The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

by Robert Rankin

Then Jack drove on some more.

  ‘So what about this second murder?’ Jack asked once again. ‘Do you have any theories?’

  ‘We haven’t visited the crime scene yet. We’ll get some lunch first and see about fixing you up with a disguise.’

  ‘Disguise?’ Jack asked. ‘Why do I need a disguise?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Eddie. ‘You do need a disguise.’

  At Eddie’s bidding, Jack brought Bill’s car to a wheel-shrieking halt, which raised an impressive shower of sparks that Eddie wasn’t impressed by.

  ‘You’ve worn out the tyres,’ he told Jack.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack. ‘So where are we?’

  ‘At my chum Wibbly’s.’

  ‘And Wibbly runs a restaurant?’ Jack peered out through the windscreen. They were not in the swankiest part of town. The buildings, although constructed in the vernacular Alphabet brick that typified the architecture of Toy City, had that faded, tired look to them, which told Jack that this wasn’t one of the better neighbourhoods.

  Jack made disdainful sniffings with his nose. ‘Not a gourmet restaurant then? Do you not have any posh, rich friends, Eddie?’

  The bear did not dignify this with a reply.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack, once again. ‘So what does your chum Wibbly do?’

  ‘Well.’ Eddie pushed open the passenger door. ‘He used to be a professional wobbler, but since the accident, he doesn’t do much of anything.’

  Jack climbed from the car and leaned upon the bonnet. ‘But he does have food in his fridge?’

  ‘Fridge?’ Eddie rolled his button eyes, which really had to be seen to be believed. ‘Just follow me, Jack. And when you meet Wibbly, try not to look shocked by his appearance.’

  ‘This sounds promising,’ said Jack, and he followed Eddie.

  Wibbly inhabited a basement flat, but of course it wasn’t referred to as a basement flat. No one who actually lives in a basement flat ever refers to it as a basement flat. It’s just not done. People who live in basement flats refer to their flats as garden flats. So Wibbly lived in a garden flat. Though without a garden. Or indeed, any windows.

  Which made it a cellar, really.

  The cellar steps had been boarded over to form a steep wooden ramp. Jack struggled down this, attempting to maintain his balance. Eddie gave up the unequal struggle and simply tumbled to the bottom.

  Jack helped Eddie up. ‘It doesn’t smell too good down here. Somewhat ripe, shall we say.’

  ‘Just be polite,’ said Eddie. ‘Wibbly is my friend. And please try not to look shocked when you see him.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Jack. ‘Would I let you down?’

  ‘Knock at the knocker.’

  ‘You’re nearest,’ said Jack.

  The door was low, the knocker was low. Eddie knocked at the knocker.

  Knock knock knock, went Eddie Bear. ‘Just smile and be polite,’ he said to Jack.

  ‘Just trust me. I won’t let you down.’

  From beyond the door came creaking sounds, and sounds that were, for the most part, new to Jack. He recognised the basic creakings, but the subtle nuances of the scranchings and the endulating shugs had him cocking his head upon one side.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Eddie. ‘It makes you look like a complete gormster.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack, and he straightened his neck.

  ‘And be polite.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  The door eased open a crack and a beady eye peeped out.

  ‘Wibbly,’ said Eddie Bear.

  ‘Eddie Bear,’ said Wibbly.

  Wibbly swung wide the door.

  ‘Aaaagh!’ screamed Jack. ‘It’s a monster.’

  Jack was counselled to stay out of sight whilst Eddie engaged in sensitive negotiations through the letterbox. Much emphasis was put on the fact that Jack was a bumpkin from out of town, all but bereft of intelligence and given to sudden unexpected outbursts. But he was a harmless, simple soul, whom Eddie had taken under his wing.

  Out of sight, Jack stewed over this. But the thought of stew made him ever more hungry. And so he suffered in silence.

  Presently Wibbly, brought almost to the point of tears by Eddie’s pleas for mercy on behalf of the poor simpleton, allowed the two of them in.

  Eddie made Jack promise once more to be polite.

  Jack made Eddie go first.

  The ‘sub-level’ apartment – apparently Wibbly preferred this term to ‘cellar’ – was ‘economically furnished’. Which is to say that there wasn’t much furniture at all.

  There weren’t any chairs, but then, why would there have been? Wibbly couldn’t sit down.

