The Japanese Devil Fish Girl (41 page)

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Authors: Robert Rankin

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Ada smiled at Mr Churchill.
What a lovely fello
w, she thought.
How nice it would be to give him a little cuddle
.

‘This time,’ said Mr Churchill, ‘we are ready.’

‘Are we?’ asked Mr Gladstone. ‘This is the first that I have heard of it.’

‘It is ten years since the Martian invasion,’ continued Mr Churchill, lighting up his cigar and puffing great plumes of smoke in Ada’s direction.

What an absolute rotter
, thought Ada. Correcting her earlier unspoken opinion.

‘During these ten years,’ said Mr Churchill, ‘I have initiated a defence strategy. With the aid of Mr Tesla and Mr Babbage here.’

‘Gentlemen?’ asked the Prime Minister.

Mr Tesla said, ‘The Martian weaponry was superior to our own because they employed ionisation principles utilising a cross-polarisation of beta particles through the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter.’

Mr Babbage nodded in agreement. ‘And very big Zo Zo guns,’ he said. ‘It is all very technical.’

Mr Gladstone mopped at his brow once more.

‘The upshot,’ said Mr Churchill, puffing further smoke around and about, ‘is that heat weaponry of a most destructive nature is available to us for use against any invading armies.’

‘And the British taxpayer paid for this?’ asked Mr Gladstone.

‘Sir,’ said Mr Churchill, ‘the British taxpayer pays for
everything
.’

Mr Gladstone nodded and asked Mr Churchill whether he might have a cigar to smoke also. As did Mr Babbage
and
Mr Tesla.

Ada, who was now growing somewhat green in the face, asked whether a window might be opened. But Mr Babbage drew her attention to the singular lack of windows in the secret room. Which, at least, meant that he acknowledged her question.

‘Please continue, Mr Churchill,’ Mr Gladstone said.

‘A ring of steel,’ said Mr Churchill, ‘about the city of London. There are gun emplacements installed at secret locations all about the city. They can be manned and made active within a very short period of time.’

‘Do so,’ said Mr Gladstone. ‘Excellent cigar,’ he added.

‘Thank you, sir. We also have new mobile ground weapons. The Mark Five steam-driven Juggernaut tank, for instance. A fleet of armed airships standing by at Croydon Aerodrome. Our off-world attackers will get more than they bargained for.
Some
chicken, some neck, I am thinking.’

‘Regarding the chicken?’ Mr Gladstone asked. ‘I fail to understand.’

‘A catchphrase,’ explained Mr Churchill. ‘Everyone has one nowadays. Mr Wilde has, “Nothing to declare but my genius”. Little Tich says, “Ay-up, Mrs Merton, it’s only a saveloy.” I am working on one that goes, “Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few. Some chicken, some neck.”

‘I prefer the one about the saveloy,’ said Mr Gladstone. ‘But feel free to employ as many catchphrases as you wish, as long as the job gets done.’

‘Well, thank you, Prime Minister.’ Mr Churchill bowed once more, but as he was now all but invisible behind the pall of cigar smoke, no one saw him. ‘I might ask,’ he called out through the fug, ‘that anyone with a security rank beneath A-One be asked to leave the room, as matters appertaining to top-secret business must be discussed.’

‘I assume that means us,’ said Ada, coughing fitfully.

‘We will wait outside,’ agreed George, coughing also.

Blue smoke followed them into the corridor. A Gentleman in Black swung shut the door and stood before it, a large gun in his hand.

Ada ceased coughing and fanned at her face. ‘What should we do now?’ she asked of George.

‘Get away from
here
,’ said her husband. ‘I do not know how much credence can be given to Mr Churchill’s claims, but I do know one thing.’

‘And that is?’ Ada asked, as George took her arm and steered her down the corridor.

‘That this building must be very high on the list of targets, for both the Venusian and Jupiterian forces.’

‘Time to leave,’ said Ada Fox. ‘Hurry, George dear, please.’

From the cold and cloistered world that was Westminster, George and Ada emerged into a London bathed in sunlight. A London joyous of the Empire that surrounded it. Proud of its achievements. Certain in the knowledge that it would ever prevail.

Here was London in the full throes of celebration. Whipped up to a frenzy of excitement by the arrival of the most sacred object in all of the universe. This London feared nothing. This London was of England. And England was for ever.

George put his arm about his wife’s shoulder. ‘All will be well,’ he told her. ‘Somehow, all will be well.’

A ragged paperboy approached them with his papers.

‘Special edition, guv’nor,’ he cried out.

‘All about the statue, is it?’ George asked as the lad approached.

‘Nah,’ said the paperboy. ‘It’s about the outbreak of war.’

George purchased a paper and held it before him.

