The Abominable Showman

by Robert Rankin

‘Eight – nine –’

  Zergon swung about, flung the Poppette towards Sir Jonathan, jumped down from the stage and took to his heels.

  With the beautiful girl in his arms, as befitted a hero, Sir Jonathan Crawford took a casual aim and shot Zergon Startrouser dead.

  The folk at the tables made loud their applause.

  Zergon Startrouser fell on the blood red button.

  48

  There was a silence. A very big silence. A deep and profound big silence. Those who had been near enough to see what had occurred began this silence by suddenly being silent. And this silence spread, like a soundless ripple right to the back of the ballroom.

  I broke this silence and whispered to Barry. ‘Are we all now going to die?’

  Barry said nothing. He was a silent sprout.

  ‘Well now,’ the silence was broken by Count Rostov. ‘Wasn’t that most entertaining.’ The count now took a bow.

  And the folk at their tables cheered. They cheered and they clapped and some who wore hats even threw these hats into the air.

  It had all been an entertainment. A whimsy. A thrilling piece of theatre.

  ‘What is going on?’ I said to Barry.

  ‘Now, now, now,’ said Count Rostov, straightening his bearskin hat. ‘There is nothing to fear, all is well.’

  I confess that I had become quite confused and I was clearly not alone in this. The ship might not have come under attack, but there was still that matter of the count holding all these people captive here for ever and forever, while he established some kind of new world order on the planet beneath us.

  ‘One is done,’ said Queen Victoria, arising from her chair. ‘All most amusing, Rostov. One might say thrilling. But the secret, one is reliably informed, is in knowing when to stop.’

  ‘Dear lady,’ said Count Rostov, his long knife once more held high in his hand. ‘Dear lady please remain seated. You must receive my gift to you. You must taste the flesh of the Lamb of God. The holy Borametz.’

  ‘One has eaten one’s fill,’ said Her Majesty. ‘Come, Albert.’

  Albert wound up his clockwork pelvis, ‘Coming my dear,’ said he.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the count. ‘Not until you have tasted the flesh of the lamb. For it is the flesh of the lamb that will bestow immortality upon you.’

  ‘Is that true?’ I whispered to Barry.

  ‘So the legend goes, chief.’

  ‘Not a legend you thought to mention before?’

  Silly boys were dragging the body of Zergon Startrouser from the ballroom. I noticed that the bigger boy had picked up the brass contrivance with the big red button and was examining it inquisitively.

  ‘I offer immortality,’ Count Rostov cried. ‘Who amongst you will refuse this offer?’

  There were murmurings now a-plenty. After all this was a special offer.

  The knife flashed in Count Rostov’s hand.

  His blade came sweeping down.

  ‘No please,’ Sophia Poppette flung herself in front of the vegetable lamb. ‘You must not slaughter the Borametz,’ she cried.

  ‘But I must,’ replied Count Rostov. ‘And I do it for you. You who must play Eve in the new formed Garden.’

  Eve?

  Now further murmurings occurred amongst the folk present. That Eve was going to need an Adam, they knew. And each man present, including dear Albert, and I admit myself to a small degree although I was not nearly old enough, felt themselves to be the ideal candidate to take on this favourable position (which you can take any way you wish). ‘Slaughter the lamb!’ cried someone.

  Another cried, ‘Two slices for me if you please.’

  Another shouted, ‘I’ll have a trotter, or do lambs have hooves?’

  Another shouted, ‘Cease!’ and this one shouted loudly.

  Now, as I was brought up in the nineteen-fifties I did, as other boys of my time did, read an awful lot of super hero comics. We had Superman, of course, and Batman too, Wonder Woman and Aquaman and Dick Cheddar, Man of Cheese, but he wasn’t much good. I had a very soft spot for superheroes, especially if the superheroes were ladies.

  There was something about a well-knit woman mostly without her clothes that I found appealing.

  And the one who now surprised us all, wasn’t too burdened by fabric. She leapt up onto the stage and snatched the knife from Count Rostov, she flung it over a naked shoulder and it went thunk! into a faraway wall.

