The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘You said bear with me. And you’re a bear.’

  ‘That is very sad,’ said Eddie.

  ‘You’re the same old Eddie,’ said Jack. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘We shall,’ said Eddie.

  ‘And where to?’

  ‘Back to the serial killer’s hideout. We’ll stake the place out and then plan how we can capture her.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jack. ‘Ah.’

  Jack drove the car and Eddie sat trying to fold his arms and look huff-full.

  ‘Never made a note of the address,’ said Eddie. ‘How unprofessional is that?’

  ‘I was thinking of you. I just wanted to get you to the toymaker’s.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘How dare you “Yeah, well” me. I saved your life.’

  ‘Yes, you did. And I’m very grateful. But we have to stop this thing.’

  ‘You were right, though, Eddie. It’s a woman.’

  ‘I wasn’t right,’ said Eddie. ‘Take a left here.’

  Jack took a left. ‘Why weren’t you right?’ he asked.

  ‘Because she’s not a woman.’

  ‘Not a woman? You’re saying she’s some kind of toy?’

  ‘She’s not a toy,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Not a woman and not a toy? So what is she, Eddie?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the bear. ‘And that’s what really worries me.’

  ‘She’s a woman,’ said Jack. ‘A very strange woman, I grant you, but she’s a woman. I know what women look like and she looks like a woman.’

  ‘But she doesn’t smell like one,’ said Eddie. ‘Under the perfume, she doesn’t smell like a woman. I’ve got a bear’s nose.’ Eddie tapped at that nose. ‘My nose knows.’

  ‘She’s a woman,’ said Jack.

  ‘She’s not,’ said Eddie. ‘Take a right.’

  Jack took a right. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Back to Wibbly’s,’ said Eddie. ‘I asked him to check out a few things for me. We’ll see how he got on.’

  Eventually they arrived at Wibbly’s. Jack waited in the car while Eddie slid down Wibbly’s ramp. Eddie returned and Eddie didn’t look at all well. He flopped in the passenger seat and stared at the dashboard.

  ‘What did he say?’ Jack asked.

  ‘He didn’t say anything.’

  ‘He didn’t find out anything?’

  ‘No, Jack,’ Eddie looked up at Jack. ‘He didn’t say anything because he couldn’t say anything. Wibbly is all over the floor. Someone smashed him all to pieces.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack.

  ‘We have to stop her,’ said Eddie. ‘Whatever she is, we have to stop her. Madame Goose was bad enough, but Wibbly was a close friend. This time it’s personal.’

  Jack stared out through the windscreen. ‘We’ve got her car,’ he said. ‘Can’t we trace her through the car?’

  A smile broke out upon Eddie’s face. ‘Good one, Jack, chap,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a go at that.’

  *

  The showrooms of the Clockwork Car Company were in the very best part of the city, just five doors down from Oh Boy!.

  The building itself was a magnificent affair and a description of its architectural splendours might well have filled several paragraphs, had anyone been in the mood to write them down. But if anyone had been in the mood, then that mood might well have been modified by the fact that the showrooms of the Clockwork Car Company were presently fiercely ablaze.

  Jack leapt out of the car. Eddie leapt out with him. Clockwork firefighters were unrolling hoses. Crowds viewed the holocaust, oohing and ahhing. Jolly red-faced policemen held back these crowds, ha-hahahing as they did so. A crenellated column toppled and fell, striking the pavement with a devastating sprunch.

  ‘She got here first,’ said Jack. ‘She’s very thorough, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very,’ said Eddie. ‘Very thorough.’

  Jack gawped up at the roaring flames.

  ‘Eddie,’ he said.

  ‘Jack?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Eddie, if she’s that thorough, then she knew we’d come here, didn’t she?’

  Eddie nodded.

  ‘And would I be right in thinking that she probably wants to kill us now?’

  Eddie nodded again.

  ‘So doesn’t it follow that she’d probably be here? Awaiting our arrival?’

  ‘Back into the car,’ said Eddie. ‘Quick as you can, please, chap.’

  And quick as they could, they were back in the car.

  ‘Drive?’ said Jack.

