The Parodies Collection

by Adam Roberts

  ‘If you can wait just one minute,’ snapped Sophie, ‘I’ll shoot you dead and the unpleasant sensation will go away.’

  ‘Ah but what if it doesn’t?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ cried Sophie, becoming more furious. ‘You’ll be dead!’

  ‘But whilst I’m still alive . . .’

  ‘Shut,’ said Sophie, loudly, ‘up!’

  ‘Mademoiselle Nudivue,’ said Teabag, ‘if I may just . . . you say that life evolved first of all in the oceans.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie, turning back to Teabag.

  ‘But not intelligent life!’ Teabag objected. ‘Unless you mean dolphins . . .’

  ‘Dolphins!’ sneered Sophie. ‘Intelligent? Hardly. They are the dogs of the marine kingdom: eager, inquisitive, but no more intelligent than puppies.’

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘Think!’ said Sophie, almost savagely. ‘Life has existed on the land for half a billion years. If you travelled back in time to the Triassic period, you would not expect to find intelligent life . . . dinosaurs, primitive mammals, rudimentary beasts, but no intelligence. Why? Because you know instinctively that intelligence takes many millions of years to evolve. This is why modern man is more intelligent than early hominids: because we have had more time to evolve. Time is the key! We don’t know but that in another fifty million years maybe horses will become sapient.’

  ‘Look . . .’ Robert said. ‘Can I hop on the spot for a bit? A little hopping from leg to leg might take my mind off the . . .’

  Sophie ignored him. ‘You know that intelligence is the result of evolution over long stretches of time! You know this! And where did life begin? In the oceans! Which of life’s kingdom’s has had the longest period of uninterrupted evolutionary activity? The oceans! Life has existed there twice as long as it has on land! And if intelligent beings can evolve on land over half a billion years, then does it not follow logically that beings twice as intelligent would have evolved in the oceans in twice the time?’

  ‘I think I see what you’re saying,’ said Teabag. ‘But I think also I see the flaw in your reasoning.’

  ‘There is no flaw! Or did you say floor? Because there is a floor to my reasoning - the very bedrock of truth itself. But no flaw, eff-ell-ay-double-you.’

  ‘The eff-ell-ay-double-you in your logic,’ said Teabag, ‘is that intelligence in an animal must manifest itself – there must be evidence, you know. But where are the marine humanoids? How often do trawlermen dredge up talking creatures? Where are the undersea cities?’

  ‘We are talking,’ said Sophie, a little prissily, ‘about an intelligence far in advance of humanity. Can you imagine how advanced human beings will be in a billion years? Were such a person to travel back through time he or she would seem to us nothing less than a god. You ask where are the cities: I say they are well hidden. You ask why does intelligent sea life not get snagged in fishermen’s nets . . . I say to you, this life is intelligent enough to be able to avoid such a fate.’

  ‘But . . .’ said Teabag, ‘but thinking cod? . . . it beggars belief.’

  ‘More than thinking . . . much more . . . the creatures you call cod are actually beings of transcendental wisdom. They are the gods of this world. They invented computers millions of years ago – why else do you think computers operate in binary code? Has it never occurred to you that a computer invented by a ten-fingered human inventor would operate according to a ten-point code? Computers operate in binary because cod count in binary; not ten fingers but left fin, right fin.’

  ‘Well that’s just bizarre,’ said Robert. ‘And I might just point out, my hands are really tingling really quite a lot now, what with having been held up for so long.’

  ‘They have a plan for us,’ said Sophie. ‘They are guiding us on an upward path. From time to time they release some new piece of technology into the human realm . . . computers are a good example. They are as far above us in intelligence as gods!’

  ‘But human fishermen haul them out of the sea in their millions!’ said Teabag. ‘We eat cod! We turn them into fertilizer, for crying out loud! If cod really were so much more intelligent than us, wouldn’t they stop us?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sophie. ‘But the little fish men take from the oceans – those aren’t fully developed cod. They are more like . . . let us say, like spermatozoa. They throng the oceans in their mindless way; but only one or two of each year’s multitude goes on to develop into a fully adult, intelligent Cod: forty metres long, densely packed with muscle and brain, living in vast cities hidden on the oceanic floor, whose beauty and complexity you cannot even begin to fathom!’

