Tomas (20 page)

‘Very well,' says Tomas. ‘I accept people should be more circumspect at the begining. But why is there a need for distance after that?'

‘Take priests,' says Napoleon. ‘As you know, intimacy is forbidden to them. They believe that there's a lot to be said for distance.'

‘And how do they benefit from it?' Tomas asks.

‘By its nature, distance implies a certain reserve, and good manners; not pushing yourself forward. With this comes discipline. Thoughts are measured. Consideration is given. Words are not spoken in anger. And for those to whom intimacy is not forbidden, distance is the enemy of thoughtless couplings, selfish and stupid unions and “Look at me! Look at me on my wedding-day!” '

Tomas understands but asks the Emperor to elaborate.

‘What would you say,' Napoleon asks Tomas, ‘if one day God waved his hand and an extra room were added to each house in the world with the exclusive purpose of allowing one of the inhabiting couple to escape the other? How often do people long to be alone? How much happier would everyone be if some things were left unsaid? If the rule were politeness, consideration, discretion at all times?'

‘But the recipe for a successful relationship is togetherness, to be as one, with all things equally said, done and shared,' says Tomas.

‘No, that's a recipe for nausea,' Napoleon replies. ‘Of course people should be together, but they also need to be apart. It's the only way.' He gestures for the moonbeam to shine full on Tomas. The new Messiah springs from his seat.

‘Emperor, it's my greatest wish that we should meet again,' he says.

‘It is mine as well,' Napoleon replies. ‘If not in this life, then in my class.'

‘A fine notion, isn't it?' Tomas replies. ‘You're dead, now go back to school.'

A chance to be more than a great nothing
…

The funicular railway, built in 1925, is now a ruin of collapsed concrete and rusted cables. The track, which runs a thousand feet to the summit of the hill overlooking Cannes, is covered in undergrowth; the terminus is a graffitied shade of its former glorious self. It's still possible, however, to scramble up the line. The Alien begins his climb before dawn on the night of the Cock-sack invasion.

At the same time, eight hundred miles away, the combined fleets of the West are straining against the chains that are attached to Italy's heel. These creak and groan as the ships ride the waves. But this sea symphony is extinguished by an ear-splitting crunch as Tomas activates the Taiwanese island-raising technology that he acquired on his adventures, and the foot of Italy detaches from the sea floor and soars into the air.

The Alien reaches the top of the funicular observation
tower just as King Rat begins his countdown to Armageddon. The Alien tunes in and synchronises with it and exactly on the count of ‘two' he spreads his arms wide and tilts back his head, as if trying to ascend to heaven.

Towards which Italy's foot now floats, connected to the fleet by thousands of chains. The ships sail at full speed, pulling the foot, which is anchored to the earth's core by the giant pin, back to a ninety-degree angle. Tomas urges the fleet on. There's not a minute to lose.

For the Alien, there's not a second to lose. Between the count of ‘two' and ‘three', he locks his telekinetic power on to the ten million spherical objects that are menacing every square and street corner in Europe. Slowly, they begin to rotate. The phalluses, surprised by this strange interference, ignore the activation command. Quickly King Rat orders the Cocksacks to shake off the Alien's hold, then gives another strike order.

If time is racing on the hilltop, it's going at light speed in the Ionian Sea. The foot is now fully retracted, its toe positioned as if about to give something an almighty kick. The chains strain with the effort of holding it back; anchored by the giant pin, it groans, desperate to be released.

The Cocksacks are also in a frantic struggle. The Alien begins to shake like Tomas did levitating the hotel. The phalluses jump and shuffle, weakening his grip. King Rat sends another activation order. Again they're thrown off balance by the rotation of their equipment and fail to respond. Order after order is given. Ten million Cocksacks leap in unison, shaking the Alien's hold. Just as he feels it
slipping, he lets out a piteous cry, which reverberates around the mountains, sending a signal to the new Messiah.

