'I'm going on now, Father,' Pongo said.
Pongo began to turn away, then stopped and bent down to him. He kissed him on the cheek. His father was genuinely touched. They had never been close. He had always kept the playful boy at a distance for fear he would dislodge a feeding tube or accidentally crush a fragile bone. 'Good luck, my son,' the Old Cripple said and clasped Pongo's hand to his chest.
The lights snapped off. There was an anxious buzz from the surprised audience; they'd been primed about Pongo, but not about the lights. The tape of Pongo's greatest hits finished abruptly and then they were plunged suddenly into darkness. It was an anxious few seconds. Groups of Italians and Chinese and Thais and Colombians formed little protective circles, scared of a stabbing in the night, then relaxed as the curtains silently swished back and a green light began to emanate across the hall. At first they could make little out: just shapes. Then images, moving images on a giant screen: the flowing Niagara, a serpent in the grass, a beautiful Indian rowing over the edge of the Falls. Then a single drumbeat. Loud. They didn't know what to make of it. They had expected something easygoing. Pongo does the Bee Gees. Pongo sings Songs from the Shows. Even Pongo does Pongo. But something to appeal to a broad international audience not known for having its finger on the pulse, unless it was a dying one. But this was something different entirely, and if they didn't recognize it, they didn't like it.
The green light was joined now by a white one, shining centre stage. And suddenly stepping into it a diminutive figure in a white jumpsuit with a powdered white face and a guitar slung around his hips.
Still the
drum, drum, drum drum.
Pongo raised his fist into the air, poised to unleash the cataclysmic creative force that united
his
lyrics with
his
music in a pioneering moment of musical history. His heart was pounding the blood was racing; this was it, this was his moment, the tape was rolling, the video was zooming in. His time. His moment. His birth.
'Lelewala!' he sang.
Drum. Drum. Drum.
'Lelewala!' he sang.
Drum. Drum. Drum.
'Lelewala!' he sang.
Drum. Drum. Drum.
'I freed her!'
Drum. Drum. Drum.
'I freed her!'
The drumming continued, but it was joined by a humming.
Hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum- hum-hum . . .
'Lelewala!'
Drum. Drum. Drum.
Hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum-hum-hum.
'I saved her!'
He hit his guitar. There was a howl of feedback followed by the guitar equivalent of
hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum-hum- hum
ricocheting around the hall. Several conventioneers ducked. Corrigan, searching under the stage, put his hands to his ears.
Drum. Drum. Drum.
Hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum-hum-hum.
Pongo stepped away from the mike, grinning, and pressed a button on the floor with his black winklepicker boot. There was a sudden flood of dry ice.
Down below, Lelewala, humming into a radio mike, began to move.
She closed her eyes as she was slowly raised towards the trapdoor.
All she had to do was hum. Hum along. Quietly. He'd tested her voice. She did sound like a seagull. But she had to be there. She was Lelewala. She was the inspiration. She would thank him in the years to come.
But she didn't feel right. Sitting in the darkness, the
evil
had grown on her. There was something out there. Something formless. Something terrible. And now she was moving towards it. She was drowning in sweat. Her breath would not come. All she had to do was hum.
Hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum-hum-hum . . .
Somewhere up ahead she could hear Pongo: 'I did it! I freed her!'
Without warning her head cracked off the trapdoor and her eyes rolled back in her head. The door flew upwards and the spring under the platform propelled her dazed and confused on to the stage. There was an explosion of lights above her and sparklers below and she was blinded. She fell forward. Pongo caught her, guided her forward.
Hum,
he went,
hum-hum-hum.
She grabbed his mike stand, held on to it for dear life . . . the
something
had become . . .
solid.
She looked into the darkness that was the audience. She could not see their well-fed faces. She could not see their bright clothes and expensive jewellery. All she could see was their cold, callous, black dirty souls and abruptly she knew . . . this was what it was all about. This was why she had returned. The monster was here before her. The serpent, the sickness, the horror, the hell. It had nearly destroyed her village, and now it was back, threatening the people of Niagara . . .
