Apocalypso (26 page)

‘But I
thought that was the point of having them and visiting them and being in them.
Because they
were
alternative. It doesn’t matter how the creature is
destroyed, does it?’

‘No. It
doesn’t matter at all. As long as it
is
destroyed. In
this
reality.
The one it’s really in.’

‘Oh,’
said Porrig. ‘So how am I expected to do that?’

You
have to find a way of altering
this
reality.’

‘But
how?’

‘I
think what the curator has in mind is that you visit one of the existing
separate realities and acquire something there to help you here.’

‘Acquire
something? You mean steal something.’

‘Borrow
something.’

What
sort of something?’

Rippington
waved his little magic wand. ‘Something like this, perhaps.’

‘A
magic wand. Why can’t we use yours?’

‘Because
mine doesn’t do very much. You’ll need something much more powerful.’

‘And
where am I going to find it?’

‘I know
a place,’ said Rippington. ‘I read about it in one of the big books.’

‘Then
let’s go there.’

‘There
isn’t time. The curator may be back at any minute. And I’ll get in big trouble
and my rubbing part will end up as a pipe cleaner and I’ll—’

‘Look,’
said Porrig. ‘I will take
all
the blame. You can say to the curator that
I forced you to take me. Tell him anything you like.’

Well, I
don’t know.’

Porrig
mimed vicious pinchings of a small rubbing part. ‘About this place,’ he said.

Well,’
Rippington hesitated. ‘It’s not a very nice place and it’s rather dangerous.’

‘Oh
yes?’

‘Oh
yes. It’s one of the less desirable versions of this place. In fact it’s
probably the very least desirable version of this place.’

‘I don’t
want to go there,’ said Porrig.

‘I
think it’s probably the only place where you’ll get what you need.’

‘And
what is this place called?’

Rippington
stroked his pointy little chin. Well,’ he said. ‘I’m from ALPHA 17, which isn’t
such a bad place. And this here is BETA 23, which probably isn’t such a bad
place either, most of the time, but probably isn’t quite as nice as ALPHA 17.
This other place, the one you have to go to, is somewhat down the other end of
the niceness scale. Down at the not-at-all-nice-at-all end.’

‘And
what is it called?’

Well, I
can’t remember exactly what it’s called, but I do recall the frequency.’

Which
is?’

‘OMEGA,’
said Rippington. ‘OMEGA 666.’

‘OMEGA
666!’ said Porrig. ‘Oh hell!’

‘Oh
yeah,’ said Rippington.
‘That’s
what it’s called.’

War is hell,’ said
Major-General Sir Stanley Burke-Hampshire. ‘MacArthur said that, doncha know?’

What,
old Minge-worrier MacArthur?’ asked Billy Muff-Wrestler.

‘Don’t
be a damn fool,’ said Poo-nudger MacArse-Trumpet. ‘He’s talking about old
Mattress-muncher MacArthur, pride of the Cameroon Highlanders.’

‘I’m
talking about General MacArthur,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘American chappy. I think
George C. Scott played him in the film. Damn good film too, if I recall. Lots
of tanks.’
[5]

‘If you
top brass chaps are ready,’ said the adjutant, ‘I have the big board laid out.
Perhaps you’d care to discuss strategy.’

Who’s
this cove?’ asked Poo-nudger.

‘My
adjutant,’ said Sir Stanley.

‘I had
an adjutant once. Got involved in some ghastly business in Hamburg.
Impersonating an Egyptian.’

‘Impregnating
an erection,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘He was making love to a traffic cone. All
covered in lard. He gave the policemen the slip.’

‘Haven’t
had one since,’ said Poo-nudger. ‘Can’t  be  bothered with them.’

‘If we
might get on?’ said the adjutant.

‘See
what I mean?’

‘So,’
said Sir Stanley to his adjutant. ‘Big board out, you say? Lots of tanks on the
big board?’

‘Lots
of tanks, sir.’

‘Let’s
have a look at it then.’

