Apocalypso (27 page)

And
with that, silence fell.

19

Is it silent in hell, do
you think?

For is
silence more horrid than noise?

Does
hell echo forever with the screams of the tormented, or is there no sound at
all? Imagine that, no sound at all. Screaming and screaming and screaming, but
not a sound, just utter silence, for ever and ever and ever.

Horrible.

‘It’s
horrible here,’ whispered Porrig, ‘but it doesn’t look like hell.’

Rippington
flicked the tip of his little magic wand and held it close to his earhole. ‘OMEGA
666,’ he whispered back. The frequency’s correct. What should hell really look
like, then?’

Porrig
made wild and unpleasant gestures. ‘Fire and brimstone and the gnashing of
teeth. But this looks like a—’

‘Theatre,’
said Rippington. ‘That’s just what it looks like.’

And it
did, because it was a theatre. An old-fashioned music hall theatre and one
sorely gone to seed and dust and damage and decay. They stood in the foyer,
gilt-cracked walls about them. Above a ceiling domed and done with cherubs.
Pinkly bummed and jolly boys they’d been, but now the paint was flaked and the
plumpsome cheeks and dimpled knees were pocked with leprous-looking scabs. The
foyer smelled of damp and mould and misery. A chair or two of once royal stuff
sagged in wormy ruination. A carpet, bare to threads and direly stained, moved
obscenely as a rat went questing underneath.

Porrig
shivered. ‘It’s bloody cold too. Shouldn’t hell be hot?’

Rippington
shrugged his skinny little shoulders. ‘I read in one of the big books all about
how witches had congress with the devil—’

‘Congress?’
Porrig asked.

‘Shagging.’

‘Oh.’

‘And
when they had congress, they said that the devil’s rubbing part was cold as
ice.’

Porrig
sighed. His first sigh in hell. ‘How is it,’ he asked, ‘that no matter what the
conversation is about, you always manage to bring rubbing parts into it?’

‘You
started it.’

‘I
never did.’

‘Let’s
go in and see the show.’

‘There’s
going to be a show? In
here?’

‘That’s
what we came to see. Dress circle, do you think, or royal box?’

‘Stalls,’
said Porrig. ‘I’m not going upstairs and falling to my death through rotten
floorboards.’

‘Can
you fall to your death in hell, if you’re not already dead?’

‘Stalls,’
said Porrig. ‘Follow me.’

The
door to the stalls hung off its hinge, but the house lights were up and the
auditorium looked almost welcoming.

But almost
is the same as ‘not quite’ and not quite is the same as ‘not’.

Porrig
peeped in. ‘It’s empty,’ he said. ‘No it’s not.’

Who’s
there?’ Rippington peeped in also, from between Porrig’s legs.

‘Over
there.’ Porrig pointed. ‘And there and there too.’

‘Can’t
see,’ said Rippington. ‘Give us an up on your shoulders.’

Porrig
stooped and lifted the imp. Again he felt the cold grey flesh. Again he didn’t
like it.

‘I don’t
like yours either,’ said Rippington. ‘What’s there to be seen?’

What
was there to be seen was a Victorian music hall, with a sagging proscenium
arch, lacking its mask of comedy, but with its mask of tragedy still intact.
Red velvet curtains, moth-gnawed and manky, were swagged by dust-blurred golden
cords. The high-domed ceiling was lost in shadows; the seats ranked out in
widening arcs. And seated here and there and no two together, was the audience.
Of six.

‘Hardly
a full house,’ whispered Rippington. ‘Let’s sit down the front.’

Porrig
hesitated. ‘I don’t like this. It’s all wrong.’ ‘It’s hell. You’re not supposed
to like it.’

‘But it’s
not my idea of hell.’

‘Because
it’s not
your
hell.’ Whose is it then?’

You’ll
see.’

Porrig
sighed another sigh and—.

‘Don’t
even think about it,’ Rippington said. ‘Bewailing your lot. Not
here.’

Porrig
shrugged and Rippington fell off his shoulder.

