Apocalypso (32 page)

‘Go on
then.’

‘Right
sir. The monster had itself installed in a furniture van and continued its
journey towards London up the A24.’

Augustus
made heart-clutching movements with his non-gun-toting hand. ‘It’s coming to
get me. Prepare the pod, we’re going to escape.’

‘Can I
come too?’ asked Brian.

Augustus
made a thoughtful face and then shot Brian dead. ‘No,’ he said, ‘there won’t be
room for three.’

‘Thee for London, cabbie,’
said the old bloke.

The
cabbie leaned out of his window and looked the old bloke up and down. ‘Sorry,
mate,’ he said, ‘but this cab’s taken. Tart from London, actually. Nice legs
and cracking Charlies; gagging for it, she is. I reckon I’m onto a promise
there.’

The old
bloke leaned down to the cabbie and whispered certain words into his ear:
explicit details regarding the punishments that would be dealt out in the event
of non-compliance.

‘Hop
in,’ said the cabbie.

The
three hopped in and the cabbie drove off at a breakneck speed. Porrig settled
down to read Apocalypso’s book of magic. The old bloke spoke sternly to
Rippington. What have you been up to?’ he asked.

‘Porrig
made me take him to Omega 666. He said he’d torture me.’

The old
bloke shook his head. ‘You took him to help him. I knew you would. But this is
not
the same reality that I left you in. I can sense that it’s different.’

‘It’s
only a slightly different one.’

‘How
slightly different?’

Rippington
beckoned and whispered at the old bloke’s ear. Well, in
this
reality Wok
Boy didn’t drown in the sea.’

The old
bloke shook his head. ‘Fair enough. But what else is different?’

‘Only
Porrig.’

‘Porrig?
How?’

Porrig
closed Apocalypso’s book. ‘Finished,’ he said, ‘what an interesting book.’

Well,
he can read a lot faster now,’ said Rippington.

‘This
gives me an idea,’ said Porrig. We must stop off on the way and pick up a few
things.’

‘And
improvise.’

‘Get a
bloody move on, cabbie,’ said Porrig.

‘And he’s
more assertive.’

Porrig
sighed.

‘And
that’s about all, really.’

The
cabbie glanced into his driving mirror. ‘So,’ said he. What have you got there,
then? Ventriloquist’s dummy, is it?’

‘I’ll
stick my wand up your fudge-tunnel, mush!’

‘Very
droll,’ said the cabbie. ‘And very convincing. Dying art, ventriloquism. Like
snuffing.’

‘Like
what?’
asked Porrig.

‘Snuff
taking. Gone right out of fashion, it has, but it’ll be back, you mark my
words. Smokers are fed up with being discriminated against. You can’t smoke
here, you can’t smoke there. They’ll revive snuff taking, you wait and see. No
laws about not taking snuff There’ll be snuff shops back in the high street
before the turn of the century, or my name’s not Sebastopol Van Meer de la Pine
Gwa-tan Qua Cest’l Potobo. Or is it Kevin Smith?’

‘Kevin,’
said the old bloke.

‘Yep?’
said Kevin.

‘Shut
up and drive the cab or I’ll …’ And he leaned forward and whispered once
more.

Kevin
hunched low at the wheel and shuddered. ‘You’ve got a serious attitude problem,’
he said.

If Dilbert Norris had a
serious attitude problem, and many would probably say that he had, he was
unaware of it himself. Does the man who stamps on a cockroach or swats a wasp
have a serious attitude problem? No. Does the man who eats vegetables for
dinner have a serious attitude problem? No. Does the man who considers that the
human species is superior to the animal kingdom have a serious attitude
problem? No. Does the man who eats wasps, sticks cucumbers up his backside and
hobbles around Safeway howling that chickens should rule the world, have a
serious attitude problem? No.

Well,
not as such.

