Snuff Fiction

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Well,’ said O’Shit. ‘My guess would be that you’ll try to take me in. But I’m thinking you won’t get as far as the door, before me mate O’Bastard over there takes the head right off you with his Uzi.’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking him by the sequinned shoulders. ‘We’re all gonna die.’

  ‘You before the rest of us, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Get out of my way. Get out of my way.’ I pushed O’Shit from his feet and shouted over to Norman. ‘Norman,’ I shouted. ‘Come here quick, we’re in trouble.’

  ‘All right,’ called Norman. ‘I’m coming.’

  Down, but not out, O’Shit was struggling. He had fallen amongst toffs. Which can prove tricky if you’re a man and you happen to be wearing a dress.

  ‘Well, hemooooo,’ went the toffs.

  ‘Get your fecking hands off me bum,’ went O’Shit.

  ‘Norman. Get over here.’

  ‘I’m coming. I’m coming.’ Norman shuffled over. Shuffled. That’s what he did.

  ‘Have you found her then?’ Norman asked as he shuffled. ‘Oh sorry, did I tread on you?’ he continued as his foolish platform shoe came down on some poor blighter’s fingers.

  ‘Norman. Hurry up.’

  Behind Norman came his all-girl conga line.

  And behind this now came men of the mightily miffed persuasion.

  I did some more of those big breaths up the nose and out of the mouth and grabbed at Norman as he stepped upon O’Shit.

  ‘Norman,’ I puffed and panted. ‘Norman, I’ve worked it out. I’ve worked it out.’

  ‘I told you I didn’t want to hear about your bowel movements.’

  I punched Norman right on the nose. I’m sorry, but I did. Heat of the moment.

  ‘Oooooooooooooooh,’ went Norman’s female followers. ‘Leave our lovely boy alone.’

  ‘Stay out of this,’ I told them. I had Norman by the lapels; I didn’t let him fall. ‘The time?’ I gasped. ‘What is the time?’

  Norman clutched at his nose. ‘You hit me. You punched my hooter.’

  ‘Tell me the time. Quickly, or—’

  ‘All right. All right.’ Norman fumbled out his watch. The women were gathering round us now, stepping on the sitters and getting in a state. Their boyfriends, lovers, husbands or whatevers were tugging at them and telling them to come away.

  ‘It’s five to twelve,’ said Norman, dabbing at his conk with his sleeve. ‘All this fuss just because you wanted to know the time. But hang about. Shouldn’t we be organizing the “Auld Lang Syne” business?’

  ‘Norman.’ I shook him all about. ‘I’ve worked it out. There’s not going to be any “Auld Lang Syne”. I know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘You always say that when you’ve had a few.’

  ‘Norman, you idiot, just listen to me.’

  ‘You leave Norman alone,’ said some woman, welting me one with her handbag.

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ said Norman. ‘I can handle him, he’s just a bit pissed.

  And then Norman became aware for the very first time of just how many women now surrounded us. ‘Well, heloooooo, ladies,’ said Norman.

  ‘Listen, listen.’ I flapped my hands about. ‘Listen to what I’m saying. The professor’s play, right? It was all about the Doveston.’

  ‘Well, I’d worked that out,’ said Norman. ‘But then I did go to grammar school.’

  ‘Yes, all right. But the bit at the end, where the boy in the play blows everybody up. And the professor. The Big Aaah-Choo! Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’

  Norman nodded thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Everybody here,’ I said. ‘Everybody here,’ and I had to speak up quite a bit, because the mob about us was pushing and stepping on people. ‘Everybody here, all these people. This is them. This lot. The Secret Government. The rulers and makers of men, the grand muck-a-mucks, like the professor said. The Doveston invited all these people here, and they all came, even though he was dead. Because they knew they’d get the bash of the century. But don’t you see, that’s what they really are going to get. The big bash. The Big Aaah-Choo!’

  ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

  I kicked at O’Shit, who was biting my ankle. ‘I’m saying, Norman, that this place is going to blow. The professor warned us. He never sneezes when he takes snuff. He warned us, you and me, so we could get out in time. Don’t you see? The Doveston is going to get his revenge from beyond the grave. I’ll bet this place is packed with dynamite. And I’ll bet, I’ll just bet, it’s timed to go off at midnight. Come on, Norman, you knew the Doveston as well as I did. Isn’t it exactly what he’d do?’