  ‘Who?’ and ‘What?’ and ‘Why?’ the count shouted.

  And some knew what and why.

  I heard further murmurings amongst the menfolk present and I heard the name of ‘Lady Raygun.’

  Lady Raygun stood upon the stage, legs akimbo and hands upon hips, very much in the manner of principle boy in a popular panto. She was indeed a fine looking woman, spare and svelte and things of that nature, stunningly. She wore a rubber gasmask that completely covered her head, her shapely frame was clothed by an embossed brass corset affair which rose to cover her breasts, matching brass wrist bands, a short sectioned leather skirt and high-buttoned boots with quite preposterous heels.

  ‘I am Lady Raygun,’ said this marvellous being. ‘The time for talk is over. You must die.’

  The count cried, ‘You cannot kill me, I’m immortal.’

  The Lady said. ‘But I can try.’

  And then she was on him most violently.

  Count Rostov put up a good fight though.

  The two biffed and banged about at each other in a truly epic fashion, crashing all about the stage. The count lost his bearskin and those near enough to notice were surprised to see that he had a teddy-bear tattooed on the top of his head.

  The Poppette was dragging the vegetable lamb away on the portable trolley. Sir Jonathan was helping a bit, but not a great deal as he was clearly enjoying the battle. For even if Lady Raygun wore a mask to disguise her identity, the man who had spent the last few days mostly in bed with Lady Agnes Rutherford, was not slow to recognise that she was Lady Raygun.

  Folk now were upping it from their chairs. I heard someone shout, ‘She’s getting away with that lamb and I want a slice.’ And other shouts echoed this sentiment.

  Chairs were being flung aside, guns were lifted from the floor and folk were moving forward.

  I glanced towards the stage, then back towards the fractious folk. And in between I saw a single figure.

  This figure was the bigger boy.

  Who shook the brass contrivance about.

  And pushed the big red button.

  49

  ‘The promise of immortality doth make murderers of us all,’ I believe Shakespeare almost said. They started shooting each other with a will. They fought and tumbled across the dance floor, struggling to get up to the stage. And some of them probably would have done so. The fittest, the most violent, the most desperate. That was a survival of the fittest kind of thing really, I suppose. None of them made it however.

  For suddenly there came the first explosion.

  On board the Umma Gumma, the patiently waiting pirates had received the signal from the blood red buttoned contrivance. The Leviathan’s electrical defences are down, move in for the kill, destroy and plunder.

  Captain F-Stop Bell-Franchise manned the ship’s prang cannon. There was nothing quite like a prang cannon for inflicting really serious damage on an enemy craft. Captain F-Stop swung himself about in a little glazed pimple-turret affair atop the Umma Gumma and sent bolts of prang skimmering through space and into the unprotected Crystal Palace greenhouse that diamond-glittered in the light of God.

  Pane after pane after pane after pane exploded. Atmosphere bled from the great glass house uprooting magical beautiful plants and dragging them out into space.

  Within the ballroom lights flickered dreadfully, the chandeliers shook and pictures fell from the walls of watered silk.

  ‘Your moment is about to come,’ said Barry.

  ‘My death you mean. How are we going to escape?’

  Prang, pr
ang, prang, prang, prang, prang, went Captain F-Stop’s cannon. The glazed roof of the great ship’s Rotten Row disintegrated, grazing horses spiralled to oblivion.

  And it was murder on the dance floor!

  I caught a glimpse of Albert, leading the Great Queen away. But other than that I saw only fighting.

  And I could see the point, I suppose. The ship was under attack, everyone was likely to be killed. Everyone, that would be, except those who could not be killed. Those who had tasted the flesh of the Lamb of God.

  Those of whom had then become immortal.

  Sir Jonathan Crawford was taking on all comers. Deftly booting back those who tried to climb onto the stage, dodging beams of electrical energy fired at him by disapproving would-be diners of delicate gourmet lamb flesh. The Poppette was struggling and Lady Raygun had the count down and was soundly putting the boot in.