  ‘Drive,’ said Eddie. ‘No, don’t drive.’

  ‘Don’t?’ said Jack.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Eddie. ‘That’s exactly what she wants us to do.’

  ‘It’s exactly what I want us to do,’ said Jack. ‘And fast.’

  ‘Exactly. So that’s exactly what we mustn’t do. If we make a run for it, she’ll come after us. We must stay here amongst all these folk. She’s less likely to attack us here.’

  ‘A vanload of policemen didn’t worry her too much last night,’ said Jack.

  ‘Well, unless you can come up with a better idea.’

  ‘There’s policemen here,’ said Jack. ‘And the police are after me. They think I’m the murderer.’

  ‘Forget about the policemen,’ Eddie said. ‘Worry about her. We can’t have her hunting us. That’s not the way detectives do business. It’s unprofessional. Bill Winkie would never have let that happen. We’re going about this all the wrong way.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Jack.

  ‘It just makes sense,’ said Eddie.

  ‘No I didn’t mean that. I meant that you got seven whole sentences out without once calling me chap.’

  ‘Let’s go and watch the fire, in the crowd,’ said Eddie. ‘Chap!’

  It’s a sad-but-truism that there really is a great deal of pleasure to be had in watching a building burn. There shouldn’t be, of course. A burning building is a terrible thing: the destruction of property, the potential for loss of life. There shouldn’t be any pleasure at all in watching a thing like that. But there is. And every man knows that there is, not that many of them will own up to it.

  It’s a small boy thing, really. Small boys love fires. They love starting and nurturing fires, poking things into them, seeing how they burn. Small boys are supposed to grow out of such small boy things when they become big boys, of course. But they don’t. The bigger the boy, the bigger the fire the bigger boy likes to get started.

  And when bigger boys become men, they never lose their love of fire. They can always find something that needs burning in the backyard.

  And when a man hears the ringing of those fire engine bells, the temptation to jump into the car and pursue the appliance is a tough one to resist.

  And if a man just happens to be walking down the street and actually sees a building on fire … Well.

  Jack stared up at the flames.

  ‘What a tragedy,’ he said.

  ‘What a liar you are,’ said Eddie. ‘You’re loving every moment.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Then why were you jumping up and down and cheering?’

  ‘Was I?’ Jack asked.

  ‘You were,’ said Eddie. ‘Bad, bad chap.’

  ‘It’s a small boy thing,’ Jack explained. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m full of sawdust, remember?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack. ‘So what about your plan?’

  ‘We hunted are going to become the hunters. Merge into the crowd with me, Jack, and keep your eyes open for her.’

  It wasn’t that easy for Jack to merge into the crowd. Most of the crowd were about Eddie’s height.

  ‘Perhaps you should crawl,’ Eddie suggested.

  ‘Oh, very dignified.’

  ‘She might well have you in the sights of some long-range gun type of item. Of the variety capable of projectin
g a shepherd’s crook across a street and right up Boy Blue’s bottom.’

  Jack dropped to his knees. ‘After you,’ he said.

  Above them the inferno ’ferno’d on, watched by the crowd of toys who, for various personal reasons, didn’t really enjoy the spectacle the way it should be enjoyed.

  The clockwork fire-fighters had their hoses all unrolled now, but were decidedly hesitant about turning them on. Being clockwork, they greatly feared water.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ went the laughing policemen. Jack tried to keep out of their way.

  Eddie stopped and thumped at his head with his paws. ‘I’ve an idea coming,’ he said.

  ‘I hope it’s a good one,’ said Jack. ‘I’m getting my trenchcoat all dusty.’

  ‘It’s a great one,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ll explain it to you on the way.’

  ‘The way to where?’

  ‘The way to where we steal the police car.’

  There was a really nice police car parked near by, as it happened. It was a Mark 7 Fairlane Cruiser, pressed steel construction, hand-enamelled in black and white, with a nickel-plated grille and brass roof bell. It was all polished up and the pride and joy of a certain Special Constable named Chortle. Jack had no trouble at all picking the lock on the driver’s door.

