The Abominable Showman

by Robert Rankin

  The walls were clothed in watered silk decorated in the Japanese style to a most pleasing effect. Much swaying bamboo and birdie plumage, noble samurai and geisha girls. The tables were arranged in a sweeping arc towards the stern of the ship, crisp white linen, silver service, plates with Count Rostov’s coat of arms above some cod Latin motto that incorporated the word ‘chumrades’. Elegant glasses and decanters. Whimsical salt and peppers that resembled the heads of Albert and his Queen.

  The huge circular dance hall, central to this vast room, was as has been mentioned, formed of crystal glass. How such a vast disc of this material could have been transported into space was well beyond even my comprehension. To the prow-end of the Grand Ballroom the stage, shielded now by gorgeous curtains of velvet and chenille, these emblazoned with extravagant geometrical designs of the Cubist persuasion. Not entirely to my taste, but I could appreciate the craftsmanship.

  ‘Well ain’t you the magnanimous dude?’ said Barry.

  ‘Dude?’ said I for this was new to me.

  ‘Nothing chief, where do you think you can sneak yourself a seat?’

  I was not altogether sure. I had entered the Grand Ballroom in the company of the attendees of the Royal Command Performance. The surviving attendees there were still in their thousands, and I had been creeping furtively about seeking a suitable seat to slip myself unobtrusively onto. But the trouble was that Count Rostov’s silly boys were in evidence, and I was dressed as they and as such could hardly sit down with the posh folk. I wasn’t quite sure how to handle this and then I saw that boy again. The boy in the foolish sailor suit who I had relieved of his family’s private box tickets.

  He caught my eye and I caught his and he was about to holler.

  I took myself straight over to him and made profuse apologies. It had all been a terrible mistake, I explained and if he would be so kind as to accompany me I would take him at once on a private tour of the backstage area to in some small way compensate for him missing the music hall show.

  ‘I will introduce you to the Poppette,’ I told him.

  He was keen so I took him backstage.

  There was some unpleasantness. He did put up a struggle and I did not find the actual stripping and tying up of him a joyous task, although curiously it put me in mind of one of the ice sculptures. But the job got jobbed, and to my feelings, done satisfactorily.

  I confess and I make no bones about it, I did look at proper Fanny in that sailor suit, but needs must when the Devil drives and all that kind of business. I was now suitably attired to take my place at table. And I found a spare seat quite near to the dance floor.

  Queen Victoria and Albert, although having left the music hall theatre first, entered the Grand Ballroom last, as befits royalty, received a standing ovation and were steered by the count to a table quite close to mine. I kept my head well down during this and did not meet the count’s eye at all.

  I could speak now of the food we were served and the wines that we drank. The menu would fill several pages and be in French sprinkled with numerous little in-jokes and running gags, but I won’t because it would be a rather rubbish and pretentious thing to do.

  ‘Well done, chief,’ said the sprout.

  And I said, ‘Thank you.’

  Instead I feel it would be more appropriate for us to reacquaint ourselves with the principle players in our cosmic drama. As all will soon be getting involved in the forthcoming Big Climax.

  Where to start?

  Anywhere.

  Queen Victoria forked a slice of Un Chien Andalou into her mouth and washed it down with a glass of iced soixante neuf (which gives you a pretty good idea of just how tedious that menu would have become).

  ‘One thinks this rather good nosebag,’ she said to dear Albert.

  Dear Albert was decanting German lager through a small brass funnel affair into his left ear hole. ‘I think the count has done you proud, my love,’ said he. ‘Will you be joining me later on the dance floor for a foxtrot or two?’

  ‘You have brought your special dancing legs?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then one would be most amused to do so.’ She clinked her glass against her husband’s funnel.

  Binky Hartington clinked his glass to that of the honourable Crichton. ‘Bloody good show,’ said he.

  ‘Bloody good show,’ the other agreed. ‘And more of it yet to come.’

  ‘What manner of viand is this?’ queried Carrington Hanky-Panky-Poo. ‘Appears to be a potato, but with little legs. See ‘um kicking about when you put your fork in.’