  The pilot of the Umma Gumma swung his steering wheel and drew the spaceship slowly along the length of The Leviathan. The Umma Gumma’s starboard guns opened fire, tearing into the panoramic windows of the numerous restaurants and bars. Wicker chairs and chromium tables, champagne bottles, cocktail sticks and cocktail waiters too poured from the numerous wounds in the side of the ship.

  ‘Shoot ‘em up, chaps,’ called the captain. ‘May The Fierce be with us all this day.’

  The Leviathan shuddered, as a vast maimed whale. As air bled from it, the ship gave piteous groans.

  ‘We are all doomed!’ cried Count Rostov. ‘The ship is breaking up. We all will die.’

  Stanchions and bulkheads buckled and folded, the silver sides of the space liner puckered and creased.

  ‘Oh no no no no no,’ I cried, as suddenly The Leviathan slewed to starboard side. Tables took to sliding over the polished crystal floor. Folk were dragged with these tables, squeezed by them, pushed before them, trapped beneath them. The gunfire ceased. The screaming began. Chairs flew, crockery, glassware everything tumbled.

  I caught a glimpse of Lady Raygun banging Count Rostov’s head on the floor of the stage. Of Sir Jonathan protecting the lamb. Of Sophia Poppette kneeling and in prayer. Of turmoil, chaos, bowling people.

  Then I saw the really terrible thing.

  It slid into view, beneath the dancehall floor. An ugly knobbly horrible space ship. Grinning faces in its portholes, dark and terrible weapons pointing at us.

  ‘Oh no, Barry, no!’ I shouted.

  But it was yes. A terrible yes. The Umma Gumma opened fire upon us.

  ‘To the lifeboats!’ somebody shouted.

  Which seemed to me a very fine idea indeed.

  The explosion lifted the stage from its mountings and flung it in pieces about. There was a ghastly croaking sound as air rushed out into space. The broken pieces of stage were quickly sucked through the hole beneath. Screaming folk were swallowed by space. It was awful.

  I clung to a table that had wedged itself against one of the Doric columns which held up the ceiling. Folk were bowling by me now, bound for a hideous fate.

  ‘To the lifeboats,’ I tried to say, but air was rapidly becoming a past luxury. As I clung desperately, I saw the bigger boy tumbling over and over in my direction, tumbling on his way to a vacuumous grave.

  I ducked my head as he bowled by, but then I reached out my hand. And just, with no time at all to spare I caught that boy by his collar. Caught the bigger boy and saved his life.

  ‘Come on,’ I sort of squawked, for shouting was out of the question. ‘We have to get to a lifeboat. Come on now.’

  The bigger boy climbed over me, and together we clung to what we could and made our way out of the ballroom.

  We were not alone in doing this. The corridors were now crammed with fleeing folk, caring little for anyone but themselves. I pushed the bigger boy before me. He looked very frightened.

  ‘Go on,’ I told him. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  Things however were anything but fine and as we struggled amidst the panicking passengers, the bad ship Umma Gumma moved in for the kill.

  ‘Sink ‘em boys!’ cried the captain. Somewhat caught up in the moment.

  I was suddenly in an empty corridor, empty that is but for me and the bigger boy.

  ‘This is a short cut to the lifeboats,’ he said and we ran along with haste.

  Ahead I could see two little pods hanging down and one was open. Boys waved from this opening. The silly boys. We were saved.

  The bigger boy leapt into the lifeboat pod pulled in by his fellows. I struggled to enter but silly boys pushed me back.

  ‘No room at the inn,’ they shouted, which I did not find funny.

  ‘Let me in you sods,’ I said. But they slammed the door upon me.

  ‘Damn and blast,’ I said to Barry. And then The Leviathan gave another shudder.

  ‘Into the lifeboat pod next door, chief. And do make it quick.’

  In slow motion, for how could there be any other way, The Leviathan crumpled in upon itself. That mighty vessel, that showboat of space, a thing of beauty and wonder shrivelled and shuddered and shrank.

  Lifeboat pods, but not many, were making away from the crippled ship.

  All in slow motion.

  Sir Jonathan pushing Lady Agnes into a lifeboat, then falling back into the maniac crowd.

