Apocalypso (11 page)

‘How
can you be so sure?’ Porrig sipped at the tea he’d been given. ‘This tastes
like cat’s piss,’ he observed.

Wok Boy
took the cup and sniffed at it. ‘Smells like cat’s piss too. That would
probably be the cat.

‘Oh,
there’s a cat, is there? How charming.’

‘You
like cats then?’

‘No,
actually I hate them.’

‘Me
too.’

‘Then
why do you keep one?’

‘I don’t.
It’s not mine. It gets in somehow and pisses about the place. I have to use a
lot of bleach and air freshener. Pine, for preference; the others smell too
synthetic, in my opinion.’

‘Yeah,
right.’ Porrig shook his head wearily. ‘I asked you how you could be so sure
that the real Apocalypso is dead.’

‘Because
it said so in the book I read. And there was a picture of his funeral with all
these famous stage magicians standing around in top hats. And there was a
picture of his tomb. This amazing marble obelisk and sort of stone masonic
temple affair. It’s in the local churchyard, you can go and see it yourself.’

‘And
were there photos of Apocalypso in this book of yours?’

‘Of
course there were.’

‘Well…’

‘Well
what?’

‘Well,
was it the same bloke?’

‘Oh, I
see, right.’ Wok Boy made a thoughtful face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not the same
bloke. Although…’

‘Although
what?’

‘No.’
Wok Boy shook his head. ‘Not the same bloke, I’m sure.’

Well, I’m
buggered if I know where that leaves me. I get left a bookshop in the will of
an uncle who died thirty years ago. Some old bloke, who may or may not be this
dead uncle, employs you to do this place up and move all this stock in for me…’

‘And
wants you to draw this very important comic book.’

‘Oh
yeah, and that. But if this uncle is dead, then who is the old bloke? And if he’s
not dead, why all this pissing around?’

‘More
tea?’ asked Wok Boy. ‘In a fresh cup?’

‘Something
less pink this time. I’ve never liked my tea pink.’

‘Blue
Bayou is rather special.’

‘I’ll
just bet it is.’

Wok Boy
brewed blue tea. ‘The old bloke will probably explain everything when he sees
you. Do you want me to unpack your case?’

‘No,
just make the tea and sling your hook.’

‘Such
gratitude, after all I’ve done for you.’

‘All
you’ve done? You beat me up, you bastard. Twice.’

‘The
first time you were asking for it and the second time I was only defending
myself.’

‘Just
make the tea and take your leave. I have to think about all this.’

‘I can’t
go yet. I don’t finish till six’

‘You
finish now. You’re fired. Just go away.’

‘Then
you don’t want me to work for you in the shop?’

‘No-one
is going to work in the shop. Those comic books are far too valuable to sell
over the counter. I’m going to put the lot up for auction.’

‘I don’t
think that’s what the old bloke had in mind. I think he wants the shop
reopened.’

‘It’s
my shop now and I’ll do what I like with it.’

‘But I
think he wants me to work in the shop, while you work on his comic book. I
think it’s something pretty important, that’s the impression I got.’

Porrig
accepted a cup of blue tea. Well, I’ll discuss it with him when I see him.
Please give me your key and I’ll see you out.’

Wok Boy
produced the back-door key and threw it onto the table. ‘I can see myself out,
thank you.’

Porrig
rose rubbing his ribs.
‘I’ll
see you out,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want any
valuable first editions accidentally falling into your pockets.’

Wok Boy
took Porrig by the throat. ‘Now just you listen to me, you shithead,’ he
growled. ‘I am
not
a thief. I’ve been working here for months. I could
have nicked anything I wanted. But I didn’t, because the old bloke trusted me.’

Porrig
shook himself free. Well
I
don’t,’ he said. Wok Boy looked him up and
down. ‘I don’t like you, Porrig,’ he said slowly. ‘You’ve a real bad attitude.
I’ve a good mind not to tell you now.’

‘Tell
me what?’

‘Something
very important that you have to know.’

‘Then
don’t bother to tell me. Just go.’

‘No,’
said Wok Boy. ‘The old bloke said that I had to tell you, so I will.’

Well,
make it fast, my tea’s getting cold.’

Wok Boy
made a bitter face. ‘The old bloke said that I was to impress upon you the
importance of what I’m going to say.’

‘Go on.’

‘OK:
when you go to bed here, be in bed
before
midnight. And bolt the bedroom
door. Don’t come out before six in the morning, no matter what you may hear.’

‘You
what?’

‘That’s
what I had to tell you and now I’ve told you. And now I’m going.’

‘Hold
on, hold on. Don’t come out of my room after midnight? And I’m supposed to take
this crap seriously? What do you take me for?’

‘A
total wanker. But the old bloke told me to tell you, so I have. Personally I
don’t give a toss, you can do what you like. But if I were you, I’d do what he
says and if you really
have
met him, you’ll know what I’m talking about
when I say that
I
wouldn’t cross him.’

Porrig
did some thoughtful lip-chewing. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So now you’ve told me,
please go away.’

‘OK, I’ll
go. But just do me one favour. If you use the front door early in the morning,
try not to step on me.

‘Come
again?’

‘The
mouldy old mattress in your front doorway. That’s where I sleep.’

‘You
mean that you haven’t been sleeping in here?’

‘I’m
not a thief and I’m not a squatter.’

‘Oh,’
said Porrig.

‘Yes,
oh. I sleep rough in the doorway. It’s cold and it’s wretched and drunks piss
on me in the night. But that’s how it is when you’re homeless.’

‘Oh.’

Wok Boy
turned to leave.

‘Hold
on,’ said Porrig.

‘What?’