  ‘Venusian ab-dab,’ said Binky. ‘Much of the fodder is off-world fare. Jovian sausage and all that carry-on.’

  ‘Those Jovians do know a thing about feeding their faces,’ Carrington gestured with an eel fork towards the table where sat the Jovian dignitaries. Vast and bloated personages, trenchering it down with enthusiasm and laughing between every mouthful.

  ‘Weird coves,’ observed the honourable Crichton. ‘Never able to get the measure of them really. Seem sound enough fellows. Smell a bit odd of course and who knows what they get up to in the bed chamber.’

  This raised guffaws from his feeding friends. ‘And look at the Venusian mob,’ said Binky, behind his hand. The feeding friends turned furtive glances toward the Venusian table. It was never considered wise to stare directly at a Venusian. It was said that they could give you the evil eye. Turn milk sour with a glance and deflower a virgin with a single hard stare. They sat stiffly, in glittering robes that swam with colours given no names upon Earth. Slender elegant beings with high cheekbones and gorgeous golden eyes.

  ‘Wouldn’t trust that crowd one little bit,’ said Binky. ‘Always plotting something. Always aloof and looking down their noses.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ said the honourable Crichton. ‘That the best way for Mankind to live in peace with fellows from other worlds is to conquer them and extend the British Empire.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ said his fellows and they drank.

  Aleister Crowley drank for a moment in silence, but silence was unnatural to him, so after drinking he raised his voice again. To either side the other two owls, about the table various big wigs and toffs.

  ‘Tonight,’ said Mr Crowley. ‘Upon the hour of midnight, upon the solstice, upon the dawn of the Satya Yuga, a new age will come to pass. Mankind will rise through the astral plains to ascend towards the summit of human knowing and spiritual cognisance.’

  Al Jolson had nothing whatever to say. His dead head harboured only thoughts for the destruction of Count Rostov.

  ‘Will that involve the lifting of prohibition?’ asked Mr Capone. ‘I recall you mentioning before that there’d still be plenty of dolls about looking for a night on the town.’

  ‘Like casting pearls before swine,’ said Crowley. ‘There are none so deaf as those too dumb to listen.’

  There was some slight laughter at this. For Crowley posed as an English gentleman, yet Capone was nothing but a Yank.

  ‘You Limey guys think you’re the dog’s cods,’ said Mr Capone. ‘You think you run this here solar system.’

  ‘Because we do,’ said a toff, which occasioned further mirth.

  ‘But I’ll tell ya this. A new dawn is a-coming, and I ain’t talking about this toot that Crowley’s been spouting. You Limeys are in for a kick in the butt. The US of A will only put up with so much of your bull crap. We’ll pee on your parade, you see if we don’t.’

  Crowley’s fingers did their magical business ‘neath the table.

  Al Capone took a gulp of champagne, went pale in the face and cried, ‘Pee!’

  Sir Jonathan Crawford scooped up a pea from his plate, dipped it into his gravy and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘You haven’t lost your appetite, my dear,’ said Lady Agnes.

  ‘Condemned man ate a hearty supper,’ replied his lordship, dabbing at his mouth with a linen serviette. ‘If this evening is to be my last I could not have chosen more charming and exalted c
ompany in which to spend it.’ He raised a champagne glass. ‘It has been my pleasure to know you,’ he said. ‘In every sense of the word.’

  Her ladyship smiled sweetly and drank, then drew herself close to Sir Jonathan. ‘And of our purpose for being here?’ she said. ‘The assassination of the count.’

  ‘This will be achieved. I am confident that Jolson will achieve the task at hand.’

  ‘Then we should drink and dine and be happy. Put aside grim thoughts of your own demise. All I am sure will be well for you.’

  Sir Jonathan Crawford took up her ladyship’s gloved hand and kissed it. ‘If this should be the case,’ said he. ‘I would ask for your hand in marriage.’

  ‘You romantic fellow,’ said Lady Agnes Rutherford. ‘And if you would ask it, then I would say yes.’

  They kissed once more and Sir Jonathan poured champagne.

