Apocalypso (29 page)

‘Amazonian
killer wasps,’ said Apocalypso. ‘Oooooooooooooooooh,’ went the audience. ‘One
sting will drive a man insane with pain, two stings and…’ Here he drew a
gloved finger across his throat. ‘Two stings are fatal. And here, in this
cabinet, are one thousand wasps. Would anyone care to count them? You, perhaps,
madam?’ He pointed to a lady in a straw hat.

‘No
thanks,’ called the lady. ‘I’ll trust your arithmetic.’

‘Just
so. And should one thousand killer wasps not do the trick, then how about this?’

The
lights suddenly dimmed and the world went black. And then with a pop and a
crackle and a shock, great sparkings of electricity flashed about.

The
lights went up to reveal another figure on the stage: chap in a white coat this
time, holding two very large cables. He brought them within two feet of each
other and sparks flew like special effects in a Frankenstein movie.

‘Oooooooooooooooooh,’
went the audience once more.

‘Fifty
thousand volts,’ said Apocalypso. ‘One cable will be attached to the top of the
box and one to the bottom. I shall be standing between the two when the switch
is thrown to complete the circuit and receive the full force of the shock.’

‘Oooooooooooooooooh,’
went the audience.

‘Madness,’
said Porrig.

‘Now,’
said Apocalypso. ‘Should the wasps not sting me to death and the voltage not
turn me to jelly, how about
this?’

He
clapped his hands and, beneath the still dangling torture box, a trapdoor
opened in the stage. From this belched fire and smoke. A regular Moloch of a
blaze.

Oooooooooooooooooh,’
went the audience one more time.

‘Down,’
cried Apocalypso. ‘Down the torture box will be lowered. Into the fiery
furnace.’

‘Hold
on there,’ shouted Porrig, shielding his face from the heat of the flames. ‘This
is all too much. Call this off.’

‘Boo,’
went the audience. ‘Throw that trannie off the stage.’

‘How
dare you!’

Someone
threw another fish. A diamond-finned loonbelly, this time. Or possibly a splay-jawed
grum-doodler. Porrig ducked it, whatever it was.

‘This
must be done,’ said Apocalypso to Porrig.

‘No it
mustn’t.’

Yes it
must,’ said Rippington.

‘Box
into furnace,’ cried Apocalypso. ‘That indeed should finish the job.’

Audience
heads bobbed up and down. That indeed
should
finish anybody’s job.

‘And
one more thing.’ Apocalypso held high a hand as the trapdoor closed upon the
flames. ‘If all this isn’t bad enough. I shall perform this feat in this
fashion.’ He drew his cape about himself, turned around in a circle, then flung
his cape aside to reveal that he now was dressed in the costume of an Egyptian.

‘Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh,’
went the audience,
very
impressed.

‘This
Egyptian stuff is quite lost on me,’ said Porrig.

Apocalypso
adjusted his fez. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the bishop.’

Wild
applause from the audience. Bewildered looks from Porrig.

The
bishop swept onto the stage, robes all flying, mitre cocked at a more than
jaunty angle. He bowed to the audience, blew kisses, winked and grinned,
performed a double somersault and came to rest upon one leg with his crook held
high in the air.

‘Nice
crook,’ said Rippington.

‘Lost
on me,’ said Porrig.

‘All
right,’ Apocalypso cried. ‘I shall be mocked by the bishop, shamed by the
bishop and I will enter the torture box with the killer wasps. The box will be
locked, the electric cables will be attached top and bottom. At my signal the
power will be switched on. I will release the wasps, the box will be lowered
into the fiery furnace. And if I survive all
that,
I would ask that you
favour me with a small round of applause.’

The
audience responded with a very large round. ‘Thank you.’ Apocalypso bowed,
produced a key from nowhere and handed it to Myra. Myra unlocked the door of
the torture box and swung it open. The bishop camped about the stage, hoisting
up his vestments and baring his bottom. What a wanker!’ he called at the
magician. What a use-less wanker!’ Apocalypso took the cabinet of killer wasps
from the wasp man and entered the torture box. Myra closed and locked the door
upon him.

‘On my
word,’ cried Apocalypso, ‘hook up the cables.
Hook.’
The chap in the
white coat stepped forward. The power had been switched off and he attached the
cables top and bottom to the torture box with giant jump-lead clamps: most
impressive.

‘On my
word, raise the torture box.
Raise.’

Chains
clanked and the torture box, now trailing its mighty cables and containing
Apocalypso and the cabinet of killer wasps, rose to a height some ten feet
above the stage.

As the
audience hadn’t ooooooooooooooooohed in a while, it had another
oooooooooooooooooh now.

‘Stop
this!’ shouted Porrig and was felled by a well-aimed flounder.

‘On my
word, open the furnace doors.
Open.’

The
trapdoor in the stage opened, belching fire and smoke.

‘Oooooooooooooooooh!’

‘On the
count of three I will open the wasp cabinet, the power will be switched on and
the torture box lowered into the flames. I will remain there for thirty seconds
— you may count them with the lovely Myra. Then the box will be raised, and
you, perhaps, will applaud.’

The
audience now did not ooooooooooooooooh or applaud. This looked terribly
serious, terribly dangerous. This looked like suicide, really.

Porrig
floundered with the flounder. ‘Somebody stop him,’ he shouted as he floundered.

Myra
did open palms and showed a bit more cleavage.

The
bishop waggled his bum about and called abuse in Latin.

Rippington
shook his little grey head as the beekeeping man and the white-coat chap retired
to the sides of the stage.

‘On the
count of three,’ shouted Apocalypso, taking a grip on the cabinet handle. ‘One…’

‘No,’
said Porrig.

