The Abominable Showman

by Robert Rankin

  I certainly never thought about my own death when I was a child. I assumed it to be very far away. But when in that confined space with strange chemicals entering my body and my breath beginning to fail me, death seemed very near indeed. A black and horrid empty thing closing in about me.

  I became very afraid and I wished to be with my mother and the daddy. And I prayed for my salvation and hoped that God would not find fault with me. For I was not a wicked child and after all it is written that children and good dogs all go to Heaven.

  Thus I was rather aggrieved to wake in Hell.

  ‘Hellish good cocktail,’ said Aleister Crowley. ‘Mescaline and lemonade, with a hint of vermifuge, nux vomica and a sprinkling of Cooper’s Bum Emulsifier, just to give that extra kick.’ And he swallowed it down in one.

  Sir Jonathan Crawford raised his glass to Lady Agnes. They and the three owls lazed in steamer chairs gazing up towards the glazed dome roof where exciting things were on the go.

  Spaceships were a-swooping down and firing off their guns. Explosive shells shivered into splinters against the invisible shield of space-made-solid through some wondrous scientific means. The effect was one of a titanic firework display which climaxed when The Leviathan finally returned fire and atomised the Trubshawian pirate vessels.

  ‘Now that’s entertainment,’ said Mr Al Jolson, putting on his white gloves and waving his hands in the air.

  ‘My dear Aleister,’ said Lady Agnes Rutherford. ‘What brings you so far from Cefalù?’

  ‘My Lady,’ replied Mr Crowley. ‘I had no idea that you were aware of my spiritual retreat.’

  ‘The papers are full of the orgies,’ the lady replied.

  ‘And a poor account they give of them,’ Aleister Crowley ordered further cocktails. ‘I am here as Count Rostov’s guest. He wishes to avail himself of my occult knowledge.’

  ‘That should take less than ten minutes,’ said Mr Al Capone.

  Aleister Crowley leaned over in his chair and whispered words into the ear of Al Capone.

  A certain pallor dimmed the businessman’s cheeks. He put his hand to his mouth and sought in haste the toilet.

  The occultist chuckled.

  Sir Jonathan chuckled too. ‘Damned colonial,’ he said and he raised his glass to Crowley.

  ‘Damned and dismal child.’

  The voice of the demon spoke unto me and I beheld its face.

  A twisted wicked broken thing it was.

  The spawn of the pit glared down at me and I gaped back at it.

  ‘There is some mistake,’ I said, when I had located my voice. ‘I am supposed to be in Heaven. Could you have a word with your supervisor, please?’

  The demon laughed into my face with burning brimstone breath. ‘Little burglar boy,’ it said. ‘Damned for all eternity.’

  ‘I am a friend of the Pope,’ I said, though I don’t know quite why I said it.

  Well, I do, I suppose. Out of desperation, really.

  The demon laughed some more and I held my nose.

  ‘Nasty skulking burglar boy creeping round the private levels.’

  ‘I got off on the wrong floor,’ I said. ‘I was on my way to the ship’s chapel to pray for the souls of the departed.’

  The demon, having tired with laughter just went ‘Blurgh!’ instead.

  ‘I want my mummy,’ I wailed.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said another voice, a kinder one this time.

  I watched as the demon was hustled aside and an affable face beneath a great bearskin hat looked down upon me.

  ‘Count Ilya Rostov,’ I said to his face. ‘So you are dead as well.’

  Count Ilya Rostov laughed a pleasant laugh. ‘No, my little chumrade,’ he said. ‘You walked into the trap I set for burglars.’

  ‘In truth,’ I replied. ‘I was not on my way to the chapel.’

  ‘Good and honest boy,’ said Count Ilya Rostov.

  ‘I was on my way to see you, sir. I am your new cabin boy.’

  I fumbled in the pocket of my sweet little sailor suit and brought to light my rather crumpled papers. ‘There, as you will see,’ I said, handing them to the count.

  The Master and Commander looked at these. ‘So,’ said he, ‘you speak the Russian tongue.’

  ‘Che Guevara,’ I said in ready reply.

  ‘I am very impressed,’ said Ilya Rostov.