Dilbert
did
not
have a serious attitude problem. Certainly he stamped upon
people rather than insects. Certainly he ate people rather than vegetables.
Certainly he considered that his species was superior to the human species.
But if judged by the standards of his own race — and by what other standards
could he be judged? — he did not have a serious attitude problem.

Well,
not as such.

Dilbert’s
entry into London was a very swank affair. He wanted it ‘showy’, he wanted it ‘big’.
Something that his subjects would tell their grandchildren about. Not that he
wouldn’t be there to tell them himself. He would. And then some. But today was
special. Today he would make himself known. To everyone.

He
dispensed with the furniture van and had himself installed once more in his seven-pointed
spacecraft with its top open and plenty of cushions. And plenty of carriers
too: he was puffing on weight. But it suited him. Made him more majestic. More
transcendent. Peerless, unparalleled, dominant, paramount,
nulli secundus
and
top of the tree.

He
liked that, did Dilbert, top of the tree. Vegetative connotations, but so much
more. Top of the tree. Top of the tree of life, perhaps?

Dilbert
nodded a great many chins. Top of the Tree of Life.

His
bands marched before him. Big bands and showy. He’d gathered them up on the
way. Sought out the minds of musicians, hurled his pain into them, forced them
to collect their instruments, forced them to march and to play.

And
fine-looking women, men and children he’d gathered as well. He’d sorted the wheat
from the chaff; the good seed from the god-awful, the rose from the thorn and
the Sumatran dogwort from the Cambodian marsh lily.

He had
become a connoisseur of humans. And as a man might strive to breed the perfect
rose or racehorse, so would he, in turn, breed the perfect man, pleasing both
to eye and palate, serving his taste.

For
Dilbert did have taste. And while there are many who claim that taste is purely
subjective, there are a few, better informed, who understand that some things
are better than others and that some people are capable of making the
distinction.

At the
present, Dilbert’s tastes
were
subjective. Him being the only creature
on the planet to hold them. But, if Dilbert got his way, and Dilbert
would
get
his way at any cost, this situation would rapidly change.

But
more of this from Dilbert, during his forthcoming speech to the world.

For now
let us wave our knickers in the air, cheer his arrival and bow at his passing.
Thrill to the curious inhuman rhythms of his many bands. Gaze in awe at the
thousands of nudists and buy a silver-coloured helium-filled balloon with the
words
I
♥
Dilbert
printed on the side from one of the many
stalls that have sprung up along the way. And sing an anthem to his praise.

Oh glorious and green thou art

Most high and wide and mighty.

How wonderful thy rubbing part

We welcome you to Blighty.
[9]

What a
bloody awful song,’ said the cabbie, fiddling with his radio. ‘It seems to be
on all the stations.’

Porrig
glanced at the old bloke, who in turn glanced at Rippington, who glanced back
at Porrig.

Why all
this glancing?’ Rippington asked. The cabbie glanced into his driving mirror. ‘I
didn’t start it,’ he said.

‘So
where exactly are we now?’ the old bloke asked.

‘Croydon,’
said the cabbie. ‘Twin town with Sarajevo.’

‘Is it?’
Porrig asked.

‘Nah,
only joking. Although I do think it has a suicide pact with Grimsby.’

The old
bloke duffed the cabbie on the bead. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’

‘Ouch!’
said the cabbie. ‘No I can’t. There seems to be some kind of military parade
going on. Look at all these tanks.’

‘Smart
tanks,’ said Rippington. ‘Look at that special-looking one with the name on the
side, there’s a bloke being lifted out of it and put on a stretcher.’

‘Go up
on the pavement,’ said the old bloke. ‘Just get a move on.’

The
cabbie drummed his fists upon the wheel. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘the road’s blocked
with tanks. I can’t get through. You’ll just have to be patient.’

‘Patient?’

‘Be
like me,’ said the cabbie. ‘I’m a Buddhist. All black-cab drivers are Buddhists
now, you have to be to get the job. We practise inner calm. Meditation,
at-oneness, that’s why we never lose our tempers or behave badly in traffic.
You could learn a lot, from me. Would you like me to give you a mantra?’