  Wibbly was one of those wibbly wobbly toys with legless, convex bottom portions, filled up with lead shot that could be endlessly battered backwards and forwards, only to roll upright again and again and again.

  Until they finally broke.

  It wasn’t easy to break them, as they were made of stern and durable stuff. But a child has a lot of time on its hands. And a determined child can break anything, even an anvil, if he or she is determined enough.

  Wibbly still wobbled and wouldn’t fall down.

  But he lacked for a lot of his head.

  He possessed a degree of face, located on the left-hand side. But much of his head was merely void. He had a dangling eye and a row of exposed teeth. He was not a thing of joy to gaze upon.

  ‘Wibbly, this is Jack,’ said Eddie. ‘Say hello to Wibbly, Jack.’

  Jack made the face of a simpleton and did that thing with his hands that people do when impersonating simpletons, that thing which is no longer considered politically correct, but which people still do anyway, because it makes other people laugh. Particularly when the doer and the viewers have all had a few drinks.

  ‘What a complete gormster,’ said Wibbly. ‘Looks like he’s been taking a swim in that dry-clean-only trenchcoat. Why did you bring him here, Eddie?’

  Jack looked on in morbid fascination as the exposed teeth rose and fell and half a tongue waggled between them. How could this thing speak? How could it move? It was all but hollow. Jack shook his head. There was some big secret here, in this strange city. Some big secret.

  Mr Anders, the kindly, loveable white-haired old toymaker, had to be the brains behind it all. He had to be the one who held the Big Secret. Jack wondered whether Mr Anders might be looking for an apprentice. Working for him and learning the Big Secret would be infinitely preferable to knocking about in dark cellars, conversing with fractured wobbly men and having to impersonate a dullard.

  Infinitely preferable!

  ‘He’s Bill’s cousin,’ said Eddie, smiling towards Jack. ‘I’m looking after him while Bill’s on his holidays.’

  ‘Holidays?’ said Wibbly, revolving on his axis, which afforded Jack a view of his all-but-hollow head. ‘The word on the street is—’

  ‘I don’t care what the word on the street is.’ Eddie tried to fold his arms, but, as ever, failed. ‘Bill will be back. But until he is, I’m dealing with his case. And Jack here is helping me.’

  ‘Just what this city needs, another Jack.’ Wibbly wobbled (but he didn’t fall down).

  ‘What of this?’ asked Jack.

  ‘The city does suffer from a surfeit of Jacks,’ Eddie explained. ‘There’s a Jack B. Nimble, and Jack of Jack and Jill, and Jack Spratt.’

  ‘And Little Jack Horner,’ said Wibbly.

  ‘And Big Jack Black,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Who’s Big Jack Black?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Another Preadolescent Poetic Personality.’ Eddie sat down on Wibbly’s floor.

  ‘Well, I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. Because he never got famous. He’s one of the sorry few meatheads whose nursery rhymes never caught on.’

  Jack did sniffings. ‘So why did Big Jack Black’s rhyme never catch on?’ he asked.

  Wibbly chuckled loudly. The sound echoed up from his hollow belly and, had there b
een windows, would surely have rattled them. ‘Recite it, Eddie,’ he said to the bear. ‘You can remember it, can’t you?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Eddie. ‘It goes like this:

  ‘Big Jack Black

  ‘Lived in a sack, ‘Lived in a sack did he.

  ‘He dined upon cripples,

  ‘And little boys’ nipples,

  ‘Served upon toast for his tea.’

  ‘ ’Nuff said, I think,’ said Wibbly.

  Jack shook his head once more and his stomach grumbled loudly.

  ‘Nice grumbling.’ Wibbly offered Jack half a smile, for it was all he possessed. ‘Your belly’s as empty as my own. I generally have a bucket or two of lead shot at this time of day. Perhaps you’d care to join me?’

  ‘I don’t think that would agree with my digestion,’ said Jack.

  ‘He’s fussy. For a loon,’ said Wibbly.

  ‘Don’t wind the lad up, Wibbly,’ said Eddie. ‘Give him some bread and milk or something.’

  ‘Anything edible will do,’ said Jack.

  Wibbly had some bread, which was not altogether hard, if you left the crusts. And some milk that wasn’t altogether evil-smelling, if you didn’t smell it too closely. And even some cradberry jam that wasn’t altogether unspeakable, if you didn’t speak about it and took the trouble to scrape the fur off the top.

