‘You’ve lost me again,’ said the imp.
‘That woman. Kissing me on the mouth when she’d been giving Wok Boy a blo—’
‘Still, you look well on it. Although I’d rather you didn’t breathe in my direction. Are you making tea?’
‘Yes.’ Porrig was.
‘And is that Wok Boy’s?’
‘It is,’ said Porrig.
‘Here.’ Rippington climbed onto the table and . . .
‘That is disgusting,’ said Porrig.
‘I bet you’ll laugh when he drinks it, though.’
Porrig did.
And Porrig sat and looked out of the window, past the fluttering pigeons and off into a sky of deepest blue. ‘All my stock,’ he kept saying. ‘All my beautiful stock.’
‘I’ll get it back for you,’ said Wok Boy.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yes. All of it.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘I’ll think of something. Although I don’t know why I should. You came out of the coma. That was the object of the exercise.’
‘I’ll tell the old bloke when I see him,’ said Porrig. ‘He’ll probably break both your legs.’
‘You ungrateful no-mark,’ said Wok Boy. ‘I thought you might change.’
‘I have changed. But you stitched me up. I heard you, don’t deny it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re so fussed about. He wasn’t that good.’
‘He?’ said Porrig.
‘The transvestite. Very convincing bosoms though. Silicone.’
‘What?’ went Porrig.
‘You’re not telling me you thought it was a woman. I mean, I swing both ways, me. You have to sometimes, life on the streets and all that. But you didn’t really think he was a woman . . .’
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Porrig, returning once more with haste to the kitchen sink.
At precisely ten-o-two and thirty-two-seconds-almost, a free newspaper came through the door of Porrig’s shop. Wok Boy picked it up and brought it up. Porrig was lying on the bed reading his great-great-grandfather’s book.
‘This is very odd,’ said Wok Boy.
Porrig looked up without interest.
‘Look at the headline. “BEWARE THE BIG STORM”.’ Wok Boy went over to the window. ‘What big storm? It’s a beautiful day.’
‘Perhaps it’s a misprint,’ said Porrig, still without interest.
‘No, it isn’t. It says that a BIG STORM is heading up the English Channel and that all ships and boats and whatever must go at once to the nearest harbour and tie up until further notice.’
‘Oh good,’ said Porrig. ‘With my luck it will probably blow the roof off the building. Which should appeal to you.’
‘Why me?’
‘Well, you like a good blow, don’t you?’
‘Oooooh,’ said Wok Boy. ‘Do I smell the unsavoury twang of homophobia?’
‘No, just bitterness. When are you going to get my comics back?’
‘When are you going to start on the old bloke’s comic?’
‘I don’t know whether I am.’
‘But all the stuff in the book?’
Porrig shook his head. ‘I’ve been giving that a lot of thought while I lay in my bed listening to you and the trannie, and I don’t know how much of it I actually believe. My daft father running the world from some paranormal ministry in London? That’s absurd.’
‘But it’s true. If the old bloke says it’s true then I for one believe him. And you’ve been to this ALPHA 17 place yourself. Rippington told me. That’s where he’s from.’
‘And he’s going back,’ said Porrig. ‘I don’t trust him either.’
‘He wants to go back. He hates it here. Rippington reckons that this is the most stupid reality there could possibly be and he can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to live in it.’
‘Yeah, well, I often feel that way myself.’
‘Yeah, well, now you have the chance to do something about it, don’t you?’
Porrig shook his head once more. ‘Why me?’ he asked.
‘Oh, get a grip, Porrig. Why you? Because you know, perhaps. Because it’s your father, perhaps. Because you could draw the comic book, perhaps. Has it ever occurred to you why you’re such an useless twerp with people?’
‘It’s just the way I am. I can’t help it.’
‘Cobblers. You’re an outsider. It’s like what all this is about. Being in tune with your own. Being on the same wavelength.’
‘I don’t know what this has got to do with me.’
‘Cobblers and more cobblers. Have you ever really fitted in, Porrig?’
