‘You’ve fallen in with a right bad pair there, chief. They’re wanted criminals, you know.’
‘I know, Barry. I’ve tricked them into working for me. I’m trying to track down the Presley hoard. Those two stole it.’
‘I know, chief. That’s why Laz and I are here also.’
‘Laz?’ The other Rex asked casually. ‘Who’s Laz?’
‘He’s a detective from the twenty-fifth century. We work together now. I’m the straight man, he’s my comic relief. Traditional set-up, you know the kind of thing.’
The other Rex nodded. ‘A well-tried formula. But where is Elvis? I thought you and he . . .’
‘Ah, chief. A sad business that.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ The other Rex placed Barry on the table and seated himself. ‘I’m really keen to meet up with Elvis again.’
‘Not much chance of that chief. He’s . . .’
‘Go on, Barry.’
‘Nah, chief. It’s better that you don’t know.’
‘Barry. You and I have known each other a long time. Elvis and me, we were, you know . . .’
‘Sure, I know, chief. You were good buddies. OK, I’ll tell it like it was. But it’s a sad tale and it doesn’t have a happy ending.’
Rex closed the book. It didn’t have a happy ending.
So that was it. Elvis had travelled back to the dawn of mankind and persuaded God to let him do it his way. And God, in his infinite wisdom, or in a moment of severe brainstorm, had actually given him the go ahead. Elvis had then travelled forwards in time, locating each potential mother of the Anti-Christ and wooed her away from the Satanic father to be. Something which, no doubt, he enjoyed a great deal. The result being that the Anti-Christ never got born. On the face of it a most ingenious scheme. But along the way it had all got fouled up. Elvis’s vanity had been given its full and well-quiffed head. He’d had himself painted and sculptured again and again, and he’d been there for all the world to see. Century after century. Elvis the Ever-living. He had become God. But what of Jesus? Rex flicked back to the appropriate page and read aloud.
And Elvis said unto Pontius Pilate, ‘Listen Pont, this is a bum rap. The guy’s a first-time offender. All he did was shoot his mouth off a little. He’s still prepared to render unto Caesar and stuff. How’s about easing up on the sentence, it is Easter after all.’
And Pilate spake thusly, saying, ‘Seeing as it’s you and this is a fine case of Old Bedwetter you’ve brought me, I’ll play the white man. But I’ll have to give him a caution at least. What do you suggest?’ And Elvis in his wisdom replied, ‘Let the kid off with a fine. Say thirty pieces of silver. I can get that off Judas, he’s come into some cash lately.’
And Pilate said, ‘So let it be.’ And let it be it was.
‘Got him off with a fine.’ Rex buried his face in his hands. ‘Elvis, you steaming great buffoon. You cocked it all up. You caused all this.’ A world that was nothing but image. A world where style was everything and the wearing of white shoes in a blue suede shoe zone was a capital offence. ‘Brilliant,’ sighed Rex. ‘You really had the mother of all revelations this time, didn’t you? But where?’ Rex leafed through to the end of the book. ‘Where are you now?’
‘Where is he now?’ the other Rex asked.
‘Around somewhere, chief. You see, he and I had a bit of a falling out. It was all those statues and stuff. And the paintings. Everywhere, every time we were, he’d want to get his likeness done. He had this book, see, A Complete History of the World’s Art. So every century we were in he’d say “We must drop in and say howdy to Michelangelo or Raphael or Donatello or Leonardo,” and he’d get his picture painted.’
‘The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles painted his picture?’
‘Chief, that gag was done a few chapters back and it stank then.’
‘Sorry. Please continue.’
‘Thank you. So, like I said, we’d drop in on Van Gogh and Dali and Dave Carson . . .’
‘Dave Carson?’ the other Rex asked. ‘Who he?’
‘Only the greatest artist of the twentieth century, that’s who. [All right for you, D.C.?] He drew Elvis with all these tentacles coming out of his bonce. Not my cup of tea at all. Now don’t keep interrupting.’
‘Sorry, Barry. Go on.’
‘Well, he got sculpted and frescoed and painted and even woven into the bloody Bayeux tapestry dressed as a Norman soldier. Century after century.’
