Apocalypso (28 page)

‘I read
your book.
Beyond Doubtable Reason
by Sir John Rimmer.’

‘So I
should go up on stage and compound his misery by stealing his book?’

Well,
he doesn’t have much use for it here, does he?’

‘No.
But I can’t leave him here. Not like this.’

We can’t
take him back with us, Porrig. He’s dead, he’d fall to pieces. And I’d get in
all kinds of trouble. More than I’m in already.’

‘All
right.’ Porrig made a thoughtful face. ‘Maybe we can’t take him back to our
reality. But what about if…’ and he whispered to Rippington.

Rippington
listened, then Rippington grinned. ‘I suppose we could,’ he said. ‘I mean, who
else would know, if we didn’t tell them?’

‘Sing
the magic words,’ said Porrig.

Rippington
sang the magic words.

The curtains creaked apart
once more to reveal the same stage, the same table, the same backdrop. From
stage left came the grunting sounds, the cranking sounds, the hissings and the
crackles. And then the sound of music.

‘It’s a
kind of magic,’ sang Freddie the Mercury.

Porrig
settled back in his seat. Rippington sat up in his.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen,’ came the strident offstage voice. ‘For the last time here, or
anywhere. Long in the tooth, but brave as a bear. Marvel, mystic and
manipulator. Pre-eminent prestidigitator. Lord of legerdemain. Came by bus and
not by train…’

You get
far better poetry in ALPHA 17,’ whispered Rippington.

‘The
one, the only, and he still rhymes with spectaculous. Apocalypso The
Miraculous!’

There
was a puff of smoke.

And he
was there.

Black
top hat and tails and cape all lined with crimson silk. Patent pumps and, in
his white-gloved fingers, twirling canes. Crisp white shirt with matching dicky
bow. And underneath, red ladies’ underwear (a private peccadillo).

‘I can’t
stop him being a perv,’ said Rippington.

What do
you mean?’

‘Nothing,
Porrig. Just enjoy the show.’

Apocalypso
grinned from ear to ear and back again. His face was young and fit and tanned.
He wore a black moustache and an Imperial upon his chin.
[7]
He looked as he had
while still in his prime, which once again he was.

‘He
looks good,’ said Porrig.

‘Don’t
he just.’

Apocalypso’s
twirling whirling canes became a blur and then became two sprays of fresh red
roses. The magician bowed, then flung them to the crowd and they became a flock
of doves that circled overhead.

‘How
did he do that?’ Porrig asked.

Without
the aid of demons. Watch this bit.’

Apocalypso
raised his hat, the circling doves flew back to the stage and, spiralling down
like water into a plughole, they vanished one after another into the upraised
hat.

Apocalypso
bowed once more, turned the top hat upside down and patted the crown. A foot
appeared, a lady’s foot, followed by a fish-net stockinged leg, another leg,
then a torso, head and arms and all.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen,’ cried Apocalypso, his voice going boom about the auditorium. ‘Ladies
and gentlemen, I give you my lovely assistant, Myra.’

‘Myra?’
said Porrig. ‘But Myra’s my …’ He paused.

Your
what?’ asked Rippington.

‘My
mum,’ said Porrig. ‘And it is my mum. I’ve seen pictures of her when she was
very young. This
is
her.’

‘The
rubbing part thickens,’ said Rippington.

‘It’s
the
plot thickens, actually.’

‘No it’s
not,’ said Rippington. ‘I’ve always gone for fish-net stockings.’

‘Don’t
be so disgusting, that’s my mum!’

Porrig’s
mum did that stage assistant curtsy that Debbie Magee does with such grace,
then the open-palmed point to the magician, which indicates to the crowd that
they have just witnessed something well deserving of their stingy praise.

The
crowd clapped. And the claps sounded. Sounded loud. Rippled and crashed and
sea-washed over the theatre, rising and rising and rising.

Porrig
joined in and Rippington did too. The great magician bowed and Porrig’s mum
curtsied, did some more open-palming, then clapped a bit herself.

