A Dog Called Demolition

by Robert Rankin

He had had a change. This was true.

  Two changes, in fact.

  But they hadn’t got him anywhere.

  And the second one had been positively terrifying.

  ‘I wonder why that Audrey’s left foot was all bandaged up,’ Danny wondered. (Because, as yet, he did not know about the particular significance bandaged left feet were to play.)

  And he didn’t actually care much, either.

  He puffed upon Mickey’s cigarette and thought about things.

  He was going to have to earn some money to pay off Mickey’s bar tab. And in order to do that, he would have to take a job. But taking a job is the last thing a young man of resourcefulness and talent should ever have to do. A young man of resourcefulness and talent should live off his wits, play the field, wheel and deal and things of that nature. But was Danny a young man of resourcefulness and talent.

  ‘It looks like I’ll have to take a job,’ said Danny.

  Which pleased him not.

  ‘No,’ said Danny. ‘Stuff that. I know exactly what I’m going to do.’

  And he did.

  Gathering himself to his feet, Danny took his leave of Mickey Merlin’s converted hut. He left a note. It said, HAVE GONE TO GET MONEY TO PAY OFF YOUR BAR TAB AND COMPENSATE YOU FOR YOUR LEFT FOOT. GET WELL SOON. DANNY.

  The note was written in capital letters and it was full of good intentions.

  In the light of what would later happen to Danny, it might be argued that it was not a ‘good’ note. A ‘good’ note would have been one which read, HAVE GONE TO SEEK EMPLOYMENT AND – etc, etc. The difference is subtle, but significant.

  If Danny had gone to seek employment, then he would never have become embroiled (which is a ‘good’ word, embroiled) in the series of matters and incidents and intrigues and conspiracies and adventures and dangers and hair-raising how’s-your-fathers that he did, in fact, become embroiled in.

  And so there would have been no story to tell.

  Not even one which did not have a beginning, a middle or an end.

  But Danny did not go to seek employment.

  So embroiled did he become.

  Oh yes!

  7

  He that dies pays all debts.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, (1564 - 1616)

  The Tempest, 1610

  THE SPROUT FILES

  Now, they do things differently in America.

  In America, if you were invited to attend a top-secret meeting, a chap who looked like Gary Busey would beat upon your door at about five o’clock in the morning.

  He would be wearing a dark suit and mirrored sunglasses and when you opened your door, he would clap a gun to your head, frisk your pyjamas for hidden weapons, then bundle you into a black Lincoln Continental.

  You would then be driven out to an airfield, endure further frisking at the hands of a chap who looked just like the first chap’s twin brother and then be bundled into an unmarked light aircraft.

  This aircraft would fly you to a desert, where yet a third Gary Busey lookalike would be waiting. There would be a bit more frisking, followed by another bundling and then a long ride in an old bus with blacked-out windows.

  Eventually you would arrive, still in your pyjamas, somewhat hungry (although well frisked and bundled), at a high-security air base in the very middle of nowhere.

  Here the frisking would be of an electronic nature and a guard, who looked for all the world to be none other than the ever-popular Gary Busey himself, would scan you all over with a sort of wire coat-hanger device.

  If he pronounced you ‘clear’, you would be allowed to proceed further. If not, all your fillings would probably have to come out. But if you were allowed to proceed further, then it would be along numerous metal-clad corridors, through countless security checks and steel doors which only opened to the application of Gary’s special plastic card. Then down in a lift to what seemed the very bowels of the earth.

  At last you would receive your final bit of bundling and find yourself in a narrow, windowless room, where men with hooded eyes would be sitting at a long black table.

  Whatever happened then, of course, would be anyone’s guess because it would be top secret. But it is reasonable to suppose that some frisking might well be involved.

  In England, however, we do not do things differently.

  In England we do them the same as we always have.

  In England, if you were asked to attend a top-secret meeting, you would probably receive a letter in the post. You’d take the Underground (or a taxi, if you weren’t short of a few bob), to one of those big official-looking buildings in the heart of London. Most likely the one with the brass plaque outside which reads MINISTRY FOR SECRET AFFAIRS (in capital letters, but very smart ones).

