The Japanese Devil Fish Girl (23 page)

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Authors: Robert Rankin

BOOK: The Japanese Devil Fish Girl
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‘I agree with everything that you say, Professor Coffin,’ said Ada Lovelace, with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘You must trust this gentleman, George, he wishes you only well.’
 
George Fox stared at Ada Lovelace. ‘But?’ was the word that he spoke.
 
‘I was wrong,’ said Ada. ‘I am a foolish girl. The professor can be trusted absolutely. We must do whatever he says. Whatever he thinks is for the best.’
 
Professor Coffin smiled upon Ada. ‘Whatever I think is best.’
 
24
 
T
he evening proved to be less fun than had been the afternoon.
 
The sparkle had departed Ada Lovelace. The lovely girl sat at the late Lord Brentford’s table, speaking only when she was spoken to and only then in monosyllables. George was most distraught about her drastic change in demeanour and asked repeatedly regarding the state of her health.
 
‘I am fine,’ she said, each time that he asked.
 
But George was far from convinced.
 
The storm that had crackled on the horizon was all about them now and the captain had been unable to take the ship up above the clouds. Rain smashed down on the
Empress of Mars
, and lightning tore about it.
 
Captain Bigglesworth’s voice rang sharply through the great dining hall, twanging through huge tuba-like, brass-bell public address systems, which were linked by speaking tubes to the bridge.
 
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, ecclesiastics of Venus, burghers of Jupiter, we are presently travelling through a period of light drizzle. You might experience some mild discomfort. Please remain indoors and away from the promenade deck. Enjoy your meals. Tonight’s entertainment is provided by Guru Gurami the Indian Swami, who will perform the celebrated Indian Rope Trick and other acts of subcontinental metaphysical transubstantiation. Employing the transperambulation of psuedo-cosmic—’
 
But few were listening to him. Thunder rattled the windowpanes and shook at the cutlery, the great ship quivered fretfully, the turbines wheezed and trembled.
 
Young Master Hitler, sporting a rather dramatic black eye, served them at table. George settled on a simple swordfish casserole, Ada said she was not hungry and Professor Coffin rubbed his palms together and ordered most of the menu.
 
Darwin made selections from the wine list, but only Professor Coffin seemed to appreciate the choices.
 
‘Cheer it up there, young George,’ he said to his dismal companion. ‘We shall soon reach Hawaii and while I do not expect that we will be enjoying any sunsets over the volcano, we will be near to reaching our goal. Can you not feel it, George?
I
feel it.’
 
‘I am sorry, Professor,’ said George, ‘but things have been getting me down lately. And now this storm and Ada looking so poorly—’
 
‘The storm will pass.’ Professor Coffin clapped his hands together. ‘And Ada will arouse herself from her stupor. Won’t you, my dear? Cheer yourself up for your brother. Do it for me
now
.’
 
A smile spread over Ada’s face. But this smile lacked for conviction.
 
‘Perhaps you should take yourself off to your bunk,’ said George to Ada. ‘Sleep out the storm, as it were.’
 
‘A capital idea,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘I will escort the young lady. Upon which deck is her cabin?’
 
‘On second thoughts,’ said George, ‘perhaps it would be better if she remained here, where I can keep an eye on her.’
 
‘Perhaps,’ said the professor. ‘Ah, see, here comes the “turn”.’
 
The ‘turn’ wore golden robes not unlikened to those worn by the airship’s casino staff. He sported a larger turban though, with many encrustments of pearl. And he wore upon his feet a pair of those curl-up-toed slippers that find great favour with genies.
 
Some tables had been cleared away from the central area of the dining hall and a small round stage assembled. Guru Gurami the Indian Swami climbed onto this stage. He bowed to all and sundry, was acknowledged by no one, clasped his hands together and vanished.
 
Just like that.
 
In a big puff of smoke.
 
‘Not the most entertaining of acts,’ said Professor Coffin, ‘but it has brevity on its side, so let us be grateful for that.’
 
‘Sir?’ came a voice at Professor Coffin’s ear. Professor Coffin ducked away in shock.
 
‘Sorry to startle you,’ said Guru Gurami the Indian Swami, for it, indeed, was he, ‘but I require the services of an assistant upon stage – would you do me the honour to oblige?’
 
Professor Coffin gathered his wits, and he was rarely rattled. ‘Not I,’ said he. ‘A bit of a game leg, caught by a Jezail bullet in the Afghan campaign. But that will be over by Christmas.’
 
‘I have my doubts as to that,’ said the swami, ‘but if not yourself, then perhaps your lovely granddaughter?’
 
‘My
what
?’ Professor Coffin bridled.
 
‘You then, sir,’ said the swami unto George.
 
‘Not really,’ said George. ‘I have a casserole due and—’
 
There was a deafening crack of thunder and the ship took a lurch. Glasses tinkled to the floor, occasional ladies fainted.
 
‘I think you will find the experience uplifting,’ said the swami, now helping George from his chair. ‘Let us enliven the company and take people’s minds from the raging storm beyond.’
 
 
And indeed the storm was truly raging now. Up upon the bridge the captain clung to the wheel. Sky-men cranked at stopcocks, consulted big brass-bound pressure gauges, swung mighty levers, worried at flickering dials. Lightning tore the sky apart, and the great ship quivered and shook.
 
 
George was now upon the stage and most embarrassed was he.
 
‘Have you ever met me before, young man?’ asked the swami.
 
‘No, I have not, sir,’ said George. ‘I do not know you at all.’
 
