Apocalypso (5 page)

Porrig
decided he would walk.

‘Grand
Parade?’ he asked a pimpled youth.

‘Big
Issue?’
this fellow replied.

‘Bless
you,’ said Porrig.

‘Bless
you?’ said the youth. ‘You the flipping Pope, or something?’

‘No,’
said Porrig. ‘It’s a joke. You said
“Big Issue”
and I said “Bless you,”
as if you’d sneezed, you see.
Big Issue
sounds like Atishoo. It’s really
not funny if you have to explain it.’

‘So you
think homelessness is funny, do you?’ Porrig put down his suitcase. Well,
obviously not
all
homelessness,’ he explained. ‘Homelessness brought on
by deprivation, need and abuse wouldn’t be too funny. But homelessness chosen
as an alternative lifestyle, that’s another matter.’

‘I see,’
said the youth.

‘Not
that I’ve got anything against alternative lifestyles,’ Porrig went on. ‘I’m
all for them. If anyone wants to buck the system that’s all right with me.’

‘Most
enlightened of you,’ said the youth.

‘It’s
everyone’s right to rebel,’ said Porrig.

‘Here
here,’ said the youth.

‘But
not at my expense.’

‘You
flipping bounder!’

‘Eh?’
said Porrig.

‘Life
on the street is hard, mate. It’s no laughing matter. I don’t do this by
choice.’

‘Then
get yourself a job,’ said Porrig.

‘I’m
homeless, you flipper!’

Well,
get a job with a home thrown in. Caretaker, or lighthouse keeper, or North Sea
oil driller, or performing in a circus or something.’

‘Get
real. There ain’t any jobs like that. I’m a free spirit, me. The only jobs I
could get would be unskilled slave labour. Washing dishes, or cleaning out
toilets. And I’m not doing those.’

‘You
could get other jobs, you’re not a loony or a cripple.’

‘I’m
not a slave either, mate. I’m not selling my soul to the work ethic. I’m a free
spirit, I told you.’

‘So
hawking magazines on the streets in all weathers is your idea of being a free
spirit?’

‘You
flipping flipper!’

‘And
what’s all this “flipping” stuff? Don’t you know how to swear?’

‘I’m
not allowed to swear. I’ll lose my licence if I swear at people.’

‘Oh,
very free spirit.’

The
youth head butted Porrig and Porrig fell down on the pavement.

Welcome
to Brighton,’ said the youth.

By the time Porrig
regained consciousness the youth had departed. And so too had Porrig’s
suitcase. On the bright side, the unruly scrum surrounding the taxis had also
departed and so Porrig was able to get himself a cab.

‘Grand
Parade please,’ he said, in a dazed and dismal tone. ‘The offices of Ashbury,
Gilstock and Phart-Ebum.’

Grand
Parade, as it happened, was only a few hundred yards from the station, although
it did take the taxi driver nearly fifteen minutes to get there, by a route
which took in the seafront and many places of local interest.

Porrig
paid up the excessive fare and accepted his short change without complaint.

As
irony would have it, the offices of Ashbury, Gilstock and Phart-Ebum were on
the first floor, above a job centre that specialized in work for the homeless.
Porrig gazed up at the building. It was Georgian. It was Grade Two listed.

Porrig
went inside and humped his suitcase up the stairs. Then, recalling that his
suitcase had been stolen, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and
humped himself up instead, bewailing his lot as he did so.

He
knocked on the door of the solicitors’ office and it was opened by a young
woman dressed in white. She was beautiful, pale and ethereal, with large dark
eyes and Pre-Raphaelite hair. Her slender body was sheathed in a dress that
seemed spun from sugar and Porrig was drawn at once to contemplate the glory of
her breasts.

‘Yeah?’
said this vision of loveliness. Wotcha want?’

‘I am
Padraig Arthur Naseby,’ said Porrig.

‘Oh
yeah. Your case comes up next week, don’t it?’

‘No,’
said Porrig, shaking his head. ‘I’ve come about my legacy.’

‘Sorry.
It’s just your name, it sounds like—’

‘Yes,’
said Porrig. ‘I know what it sounds like. But I’m here to claim my rightful
inheritance.’

‘You’d
better come in then.’

Porrig
followed the vision into the office and observed that she had a nice bum too.
The vision placed her nice bum upon her office chair and began to root about
through a lot of paperwork. ‘It’s in ere somewhere,’ she said.

Porrig
stood before her desk, feigning an interest in the bookshelves while casting
many a furtive glance towards the breasts of glory.

The
vision looked up from her sifting of paper. ‘Like the look of my tits, do you?’
she asked.

Porrig,
taken somewhat by surprise, could only mutter that he did.

Well,
don’t get your hopes up. Unless you’ve inherited a million quid.’

‘You’d
have sex with me for a million quid then, would you?’

‘Sure I
would.’

‘What
about for half a million?’

‘Yeah.’

Porrig
dug into his trouser pocket. What about for twenty quid?’

‘Twenty
quid?
What do you think I am?’

‘I
think we’ve established
what
you are. I thought we were just haggling
over the price.’

‘You’re
quite a comedian, ain’t ya?’

‘Not
really.’ Porrig grinned. ‘I think Oscar Wilde said it first. Or perhaps it was
Winston Churchill. It’s usually one or the other.’

The
vision dug into further papers and finally unearthed a file with Porrig’s name
on. This she opened to have a good old nose inside. At length she looked up and
smiled. Well, you ain’t inherited a million,’ she said. ‘So it looks like you’ll
have to go on wanking.’

Porrig
eyed the outspoken vision. Could this be a match made in heaven? he wondered.
Probably not, he concluded.