The
adjutant led Sir Stanley and his two campaign chums to the Ministry of Defence
operations room. It was not quite as large as the Ministry of Serendipity
operations room, but it was more elegantly lit.

‘Nice
lighting,’ said Poo-nudger.

‘Big
board,’ said Sir Stanley.

And it
was a very big board. It was a big map on a big board. A big map of southern
England. There were lots of little English flags sticking in it: some in
London; others in Sussex and Kent. In Brighton there was another flag: a German
flag with a swastika on it.

‘Good
God!’ said MacArse-Trumpet. ‘Not the bloody Boche again?’

‘Damned
monster from outer space, apparently,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘Didn’t have any
monster flags though. Lots of German ones going spare. Used one of those.’

Poo-nudger
studied the map. ‘How many regiments you got?’

‘Six,’
said Sir Stanley. ‘All tanks.’

‘Got
any planes?’

‘Can’t
be having with planes, go too fast. Know where you are with a tank.’

‘This
space chap got any planes?’

‘Got a
flying saucer, apparently. Hasn’t been flying it though. Got some native
chappies carting him about.’

‘Odd
bod,’ said Poo-nudger.

Billy
Muff-Wrestler glanced all about. ‘Need sticks,’ he said.

‘Tanks
a lot better than sticks,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘No no. Sticks for here. To push
the little flags about.’

‘Good
point. Adjutant, fetch sticks.’

The
adjutant fetched sticks.

‘Right,’
said Sir Stanley, waving his stick in the air and nearly putting Poo-nudger’s
eye out. Where
exactly
is the monster now?’

‘Right
here,’ said the adjutant, flourishing a stick of his own. ‘At the rear of a
procession that is approaching Brighton Station.’

Brighton Station: still as
beautiful as ever, graceful curving roof of glass, cathedral to the god of
steam. Empty now of passengers, but not deserted altogether.

For lo.
And indeed, behold.

Who is
this we see?

Who is
this sitting behind the ticket window, all on his own and reading a copy of
Bogie
World?

Russell
The Railwayman. It is he.

Russell
munched upon a sandwich that his mum had made for him and chuckled through the
spam at a cartoon in his magazine. It was a drawing of two railwaymen looking
down at a coupling. One said, ‘That’s supposed to be a 8134/7.’ The other
replied, ‘Looks more like an 8137/4.’

Russell
The Railwayman chuckled once more. ‘That’s a good’n,’ he said.

The
sound of chanting drifted to his ears. Russell raised the wet towel from his
head and listened. The chanting grew louder. The chanting sounded frantic.

‘Chanting,’
said Russell. ‘And sounding rather frantic.’

A naked
chest lurched into his eye-line. Russell stared hard at the chest. It was a
male chest. It had hairs on it. Chanting and a naked chest. Russell put aside
his magazine.

The
chest began to lower and a head became visible. The face on this head was not
happy. It was a haunted face. A grave and fearful face. It was the face of Sir
John Rimmer.

When
does the next train to London go?’ asked this face.

Russell
smiled at the face. You’ve missed it,’ he said.

‘Missed
the next train? How can we have missed the next train?’

‘Only
joking,’ said Russell. ‘Graham Moffat said it in the 1937 film classic
Oh Mr
Porter,
starring Will Hay. One of the few comedy films ever made about the
railways. They never did a
Carry on,
you know. Apparently they had one
planned, but Bernard Breslaw had taken a Shakespearean part with Sir Peter Hall
at the National and Jim Dale had emigrated to America. Although I can’t say I
ever rated Jim Dale, what do you think?’

‘I…’ Sir John’s mouth opened and shut and then opened again. ‘The next-train,
when is the next train?’

‘Hold
on just a moment, sir.’ Russell peered past Sir John towards the chanters who
were pouring onto the concourse. ‘You’ll have to stop that chanting,’ he
shouted. ‘And go home at once.’

Sir
John’s mouth flapped. ‘The next train, the next train,’ he said.

