The Greatest Show Off Earth

by Robert Rankin

  ‘The police who are currently after me for the suspected murder of Raymond and that traitorous woman there.’ Simon returned the finger of accusation. ‘They’ll be arriving at any moment now. So I’d best get this money safely out of here and be gone. You’d better meet them at the gate and tell them you haven’t seen me, Bob. You don’t want them searching the chicken sheds, do you?’

  ‘No, I er . . . ‘ Long Bob got all in a dither.

  ‘He’s lying,’ said the looker.

  ‘He’s not,’ said Liza. ‘I met Paul earlier. He was stacking crates outside The Jolly Gardeners. He told me the police were on their way to the Scribe’s in search of Simon.

  ‘And the Scribe knows I’ve come here,’ said Simon.

  ‘I er . . .’ went Long Bob.

  ‘We must go and give this Paul a kicking,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Now you get it,’ said Simon. ‘So. Do I take my leave now, or what?’

  Long Bob looked at Simon. Simon looked at Long Bob. The Roman Candles looked at one another. The looker looked at Liza.

  Liza looked at Military Dave. Military Dave looked at his watch. ‘I’ll miss that important phone call,’ he said.

  ‘Go,’ Long Bob told Simon. ‘But—’

  ‘But?’ asked Simon, who was already stuffing his well-won-back-winnings into his pockets.

  ‘If you play us false, by even a tenth of a degree then . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Simon. ‘I do not recall the exact words in the book, but I think there was a reference to a car battery, a set of jump leads and certain tender parts of my anatomy.’

  ‘Uncanny,’ said Long Bob, who really didn’t have that kind of mind. ‘Exactly what I was going to say. So be warned.’

  ‘I consider myself warned. So, give me ten minutes’ start, then do what you’re supposed to do. Tell the police when they arrive that you are just locking up for the night and that you’ve seen no-one.’

  ‘Hold on,’ cried the looker. ‘You can’t let him get away like this.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Simon. ‘And when you jump me outside the bookies tomorrow to steal all the money back, keep an eye on her.’

  ‘I will,’ said Long Bob. ‘And thanks, Simon.’

  ‘Only doing my bit for the cause. Hail Sate-Hen and farewell.’

  ‘Hail Sate-Hen and farewell.’

  Simon left the farmhouse at the trot. He ducked across the moonlit yard, threw open the door of the Jag and leapt inside.

  And ‘Yes!’ he went as he fumbled the keys into the ignition. ‘I beat you all, you bastards. Beat you all.’

  He turned the key, the engine roared. He gave the lights full beam. And with another Yes! and a small punch in the air, Simon drove the car full pelt out of the farmyard and away into the safety of the night.

  He’d done it. He’d actually done it. Escaped from those lunatics and with his money and everything. He’d telephone U.N.I.T. from the first call box he came to. Well, perhaps not the first. The first one in the next town. Or the town after that. Or perhaps from onboard the cross channel ferry. Or from France.

  ‘Boom shanka,’ said Simon. ‘Boom shanka boom boom boom.’

  ‘Boom boom boom,’ echoed a voice from the seat behind. It was the voice of Police Inspector D’Eath.

  ‘Aaaagh!’ went Simon, steering all over the place.

  ‘Easy does it, sir.’ The inspector’s Scargill crown rose from behind Simon’s seat. ‘We don’t want to go running over any innocent pedestrians, do we? Is that drink I smell on your breath, by the way? And are you the rightful owner of this car?’

  ‘I,’ said Simon. ‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’

  ‘If you’d be so kind as to just pull up at the police road block ahead, sir. I think we can consider you good and nicked this time.’

  17

  ‘I think we’re here,’ said Raymond. And they were. At the pyramid’s heart. In the stockyard. It was huge. A soccer pitch and a half of it. High ceilinged. Concrete. Not a nice place to be. The air smelt rank and the ambience really sucked. A terrible Dachau gloom made the hairs on Raymond’s neck stand up and his spirits fall down low.