‘It’s
going brilliantly,’ Porrig shouted through the wild applause. ‘But I never knew
that my mum had been his assistant,’ he whispered to Rippington.

Your
family has got more secrets than the CIA.’

‘Ladies
and gentlemen.’ Apocalypso raised his gloved hands and the audience stilled to
silence. ‘This is to be my final performance and you will witness sights that
you have never witnessed before. You will tell your grandchildren that you were
here this night. That you
saw
Apocalypso The Miraculous.’

‘Top man,’
shouted Porrig.

Apocalypso
gazed down upon him. ‘Did somebody speak?’ he asked.

‘I just
said, “Top man,”‘ said Porrig. ‘Sorry to interrupt your flow.’

‘Not at
all, young man. Would you care to step onto the stage and take part in the
performance?’

‘No,
not really. I’ll just watch, if you don’t mind.’

‘But I
do, I do.’ Apocalypso beckoned. ‘Come onto the stage. Come onto the stage.’

‘No,
really, I…’

Apocalypso
pointed and stared a most unsettling stare.

‘I
would this time,’ said Rippington.

Porrig rose
from his seat and scrambled onto the stage.

‘And
what is your name?’ Apocalypso asked. ‘Padraig,’ said Porrig. ‘But it’s
pronounced Porrig. so that’s what everyone calls me.’

What a
nice name,’ said the lovely Myra. ‘If I ever have a son, I think I might call
him that.’

‘Er…’ said Porrig.

‘So,’
said Apocalypso, ‘do you believe in magic, Porrig?’

‘Oh
yes,’ said Porrig. ‘I certainly do. And fate. And dharma too.’

‘So
much belief for one so young.’

‘I’m
learning how to learn.’

‘Then
top man too. Let the show begin.’ Apocalypso threw wide his arms and the show
began. Oh yes!

Rippington
looked on in awe as Porrig was first levitated, then made to climb up a rope
that hovered of its own accord, before vanishing at the top to appear a moment
later at the back of the auditorium. Then thrust into a suitcase that was
pierced through with spears, lifted out unharmed, rammed into a cannon and
fired through a hoop of fire, collected up in pieces from the stage floor,
jammed into Apocalypso’s top hat, then poured out wearing Myra’s clothes while
she clapped loud from Porrig’s seat, all dressed up in his.

‘For my
finale,’ cried Apocalypso. ‘The terrible electronic wasp-filled torture box,
that will be lowered into the pit of flames, whilst simultaneously—’

‘No,’ begged
Porrig.

‘No?’
said Apocalypso.

‘No. I’m
definitely stealing all your thunder. Go into the box yourself.’

‘No
fear,’ said Apocalypso. ‘I put my last assistant in there. We haven’t found all
of her yet.’

‘Go on,
Porrig,’ called Rippington. Wasp-filled torture box. It’ll be a doddle.’

‘A
friend of yours?’ asked Apocalypso.

‘Another
volunteer,’ said Porrig, wiping sweat from all manner of places. ‘I’m sure he’d
rather do it than me.’

Well,
let’s have him up on the stage. It is a
him,
isn’t it?’

Rippington
waggled his small rubbing part.

You had
to say
that,’
Porrig said.

Rippington
scuttled onto the stage. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, extending a slim grey
hand.

Apocalypso
shook it gently. ‘And where are you from?’ he enquired.

‘ALPHA
17. The place where you’re
not
going to go.’

Apocalypso’s
smiling face became a face of fear. You’ve come for me,’ he whispered.

Rippington
shook his little grey head. ‘On the contrary. As this
will
be your last
performance, and you will
only
be using stage magic, and not
any
other kind ever,
no-one or thing is going to come for you. Porrig is giving
you a second chance. So don’t foul it up.’

‘But I
don’t understand.’

‘Boo’
and ‘Hiss’ went the audience, and ‘Get on with it’ also.

Your
public awaits,’ said Rippington. ‘Can the wasp box trick be done without help
from.., how shall I put this? Help from other quarters?’

