one or two downed
alien spacecraft knocking about in their military aircraft hangars. Not that
they’ll own up to-it, and why should they, eh?

Dr
Harney’s upbringing was somewhat different to Sir John’s. He came from a normal
background. All right, so what’s
normal?
Well, how about
average?
How
about functional? How about
ordinary?

Dr
Harney’s dad was ordinary. He had an ordinary job at an ordinary factory. His
mum was an ordinary mum, who, in those days when ordinary mums didn’t go out to
work, stayed at home and brought up her ordinary children in an ordinary house
in an ordinary street in an ordinary town. One of those houses in one of those
streets that Porrig had gazed upon as he travelled down to Brighton on the
train.

Ordinary.
Everyday. Safe.

Well,
that’s what it looks like if you don’t screw up your eyes.

Dr
Harney had been an ordinary child. Not too dim and not too bright. Good enough
at games to avoid ridicule, but not good enough to shine. He drifted along
through his ordinary childhood into ordinary adolescence. And he would no doubt
have drifted into ordinary adulthood had not someone bunged him a tab of acid.

It was
his sixteenth birthday party, it was 1967 and ordinary folk were turning on.
Someone turned on Dr Harney and Dr Harney screwed up his eyes, then opened them
very wide.

Dr
Harney took the hippy trail. Dr Harney sought enlightenment. Dr Harney fell in
with strange folk and took many strange drugs. And Dr Harney was no longer
ordinary. No longer everyday. No longer safe. He took a doctorate of parapsychology
at Cal Tech. He became Dr Harney.

Now he
was middle-aged, a jolly freckle-faced fellow, whose conical head, enveloped in
a froth of white hair, had the appearance of a mountain peak capped by cloud.
He was far from ordinary, and he was here. And very much the brains behind Sir
John.

The
third member of this redoubtable party was Danbury Collins, the psychic youth
and masturbator. Danbury was a furtive-looking individual with hollow
red-rimmed eyes and hairs upon the palms of his hands. Although frequently to
be found engaged in his favourite pastime, he possessed certain rare gifts
which made him in-valuable to Sir John: the ability to programme video
recorders, for instance, and to know which queue to join at a supermarket
checkout. Danbury had never once stepped in dog poo, nor been fouled by pigeon
guano. His giro always arrived on time and if he ever visited the shoe sales,
no matter which style he chose, they always had his size in stock.

Bastard!
And done with no charm whatsoever!

But
more than this, young Danbury had a nose for impending danger which had saved
his two companions’ lives on more than one occasion. So even though they didn’t
like him very much, him being such an inveterate pud-puller and everything, he
was worth his weight in mucky mags in a tricky situation.

And so
what, it might well be asked, was this notable trio doing on Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l
Potobo?

Had
they come for a holiday, perhaps? To enjoy the dubious pleasures of
Hug
and
a bit of the old F and F? Or could it be possible, just possible, that they
were here upon some secret mission? Some psychic quest? Some investigation into
an ancient mystery that would lead them into danger, peril and high adventure?

Well,
yes, it could.

Danbury Collins hauled the
final weighty wooden crate up the beach and sat down heavily upon it. ‘I
notice,’ he said as he did so, ‘that all these boxes bear government seals.’

‘MoS,’
said Dr Harney, dropping down beside him on the sand. ‘Ministry of
Serendipity, Mornington Crescent. They are funding this expedition.’

Sir
John’s gaunt shadow fell across the doctor. ‘I think it might be a sound idea
for us to arm ourselves with a few stout sticks,’ he said. ‘I spy a number of
natives skulking amongst the palm trees. One of them is wearing a chef’s hat
and another has a bag of charcoal.’

‘Just
let them try something,’ said Danbury, patting at the bulge in his red cagoule.
‘I came tooled up.’

‘Is
that a gun in your pocket?’ asked the doctor. ‘Or are you—’

‘My old
man’s service revolver. I smuggled it out in the diplomatic bag.’

‘Most
enterprising.’

‘I had
a “certain feeling” that it might come in handy.’

Sir John
nodded approvingly. ‘I have come to rely on your “certain feelings”,’ he said. ‘The
guide I have engaged should be with us in about ten minutes. He speaks pidgin
English and he has arranged accommodation for us. In the meanwhile we had best
be on our guard.’

‘No
sweat, Sir John,’ said the psychic youth. ‘And while we’re waiting, perhaps Dr
Harney would like to fill us in on all the details of what exactly we’re  doing
here.’

‘I
would,’ said that man. ‘I would indeed.’

‘Then
please do,’ said Sir John.

‘It is
a most incredible business,’ said the good doctor, rising to his sandaled feet
and patting the sand from his strides, ‘and has been pieced together, partly
from speculation, partly from historical records and partly from physical
evidence.  All may not be entirely correct, but I believe I can  offer an
overview of the situation.

‘Let us
begin with a degree of speculation. Let us envisage a super-civilization
somewhere in a distant galaxy. This civilization is technologically advanced,
it is benign, it is sophisticated. The folk here have eradicated illness and
put an end to war. There is no poverty, there is no want. These folk live long 
and prosper.’

The
doctor paused on the off chance that some running gag concerning Oscar Wilde
was about to be slipped in here, but as none was, he continued.

‘Utopia,’
the doctor said. ‘Or so it would appear. But disaster looms. Population growth
is outstripping food production, natural resources are being depleted. In
short, time is running out. It is reasonable to surmise that should our
civilization continue, we will encounter these very problems and sooner rather
than later.