  There were pens and cages, but these were thankfully unoccupied. There was a lorry park, with big spanking new lorries parked in it. There were some cranes, some fork-lift trucks and little sort of jeep things for getting about in. All were very Earth-like in design. And there were racks. Long aluminium racks. A bit like egg racks from fridge doors. But magnified. And these supported the bubbles. Two hundred bubbles. Each containing its pitiful cargo. A single crouched-up, sleeping, naked human being.

  ‘Aw God!’ Raymond shuddered. ‘This is sick. This is really sick. I can’t deal with this.’

  ‘Perk up.’ Zephyr climbed from the Harley. ‘You’ve come this far. You can do the rest.’

  ‘I can’t, you know,’ said Raymond, faintly and with pathos.

  ‘Of course you can. So. What do you want to do? Smash all the bubbles and set the people free?’

  ‘NO!’ Raymond threw up his hands and fell off the back of the bike. ‘Not here. Two hundred naked people in a state of shock. Don’t even think about it. We must let them sleep on and somehow get them back to the ship as they are now. Release them there. Carefully. One by one.’

  ‘You’re a real humanitarian, Raymond.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Raymond picked himself up from the floor and dusted at his leathers. ‘Go on then,’ he said.

  ‘Go on, what?’

  ‘Do your magic,’ said Raymond. ‘Turn yourself into a helicopter or something and transport all the people back to the ship.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘My turn to say, of course you can. You magicked up the Harley, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but—’

  ‘So you can magic up a big lorry, or something. Why not magic up one like,’ Raymond pointed, ‘that one over there. It’s got a special rack on the top for transporting the bubbles and everything.’

  Zephyr looked at Raymond and Raymond looked at Zephyr. ‘Yes?’ said Raymond. ‘What?’

  Zephyr shook her beautiful head. ‘Can you drive a big lorry?’

  ‘Actually I can.’ Raymond folded his arms.

  ‘Like for instance the one you just pointed at?’

  ‘If it’s the same in the cab as an Earth lorry, yes.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you just drive that one over here and we’ll use that?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Raymond. ‘I see. Yes, right, okay.’

  There was nobody about. All off enjoying the national holiday, Raymond supposed, at the circus or watching it on TV. Raymond climbed into the cab of the big spanking new lorry with the special rack on the top for transporting the bubbles and everything.

  It looked just like any other lorry cab that Raymond had ever seen. Why was that? Raymond perused the steering wheel. On the glossy boss at the wheel’s centre were printed the words ACME Big Truck Company, Eden.

  ‘Well, that explains that, doesn’t it?’ The keys were in the dash, Raymond started the engine and drove the big truck over to Zephyr. ‘Piece of cake,’ he said, climbing down. ‘Piece of cake.’

  ‘Later,’ said Zephyr. ‘Let’s hurry now and load these people.’

  ‘And carefully. Be sure not to cover the little airholes under the seats.’

  ‘A real humanitarian.’

  ‘Thank you once more.’

  ‘So, go on then,’ said Zephyr.

  ‘Go on then, me? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, Raymond, go and get us some help. It will take hours for just the two of us.’

  ‘But there’s no-one around,’ Raymond said.

  ‘Well go and see the guard on the gate. Demand assistance, you know the kind of thing.’

  ‘OK.’

  Raymond marched back towards the entrance of the pyramid. He turned once or twice to watch Zephyr. She really was so wonderful, rolling bubbles carefully on to the lorry. So strong. So assured. But what was she really? She was cert
ainly not human. Magic, was she? Some conjuration of magic? Raymond had no idea.

  He marched on.

  The guard was sitting in his little hut. Raymond could see the back of his head through the rear window. The guard’s feet were up. He was watching a portable TV. And as Raymond drew closer, Raymond could see just what the guard was watching.

  He was watching Professor Merlin’s circus.

  Raymond stopped before the window and peeped over the guard’s shoulder. The professor was in his full ringmaster’s rig-out. The white topper. The spangled tailcoat. The riding boots. The whole caboodle. He was cracking his whip. Polly’s Performing Poodles were going through their paces. Theirs was a most bizarre act, by the look of it. They wore little costumes. Dames and dandies. Plumed hats and tiny swords. They pranced on their hind legs. Danced the minuet. Bowed and curtsied.

  And surely the ones playing the harpsichord and the cello, were actually playing the instruments.