‘I see. And you didn’t approve? You respected his motives but detested his vanity.’
‘No, chief. That wasn’t it at all.’
‘Then what was it?’
‘He never let me be in the sodding pictures.’
Laura returned from the shower. She was naked and she smelled like Heaven. ‘You’ve read it then?’
‘I’ve read it. But what I still don’t understand is, if you were schooled on this stuff, how do you know it’s wrong? What are you, an atheist?’
‘An atheist?’ Laura laughed. ‘I’m one of the Children of the Revolution. I believe in the true God.’
‘The true God. I see. That is most encouraging.’
‘Then you believe also? But of course you do. He sent you to help us, didn’t he?’
‘I suppose he must’ve done.’
‘Yes.’ Laura seated herself on the bed and Rex gave her a good sniff. ‘This crap,’ Laura took the book from Rex’s fingers and struck it with the back of her hand. ‘None of this is the truth. Elvis was never, is never, the true God.’
‘Bravo.’ Rex moved in for a cuddle. ‘I can dig that.’
Laura shifted out of range. ‘Elvis was merely a vehicle.’
‘Eh?’
‘A vehicle for the true God. The true God spake unto him and controlled his every movement.’
‘He did?’
‘He did. The true God dwelt within Elvis. In here.’ Laura tapped the back of her head. ‘He dictated Elvis’s every action, whilst remaining invisible and all knowing.’
‘He did?’ Rex went again. ‘And who is He?’
‘BAH-REAH.’ Laura drew an invisible circle on her forehead. ‘BAH-REAH is the true God and we are the children of BAH-REAH. The Children of the Revolution. We will cast down the towers of the false god and raise the banner of the All-Knower. Hail BAH-REAH!’
‘BAH-REAH?’ The horrified expression on Rex’s face wasn’t as pretty as a picture. ‘Could that be pronounced Barry by any chance?’
‘So there you have it,’ said the sprout that several hundred well-armed revolutionaries knew as BAH-REAH the All-Knower. ‘We parted company and I took up with the bozo in the trenchcoat. I get a laugh out of it. Old Laz is a pretentious son of a gun, but he’s got a heart of gold. He doesn’t come cheap, but he gets the job done. With him you can expect a lot of gratuitous sex and violence, a trail of corpses and a thrilling roof-top-
‘Yes. I get the picture. But where is Elvis? Here, in the now?’
‘I guess, chief. This was our last port of call. Elvis had this revelation, see? Said that the Anti-Christ was going to show up here. Said that as Mother Demdike had escaped at the end of They Came and Ate Us, there was a loose end. He was real concerned about it. But not too concerned that he couldn’t find time to drop into Simon Butcher’s to have his picture taken.’ ‘Simon Butcher, the society photographer?’ ‘That’s the guy, chief. You know him?’
‘We’ve never met. But they say he’s the greatest photographer of all time.’
‘Couldn’t say. I didn’t stick around for the session. Utilizing some of the truly awesome powers at my disposal, I took, as Laz would say, a powder, and went on the lam. A sprout can take just so much and then no more. If you catch my drift. And I’m sure that you do.’
‘I understand. But I’m puzzled. You came along with Dee and Kelley without a fuss. Why was that?’
‘Ah,’ said Barry. ‘Well I’ve run into a spot of bother. I find myself temporarily incapacitated in the time-travelling department. I can’t
seem to get it together at present. It will no doubt sort itself out in a few days.’
‘A few days?’ The horrified expression the other Rex now wore was exactly identical to the one the other other Rex had been wearing only moments before. Weird, eh?
‘A few days? But in a couple of days the Big Bang goes up.’
‘The Big Bang goes up. Yes, I know that.’ Barry gazed upon the other Rex. ‘But how come you know that, bucko?’
‘What’s that, Barry?’
‘Nothing, chief.’
‘He has to be here,’ said the real Mr Mundi. ‘Somewhere here, in the now.’
‘Who has to be?’
‘Elvis. He’s here somewhere.’
‘He’s always here. That’s what he does. That’s why he is.’
Rex flicked through to the final page of The Suburban Book of the Dead. ‘ “And Elvis went unto the House of Light and was seen no more.” What does that mean, do you suppose? The House of Light? That he died, would that be it?’