  Jack, who had now reached the point where he was prepared to eat almost anything, ate almost everything. With relish.

  But without relish, as there wasn’t any relish.

  Eddie ate what was left of the jam. Including the furry bits. ‘I don’t know what it is about jam,’ he said, wiping a paw over his now jammy face. ‘I can’t stand honey, but I do love jam.’

  ‘Nonconformist,’ said Wibbly, ladling lead shot in through the hole in his head. ‘So what have you really come for, Eddie? It wasn’t just for a free lunch.’

  ‘Well, it was.’ Eddie had his paw now stuck in the jam pot. ‘But it was also for a bit of information and a small favour or two.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Wibbly.

  Eddie smiled. And struggled.

  ‘To ponce off,’ said Wibbly.

  ‘Oh, come on, Wibbly.’ Eddie now fought to free his paw. ‘Remember that it was Bill who found you this place and built you the ramp down the stairs and …’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Wibbly. ‘And I look after his dodgy gear and everything.’

  ‘You store certain sensitive items.’ Eddie rolled around on the floor, fighting with the jam pot. Jack, who could bear no more of it, eased out Eddie’s paw and helped him back to his feet.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Eddie. ‘Friendship, see.’

  ‘Dullards don’t count,’ said Wibbly. ‘Dullards will befriend anyone who feeds them. But go on, what do you want?’

  ‘A disguise for the dullard.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack. ‘This disguise business again. I like the trenchcoat and the fedora.’

  ‘You’re going under cover. You need a disguise.’

  ‘I don’t want a disguise.’

  ‘He doesn’t want a disguise,’ said Wibbly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jack.

  ‘He wants a smack,’ said Wibbly. ‘Shall I give him one? I used to be red-hot at head-butts. But, you know how it is.’

  ‘I don’t want a disguise,’ said Jack once again.

  ‘He does want a disguise,’ said Eddie. ‘From Bill’s trunk.’

  ‘He’d look good as a clown,’ said Wibbly with another hollow chuckle.

  ‘I thought, a whore,’ said Eddie.

  ‘What?’ said Jack.

  ‘Only joking,’ said Eddie. ‘Actually, I thought you’d look best as a gentleman.’

  ‘A gentleman?’ Jack preened at his trenchcoat lapels. ‘I like the sound of that. Will I have a dandy cane and an eyeglass and everything?’

  ‘The dullard is truly a dullard,’ said Wibbly, chuckling once again.

  ‘I said, a gentleman,’ said Eddie, ‘not a fop, although—’ He winked at Wibbly. Wibbly winked back with his dangling eye. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  ‘Okay,’ said the wobbly one. ‘I’ll get him kitted out from the trunk. What else did you want, Eddie?’

  Eddie looked up at Jack. ‘It’s a personal matter,’ he said. ‘We can discuss it whilst Jack is changing.’

  ‘Follow me then, Jack,’ said Wibbly. And he led Jack from the room, his convex bottom making sounds upon the floor that Jack now recognised.

  Wibbly returned presently to the company of Eddie, who spoke to him in hushed and urgent tones.

  Presently still, Jack returned to the company of Wibbly and Eddie, was soundly mocked and laughed at for his choice of costume and was then led from the room once more by Wibbly.

  Presently presently still, Wibbly returned to the company of Eddie, in the company of Jack, who now cut something of a dash. Not to say a sprint. Or even a full-pelt run.

  ‘Natty,’ said Eddie. ‘As natty as. Give us a twirl then, Jack.’

  ‘Pretty smooth, eh?’ said he.

  Jack looked more than pretty smooth. Jack looked truly magnificent. He wore the costume of a dandy: a pale pink frock-coat, with quilted lapels and ruffled cuffs; a cloth-of-gold waistcoat with bright jewelled buttons; white silk stockings, fastened at the knees, beneath red velvet pantaloons. Buckled shoes and a natty cravat completed this pretty-as-a-picture.

  ‘He’ll certainly be noticed,’ said Wibbly.

  ‘That’s the intention,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jack. ‘Is it? I thought the disguise was for undercover work.’

  ‘I’ll explain everything to you on the way.’

