And indeed that gobshite was alive. Dilbert struggled from his mangled spacecraft and shook his verdant fist. ‘Top of the world, Ma,’ he shouted, all King Kong and raving. ‘I am still the big boss here. Kneel before your God.’
And then the shockwave hit.
It came as a rumble and struck like a body blow. There was shuddering and grumbling of buildings that were shaken at foundations. Windows cracked and doors burst from their frames. Bricks and slates and lath and plaster ripped and shivered, trembled, tumbled, smashed and bashed and fell.
The ground rocked and paving slabs gave. The rumbling became a roar; the roar increased in volume. Cracks shot across Trafalgar Square and Porrig dodged and ran.
But where can you run to, really?
Dilbert, one arm gripping Nelson, one fist in the air.
Danbury struggling from the fountain groaning dismally.
Sir John Rimmer kneeling, his hands clasped in prayer.
Dr Harney staggering this way and that, his radio lying some distance away, with a voice calling from it unheard that said, ‘I can put you through now, caller . . . caller . . . caller . . .?’
And then a second shockwave hit.
White-out. Blinding light and fireflash. Then up with a roar and a rumbling rush: Nelson’s Column, with its lions and central plaza, up and up.
Nelson’s Column with its raving sprouty gobshite clinging to it up and up..
Nelson’s Column.
Victorian monument.
Nelson’s Column.
The secret escape pod.
‘Up and away,’ cried Augustus. ‘I think we’re going to make it.’
The column rose upon steam-driven turbine jets, blinding light and fireflash. Porrig shielded his eyes and watched as it rose. And stared as it dwindled and dwindled and dwindled and dwindled away.
‘Gone,’ said Porrig. ‘He got away.’
‘Your dad too,’ said Rippington. ‘He was driving that thing.’
‘Incredible.’ Porrig shook his head. ‘Look at it all. Look at it.’
Rippington looked at it. ‘It’s quite a mess,’ he observed.
‘Mess?’ Porrig threw up his hands. ‘Mess?’
‘Well, you did your best. You tried your hardest, Porrig. You have nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘But he got away.’
‘This is true.’
‘And the nuke . . .’
‘Ah yes,’ said Rippington. ‘The nuke.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Augustus. ‘I think we can definitely chalk this up as a success.’
‘I’m quite glad I came,’ said the pig. ‘Even though I wasn’t invited.’
‘There’s something up with the periscope,’ said the man in the white coat called Albert.
‘Stuff the periscope,’ said Augustus. ‘Let’s open up the champagne.’
‘Oh but, sir, I wanted to use the periscope. It’s really clever, you can see out of Nelson’s spyglass.’
‘You do have to hand it to those Victorians. When they built an escape pod they didn’t miss a trick.’
‘An, that’s got it,’ said the man in the white coat. ‘There was something blocking the spyglass. Oh poo!’
‘Pigeon poo?’ asked the pig.
‘No. Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘Let me look, you buffoon.’ Augustus elbowed the white-coat-wearer aside and peered into the periscope.
A big black angry eye glared back at him.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Augustus. ‘The monster’s on board!’
‘If you think that’s bad,’ said the pig. You should take a look out of this porthole here. There’s something heading towards us on a collision course. It’s coming very fast and I can’t quite make out what it is. Oh yes I can. It’s got the stars and stripes on the front. It must be the nuclear—’
26
It did make one hell of a noise.
Well they do, don’t they, nukes?
But as it was very high up when it hit, there were few at ground level who heard it. There would be fallout, of course, but then what was a bit of fallout? The monster was dead. The Earth had been saved.
Of course there would be some explaining to do. An official explanation would be called for. Someone would have to own up to something.
And of course someone did.
He owned up to everything.
He took all the credit.
Because, after all, it had been a most remarkable feat. Remarkably achieved. Single-handedly achieved. Remarkable.
The President of the United States, in his speech, said just how remarkable he thought it was. The Prime Minister of England, who always agreed with anything the President said, agreed that it was indeed remarkable. And so did all those crowned heads of Europe and the new Pope and everybody else, really.
And as the motor cavalcade progressed slowly through the crowded streets to Buckingham Palace, where he received a genuine knighthood, everyone agreed that what Sir Sir John Rimmer had achieved was truly remarkable.
Not only to have destroyed the incoming meteor that threatened to wipe out the planet, but in doing so to have eradicated the CONTAMINATION which had resulted in many deaths and the hallucination by millions that they had seen God on their television sets: that was remarkable.
Remarkable!
But then, Sir Sir John Rimmer was a remarkable man. So remarkable, in fact, that the British government had no hesitation at all in offering him a full-time job.
