Apocalypso (15 page)

‘Rippington’s
impressed,’ said the old bloke. ‘Aren’t you, Rippington?’

‘Not as
impressed as I would be by a larger rubbing part.’

‘I’ll
knock your rubbing part up your pooing part if you don’t mind your manners.’

‘Oh,
turn it in,’ said Porrig.

‘You
want some of this?’ asked the old bloke, making a fist.

‘I just
want to go home. It’s been a long day.’

‘You
spent half of it asleep.’

‘I won’t
ask how you know that.’

‘Then
don’t. But, as you’re here now, I suppose I’d better fill you in on all the details,
as it were.’

‘Oh
goody,’ said Porrig.

Was
that a “tone” in your voice?’

‘Please
stop bullying me,’ Porrig said. ‘I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry that I’ve
come here. I just want to go home.’

‘And so
you shall. Once I’ve told you what you have to do.’

‘Then
please tell me and I’ll be off.’

‘Quite
so. Follow me.’ The old bloke turned and strode away.

‘Help
me down from the table,’ said Rippington.

‘Leave
him there, Porrig,’ called the old bloke. ‘And get a move on.’

Porrig
shrugged towards the imp and followed the old bloke.

‘And
make out you’re not following me.’

‘God’s
gonads,’ said Porrig.

The old
bloke led Porrig down further corridors, across further balconies that looked
down on to further corridors, through further rooms all filled with books and
up a natty staircase wrought from decorative silk.

‘You
can’t have a staircase made out of silk,’ observed Porrig.

‘You
can’t,’ said the old bloke.

‘Are we
nearly there?’

Would
you like us to be?’

‘I
would.’

‘Then
we are.’

‘Absurd.’

‘Yes,
isn’t it.’ The old bloke turned a key in a lock and swung open an ancient door.
‘My office,’ he said.

Porrig
caught up and peered in. ‘It’s upside down,’ he said.

Why
yes, so it is.’ The old bloke closed the door and reopened it. ‘That’s better.’

Porrig
shook his head.

‘Follow
me.’ And Porrig did so.

The
room itself was small and lacked for windows. Porrig realized that he hadn’t
actually seen a single window since he’d arrived in this curious place. But as
he had assumed that it was all underground, he hadn’t really been surprised.
The fact that there was at least something he hadn’t been surprised about gave
him some comfort.

But not
very much.

As to
the furnishings, this room held many and various.

There were chairs of the vintage persuasion

And a table of Romany caste.

A throne for a special occasion,

A desk with a shadowy past.

A rug that was woven from feathers,

A tapestry woven from cheese.

Some pictures of ladies in leathers,

And Porrig was taken with these.

A view of a bay in a frame made of gold.

A brown nodding dog that was not very old.

A lamp with a bulb, though it wasn’t electric.

A collection in all, that was somewhat eclectic.

‘A very
poetic room,’ said Porrig.

The old
bloke grinned. ‘There’s lots of poetry down here,’ he said. ‘It escapes from the
books and drifts all over the place.’

‘Poetry
can’t escape from books,’ said Porrig, ‘that’s just plain stupid.’

The old
bloke shrugged. ‘Fair enough,’ said he. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re talking
about. I’ll bow to your superior wisdom.’

‘I’ll
bet you will.’

‘That “tone”
again…’

‘I’m
sorry,’ said Porrig. ‘But I really
have
had a long day.’

‘And it’s
far from over.’ The old bloke sat down in a chair of the vintage persuasion at
the desk with the shadowy past. ‘Sit over there in that throne,’ he told
Porrig. ‘After all, this is a special occasion.

‘Is it?’
Porrig asked as he sat himself down.

‘Perhaps
more so for me. But then I have been waiting a very long time.’

Who are
you?’ Porrig made himself comfortable. ‘Are you my uncle, and if so—’

‘I’m
not your uncle, Porrig.’

‘I didn’t
know I had an Uncle Porrig.’

The old
bloke sighed. ‘It’s a nervous habit, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You do it when you’re
ill at ease. Like when you were in the solicitor’s office. “Death,” said Mr
Phart-Ebum. And you said, “No, I can hear you just fine.”’

‘You
were there?’

‘In a
manner of speaking. I put myself about, keep an eye on things.’

‘Please
tell me about my uncle.’

‘Apocalypso
The Miraculous. Greatest stage magician of his day. The master of legerdemain.
He made the Impossible, possible, although many said that demons whispered at
his ear. There is a biography about him, written by the eminent parapsychologist
Sir John Rimmer, but you won’t find any other mention. His name has been
stricken from the records of the Magic Circle. The old playbills have been
destroyed. No-one even knows what his real name was.’

Why all
the mystery?’ Porrig asked. ‘Or is this just part of the mystique?’

‘I
think it had something to do with the demons speaking at his ear. It gave him
an unnatural edge on the opposition. You see, stage magic is just that,
stage
magic. Tricks, sleight of hand, special effects, but it still holds a
fascination for the public at large. They like to be fooled.’

‘They
wouldn’t vote if they didn’t.’

‘Don’t
be cynical, Porrig. But they
do
like to be fooled. And they love the
wonder of it all. And they actually like, secretly of course, because they’ll
never own up to it, to believe that some of it might just be
real
magic.
That real magic might actually exist.’

‘And
does it?’ Porrig asked.

‘It all
depends on what you mean by
real.
But you see it fascinates people,
intrigues them, obsesses them. It obsessed your uncle. He set out to discover
whether real magic existed. And now you’re sitting here, and I’m sitting here,
which probably means that it does.’

‘And
who
are
you, exactly?’

