‘And were there photos of Apocalypso in this book of yours?’
‘Of course there were.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Well what?’
‘Well, was it the same bloke?’
‘Oh, I see, right.’ Wok Boy made a thoughtful face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not the same bloke. Although . . .’
‘Although what?’
‘No.’ Wok Boy shook his head. ‘Not the same bloke, I’m sure.’
‘Well, I’m damned if I know where that leaves me. I get left a bookshop in the will of an uncle who died thirty years ago. Some old bloke, who may or may not be this dead uncle, employs you to do this place up and move all this stock in for me . . .’
‘And wants you to draw this very important comic book.’
‘Oh yeah, and that. But if this uncle is dead, then who is the old bloke? And if he’s not dead, why all this mucking around?’
‘More tea?’ asked Wok Boy. ‘In a fresh cup?’
‘Something less pink this time. I’ve never liked my tea pink.’
‘Blue Bayou is rather special.’
‘I’ll just bet it is.’
Wok Boy brewed blue tea. ‘The old bloke will probably explain everything when he sees you. Do you want me to unpack your case?’
‘No, just make the tea and sling your hook.’
‘Such gratitude, after all I’ve done for you.’
‘All you’ve done? You beat me up, you stinker. Twice.’
‘The first time you were asking for it and the second time I was only defending myself.’
‘Just make the tea and take your leave. I have to think about all this.’
‘I can’t go yet. I don’t finish till six’
‘You finish now. You’re fired. Just go away.’
‘Then you don’t want me to work for you in the shop?’
‘No-one is going to work in the shop. Those comic books are far too valuable to sell over the counter. I’m going to put the lot up for auction.’
‘I don’t think that’s what the old bloke had in mind. I think he wants the shop reopened.’
‘It’s my shop now and I’ll do what I like with it.’
‘But I think he wants me to work in the shop, while you work on his comic book. I think it’s something pretty important, that’s the impression I got.’
Porrig accepted a cup of blue tea. ‘Well, I’ll discuss it with him when I see him. Please give me your key and I’ll see you out.’
Wok Boy produced the back-door key and threw it onto the table. ‘I can see myself out, thank you.’
Porrig rose rubbing his ribs. ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want any valuable first editions accidentally falling into your pockets.’
Wok Boy took Porrig by the throat. ‘Now just you listen to me, you turd,’ he growled. ‘I am not a thief. I’ve been working here for months. I could have nicked anything I wanted. But I didn’t, because the old bloke trusted me.’
Porrig shook himself free. ‘Well I don’t,’ he said.
Wok Boy looked him up and down. ‘I don’t like you, Porrig,’ he said slowly. ‘You’ve a real bad attitude. I’ve a good mind not to tell you now.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Something very important that you have to know.’
‘Then don’t bother to tell me. Just go.’
‘No,’ said Wok Boy. ‘The old bloke said that I had to tell you, so I will.’
‘Well, make it fast, my tea’s getting cold.’
Wok Boy made a bitter face. ‘The old bloke said that I was to impress upon you the importance of what I’m going to say.’
‘Go on.’
‘Right. When you go to bed here, be in bed before midnight. And bolt the bedroom door. Don’t come out before six in the morning, no matter what you may hear.’
‘You what?’
‘That’s what I had to tell you and now I’ve told you. And now I’m going.’
‘Hold on, hold on. Don’t come out of my room after midnight? And I’m supposed to take this rubbish seriously? What do you take me for?’
‘A total no-mark. But the old bloke told me to tell you, so I have. Personally I don’t give a monkey’s, you can do what you like. But if I were you, I’d do what he says and if you really have met him, you’ll know what I’m talking about when I say that I wouldn’t cross him.’
Porrig did some thoughtful lip-chewing. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So now you’ve told me, please go away.’
‘Okay, I’ll go. But just do me one favour. If you use the front door early in the morning, try not to step on me.’
‘Come again?’
‘The mouldy old mattress in your front doorway. That’s where I sleep.’
‘You mean that you haven’t been sleeping in here?’
‘I’m not a thief and I’m not a squatter.’
‘Oh,’ said Porrig.
‘Yes, oh. I sleep rough in the doorway. It’s cold and it’s wretched and drunks chuck up on me in the night. But that’s how it is when you’re homeless.’
‘Oh.’
Wok Boy turned to leave.
‘Hold on,’ said Porrig.
‘What?’
‘About you sleeping rough in my doorway. That’s not right. It shouldn’t be like that.’
‘Well, it is like that. When you’ve got nowhere to stay it’s all you can do.’
‘But with people throwing up on you and that. I mean.’ Porrig cleared his throat. ‘I mean, I don’t want you to have to do that anymore.’
‘You mean . . .’ Wok Boy looked about the kitchen.
‘I mean,’ said Porrig, ‘I want you to sleep in someone else’s doorway. You lower the tone of my establishment.’
Wok Boy took a swing at Porrig. But Porrig, who had anticipated such a swing, side-stepped it and brought Wok Boy down with the kitchen chair. ‘You can sleep here in my kitchen,’ he said. ‘But don’t go out after midnight or the bogy man will get you.’