Porrig thought. ‘I’m sure I have.’
‘You never have. You’re a genuine loner. You’ve got no real friends. Your family have basically disowned you. Nobody likes you.’
‘Hold on,’ said Porrig. ‘Don’t get carried away.’
‘People don’t like you and you don’t like people.’
‘I do like people.’
‘You don’t. You could have given that beggar some small change. But you didn’t and you got kicked into a coma.’
‘So that makes me a bad person, because I won’t shell out money to drunks?’
‘I didn’t say you were a bad person. You’re not a bad person. You’re a different person. You’re in the wrong key, Porrig.’
‘I don’t follow you, sorry.’
‘Are you happy, Porrig?’
‘No,’ said Porrig.
‘Have you ever been happy?’
Porrig thought once more. ‘Not that I can remember,’ he said sadly.
‘Well, think about it and think about what’s in the book. All those separate realities, all a fraction apart. An endless number of possibilities. Worlds within worlds within worlds. You’re not in harmony with this world, Porrig, so perhaps you’re in the wrong one.’
‘What?’
‘You are sure about who you are, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I mean . . .’ Porrig thought back. He thought back to the last time he’d seen his parents.
‘Sardine can,’ said Porrig slowly.
‘Pardon?’ said Wok Boy.
‘My father. He used to say all this stupid stuff. He was saying it the night before I left home. About how the fairies brought me, or I came free with a packet of cornflakes.’
‘Or they opened a can of sardines and—’
‘Stuff like that,’ said Porrig.
‘Makes you think,’ said Wok Boy. ‘Maybe you’re not one of us.’
‘Us? You’re not one of us.’
‘I never pretended I was.’
‘And I’ve been pretending, is that what you’re saying?’
‘You didn’t know any different. It’s not your fault.’
‘That’s comforting.’
‘Is it?’
‘Not really, no. But it makes some kind of twisted sense. But if I don’t belong in this particular reality, which one do I belong in?’
‘What about this one?’ Wok Boy fished into the waistline of his unspeakable jeans and drew out a comic book.
Porrig took it from his hands and lightly brushed the cover. ‘The Silver Surfer,’ he said softly. ‘The first one I saw in the shop downstairs.’
‘Well, I couldn’t let the trannie have that one, could I?’
‘But what are you saying?’
‘It’s another reality, isn’t it? The world of imagination. The world of comic books. Superheroes and super villains. Peter Parker’s always in trouble, just like you. But he’s also Spider Man. And you’re much more at home in the world of comics than you are in this one. Am I right, or am I frigging right?’
‘You’re right,’ said Porrig, leaping to his feet. ‘You are right. You are right. I see it all now. I am different. I am an outsider and I am the one person who can expose the Ministry of Serendipity.’
‘Eh?’ said Wok Boy.
‘Best the super villain. My dad, the
super villain. With my awesome super powers I shall sweep down upon the Ministry and—’
‘Hold on,’ said Wok Boy.
‘Hold on, what?’
‘Super powers? What super powers?’
‘The ones I’ll get off Rippington as a reward for taking him back to ALPHA 17.’
‘Now just hold on.’
‘Everything falls into place,’ said Porrig, posing before a long bedroom mirror that had somehow escaped previous mention. ‘I shall be a mighty avenger for the oppressed people of the world. People like you, Wok Boy, losers, dim-wits, those kind of folk. I shall smash the mighty from their seats of power, bring justice and freedom and—’
‘No!’ shouted Wok Boy, flapping his hands. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just meant that you should draw comics because that was what you do best, I didn’t mean—’
‘ALPHA MAN!’ cried Porrig.
‘What?’
‘I shall call myself ALPHA MAN, after ALPHA 17. And you shall be my companion and comedy relief partner. ALPHA MAN and WOK BOY, I can see it all now.’
Porrig snatched up the bed cover and flung it cloak-fashion about his shoulders. And then he rushed from the room shouting ‘Up and away,’ and, ‘Rippington, where are you?’