  ‘Sperm?’ repeated Robert, with some distaste, thinking of all the fish fingers he had eaten in his life.

  ‘Do the real Cod care about the loss of so many millions of the immature fish? Do you care if one or two, or even if millions of your spermatozoa are wasted? Of course you do not.’

  ‘But where are these great cities of which you speak?’ demanded Teabag.

  ‘Hidden away from the prying eyes of humans,’ said Sophie. ‘Deep within oceanic trenches at the bottom of the sea.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘This picture,’ said Sophie, turning to look at the painting, ‘if it ever saw the light of day, would lead scholars along the same path that you have yourself trodden. They would uncover the truth about Eda Vinci herself; her membership of the Conspiratus Opi Dei. The secret at the heart of that organisation. The Sacred Equivalence itself. The location of the Holy Grail. That was why I was ordered to find this picture . . . to take it away with me back to Avignon, the European centre of the C.O.D. You can imagine my frustration when, even after torturing and killing Sauna-Lurker, I was still unable to uncover its hiding place! And so I must thank you both . . . without your help I would never have made my way into this secret underground storage space. I pretended to share both your interests and your ignorance; but now that the truth is revealed I must kill you.’

  She pulled the Mona Eda from its place on the wall, and moved it over to the doorway. As her attention was momentarliy diverted Teabag leaned a little way towards Robert. ‘She’s made a fatal mistake! The common error of the criminal mastermind!’ he hissed.

  ‘I used to fancy her, you know,’ Robert whispered back, mournfully. ‘I was going to ask her on a date.’

  ‘She couldn’t resist telling us all about her evil plan! That means she’s given us time to formulate a counterattack! It’s a schoolboy error!’

  ‘A date! Really I was. Not any more though,’ Robert whispered. ‘I’m prepared to put up with a lot in a woman: nagging; poor dental hygiene; uninterest in sports; cuddly toys on the bed. But the one thing I am really not prepared to put up with is trying to kill me. Call me fussy if you like.’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ hissed Teabag. ‘We need to coordinate our counterattack! Before she kills us and gets away with the picture!’

  ‘What counterattack?’

  ‘The one we’ve been formulating whilst she’s been telling us the terrible secret behind her crime!’

  ‘But I haven’t been formulating a plan of counterattack, ’ said Robert. ‘I was too busy listening to what she said, about the Cod being God and living in hidden cities under the ocean with computers and everything. Didn’t you formulate the counterattack plan?’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ hissed Teabag, ‘I really don’t think it’s fair to expect me to do all the work . . . we’re in this pickle together . . .’

  ‘Well what are we going to do?’

  ‘Maybe her talking has occasioned just enough delay for a surprise rescue by a third party - oh no! Here she comes . . .’

  ‘What,’ said Sophie, the gun levelled at the bridge of Robert’s nose, ‘what are you two whispering about?’

  ‘We were just,’ said Teabag, ‘discussing the fascinating details you were just regaling us with.’

  ‘We were,’ said Robert. ‘Talking about fish. Not about planning our escape, o
r anything like that. Definitely about fish.’

  ‘Escape! Hah!’ said Sophie. ‘Escape is impossible, I regret to say.’ She raised her pistol, aimed at Robert, and began squeezing the trigger.

  ‘Wait!’ said Teabag. ‘You can’t shoot us yet! You’ve told us a great deal about the secret of the Conspiratus . . . but not everything. What about the location and indeed the true nature of the Holy Grail? You haven’t told us about that, now, have you? It’d be an awful shame to kill us before telling us that . . .’

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ said Robert. ‘That’s something of a loose end, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘The location of the Holy Grail,’ mused Sophie. She glanced behind her at the picture. ‘Well, I’d love to fill you in. But, truth to tell, I’m a little tired of all this expostulating.’

  She aimed the gun at Teabag and pulled the trigger. Robert dropped his arms and flinched two steps back. The noise in the confined space was so shocking, so ear-punching, like a thick sheet of metal being ripped rapidly into two pieces by gigantic hands, that it seemed to overwhelm him. He staggered on his feet as if he were the one who had been shot, and hid his face in his hands.