And, as Wok Boy was down, Porrig kicked him.
To Porrig’s surprise, and also his relief, Wok Boy declined his kind offer of accommodation. He did, however, make the ominous remark that, ‘I wouldn’t sleep in this place if you offered me a million quid.’ Then he shook Porrig by the hand and left.
Leaving Porrig more confused than ever.
The man of property sat at the table staring into space. To the weight of responsibility had now been added a nebulous ‘something’. A sinister sub-text. The darkness at the top of the stairs.
‘Frankly,’ said Porrig. ‘I wish I’d never got up this morning.’
He sought to make himself some lunch. He dug about in the fridge and in the cupboards and came across a lot of unwholesome-looking wholefoods. These he cobbled together into a semblance of sustenance and stuffed into his face. He passed on the blue tea though. As he munched, spitting out little seeds, he pondered on how best to spend the balance of the day.
Then there was the worrisome matter of all the valuable stock. That would have to go off to the auction. He’d have to catalogue it and then call up a big London sale-room.
So what should he do first?
‘Finish eating this rubbish and then have a couple of pints,’ said Porrig.
His lunch concluded, he left the dishes unwashed and departed by the rear door. He took great pains with the locking up and gazed about the rubble-strewn back yard. Quite a nice little sun-trap this could make.
A nasty little alley led him back to the street. Porrig glanced into his doorway. The mouldy mattress had gone.
Porrig felt a twinge of guilt. He also felt a twinge of bruising around the ribcage. Porrig shrugged and looked up at the building that was now his own. It looked no less ghastly than it had upon his first perusal, although that now seemed a lifetime ago.
He’d have to get the outside done. Put a new sign up, the old one had gone to ruination. He’d have to come up with a new name. That was something to think about. But then there was
so much to think about. Too much to think about. He needed some time to plan out just what to do.
Porrig looked along to the smart shop front of The Flying Pig. That was how a real bookshop should look. A real bookshop that was full of wonderful books.
Magic.
‘Magic,’ said Porrig, which gave him an idea.
Porrig strolled into The Flying Pig and took in big breaths of the place. The music was certainly ‘cool’. Sonic Energy Authority’s sixth album, Requiem for a Drowned Pope, welled from hidden speakers and all around were books books books.
As one might reasonably expect in a bookshop.
But then these weren’t just any old books. These were the books that you couldn’t get anywhere else. The small press publications the major bookstores wouldn’t touch. The rare books they couldn’t get their hands on. The imports shops never got around to ordering. The ‘out-of-print’ stuff that really wasn’t ‘out of print’ if you knew where to look for it.
And where else would you look for it but in The Flying Pig?
Porrig scanned the nearest bookshelf. Tomorrow’s Tears, by Johnny Quinn. They even had books in stock that didn’t really exist. What a class act!
Porrig drifted over to the art section. Here were all the big boys: Dave Carson, Matt Humphrey, Savage Pencil. Porrig spied a Carson portfolio he didn’t have. He pulled it out with care and cast an eye across the price. Then he pushed it back with care. That one would have to wait until he sold a few first editions.
Porrig’s eyes moved along the spines and came to rest on the breasts.
Porrig’s eyes went blink blink blink.
Porrig recognized those breasts.
Those were the breasts he’d seen earlier in the day.
Behind the counter stood the vision in white from the solicitors’ office. Porrig offered her a smile.
The vision did not receive it with grace. She turned her head away.
Porrig hastened over. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’
‘How would you? I didn’t mention it.’
‘Great shop,’ said Porrig.
‘Better than yours.’
‘For now, yes.’
‘Thinking of opening up in competition, then?’
Porrig hadn’t been. ‘I just might,’ he said.
‘In your dreams.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Well, it’s fifteen quid. You can take it or leave it.’
‘Fifteen quid?’
‘That’s the price. I won’t go any lower.’
‘Oh,’ said Porrig. Well, that’s very fair. Should we go to my place, or do it here behind the counter?’
‘For the book. Fifteen quid for the book.’
‘What book?’
‘The one you came in here for.’
Porrig shook his head.
‘About Apocalypso The Miraculous.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘That’s what you came in here for, isn’t it?’
‘Yes it is. But how did you know?’
‘Just because I have big breasts doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’
Porrig almost said ‘Shame’ but somehow he controlled himself.
‘I read your file in the office, didn’t I? So I knew you’d inherited the building next door. And Phart-Ebum told me that Apocalypso was a stage magician and how he’d read about him in a book. And you obviously hadn’t got a clue who this uncle of yours was, so eventually you were bound to come in here to see if we had the book about him. And this is it and it’s fifteen quid.’
‘Wowser!’ said Porrig. ‘You really are more intelligent than you look.’
The vision in white shook her beautiful head. ‘You no-mark,’ 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. ‘Shove 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.’
‘All right’
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 oftimes 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.
‘Damn,’ said Porrig, looking at his watch. ‘Damn damn damn and blast.’
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 mess about.’ He pressed his ear to the polished pitch pine. A nasty rat-like scuttling sound had his ear go jerking back.
‘Get a grip, Porrig,’ said Porrig. ‘Look at y
ourself, 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 bosoms 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.