‘What a no-mark,’ said Wok Boy, shaking his head and putting his feet up. ‘And what exactly is all this about?’
He cast an eye of suspicion over the free newspaper.
“‘BIG STORM”,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘What BIG STORM?’
14
BEWARE THE BIG STORM
said the papers. And ‘BEWARE THE BIG STORM’, said the TV weathermen. And ‘BEWARE THE BIG STORM,’ said Carol Vorderman on at least four channels at once. And not to be caught napping after the last BIG STORM, folk took their washing in, tied down their dustbin lids and rushed to the shops to purchase candles and cans of beans.
At the Ministry of Serendipity, Porrig’s dad monitored the progress of things. They have one of those operations rooms there, with the big lighting-up map of the world on the wall and lots of computer desks with smart-looking women in tight-fitting suits and black stockings, who carry clipboards around and lean over men in white coats, who study telescreens and drink coffee out of plastic cups.
The Americans do it with more style, but they copied the idea from us.
Porrig’s dad had a special clipboard of his own, a black one with a light on the top, and he studied this and talked to the smart-looking women and the men in white coats and lurked about in corridors and had secret meetings and things of that nature generally.
‘Progress report,’ said Porrig’s dad to a particularly smart-looking woman.
‘All the media are carrying our bogus report of the BIG STORM, sir. Shipping has been cleared from the English Channel and the location and movement of The Leviathan is being monitored by satellite. It’s approximately thirty miles off Land’s End and travelling towards the Channel.’
‘And Sir John Rimmer?’
‘Sir John has been flown to Land’s End. He’s wired for sound, so we will be able to listen to what transpires. His companions have flown out with him.’
‘Do they mean to go aboard The Leviathan?’
‘Apparently so, sir. Things are likely to be rather unpleasant there. But Dr Harney and Danbury Collins decided to go with him. Loyalty, I suppose.’
‘Loyalty?’ Augustus shook his head. The word meant very little to him.
‘Would you care for some coffee in a plastic cup?’ asked the smart-looking woman.
‘No thanks, I think I’ll just go and have a lurk in the men’s toilet.’
The helicopter was one of those black unmarked affairs that governments deny all knowledge of owning. It rested upon the green sward (which is not to be confused with the green sword, or even the green smorgasbord) and it made that glorious CHB CHB CHB CHB CHB CHB CHB noise with its rotors that comes across so well in quadrophonic sound at the cinema.
Danbury Collins cast approving eyes in its direction. ‘Do you see the armaments on that?’ he asked Dr Harney. ‘Heat-seeking missiles, 7.62, M134 General Electric mini-guns. They’ve even got the loudspeakers for playing Wagner while you shoot up “Charlie”.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Dr Harney. ‘And are you still carrying your little “piece”?’
‘Damn right,’ said Danbury. ‘I have a “certain feeling” that it might just come in handy.’
‘Are you sure that you actually want to go through with this?’
Danbury shrugged. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t really let Sir John do it all by himself, could we?’
‘You never cease to amaze me,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re a good lad, Danbury. Ah, see, here comes himself’
Sir John Rimmer climbed down from the helicopter. He looked very much like himself once more. In fact he looked just himself. But then, as he was himself, this was only to be expected. Sir John was sporting a fine new beard. A blue one this time, supplied to him by the MoS amateur dramatics society. As used in their recent production of Blue Beard, no doubt.
And it did look dramatic, set off against the crimson robes he now wore.
He greeted his two companions. ‘Greetings,’ he said.
‘Wotcha,’ said Danbury. ‘We had to come down on the train. I like the . . .’
‘Careful,’ said Sir John. You promised, no more beard gags.’
Danbury rubbed thoughtfully at the lump on his head: his reward for the one about the lion’s den. ‘No more beard gags,’ he said. ‘After all, this is a serious business. Have you planned what you mean to say to the creature?’
‘It’s fawning, mostly. There’ll be a lot of falling to the knees and pleading. If you do as I do, we might be able to pull it off’
‘Pull it off,’ said Danbury slowly. ‘As in . . .’