  Count Rostov, a look of horror upon his bruised and battered countenance, slowly slowly slowly losing his grip on what gripping he had and slowly plunging into space and down toward the planet of his birth.

  Some, who certainly did not deserve the safety of the lifeboat pods had found it, others more deserving sadly had not.

  The Leviathan sagged and twisted and fractured.

  Then fell from the arms of Our Lady of Space.

  To the waiting Earth below.

  50

  So here was I then. Sitting in my tin can, far above the Moon. Planet Earth was blue, but I had no wish to continue in this fashion for fear of future copyright infringement.

  The Leviathan was gone. Debris spiralled through the night-cloaked vault of space. I saw most of Queen Victoria’s Royal Space Yacht Britannia go tumbling by and the Empress of both India and Mars waved to me from a porthole.

  I saw other survivors too, in atmospheric suits, clinging to furniture, looking somewhat forlorn and dejected, but at least alive.

  And all around and about and beyond, though I could not see her.

  I could feel her be.

  Our Lady of Space.

  I saw too the Poppette, out there floating. Alive and naked, both of which I might have found equally shocking, but did not. For both seemed utterly right.

  She was there because she was part of space.

  The daughter of Our Lady.

  She swam towards my lifeboat and she smiled. I smiled back and waved my hand and then the Poppette vanished.

  Sophia Poppette.

  I would come to know in a future time that Sophia means wisdom, as in the Wisdom of God.

  I would learn too, in a totally unconnected way, that Agnes Rutherford’s name held great significance.

  For Agnes is derived from Agnus and Agnus Dei means Lamb of God.

  And it was because of a vegetable lamb that all of this had come about.

  At that moment I understood so very much. I understood that the fantastic world my granddad spoke about, where the War of the Worlds had actually happened and space liners circled the Earth in the nineteen-twenties had existed. Did exist.

  That all which had gone before and led up to this had existed. And would exist too in a parallel universe, one of many many other such universes. But one no longer connected to our own. Because through all that had happened and what I had experienced, the two worlds had separated and there would no longer be a connection other than as fiction. With my granddad’s world and the one that I grew up in in the nineteen-fifties.

  Because.

  Because in that other alternative universe, Mankind had been given another chance. A chance to make things right with God. To return to the
Garden. And I had played my part in that.

  And suddenly it all fell into place.

  All of it made sense. The reason why my older self had volunteered his younger self to take on this dangerous mission. Why I had achieved everything that I had.

  ‘Barry!’ I cried. ‘I see it all now. I do.’

  ‘Oh, woh-what?’ went Barry. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Wake up,’ I said, ‘and listen.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep, chief. I had business elsewhere. In the twenty-first century with my good friend Elvis Presley.’

  ‘Elvis Presley?’ I said, ‘I’m still not sure that I believe you know Elvis.’

  ‘Long story, chief. And not one to be told here. But if you’d like to hear it I could do no better than to recommend the Kindle edition of The Armageddon Trilogy, published by Far Fetched Books and available at a knock down price on Amazon.’

  ‘The river Amazon?’ I said.

  ‘It’s a future thing, chief, don’t let it bother you.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ I said. ‘For I have had a revelation.’

  ‘Funnily enough, Elvis was just saying that. And every time he says that things always go direly wrong.’

  ‘Well not this time,’ I said. ‘Because this is my revelation and everything falls into place.’

  Barry sighed. ‘Go on then, chief, let’s hear it.’

  ‘It’s all about me,’ I told Barry.

  ‘Well that does surprise me, chief.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘and you’ll learn. I came to this time to do what had to be done. And what had to be done did get done, didn’t it Barry?’

  ‘We can agree on that, chief. It did get done.’

  ‘And I played a major part in this doing.’

  ‘We couldn’t have done it without you, chief,’ said Barry.

  ‘Quite so. And I have figured it out. Just think, Barry. Who was it who travelled to Venus and there became part of the Lamb?’

  ‘That was you, chief,’ said Barry.

  ‘And then visited God.’

  ‘You, chief, you.’

  ‘And in the company of whom?’

  ‘A bunch of silly boys, chief.’