  Teabag went down like a fairground target. He had been shot in the stomach.

  Robert, uncoiling from his instinctive flinch, smelt the tang of cordite in the air, and looked to Sophie. Cordite is an explosive propellent made from two chief ingredients, nitrocellulose and nitroglycerin, to which has been added in most common contemporary cordites nitroguanidine. As well as being used in firearms, it has been used as a rocket propellent. The name comes from an early version of the explosive, created by British inventors Sir Frederick Abel and Sir James Dewar, who mixed 58% nitroglycerin, 37% gun-cotton and 5% vaseline in 1889. This material was extruded in spaghetti-like strands during manufacture, and therefore called ‘cord powder’, which was then abbreviated to ‘cordite’. It’s interesting, this, isn’t it? Not that I want to destroy the narrative tension or anything.

  So - Robert looked at Sophie. Her face was impassive. A shoestring of smoke curled upwards from the pistol, catching the electric light along its palely sinuous length. Then he looked down at Teabag. There didn’t seem, at first, to be much blood, although there was a bit of a mess on his waistcoat, near the two bakelite buttons, it didn’t look worse than a bit of dark gravy that might have been splashed onto his front by a careless waiter at his club.

  ‘Teabag!’ he cried, aware as he spoke of how stupid this would sound to somebody coming fresh upon the scene and unaware of the Baronet’s name.

  ‘Oh I’ve been shot,’ groaned Teabag, looking up at the ceiling. This statement seemed to agitate him, for he twitched, grimaced and began to struggle on the floor. ‘Stupid!’ he said. ‘I’m such an idiot! I’m going to die, and is that – really – the best I can do for last words? Idiot!’

  ‘Teabag, don’t exert yourself . . . we’ll get an ambulance,’ said Robert. ‘Lie still and try not to . . .’

  ‘Nobody’s going to put old Teabag into The Oxford Book of Famous Last Words on the basis of “oh I’ve been shot” are they?’ fretted Teabag. Blood was coming out of his nose. He tried to turn on his side, but the pain made him gasp and cry, and he slumped back onto his spine. ‘Oh this is most provoking,’ he said. ‘It really is.’

  ‘Teabag, please be quiet,’ urged Robert. He started towards the supine Baronet, but stopped at a single shake of Sophie’s head, and the sight of the gun aimed squarely at his own midriff. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say anything else. Lie still!’

  ‘I’ve had a whole lifetime to think up some really interestin’ famous last words, and all I can manage is “oh I’ve been shot”. It’s pathetic!’

  ‘Come now my dear friend,’ said Robert. He surprised himself; for tears were itching in his own eyes. Blood was much more evident now; expanding blackly onto the floor like ink being fed by capillary into a stretch of blotting paper. The dust of the old storage space seemed to be sucking Teabag’s blood up with unpleasant eagerness. ‘Come now, “oh I’ve been shot” aren’t your last words. You’ve said several things since you said “oh I’ve been shot”. Your last words after all are the last things you say. That’s true by definition.’

  ‘I suppose that’s right,’ said Teabag, in a milder voice, a little mollified. A painterly line of red came out of each nostril, and veered away from the mouth to mark a passage down the side of the Baronet’s head. Then he convulsed again, his face rictusing in disgust. ‘But, but that’s worse - now my last words will be I suppose that’s right – that’s not any better than oh I’ve been shot. In fact it’s much worse. That’s so insipid! I mean how likely is it that in future centuries people will say to one another, “you know Herbert, twenty-seventh Baronet Teabag? His last words were I suppose that’s right.” It’s not memorable is it – hurgh! Hurgh! Hurgh!’ He did not, I should add for the sake of clarity, say those last three words. They are intended to represent his coughing, coughing which not only put his lungs into spasm, but produced spatters of bespittled blood from his mouth. ‘Oh why can’t I think of famous last words worthy of me?’ he gasped.

  ‘That’s it!’ said Robert, eagerly. ‘Those will do! They’re perfect – clever and self-referential, simultaneously representative of the high standards of your inquiring mind, and also of the postmodern logic of contemporary existence in which it is not the profundity of a statement but its deconstructed irony that embodies the spirit of the age. “Oh why can’t I think of famous last words worthy of me?” works brilliantly as an ironic commentary on the impossibility of profound statement in the postmodern world.’ Teabag started to say something else, but Robert cut across him. ‘No, don’t say anything else, old boy. Don’t spoil the moment . . . you’ve come up with the ideal last words.’