‘Ow!’
went the imp.

‘Sorry,’
said Porrig.

They
wandered down to the front row seats and took two close by the aisle.

Porrig
opened his mouth to complain that his seat was damp, but the house lights
suddenly dimmed.

Curtains
creaked apart and footlights flickered. On the bare-board stage stood an
odd-legged table and on this stood many strange things. A brass megaphone with
an ivory handle. Two pairs of specs and a fat lady’s sandal. One round of sandwiches,
cheese by the look. The skull of a fish and a queer-looking book. Rings made of
pewter and balls made of wood. A saw and a hammer, a large Christmas pud. A
gaudy collection, though far from aesthetic. Was more than eclectic and very
poetic.

Behind
all this was a backdrop painted to resemble an Egyptian market scene: stalls
and bundles, terracotta pots and camels and so on and so forth and suchlike.

From
stage left came a grunt or two, followed by a cranking sound, a hissing sound
and a crackling sound. And then another sound: the sound of music played
through an old horn gramophone. The tune was ‘In a Monastery Garden’.

Further
sounds of grunting and cranking. The sound of Silence. More crackling and ‘In a
Persian Market’ (flip-side of ‘In a Monastery Garden’).

‘Are
you sure we’ve come to the right place?’ whispered Porrig.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen,’ came a voice from off stage. A strident voice, a forceful one. ‘Ladies
and gentlemen. For the first time here at The Omega Theatre. An act so wired
and weird and wondrous strange, so oddball odd and damned deranged, so pinky
pink and blackly grey, that ne’er before has seen the light of day. Put hands
together, raise your voices, cheer. The one, the only one is here. Amazing and
incredible, spectaculous…

‘Apocalypso
The Miraculous!’

Whoa!’
went Porrig.

‘Clap
the man,’ said Rippington.

And
they did. Porrig clapped and Rippington clapped. They clapped and clapped, but
their clapping didn’t make a single sound.

Porrig
gaped at his silent palms. What is
this?’
he mumbled.

Rippington
shrugged.

A
fellow walked onto the stage. He did not so much walk, as shamble. He was
pushed and then he shambled. One foot dragging, then the other. Dragging
sandaled feet. Ankles bare, veined blue as Stilton cheesel and above, a long
striped night-shirt kind of jobbie, big, loose-sleeved and collarless. Turkey
neck, gaunt face, deep-lined. Eyes sunk dark, cadaverous. Narrow nose too long
and mouth too small and head topped off by a battered red fez.

Apocalypso
The Miraculous looked very far from being that.

‘He
looks wretched,’ Porrig whispered. ‘He looks dead,’ the small grey fellow
whispered in reply.

Apocalypso
folded his scrawny arms then flung them wide. Withered flowers in withered
fists appeared as if from nowhere. Then two more fell out of his sleeves.

‘Boo,’
went someone.

Porrig
turned around in his seat. ‘Shut up,’ he shouted. ‘Give the man a chance.’

‘Thank
you.’ Apocalypso bowed.

Porrig
tried to clap once more, but once more no sound came.

‘For my
first trick,’ said Apocalypso, in a wheezing distant voice, ‘I shall require
the services of a member of the audience.’

Porrig
rose.

‘Don’t
do it,’ Rippington said.

Why
not?’

‘Just a
hunch. Trust me on this one.’ Porrig sat back down and made a grumpy face. A
lady in a straw hat stood up. It was not Russell’s mum, but it looked a lot
like her.

‘Or is
it Gorgonzola?

‘Madam,’
called Apocalypso. ‘Madam, thank you. If you would be so kind as to come up
onto the stage.’

Porrig
craned round in his seat to view the volunteer. ‘She looks familiar,’ he said,
and, ‘Oh.’

‘Oh
what?’ asked Rippington.

Well,
oh, the auditorium is full now. I never heard them all come in.’

Rippington
climbed onto his seat to have a good look round.

‘Sit
down, you little turd,’ said the man sitting behind him.

