The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends (38 page)

I now looked from one to the other of them. ‘But—’ I said once more.

‘Sssh,’ said Mr Bell.

‘But he
does
have a point,’ I said. ‘And I think we should at least take the occasional point into consideration. If the Martians win, then we
cannot
acquire a Martian spaceship and so we
cannot
be here.’

I looked all around and about.

Martians shrugged. It was all double Dutch to them.

‘So
I
will just stand
here
,’ said Arthur Knapton, now folding his arms, whilst still keeping hold of his ray gun, ‘an’ watch as you just vanish away.’

‘Hm,’ went Mr Bell. ‘I feel that you might have a very long wait. I suggest instead that we remain with the original plan.
You
surrender to
me
at once, or I will explode your younger self and that will be
that
for you.’

‘No!’ went Arthur Knapton. ‘
That
is
that
for
you
. Me Martians are immune to Earthly bacteria.
We
win.
I
win.
You
most certainly lose.’

‘No,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I think not,’ and he glanced around at the Martians. ‘Between you and me,’ he said in a loud stage whisper, ‘I think your Martians are looking a little unwell.’

‘Oh no they're not!’

I now glanced about at the Martians, and I did have to say that they did not look all that well. They were rubbing at themselves and displaying rather horrid boils upon their horrid flesh.

‘Oh yes they
are
,’ said Mr Bell.

‘Oh no they're not!’

But they were – they were looking most unwell indeed. All spotty and boily and ghastly, they looked, and then one by one they fell in a heap on the floor.

‘
What?
’ cried Arthur Knapton.

‘
What?
’

I looked up at Mr Bell and gave my head a scratch.

Mr Bell smiled down upon me and with his free hand he patted me on the shoulder.

‘History is resolving itself,’ he said to Arthur Knapton. ‘Things that you have done are becoming undone.’

‘How?’ asked the Pearly Emperor.

‘My friend Darwin and myself travelled to the year three thousand—’

‘Not much had changed,’ I said. ‘Although they do live under—’

‘Best not labour that one any more,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But let me explain it to you, Mr Knapton. My friend here –’ and I smiled up at Mr Bell ‘– was cloned. And with him, his fleas.’

‘His
fleas
?’ went Arthur Knapton.

‘His fleas,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I regret to tell you that penicillin holds no fear for Darwin's super-fleas.’

‘No! No! No!’ shouted Arthur Knapton.

‘Yes,’ said Cameron Bell.

Chapter the very last

nd so it ended. Not with a bang, as perhaps my friend Mr Bell would have preferred it, but with a whimper.

A whimper from Arthur Knapton.

He gave himself up to Mr Bell. What else was he to do?

Mr Bell had finally triumphed and I was pleased for
that
.

Mind you.

I must say that I did have certain words to say to Mr Bell regarding the manner in which he finally defeated Arthur Knapton, the Pearly Emperor. Because a rather obvious thought had struck me.

‘Why?’ I asked my friend. ‘With you being such an intelligent fellow and everything and being the greatest detective of your age,
why
, when you discovered that the villain who stole the books from the British Museum (this being your single unsolved case) was in fact your old fag and bootboy at Oxford, Mr Arthur Knapton –
why
did we not travel back to eighteen eighty-five immediately so you could lay your hands upon him when he was still a teenager? Rather than get involved in all the dangerous time-travelling adventures that we subsequently got into?’

My friend nodded thoughtfully to this, then had the temerity to tell me that the thought had obviously crossed his mind upon that very first night when we encountered Arthur Knapton in his Akhenaten persona at the British Museum.

But that if we had simply gone back and apprehended the teenage Knapton before he could commit any crimes at all,
it would not have been nearly so much fun
.

IN FACT, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN . . .

NO FUN AT ALL.

And I confess that I bit Mr Bell.

Not hard.

Just hard enough.

But we did drink champagne and we did celebrate Mr Bell's success. And also my own, because during the course of our adventures I had managed to achieve one or two significant things myself.