This is it. The pivotal moment. The tipping point. Where risk ends in defeat, or just possibly victory. Where Tomas is in the arena, covered in sweat, blood and filth. Even if he fails, his attempt will be celebrated so that his place will never be with the fence-sitters, who know neither victory nor defeat. Win, lose or draw, Tomas can savour this moment until death. He'll be remembered as more than just another echo on the wind. A moment like this, he thinks, is one that all men should seek, in the knowledge that life is short and death certain; the chance to be more than a great nothing.

He orders the chains released and turns off the Taiwanese technology. Freed from its manacles, the foot swings down and forward with a terrible velocity. It strikes the ball at the end of Italy's boot, Sicily, with a tremendous force that tears it from the seabed and sends it hurtling into the sky. Instantly, all the volcanoes on the island erupt.

The roar of this conflagration creates a sonic boom, which is heard across Europe and distracts King Rat in his battle of wills against the Alien. Moments later, Rat spies report that, inexplicably, the island of Sicily is airborne and heading north up the Italian peninsula. Considering this strange proposition, King Rat wavers in his command of the Cocksacks. In this split second the Alien seizes the advantage. With one terrible final cry, he pushes his tele-kinetic powers to the limits of endurance. At last the fulcrum tips. Within moments the Cocksacks' appendages are rotating at the speed of sound. Seconds later they
explode. Ten million shattered phalluses now litter the streets of Europe.

Meanwhile, Sicily is tearing north like a comet approaching its crash site. As it passes Rome, bells ring out in salutation and the Pontiff appears on his balcony to cheer and wave. As the island powers over central Europe, the wily Sicilian men distract the women by pointing out the erupting volcanoes. The population is now hanging over the edge for the ride; while the girls look inwards, the boys shout words of love to the Czech beauties below.

On hearing of the paratroopers' annihilation, King Rat calls up the reserve army massed on the Polish border. The loss is devastating but Russia had expected heavy casualties and has survived worse in the past. King Rat swears vengeance; it will come soon, he thinks, as five million fresh phalluses begin to deploy.

The first he hears of the flying landmass is a distant rumbling like an approaching storm. So much the better, he thinks; the army will advance to the sound of thunder. As the sky darkens, King Rat orders the army to break out its waterproof gear. But the gathering gloom signifies more than bad weather. Shortly afterwards the sun fades. Moments later, it is extinguished. What sounded like distant thunder is in fact the roar of something altogether more horrifying – an airborne leviathan ripping the very fabric of the sky.

With incredible speed and dexterity, King Rat scurries from his command post, leaving the massed ranks of phalluses, which begin to jump, bump, fall, wobble, scream and cry. And no wonder. From the ground, all that is visible is a massive slab of granite and rock spewing fire and smoke. But the sight lasts only seconds. In a heartbeat, five million phalluses are emasculated for ever.

King Rat's revenge
…

Every few years there's a monster storm, combining hurricane winds, waterfall rain and deafening creaks and groans as things move or fall over. Today, a still louder noise can be heard above the deluge. The Great Bear's roar echoes through the valleys and shakes the snow off the mountain tops.

The Great Bear paces his lair waiting for King Rat, his head jerking in uncontrollable spasms of rage. Just as the echo of his summons subsides, his cave jumps into the air, rocked by a thunder clap. Then a lightning flash knocks out the power. The boulder guarding his lair splinters into a thousand pieces, scattering rock and storm debris around the cave. One moment the Great Bear sees the boulder explode; the next there is a man-sized crate in the entrance of the cave. Seconds later, the crate glides towards him, energised, it seems, by the force of the storm. It comes to rest close to him and its front section falls away.

At first he can see nothing inside but blackness. Then, two red beads glow from its depths. The sides of the crate collapse and King Rat, who is the size of a man, steps out.

King Rat possesses the form of a rodent, but is six feet tall and walks on his back legs. His eyes shine like lighthouse beams. He doesn't speak and has no describable expression. He simply stands in front of the Great Bear,
who remains incandescent with rage. He tries to compose his thoughts.