'Hum,'
Pongo prompted,
'hum-hum-hum.'
Drum, drum, drum . . .
The evil!
Her legs gave way. Pongo caught her, pressed her forward again. There was another whoosh of dry ice and for a moment Corrigan, now at the front of the stage, lost her in it.
She screamed. Long and loud and high-pitched; the conventioneers gripped their ears.
She ran.
This evil could not be allowed to survive.
She had to do it all again.
Sacrifice her life so that others might survive the onslaught of the Devil himself.
She ran. Pongo tried to stop her, but she swerved to one side and found herself even closer to the audience, which was now starting to jeer and throw pieces of food. The evil battered at her head. Tried to burst into her brain. It was trying to weigh her down, make her stop. But she couldn't. She
must
run. She must get to the river. She must save . . .
Corrigan began to clamber up on to the stage, but she was gone again, swallowed up by the dry ice. He stopped, then caught a flash of her charging through a side door. He cursed.
Pongo began to chant again. Nothing could shake him. He'd taken advantage of the dry ice to bury his head in the nosebag again. He was blissfully unaware of the food raining down around him. 'I saved her! Lelewala! I saved her!'
Corrigan battled through the baying conventioneers to the swing doors through which Lelewala had disappeared. As he slammed them open, somebody pushed back the other way. Corrigan cursed, then rammed the door harder. He felt the other guy fall back. He continued on through. On the floor, cursing, wiping at his spilled drink, Chief of Police Dunbar.
It took a moment for Dunbar to realize who it was, but less than a moment for Corrigan to plant his boot under Dunbar's chiselled chin and send him flying back against the wall.
He choked and coughed a 'Corrigan, you . . .' before Corrigan yelled, 'Shut the fuck up,' and picked him up by his expensive lapels. He pulled his face right up close and hissed: 'There's a fucking bomb in there, Dunbar . . . go find . . .' He threw him down, then kicked him in the arse.
He raced on up the corridor. He went through another two sets of twin doors, then saw her about thirty yards ahead, standing, almost dancing at the crossroads of three corridors, trying to decide which way to go.
'Lelewala!' he shouted.
She ignored him. He raced along.
'Gretchin!'
He was just about level with her. Her face was red and her eyes were staring. She turned towards him, but she plainly didn't recognize him. As he reached out to her, she swung up a fist that caught him flush on the chin, and he began to sink to his knees. He retained just enough sense to fling his arms around her as he fell, and she was dragged down with him. But just for a moment. He didn't have the strength to hold her. She squirmed free, kicked back at him as he tried to grab her, then started running again.
'For fuck's sake,' Corrigan wheezed as he pulled himself to his feet again. She was already through the next set of doors. He set off after her, slower now.
The guards on the front door turned as she came tearing across the marbled hallway. Surprised, they started to go for their guns, but then decided she was probably just an upset hooker and started to laugh. Then Corrigan appeared, gasping for breath, and they laughed a little harder, though now they tried to mask it. Not good to upset a guest, but shit, getting breathless over a hooker. Why not just buy another?
'Lela!' he called, but she was down the steps and racing across the grass.
And then he heard a police siren.
A fucking police siren.
Corrigan stopped in his tracks. He looked down the driveway, he could just see the red glare of a police car through the trees. Then came the sound of automatic gunfire.
The guards came running out of the entrance hall behind him, guns drawn, looking where he looked. Then something exploded: way down towards the gate. Flames shot high above the trees.
The magnificent Magnificent Seven.
The guards stood nervously beside him, looking at each other, seeking leadership. All the leaders were inside not enjoying Pongo, the sound of his music so great that they wouldn't have heard the gunfire.
And then the police car was coming up the drive, siren wailing, a mini-van racing up behind it.
'Oh fuck,' said one of the guards beside him and turned to hurry into the house, but a gunshot rang out and he fell before he'd made more than a few yards.
One of the others produced a gun and started shooting at the onrushing police car, but it wasn't done with any great confidence. Corrigan reached down into his sock and removed his gun. He shot the guard in the leg and stepped out of the way as he toppled forward.