I
had
managed to transport my monkey descendants back to the morning of the world, endowed with the knowledge of speech and writing and fire.

Which had enabled them to eventually evolve into what we know today as Man.

Which made
me
the Father of All Mankind.

To my mind, no small achievement.

And it
was
me who defeated the Martians, because they had no immunity to the bites of my super-fleas.

So I had not only begun Mankind.

I had saved it also.

Which should at least have earned me a medal.

Or something.

Now that the case was finally concluded, Mr Bell finally honoured his promise to accompany me back to Vienna in
eighteen twenty-four, to watch Beethoven conducting his Ninth Symphony.

It would be impossible for me to express in words the very wonder of that experience. Allow me to say only that it was everything I had hoped that it would be.

And more.

As the fourth movement concluded its glory, a curious incident occurred. A gentleman turned the great composer around towards the cheering crowd.

I was baffled by this until Mr Bell explained to me that the maestro Beethoven was quite deaf. That he had composed and conducted what many informed souls believe to be one of the highest of human achievements without being able to hear a single note of it.

I was brought to tears by this disclosure and begged Mr Bell to do something about it. He simply shrugged and said, ‘What?’

But I had an idea, and so we brought Mr Beethoven to our time-ship and conveyed him to the year eighteen ninety-nine and the Grand Exposition, where Alberto Toscanini was to conduct the largest ever assembly of world-class musicians ever to perform Beethoven's Ninth.

And here, with the assistance of hearing aids which Mr Bell and I acquired in the year three thousand (where not very much had changed), the great composer was able to sit down next to Queen Victoria and enjoy every note of his greatest symphony.

Mr Bell and I were pleased for
that
.

It is with great sadness that I must write of the death of my dear friend Mister Cameron Bell. His passing came peacefully enough. He died at the age of eighty-five in the year two thousand and ten, in the city of Cardiff in Wales. I was
at his bedside when he died and held his hand as he slipped away from this world.

We had spent so many many years together and together enjoyed so many many adventures.

I have only written here of those adventures we had whilst on the trail of Mr Arthur Knapton. But there had been so many others.

We had revisited the nineteen sixties, where
I
became the first ape in space (during that age, at least). Mr Bell solved numerous ‘mysteries’, such as who carved the Easter Island statues, what happened to those aboard the
Mary Céleste
(chickens
again
!) and why Stonehenge was constructed (which was all to do with a misunderstanding between Mr Bell and some Druids). I became personally involved in ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ and inspired a young gentleman that I met in a Brentford public house to give up a life of crime and write far-fetched fiction instead.

That young gentleman's name is Robert Rankin.

Yes, Mr Bell and I had many adventures.

And I have written them up, and one day perhaps they will all be published. I hope very much that they will.

But now I am old. Old and alone and so must return to the eighteen nineties, to Syon House, to face my own death at the hands of my dear friend Lord Brentford.

I know that it must happen this way, and although I cannot say that I go willingly to meet this fate, I can say that I have lived a long and happy life and one with few regrets.

I have known more joy than sorrow.

More kindness than cruelty.

More good men than bad.

More love than hatred.

I set my tale before you here in the hope that it might amuse you.

Some perhaps will say that it is ‘a missed opportunity’, that ‘the laughs were few and far between’ and that it ‘simply petered out at the end’. To those who would say such things, I offer my apologies. I am sorry that my work did not please you, as I had hoped that it would.

But also I offer this warning, that should I ever meet face to face with any of the mean-spirited blighters who would say such cruel things and still retain the strength in my right arm –

Beware the flinging of faeces!

And so I say farewell to you and wish you love and happiness.

I remain,

your humble scrivener,

Darwin

The Educated Ape.

THE END

Copyright

A Gollancz eBook

Text copyright © Robert Rankin 2013

All rights reserved

The right of Robert Rankin to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

Gollancz

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane

London, WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK Company

This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2013 by Gollancz.

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 575 086487

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

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