‘Well done, son,’ said the swami. ‘It is good to know that some of your mother’s and my good manners have rubbed off upon you.’
 
The swami grinned out at the audience. The audience ignored him.
 
‘What a miserable, stuck-up bunch,’ whispered the swami to George. ‘I’d rather do a Friday night at the Glasgow Empire.’
 
‘Can we just get this over with?’ George asked. ‘I do not want my casserole getting cold.’
 
‘All right then,’ said the swami, and once more he addressed the dining passengers. ‘Good folk,’ called he, ‘offer me please your attention. I present for you this evening a metaphysical manifestation second to none. An elliptical navigation through the aethers of oblivion. A polymorphic endochromatical calcification, utilising serendipitous—’
 
‘You are really just making this up as you go along,’ whispered George to the swami. ‘None of that makes any sense.’
 
‘You expect sense, do you, George?’ asked the swami. ‘Amidst this Hellish maelstrom?’
 
And the Hellish maelstrom was growing by the minute.
 
‘Hold on there,’ said George to the swami. ‘I never told you my name.’
 
‘You are George Geoffrey Arthur Fox,’ said Guru Gurami the Indian Swami. ‘Here on a sacred quest.’
 
‘Oh no you do not,’ said George. ‘I see through your game. The professor put you up to this, did he not? He told you my name. You do not fool me.’
 
‘That man is the very Devil himself,’ the swami’s voice hissed at George’s ear. But it was not the voice of the swami. It was the voice of Macmoyster Farl. ‘Take care, young George,’ said the voice of Farl. ‘Take care in whom you would trust.’
 
‘And I command you,
rise
!’ The voice was that of the swami once more and shouted with terrible force.
 
George felt suddenly very odd, as if detached from himself. He was there, but he was not, so to speak.
 
George cried, ‘What are you doing to me?’ And then he just went, ‘Waaaaaaaaaah!’
 
For George no longer stood upon the stage. George now floated in the air. The few diners who were actually watching this happen halted their takings of dinner. Forkfuls of loveliness hovered in mid-air, glasses paused before lips.
 
‘Oh,’ wailed George Fox. ‘Let me down. I do not like it up here at all.’
 
But George was rising even higher now. Up towards the gilded frescoed ceiling. Up towards the crystal chandeliers. And the diners who viewed this now did nudgings at their companions. Nudgings were all the rage.
 
George spied from his uneasy eyrie a party of jovial Jovians, seated at table and giggling with mirth. It flashed briefly into George’s consciousness, as he hung there in open defiance of gravity’s best-known law, how quite unlike the folk of Venus these were. Big and jolly, given to raucous laughter, the burghers of Jupiter bustled and bumbled about the Earth seemingly meaning no harm. Did Earth people hate them as much as they hated Venusians? George wondered. Although obviously not all Earth people, but—
 
‘Help!’ cried George. ‘Help!’
 
The party of Jovians cheered.
 
Professor Coffin clapped his hands. Ada stared on, speechless. Darwin the monkey gibbered and jigged. Young Master Hitler did spittings in somebody’s casserole.
 
‘Down please, now,’ called George to the swami. ‘I have had enough now, thanks.’ And as George struggled upon high, to the admiration of some, but still the complete lack of interest of others, a bolt of lightning struck the ship and it slewed wildly to port.
 
Tables and chairs, diners and waiters took to a sudden rush. Crockery tumbled, diners upended, falling glass shattered, chaos ensued. Another great flash and the ship slewed to starboard. Chairs, tables, diners and all rushed back. Up on high and seemingly cocooned against gravity’s urgent callings, George looked on in horror. Folk were being bowled about like dolls in a giant’s toy box. A chandelier fell from the ceiling, statues toppled and smashed.
 
‘Get me down,’ cried George. ‘Get me down!’
 
But Guru Gurami the Indian Swami had rolled away under a table. George caught sight of Ada Lovelace sliding by upon a waiter’s tray and Professor Coffin clinging for his own dear life to the side of the makeshift stage.
 
Flashings of lightning, roarings of thunder, then a terrible grinding sound. More terrible, this, than the elemental thrashings in the sky, the sound was of machinery tortured into high-pitched whinings, growing to a devastating scream.
 
And then the voice of the captain came once more over the public address system. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, er, lords and ladies and gentlemen and, er – we are experiencing some problems with the electric turbines. We will—’
 
And his voice died away.
 
To the port side once more rushed all and sundry, hideously twisting, screaming and struggling.
 
Back came the voice of the captain once again.
 
‘We regret that we will be forced to make an unscheduled landing. Unfortunately we are still some ten nautical miles from the paradisiacal island of Hawaii—’
 
And once more his voice died away.
 
An awful explosion roared from the rear of the airship.
 
The starboard turbine tore itself loose and plummeted down to the sea.
 
‘. . . passengers will please make their way to the lifeboats,’ came the voice of the captain, then to be silenced for ever.
 
The lights went out in the great dining hall.
 
The
Empress of Mars
was going down.
 
25
 
T
he ill-starred airship’s maiden voyage was coming to an end. A bitter and sorry end was this. The great doomed pleasure-craft wallowed and sank, down through the hideous maelstrom, gas bag ruptured, turbine mountings broken and ablaze.
 
Thrashing and clawing at one another like lost souls in one of Dante’s less-than-cheerful lower circles of Hell, the screaming multitude in the great dining hall sought the salvation of the lifeboats. The credo of ‘women and children first’ found few followers here.

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