  ‘There has to be a flaw in this logic,’ said Norman. ‘But for the life of me, I can’t see what it is.’

  I looked at Norman.

  And Norman looked at me.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Norman. ‘Everybody out! Everybody out!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I clapped my hand across his mouth.

  ‘Just leave him alone,’ said some other woman, welting me with her handbag.

  ‘Keep out of this,’ and I pushed her.

  ‘How dare you push my wife, sir,’ and some twat took a swing at me.

  I ducked out of the way, but O’Shit had a hold on my ankle and I fell forwards, bringing Norman with me. We went down amongst the toffs, who were floundering about and trying to stand up, whilst being kneed this way and that by Norman’s female fan club and the men of mighty miffedness.

  ‘Get off me,’ cried Norman. ‘We’ve got to warn everyone.’

  ‘Why?’ I gasped. ‘Why? This lot are the Secret Government. They’re the enemy. This bunch murdered the Doveston.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Norman. ‘You’re right there.’ He dodged a foot that swung in his direction. ‘Stuff ‘em,’ said Norman. ‘Stuff ‘em.’

  Now, it does have to be said that Norman and I were up the minstrels’ gallery end of the great hall. Which was not the end we wished to be at. The end we wished to be at was the other end. The end with the big entrance doors. The struggling and pushing and kicking and general bad behaviour that was going on around us was an isolated sort of chaos. The majority of the party guests weren’t involved. They were showing considerable interest by now, but they were mostly just lolling about. And there were an awful lot of them and they were packed pretty densely and if Norman and I were to make our escape we were going to have to get through them.

  ‘Come on.’ I hauled Norman up. ‘Act casual. Make for the door.’

  We fought our way out of the scrum in as casual a way as we could. Which was not, perhaps, quite as casual as it might have been, but time was ticking away.

  ‘I think we should forget “act casual”,’ said Norman. ‘I think we should go for “run for our lives”.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  We ran for our lives. But could we run? Could we Hell!

  We were reduced to doing a lot of leaping about, trying not to step on people’s faces. It was a bit like that ludicrous hop, skip and jump thing they do in the Olympics.

  I had hoped for a clean getaway, but Norman’s fans weren’t having that. They came in hot pursuit. ‘Switch off your bloody suit,’ I shouted at him.

  Norman fumbled once more in his pocket. But this isn’t easy to do when you’re hop, skip and jumping.

  What happened next had an elegant, almost slow-motion quality about it. The remote control slipped from Norman’s fingers. It arced through the air. It fell towards the floor. It struck the floor and Norman’s big left platform shoe came crunching down upon it. And then there was a sort of sparkler fizzing. It came from Norman’s suit. The suit began to throb, to pulsate. It began to glow.

  There was a sort of ear-splitting whine that turned every head in the place. And what happened next wasn’t elegant.

  What happened next was pure chaos.

  25

  Tomorrow belongs to those who can see it coming.

  The Do
veston

  Allow me to set the scene, as it were.

  Try to imagine that moment before the chaos kicked in. Picture, if you will, the great hall.

  Picture the duff decorations. The crudely daubed and badly stencilled walls. That vile dog-dragon thing that dangles from the chandelier. Picture the mariachi band, on high in the minstrels’ gallery. It’s the very band that once played Brentstock. Older now, of course, but still with lots of puff. And see their instruments. The trumpets and the flugelhorns, the cornets, the euphoniums, and indeed the ophicleides.

  Now picture the people below them. All those beautiful people. Those rich and famous people. Those have-it-alls at the very top. Those people of the Secret Government. See how very well dressed they all are. How gorgeously attired. Some are on their feet, but most still loll about, languidly beckoning to waiters and shaven-headed dwarves.