Apocalypso
shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It was because of the tragedy
that befell my last assistant that I invoked the help of those from other quarters.
In the hope of getting her back.’

‘It’s
all beginning to make sense now, isn’t it?’ said Porrig to Rippington. Why he,
you know, went over to the Dark Side of The Force, as it were.’

‘Boo
boo’ and further ‘Hiss’ went the audience, who could not hear the conversation.
Someone threw an apple and another threw a fish.

‘Must
be a party in from Surrealing,’ said Rippington. ‘Better do the trick yourself,
Mr Miraculous.’

Apocalypso
took deep breaths and his smile returned. ‘All right,’ said he.

‘Hold on,’
said Porrig. ‘I mean, he might get killed doing this.’

‘Dharma,’
said Rippington. We’ve entered a reality in the past, where Apocalypso has not
yet got fully involved with the demon-ear-whispering. You chose it, Porrig. It
was your idea. To save him from the thirty years of torture.’

Yes,
but if he gets killed, what have I saved him from?’

‘He
might not die. Might you not, Apocalypso?’

The
magician’s smile had a forced look about it. ‘Certainly not,’ he said in a
voice that was none too convincing.

Members
of the audience were standing now and a large selection of fruit and veg, socks
and shoes, teabags and tambourines, chimney-pots and carrycots, condoms full of
semolina and pork pies fashioned into the shape of battleships and hedgehogs
were being hurled at the stage.

We
could just bring down the curtain,’ said Porrig. ‘Leave’m wanting more, eh?’

Rippington
shook his little grey head.

Apocalypso
shook his larger and tanned one.

‘God’s
cods,’ said Porrig.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen,’ cried Apocalypso, throwing wide his hands once more and
beaming at the audience. A tube of Dr Doveston’s Patent Pile Ointment and
Strawberry-flavoured Mouthwash sailed through the air, missed Apocalypso and
caught Porrig full in the face.

‘Ouch,’
went Porrig, falling to the stage.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen. My apologies to you for the slight delay in the performance. I
was simply dictating my will to my colleague here.’

Porrig
climbed to his feet and curtsied.

You
look a right rub-tugger in those fish-net tights,’ said Rippington.

Porrig’s
mum shouted from the stalls: ‘Get on with it.’

‘The
act I am about to perform,’ continued the magician, dodging falls of spanner
sandwiches and cheesecake, ‘has never been successfully attempted before.
No-one has ever survived going into the electronic wasp-filled torture box and
being lowered into the pit of flames whilst being simultaneously scorned by an
Anglican Bishop for impersonating an Egyptian.’

‘Don’t
like the sound of that last bit,’ said Rippington. ‘Give us a kiss.’

‘Piss
off,’ said Porrig.

‘If I
might just ask my lovely assistant Myra to assist me in a lovely manner?’

Porrig’s
mum returned to the stage. ‘I rather like this cross-dressed look,’ she said to
Porrig. ‘I might suggest it to my friend Marlene Dietrich, she’s looking for a
new gimmick to use in her next movie.

‘Myra,’
said Apocalypso. Myra bowed, displaying much cleavage and some hint of nipple
to the audience. All throwing ceased and much cheering began.

‘Oi!’
went Porrig. ‘That’s my in—’ ‘Best keep a few secrets for yourself,’ suggested
Rippington.

The
lovely Myra did some more open-palm work and Apocalypso clapped his hands. Down
from somewhere or other on high came a large glass case of telephone-box
proportions. It descended slowly towards the stage, lowered upon sturdy chains.

‘The
terrible electronic torture box,’ cried Apocalypso.

‘Oooooooooooooooooh,’
went the audience. ‘As you can see,’ Apocalypso said, ‘the torture box is
constructed of glass, but for the top and the bottom, which are formed from
high conductivity steel. I will enter the box from the door in the front.
Taking with me these.’ He gestured stage right, and from stage right a chap
appeared. He was clad in the full bee-keeper’s get-up: mask, white suit, the
whole bit. And he carried before him, held at arm’s length, a small glass
cabinet. From within came a mad mad buzzing, for within were many wasps.