  ‘I feel utterly confident that this will work,’ said Eddie as he slid into the police car beside Jack.

  ‘And what makes you feel so utterly confident?’ Jack enquired.

  ‘My natural optimism. Do the business, Jack.’

  ‘Righty right,’ said Jack. And he took up the little microphone that hung beneath the dashboard. He held it between his fingers and viewed it disdainfully. It was just a plastic nubbin attached to a piece of string. ‘How can this work?’ he asked.

  ‘You just speak into it. You can talk to the police at the police station.’

  ‘How?’ Jack asked.

  ‘With your mouth,’ said Eddie.

  Jack shrugged. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ said Eddie.

  ‘No, I’m saying hello into this silly pretend microphone on the piece of string.’

  ‘Very professional,’ said Eddie. ‘Very good.’

  ‘Hello,’ said a voice.

  ‘How did you do that without moving your mouth?’ Jack asked.

  ‘It’s the police station, talk to them.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Emergency! Emergency!’

  ‘Who’s that saying emergency?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Me,’ said Jack. ‘Who’s that asking?’

  ‘Me,’ said the voice.

  ‘Officer down!’ shouted Jack.

  ‘That’s not my name,’ said the voice. ‘I’m Officer Chuckles. And there’s no need to shout.’

  ‘There’s every need to shout,’ shouted Jack. ‘I said officer down! An officer’s down!’

  ‘A downy officer?’ said the voice. ‘An officer covered in down?’

  Jack put his hand over the microphone. ‘Have you got any other great ideas?’ he asked Eddie. ‘This isn’t going to work.’

  ‘Yes it is. Explain in urgent tones that you are at the fire at the Clockwork Car Company showrooms. And that the woman who started the fire, the same woman who murdered Humpty, Boy Blue and Madame Goose, is attacking officers. Give a full description of her and demand lots of assistance. Do it, Jack.’

  Jack did it. ‘Send every officer you have,’ he said. ‘And quickly.’

  ‘Ten-four,’ said the voice in the affirmative.

  ‘There,’ said Eddie. ‘Job done. Now all we have to do is sit here and wait for things to happen.’

  ‘But she’s not attacking any officers,’ said Jack.

  ‘Well, she sort-of-will-be.’

  ‘How can she sort-of-will-be?’

  ‘If she’s attacking a police car, then that’s almost the same as attacking a police officer.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Jack. ‘But why should she be attacking a police car?’

  ‘Because we’re in it. I saw her following us through the crowd just before I had my great idea.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack.

  ‘Here she comes,’ said Eddie, pointing. ‘Lock the doors, Jack.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Jack made haste with the door lockings.

  The woman in the feathered headpiece, and Jack was in no doubt that she was a woman, strode across the street and stopped in front of the police car. She leaned forward and placed her hands upon the bonnet. And then she smiled at Eddie and Jack, who took to cowering in an undignified manner.

  ‘Jack,’ whispered Eddie, ‘start the car.’

  Jack fumbled in his pockets, searching for his piece of growler.

  The woman raised her hands, made them into fists and brought them down with considerable force onto the bonnet of the Mark 7 Fairlane cruiser, making two nasty dents and spoiling the hand-enamelled paintwork.

  ‘Waaah!’ went Eddie. ‘Hurry, Jack.’

  Jack hurried. He pulled out the wire and went about the business. But it wasn’t easy, what with the car now shuddering beneath the repeated blows.

  ‘Get a move on!’ shouted Eddie. ‘She’s smashing the bonnet to pieces.’

  Jack got a swift move on. The wire clicked in the keyhole, releasing the twin-levered drop-bolt side-action tumblers in the lock, which freed the clockwork mechanism that powered the automobile. Jack put his foot down on the clutch and stuck the gearstick into reverse.

  ‘Don’t reverse,’ cried Eddie. ‘Run her down, Jack.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Jack said, appalled. ‘I can’t run over a woman.’

  ‘She’s not a woman. She’ll kill us, Jack.’

  ‘I can’t do it, Eddie.’

  Jack put his foot down hard on the accelerator. Wheels went spin spin spin and shriek upon the road, but the police car stayed where it was.

