Apocalypso (16 page)

‘Got
any change, mate?’ The voice came out of a doorway. Porrig kept his head down
and kept right on walking.

‘Oi,
mate! I said, got any change?’

‘I
haven’t,’ said Porrig. ‘Please leave me alone.’

The
beggar-for-change lurched out of the doorway. He was a fair-sized beggar and
rather drunk with it. He came after Porrig at the stagger. ‘Hold on, mate,’ he
called. ‘Just a bit of small change. Enough for a cuppa.’

‘I
haven’t,’ said Porrig, increasing his speed.

‘I’ll
bet you bloody have.’ And the beggar was on him.

Caught
from behind, with his arms pinned to his sides, Porrig struggled and kicked. ‘Get
off me. Get off me.’ The beggar threw him down and Porrig rolled into the
gutter. ‘Get off me, I—’

The
beggar put the boot in.

He
kicked and he kicked at Porrig. Porrig’s cries for mercy went unheard in the
night. When the kicker tired of kicking, he went through Porrig’s pockets,
stole his wallet and the small change that he had.

And he
also stole the old bloke’s book.

Then he
stumbled off into the darkness of an alley, leaving Porrig to bleed on his own.

Porrig
lay beside the kerb, a tangled piece of wreckage. Unloved. Uncared for. All
alone.

Not altogether
alone.

For
beneath a car parked near at hand two blue cat’s eyes had seen it all. And now
the owner of these eyes crept out from his hiding place and climbed to his
feet. Two little grey feet on the end of two spindly grey legs, between which
swung a small rubbing part.

‘So
this is heaven,’ Rippington said. ‘I can’t say I’m all too impressed.’

And
taking a swift sniff at Porrig, he followed the beggar-thief into the alley,
his two small feet scuffling.

Just
like a rat.

11

Porrig lay in a coma, all
alone in a horrid little room at the Brighton General Hospital. And no-one came
to visit him.

No-one.

Not a
single rock star, nor a sports personality, nor even a television presenter,
even though they do have it written into their contracts. Oh yes. They have to
do it at least once a year, if required. And they never refuse, because if they
did and people found out, it would be the end of their careers.

But
they only have to do it for children. Never for adults. It wouldn’t be news if
they did it for adults. It wouldn’t be given that nice little human interest
slot at the end of the six o’clock news. And it wouldn’t log up any points
towards the knighthood.

So
nobody famous visited Porrig. Nobody came to hold his hand and sing to him, or
tell him stories while the news crews filmed them. Porrig was simply left all
on his own in his coma.

There
to fester and bewail his lot.

Because,
as is often the case with people in comas, Porrig could hear everything that
was going on around him, although he was powerless to respond. Which must be
really horrible, if you think about it. Especially if you could hear what
Porrig was hearing right at this very moment.

‘How
long has he been like this?’ asked the doctor.

‘Eight
days,’ said the nurse.

‘And no
response at all?’

‘Absolutely
none.’

‘But he’s
otherwise in good condition?’

‘Fine.
His ribs are mending nicely and there’s no major organ damage.’

‘A
prime specimen then. But identity unknown?’ We’ve put the obligatory blurry
photo in
The Big Issue.
But no-one has come forward to claim him.’

‘Then
we’ve fulfilled our contractual obligations. One more day and he’s ours.’

‘Ours,
doctor?’

‘For
the spare parts, nurse. Eyes, heart, lungs, liver.’

‘But he’s
still alive. He might recover.

‘I’m
sure that given time and care, he would. But hospitals have to pay for
themselves nowadays.’

‘I
suppose you’re right, doctor. But it does seem a shame.’

‘He’s
only a vagrant, nurse. A nobody. I don’t think he’s ever likely to do anything
earth-shattering, is he?’

‘I
suppose not.’

‘But his
untimely demise will not only free up a bed, it will profit the hospital by at
least fifty thousand pounds.’

‘As
much as that?’

‘Of
course. His organs will be auctioned off to private hospitals. Some part of him
may well end up inside someone rich and famous and important.’

