Apocalypso (12 page)

The
vision in white shook her beautiful head. ‘You wanker,’ she said.

‘I’m
really getting fed up with people calling me that.’

‘Then
get your act together. Do you want the book or not?’

‘Yes,
please.’ Porrig fished out the money. He examined what he had left in his
pocket. It wasn’t much.

The
vision put the book in a bag and handed it to Porrig. ‘Piss off then,’ she
said.

Porrig
tried another smile. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I offend you. I offend
everyone, but I’m trying to change. There’s a lot of really good gear in my shop,
it’s going to make me a lot of money. Would you care to come out with me later
for a celebrational drink?’

‘I’m
working later.’

‘Here?’

‘No, in
the pub across the road.’

‘How
many jobs have you got?’

‘Quite
a few. All part time. People keep offering them to me. I’ve no idea why.’

Porrig’s
eyes were back upon those breasts. ‘I think I have some idea,’ he said.

‘Yeah,
well, I reckon I do too. But I need the money.’

‘Would
you have a drink with me later? At the pub where you work?’

‘I
might.’

‘Brilliant.
What time will you be there?’

‘Any
time after seven.’

‘Brilliant.
I’ll see you later then.’

‘OK’

Porrig
left The Flying Pig. That had been a bit good, hadn’t it? He might be on a
winner there. Take her back to his place and rock’n’roll till dawn.

With
the bedroom door bolted. Of course.

Yeah,
well, he could dream.

Porrig
returned to his shop, went upstairs to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. As
he didn’t have much money, the pub would have to wait. Until after seven.

Porrig
pulled the book from the paper bag.
Beyond Doubtable Reason: The Biography
of Apocalypso The Miraculous,
by Sir John Rimmer.

Porrig
flicked straight through to the photo section. There was the young Apocalypso,
looking every bit the business in his top hat and tails. And here he was dressed
in the habit of a monk. And here he was impersonating an Egyptian!

Porrig
stared hard at the faces and the faces stared hard at Porrig. But neither of
the either recognized the other of the other. As it were.

There
was the funeral. Very impressive.

And the
tomb. Even more impressive.

Porrig
flicked back to chapter one.

‘Chapter
one,’ he read. And immediately his eyelids started to close and soon he was
fast asleep.

Which
was a bit of a shame, as it went. For reasons numbering three. The first being
that Porrig would now never get to finish that chapter. The second, that he
would sleep right through the evening and miss his ‘date’ with the vision in
white. And the third, that Porrig had
not
bolted his bedroom door.

It is
said that great events of times cast a shadow before them and also that there
are folk, such as Danbury Collins, who can sense approaching danger. And who
amongst us can honestly say, with a hand upon the heart, that there has not
been a time when they have just ‘known’ that something was
not quite right?

Porrig
awoke with a start at one minute to midnight.

‘Shit,’
said Porrig, looking at his watch. ‘Oh shit shit shit.’

And
then he said, ‘Oh dear me,’ because the handle of the bedroom door was slowly
beginning to turn.

Porrig
leaped from the bed and flung himself with vigour at the door. He pushed the
bolt home and leaned back against it. His heart was going bump bump bump and a
fine cold sweat was breaking on his brow.

Who’s
there?’ shouted Porrig, when he could find his voice. Who’s out there? Is that
you, Wok Boy? Are you having a pop at me?’

Little
hairs were now standing up all over the place on Porrig. Little hairs that
normally stayed in the down position. He felt seriously scared and he had
absolutely no idea why.

Something
had jerked him awake. Something had warned him that he was in danger. What was
that something?

Porrig
dithered at the door. ‘Come on, Wok Boy,’ he called. ‘I know it’s you. Don’t
piss about.’  He pressed his ear to the polished pitch pine. A nasty rat-like
scuttling sound had his ear go jerking back. Jerk jerk jerk.

‘Get a
grip, Porrig,’ said Porrig. ‘Look at yourself, you’re trembling like a silly
big girl.’

‘I’m
coming out,’ he shouted. ‘And I’m armed.’

Porrig
returned to the bed and sat down. ‘Get a grip,’ he told himself again. What
is
the matter with you?’

THUMP!
went a thump right over his head. And THUMP! it went again.

Porrig
covered said head with his hands. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ he whispered. ‘I
want to go home.’

A
bright light shone under the bedroom door and the door began to vibrate.

‘No,’
wailed Porrig. Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it. Help. Help!’

The
light flashed off and the door became still. There were no more THUMPings to be
heard.

‘It’s
got to be a wind-up,’ said Porrig to himself. ‘Some sort of stupid prank. To
see if I can be frightened, or something.’

Or
something.

‘Someone’s
been hiding all day in the loft. The old bloke, probably.’

Porrig
took his fingers from his face and blew upon them. It had suddenly got rather
cold. Porrig glanced at the door. ‘I’m not going out there,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve
been to the movies. I know what can happen. If I step out of that door I’ll end
up with my face sawn off. It happens every time. It must just be a mistake that
the woman with the great tits isn’t here. She should have her face sawn off
first.’

Porrig
now chewed upon his chilly fingers. ‘But,’ he said, between chewings. ‘That
is
the movies, of course. In real life it’s more likely that a burglar has
broken in and is…’

Porrig
didn’t finish that sentence. If he had, then the words he would have chosen
would probably have been: STEALING MY STOCK!

Porrig
was up from the bed in a flash. And he was across the room in another flash.
And in a third flash he had the bolt drawn and the door open. And in a fourth
flash, he was standing on the landing with his fists raised and a furious look
on his face.