  ‘I can’t reverse,’ shouted Jack.

  ‘That’s because there’s a big fire engine parked behind us. The only way is forward, Jack. Run her over.’

  ‘I’ll try and nudge her out of the way.’ Jack stuck the car into first gear and put his foot down once again.

  Spin spin spin and shriek shriek shriek went the wheels once more, but in a different direction this time.

  ‘She’s holding back the car.’ Jack had a fine sweat going now. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘For a woman, yes,’ said Eddie. ‘But not for whatever she is.’

  ‘She’s a robot from the future,’ said Jack.

  ‘What?’ went Eddie.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t know why an idea like that should suddenly come into my head.’

  ‘Put your foot down harder, give it more revs.’

  ‘The cogs will fracture.’

  ‘Do it, Jack.’

  Jack did it. Well, he would. Anyone would have.

  The police car edged forward.

  Jack and Eddie cowered.

  And members of the crowd were turning now, drawn away from their interest in the flaming holocaust by the sounds of the shrieking police car wheels.

  Lots of heads were turning. Most of the heads, in fact. Even policemen’s heads.

  The woman-or-whatever strained against the moving car. The visible area of her face wore a taut and terrible smile.

  ‘What is she?’ Jack pressed his foot down as far as it would go. ‘What is she?’

  ‘Robot from the future,’ said Eddie. ‘Definitely. Run it down, Jack. Run the nasty robot down.’

  The wheels spun and shrieked and sparks rose and flickered; the police car inched forward. Whatever she was, or was not, she clung to the bonnet.

  And then she leapt onto it.

  Freed from her restraint, the police car footed and yarded it forward at the hurry-up, but not out into the open road that might have led to freedom. The offside wheel buckled from its axle; the car swerved and plunged across the street towards the gathered crowd and the blazing building.

  ‘We’re gonna die!’ sh
outed Jack.

  ‘We’re gonna die!’ shouted Eddie.

  Aaah! And Oooh! And Eeek! went members of the gathered crowd, parting in haste before the on-rushing car.

  ‘Ho ho ho,’ went the laughing policemen, parting in haste with them.

  ‘Out of the car,’ shouted Eddie. ‘Jump, Jack.’

  ‘The doors are locked!’

  ‘Unlock them!’

  ‘Hang on to me, Eddie, I’m opening mine!’

  ‘Waaah!’

  Shrieking screaming wheels.

  A smiling face against the windscreen.

  Fleeing crowds.

  Burning building.

  On-rushing police car.

  Doors now open.

  Jack and Eddie jumping.

  More on-rushing police car. Woman-or-not-woman clinging to the bonnet.

  And into the inferno.

  Mash and crash. Explode and grench. And spragger and munge and clab and plark and blander.

  Jack and Eddie, bruised but alive.

  The Clockwork Car Company showrooms coming down.

  And then a terrible silence.

  ‘Am I alive?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘You’re alive,’ said Jack. ‘We’re both alive. We’re safe.’

  And then a voice.

  The voice of Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis.

  ‘You are both under arrest,’ said this voice.

  16

  ‘The secret of being a successful policeman,’ said Chief Inspector Bellis, ‘is in doing everything by the book. And before you ask me which book that is, I will tell you. It is the policeman’s handbook. It tells you exactly how things are to be done. It covers all the aspects of gathering and cataloguing evidence. It is most precise.’

  ‘Is there a point to this?’ Jack asked.

  ‘There is,’ said Chief Inspector Bellis. ‘There is.’

  He, Jack and Eddie sat in the interview room of the Toy City Police Station. It was hardly a gay venue, as was, say, the Brown Hatter Nite Spot, over on the East Side.

  Neither was it a Jolly Jack Tar of a place, like The Peg-legged Pirate’s Pool Hall, over on the West Side.

  Nor was it even an existential confabulation of spatial ambiguity, such as the currently displayed installation piece at the Toy City Arts Gallery, down on the South Bank Side.

  Nor was it anything other than an interview room in any way, shape, form, or indeed, aesthetic medium.