‘Two…’

‘Don’t
do it,’ begged Porrig.

‘Three!’
Apocalypso tore the lid from the wasp cabinet and the insects whirled up about
him in a buzzing murderous storm. Off stage the switch was thrown and the
electricity tore through the torture box from top to bottom, arcing from one
pole to the other. Down and slowly down went the torture box, down into the
fiery pit.

Porrig
covered his eyes, the crowd held its collective breath and Myra began to
count.

She
hadn’t got to three before it happened. There was a creak and a terrible
splintering sound. Somewhere above, the winch that lowered the chains was
faltering.

The fifty
thousand volts that crackled through the torture box were flying also up the
chains, igniting the engine that held them.

The
engine graunched and one chain snapped. The torture box swung crazily, sparks
flying from it, all hell and mayhem within. And then the other chain gave and
the box plunged down, snapping the cables too as it fell.

Down
into the fiery pit beneath.

Down
into the mouth of Moloch.

Down
into hell fire and damnation.

Porrig
tried to leap forward, but the heat drove him back. Myra screamed and her
screams were taken up by the audience. Men with fire extinguishers rushed
forward from the sides of the stage to fight the flames.

‘Bring
down the curtains,’ shouted someone and the curtains fell.

The
auditorium was in riot. Folk fought to flee the horror, tripping and tumbling
over one another.

The
bishop appeared from between the curtains. ‘Please,’ he shouted. ‘Calm
yourselves, please. Return to your seats. Return to your seats.’

They
really should have stoned him for that. Return to your seats indeed! But they
didn’t, they stopped. Became calm. They trusted this bishop; they knew him,
they loved him. Which was probably why he was there.

‘There
has been a slight technical problem,’ said the bishop, making calming gestures
with his crook, ‘but do not panic. All will be well. Return quietly to your
seats. Please.’

Behind
the curtains, the fire extinguishers worked at their extinguishing. The flames
were dying down and then the trapdoor closed.

We have
to get down there.’ Porrig flapped his hands foolishly. ‘Try to get him out.
See if he can be revived.’

‘Porrig,’
said Rippington. ‘Porrig.’

Which
way?’ dithered Porrig. Which way?’

‘There’s
no way, Porrig, there’s no way at all.’

‘But we
must do something.’

‘He’s
dead, Porrig. He could never have survived.’

‘No…no…’

Rippington
patted Porrig’s stockinged leg. ‘Let it go. Get the book and let us go too. We’ve
been here much too long.’

‘I can’t
just leave. He’s dead. My God, he’s dead.’

‘I
think he’s paid his dues. I don’t think he’s gone to the bad place again.’

‘No,’
said Porrig. ‘No.’

And
then a great cheer went up from the auditorium.

What
the fu—’

‘I
think it’s the bishop,’ said Rippington. ‘Telling jokes, probably.’

‘Bastard!’
Porrig rushed to the curtains and pushed his way between them.

The
audience went, ‘Oooooooooooooooooh’ at his appearance.

‘Hello,
darling,’ said the bishop.

What?’
went Porrig.

Would
you care to waltz with a man of the cloth?’

The
audience laughed.

Porrig
gaped.

The
bishop waggled his bum once more. ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said.

‘I’ll
punch your fucking lights out.’

‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!’
went the audience.

‘Hold
hard,’ said the bishop. ‘No need for bad language.’

‘No
need for…’ Porrig coughed and sputtered. ‘No need for bad language? He’s
dead, you shithead. He’s dead and you say—’

‘Who’s
dead?’ asked the bishop.

‘Apocalypso.
Apocalypso The—’

‘Miraculous!’
cried the bishop. And he tore off his mask and he threw off his robes and then,
bishop no more, it was
he.
Apocalypso The Miracubus!

‘Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh,’
went the audience.

‘Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh,’
went Porrig.

20

Porrig was all
ooooooooooooooooohed out by the time Apocalypso The Miraculous had taken his
twenty-third curtain call and retired at last to his dressing room.

Porrig
and Rippington joined him there, accepted the glasses of champagne that were
offered and, along with the bee-keeping man, the chap in the white coat, the
lovely Myra and the unlovely bishop, they toasted the health and skill of the
great magician.

‘A
raging stonker of a show,’ said the bishop, his arm about the lovely Myra’s
shoulder. Your best performance ever.’

‘Thank
you,’ said Apocalypso. ‘My best and also my last.’

‘Come,
come,’ the bishop said, his arm now round the lovely Myra’s waist. You’re on
your way to the very top, my boy. You could make the impossible possible. All
you have to do is take that little extra step.’

Apocalypso
shook his fezless head. ‘That little extra step, as you call it, is one that I
shall never take.’ He smiled in the direction of Porrig. You and your little
friend there know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

We do,’
said Porrig. ‘And you’re making the right decision. So how exactly do you plan
to spend your retirement?’

‘I
shall open a little bookshop. In Brighton, I think I have always been a great
admirer of comic-book art. I will specialize in that kind of thing.’

‘Top
man.’ Porrig raised his glass. Well, we have to go now,’ he said. ‘But it has
been amazing to meet you. Quite amazing.’

Rippington
tugged at Porrig’s trouser leg. ‘Not without the book,’ he whispered.

Apocalypso
viewed the imp. What did that small fellow say?’

Porrig
cleared his throat. ‘We need something. Something of yours. It’s very important
in the time we come from.’

‘Time?’

‘It
would take far too long to explain. But we’re in big trouble where we come from
and Rippington here thinks that if I were to
borrow
your book…’

What
book?’

Your
book of magic.’

‘The
ritual?’ Apocalypso stiffened.