The old
bloke leaned forward and gave the cabbie something.

It wasn’t
a mantra.

Who’s
going to drive now?’ asked Rippington.

‘I
will,’ said Porrig.

‘No,’
said the old bloke. We’ll never get through this traffic. We need something
faster.’

Porrig
peered through the windscreen. What about that?’ he asked. ‘I bet that goes
fast.’

What?’
asked the old bloke.

‘That
big black secret unmarked government helicopter with the armaments all over it,
parked in the school playground over there.’

We’ll
take it,’ said the old bloke.

The
cabbie didn’t get a tip. Neither did he get his fare. Which was two fares
really, considering that he had driven the old bloke down from London.
Sometimes life can be a bitch, even for a Buddhist.

Porrig
dashed towards the playground, followed by the old bloke and the ever-scuttling
imp.

A
parking warden, observing the cab on double yellow lines, began to write out a
ticket. And spying the driver unconscious at the wheel said, ‘Dead drunk too, I’ll
report you for that.’

Porrig
entered the playground and looked up at the helicopter. It really was
impressive right up close: the guns and missile tubes and the big loudspeakers
for playing Wagner.

The old
bloke puffed to a standstill at Porrig’s side. ‘Ministry of Serendipity
gunship,’ he said. ‘Probably brought some top brass militaries down from
London. They sent the tanks to stop the train. By the sound of the hymn-singing
on the radio, they evidently didn’t succeed.’

‘But
who can we get to fly it for us?’

‘Oh, I
can fly it. In my guise as Agent Artemis I got all kinds of training.’

Porrig
stared at the shaky old man. His wrinkled fingers were trembling and his
ancient knees seemed ready to give out at any moment.

‘Piece
of cake,’ said the old bloke. ‘Knock on the hatch door and see if there’s
anyone at home.’

Porrig
shinned up the three-runged ladder and knocked upon the said hatch door.

‘Piss
off,’ called a voice from within.

‘Someone’s
home,’ said Porrig.

Well,
bluff it, boy, get them to open up.’ Porrig cleared his throat. ‘Commander
Naseby of the MoD here,’ he said in the voice of his father. ‘Open up this door
at once.’

‘Oh
shit!’ said the voice from within. ‘It’s him.’ Porrig gave a thumbs up to the
old bloke. ‘They think I’m my dad,’ he whispered.

The
hatch door slid open a couple of inches. Porrig smiled in, but a fist flew out
and knocked him from the ladder.

‘Ouch!’
said Porrig, which was appropriate and currently quite fashionable.

‘Leave
this to me.’ The old bloke turned away and then turned back as Agent Artemis
once more.

Porrig
rubbed his aching parts (which happily didn’t include his rubbing one) and
shook his head in amazement. ‘That really is most impressive,’ he said.

Agent
Artemis now drew a large gun from her handbag.

‘That
too,’ said Rippington.

‘Let us
in.’ Agent Artemis fired shots into the air.

‘God’s
knob,’ said Porrig, covering his head. The hatch door opened a tad further. ‘Madam,’
called another voice from within. ‘This is an armoured helicopter. You are
wasting your time.’

Agent
Artemis, already halfway up the ladder, rammed the barrel of her gun halfway up
the speaker’s nose. ‘Open the Goddamn door,’ she said.

The
helicopter’s door slid fully open. ‘You might as well come in,’ said the man
with the gun barrel up his hooter. ‘None of us know how to fly this thing
anyway.’

Agent
Artemis climbed fully aboard. Porrig helped Rippington up the ladder.

‘Now,’
said Agent Artemis, surveying the interior of the helicopter and the exteriors
of three men. ‘Hands up.’

‘Rub-a-dub-rub,’
said Rippington, observing that the three men wore nothing but their
underpants. ‘Gay orgy, is it? Do you mind if I watch and take notes?’