‘Uh-uh.’ Laura shook her head. ‘The House of Light is right here in Presley City.’
‘And built just like a jukebox, I’ll bet.’
‘You got it. But it’s not in the phone book I only discovered I was in it by sheer chance. The guy who owns it was shouting all kinds of stuff and he let it slip. I had this live eel and he liked to have me insert it . . .’
‘Thank you, Laura. So who is this fish fancier?’
‘His name is Simon Butcher and he’s the most famous photographer of all time.’
‘Famous photographer, it figures. And you know him well?’
‘You gotta know a guy quite well before he trusts you to stick a live eel up his . ..’
‘Quite so. Then I think we’d better pay this Mr Butcher a visit.’
I gazed up at the building. Biggest damn piece of architecture I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some. I only say this in passing, you understand. Just to set the scene and seeing as I haven’t been in the plot too much lately. It costs nothing to say it was a big old building, not if you’re standing in an alleyway. The way I was currently doing. I figured there were a whole lot of answers inside that building and I figured that like or not there had to be a back entrance to it somewhere. And I figured that it would be more than a racing cert that it was situated in another alleyway. So I struck out in search.
The sun was going down upon Presley City. It would do this twice more and then call it a day. As far as PresleyCity was concerned anyway.
Bill was leaning on his cab, spitting at the wing mirror and half-heartedly polishing it with his sleeve. He stiffened to belligerent attention as Rex and Laura approached.
‘All better now, are we?’ he enquired in a manner hardly calculated to endear. ‘Got over our queezy tum?’
Rex opened the cab door for Laura.
‘Ready to hit the night spots, eh?’ the cabby continued. ‘I’ve left the meter running by the way. Want to settle up now or later?’
‘Later,’ said Rex. ‘Do you know Simon Butcher’s studio?’
‘Hardly miss it. Biggest damn building in town.’
‘Then kindly take us there.’
‘Your wish is my command, oh master.’
‘Hmm.’ Rex followed Laura into the cab which was becoming their second home and they were driven off into A Night of Danger. (A Lazlo Woodbine Thriller, although it shouldn’t be on this page.)
‘We going shopping again tomorrow, squire?’ Bill called over his shoulder. ‘Only this jumpsuit’s going through at the arse and the bellbottoms are getting well chewed up on the pedals.’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Do you have any music you could play?’
‘I surely do.’ Bill rooted amongst a rack of laser discs. ‘I got the Cray Cherubs, the Lost Teeshirts of Atlantis, The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing, Sonic Energy Authority…’
‘Got any Marc Bolan?’ Rex asked.
‘I got “Pewter Suitor”.’
‘Well bung it on and turn it up.’ Bill bunged it on and turned it up.
Rex nuzzled dose to Laura’s ear. ‘I think we are going to have to lose the cabby,’ he whispered.
Laura smiled back at him. ‘Just say the word,’ she replied, without moving her lips.
‘In the meantime,’ Rex whispered on. ‘Tell me what you know about the chap off the telly. Make it look like you’re singing along.’
‘You don’t ask much, do you?’ Laura sang along.
‘He’s a rel-ig-ious loon
he’s real loonie tune aha ha
He tops the folk on his show
and he loves the way they go aha ha
The station says it ain’t real
but you can tell by how they squeal aha ha
And that’s all I know
na na na nanana na
na na na nanana na
na na na nanana . . .’
‘Thanks,’ said Rex. ‘But that wasn’t the tune of “Pewter Suitor”, that was “Hot Love”,’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Laura got a huff on. ‘But all his later stuff sounds the same to me. And, seeing as it was only a cheap literary device anyway, and that not even the legendary Graham Gardner owns a copy of “Pewter Suitor”, who’s ever going to know?’
‘Point taken. Are we nearly there, Bill?’
‘What say, guv? Hang on while I turn down “Telegram Sam”, I can’t hear what you’re saying,’
‘See what I mean?’ Laura stuck her tongue out at Rex.
‘I said,’ Rex said when all was quiet, ‘are we nearly there?’