Rippington
sat down and edged a bit closer to Porrig.

Porrig
glanced over his head and all along the front row. It was also full. Which was
reasonably impossible, as the folk who sat there would have had to step past
him to sit there.

The
lady in the straw hat was now on the stage. ‘And what is your name, madam?’
asked Apocalypso.

‘And
what is your name, madam?’ said the lady. ‘Please tell the audience your name.’
‘Please tell the audience your name.’ ‘Madam, if you would not repeat what I
say. Just please tell us your name.’

‘Madam,
if you would not repeat what—’ ‘Give him a chance,’ called Porrig. ‘Shut your
face,’ called the lady. Yeah, shut your face,’ shouted the man behind
Rippington.

‘Madam,’
said Apocalypso.

‘Madam,’
said the lady.

‘Give
him a chance,’ called Porrig.

‘Shut
your face,’ shouted the man.

‘Best
stay out of it, Porrig,’ said Rippington. ‘Best stay out of it, Porrig,’ said
the lady. ‘Don’t start on me,’ said Rippington. ‘Don’t start on me,’ shouted
the man. ‘Please,’ begged Apocalypso. ‘Please, not again.’ ‘Please,’ said the
lady.

‘Please,
not again,’ chimed in the shouting man. ‘One trick,’ sobbed Apocalypso. ‘Let me
do one trick.’

‘One
trick,’ said the lady. ‘Let me—’

‘Boo,’
shouted Porrig. ‘Get that woman off the stage.’

‘Boo!’
shouted someone else. And ‘Boo’ and ‘Boo’ and ‘Boo’.

The
curtains fell. The house lights came on. You pack of bastards,’ cried Porrig,
turning in his seat. ‘And — Oh…’

‘And oh
once more?’ asked Rippington.

‘They’ve
gone. All gone.’

Rippington
climbed once more onto his seat. The house lights went down once more and the
stage lit up again.

Same
table, same props, same backdrop. Same noises off.

Same
introduction.

Apocalypso
pulled withered flowers from his sleeves.

The
lady in the straw hat went up once again.

She
mimicked Apocalypso again.

Porrig
protested again.

The
curtains closed again.

Footlights
off.

House
lights on.

Audience
there.

Audience
not there.

Flowers.
Mimic. Protest.

‘See a
pattern beginning to emerge?’ asked Rippington. ‘Get the picture about just
whose hell we’re in?’

‘Again
and again,’ said Porrig in a voice full of fear. ‘He goes through this again
and again and again.’

‘And he
suffers again and again. He’s the only one thinking. I can hear him. There’s
nobody else. The audience doesn’t really exist.’

‘They’re
just an illusion?’

‘His
illusion. His pain. His punishment.’

‘But
for thirty years? He’s been going through this for thirty years, ever since he
died?’ Porrig felt breathless. Stifled. The sheer horror of it, the torture, it
was all too much.

‘I
think that’s what hell must be,’ said Rippington. ‘I don’t think it’s that
fire and brimstone and the devil and all. I read in one of the big books about
dharma, have you ever heard of that?’

‘I’ve
heard of it, but I don’t know what it means.’

‘It’s
the essential principle of the cosmos, the natural law. You get out of life
what you put into it. That kind of thing. Apocalypso is paying his dues.’

‘Well,
he’s paid enough,’ said Porrig. ‘I’ve never felt such sadness before, it’s
terrible. I can’t let it goon.’

‘Let’s
just get what we came for.’ Rippington pointed to the stage. ‘See that book?’

‘Book?’

The one
on the table. It’s Apocalypso’s book of magic.’

‘And
you want me to nick
that?
That’s what got him here in the first place.’

‘No no
no,’ said Rippington, shaking his little baldy head. ‘This isn’t the “demons
speaking at his ear” kind of magic book. This is the “now you see it, now you
don’t, it’s all done with mirrors” kind of magic. He was the real bee’s
bollocks, with or without the demons.’

You
seem to know a lot about him.’