Apocalypso (24 page)

Porrig
was violently sick again.

‘Mostly
green tea,’ said Rippington, peering down at the puddles of puke. You really
should eat a good breakfast. Most important meal of the day, breakfast—’

‘Shut
up,’ Porrig spluttered. What happened here? These people, all these dead
people!’

‘It was
Dilbert Norris,’ said Rippington. ‘He’s a vegetable.’

This is
no time to take the piss, you little—’

‘I’m
not taking the piss. It
was
Dilbert Norris.’

‘Dilbert
who?’ Porrig coughed some more. ‘How did I… How did I. .

‘How
did you survive? I pulled you out of the sea. It was a right struggle, I can
tell you. And I had to stick my foot right down your throat to clear your
windpipe. And then, funny you should mention taking the piss, because when you
still wouldn’t wake up I—’

‘Urgh
urgh urgh, you bastard!’

‘Some
thanks,’ said Rippington, folding his spindly arms. ‘Perhaps I should have left
you to feed the little fishes like…’ His voice trailed off.

‘Like
who?’ Porrig’s red-rimmed eyes fixed on the small grey fellow.

‘I
couldn’t find Wok Boy,’ said Rippington. ‘And I can’t hear his thoughts any
more. I think he might be…’

Porrig
buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh no,’ he wept. ‘Oh no.’

‘Sorry,’
said Rippington. ‘But he did take up a lot of room in the bed. And those jeans
of his smelled really bad and—’

‘Shut
up.’ Porrig staggered to his feet. ‘This is madness. What happened here? Why?
Who?’

‘Dilbert.
I told you.’

‘I don’t
understand.’ Porrig stumbled back and nearly stepped on the corpse of a woman. ‘All
these people. This is Brighton beach, for God’s sake. Is this the end of the
world? Are we at war, or what?’

‘He
came off that ship out there.’ Rippington pointed towards
The Leviathan.
‘He
isn’t human, he comes from another world far far away. And he isn’t made of
flesh and blood, he’s a vegetable.’

‘How do
you know what he is?’

‘Because
I can hear his thoughts, Porrig. He’s got the loudest thoughts on the whole
planet. And the biggest rubbing part by the looks of him. His thoughts are so
strong that he can control people with them. And he doesn’t like people at all,
because he’s a vegetable. On his, planet it was vegetables that evolved, not
mammals. He has as much concern for people as you would for the welfare of a
carrot.’

‘I
quite like carrots.’

‘Cooked
is how you like carrots. Which is just how Dilbert likes people.’

‘No!’
Porrig’s greeny-grey face became more greeny-greysome. ‘He eats people? Is that
what you’re saying?’

‘He
intends to farm them. Once he’s taken over.’

‘No.’
Porrig shook his head violently, making himself feel sicker. ‘This is a fucking
nightmare. I’m dreaming this. Tell me I’m dreaming this.’

You’re
not.’ Rippington shook his own head. ‘But if you’d like to be absolutely
certain, I wouldn’t mind sticking my little wand right up your bu—’

‘No!’
Porrig tore at the hair on his head. ‘Stop, just stop. This thing. This Dilbert
thing. It has to be stopped.’

‘So how
do you intend to stop it?’

‘Me?’
Porrig looked down in horror at the imp.
‘Me?
How do
I
intend to
stop it?’

‘I give
up. How
do
you intend to stop it?’

‘I don’t!
I’m off out of it. Off to foreign parts. I’ll go to ALPHA 17 with you.’

‘But we
can’t go, can we? We don’t know the magic ritual.’

‘Where
is the old bloke?’

‘I give
up,’ said Rippington. Where
is
the old bloke?’

Porrig,
who had given up on the hair-tearing owing to the pain, threw up his hands in
despair. ‘Someone has to do something. Someone. I know. I know!’ He shook his
hands about in an I-know kind of fashion. ‘I know who can do something.’

‘Do you
want me to make a guess? Or would it be easier if I just gave up again?’

‘The
one person,’ said Porrig. ‘The man in charge.’

