The Abominable Showman

by Robert Rankin

  I paused and Barry said nothing.

  The Poppette wore a simple gown, sleeveless and falling to her naked feet. A gown of white that clung to her slender body. White as the pelt of hair that clothed her head. Her eyes so green, as seemed to be lit from within. Her mouth a soft and tender thing. Her voice –

  Ah, the Poppette’s voice.

  She sang those words that Pope Sergius the First had introduced into the Latin mass.

  Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

  Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.

  Which means:

  Lamb of God, you who take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.

  Lamb of God, you who take away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

  And her words soared into the air, into that vast room and out and beyond it, down each corridor and walkway, up across the decks, along the glass-roofed Rotten Row, into the great glass house above and out and away into space.

  And it was as if her words were solid things, as birds perhaps, that took wing from beyond this man-made craft into the space that was God’s and across the world beneath which He had made.

  I saw men weep and ladies cross themselves. I felt a power, a wondrous power and when the song was done –

  an emptiness.

  There was silence then. A deep and aching silence.

  Then.

  A bleat. A tiny bleat.

  A lamb. The lamb. The Lamb of God.

  The Borametz.

  ‘Behold,’ cried Count Rostov. And we beheld. The Poppette had gone, yet none of us saw her go.

  ‘Oh Lamb of God,’ cried Count Rostov, and he tore away the curtains that shielded the something that stood on the portable trolley.

  ‘That isn’t cake!’ said Queen Victoria. ‘That isn’t cake at all.’

  And cake it was not.

  ‘Oh Lamb of God,’ cried Rostov once more. ‘Oh sacrificial lamb, our gift to God. In return we pray for his blessings upon us –’ and he began to ramble off on one once more.

  ‘He is going to do something dreadful, isn’t he?’ I said to Barry. ‘Is he going to slaughter that plump green lamb in front of us?’

  ‘Possibly something of the sort, chief. There’s just no telling at times with super villains.’

  Count Rostov now had a knife in his hands, which did not look good for the lamb.

  ‘Aw,’ folk at tables started to go. ‘Don’t hurt little lamby.’

  ‘This is the Holy Lamb of God,’ cried Count Rostov. ‘And those who taste its flesh will be as God.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit like eating from the Tree of Knowledge?’ asked Queen Victoria. ‘Isn’t that what got Adam and Eve into all of that bother?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Count Rostov, raising his knife upon high. ‘But at the sacred moment, as one era turns to another, the Lamb will be reborn. With the death of this lamb so shall the new and chosen one arise to lead the new and chosen people of God into the new world of Eden.’

  ‘I am not entirely following this,’ I said to Barry. ‘But I’m getting the gist. Does my big moment come soon, do you think?’

  ‘Quite soon now, chief, yes,’ said Barry the sprout.

  ‘By the blood of the lamb let the new world order begin!’

  The arm of the count began to swing down –

  Then ‘No!’ came a cry from a sitter.

  This sitter rose, from a chair only a table or two away from my own, so I had a pretty good view. He was rather an odd sitter really. White tie, white shirt, white weskit, white gloves, black suit, coal-black face as well, with rather white starey eyes.

  ‘Cease your evil schemes!’ the risen sitter cried. ‘I an’ I Al Jolson command you!’

  ‘What of this?’ the count cocked his head on one side.

  ‘You must pay for your sins!’ shouted Jolson, making mystic passes in the air.

  ‘Good for you, black chap,’ called someone.

  ‘Yes, bravo, foreign fellow,’ called another.

  ‘Stow it, whitey,’ said Al Jolson. ‘Or I’ll put a cap in yo’ ass.’

  ‘He sort of mixes genres somewhat,’ I observed to Barry.

  ‘But he is powerful with spells,’ said the sprout. ‘Which might prove interesting.’

  ‘Lay down the knife,’ said the blacked-up Al.

  ‘I am not entirely clear,’ said Queen Victoria. ‘Is this still part of the entertainment?’

  ‘Hush yo’ mouth, fat chick,’ said Al Jolson, which did not endear him to the crowd.

