Apocalypso (25 page)

Authors: Robert Rankin

‘I
really hate my dad,’ said Porrig as he trudged through the deserted streets.

You don’t,’
said Rippington. You love him really.’

‘Maybe.’

Porrig
tried ringing for help, to alert the army or contact his dad, but the phones
didn’t work. None of them.

What
are all these postcards of big-fronted ladies?’ asked Pippington as Porrig
flung down the phone in the umpteenth phonebox.

‘Never
you bloody mind. Let’s go back to the shop.’

Why the
shop?’

‘So I
can get some dry clothes on and my head together. And telephone for help.’

They
returned to the shop.

The
phone there didn’t work either. No phone in Brighton worked. The Ministry of
Serendipity had cut the lines.

Porrig
took to some big time lot-bewailing.

‘Come
on,’ said Rippington. ‘Have a cup of tea.’

Porrig
put the kettle on. What are we going to do?’ he asked the small grey fellow.

‘Since
when have you taken to employing the royal “we”?’

‘We
have to do something. This is a major disaster here.’

‘See
what’s on the wireless set.’

Porrig
shook his head and rubbed it with a towel. ‘Why the wireless set?’

Rippington
tapped at his near noseless nose. You never know,’ said he. ‘Perhaps something
quite as big as this might get a mention on the news.’

Porrig
switched on the radio that stood on the kitchenette table. It was Wok Boy’s
radio. Porrig felt sick inside.

The
radio crackled, then issued the news.

It was
general news and first reports. First reports are always worth listening to.
They may be a bit sketchy and vague, but real news
is
sketchy and vague.
Real news is messy stuff, red in tooth and claw and things of that nature. And
first reports are real news, because first reports have not been tidied up and
sanitized and given a spin by the men who pull the strings.

‘The
first reports coming in about a major incident in the Brighton area,’ said a
voice on Porrig’s radio, ‘are a bit sketchy and vague, but we are awaiting
official reports of what has occurred and will be bringing these to you as
quickly as we can. On the world front the new Pope, Gregory the
Chicken-worrier, has declared television presenter Carol Vorderman a living
saint, while here at home Porrig is drying his armpits on a tea towel and
wondering just what he should do next.’

What?’
said Porrig.

‘However,’
the voice on the radio continued, ‘it is expected that he will soon reach a
decision.’

Who’s
saying this?’ Porrig asked.

You
are, aren’t you?’ Rippington scratched at his little grey head.

‘No. On
the radio. Someone is talking to me.’

‘That’s
what radios do, isn’t it?’

‘To
me
personally.’

‘Ah,’
said Rippington. ‘To
you
personally. And you get these voices often, do
you? The voice of God is it? Or Elvis? Does Elvis speak to you?’

‘Elvis?
How come you know about Elvis?’

‘Porrig,
everybody,
everywhere
knows about Elvis.’ Yeah, well, you just listen to
me, you little sod. I’m not losing my mind. Someone is speaking to me on this
radio.
Personally
to me. So shut up and listen.’

Rippington
shutted up and listened.

—accused
of impersonating an Egyptian while under the influence of alcohol and found in
possession of pamphlets which claimed that chickens were planning to take over
the world, pleaded guilty to—

‘It’s
stopped now,’ said Porrig.

‘Make
sure you dry between your toes,’ said the voice on the radio, ‘and put on a
vest. You don’t want to catch a cold.’

‘I know
that voice,’ said Rippington. ‘It’s—’

‘The
curator,’ said the voice of the old bloke. ‘And just what are
you
doing
there?’

‘Ah,’
said Rippington. ‘Porrig kidnapped me from ALPHA 17.’

You
lying little sod,’ said Porrig. ‘And
you
know why he’s here.
You
sent
him.’

‘Just
pay attention, both of you,’ said the voice on the radio. ‘There really isn’t
much time. You have to stop the monster, Porrig.’

‘Me?
Stop that thing? Get real, please.’

‘It can
be done, Porrig, and I will instruct you on how you will do it.’

‘No,’
said Porrig firmly. ‘No no no. I nearly died down there in the sea. That thing
can force thousands of people to kill themselves by doing nothing more than
thinking it. I’ll draw your comic book, but…’

‘But?’

‘But I’m
no superhero. Never could be.’

‘I’m
not asking you to be a superhero. I will tell you the words of the ritual that
enables one to move from this reality to others. You will take it down on paper
and learn it by heart. I will be with you shortly and then I will instruct you
how to use it.’

Why don’t
you do it yourself?’ Porrig asked. ‘You’re the big magician.’

‘Do you
wish to save your father’s life or not?’

‘Of
course I do.’

‘Then
get yourself a pencil and paper.’

Porrig
did as he was bid and then took down the seeming gibberish the old bloke
dictated to him.

‘Is
that it?’ Porrig asked, when he seemed to have finished.

‘That’s
it. Now learn it by heart and I’ll be with you soon.’

‘But
what if—’

‘—and
speaking from his hospital bed Sir David Attenborough said that he bore no ill
will to the islanders of Gwa-tan Qua Cest’l Potobo and would soon be up and
hopping about on his one remaining leg.’

‘Hang
on!’ shouted Porrig, ‘Speak to me!’

‘That
is the end of the news.’

‘Hang
about!’

‘He’s
gone,’ said Rippington. Which is nice for him.’

Porrig
sighed a big and heartfelt one. ‘And so it’s going to be up to me, is it? Slay
the beast and save the country? Ludicrous. Madness.’

