Apocalypso (31 page)

Woman?’
The boot went in once more. But this time it really was a boot.

Porrig
looked up and did blinkings.

‘Had
you fooled there, didn’t I?’ said the old bloke, for it was he.

What?’
Porrig gaped and gasped.

‘Had
those wankers at the Ministry of Serendipity fooled too. The old quick-change
routine, Apocalypso taught it to me when I was his assistant.’

‘Hang
about.’ Porrig struggled unsteadily to his feet, rubbing his wounded wrist. ‘I
know you told me that you were his assistant. But when you went on stage, were
you dressed as a woman?’

‘Of
course. Every stage magician has to have a beautiful woman as an assistant. It’s
a tradition, or an old charter, or something.’

‘Hang
about, hang about. This is all falling into place now. Were you the assistant
that went into the electronic wasp-filled torture box and didn’t come out
again?’

‘The
bloody trick went wrong. If I hadn’t used the ritual I would have been roasted.’

You
would have been killed.’

‘Not
killed, Porrig. I cannot die until I have returned the angel’s feather. But I
didn’t intend to be roasted.’

‘Has
the kicking stopped?’ asked Wok Boy, uncovering his head. ‘Oh shit!’ he
continued, seeing the old bloke.

‘The
kicking’s stopped,’ said Porrig. ‘But my confusion continues. How come, if you
weren’t killed—’

‘There’s
no time now,’ said the old bloke. ‘Have you had time to read this book?’

‘Not
really, and I still don’t see how—’

‘Then
you’d best study it on the way. We’re going after the creature. We have to try
and stop it before it reaches London.’

‘Er,
excuse me,’ said Wok Boy.

What do
you
want?’ asked the old bloke.

‘Well… just… er… you don’t want me to come, do you?’

‘No I
bloody well don’t. You can stay here and get my comic books back’

‘My
comic books,’ said Porrig.

‘Porrig’s
comic books.’

‘I’ll
stay and help him,’ said Rippington.

‘Oh no,’
said the old bloke. You’ll come with us. I have a use for you.’

‘Oh
dear.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Russell as
the first tank shell burst overhead. The train was going flat out now and
Russell had been singing Waterloo’.

‘Stop this,’ shouted the
adjutant. You cannot fire upon unarmed civilians.’

The
Commander-in-Chief made circular finger-movements to the gunner. ‘Right a bit,
stop, up a bit, stop.’

‘Sir,’
said the adjutant, trying to stand up in the special tank (the one with the
Commander-in-Chief’s name on the side and the fitted cocktail cabinet) and
striking his head on the little trapdoor thingy. ‘Sir, with all respect, I must
insist that—’

‘Fire!’
said the Commander-in-Chief.

Bang
and recoil and Doppler effect whistle and

WHAM!

Russell ducked in the cab.
‘That was bloody close,’ he mumbled. Why are they shooting at
me?’

‘Sir, please, there are
thousands of people on that train.’

‘Adjutant,
if you’re going to fuss around like a silly big girl, then I’ll have to have
you chucked out of me tank’

‘But,
sir —’

‘Down a
bit, left a bit.’

‘Sir—’

‘Fire!’

A signal box exploded,
spewing flaming wreckage onto the track Russell shielded his face as the train
tore through the mayhem. ‘Mum!’ screamed Russell. ‘I want my mum!’

The gap was less than two
miles and was closing very fast.

Inside
the special tank a special telephone rang. The adjutant snatched up the
handset. Yes,’ he shouted into it. Yes … What?… Yes I understand.
Cease firing, sir.’

‘That’s
it, you great Nellie, out of me damned tank.’

‘But,
sir, that was a communication from the train, patched through to us from GHQ.
Sir John Rimmer is on the train. He’s called to say stop firing, the monster is
not
on the train, repeat, the monster is
not
on the train.’

‘It’s a
damned trick. Get out of that seat, gunner, I’ll take this next shot meself.’

‘Sir,
please. Sir John Rimmer says that the creature was in the last carriage and
that it had the last carriage detached from the train ten minutes ago.’

‘Can’t
take any chances. Could be a damned trick’

‘Sir,
it’s no trick and we’re in the path of the train. Back the tank out of the way.’

‘Here
it comes, by crikey.’ The Commander-in-Chief pointed through the forward port. ‘No
time for namby-pambying about now. If you can’t take the meat, stay out of the
butcher’s trousers, what. And where do you think you’re off to, gunner?’

‘I can’t
take the meat, sir.’

‘Damned
nancy boy. And you too, adjutant? Come back, you poltroon.’

‘Back!’ shouted Russell,
fleeing the cab and rushing into the first carriage. ‘Everyone to the back of
the train. We’re going to crash. We’re going to crash.’

A tall
man in underpants stepped past Russell.

‘Not
that way, sir. Move to the back’

You
move and hurry,’ said Sir John Rimmer. ‘I will try to stop the train.

Thunder
and rattle and now blowing whistle, the train hurtled forwards. Less than a
mile in it and that gap closing fast as before.

Sir
John Rimmer sat in the driver’s seat, all firm jaw and stiff upper lip, one
hand on the whistle, two bare feet upon the brake. He took a deep deep breath
and held it and he didn’t close his eyes. If this was to be his death, he’d
stare it full in the face and meet it like a man.

No
false beard, no bloated pride, near-naked and alone.

‘So be
it,’ said Sir John.

So be
it.

And as
these things do when they happen,
this
thing did as
it
happened.
All in slow motion and just like a dream. Or an art house movie montage.