  ‘So,’ I said, making a salute. ‘Lazlo Woodbine presenting himself for duty, sir. If you could show me to my private cabin I would like to take a nice little nap. It has been a rather trying day.’

  ‘Priceless,’ said Count Rostov.

  ‘Shall I poke him down the rubbish chute and send him into space?’ the demon asked.

  ‘No, Gurt,’ said Count Rostov. ‘Not the chute for this naughty fellow. I think I will let him take the job.’

  I smiled up at the count and said my thank yous.

  ‘But,’ and the amiable face pressed close to my own. ‘If you get up to any more shenanigans, my little chumrade, I will have Gurt do certain things to your young and tender person.’ And Count Rostov whispered explicit details into my unwilling ear.

  And I was sick all over my sailor suit.

  16

  I awoke in the very bestest of moods. I pushed back the linen coverings from my comfy bed, stepped down from it onto the cosy carpet and took myself over to the porthole of my private cabin to have a look out at the day.

  Which was also night, of course, as I was up in space.

  An arc of blue bisected the blackness. Planet Earth was looking good below.

  And I myself was looking good above it. I had been issued with rather smart pyjamas and upon the door hung my uniform. Navy blue, brass buttons, epaulets upon the shoulders, braid upon the cap. I had been measured for it the previous day and tailoring services excelled aboard the great Leviathan.

  ‘Splendid,’ I said and then I whistled.

  Just as loud as I could.

  ‘Aaagh! Waark! By Our Lady of Space! Oh!’

  ‘Good morning, Barry,’ I said with a grin. ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

  Barry mumbled certain obscenities. I chose to ignore them.

  ‘Well well well,’ I said to my green companion. ‘What about all this then, eh?’ And I did a sort of pirouette and made all-encompassing gestures. ‘Smart and private cabin and a uniform.’

  Barry muttered something. Praise for my judgement most likely.

  ‘You see,’ I told him. ‘All you had to do was leave everything to me. I said I could manage by myself and look how well I’ve done.’

  Barry now maintained a stony silence.

  ‘Sour grapes,’ I said to him. ‘Sour grapes for a sprout,’ and I tittered as I said it.

  ‘It will end in tears, chief,’ said the sprout of time. ‘You really should take my advice and do what I tell you to do.’

  ‘What you tell me to do?’ I enquired.

  ‘What I suggest, chief. With your interests at heart, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said and I smiled upon my uniform and gave its shoulders a stroke.

  There was a badge upon the breast, letters wrought in golden thread upon a purple background. MSE those letters were. They glittered in their goldery.

  ‘MSE?’ I said and I scratched my head.

  Barry made a very rude suggestion.

  ‘I would expect it would be Mid-Shipman Excelsior, or something similar,’ I said. ‘Which means that I have probably already received a promotion before I have even begun the job.’

  ‘Very likely, chief,’ said Barry. ‘Very likely indeed.’

  ‘Now Barry, don’t be bitter,’ I said. ‘And go back to sleep as I need to take a poo.’

  My orders were to report at the stroke of nine to number six docking bay, where I would be amongst the ‘welcoming committee’.

  Exactly whom we were welcoming was quite unknown to me, but I rather liked the idea of being on a committee. It was clear that Count Rostov had recognised in me the great potenti
al that I recognised in myself.

  I looked very dashing in my uniform. The ship’s shoemaker had made me a pair of patent leather boots and these had steel tips on the heels that clicked as I marched along.

  ‘I was born to this, you know,’ I said to Barry. ‘A life of responsibility and excitement. I am officer material, there is absolutely no doubt about that.’

  ‘Just remember why are you are here,’ said Barry.

  ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘Regarding that. You will pardon me for saying this, but it is all somewhat vague. I was chosen to be sent back to this time by my older self. To do something that only I could do, which in some way would save the world as we know it, or things of that nature generally.’

  ‘And your point is?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘and pardon me for being pedantic. But what precisely is this threat? What is the terrible plot or the evil conspiracy? What is the dreadful calamity that I alone can avert?’

  ‘Not you alone,’ said Barry the sprout. ‘But your involvement is essential.’