  You’d walk up the steps, past a chap in a commisionaire’s uniform, who was the dead-spit of Lionel Jeffreys. This chap would salute you and give the revolving doors a little push to help you on your way.

  A rather attractive lady of middle years would peruse your letter of invitation, smile enticingly and direct you to the lift. Here the lift attendant (surely the commissionaire’s doppelgänger) would whisk you up at a sedate three miles per hour to the third or fourth floor.

  He would then escort you to the appropriate door and knock on your behalf, tipping his cap and politely refusing the small gratuity you offered him.

  The top-secret meeting room would have a very familiar air to it. It would be broad and high and panelled in oak. There would be a framed portrait of Her Majesty the Queen, a few busts of noble Victorians and a couple of overstuffed leather Chesterfields. A grand-looking desk with a blotter and brass trough lamp would stand before Gothic mullioned windows which looked out onto a view of Big Ben and The Houses of Parliament.

  The chap who sat behind this desk would not look like Lionel Jeffreys. He would look like Gary Busey and he would demand to know why you were still wearing your pyjamas.

  You would smile and attempt to explain that you weren’t really there at all. That, in fact, all the foregoing had merely been a literary device to demonstrate a difference between the English and the American way of doing things.

  Gary would laugh and turn into a lobster. You would be frisked, injected with strange, mind-altering drugs and wake up hours later in Portmerion, wearing a blazer and a badge with a penny-farthing on it, all set to star in a thirteen-part television series that no-one could understand. But that would be really really good.

  So, absolutely no change there then!

  America may have the edge on us when it comes to secret air bases in the middle of deserts, but if weird shit is your Trust House Forte, then it’s England every time.

  ‘Good-morning, Mr Vrane.’ The gentleman behind the grand-looking desk rose to greet the young man who had entered the top-secret room. ‘I trust your journey here was without incident.’

  ‘I took the Underground.’ The young man’s voice was the merest whisper, he put out a hand and the gentleman behind the desk shook it. It was one of those special handshakes, but then they always are, aren’t they?

  The gentleman reseated himself and indicated a choice of Chesterfields. The young man sat down upon the nearest.

  The gentleman behind the desk was a squat and girth-some body.

  Those areas of his clothing which were neither black nor white were both, being pin-striped. His face had the colour of Budgens’ economy ham. A hue which is found nowhere else, except possibly in a certain region of Tasmania where white men fear to tread. The gentleman wore moustachios beneath his nose and a toupee on his head. A monocle served as an optical aid and a Salmon-Odie ball-and-socket truss offered him all the support he needed. Even on the hottest of days.

  The young man was a different kettle of carp altogether. He was tall and sleek and high of cheek-bone. Sharp white suit, sharp white shirt, sharp white shoes. His nose was sharp and it was white. His eyes were black. All of them, including the white bits. And his teeth. They were utterly black. But he had arrange
d to have them done later in the day. So no-one was going to notice.

  ‘Parton Vrane.’ The gentleman leafed through a buff-coloured folder which contained many sheets of buff-coloured paper. ‘Very impressive credentials. And completely remodified, I see.’

  ‘Fully armoured.’ The young man tapped at his chest with a bony knuckle, raising sounds such as might be raised from the striking of a cracked bell (though not a particularly large one. Perhaps about ten inches across and made of brass). ‘I can pass for human any day of the week.’

  ‘And your genus?’

  ‘Blattodea,’ said Parton Vrane.

  The gentleman consulted his buff-coloureds. ‘That’s cockroach, isn’t it?’

  The young man made agitated rattling sounds with his fingers but his voice remained soft and without the vaguest hint of emotion. ‘Blatta Orientalis, oriental cockroach, or black beetle,’ he said.

  ‘Quite so. Well, you’re a splendid specimen, Mr Vrane. You’re booked in to have your teeth bleached at two, I understand.’