WAR

it read, in letters big and bold. And then went on in a polite and solicitous fashion to inform the population of London that regrettably a state of war now existed between Great Britain and the forces of Venus and Jupiter, which together formed an ‘unholy alliance’ and an ‘Evil Empire’. London, however, was well defended. But in order to guarantee the safety of its citizens, it would be appreciated if they would repair to places of safety – to wit, the platforms of the newly constructed London Underground Railway System – at the sound of an air-raid siren.

‘Air-raid siren?’ Ada queried. ‘What is an air-raid siren? Some kind of singing lady in a pilot’s uniform and high heels?’

‘Mm,’ went George, thoughtfully. ‘I am sure we will find out. But let us hope it does not come to that.’

‘I think Mr Churchill is a man of deeds rather than words,’ said Ada. ‘I do not think diplomacy will win the day.’

They stood and looked up at Big Ben. The clock was striking four. ‘Time for tea, I think,’ said Ada Fox.

‘Tea?’ asked George. ‘At a time like this?’

‘What better time could there be?’

They strolled together arm in arm along the streets of London, both aware now just how precious their surroundings were. Each storefront, café, restaurant or pub seemed suddenly something that must be clung to, treasured. Each somehow fragile, its very existence as frail as a bubble of soap.

‘The thought of all this being destroyed,’ said George, ‘is making me feel quite sick.’

‘Tea will help for certain, then,’ said Ada.

As they strolled further they saw folk clutching the special-edition newspapers, pointing, raising fists towards the sky. And snatches of conversation came to them as folk walked briskly by.

‘Never trusted those Venusians.’

‘A rum lot. Should never have been allowed here in the first place.’

‘Down here, taking our jobs and our women.’

‘Send them all back to their own worlds.’

‘Wipe out the lot. Extend the British Empire.’

George held Ada firmly by the arm. They stopped before a Lyons Corner House.

‘Come,’ said Ada. ‘We’ll sit and talk. Perhaps we’ll think of something.’

It was somehow even worse within the Corner House for Ada and for George. Polite folk taking tea and making gentle conversation. Waiters, well dressed and attending with pride to their work. A string quartet playing a medley of popular songs. Palms in pots and crisp white linen on the tabletops. The mundane made achingly precious, through the fear that it all might be taken away.

They were shown to a table, sat down before it, accepted the afternoon menus.

Ordered tea.

‘I am thinking,’ said George, ‘about the plan you mentioned in passing, whilst we were in the cathedral, regarding the acquisition of the airship and the abduction of the statue. That plan is seeming more and more to me like a winner. What do you think?’

‘I think,’ said Ada. And then she paused. ‘What is that rumbling sound?’

Knives and forks upon the tables rattled. A framed portrait of Queen Victoria fell from a wall. The string quartet became silent. The rumbling grew and teeth were set on edge.

George Fox leapt from the table. ‘Earthquake!’ he shouted.

Which perhaps was not for the best.

Genteel folk now rose to their feet and made for the door in haste. A terrible squeezing and squashing of bodies occurred.

‘Back door, do you think?’ asked Ada, as the rumbling grew.

‘No,’ said George. ‘Now would you look at that.’

The source of the growing rumblings now was apparent. Visible beyond the high front window of the Corner House, a gigantic vehicle hove into view, bulbous, built of steel with many rivets. A Union flag fluttered above a great raised turret that bristled with several odd-looking guns. High chimneys belched out smoke and steam. Iron wheels grumbled at the cobblestones. Upon this mighty war craft rode the soldiers of the Queen, coats of red and buttons brightly polished. The folk who were jammed in the doorway cheered. What hats could be reached for were flung into the air.

‘That, I assume,’ said George, ‘would be a Mark Five steam-driven Juggernaut tank.’

‘And more behind,’ said Ada. And there were more behind. Many more. The great war wagons trundled by on their huge iron wheels.

George and Ada returned to their table. The waiter brought them their tea.

‘You will have to excuse me, madam,’ said he, as he poured with a trembling hand into a rattling cup. ‘I will have to serve you quickly, before I away and join up. Would you care to accompany me, sir?’ he asked of George. ‘Together we can sign on with the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers and fight for Queen and country and the Empire.’

‘I will give the matter some thought,’ said George. ‘But, as you can see by our manner of dress, we were only married today and we do have plans for later.’

‘Quite so, sir.’ The waiter poured tea for George, then bowed and turned away.

‘Matters are accelerating at preposterous speed,’ said George.

‘Perhaps it
will
all be over by bedtime.’ Ada winked at him.

George said that he hoped it would and then drew Ada close. ‘I have a confession to make,’ he told her.

‘You do not share the tastes of Mr Oscar Wilde?’ said Ada.

‘No!’ said George. ‘I do not. But I took something. Something that I should not have taken. But I felt that I should.’

‘So that is where my spare pair of bloomers went.’

‘No,’ said George. ‘Be serious, please. This is most important.’ And he drew from his pocket a certain something. ‘I stole
this
,’ he said.