  ‘Yes but what is it essential for? And am I not supposed to be a spy, or a secret agent, or a boy detective, or something?’

  ‘We will discuss this later,’ said Barry. ‘For see we have arrived at the docking bay.’

  As indeed we had. And the docking bay was looking very festive. There was bunting draped about the place and flags of all nations too and a great big banner that read:

  THE PASSENGERS AND CREW

  OF THE LEVIATHAN WELCOME

  THE CELEBRATED PROFESSOR

  MANDLEBROT AND HIS FEARLESS

  PARTY OF EXPLORERS

  ‘Oooh,’ I said to Barry. ‘A professor and his fearless party of explorers. I’ll bet he’s like Professor Challenger who discovered The Lost World.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Barry.

  I then spied my employer. Moving easily about the gathered throng, shaking hands and calling people chumrades.

  It occurred to me then that perhaps Count Ilya Rostov was not quite the all-round bad egg that Barry was painting him to be. All right, he was a count and it is a fact well known to those who know it well that counts are inevitably villains. I would cite Count Dracula and Count Otto Black as two notable examples of this truism. And certainly Count Rostov had whispered something so ghastly into my ear that it had caused me to throw up all over my dear little sailor suit (a blessing in disguise as you might say). But was he really a monstrous villain or simply a man of power who sought to hold onto his power in the way that one would, through the exercise of discipline and to some degree, fear?

  ‘Did I ever mention that you are wise beyond your years?’ asked Barry, breaking in on my thoughts.

  ‘Not in a manner that I found wholly convincing,’ I said.

  ‘Fair enough then,’ said the sprout. ‘Ah, see the count is climbing onto a rostrum.’

  And indeed the count was. Not a preposterously tall and imposing rostrum, of the type favoured by the evil Mr Hitler, but a modest affair all hung with exotic flowers.

  ‘My Lords, my Ladies, my chumrades,’ the count began. ‘We are gathered here to greet a great man. A hero of the Empire. An explorer extraordinaire. You will have read of his exploits in the press and I am sure many of you will have visited the British Museum to view the fruits of his previous expeditions. I allude of course to such treasures as King Solomon’s mining helmet, the sacred pram of Jesus, Holy Mary’s handbag and Krishna’s Sunday suit. Amongst others –’

  ‘What?’ I went. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘Not quite Professor Challenger, is it?’ whispered Barry.

  ‘– I myself,’ the count continued, ‘am funding the professor’s latest expedition.’ He paused to absorb the applause that greeted this. ‘My thanks. The professor, as you will probably have read in this week’s issue of The Gentleman Adventurer, is about to embark on his latest and indeed greatest expedition. To contact Our Lady of Space.’

  Barry groaned most dismally.

  ‘Shut up, please, I said.’

  ‘Should the professor succeed in his quest, and given his past successes I have no reason to believe that he will not, then it will herald the dawn of a golden age. For through Our Lady the professor intends to gain at-oneness with the Urseele, the original soul of God.’

  I put on a doubtful face. I wasn’t too sure about that.

  ‘And so,’ the count went on, ‘let me introduce you to this great man, whose spaceship The Pilgrim, a ship that it has been my honour to supply to the professor, has just docked right here. Your hands in warm welcome for Professor Erich Mandlebrot.’

  All and sundry put their hands together. It was a goodly well-dressed welcoming committee, toffs and toffettes. White linen suits, ladies in sylph-like flapper gowns. And this posh bunch cleared a path and cheered and some whistled to welcome the professor.

  I had to push somewhat forward, as I could not see him. I had naturally imagined a burly adventurer with a proud chin and chiselled features, broadly chested, straightly backed, as would befit a hero of the Empire.

  A short, squat figure bumbled through the crowd. He had a big red face and a big white beard and had he been wearing a big red suit he would have passed for Father Christmas. However, he wore instead a three-pieced tweed affair that had clearly seen better days and on his head perched a trilby hat.

  ‘You are not cheering,’ Barry said.

  And indeed I was not cheering.

  ‘He looks a bit of a nutter,’ I whispered to Barry. ‘And as for Jesus’ pushchair and the rest!’