Rippington
sauntered across the table and sat himself down on the kettle. ‘Ouch,’ he
cried, rising again.

Porrig
examined the words he had written; they still seemed like gibberish. This is
all nonsense,’ he said.

Rippington
peeped at the paper. ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I think you’ll find that it’s all in the
way that you read it.’

‘Go on?’

‘Each
of these words represents a note. A musical tone. But they’re not notes you’ve
ever heard of. These are the notes that exist in the cracks between the piano
keys.’

‘So I’m
supposed to sing out these words in the correct tones to make the magic work?’

‘That’s
it. Remember when you came to ALPHA 17 and I asked you what key you were in and
you didn’t know?’ Porrig nodded. Well, each of the realities is in a different
key. A different frequency. You sing out these words and you can tune from one
frequency to another.’

‘Singing
has never been my strong point.’

‘It has
mine,’ said Rippington. ‘And I know all these notes.’

Then do
it.’

What?’

‘Sing
out the notes.’

‘No
way.’ Rippington shook his little head. ‘I don’t have the authority.’

‘But
you want to go home, don’t you? We could go to ALPHA 17.’

We
could and it is tempting. But the curator would be furious. He’d have my
rubbing part for a pipe cleaner.’

‘All
right. Forget ALPHA 17. There’s another way of doing this. A way to get
everything sorted really quickly. And I do mean everything. The monster, the
Ministry of Serendipity, my dad. Everybody and everything.’

Rippington
looked up at Porrig. ‘Are you really thinking what I think I hear you thinking?’

‘I give
up. Am I?’

‘Search
me,’ said Rippington. ‘I was only bluffing that time. Your thoughts are so
confusing I can’t make a hog’s head or a pig’s tail out of them.’

‘Then
you’ll just have to trust me. And if you do, we’ll get the whole thing sewn up
before the old bloke gets here and you can go back to ALPHA 17 a hero.’

‘A
hero, eh?’

You’ll
be a hero and I’ll be a hero and all the world will be happy and everything
will be well and all before the old bloke gets back.’

‘Now
that,’ said Rippington, ‘would be what I’d call a most remarkable feat.’

It
was
a most
remarkable feat. Remarkably achieved. Single-handedly achieved. Remarkable.

The
President of the United States, in his speech, said just how remarkable he
thought it was. The Prime Minister of England, who always agreed with anything
the President said, agreed that it was indeed remarkable. Various crowned heads
of Europe, who hadn’t said anything much for a very long time, said that they
too considered it remarkable. And the new Pope Peter the Pigeon-fancier said
that even he found it remarkable.

The
motor cavalcade that progressed slowly through the streets of London, carrying
Porrig to Buckingham Palace, where he received his knighthood, was cheered for
every inch of the way by crowds that were thrilled to their hearts and souls by
the utter remarkabilty of just what Porrig had achieved.

To have
single-handedly defeated the monster, which had by this time taken control of
all the known world, but for the island of Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo, was
indeed remarkable.

In his
speech, Porrig, displaying the modesty and self-restraint and also the caring
kindly manner for which he had always been so loved, said that anyone in his
position would have done the same. He did not wish to take all the credit for
himself. He thanked his parents for the love and thoughtfulness they had shown
him over the years and hoped that now the world had experienced something so
awful as the monster’s reign of terror, that nation would speak peace unto
nation.

All the
proceeds from the film and TV rights of his life story would, he said, be
donated to the needy, to help house the homeless.

Porrig
bowed, had his hand shaken by the Prime Minister and received a kiss on the
cheek from the Queen.

The
slap-up nosh at Windsor Castle was attended by many celebrities; Arnold
Schwarzenegger, who had been picked to play Porrig in the forthcoming Hollywood
movie, gave him pats on the back; Sigourney Weaver offered him ‘the eye’.
Porrig sat beside Elton John, whose tribute record about him was currently
topping the pop charts.

The
toast was proposed by a small grey figure with a little baldy head and blue cat’s
eyes.

‘To
Porrig,’ said Rippington, for it was he. ‘To Porrig for being such an
unmitigated rub-tugger.’

‘What?’
said Porrig.

‘You
pig’s behind,’ said Rippington. ‘Did you really think you could just shift
yourself into an alternative reality where you had already defeated the monster
and were now getting all the rewards?’

Porrig
nodded with enthusiasm. Rippington shook his little head. ‘No?’ said Porrig.

‘No!’
said Rippington.

‘Oh,’
said Porrig. ‘Damn!’

Porrig sat in the
kitchenette drinking a cup of mauve tea.

It was
raining outside and the radio, although on, had nothing whatever to say. The
last news to come out of it was an official report which said that the centre
of London had been sealed off owing to traffic-light failure.

Porrig
sipped his tea and sighed to himself. Perhaps he’d make a start on that comic
book. Or perhaps he wouldn’t.

Wok Boy
appeared at the kitchenette door. ‘Check this out,’ he said.

Porrig
turned and took what he was handed. It was a free paper. Its headline read: ‘CREATURE
DEAD’.

And
under this were the words: ‘MONSTER KILLED BY COMMON COLD.’

‘Yes!’ went Porrig,
raising a fist.

‘No!’
said Rippington, shaking his head. ‘Though it was a nice touch bringing Wok Boy
back to life.’

The Silver Surfer sped
down from the sky and—

‘No!’
said Rippington.

The Earth’s crust cracked
open and swallowed the creature and— ‘No!’

‘No?’
said Porrig.

‘No!’

‘Then
what about if—’