‘That’s
comforting.’

‘Of
course it is. So, give him another day and if he shows no sign of recovery,
switch him off.’

Will
you sign the release forms, doctor?’

‘No,
you sign them, nurse. I have to get up to the children’s ward. Carol Vorderman
is coming in to sit with a little blonde-haired comatose girl. I’ve got to go
into make-up and rehearse my lines.’

‘Break
a leg, doctor.’

‘Thank
you, nurse. And one other thing.’

‘Yes,
doctor?’

‘Don’t
forget to lock the ward door. We wouldn’t want a repeat of that unfortunate
business last month.’

And
Porrig was left all alone to indulge in some really heavy duty lot-bewailing.

Just
another vagrant, eh? Another nobody, eh? Not likely to do anything
earth-shattering, eh? Cut him up for spare parts, eh? And what
was
the
unfortunate business last month?

Eh?

Porrig
groaned inwardly. He really had had quite enough.

On the
ninth day of his hospitalization things perked up for Porrig. He didn’t wake
from his coma, or anything like that, but things did perk up.

At six
in the morning the fire alarms went off.

Porrig
sighed considerably at this. To be roasted alive was not the kind of death he
might have chosen. Like most men, he favoured the ‘shot by a jealous husband
while caught in the arms of a page three girl, at the age of eighty-seven’
kind. But life can be a bummer. And the fire alarms went off.

Nurses
marched purposefully about, mostly in the direction of the children’s ward.
Doctors passed his door at a determined pace. The walking-wounded hobbled towards
the fire exit.

Porrig
lay all alone. Bloody typical, he thought. And me worth fifty grand!

But
then he heard people bustling in and Porrig was dragged from his bed, trailing
various important tubes and wires, bunged onto a trolley, covered with a big
blanket and bumped through this door, that door and the next.

Porrig
felt the chill of the car-park, then further bumpings, then a kind of folding
up and a forcing into a confined space and then a lot of movement.

Porrig
lay speechless, his knees up under his chin, somewhere dark and musty and on
the move. Somewhat later there was some stopping, more hustling about, some
carrying, some opening of doors and dragging up stairs and then a flopping onto
a bed where he was left alone once more.

Oh
dear, thought Porrig. I bet I’m in the dissecting room.

‘I don’t
know what one of those is,’ said a voice Porrig recognized. ‘But you’re not in
one.’

I am
not
alone, thought Porrig.

‘No,
you’re not,’ said Rippington. It’s you!

‘It’s
me.’

‘And
me,’ said someone else. Wok Boy, thought Porrig.

‘That’s
him,’ said Rippington. ‘You can speak to him,’ he said to Wok Boy. ‘He can’t
reply, but he can hear and understand you. I can read his thoughts.’

‘How
are you doing?’ Wok Boy asked. Rippington listened. ‘He says he’s in a fucking
coma, how do you think he’s doing?’

‘Ungrateful
shitbag,’ said Wok Boy. ‘I should have left him there.’

Rippington
listened. ‘He says he’s sorry. But how come you did get him out and how come I’m
here.’

‘I saw
your photo in
The Big Issue.
I knew what they’d do to you if you didn’t
wake up. I busted someone out of there last month. As for this wee man, you
tell him, Rippington.’

‘I
followed you out of ALPHA 17,’ said the imp. ‘And I don’t like it here, I want
to go home. I came in through your cat flap. I knew your address because I
heard you thinking it when I first met you. Wok Boy was sleeping in your bed, I
didn’t half scare the breakfast out of his bottom.’

‘And he
got back the book the old bloke gave you from the bastard who gave you the
kicking.’

‘I did,’
said Rippington. ‘I’m such a nice fellow.’

Wok Boy
leaned over Porrig. ‘What’s he saying now?’ he asked.

‘He
says something about it being all too “pat” and he doesn’t believe a bloody
word of it.’

‘Do you
think if I gave him a couple of clouts around the head it might bring him out
of his coma?’

Worth a
try,’ said Rippington.