  ‘And the eye modifications done.’ Parton Vrane blinked. His eyelids rose from beneath, covering the all-black eyes. It was a rather alarming sight.

  ‘Yes, I think that’s most essential.’ The gentleman coughed politely and moved papers about on his desk. ‘Now, you are aware of exactly what your mission entails?’

  The young man, if such he was (which now seems rather doubtful), nodded. ‘Seek and destroy,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, no. It has been so up until now, but on this particular occasion we wish you to seek and contain.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ whispered Parton Vrane. ‘My kind are bred by your kind, specifically to destroy their kind. Such is the way it has always been.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’ve been having a bit of a rethink about all that. You have read the files I sent you?’

  ‘The Sprout Files?’

  ‘Samuel Oliver Sprout, yes. We don’t know how he discovered the existence of the creatures we call the riders. They got to him before we could. We know his left foot was involved and we know they sent the dog.’

  ‘The same dog?’

  ‘It’s always the same dog.’

  ‘And you want me to contain that?’ Parton Vrane’s voice was soft and cool as ever.

  ‘My chaps will issue you with the wherewithal.’

  ‘If your chaps have the wherewithal, why not send them?’

  ‘Because, my dear Vrane, my chaps can’t see the damn creatures, can they? We cannot see into that range of the spectrum, unlike your good self. If we human beings could see the damn things, then we wouldn’t be in all this trouble now.’ The gentleman’s face suddenly took on a worried expression and he flapped his hands above his head. ‘I am still clear, aren’t I?’ he asked in an anguished tone. ‘There isn’t one of those things on me?’

  Parton Vrane studied the air above the gentleman’s head. ‘You are still clear,’ he said. ‘If one of them was riding on you it would be controlling your thoughts, you would never have called me to this meeting.’

  The gentleman regained his composure. ‘My apologies,’ said he. ‘It’s just, that, well, when you know they’re there, waiting to pounce on you–’

  ‘I’m sure it must be very distressing. I would offer you sympathy, but, as you know, I do not possess any.’

  ‘Quite so.’ The gentleman shuffled further papers, made a stiff upper lip and an even stiffer lower one to join it. ‘Containment,’ said he. ‘The department is assigning you the role of the dog-catcher. We want this particular beastie caught alive.’

  ‘To what possible end? These creatures are parasites, vermin; they feed off human emotions. I have been bred and trained to seek out the worst of them, those which pose a positive threat, and, where possible, destroy them. That is what I do, and rather well too, even if I do say so myself.’

  The gentleman raised an eyebrow and his monocle fell out. Had there been a flicker of human emotion present in Vrane’s remark? A smidgenette of pride, perhaps? ‘Look,’ he said. ‘My chaps have been working on a containment strategy. We want to put an end to this dismal business once and for all, wipe out all these beasties at a single stroke.’

  ‘A sort of inter-dimensional ethnic cleansing?’

  The gentleman, who had been refitting his monocle, raised his eyebrow once more and lost it once again. Was that sarcasm? ‘Was that sarcasm?’ he asked.

  ‘I have no concept of sarcasm. But surely the riders have existed upon this planet for as long as mankind. They share the same space, although they are not composed of the same matter. You can only hope to keep the worst of them at bay.’

  ‘Just bring me the dog,’ said the gentleman, ‘and leave the rest to us. We will provide you with the wherewithal.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Parton Vrane composed his fingers on his lap. Their joints bent curiously back upon themselves. Aware that this was unacceptable he thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Speak to me of this wherewithal,’ he said.

  The gentleman opened a desk drawer, brought out an item and pushed it across his blotter.

  ‘And that is it?’ asked Parton Vrane.

  ‘That is it.’

  ‘But it is—’

  ‘A hammer, Mr Vrane. Find out whoever the dog has entered, bop him on the head and bring him here. What could possibly be simpler?’

  ‘To smash him repeatedly upon the head until his skull has caved in and his brains are reduced to jelly, killing him and therefore the parasite that feeds upon him. That could be simpler. Far simpler.’