‘God?’
said Rippington. ‘That’s a bit of a long shot, asking God.’

‘Not
God. My dad.’

‘Ah…’ said Rippington. Your dad. Ah…’

What do
you mean, ah… ? What are you saying ah like that for?’

Rippington
shifted from one small foot to the other. Well, I wasn’t going to mention it to
you just yet, what with all this nastiness and everything. I thought perhaps I’d
wait until you had gathered your wits together. Maybe over a nice cup of tea.’

‘Spit
it out, Rippington.’

Well,
it’s about your dad. You see, Dilbert Norris knows all about your dad. He sent
out his thoughts all over the world to see who was really in charge and your
dad’s name came up top of the list and…’

‘And?’

‘And so
Dilbert is now on his way to London. To the Ministry of Serendipity. To meet
your dad for lunch.’

You
mean that my dad is going to collaborate with him?’

‘Er,
no. When I said that he’s going to meet your dad for lunch, what I meant was
that your dad —’

‘Will
what?’

‘Be
lunch,’ said Rippington.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig. ‘Call out the army!’

17

The Commander-in-Chief of
the armed forces. The Supreme Commander of the allied forces. The Acting Head
of allied forces and network high command forces supreme chief of forces forces
allied armed forces forces forces chief commander commander commander, King of
Denmark and Lord of the entire universe and handsomest soldier in the whole of
the world and good at games and captain of the cricket team and
lkjdlqierflxr23p.

‘Stop that!’
A fellow with the title of adjutant, which means an officer who acts as an
administrative assistant to a superior officer, slapped the wrist of the
Commander-in-Chief. ‘That’s my typewriter and I won’t have you using it without
my permission.’

‘I want
a typewriter of my own,’ whinged the Commander-in-Chief. ‘To type up my
memoirs.

‘Paper
costs money,’ said the adjutant. ‘And who’s going to pay for it? Not me out of
my salary.’

‘I
could put it all on a floppy disc.’

‘Oh,
could you now? And what exactly
is
a floppy disc? Do you know?’

The
Commander-in-Chief made a puzzled face. Out of Plasticine.

‘That
doesn’t help,’ said the adjutant. You don’t know what a floppy disc is, do you?’

‘I know
what a tank is and if you’re waging war on four fronts and the enemy is
chucking everything it has in your direction, where’s your floppy disc then?
Tell me, sir, tell me.’

‘I do
believe that computers play a large part in the sophisticated weaponry of
today.’

‘Ptah!’
said the Commander-in-Chief.

‘The
Egyptian god?’

‘The
very same fellow. Hell’s bollocks, I’m bored.’ We’re all bored,’ said the
adjutant. ‘But some of us have work to do.’

‘I
never have any work to do.’

Well,
of course you don’t. You’re the Commander-in-Chief.’

‘So why
don’t I ever have any work to do?’ ‘Because you
are
the
Commander-in-Chief. You give orders; you delegate. That’s what the army is all
about. You order me to do something and I pass that order down the chain of
command.’

‘Do you
want to play I-Spy again?’ ‘No, because you cheat.’

‘I don’t
cheat. You’re the one who cheats.’ A telephone began to ring.

‘I’ll
answer it,’ said the Commander-in-Chief. ‘I’ll answer it,’ said the adjutant,
snatching up the receiver.

The
Commander-in-Chief twiddled his thumbs. Then, tiring of this, he put his thumbs
back in their special carrying case and twiddled his tie instead.

The
adjutant replaced the receiver. ‘Mother Mary’s holy handbag,’ said he.

Was
that my friend the Pope?’

‘No, it
was my friend Augustus Naseby from the Ministry of Serendipity.’

^‘
And
what did he want?’

‘He
says we are to go to Green Alert.’

‘Green
Alert?’
The Commander-in-Chief stiffened in his
breeches.
‘Green Alert?’

‘That’s
what he said.’

‘State
of the Nation threatened? That Green Alert?’

‘That
very one.’