  ‘Whacky stuff,’ whispered Raymond. ‘Hello, what’s this?’

  The screen suddenly blanked. Then the shoulders and the jackal-head of an announcer appeared.

  ‘We interrupt this programme,’ said Humphrey Gogmagog, for it was he, ‘to bring you a special news bulletin. Twenty minutes ago our flying eye picked up a multiple killing in progress on the lower east side of the city. Images have now been run through the central computer system and, once again, first with the news, this station now broadcasts the fully enhanced images of the two mass murderers.’

  The screen flashed up two pictures, side by side. They were very clear pictures and in full colour. One was of Raymond. The other Zephyr.

  The guard jerked up in his seat.

  Raymond didn’t know what to do.

  The guard reached out for his telephone. Raymond chewed upon a knuckle.

  The guard began to dial.

  Raymond rushed around to the side of the hut and threw open the door. The guard looked up at him in horror. Raymond looked down at the guard in horror. Then Raymond snatched the telephone receiver from the guard’s hand and hit him with it. Again and again and again and again.

  ‘Don’t hit me again.’ Simon flinched and covered his head. He was in the interview room of the Bramfield police station.

  It was an unpleasant room, too brightly lit - they always are, it makes them more intimidating. Simon cowered behind a nasty Formica-topped table. It had a big full ashtray on it. They always do. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. Or perhaps they’d just cut back on the cleaning staff.

  The constable with the sister, lounged against one wall. He had his riot gear off. He was smoking a cigarette.

  Inspector D’Eath, who had been cuffing Simon about the head, sat down before the nasty Formica-topped table and pushed the full ashtray aside. He wasn’t smoking. He’d given it up.

  It was the current fashion amongst police inspectors, to have given up smoking. Something to do with it not being politically correct for authority figures to be seen puffing fags.

  Simon recalled reading an article to this effect. But the article had also said that the police inspector should ideally be played by a woman. Helen Mirren, wherever possible.

  And hitting the prime suspect was right out of the question. ‘Leave me alone,’ wailed Simon. ‘I demand a woman.’

  ‘Make a note of that, Constable,’ said the inspector. ‘Even though in custody, the suspect’s appetite for female flesh was in no way diminished.’

  ‘What?’ went Simon.

  ‘Right, now then, Simon,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Simon?’ said Simon. ‘What happened to “sir”, then?’ And ‘Ouch,’ he continued as the inspector cuffed him once again.

  ‘I’m sure you get the picture, Simon.’

  ‘Yes, indeed I do.’

  ‘And so, shall we go through your statement once again?’

  ‘Oh yes please. Hearing it all for the sixth time would bring me no end of joy.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the constable with the sister.

  ‘Constable?’ replied the sir in question.

  ‘Should I pencil in, “the suspect slipped and banged his head on the radiator”?’

  The inspector raised an eyebrow to Simon.

  ‘I should be delighted to go through my statement once again,’ said Simon. ‘If it will help you with the course of your enquiries.’

  ‘Good boy. So.’ Inspector D’Eath shuffled papers before him. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘The chicken house. Tell me again about the chicken house.’

  ‘There’s a thing in it. A horrible demonic thing. It’s Satan. Sate-Hen, they call it.’

  ‘Sate-Hen.’ The inspector underlined the word on Simon’s statement. ‘Half man, half chicken, you say.’

  The constable with the sister sniggered. ‘Half man, half chicken, half a pint of lager and a packet of crisps, eh guv?’

  ‘Thank you, Constable. And less of the “guv”.’

  ‘But, sir, it’s always “guv” on the telly.’

  ‘In moderation then. And put that bloody cigarette out.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, guv.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Simon. ‘This is really important. They were talking about the end of the world and this thing taking over and all kinds of crazy stuff. It’s a big conspiracy. Pull them all in. I’ll help you make them talk.’

  ‘This conspiracy. This would be the B.E.A.S.T. conspiracy, would it? The terrorists who stole your money. Which was why you went to Long Bob’s?’

  ‘Bramfielders Eagerly Awaiting Satanic Transmogrification. Look, I’ve told you all I know. You have to get back there now.’

  ‘And arrest a half man, half chicken?’

  ‘No, destroy it. Blow it up. Burn it.’