There
might well have been a fifth flash, but this one would have been particularly
fleeting as it involved Porrig looking down and seeing that he no longer had a
landing to stand on and was falling very fast into something deep and dark.

A hole,
perhaps?

‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig, which is what you do when falling into something deep and dark (a
hole, perhaps). Then, ‘Oh,’ as he was standing now upon a wooden floor,
unscathed. And dark it was no more, because a light shone all around. And
Porrig looked and Porrig saw and Porrig did not then believe at all in what he
was seeing. As it were.

Porrig
stood on the polished floor of a bookshop. But it was not his bookshop, neither
was it The Flying Pig. This bookshop was old, centuries old, if a bookshop it
was. It had more the look of one of those monastic libraries. Ancient leathern
tomes with burnished hasps and locking bits. Scrolls of parchment. Vellum pages
bound with silk.

Porrig
caught what breath he could. He wasn’t dreaming, he was sure of that, but he
wasn’t at the bottom of his stairs. He was somewhere or other that he shouldn’t
be and he knew, just knew, that he wasn’t alone.

Porrig
peered down a long aisle of musty old volumes. Something was moving, and it was
a
something,
rather than a
someone.

Porrig
screwed up his eyes. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not having
that.’

The
something had a quality of not quite being there. It wavered and it wafted, it
went in and out of focus. It was wraith-like, it was ghostly, it was— ‘It’s a
pig,, said Porrig. ‘It’s a fucking pig.’

The
pig, for such it evidently was, turned its snout towards Porrig, made a most
obscene noise and vanished.

Who did
that?’ someone shouted. Who has offended the pig?’

Porrig
ducked away behind the nearest stack of books. ‘I am dreaming,’ he whispered. ‘Pig
equals pork sausage. It’s always pork sausages in my dreams. And I don’t even
like pork sausages.’

Who
offended the pig?’ The voice was louder. The voice meant to know. Porrig ducked
and slunk away. There was quite a lot of away to slink to. The bookcases and
tables of scrolls and racks of paper and piles of old parchment went on and on
and on.

Porrig
broke into a run and, some time later, breathless, scared and quite pissed off,
he sat down on the floor. ‘Just reason it out,’ he said, between gaspings. What
has happened to you? Have you fallen into some parallel world, or down a hole
in time, or through a crack in the clouds—’

‘Or up
your own arse,’ said a voice.

Porrig
jumped to his feet. Who said that?’

‘I did.’

‘Where
are you?’

‘I’m
here, but I’m not coming out.’

‘Then
don’t. Just tell me where I am and how I get back to where I came from.’

‘Use
your key. You did bring your key, didn’t you?’

What
key?’

‘That
would be a “no”, I suppose.’ Where are you?’

‘I’m up
here. But I’m not coming down.’ Why not?’

‘Because
you’d get yourself all in a state if I did.’

‘Of
course I wouldn’t. I mean, you’re not a pig, are you?’

‘Of
course I’m not a bleeding pig. How dare you?’

‘Then
come out.

‘Okey-dokey.’
There was a scuffling amongst the books above Porrig’s head and then something
small and definitely on the strange side climbed slowly down and stood before
Porrig.

Before
and a good way beneath.

Porrig
stared down and his mouth dropped open. ‘It’s very rude to stare,’ said the
something. ‘You ought to be taught some manners.’

Porrig’s
head bobbed slowly in agreement, but words would not come to him.

Before
him and beneath stood a creature so queer and oddly formed that Porrig was
completely lost for anything to say.

In
height it barely topped eighteen inches. Its skin was dry and dull and
breeze-block grey. Its head was high and domed and almost hairless. It was
insect-thin and naked; it was weird and it was fey.

It had no nose to speak of

And its eyes were like a cat’s.

Its lipless mouth was boasting just three teeth.

In the fingers of its left hand

It held a magic wand

And it was male (it had a willy underneath).

‘Poetic,
aren’t I?’ it said. ‘The name’s Rippington, what’s yours?’

‘Mine
is Porrig,’ said Porrig, in a silly shaky voice.

‘Pleased
to meet you, Porrig.’ And the thing stuck out its hand. ‘And I’m not a thing,
nor an it, I’m a dvergar.’

‘I’m a
Leo,’ said Porrig.

Was
that supposed to be funny?’

‘I
expect it was supposed to be.’

‘Well,
it wasn’t.’

Porrig
shook the tiny hand. It was cold. It was very cold. ‘Your tiny hand is frozen,’
said Porrig.

‘And
yours is way too hot. What manner of being are you then? Clurichaun, are you?
Gremlin?’

‘Leave it
out. I’m a person.’

Rippington
sniffed at Porrig. ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to be here,’ he said.

 ‘I
just want to go home.’

‘Well,
use your key. Ah, no, you haven’t got your key, have you?’

‘What
key? The shop key? I haven’t any other key.’

‘It’s not
that kind of key. It’s a musical key. You don’t know what key you’re in, do
you?’

‘I
haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m
talking about harmonics, obviously. If you don’t know what key you’re in, no
wonder you’re out of tune.’

‘Is
this a theme park?’ Porrig asked.

‘A
what?’

‘A
theme park. This isn’t
Lord of the Rings
World, or something?’

‘Or
something.’

‘Yeah,
right.’

‘This
is ALPHA 17,’ said Rippington. ‘Seventeenth harmonic in the Alpha scale. But
if you say you’re a person then you most definitely shouldn’t be here. Persons
are a different scale altogether. Betamax, or something.’

‘Betamax?’

‘I
could look you up in the big book.’

‘You
said ALPHA 17. That’s the bookshop where I’ve come from.’