So Wok
Boy clouted Porrig in the head.

‘Any
luck?’ asked Wok Boy.

‘None,’
said Rippington. ‘Although he now says that he believes everything we’ve told
him and he wants to know whether you’ve read the old bloke’s book’

Well, I
did have a little peep.’

Rippington
listened once more to Porrig’s thoughts.

What
did he say?’ asked Wok Boy. ‘Nothing complimentary,’ said Rippington. ‘But he
does want to know what’s in the book’

Well,
you tell him, you’ve read it too.’ Rippington now stuck his little hands over
his earholes. ‘Very bad language,’ he said. ‘Not nice at all. I’m going
downstairs to read another of those comic things. You tell him all about the
book’

Rippington
rat-like scuttled away. Wok Boy sat down on Porrig’s bed. Porrig winced
inwardly as Wok Boy settled himself, punching flat a bed lump that was caused
by Porrig’s foot.

‘Right
then,’ said Wok Boy. ‘Story time.’ He pulled the old bloke’s book from his
pocket and waggled it in front of Porrig’s face. ‘See this,’ he said. ‘No, of
course you don’t. But it’s great stuff, this book. Real top-line X
Files
conspiracy
stuff. I’ll tell it to you short and sweet because I’ve got a date over the
road with this barmaid. Amazing tits, works part time at Phart-Ebum’s.’

Porrig
groaned internally.

‘So,’
continued Wok Boy. What you have first is your standard science fiction fare.
Worlds within worlds, you know the kind of business. We are not alone on this
planet. We share the same space with an almost infinite number of other
realities. But they all function on different natural frequencies, so for the
most part we can’t see them and they can’t see us. Once in a while freak
conditions exist and then we get a glimpse of them. UFOs, ghosts, demons,
angels, lake monsters, Bigfoot and bogy men generally.

‘Frankly,
I would have considered all that a pile of old pants if I hadn’t met up with
Rippington. So there you go. I hope you’re following this.’

Porrig
was and he groaned a bit more to himself.

‘So, we
come to magic. And I’m talking about real magic here, not stage magic. In our
reality we don’t have any magic, so black magicians perform elaborate rituals
designed to summon entities from their own realms to perform evil deeds for
them. Summon them in fact from a separate reality where magic
does
exist.
Mostly it doesn’t work, thank the Goddess, but sometimes, every once in a while
… WALLOP!’ Wok Boy whacked Porrig in the cobblers. ‘Know what I’m saying?’

Under
his eyelids Porrig’s eyes crossed.

‘Your
uncle,’ said Wok Boy. ‘Apocalypso The Miraculous. Black magician. They kicked
him out of the Magic Circle because he cheated, used real magic. The old bloke
was working as his assistant and he tried to persuade him to turn it in. But he
didn’t and WALLOP!’ Porrig caught it in the cobblers once again. ‘Legend of
Faust, mate, he paid with his very soul.’

Porrig
pondered bitterly upon just how Wok Boy would pay. Heavily, he concluded.

‘So,’
continued Wok Boy. We’re coming up to the last bit of the story and this is the
best bit. The bit that the old bloke wants you to do the comic book about. Your
uncle had managed through his rituals to access these other realities, but he
was on the make and he was taking out more than he was putting back. You have
to retain a balance, because everybody’s on the make, no matter what reality
they’re in. That’s what you’d call a universal truth, I suppose. So, after he
got his big comeuppance, the old bloke tried to put everything right. Destroy
his papers, that kind of thing. But what he didn’t know was that your uncle had
posted a copy of the ritual off to his sister in a letter. Your mum, Porrig.

‘So,
the years pass and the old bloke is living in ALPHA 17 (because he knows how to
do the ritual and move from one reality to another). He’s got some big problem
he’s trying to sort out about an angel’s feather, although it’s not quite clear
in the book exactly what that is. So, he’s there and one day he finds that
someone is nicking stuff. Someone from this reality is entering that reality.
He lies in wait and then he follows them and he doesn’t half get a big
surprise.