  Atters poured Count Rostov more champagne. The count had not taken a seat at the top table along with all the attending royalty. He was too busy attending to all the minutiae that makes the perfect evening perfect.

  The count had Atters cuff a small and uniformed boy in the ear.

  ‘I never chasten the boys myself,’ said Count Rostov. ‘In truth I abhor physical violence.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Atters, hard on the heels of the count.

  ‘Indeed,’ the two were in the kitchen now, the count peering deeply at this dish and that, tasting too and offering his opinions. ‘I only knock you about because it is expected of me,’ he told Atters. ‘A gentleman in my position has standards that must be kept up.’

  ‘Oh I do understand,’ Atters cuffed a passing boy and then another one too, just for good measure.

  ‘Tonight,’ said the count, rearranging a dainty upon a plate piled high with such, ‘tonight will be the triumph of my career. It will be beyond anything you could possibly imagine.’

  ‘Give us a clue,’ said Atters.

  The count shook his head, but said, ‘Come and see,’ and he led his Minion in Residence to an area of the kitchen that was curtained off from the rest. The count pressed through the curtains. Atters followed.

  ‘Behold,’ said Count Rostov.

  Atters beheld.

  An enormous silver salver stood upon a pastry table. Upon this salver a layer of soil sewn with rich and lustrous grass. Upon this grass and grazing was a sweet plump lamb, a lamb of vivid green. A slender stalk tethered this lamb to a large seed pod bedded into the soil.

  Startled by the arrival of the two men the lamb took to frightened bleatings. Count Rostov placed a calming hand upon its little head.

  ‘The Borametz,’ he said to Atters. ‘The Vegetable Lamb of Tartary. The most exquisite flesh in all of the universe, or so it is said. The very food of the gods.’

  ‘And we will be eating that?’

  ‘Not you,’ said Count Rostov and clouted Atters. ‘It is a sacrificial lamb. You will see. You will see. Come on.’

  He gave Atters a kick and the two left the lamb to its grazing.

  In the great glass house atop The Leviathan, Sophia Poppette knelt at the place where the vegetable lamb had so recently grazed, and wept.

  44

  Space pirate Captain F-Stop Bell-Franchise addressed his mutinous crew (for pirate crews are oft-times rather mutinous).

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he addressed them. ‘We have but two Earth hours yet before we reach our destination. Are we all absolutely certain of the procedures upon our arrival?’

  Mr Mate said, ‘Aye Captain.’ Other pirates nodded their heads up and down.

  ‘You are absolutely certain?’

  The pirates all nodded again.

  ‘And au fait with each subtle nuance and detail?’

  Further noddings ensued.

  The pirate captain looked his pirates up and down and up again. ‘You’re not really, are you?’ he asked.

  The pirates now shook their heads.

  ‘Then why –’

  A curly-headed pirate with most of his parts intact said, ‘Just trying to be polite, Captain. For we all know that once we arrive and guns start getting fired and there’s women and rum and booty to be taken, whatever plans you might have had us memorise down to the finest detail will all go straight out of the window and everything will fall into violent bloody chaos.’

  ‘Same as it always does,’ agreed a pirate named James, who would have preferred a career in the civil service.

  Captain F-Stop sighed. ‘There will at least be some spontaneous acts of surrealism, will there not?’

  Pirates shrugged.

  ‘How about whistling, mime, or interpretive dance?’

  Pirates shook their heads once more.

  ‘I don’t know why I bother,’ said Captain F-Stop.

  Pirates shrugged once more and the tea lady said, ‘May The Fierce be with you.’

  I was enjoying whatever it was I was eating. The curtains had opened upon what was a quite enormous stage and Louis Armstrong’s Orchestra were playing.

  He had a long career, did Louis Armstrong, he was still big in the nineteen-fifties. Of course he was much younger here and very sprightly with it.

  When the curtains opened and Louis introduced himself I heard a sort of collective sigh go up from the ladies present. They leaned forward in their chairs, affecting foolish smiles.

  The gentlemen simply nodded their heads in time to Louis’ jazz rhythms. And a lady in a straw hat sung a song.

  Which I overhead someone remark was one of John Betjeman’s (sadly deceased).