  Al Jolson waggled his fingers, spoke mumbled words then shouted something possibly Creole. Sparks of electricity crackled at his fingertips, branched out over the glassy floor and sprang towards the count.

  The count stepped nimbly and took cover behind the Lamb of God.

  ‘Don’t harm the lamb, you painted clown!’

  The action was suddenly all at Al Jolson’s table. Aleister Crowley had leapt from his seat and now biffed Mr Jolson on the nose.

  The electrical sparkings fizzled and died as the boot-blacked Al sought to defend himself against the other Al who was pummelling upon him.

  ‘Not something you see every day,’ said Barry. ‘Two black magicians having a punch up.’

  Count Rostov’s bear-skinned head arose from behind the vegetable lamb. ‘Shoot them both, my boys,’ he shouted. ‘Do what you have been taught.’

  They sprang as if from nowhere did those silly boys. Or perhaps from places similar to that from which the Poppette had sprung, so to speak.

  ‘Do you think the Poppette will sing another song, Barry?’ I asked.

  ‘Keep your mind focussed,’ said the sprout. ‘Things are about to kick off.’

  Those silly boys leapt with a will and a vigour, and well-armed boys they were. Each had a bright shiny ray gun. And each was keen to use it.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ shouted one and he fired his ray gun into the air. This brought down a considerable amount of plasterwork onto the heads of folk at an adjacent table. They did not take kindly to that and began to un-holster their weapons.

  The two Als fought with enthusiasm, but no particular skill. From what I could see of it, it appeared to be a lot of girlish slapping, pinching and shouting abuse at each other.

  ‘This is part of the entertainment, isn’t it, Albert?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, undoubtedly,’ but Albert cocked a mechanical hand with an inbuilt Derringer.

  The silly boys now shot at the fighters’ table. The fighters rolled beneath it as cutlery melted and the lewd ice sculpture lost its lusty tumescence.

  Folk were firing back now. Well, back, or anywhere.

  I wisely ducked as electrical beams crissed and crossed the ballroom. A table took fire, champagne bottles exploded.

  Count Rostov danced somewhat madly upon the stage shouting. ‘Stop it at once,’ and ‘Please don’t damage the ballroom.’

  Sir Jonathan Crawford guided Lady Agnes to a place of safety behind a generously proportioned jardinière pot and stand.

  ‘This is all a bit of a shambles,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘I will try and restore some order, you wait safely here.’

  ‘I do not wish you to come to harm,’ said her ladyship.

  ‘Fear not,’ said Sir Jonathan. But fearing much, he also added, ‘I love you.’

  Sir Jonathan’s chums had brought their Purdeys on board to shoot clay pigeons on the ship’s range. They had wisely carried them to the ballroom, down their trouser legs.

  ‘Cock over,’ cried Binky Hartington, pressing a cartridge into each of the three barrels of his triple twenty-bore fowling piece. ‘Have some sport tonight. I think I’ll shoot the black chap.’

  ‘Black chap’s a goody, ain’t he?’ asked he of the Hanky-Panky-Poos. ‘Shoot that bounder Rostov, before he kills that lamb.’

  ‘Good show,’ Binky raised his Purdey to his shoulder.

  Then he said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘Oh dea
r?’ asked he of the Hanky-Panky-Poos. ‘What’s this oh dearing about?’

  Binky pointed towards the stage, beyond the fisticuffs that now extended to the dance floor proper, between the beams of electrical energy that crissed and crossed the room. Upon the stage stood Rostov with the lamb.

  But next to them another stood. A vile look upon his face, in his right hand a pistol, held against the head of Sophia Poppette, whom he gripped by her delicate throat.

  ‘Cease this nonsense,’ he shouted, in the very loudest of voices, ‘cease and lay down your weapons, or I will destroy the Poppette.’

  The boisterous crowd gave ear to these shouts. And to he that did the shouting.

  ‘I mean what I say,’ said Atters, and he gave the Poppette’s throat a vicious squeeze.

  47

  Several thousand weapons being thrown to the crystal glass floor did make a considerable racket. I felt that the diners’ response would not have been quite agreed-upon had Atters held his pistol to the head of Count Rostov instead of Sophia Poppette.