‘About
you sleeping rough in my doorway. That’s not right. It shouldn’t be like that.’

‘Well,
it is like that. When you’ve got nowhere to stay it’s all you can do.’

‘But
with people pissing on you and that. I mean.’ Porrig cleared his throat. ‘I
mean, I don’t want you to have to do that anymore.’

‘You
mean… . .’ Wok Boy looked about the kitchen.

‘I
mean,’ said Porrig, ‘I want you to sleep in someone else’s doorway. You lower
the tone of my establishment.’

Wok Boy
took a swing at Porrig. But Porrig, who had anticipated such a swing,
side-stepped it and brought Wok Boy down with the kitchen chair. ‘You can sleep
here in my kitchen,’ he said. ‘But don’t go out after midnight or the bogy man
will get you.’

And, as
Wok Boy
was
down, Porrig kicked him.

To Porrig’s surprise, and
also his relief, Wok Boy declined his kind offer of accommodation. He did,
however, make the ominous remark that, ‘I wouldn’t sleep in this place if you
offered me a million quid.’ Then he shook Porrig by the hand and left.

Leaving
Porrig more confused than ever.

The man
of property sat at the table staring into space. To the weight of
responsibility had now been added a nebulous ‘something’. A sinister sub-text.
The darkness at the top of the stairs.

‘Frankly,’
said Porrig. ‘I wish I’d never got up this morning.’

He
sought to make himself some lunch. He dug about in the fridge and in the
cupboards and came across a lot of unwholesome-looking wholefoods. These he
cobbled together into a semblance of sustenance and stuffed into his face. He passed
on the blue tea though. As he munched, spitting out little seeds, he pondered
on how best to spend the balance of the day.

Then
there was the worrisome matter of all the valuable stock. That would have to go
off to the auction. He’d have to catalogue it and then call up a big London
sale-room.

So what
should he do first?

‘Finish
eating this rubbish and then have a couple of pints,’ said Porrig.

His
lunch concluded, he left the dishes unwashed and departed by the rear door. He
took great pains with the locking up and gazed about the rubble-strewn back
yard. Quite a nice little sun-trap this could make.

A nasty
little alley led him back to the street. Porrig glanced into his doorway. The
mouldy mattress had gone.

Porrig
felt a twinge of guilt. He also felt a twinge of bruising around the ribcage.
Porrig shrugged and looked up at the building that was now his own. It looked
no less ghastly than it had upon his first perusal, although that now seemed a
lifetime ago.

He’d
have to get the outside done. Put a new sign up, the old one had gone to
buggeration. He’d have to come up with a new name. That was something to think
about. But then there was so much to think about.
Too
much to think
about. He needed some time to plan out just what to do.

Porrig
looked along to the smart shop front of The Flying Pig. That was how a real
bookshop should look. A real bookshop that was full of wonderful books.

Magic.

‘Magic,’
said Porrig, which gave him an idea.

Porrig
strolled into The Flying Pig and took in big breaths of the place. The music
was certainly ‘cool’. Sonic Energy Authority’s sixth album,
Requiem for a
Drowned Pope,
welled from hidden speakers and all around were books books
books.

As one
might reasonably expect in a bookshop.

But
then these weren’t just any old books. These were the books that you couldn’t
get anywhere else. The small press publications the major bookstores wouldn’t
touch. The rare books they couldn’t get their hands on. The imports they never
got around to ordering. The ‘out-of-print’ stuff that really wasn’t ‘out of
print’ if you knew where to look for it.

And
where else would you look for it but in The Flying Pig?

Porrig
scanned the nearest Bookshelf.
Snuff Fiction,
by Johnny Quinn. They even
had books in stock that didn’t really exist. What a class act!

Porrig
drifted over to the art section. Here were all the big boys: Dave Carson, Matt
Humphrey, Savage Pencil. Porrig spied a Carson portfolio he didn’t have. He
pulled it out with care and cast an eye across the price. Then he pushed it back
with care. That one would have to wait until he sold a few first editions.

Porrig’s
eyes moved along the spines and came to rest on the breasts.

Porrig’s
eyes went blink blink blink.

Porrig
recognized those breasts.

Those
were the breasts he’d seen earlier in the day.

Behind
the counter stood the vision in white from the solicitors’ office. Porrig
offered her a smile.

The
vision did not receive it with grace. She turned her head away.

Porrig
hastened over. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’

‘How
would you? I didn’t mention it.’

‘Great
shop,’ said Porrig.

‘Better
than yours.’

‘For
now, yes.’

‘Thinking
of opening up in competition, then?’

Porrig
hadn’t been. ‘I just might,’ he said.

‘In
your dreams.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Well,
it’s fifteen quid. You can take it or leave it.’

‘Fifteen
quid?’

‘That’s
the price. I won’t go any lower.’

‘Oh,’
said Porrig. Well, that’s very fair. Should we go to my place, or do it here
behind the counter?’

‘For
the book. Fifteen quid for the book.’ What book?’

‘The
one you came in here for.’ Porrig shook his head.

‘About
Apocalypso The Miraculous.’ ‘What?’

‘That’s
what you came in here for, isn’t it?’

‘Yes it
is. But how did you know?’

‘Just
because I have big tits doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’

Porrig
almost said ‘Shame’ but somehow he controlled himself.

‘I read
your file in the office, didn’t I? So I knew you’d inherited the building next
door. And Phart-Ebum told me that Apocalypso was a stage magician and how he’d
read about him in a book. And you obviously hadn’t got a clue who this uncle of
yours was, so eventually you were bound to come in here to see if we had the
book about him. And this is it and it’s fifteen quid.’

‘Jesus’
jockstrap!’ said Porrig. ‘You really are more intelligent than you look.’