Dr Harney raised his hand.
‘Nothing,’ said Danbury. ‘Where’s the boat?’
‘Down there in the cove.’
‘Then we’d best be off.’
‘I think that best we had.’
And so, as best they could, they did.
The boat was one of those unmarked black affairs that governments deny all knowledge of. They are used mostly for importing drugs, as the importing of drugs has always been done by the governments of the countries concerned and not by criminal organizations as is popularly believed. There’s far too much money to be made from drug importation to let criminals get their hands on it.
And if the government of this country didn’t make all the money from the importation of drugs, it would never have sufficient to finance the un-marked black boats.
It all makes sense when you think about it.
Sir John climbed aboard. Danbury helped the doctor up the gang plank.
‘Tasty boat,’ said Danbury.
The captain sniffed them welcome. ‘Hey, all right, man,’ he said. ‘Cool duds, Sir John, real guru. The guys and I were just doing a couple of lines before we take off. You wanna join us?’
‘Yes please,’ said Danbury.
‘Cool.’
Sir John shook his head. ‘Are you the captain?’ he asked.
‘Right on.’
‘But you’re wearing a kaftan.’
‘Well, so are you, man.’
‘And a beard.’
‘Bigger than yours, man. But it’s cool.’
‘Hm,’ said Sir John.
‘So, do you want a couple of lines, or what?’
‘Go for it,’ said Danbury.
And so they went for it.
It brightens the day, does a couple of lines. And though one must never condone the taking of drugs, neither must one condemn it out of hand. Because, let’s face it, if you were on your way to almost certain death at the hands of a mad monster, would you see the harm in doing it with a couple of snorts of angel dust up your hooter?
The unmarked boat cut through the waves, numbers were rolled and numbers were smoked, lines were cut and sniffed away and
talk became merry and free. Sir John spoke untruths of his happy childhood and his dog. Dr Harney told tales of his days upon the hippy trail and Danbury grinned upon all and sundry, one happy chap was he.
At a length that seemed far longer than it really was, they sighted The Leviathan.
The captain drew deeply on a big fat number and spoke through the smoke. ‘Are you really sure about this, man?’ he said. ‘We could always just say we missed it and head on down to Morocco.’
Sir John took deep breaths and steadied himself against the rail. ‘We have a job to do,’ he said. ‘For the mother country and indeed for the world.’
‘If you say so, man.’
‘We shall succeed,’ said Sir John. ‘We shall vanquish the foe.’
‘Yeah,’ said Danbury. ‘You go for it, Johnny boy.’
‘It’s Sir John to you and don’t forget it.’
‘Rumpy pumpy poo,’ said Dr Harney.
‘Rumpy pumpy what?’ asked Sir John.
‘Poo,’ said the doctor. ‘I am a little red plastic truck and I go rumpy pumpy poo.’
‘He’s out of it,’ said the captain. ‘You’d better leave him here.’
‘I’m not out of it.’ Dr Harney made small brmming sounds.
‘All for one and one for all,’ said Danbury Collins. ‘Cor, look at the size of that ship.’
The Leviathan loomed. In order to create an atmosphere of sufficient menace, a light mist had gathered about it and the ship presented an eerie ghost-like appearance. No sound came from the mighty vessel, which drifted upon the placid waves like a handbag on a pool table.
Well, it did if you’d been taking what Dr Harney had been taking.
‘Leave all the talking to me,’ said Sir John as they drew ever closer.
The captain gazed up at the great ship, which now seemed to fill half the sky. ‘Can you feel it?’ he asked.
‘Feel what?’ said Sir John.
The captain shook his head. ‘It,’ he said. ‘The weirdness of it. I tell you, man, I’ve done some stuff in my time. You know, taken some stuff, and I did some stuff in Tibet once. Special dope that the lamas do to reach the other planes. Travel into other realities, you know. And it’s just like that here. This ship is giving off those vibes. It’s messing with reality. Do you know what I mean?’