  And try if you can to picture Norman. He’s right down there in the very middle of the great hall. He’s still got his trilby on his head. Oh no, he hasn’t, no. He’s torn his trilby off his head. He’s beating at himself with it. He seems to be on fire. There’s this big corona of light all around him. There’s smoke rising up from his shoulders. And he’s flashing on and off. His suit. It’s going like a stroboscope. And there’s this awful noise now. It’s coming from the suit. It’s a high-pitched whining sound. A real teeth-clencher, an ear-drum-piercer.

  All eyes are upon Norman. The lollers are scrambling to their feet, covering their ears and howling. And now the chaos kicks in.

  ‘Ooooh!’ went Norman, beating at himself. ‘I’m reaching critical mass.’

  Now, generally speaking, your really big punch-up starts small and works its way towards a crescendo. A bit like a military campaign. Minor skirmishes, leading to the battle proper.

  Usually the two opposing sides get the chance to size each other up before charging headlong. That’s the way it’s done. You wouldn’t just jumble the two sides together, bung everyone into a big room and simply blow a whistle, would you?

  That would be chaos. Wouldn’t it?

  Yet here, suddenly, in the great hall, were two utterly opposing sides, all jumbled up together. What sides are these, I hear you ask. One male side and one female, is the answer.

  As Norman’s suit reached critical mass it discharged such a rush of power that there could be no middle ground. The force was overwhelming. The women overwhelmed with love, the men with absolute hatred. Norman was no longer Norman at all. To the women he was a God-like being. To the men, the Devil Incarnate.

  Now, women always know what men are thinking and a woman will fight hard to save the man she loves. So, as the men rose up as one to slay the evil demon, the womenfolk rose up as one to save the man they loved.

  And if you’ve ever seen two hundred women take on two hundred men in a no-holds-barred grand-slam tag-team main event, then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you it was brutal.

  I got welted with another bloody handbag.

  It was the war of the sexes. A kind of simultaneous female uprising of the kind no doubt dreamed about by Emmeline Pankhurst (1858-1928) that now legendary English suffragette leader, who in 1903 founded the militant Women’s Social and Political Union.

  It was war.

  But then war, what is it good for? I ask you. Absolutely nothing (Good God y’all).

  The women beat upon the men and the men lashed out at the women. Norman tore his jacket off and flung it into the air. As waiters’ trays went sailing overhead and love-sick dwarves bit waiters in the nadgers, I did that thing that the handyman’s dog did. I made a bolt for the door.

  I was not alone in doing this. Norman, on his hands and knees, his trousers round his ankles, caught me up.

  He had his bunch of convenient keys in his hand.

  ‘Out,’ went Norman, ‘Out. Come on, I’ll lock the door.’

  We scuttled out and slammed the front door shut upon the chaos. Norman turned the key in the lock. ‘That should keep them at bay,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the time? What’s the time?’

  ‘Damn,’ said Norman, kicking off his platform shoes and pulling up his smouldering trews. ‘My watch is in my jacket. But there can’t be much time left. A couple of minutes at most.’

  ‘Let’s head for the gates then. I’ll race you.’

  I was on the starting blocks and I was almost off, but Norman said, ‘Hold on.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  Norman peered into the darkness. ‘There’s something wrong out there,’ he said. ‘I can feel it.’

  I squinted about. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I told him. ‘This is no time to be scared of the dark.’

  ‘It’s too quiet. Too still.’

  ‘It’s not back in there.’

  Sounds of battle issued from within the walls of Castle Doveston. Breakings of glass and smashings of furniture. And the occasional thud as someone blundered into an invisible pillar. Although, in all the hullabaloo, you really couldn’t hear those.

  ‘Look,’ and Norman pointed. By the light that issued from the windows of the great hall, a rather dancing light with lots of moving silhouettes, we could see the big black lorries. They now had their tailgates down and ramps leading from their open rear ends to the ground. Norman limped on stockinged feet across to the nearest lorry.

  ‘We don’t have time,’ I shouted to him. ‘Come on, Norman, let’s go.

  ‘No, wait.’ Norman sniffed at the ramp. ‘Offal,’ he said, ‘dead meat. The lorries are empty, but whatever was in them dines upon meat.

  ‘Wild animals.’ I was soon at Norman’s side. ‘Set free in the grounds, just in case anyone was to escape the explosion.’