  ‘Quite so.’ The gentleman idly turned the hammer back and forth upon his blotter. Then without any warning he snatched it up and flung it at the head of Parton Vrane.

  Vrane did not move a muscle. He possessed no muscles to move. But within his head neurofibril webs cross-matted, registered the speed of the approaching object, gauged its mass and damage potential. As if in slow motion he withdrew his left hand from its pocket, raised it and plucked the hammer out of the air. He returned both hand and hammer to pocket in the twinkling of an all-black eye with a retractable lower lid.

  ‘Impressive.’ The gentleman smiled. ‘Where did it go?’

  ‘Left jacket pocket.’ Parton Vrane displayed the hammer.

  ‘I never saw you catch it.’

  ‘We see things at a different speed, as you know full well.’

  ‘I do. So, Mr Vrane, time you were on your way. Teeth to bleach, eyes to dye and lids to rearrange.’

  ‘Seek and contain?’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  ‘I think,’ said Parton Vrane, ‘that you are making a very grave mistake.’

  ‘I do not recall you being asked to think,’ said the gentleman in a most ungentlemanly manner. ‘I only recall you being ordered to serve.’

  ‘I will do my duty.’

  ‘See that you do.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  And that was the end of the secret meeting.

  Outré? Bizarre? Outlandish? Totally incomprehensible and downright stupid? Call it what you will. But it goes to show, if it goes to show anything, that Britannia still rules the waves when it comes down to good old-fashioned weird shit. And it’s early days yet.

  8

  Dog days: The period between 3 July and 11 August, when Sirius the dog-star rises and sets with our sun. These are the hottest days, when dogs and men become a little mad.

  Anybody who hates children and dogs can’t be all bad.

  W. C. FIELDS (1880-1946

  SO WAS THE TITANIC

  (Those who have ever entered the gents’ toilet in a public house will recognize this phrase, which is inevitably scratched onto the contraceptive dispensing machine just below the British Standard’s Kite Mark. It always gets a big laugh.)

  As Danny entered The Shrunken Head a great roar of applause went up.

  Danny stared about the empty bar. It was, well, deserted. Danny looked to left and ri
ght. A ripple of chucklings reached his ear. He took a step back, went out of the pub and then came back in again.

  This time gales of laughter filled the air.

  Danny spun around in circles, fists raised. ‘Who’s doing that? Who’s there?’

  Further laughter.

  ‘Come on out, where are you hiding?’

  More laughter still.

  Then silence.

  Sandy, the sandy-haired landlord stuck his head up from beneath the counter. His head wore a merry smile upon its face. ‘What do you reckon, eh?’ he asked. ‘Is it good, or is it good?’

  Danny said, ‘What?’ and, ‘Eh, what?’ also.

  ‘Canned laughter.’ The barman displayed a remote controller in his hand. He gave it a flip.

  ‘Canned laughter?’ Danny asked. And canned laughter echoed all around.

  ‘Brilliant, eh?’ The landlord gave the controller another flip and laid it on the bar counter. ‘I got the idea while watching TV. There was this series about a bar in America and they must have had one of these things fitted, because every time anybody said anything, whether it was funny or not, and it was mostly not, I can tell you, great guffaws of laughter went up. And I thought, Sod it, if the Yanks have it in their bars, why shouldn’t we have it in ours?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny, ‘but—’

  ‘Voice activated, you see. Must be how theirs works.’

  ‘No,’ said Danny. ‘It’s—’

  ‘I’m going to put a sign up outside. You know the kind of thing, FORGET KARAOKE, FORGET QUIZ NIGHTS (that big fat medium woman wins all those anyway), THE SHRUNKEN HEAD’S LAUGHTER BAR WELCOMES YOU. In capital letters like that, except for the bit in brackets, which is what they call an “aside”. Pretty smart, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny. ‘I mean, no—’

  ‘Well, make up your mind. Is it yes?’ The barman flipped the controller and laughter rolled about the place. ‘Or no? Hootings of mirth went every-which-way.

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Danny. ‘I may not be drinking in here much longer, I am expecting to come into a great deal of money.’