  ‘I wish you luck,’ said Wibbly. ‘Shall I look after the trenchcoat and fedora and whatnots?’

  ‘We’ll take them with us,’ said Jack.

  ‘We will,’ said Eddie. ‘Thanks for everything, my friend.’

  Wibbly smiled and wobbled.

  But he still didn’t fall down.

  ‘I didn’t like him at all,’ said Jack, back at the wheel of the car. ‘He’s a very scary individual.’

  ‘I think he’s very level-headed, considering he only has half a head to be level with. I wonder how well you’d get on with only half a head.’

  ‘I’d be dead,’ said Jack. ‘And better off that way.’

  ‘Just drive the car, Jack.’

  ‘To the crime scene?’

  ‘I’ll point the way, and promise me you’ll drive carefully this time.’

  ‘I promise you,’ said Jack, putting his buckle-shoed foot down hard.

  9

  For those who are unacquainted with the career of Little Boy Blue subsequent to his period of employment as a somnambulant shepherd, a period notable only for his inactivity, exemplified by his famous haystack slumberings, which permitted his untended sheep to carouse in the meadows whilst his cows laid pats amongst the corn; a brief history follows.

  According to his best-selling autobiography, I May be Blue, but I’m Always in the Black, his rags-to-riches rise was an overnight affair, with his self-penned rhyme going straight into the charts at Number One, toppling Mary Mary, who had held the position for fourteen consecutive weeks.

  This is not altogether true, firstly because Mary Mary did not achieve her own fame until several years later, and secondly because Boy Blue did not write his own lyrics.

  They were the work of a professional rhymester by the name of Wheatley Porterman, whose distinctive lyrical style can be discerned in several other ‘self-penned’ classics of the genre, Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie and There was an old woman who lived in a shoe (the house version), to name but two.

  Wheatley Porterman’s gift was for identifying social problems, which he set in verse that touched the public’s imagination, in the case of Boy Blue, the scandal of child labour in rural areas which drove underage shepherds to exhaustion.

  With Georgie Porgie, it was sexual harassment in the playground, by teachers aga
inst schoolgirls, Porgie being an overweight geography teacher whose notorious behaviour had previously gone unreported, due to his connections in high places.

  Regarding There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, Wheatley’s finger was once more unerringly upon the button of the public conscience. Whether there actually was an old woman who lived in a shoe and had so many children that she didn’t know what to do remains in some doubt. Wheatley asserted that she was allegorical: a cipher, or symbol, for the hideous overcrowding in certain inner city areas.

  A consultation with the curator of The Hall of Nearly All the Records discloses that the rhyme is registered as the ‘exclusive property of Old Woman Inc.’, the chairman and sole shareholder in Old Woman Inc. being one W. Porterman, Esq.

  But be this all as it may (and well may it all be too), Little Boy Blue, either in partnership with Wheatley, or under contract to him, claimed to have written the rhyme himself. And a world which didn’t care much either way, but appreciated celebrity for the sake of celebrity alone, took his claims at face value.

  Within weeks of sleeping rough beneath haystacks and smelling strongly of sheep dung, the Boy had made it to the big time. His trademark shepherd’s smock, now blue silk, with pearls upon the cuffs, was adopted as the fashion look of the year (blue, as ever, being the new black, when some other colour isn’t having its turn).

  His establishment of an exclusive haute couture fashion house, Oh Boy!, was inevitable. In less time, it seemed, than it took to shake a crook at a scurrying lamb, Boy Blue found himself lionised by the cream of Toy City Society. Facsimiles of his famous portrait, The Blue Boy, still hang in many homes.

  And in Toy City, blue is still the new black.

  All of the foregoing Eddie passed on to Jack as Jack passed through the streets of Toy City – rather more speedily than Eddie cared for.

  ‘Fashion House, eh?’ said Jack, swerving, to Eddie’s relief, around a number of teddies who were crossing the road. ‘The fashion in my town was for grey overalls. That’s all the workers ever wore. And as all the townsfolk were workers, that’s all anyone ever wore.’

  ‘You weren’t wearing grey overalls when I met you,’ Eddie observed.

  Jack laughed. ‘I traded them in at a farm I passed by, in exchange for a new set of clothes, although the cap was somewhat inferior. The farmer was convinced that grey overalls must be the very height of town fashion, seeing as all the town dwellers he’d ever met wore them.’