  So it was a well-considered move by Atters, but –

  ‘What of this?’ I asked Barry.

  ‘Developments, chief, always developments.’

  I was back in my chair now, as were many others. The two Als, Jolson and Crowley, had ceased their girlish strugglings and huffily re-seated themselves.

  ‘Do I have all of your attention?’ Atters asked.

  The toffs and toffettes, ladies, lords and royals mumbled sulkily.

  ‘Louder!’ shouted Atters. ‘Let me hear you say yes.’

  ‘Yes!’ All went, including Queen Victoria.

  ‘Well done.’ Atters turned his glare towards Count Rostov. It was definitely a glare he had on him, rather than a casual glance or a bit-of-a-stare. Atters glared Count Rostov very big daggers. ‘You useless twerp,’ he said to the count. ‘Call yourself a master criminal.’

  ‘The new word is super criminal, actually,’ said the count.

  ‘Oh do excuse me,’ Atters had certainly mastered the art of sarcasm. ‘Super criminal, then. But you’re useless. Useless, I tell you.’

  ‘Oh excuse me,’ said Count Rostov. ‘But I never said that I was a super criminal.’

  ‘I wonder where this is leading,’ I said to Barry.

  ‘Who cares, chief, I can’t ever recall seeing two super criminals having a go at one another. This is a first in my opinion.’

  ‘I am not a super criminal,’ said the count. ‘I’m a goody.’

  ‘A goody!’ Atters laughed very hard at this. ‘Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,’ he went.

  ‘That is good super criminal laughing,’ said Queen Victoria.

  ‘Shut up, you old bat,’ said Atters.

  ‘One isn’t sure if one is amused,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Listen,’ said Count Rostov, whose eyes were only upon the Poppette. ‘Please do not harm poor Sophia.’

  ‘Poor Sophia!’ Atters laughed once more. ‘You’re rubbish, you are, you just are. And you must die for all your evil ways and I will take this ship and do some evil of my own.’

  ‘I’ve never done any evil, honest,’ pleaded Rostov. ‘Everything I have put in place and everything that I will cause to happen is for the good of Man and the universe.’

  ‘Toot,’ said Atters, cocking his pistol too.

  ‘But it’s true,’ the count fell to his knees. ‘The new rivers across Africa will help to heal the world and restore the Garden. And these folk here, when I said that each had been specially chosen to be here, that is precisely what I meant. Chosen to be here and remain here forever.’

  ‘What of this?’ asked various baffled folk at various tables.

  ‘These people are the power of planet Earth. They are the royal rulers, the controllers of government, the masters of the press, the governors of industry. The high and mighty who rule the world beneath and the others too.’

  This did not go down well with the Jovians and Venusians.

  ‘These people represent all that is corrupt and foul, all that has caused the Garden to be concreted over and despoiled. I have removed these people, these evil people, these destructive people from the Earth, that the Earth might be reborn. That it might be repopulated also by a new Adam and a new Eve. I have taken away the oppressors of the world,’ said Count Rostov. ‘The generals that would lead men to war. The leaders who order these generals. All such leaders, such merchants of death are now here aboard The Leviathan. And here they will stay, forever. I have created this ship to be a paradise in itself. The horse walks, the great glass house, the restaurants and bars, the glamorous entertainments. Here is luxury enough to please all. And all will remain here and will be treated kindly. I have myself consumed the elixir of life. I am an immortal and I will bestow immortality upon all who are now aboard this vessel.’

  ‘This is quite clever stuff,’ I said to Barry. ‘I can’t say that I was actually expecting this.’

  ‘It will all end in tears,’ said Barry the sprout, the dismal little sod.

  ‘Fascinating stuff,’ said Atters, in that sarcastic tone once again. ‘But regrettably it will not come to pass. Almost everyone on this vessel hates you, Rostov. They all hold you in utter contempt and most of them seek to kill you. Am I right?’ He glared at his audience.

  His audience glared back and many of them nodded grudgingly.