‘I’m
only here for a couple of days,’ said Russell. ‘Just arrived. I put in for some
relief work because of the clubs and the pubs. I do stand-up comedy, you see,
hoping to make the big breakthrough any time now. You’ll get contaminated, you
know, standing there without your shirt.’

The
next train,’ went Sir John.

‘Keep
the noise down out there,’ shouted Russell. ‘You can’t do that without a
licence. Go home, please.’

‘The
next—’

‘Excuse
me,’ said a lady in a straw hat, with wet towel veil attachment.

Russell
smiled at his mum. ‘How cart I help you, madam?’ he asked.

‘Me,’
said Sir John. ‘Help
me.’

‘One at
a time now, sir. I think this lady was here before you.’

‘Buffet
cars,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘I want to enquire about buffet cars in
the Norfolk area.’

‘And
what exactly is the nature of your enquiry?’

‘I want
to buy one.’

‘Tickets,’
went Sir John. ‘Many tickets. All tickets. Now. London. Beware. He comes.’

‘He
comes? Who comes?’ Russell asked.

‘Obey
with haste. Beware the pain.’

‘Have
you been drinking?’ Russell asked. ‘Or are you contaminated?’

‘Obey.
Now. Train. London.’

‘Keep
it down out there!’

‘Since
privatization,’ said the lady, ‘I thought I might open a macrobiotic
restaurant.’

‘Just
excuse me for a minute, madam.’ Russell waved Sir John aside and yelled through
his microphone: ‘Just listen to me! You can’t chant on station property and
you must form an orderly queue.’

‘They’re
not listening,’ said the lady. ‘Put it out over the tannoy.’

‘Right,’
said Russell. ‘I will.’ He flicked the necessary switch and a big burst of
feedback screamed about the station.

‘Attention,’
shouted Russell. ‘Your attention please. The mmmmphphn mmmmpphmmm mmmm
regulations require mmmmph no chanting mmph hmmmmnh orderly line at the
ticket-office window and mmmmphm mmph… wet towels … mmph.’

‘He’s
mumbling.’ Sir John waved his hands in the air. ‘About the train? Is he talking
about the train?’

‘He has
lovely diction,’ said the lady. ‘He doesn’t really mumble, he’s just softly
spoken.’

‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Sir John Rimmer.

Chant
chant chant, went the chanting chanters. Hump hump hump, went the humping
strugglers. Yawn wave and blow-upon-the-fingernails-in-adistracted-Noël-Coward-sort-of-a-way
went Dilbert Norris, most impressively.

For
most impressive did he look, all things considered. Carried in his shining,
spotless, buffed and burnished silver seven-pointed spacecraft,
[6]
on the shoulders of his Nubians
and many others. Big and bad and bulbous, he was borne aloft through the great
iron arch into the booking hall. Sunlight, angling down through the high glass
roof, caught him to perfect imperfection. He was wrong, all wrong, this
monstrous sprouty bastard, sunrays dancing on his huge and horrid head. The
eyes as big as basket balls and black as new-mined coal. The glistening skin;
the upturned mouth all drippy wet. The bulging belly full with folk, the
three-foot parsnip wanger still no joke at all.

The
chanters chanted hymns of praise, their eyes rolled up in agony, their muscles
knotted by the pain. Praise unto He who had returned to rule them once again.

Dilbert
cast his swarthy peepers all about the place. This wasn’t bad, this gaff, most
high about the roofy regions, as might be appreciated by one such as He. Most
High Himself. He waved a bloated hand to urge His minions on and settled down
upon his cushions, feeling mighty fine.

He’d
triumph here, would Dilbert. They would know His power; they would feel the
pain that went with disobedience, that, in fact, went with the vaguest hint,
the smallest flicker of wilfulness. For He was God to these small mammals, God
as they were gods to creatures smaller than themselves. This race that thought
itself so powerful, so assured, He’d show them real power. They would know
their master, they would worship, they would show Him the reverence that was
His due. Respect, allegiance, loyalty and— What the fuck is that great green
ugly-looking object?’ came the voice of Russell at three hundred decibels.