  ‘Not convinced then, chief?’ And I heard Barry do that chuckle once again.

  But mostly I just heard the cheering. It was clear that Professor Mandlebrot was something of a favourite with the crowd. They whooped and cried ‘Bravo’ and several toffs flung linen boaters high into the air.

  The professor reached the rostrum, but required assistance to actually mount the steps. Once atop he looked somewhat uneasy. The count shook him by the hand.

  ‘Professor,’ said he, raising his free hand to silence the crowd. ‘The floor is yours, my friend.’

  Professor Mandlebrot released the count’s hand and gripped the rostrum’s handrail. He swayed a little then he spoke in a curious high-pitched voice.

  ‘Dear people,’ he said. ‘Dear lovers of truth, dear brothers and sisters of the Holy Spirit. We live in times of great technical achievement. All about us here the wonders of science. The folk of this solar system have conquered space, electricity is broadcast through the aether. Such modern miracles, such triumphs of engineering and advanced mathematics.

  ‘But I ask you this. What has become of us? What has become of the human soul? The spirit of Man? In our mad rush forward to embrace each new gadget and gewgaw we have lost our spiritual selves. We have become the damned.’

  He paused and there was a certain heaviness that seemed to fill the air. A sense of oppression. A sense of fear? A sense of guilt, perhaps?

  I glanced all around and about. Toffs were nodding thoughtfully. Some toffettes quietly wept into their hankies.

  ‘He does know how to hold a crowd.’ I heard the time sprout whisper.

  ‘And so,’ said Professor Mandlebrot, ‘I have taken it upon myself to shoulder the burden of Mankind. To seek the lost spirituality, you might say, and return with it to Earth. Legends and myths of all lands speak of Our Lady of Space. A goddess not of worlds, they say, but of the space between. And now we have the capability to traverse this space. And I will seek this goddess.’

  The crowd applauded loudly, but I just shook my head.

  ‘Count Rostov has kindly supplied me with a ship and a crew to man it. We will fly directly into the lens which is the eye of God.’

  The crowd applauded even louder, they were clearly impressed.

  ‘Fly directly into the lens?’ I whispered to Barry the sprout.

  ‘The professor has a theory,’ Barry replied. ‘Not his own, because it has been around for quit
e some time, in occult circles, or as you might say, amongst the lunatic fringe. It runs that the sun is not really a flaming star generating light and heat for the solar system. Rather it is a gigantic lens positioned in the floor of Heaven and through which shines the glory of God to bless us with its radiance.’

  ‘Good grief,’ I whispered. ‘That is one of the maddest theories I have ever heard. And this joker means to fly a spaceship directly into the sun in the hope that it is really a magical lens which will admit him into Heaven?’

  ‘That’s about the shape of it,’ said Barry. ‘And a wonky cock-eyed shape it is to be sure.’

  The professor had been speaking more during my conversation with the sprout and I had not been paying him any attention, but when he suddenly cried, ‘Bring them forward, let them take a bow,’ and I found myself suddenly being propelled towards the rostrum, my attention returned to the red-faced loony man.

  ‘I give you,’ he shouted, ‘the fearless crew of The Pilgrim.’

  Applause roared out and I looked about. I had been thrust into a line. A line of boys, similar in height and age it seemed to myself. They all wore uniforms identical to my own. Uniforms with that MSE embroidered logo thingy on the breast.

  ‘It is my joy to present the fearless crew of The Pilgrim,’ called Professor Erich Mandlebrot. ‘Who will fly with me into the eye of God. The crewmen of the Mandlebrot Solar Expedition, the boys of the MSE.’

  17

  ‘Oh no no no!’ I shouted. ‘No and no again!’

  The crowd cheered rather loudly at this and a lady patted my head.

  ‘Such a modest boy,’ said the professor.

  ‘It’s not modesty, you loon,’ was my reply. ‘I did not volunteer for this.’

  ‘You are a cabin boy, first class,’ the professor said. ‘Hand-picked by Count Rostov himself, who recognised your special qualities.’

  I turned a bitter eye upon Count Rostov.

  The count gave me a smile and waved his hand.