‘So who
do I have to see?’ he asked.

‘You’ll
have to see Mr Phart-Ebum.’

‘Ah,’
said Porrig. ‘So that’s how it’s pronounced.’

Mr Phart-Ebum was about as
broad as he was long. He wore a suit of orgone blue and a flower in his
buttonhole which might have been a Sumatran dogwort, but was probably only a
Cambodian marsh lily. He waved Porrig into an overstuffed chair and paced to
and fro before the casement.

Porrig
gazed approvingly about the elegant office. It looked just the way a solicitor’s
office should look. All those mahogany bookshelves and leather-bound legal
tomes. And the Persian kilim and the partner’s desk and the humidor and the
Victorian drinks cabinet and the framed certificates and charters and— ‘It’s a
sad old business,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum.

‘Is it?’
Porrig asked.

‘Death,’
said the solicitor.

‘No,’
said Porrig. ‘I can hear you just fine.’

Mr
Phart-Ebum raised an eyebrow. Was that supposed to be funny?’ he asked.

‘I’m
sorry,’ said Porrig.

‘You
have blood on your nose.’

‘I was
attacked at the station. My suitcase was stolen.’

‘Then
we must call for the police.’

‘No,
don’t bother with that. It was all my fault. I got what I deserved.’

‘That’s
a most philosophical attitude.’

‘Not
really. It’s just that I’ve had dealings with the police before. I have a
tendency to say the wrong thing. It does not endear me to policemen.’

Well,
let us get down to business. You have the letter I sent you and some form of
identification?’

Porrig
had both and he showed these to Mr Phart-Ebum who nodded his head. ‘All is in
order then,’ said he.

‘Good,’
said Porrig. ‘So, about my planet…’

‘Your
planet?’

‘ALPHA
17. That’s a planet, isn’t it?’

Mr
Phart-Ebum shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not.’

‘Oh,’
said Porrig. ‘But it does
sound
like a planet.’ Mr Phart-Ebum nodded. ‘But
it’s
not.
A breeze-block sounds like a bunk-up in a draughty alley. But
it’s
not.
You have
not
been left a planet.’

‘Oh,’
said Porrig. ‘What a bummer.’

‘You have
been left a bookshop.’

‘A
bookshop?’ said Porrig.

‘Not a
very large bookshop I hasten to add, and not a particularly successful one.’

‘I
would have preferred a planet,’ said Porrig, ‘And a bunk-up as well.’

‘I’m
sure that you would. But a bookshop it is, you can take it or leave it.’

‘Good
man. Now there’s some paperwork for you to sign and then I’ll take you down and
show you the premises.’

Porrig
shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind clearing up
a couple of things that have been puzzling me.’

‘Such
as?’

‘Such
as exactly who this uncle of mine was. Neither my mum nor my dad will own up to
him.’

‘He was
your mother’s brother. They were not a close family, there was some acrimony.
Although she did attend the funeral.’

‘Did she?
Then why wasn’t I invited?’

‘Because
you weren’t even born. Your uncle died thirty years ago.’

‘I’m
not getting this,’ said Porrig, ‘If he died before I was born, how could he
leave me his bookshop?’

‘He
left it to the first-born son of his sister. Should she ever have a first—born
son.’

‘Then
how come it’s taken all this time for me to get it?’

‘Legal
complications.’

‘You
mean fat cat solicitors lining their pockets.’ Would that be an example of the
wrong things you say?’

‘Fairly
typical,’ said Porrig.

‘But in
this case wholly justified. Your uncle did leave a great deal of money, but it
was all swallowed up by legal costs. This was before my time here, of course.
Such practices would no longer be tolerated. You will find that I am utterly
scrupulous and quite beyond reproach.’

‘I’ll
just bet you are,’ said Porrig. And Mr Phart-Ebum raised his other eyebrow.

‘Do you
want to sign the papers and see your property?’ he asked.

‘I do.’

‘Then
here they are.’

Porrig
signed what he was given. Naturally he neglected to read the small print. He’d
had a rough day. Rougher so far than any he could remember. He just wanted to
sign the papers and get a look at his bookshop. And perhaps get some lunch and
a pint or two of beer. He was going to have to find somewhere to stay, too. He
had quite a lot on his mind.

And so
he didn’t read the small print and he signed away a substantial sum of money
into the Swiss bank account of Mr Phart-Ebum.

The
solicitor smiled solicitously and then gathered up all of the papers.

Will I
get copies of those?’ Porrig asked.

But Mr
Phart-Ebum did not reply.

The
vision in white had gone out for a bite, which, although poetic, meant that
Porrig was denied another opportunity to ogle her breasts. But he wasn’t too
fazed. He was a man of substance now. A man of property. A man who owned a
bookshop. And although he had not exactly received the flags-out and
ticker-tape welcome, he felt that this town would be lucky for him. That he
could make a new start here.

Something
different. Something new. A new beginning.

He
would work hard, he would change his ways, he would try not to offend and he
would succeed.

In the
words of Oscar Wilde he would ‘live long and prosper’.

And so
Porrig followed Mr Phart-Ebum as he led him through the streets of Brighton, a-whistling
once more and completely unaware of the utterly horrendous things that fate was
even now preparing to chuck in his direction.

It was
going to have to be a good long chuck, because the events which would lead to
these horrendous things occurring were presently unfolding in a far and
distant place. But it would certainly be an accurate chuck, and although it
would ultimately affect the lives of half the people living on the planet, it
would affect no life more than that of Padraig Arthur Naseby.

And so,
without further ado let us leave Brighton and travel south to far and distant
climes.

To the
island of Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo.

Yes
indeed.

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