‘I’m
your great-great-grandfather, Porrig.’

‘Oh,’
said Porrig.

‘Is
that all you have to say,
oh?’

‘For
the time being, yes. No, hold on, it isn’t. If you’re my
great-great-grandfather, then that would have made you my Uncle Apocalypso’s
grandfather, wouldn’t it? And if that was the case, you’d know his real name.’

The old
bloke shook his old head. ‘No, Porrig, I wouldn’t. I’m your father’s
great-grandfather, not your mother’s.’

‘Yes,
but—’

‘Yes,
but, nothing. I was Apocalypso’s apprentice, I didn’t even know he had a sister
until after he died. But your mother wouldn’t tell me his real name and there
are absolutely no existing family records, she saw to that.’

‘But
why? I don’t understand.’

‘Because
of what he discovered. Because it was a secret that no-one wanted ever to be
revealed.’

‘And
you know this secret?’

‘For my
sins, yes.’

‘Tell
me then,’ said Porrig. ‘I promise I’ll keep it to myself.’

‘But I
don’t want you to keep it to yourself. I want you to tell everyone about it.
This secret has led to a worldwide conspiracy and the whole world must know
about it.’

‘So,
tell me.’

‘All in
good time.’

‘Look,’
said Porrig. ‘This is all very fascinating and I would love to hear this big
secret of yours, if it’s really true. But I’m not entirely certain what I
should or shouldn’t believe—’

‘Believe
in this,’ said the old bloke and he took from his waistcoat the polished ebony
snuff box he had showed to Porrig in the train. ‘This is true. The feather from
the angel’s wing. I am doomed to wander this planet until I can return it. This
is the curse that was laid upon me.’

‘I don’t
see how immortality can be a curse.’

‘At
your age, no you wouldn’t. But I’m getting on for two hundred. It aches,
Porrig. It hurts. I hurt.’

‘I’m
sorry.’

‘Thank
you. During my long life I have seen more than any one man should see. We were
not created to live so long. To see so much. I want only to rest. I have done
my best to atone for my sins. When I met your uncle and saw the danger of what
he was doing, I tried to help him. But he would not be shaken into sense and
now he is gone and I am left alone. Alone, but for you, Porrig.’

Why me?’
Porrig asked.

‘Because
you are the beneficiary of your late uncle’s will.’

‘I wasn’t
even born when he died.’

‘No,
but he knew you would be. He divined it. You can do that kind of stuff here,
you know.’

‘I’m so
confused.’ Porrig shook his weary head. ‘Just where is
here?
You still
haven’t told me.’

‘Rippington
told you. ALPHA 17 the—’

‘Seventeenth
hows-your-father of the Alphonic whatsaname.’

‘It’s
all in here.’ The old bloke made a magical pass and a book appeared in Porrig’s
hand. It was a bigger book than the little big book had been. But not so big as
some of the big big books Porrig had passed by on his journey through wherever
he was. As it were.

‘Is the
secret in here?’ Porrig asked.

‘Everything’s
in there. Everything about me and about this place and about what I want you to
do. I have gone to a great deal of trouble setting this all up for you, I hope
you won’t disappoint me.’

‘I
still don’t know what you want me to do.’

‘I want
you to draw and print and distribute a comic book. I want the secret spread
amongst the young. I don’t want another generation living in ignorance of the
truth.’

Porrig lifted
the front cover.

‘No,’
said the old bloke. ‘Not here. You read it when you get back to the shop. And
keep it safe.’

‘All
right, I will.’ Porrig tucked the book into his pocket. ‘Can I go back now?’

‘Indeed.
We’ve said enough for the time being. You read the book and then we’ll have
another talk. All right?’

‘All
right.’ And Porrig shook the old bloke by the hand.

‘Ouch,’
said the old bloke.

‘I’m
sorry,’ said Porrig.

The old
bloke led the way and Porrig followed. There was more of the same: the corridors
and the rooms and the balconies. But Porrig was getting the measure of it. He
pretended not to follow and when he’d had enough (which was really quite soon)
he said, ‘Are we nearly there?’

Would
you like us to be?’

‘Yes, I
would.’

‘Then
we are.’

They stood
before a little door. ‘You’ll have to stoop,’ the old bloke said.

‘And
does this come out in the shop?’

‘No. I
think it comes out under the pier.’

‘You
think?’

‘I’m
reasonably sure.’

‘Oh
goody,’ said Porrig.

“‘Tone”,’
said the old bloke. ‘Now get a move on, we don’t want you to be seen.’

The old
bloke opened the door and Porrig squeezed into the opening. A cool breeze blew
on to his face. It smelled of the sea.

It
smelled of reality.

‘I’ll
see you soon, then,’ said Porrig.

‘I’ll
keep in touch, I—’ A terrible crash cut the old fellow short. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I’ll see what that was.’

Porrig
pressed out through the opening and found himself straightening up beneath the
pier. A lovely moon-bathed night it was, though nothing short of nippy.

Porrig
took a deep breath of home and peace and then something scuttled past his feet.

‘Rat!’
cried Porrig, leaping up. ‘I’ll see you—’ But the small door shut and now was
only wall.

Whenever
I see you,’ said Porrig.

He
turned up the collar of his jacket, marched along the front and up the steps
onto the prom. It was nearly two in the morning now and the prom was deserted.
Porrig put some extra pace into his marching.

Back to
the shop and up to bed was what he wanted. A cup of decaff and a read of the
old bloke’s book.

And
then what?

Porrig
shook his head. The secret? The big secret? The big secret that he was to
reveal to the world?