The
eyes of Sir John staring ever ahead become the skidding train wheels, then
become the crescent of a thumbnail as the thumb goes pushing down upon the
blood red FIRE button in the tank, become the eye now of a dog, Sir John’s dog,
fetching sticks for him in boyhood; running legs now the running legs of
passengers, the passengers falling, tripping, stumbling, a face now fills the
screen, expands, the mouth becomes a pit, then a tunnel and the train screams
through the tunnel; whistles, screams and people scream and eyes and wheels and
eyes and wheels and— Cut by the producer, who cares bugger all for art, and
wants some action.

So, cut
to the eyes of Sir John.

Cut to
overhead shot of train rushing forward.

Cut to
overhead shot of tank, someone climbing in.

Cut to
skidding train wheels.

Cut to
passengers tripping and falling.

Cut to
interior of tank, thumb about to press FIRE button.

Cut to
eyes of Commander-in-Chief, looking up.

Cut to
eyes of Sir John, sweat dripping, knuckle rubbing across.

Overhead
shot, gap closing fast.

Interior
of tank, special telephone handset being snatched up.

Train
wheels.

Passengers.

Handset
smashing into Commander-in-Chief’s temple.

Tank’s
POV
[8]
of approaching train.

Train’s
POV of tank.

Eyes of
Sir John.

Eyes of
adjutant. Oh!

Sir
John’s feet on brake.

Adjutant’s
hands gripping tank controls.

Train
wheels skidding.

Tank
tracks whirling.

Eyes of
Sir John.

Eyes of
adjutant.

People
falling.

Sir
John’s hand going up to face.

Skidding
wheels.

Whirling
tracks.

Falling
people.

Subliminal
cut of Danbury Collins playing with himself in carriage toilet.

And
medium shot as train tears past tank, missing it by inches and grinds and
grinds and grinds and grinds to a halt.

And
cut!

And
print.

21

Printouts spewed from
computer machines, telephones rang and smart-looking women in tight-fitting
suits marched up and down. Men in white coats drank coffee from plastic cups
and Augustus Naseby lurked in a corner.

It was
all go at the Ministry of Serendipity.

A man
in a white coat named Albert (he had named the coat himself, after Queen
Victoria’s beloved husband), poked Augustus with a stick.

‘Oi!’
said that man, ‘who do you think you’re poking?’

‘Damn
thing doesn’t work,’ said the man with the coat called Albert.

What is
it, anyway?’

‘Divining
rod, sir. I got it out of the stores.’

Augustus
Naseby sighed in a manner much favoured by his son. Why?’ he asked.

‘Trying
to locate the escape pod, sir. You know, the emergency escape pod that was
built into the underground system by the Victorian magicians we deny all
knowledge of. The escape pod you sent me to find and prepare.’

‘Sssh,’
went Augustus, with finger at his lips. We don’t want to go causing panic, now
do we?’

‘Absolutely
not, sir.’

‘Let’s
have a look at the thing.’ Augustus snatched the stick and gave it an all-over
peering. ‘Didn’t it come with any instructions?’

‘Just
this little booklet, sir.’ The man pulled this from a pocket in Albert;
Augustus pulled it from him.

“‘Thank
you for buying
The H. G. Wells 1900 Emergency Escape Pod,”‘
he read.
“‘The
HGW 1900
supersedes all previous escape pods, having the full brass
fittings of
The Verne
and the black Gothic leather interior of
The
Poe.
Blah blah blah blah—”‘

“‘Blah”?’
asked the man.

‘“Blah”,’
said Augustus. ‘Look, man, there’s a map here of how to get to the pod and
there are full instructions for firing it up and getting it launched.’

‘I
would assume so, yes, sir.’

‘So why
didn’t you just read the booklet?’

‘Not
authorized to, sir. Ouch!’

Augustus
Naseby raised the stick and struck the man once more.

‘Ouch!’
cried the man once more. And, ‘Ouch!’ he cried once more once more as Augustus
hit him once more.

‘The
stick works all right,’ said Augustus, ‘You just weren’t using it properly.’

‘Sir,’
said another man in a white coat called Brian (the man’s name was Brian, the
coat was called Phil). ‘Sir, there’s a lot of news coming in from Croydon.’

‘Tell
me the worst,’ said Augustus.

Well,’
said the man, ‘the worst was when I got my willy stuck in the tube of the
vacuum cleaner. I was hoovering naked because it was a very hot day and, as I
said to the nurse at the hospital, I… Why are you looking at me like that,
sir? Ouch!’

‘Croydon,’
said Augustus. ‘Just tell us about Croydon.’

‘This
was in Croydon. Ouch!’

‘It
does work well, doesn’t it?’ said the man with the coat called Albert. ‘Can I
have a go?’

Augustus
handed him the stick.

‘Just
you bloody dare,’ said Brian.

‘Tell
me the news from Croydon or I will shoot you dead,’ said Augustus, drawing out
a pistol.

Well,
sir, it was really exciting. The train was rushing along and the tanks were
lined up on the track and the Commander-in-Chief was parked on the actual track
in his special tank and he was firing and the train ‘was rushing forward and he
was firing and the train was rushing forward and ouch!’

‘Nice
shot,’ said Augustus.

Brian
rubbed his head. ‘Sir John Rimmer was on the train and he managed to stop it
safely.’

‘Bravo,
Sir John.’

‘But
the monster wasn’t on the train. It was in the last carriage and that was
detached from the train somewhat earlier. The monster got off at a village
called Bramfield.’

‘And
how do you know that?’

‘Street
surveillance cameras, sir. Most towns and villages are now fitted with them.
Crime prevention, we like to call it. Sounds a bit better than “Big Brother is
watching you”, but it amounts to the same thing.’