  ‘Which was what you were going to do with the can of petrol.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon.

  ‘You were going to burn down the chicken sheds.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon.

  ‘And God told you to do it.’

  ‘What?’ said Simon.

  ‘God. Surely you haven’t forgotten about God. The God you told me dictated that book to you. The book you were going upstairs to fetch when you chose instead to make a run for it.’

  ‘That God, that book. Ah,’ said Simon.

  ‘Ah,’ said the inspector. ‘And this God told you that the devil was a chicken and so you should burn the chicken sheds down.’

  ‘I never said anything of the kind.’

  ‘Yes you did.’ The inspector showed Simon his statement. ‘Just there, see.’

  Simon gaped at the statement. ‘You’ve just pencilled that in. You’ve crossed out what I said.’

  ‘You won’t be able to tell the difference once it’s typed up.’

  ‘What?’ went Simon once more.

  ‘Shall we talk about the Jaguar?’ asked the inspector. ‘The Jaguar which I caught you joy riding in, when over the legal limit?’

  ‘Belongs to the woman you think I murdered.’

  ‘Did you catch all that?’ The inspector asked his constable.

  ‘Yes, guv. The suspect replied, “It belongs to the woman I murdered.”’

  ‘I never did.’ Simon drummed his fists on the nasty Formica table.

  ‘Why won’t you just come clean, Simon? You’re banged to rights and you know it.’

  ‘I’m innocent. And you know it. And you won’t make me sign these false statements. Free the Bramfield One, ’ Simon folded his arms and made a firm face.

  ‘Shall I pencil in the “slipped and banged his head on the radiator” bit now, guv?’

  ‘I think so, Constable. And you’d better put “he then struck his head repeatedly on the table, breaking several of his front teeth”.’

  ‘No!’ shrieked Simon. ‘Not the teeth. Anything but the teeth.’

  ‘Then let’s be having you, lad. I want the full confession. And I want it in sounds bites. “God told me to do it, says Butcher of Bramfield.” Shall we start with a clean sheet of paper
, or do you just want to sign the statement I composed in your absence earlier in the day? I’ve already had photocopies done to hand out to the Press.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Simon, ‘please. I swear to you I have murdered nobody. The book will explain everything. It’s all in the book.’

  ‘God’s book?’

  ‘Not God’s book. The book from the future. The one that Long Bob and his loonies are after. It’s all in the book. If you want to give the Press a story, just wait until you read this book.’

  ‘And this is the book that you say is in,’ the inspector consulted Simon’s statement, ‘the hideaway bush at the top of the hill overlooking Long Bob’s farm.’

  ‘You haven’t pencilled that bit out then?’

  ‘Not as yet. I’ve dispatched an officer to search for this book. He should be back at any moment now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Simon. ‘Good. Then you’ll know. Then you’ll see.’

  ‘I very much hope so. Because if I don’t,’ the inspector pointed towards Simon’s dental glory, ‘the world will henceforth know you by the nickname, “Gummy”.’

  Simon cringed.

  A knock came at the door.

  ‘The tooth fairy,’ said Inspector D’Eath. ‘Enter,’ he called.

  It was the constable who didn’t have a sister, but had once seen a search warrant. Derek, wasn’t it?

  ‘Well, Constable,’ the inspector rose from the unsightly table. ‘Did you find this magic book?’

  Constable Derek, for that was his name, took out a book of his own. An official Metropolitan police-issue notebook. And this he read from. Aloud. ‘Acting upon instructions from Police Inspector D’Eath, I proceeded in an orderly fashion to the afore-discribed-to-me “hideaway bush” at the top of the hill overlooking the chicken farm of one Robert Bum-poo—’

  ‘Hold it!’ cried Inspector D’Eath. ‘Robert what?’

  ‘Bum-poo, sir.’

  ‘You just made that up, Constable. It isn’t funny. It’s childish.’

  ‘It’s quite funny,’ said Simon. ‘I used to go to school with him. Not that I ever made any rude remarks about his name.’

  ‘Well you wouldn’t,’ said the inspector. ‘Not with yours being—’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Simon. ‘Do you think the constable could continue? I am growing rather anxious.’