  ‘Well, I suppose you can’t please all of the people all of the time,’ said Count Rostov. ‘But I feel this conversation has gone on long enough and as I can now see that my boy snipers are all in place I would suggest that you release Sophia, lay down your gun and raise your hands in the air.’

  ‘Not so fast!’ Atters, the utter cad that he was, ducked down behind the Poppette. There was a bit of unseen scrabbling about, then his gun was once more to be seen pointing at the Poppette’s head. But his other hand no longer held her by the throat, instead it held another brass contrivance with another blood red button.

  ‘That really is a super criminal thing, isn’t it Barry?’ I said.

  ‘And what of this?’ asked Queen Victoria, clapping her hands together.

  ‘This,’ said Atters, ‘is a very simple signalling device.’

  ‘A bit of a let-down,’ I said.

  ‘Which will signal your destruction, Rostov.’

  ‘Better,’ I said. ‘Should we duck once more, Barry?’

  ‘Earlier this evening,’ said Atters. ‘I entered the operations room that houses The Leviathan’s electric force field controls.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ went the audience.

  ‘Ooooh,’ I went too.

  ‘And I shot dead the operators and blew up all the equipment.’

  ‘Oooooh,’ went the audience.

  ‘You did what?’ went the count.

  ‘The Leviathan now hangs helpless in space. Vulnerable to any attack.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ went the audience. Then, ‘Oh no!’

  And ‘Oh no!’ too went the count.

  ‘My name is not really Michael Fiddly-Diddly-Doo-Dah-Macgillycuddy Attree, or whatever it was that I said it was. I am Space Pirate Admiral Zergon Startrouser from the Jovian moon Trubshaw.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ went the audience one more time and someone shouted, ‘Shame on you.’

  ‘Shame on me?’ Atters laughed a hearty ‘Mwah-ha-ha. Shame on you. All of you. I have known the discrimination for being a half-breed. Half Jovian, half Earther, neither one thing or the other and despised by both.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make him a rather sympathetic super villain?’ I whispered to Barry. ‘He’d be better as a hero, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Do put a sock in it, chief, if you will.’

  ‘Even now,’ shouted Zergon Startrouser, ‘the space pirate ship Umma Gumma, captained by the merciless F-Stop Bell-Franchise, master of The Fierce, approaches The Leviathan. And when I press this button they will receive the order to open fire upon this defenceless liner.’

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ the voice was Queen Victoria’s.
<
br />   ‘Madam?’ said Zergon Startrouser, bowing with his button.

  ‘Why?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you ordering this hummer-bummer –’

  ‘Umma Gumma,’ said Zergon.

  ‘Quite. Why are you ordering this craft to fire upon one?’

  ‘I thought I had made that clear,’ said Zergon. ‘I hate you. I hate all of you. It is my wish to loot and pillage this craft, murder all the men, have my evil way with the ladies, then destroy this ship with all lives lost, and poodle on back to Trubshaw. Job done.’

  ‘You utter cad!’ cried someone.

  ‘Swine more like,’ cried another.

  ‘Do not press the button,’ said the count.

  ‘Oh yes I will,’ laughed the evil Mr Startrouser. ‘Oh yes I will indeed, indeed, indeed.’

  ‘If the hull of The Leviathan is punctured,’ wailed the count, and he had a wail on now, ‘the ship’s structure will lose its integrity and fall in upon itself. You will die along with the rest of us.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ went Zergon. ‘Well, that might be true.’

  ‘It is true,’ said the count.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘There is no perhaps about it.’

  ‘One or two people might survive. I might be one of them.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Count Rostov. ‘Hand over the contrivance with the red button, put your hands up and we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Zergon and he pressed his thumb upon the blood red button.

  ‘Best not do it,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  Zergon turned his head and found himself glaring into the barrel of Sir Jonathan’s shiny ray gun.

  ‘Lay down your contrivance and unhand the lady,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  The folk at the table didn’t cheer yet. For things were not quite resolved.

  ‘I will count to ten,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  ‘Don’t do it backwards!’ shouted someone. ‘Counting down from ten backwards always ends with an explosion.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘One-two-three-four-five–’

  ‘A bit slower surely,’ said Zergon.