The others, shocked, confused, didn't know what the fuck to do. They just stood gormlessly looking at Corrigan.
'Drop your guns,' he said. 'Lie face down, you'll be OK.'
They were just in the act of dropping their guns when someone in the following mini-van began pumping bullets in their direction. They all hit the dirt. Corrigan crawled along the ground trying to get out of the line of fire. As he sprawled in the gravel, he caught a final glimpse of Lelewala running obliviously across the perfect lawn in the direction of the great Niagara.
The music, for so long unbearable in terms of quality, was rapidly becoming unbearable in terms of volume. Pongo had overcome the hiccup of his leading lady getting stage fright and was now cruising through the complete Lelewala song cycle. To the untrained ear there wasn't much variation to the basic
drum, drum, drum, hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum-hum-hum, I saved Lelewala –
indeed, neither was there to the trained ear – but Pongo knew the subtle- ties, he knew the little variations. Not for him broad, sweeping musical statements; any fool could do that. His were changes in pitch and intonation, hints of a different light, the slight blurring of an on-screen image. There had to be volume, because that was the nature of rock'n'roll:
he
knew the subtleties,
they
could experience them for themselves later on when they came to buy the CD-rom. All they had to do for now was enjoy the show, get those feet moving.
But dancing continued to be the last thing on their minds. The most upset conventioneers had exhausted their supply of ready ammunition, their plates and potatoes and knives and sweetcorn husks mostly falling short of the stage. A few of them had their guns drawn, but could only wave them about helplessly. Even in such a criminal environment it was considered bad form to murder the host's son. And it wasn't as if they could even leave the auditorium. The Old Cripple himself was due to close the convention, and they had to stay for that, they owed the old gent that much at least. Pongo thrashed away, grinning, towards his and his music's climax.
Corrigan, on his belly, was pulled roughly to his feet. He didn't recognize the face. A late volunteer.
Thank God.
He felt like kissing him.
'Over there,' the guy said, prodding him with a revolver towards where the other guards were gathered, sitting on the grass with their hands above their heads.
'Listen, mate, it's me,
Corrigan . . .'
Corrigan said breathlessly. His eyes scanned the trees, looking for a glimpse of Lelewala, but there was nothing. 'Where's Mark . . . will you take that fucking thing out of my face and get me Stirling?'
The guy whacked the gun into his stomach and Corrigan slumped to his knees. The guy raised his foot and pushed Corrigan down the grass bank. He rolled. He came to a stop beside the other guards.
The police car's driver's door opened, but he couldn't see who got out.
Lelewala was heading for the river.
'Mark – for fuck's sake!'
The guy who'd pushed him looked down the hill at him and raised his gun. 'Shut the fuck up!' he spat.
Corrigan rolled his eyes. 'Will you just. . .'
A bullet spat up grass and soil beside him.
'Jesus fuck,' Corrigan gritted out. 'I need to talk to Mark Stirling . . . there's a bomb . . .'
The guy fired again. This time he was trying to hit him, and he missed by only a fraction.
'Now shut the fuck up,' said the cop.
Corrigan looked to the mansion. He could just see two policemen hurrying up the steps into the reception area. 'Mark!' he shouted. 'There's a fucking . . .' But the other guards dragged him down and shut him up, scared of getting shot themselves.
Pongo thought it had gone well, but he didn't hang about for an encore, even though the crowd had roared as he said goodnight. He ran off stage, his jumpsuit soaked through, his hair dripping, a triumphant smile splitting his face. The reaction had been more than he had dared hope, the anger, the violence,
excellent.
Even Lelewala's exit, with the right editing, could look as if it had been planned, just another dramatic twist to the cycle that was
Lelewala.
The Barracuda was gone. The Old Cripple was still clapping politely. Pongo grinned at him and hurried away to check the tapes. Once he was satisfied that the recording had gone smoothly he would slip out the back way with them and be well away from the mansion before Corrigan's men arrived. Then across the border and ready for the next phase of his career.
Hum, hum-hum-hum, hum, hum-hum-hum.
A classic. But first, the nosebag needed his attention.