  ‘Py-thag-or-as

  Worked out the angles of triangles for us.

  He never knew how much they’d really bore us.

  Py-thag-or-as.

  Arch-e-medes

  Existed long before the age of CDs.

  His screw brought water to the dry and needys.

  Arch-e-medes.’

  And likewise in this fashion. But she was a very pretty lady with a very pretty voice, so it really didn’t matter what she sang about.

  ‘Chief,’ said Barry, to me. ‘Would you consider yourself inwardly prepared?’

  ‘I’m inwardly full of food,’ I said. ‘And champagne too, which has made me feel rather odd.’

  ‘But you will need to be alert, chief. Your big moment is coming up very very soon.’

  ‘This would be that big moment that all I have suffered has been leading up to?’ I said.

  ‘Without a doubt,’ said Barry.

  ‘But you wouldn’t care to be just a tad more specific?’

  ‘Not in the least, chief,’ said the evasive sprout.

  ‘Well,’ said I. ‘If it comes up and I’m in the mood, I’ll think about rising to the occasion.’

  Barry made small grumbling sounds that rattled in my head.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that,’ I said. ‘You might give me brain damage.’

  ‘Given the size of your brain and the amount of room I have in here, that’s doubtful, chief.’

  ‘When we part company,’ I said, trying to disguise my enthusiasm for this particular moment, ‘will you be going straight back to Elvis?’

  ‘Certainly will, chief. He’s got himself into a bit of a fix with the Antichrist, but I’ll sort things out for him.’

  ‘Well, that’s what you do best,’ I said.

  ‘That was sarcastic, wasn’t it, chief?’

  ‘It certainly was,’ I said. ‘But when you do see Elvis, would you do one thing for me?’

  ‘What would that thing be, chief?’

  ‘Tell him to get himself a good dietician,’ I said. ‘So he doesn’t die on the toilet in Gracelands in nineteen seventy-seven.’

  ‘What?’ went Barry. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Since I had my apotheosis, or whatever it was, I know all kinds of things, Barry. All kinds of odd things around and about time. The trouble is that I still don’t know exactly why I am in this time and exactly what I am supposed to do when my big moment comes.’

  ‘
Have another portion of fin de siècle and enjoy the music, chief.’

  Diners nodded their heads in time to the music. One or two chaps rose from their seats and approached Her Majesty’s table to entice the ancient monarch onto the dance floor for a knees-up. Queen Victoria waved them away and told them to take up their partners instead. Which they did.

  It was something to be seen, I have to tell you. Those beautiful elegant well-dressed people. The gentlemen in their suave dinner jackets, wide at the shoulder, pinched at the hip. The ladies in their fashionable frocks, dancing to Louis Armstrong’s Orchestra upon that floor of crystal glass. Light shining up from below them, the radiance of Heaven beamed through the great lens and bouncing off the oceans of the Earth. So utterly beautiful. That planet beneath. The planet of my birth. We were passing over the Pacific I think, perhaps those were the islands of Japan.

  More and more folk now joined the dancers for a between-course glide-about. I sat back in my chair and sipped champagne, that I was beginning to get the point of, and sighed a little. I confess it, sighed a little for just how truly wonderful it was.

  ‘Perhaps you do have a soul,’ said Barry.

  ‘You little turd,’ I replied.

  Time passed by in littleness and bigness. It travelled upon wristlet and pocket watches. Upon great wall clocks, with the movement of the tides beneath us upon Earth, with the movement of the Earth through space.

  Around and around.

  The hands around the clock. The ship about the Earth.

  The Earth about the sun that wasn’t a sun.

  And I thought about that and all this.

  That I had been to Heaven and met Terrance. Terrance, the creator of worlds. The creator of this world. But, the creator of mine? In my world none of this had happened. None of this existed. There had been no Martian attack upon Earth. Mr Babbage had not exhibited his Difference Engine in eighteen fifty-one. Mr Tesla had not perfected the wireless transmission of electricity. A silver space liner called The Leviathan with a full-sized replica of the Crystal Palace on the top had never circled the Earth that I had grown up upon.