‘Yep. That’s it up ahead. Pretty snazzy, eh? Some scam that photography game. Did you know that Cecil Beaton couldn’t even load his own camera? I had that Robert Mapplethorpe in the back of my cab once,’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Rex shook his head.
‘Of course I didn’t. Just trying to enliven the journey with a spot of cabby’s banter. All part of the service.’
‘Just drive the cab,’
‘Just drive the cab,’ Bill echoed Rex’s words in a sarcastic sing song. ‘No pleasing some people. So I said to Robert Mapplethorpe, I don’t call that art, having your self portrait done with a whip stuck up your . ’
‘Bill, please just drive. You really must learn where to draw the line,’
‘I’m easy, me. I never had a lot of time for good taste. I’m a take-me-as-you-find-me sort of guy, know what I mean? Give me a shell suit, a pit-bull terrier and a wife to smack around after I’ve had a few, and I’m happy. I speak as I find. There’s no side to me and I look after me old mum. The family’s everything to me. I might abuse my kids, but where’s the harm in that? Society’s to blame when you come right down to it. If I’d had a proper education do you think I’d be driving this cab around?’
‘I really couldn’t say. But as you are, perhaps you might just do it in silence.’
‘Blokes like you,’ Bill continued, warming to his topic, ‘you’re privileged. You think you’re better than me. But you’re not. I can see right through you.’
‘You can drop us off on the corner if you like, Bill.’
‘Oh, Bill, is it? On first-name terms, are we? Just because you’ve run up $100,000 on the meter you think you own me. Well you don’t.’
‘I don’t know what’s brought this on all of a sudden ,’
‘You bastards get right up my bum. Bigfoot noses for lunch and a flashy whore on the end of your growler for tea.’
‘Stop the cab!’
Bill accelerated and then rammed his foot on the brake pedal causing Rex and Laura to plummet floor-ward.
‘Here do you, chief?’ Bill smirked round at his struggling passengers. ‘Give her one for me while you’re down there.’
‘Right, that does it.’ Rex fought his way upright. ‘Step outside.’
‘Oh ho, step outside is it? Sure enough.’ The cabby swung open his door and climbed out. ‘Let me help you.’ He opened the passenger door for Rex. ‘Mind your head, chief.’
/> That’s twice with the chief, thought Rex, who rather than have his head mashed by a slamming door, put his boot against it and offered a mighty kick.
The door shot open, knocking Bill from his feet and sending him sprawling across the sidewalk. A strangely-deserted sidewalk, Rex noted as he leapt out of the cab and stalked over to the fallen driver.
‘What’s got into you?’ he demanded. ‘Why are you behaving like this?’
Bill glared up at him. His face was a ghastly white and his eyes shone red as Cortina brake lights. ‘I hate you.’ The grounded cabby spoke the words in a low cold dead tone which left absolutely no margin for misinterpretation.
Rex took a precautionary step backwards. He was genuinely shocked. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What have I done to you?’
Bill raised himself on his elbows and scowled fiercely. ‘You don’t know me, but I know you.’
Rex sought a speedy solution. He really was in something of a hurry and there was going to be nothing gained by engaging in either argument of fisticuffs with a cab driver.
‘Look,’ said he, ‘I don’t know what your problem is and in all candour, I don’t actually care. Here, take this.’ He pulled several wristwatches from his pocket and flung one down to Bill. ‘I’m borrowing your cab.’
‘I think not.’ Bill’s face took on an evil grin. He folded his arms across his chest and swung upright magically upon his heels.
‘Hmm.’ Rex didn’t like the look of that one little bit.
Bill glared him eye to eye. ‘I’m going to punish you,’ he snarled. ‘It will be a long painful lingering punishment terminating in a horrifying death.’
‘I really don’t have time for this.’ Rex was backing towards the cab. A voice inside him was saying ‘drive like the Devil if you know what’s good for you’.
‘Oh no you don’t.’ The cabby shot out an arm. He shot it straight out of his jumpsuit sleeve, through the skin and bones of his human hand and right at Rex’s throat.
The hand, which missed the ducking Rex by inches, struck the cab, rocking it upon its wheels and leaving a fearsome five-knuckled intaglio above the driver’s door. The hand was broad, black, scaled and terribly taloned.