‘The time for armies is over,' the Great Bear says, looking in fury at the debris-strewn floor.

King Rat remains impassive, waiting for him to continue.

‘We've miscalculated and used a battering ram instead of a stiletto thrust.' The Great Bear pauses. ‘Kill him whose words hurt me most,' he spits, unable to say Tomas's name. ‘Summon me once … '

The Great Bear looks up and King Rat is gone. The power returns, the storm abates. All that remains is the debris all over the floor.

King Rat travels by ghostly galleon, taking the storm with him. The ship moves over land, not water, and it leaves a chill in its wake. Within minutes it reaches Warsaw, freezing King Sigismund off his column. In Prague the Charles Bridge cracks and falls into the Vltava, while Lake Geneva ices over as it passes. The galleon sails over the Alps, the storm gathered at its mast, King Rat hanging from its bow, his red eye-beams illuminating the way.

The galleon comes to rest in Cannes. Seconds later King Rat swings his legs over the gunwale and steps down on to the Croisette. As the storm intensifies, a knife glints in the lightning flash. The rodent draws his obscene tail, all sinew, tendon and bone, into a semicircle and shaves it with the razor-sharp blade. Standing high on his back feet, he sniffs the rain-drenched air.

Soon afterwards, he is in the entrails of the hotel, the unseen innards of wires, pipes, chutes and shafts that give
the monster life. Although very large, he compresses his body into a vent and scuttles along inside sniffing. No one can hear him as he passes through the walls silently.

He finds the room and noiselessly removes the grill of the duct. A flash of lightning through the window reveals a sleeping figure below.

Pierre's moment of truth
…

Perhaps it was the prospect of death that gave Pierre the jolt he needed. At last, he has pieced it all together and discovered the truth. He now has a story so combustible he holds a firestorm in his hands. The ability to change the world. Realising the awesome power of truth, he writes to his editor before going to bed on the night of the storm.

Dear Editor [he begins], I'm weak and in a quandary because soon I might succumb to the allure of truth. Truth – that seductive mistress whose diaphanous negligee sends hearts racing, with ebony skin, supple limbs and breasts that protrude just a little.

But don't you think she's overrated? All those scholastic colleges with
veritas
on their heraldic shields. The truth, at all costs truth.

The girl asks, ‘How do I look tonight?' Do you reply, ‘Like a potato'? It's wartime and the enemy has the advantage. Is this broadcast to the nation? You're sick and will die shortly. Do you really want to know? Other than to finish your best bottles, of course.

And what of things spoken that are best left unsaid?
The painful questions, perceptive observations, invasive remarks; however truthworthy they may be. If over the stretch of a long marriage a single indiscretion occurs, must it be known? The answer is yes, including the details, the more lurid the better!

Should a zoom lens trap a starlet, the truth of her breasts must be exposed. So should the past of the good politician who committed a schoolboy error twenty years ago. Out with it. As for the loving father who once slept with a man, let the world – and his children – know.

Truth, the golden goddess gleaming in her chariot, served by the wisest judge and lowest paparazzo, appealing to our highest morals and basest instincts. But what of her harsh glare, which incinerates all before it?

This power is given to only one in each generation. A story more powerful than the Cocksack army, a thousand words to change the world.

And the instrument of this Armageddon? A small black plastic square on a computer keyboard. I'm going to bed now. Maybe in sleep I'll find the answer. Should I give you the story?

Death of a hero
…

King Rat has done this many times before. Not for him guns, knives or other crude tools of death. Nor does he use doors, windows, elevators or fire escapes – the assassin's usual means of ingress. All he needs is a duct, a one-inch
phial and darkness in which a sleeping figure now lies with his head on a pillow only a few feet below the vent. King Rat has another special technique. He makes no noise. He doesn't even move. He just waits, for hours if necessary.