  Teabag groaned.

  ‘Not another word, my friend,’ said Robert, forcefully. ‘I insist.’

  And so Teabag didn’t say anything else. As it happens, ever again.

  An unnatural silence settled into the little space.

  Robert turned to Sophie. ‘You monster!’ he said, heatedly. ‘You’ve killed a Baronet!’ His outrage momentarily overcame his natural timidity. ‘I won’t let you get away with this,’ he vowed. ‘I’ll make sure that—’

  Sophie shot him.

  Robert Donglan’s first sensation was one of surprise and indignation rather than pain. It felt as if somebody had thwacked him very hard in the solar plexus with a baseball bat. Or a ‘cricket racquet’, the large wooden racquet not unlike a thickened baseball bat used in the game of cricket, a game with which, as an Englishman, Robert was obviously well acquainted.

  He was sitting down on the hard floor. He couldn’t remember sitting down, and yet down he was. The blow to his stomach had winded him, and the breath wasn’t coming into his lungs very well. He was looking up at Sophie now as she stood over him. He was aware of the coldness of the stone floor beneath his thighs; he could feel it through the rather thin material of his trousers. There was a wetness soaking into that same fabric, touching his right leg with a sensation of rather clammy moisture. He still couldn’t seem to draw a breath. He must have sat down into the pool of blood that had spilled from Teabag’s wound. Except, putting his hand to his stomach he encountered a whole mess of wetness, throbbing out and pouring down into his lap and down each leg. So he had probably sat down in his own blood.

  He wanted to say ‘that’s not good’, but didn’t have the breath for it. The blow to the back of his head puzzled him. But he realised, with a little thought, that he had slumped backwards from his sitting position, and was now lying on his back. And that was the last thing he remembered.

  25

  Robert drifted in and out of consciousness. A sensation of pain grew in his gut, magnifying from ache to intense discomfort. He tried to sit up, but the wrenching of torn muscle and shredded nerve-ending resounded agonisingly through his whole system. He gasped, and moaned. Everything was dark, woozily saturated wi
th pain. He felt acutely thirsty. Everything blurred and went away, but even in a state that could by no means be described as conscious Robert was aware of the extraordinary pain in his gut. It howled through his body.

  He regained consciousness again. There was a voice – somebody he recognised. In his shattered and agonised state it took him a moment to understand who was speaking. Father Hook! The priest had regained consciousness, and had followed the clues to the National Gallery. He had come to rescue them.

  ‘Teabag!’ Robert heard the priest exclaim ‘And you – the other chap, whose name I’m afraid I’ve forgotten, although to be fair to me I only met you for the first time this evening! Both shot? Alas – I’ve arrived too late!’

  Robert heard a second voice; the melodious, slightly lilting, barely francoaccented voice of Sophie. ‘I’m afraid you have, Father Hook. Too late for them. Too late for you!’

  Robert could see nothing. Everything was a dark blur. He felt so abominably thirsty. His head was faint, and chimed hideously with the pain in his gut.

  ‘You!’ he heard the priest exclaim, somewhere a few yards away that was also a million million miles distant. If you see what I mean.

  ‘Yes,’ came Sophie’s voice. ‘Me.’

  ‘So it was you that murdered Jacques! And now you’ve finished off Teabag and the other one! You fiend!’

  Sophie only laughed.

  Robert could feel consciousness slipping away. He held on to his thoughts, fighting the slippage into the void. He had to help Hook in some way! Warn him . . .

  ‘But why did you kill them all?’ demanded Hook. ‘Tell me why?’

  ‘Well,’ said Sophie. ‘I could explain it all. Actually, I’d quite like to. Only I’ve already explained the whole shebang to those two . . . and now that they’re dead I’m wondering to myself why I bothered. I mean, it takes quite a time to say it all, and now my mouth is all dry. So I’m afraid I won’t be able to explain anything to you before I . . .’

  The sound of the shot jarred Robert awake. It was immediately followed by the sound of a body slumping onto the floor.