‘By
Jumbo’s jockstrap!’ The Commander-in-Chief fell back in his big posh
leather-backed chair with a cough and a wheeze and a whistle. This was the big
one he’d been waiting for. His call to arms once more. His call to further
honours.

He’d
had honours before, of course. Lots of the blighters. Big honours in brass with
ribbons attached, when he’d served his King and his country. He’d bravely
fought and bravely won and returned to a land fit for heroes.

But
what he’d done, and when, and how, you’ll hear no word of here. For although
many pages could be spent chronicling his long and noble career, it would all
be so much guff and time wasting. Because, as may well be realized already, the
Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces was a character with less depth to him
than a coat of paint and so utterly two-dimensional that should he turn
sideways he would surely cease to exist.

Of the
looks of him it might be said that he was passing six feet in an upwards
direction and nearing three across ways. He had one good eye, a gunmetal
thigh, a heart of oak and the constitution of an Egyptian. And one with a
proper fez too.

Of the
habits of him it might be said that he enjoyed shunamitism, algolagnia and
frottage. But who doesn’t, eh?

‘Green
Alert, eh?’ said the Commander-in-Chief. Well, if it’s Green Alert you’d better
get on the blower and call up some of me top brass chums to give us a hand. Get
me Chunky Wilberforce, Tubby Molesworth, Snake-hips Henderson, Frog-bottom
Battersby—’

‘Shagger
Shanks-Greebly?’

‘Him
too.’

‘Saddle-sniffer
Snapdragon?’

‘And
him.’

What
about Poo-nudger MacArse-Trumpet?’

‘Oh
yes, best call up old MacArse-Trumpet.’

‘And
what about Sheep-fondler Bill Muff-Wrestler?’

The
Commander-in-Chief looked at the adjutant.

The
adjutant looked at the Commander-in-Chief.

You’re
making these up now, aren’t you?’ said the Commander-in-Chief.

‘So are
you!’

‘But I’m
the Commander-in-Chief and if I want to make up a few campaign chums to take
with me on a Green Alert, that’s my privilege.’

‘All
right,’ said the adjutant. ‘I suppose it is allowed. So which ones
do
you
want me to call up?’

‘Just
the last two.’

‘But I
made them—’

‘But me
no buts, sir. But me no buts. Saddle up me horse and break out the brandy. And,
adjutant?’

‘Yes
sir?”

‘Tell
Muff-Wrestler to bring an extra sheep.’

‘I’ll
tell him to bring two,’ said the adjutant.

‘I brought two coffees,’
said the man in the white coat. ‘How did you get on with the Ministry of
Defence?’

Augustus
Naseby took one of the coffees. ‘I spoke with the office of the
Commander-in-Chief.’

‘Knob-gobbler
Nackershaw?’

‘Knob-gobbler
took an early retirement. This is a new bod. Major-General Sir Stanley
Burke-Hampshire.’

What a
very strange name. I trust the fellow’s not some kind of pervert.’

‘Any
progress to report?’

‘The
coffees are still hot. But that’s about all.’

‘And
what news of the monster?’

Well, I
assume that the monster will be all sorted out, now that the cream of the
nation’s military minds are being applied to the problem.’

Yes
indeed,’ said Augustus, without too much conviction. ‘So where exactly is the
monster now?’

‘The
surveillance cameras are keeping an eye on it. It seems to be making its way
towards Brighton Station. Didn’t you say something about your son Porrig moving
to Brighton?’

Augustus
Naseby made a bitter face. ‘My son Porrig,’ he said. ‘In all the excitement I’d
quite forgotten about Porrig.’

But
Porrig hadn’t forgotten his dad. And Porrig didn’t want his dad to end his days
in a monster’s guts. Certainly Porrig’s dad was what you’d call a dodgy
customer. Certainly he could not be trusted. Certainly he was treacherous and
downright unspeakable. But he
was
Porrig’s dad. And your dad is your
dad, no matter how he behaves. You still go on loving him. Oh yes you do. He’s
your dad.