  ‘He didn’t miss a trick, the Doveston, did he?’

  ‘He never left anything to chance.’

  ‘Oh Gawd,’ said Norman and he pointed again. This time out into the night.

  I peered in the direction of his pointing and I didn’t like what I saw.

  There had to be hundreds of them out there. Thousands, perhaps. Lurking where the hall’s light dimmed to night. Lurking on the edge of darkness, as it were.

  Chimeras.

  Fully grown? Half grown? Maybe just a quarter grown. But great big sons of birches none the less. Towering well above the eight foot mark, fanged-mouths opening and closing.

  Chimeras.

  Part sprout. Part basilisk. All predator.

  Actually, if they ever come up with the technology again to make movies and they choose to make one out of this book, that would be great for the trailer. Imagine the bloke with the gravelly voice going, ‘They came from the night. Part sprout. Part basilisk. All predator.’

  Mel Gibson could play me and perhaps Danny de Vito might be persuaded to play Norman.

  ‘What in the name of Meccano are those?’ Norman asked. ‘Are they triffids, or what?’

  ‘They’re what and we’re surrounded and time is running out.’

  ‘They’ll eat us,’ said Norman, shivering horribly. ‘I just know they will.’

  ‘Damn right they will. Norman, think of something.’

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re the one with the inventive mind. Come up with something. Get us out of here.’

  ‘Right,’ said Norman. ‘Right. Okay. Yes. Well, all right. Let’s imagine this is a movie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a movie and famous movie stars are playing us. You’re being played by Danny de Vito and I’m being played by Arnold Schwarzenegger.’

  ‘Norman, we don’t have time for this.’

  ‘No, think. In a situation like this, what would Arnie do?’

  I looked at Norman.

  And Norman looked at me.

  ‘Arnie would drive the big truck,’ I said.

  ‘Into the big truck,’ cried Norman and we made a dash for the cab. We dashed pretty fast, I can tell you. But you do have to hand it to the vegetable kingdom. When it gets the chance to do w
hat it really wants to do, which, as Uncle Jon Peru Joans had told me all those years before, is, ‘get about’, it gets up and about at the hurry-up.

  The chimeras swept towards us: a big green ugly snapping sproutish horde of horrors. We were hardly inside the lorry’s cab before they were all about us, evil tendrils whipping and big teeth going snap snap snap.

  We locked the doors, I can tell you.

  Norman was in the driving seat. ‘Drive,’ I told him. ‘Drive.’

  ‘Where are the keys?’ Norman asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Won’t one of yours fit it?’

  ‘Now you’re just being silly.’

  ‘Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!’ I caught sight of the little dashboard clock. One of those digital jobbies. It read 23:59. ‘OH SHIT!’

  Crack! went the window on my side. Snap snap snap went teeth.

  ‘You drive,’ yelled Norman. ‘I’ll reach down under the dash and hot-wire it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Do you really want me to spend time explaining to you how?’

  ‘No. Just do it.’

  I climbed over Norman and he climbed under me. The crashing and bashing was deafening and the lorry was rocking from side to side. Then the passenger window went and we were in really big trouble.

  Norman was frantically tinkering under the dash. I was clinging to the wheel and wondering just how you drove a big lorry when suddenly everything went a bit green. Very green indeed.

  ‘Aaaaagh! Get it off me!’ Norman kicked and screamed. The cab was a thrashing maelstrom of tendrils, gnashing teeth and really horrible sprouty breath. ‘Aaaaagh!’ wailed Norman. ‘It’s got me. It’s got me.

  And it had got him.

  I tried to beat the thing off, but I couldn’t do much with my fists. There was one of those big sunshield visor things above the wind-screen. I figured that if I could rip that off, I could use it as some kind of weapon. I reached up and tried to tear it loose.

  And guess what? There was a spare set of keys up there, stuck under the sun visor thing. Just like there always was for Arnie.

  ‘Hold on, Norman,’ I shouted. ‘We’re on our way.

  I rammed the key into the ignition. Chose a gear at random and put my foot to the floor. And we went into reverse.