As the new head of the Ministry of Serendipity.
27
The wheel has come full circle for Porrig.
It is a month to the day since he lay in the gutter, not looking at the stars. He lay there then because he had spoken out of turn. Was politically incorrect. And for that he took a thumping and lost his fiancée.
But much can happen in a month. And much indeed has happened to Porrig. He is a changed man. A new man. A different man.
And yet here he is lying now in the gutter and once more not looking up at the stars.
So what has occurred?
And why, as we bid him farewell, most likely for ever, is he in this dire predicament?
He has blood on him, does Porrig, a gory nose has he. And there are rips upon his clothes and bruises upon his person.
Wherefore is this so?
A sorry business really, in a pub.And amidst so much in the way of celebration. Late extensions too.
What made him say it? What made him act in such a fashion? What?
The drink, perhaps. The drink and that television broadcast of Sir Sir John at the palace. That must have been it. The way he lost his temper and ranted at the screen. The way he screamed about cover-ups and conspiracies and people being pawns played in a callous game by a government department, and how he could prove it right there and then if he could only remember the special technique that seemed somehow to have slipped his mind.
Yes, it must have been all that. And the punch he threw at a transvestite. They had dragged him from the pub and beaten him up and dumped him in the gutter.
So now he lies there, bewailing his lot.
Not looking at the stars.
Porrig moans and groans and mutters and as he does so a hand falls on his shoulder.
No ordinary hand.
A small hand this is and most terribly small. It is grey and the fingers are bony.
Porrig jerks alert and covers his head for fear of further punishment.
But a voice speaks softly into his ear and Porrig uncurls at the sound.
A small grey head leans over him and two blue cat-like eyes go blink blink blink and the voice speaks again and says, ‘Porrig?’
Porrig’s eyes go blink blink blink too and Porrig replies, saying, ‘Rippington!’
Rippington says, ‘I’ve been searching for you, Porrig. I’ve been looking everywhere.’
Porrig says, ‘I thought you’d gone back to ALPHA 17 or somewhere. No-one believes a word I say. The Ministry has covered up everything.’
/>
Rippington says, ‘Because now the monster is dead, everything’s back to normal.’
Porrig says, ‘But you’re still here.’
Rippington says, ‘Yeah, and I still don’t like it.’
Porrig says, ‘If only I could remember how to sing the notes, I’d be off to a different reality.’
Rippington says, ‘And would you take me too?’
Porrig says, ‘Of course I would.’
And Rippington says, ‘Guess what.’
28
You can visit Porrig, if you want.
He still has his shop in Brighton and he runs it with his best friend Wok Boy and a small grey companion who only comes out at night. The shop is pretty successful. Porrig wheels and deals in old comic books and he draws his own and prints them on his printing press. They’re pretty odd stuff: all about alternate worlds and wild conspiracies.
No-one takes them seriously, of course. But they do have a big cult following. And Porrig even has his own fan club now.
People sometimes ask him where he gets his ideas from and whether he actually believes any of the stuff he draws and writes about.
Porrig always smiles when people ask him this. He shakes his head and he tells them no. Although he does say that such things might be possible, might even have happened, in a different reality.
But certainly not in the one that he lives in.
Which, of course, is the same one that we’re all living in.
Isn’t it?
On 28 April 1998 Mornington Crescent Underground Station reopened after many years of ‘extensive restorations’. It is interesting to note, however, that the station closes to the general public each night at nine-thirty. And that it has more surveillance cameras and bomb-proof doors than any other underground station.
Visit it yourself and have a look.
Also by
ROBERT RANKIN
The Antipope
The Brentford Triangle
East of Ealing
The Sprouts of Wrath
Armageddon: The Musical
They Came and Ate Us
The Suburban Book of the Dead
The Book of Ultimate Truths
Raiders of the Lost Car Park
The Greatest Show Off Earth
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived
The Garden of Unearthly Delights
A Dog Called Demolition
Nostradamus Ate My Hamster
Sprout Mask Replica
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag
Apocalypso
Snuff Fiction
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls
Waiting for Godalming
Web Site Story
The Fandom of the Operator
The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
The Witches of Chiswick
Knees Up Mother Earth
The Brightonomicon
The Toyminator
The Da-da-de-da-da Code
Necrophenia
Retromancer
The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions
The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age
The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds
Illustrated works:
The Bumper Book of Ficts written by Neil Gardner
EMPIRES
E-book edition cover illustration by Robert Rankin
Additional editing, art direction, slow-cooked lamb shanks, mystical conversations, invaluable companionship, laughter and love: Rachel Hayward
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Robert Rankin, Apocalypso
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