Apocalypso (37 page)

‘The bastard’s getting
away,’ cried the old bloke.

‘Get
out of the helicopter. All of you. Now.’ What?’ went Danbury. ‘Just hold on.’ ‘Jump
out now, just do it.’

We’ll
be killed. Let me shoot him, this gunship is covered with—’

‘No
time for that. Just jump.’

‘No,’
said Danbury.

‘Right,’
said the old bloke, dragging back the joystick ‘I’m sorry but you have to go.’

The
helicopter rose with haste upon its forward rotor. Danbury and Dr Harney and
Sir John toppled backwards and rolled towards the rear. The old bloke pressed a
button or two and the cargo door swung open. With screams and cries and very
bad language three men plunged down from the sky and fell into one of the
fountains.

The old
bloke forced the joystick forward and the throttle down.

What’s
he doing?’ Porrig asked, as the helicopter swept above his head.

‘He’s
going to ram the saucer. Run some more.’

And as
Porrig ran some more, the old bloke gripped the joystick in his ancient
wrinkled hands and said what prayers he could before the impact.

Dilbert’s
eyes grew wider as he watched the helicopter come. He stomped his big foot on
the accelerator pedal and flung mental pain at the kamikaze pilot.

The old
bloke caught the agony. Caught it full force. The anger, the loathing and the
disgust. The hatred of Dilbert for all the human race. He caught it and he
screamed.

But he
didn’t let go of the joystick.

The
helicopter smashed into the saucer, driving it backwards onto Nelson’s Column.
Right onto Nelson, in fact.

Dilbert
opened wide his legs, as the huge bronze head of the great hero’s statue burst
through the bottom of his spacecraft and damn near through his own.

The
helicopter, broken backed, its forward rotor gone to ribbons, swung in faulty
circles, then crashed down to the square.

Porrig
stared in horror and then rushed to offer help.

Smoke
belched from the twisted hull and those little electrical sparks that always
precede the explosion of the ruptured fuel tank fizzed and popped.

Porrig
struggled with the cockpit door and strained to force it open. The door jerked
back and Porrig stared within.

The old
bloke was slumped across the instrument panel. Blood dripped from his left
ear; his neck was clearly broken.

‘Oh no.’
Porrig climbed into the cockpit. ‘Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.’ He ran
a shaking hand across the dog-eared tufts of snow-white hair. ‘Please God let
him be alive.’

The
ancient’s eyelids flickered and his mouth took in a gulp of air.

Yes,’
sighed Porrig. ‘Come on, let me help you.’

‘No!’
The old bloke’s voice was strong and loud. But it came not from the trembling
lips. It came directly into Porrig’s head. Into his thoughts.

‘Go
Porrig,’ said the voice. ‘Go before this thing blows up. You have work to do
and I have done all I can. If now is my time to die, so be it.’

Porrig
shook his now crowded head. ‘I won’t leave you here to die,’ he said. ‘And
anyway, you can’t die. Not until you’ve returned the angel’s feather. That’s
what you have to do and I’m getting you out of here whether you like it or not.’

There
was a blinding flash and Porrig fell back shielding his eyes.

‘Get
out,’ called Rippington. ‘It’s going to blow, Porrig. It’s going to blow.’

‘No,
not until I…’ Porrig’s voice trailed off as he opened his eyes. He blinked
and he stared and he blinked and stared again. There was now someone else in
the cockpit. He was small and he was naked and he perched upon the dashboard
with his feathered wings outspread. A golden light flickered about him,
glittered on his wings and perfect face.

‘The
angel,’ whispered Porrig. ‘The angel has returned.’

‘Give
him back the feather.’ The voice in Porrig’s head was just a whisper now. ‘Give
it back so I can be at rest.’

Porrig
fumbled in the old bloke’s waistcoat and pulled out the slim ebony box. He
glanced down at the date engraved upon it. 1837.

Porrig
sniffed away a tear and as he sniffed the smell of lilacs overwhelmed him. The
odour of sanctity, the perfume of perfection. He held out the box and the angel
took it in his tiny hand. The angel smiled at Porrig and Porrig sniffed another
tear away.

‘Come
out,’ called Rippington. ‘Porrig, come out now.’

‘Goodbye
then.’ Porrig gently patted at the old bloke’s shoulder. ‘And I hope you find
perfection.’

‘Goodbye
Porrig.’ And the voice, a fading whisper, then was gone.

‘Porrig,
quickly. Hurry now.’

There
was another flash and this one came with flames.

Porrig
leapt from the helicopter, snatched up Rippington and ran. The electrical
sparks found the ruptured fuel tank and did what was expected of them. The
helicopter erupted in a bristling bubbling burst of fire. Porrig flung himself
down, shielding Rippington as shards of flaming metal span and fell about them.

‘Rub a
dub dub,’ said the imp, raising his little bald head. ‘That was a close thing,
wasn’t
it?’

Porrig
plucked something hot and painful from the seat of his pants. ‘He’s dead,’ he
said in a voice all cracked and broken. ‘The angel came and took him and he’s
gone.’

‘Oh,’
said Rippington. ‘That’s that then.’

What
did you say, you little shit?’ Porrig raised his hand to strike the imp. But as
he did he stared him eye to eye. And there in the small blue cat-like eyes of
Rippington he saw the tears.

‘I
cared,’ said Rippington. ‘I loved him too, you know.’

Yes,’
said Porrig. ‘I know.’

Rippington
pointed over Porrig’s shoulder. ‘That gobshite up there is still alive,’ he
said.

And
indeed that gobshite
was
alive. Dilbert struggled from his mangled
spacecraft and shook his verdant fist. ‘Top of the world, Ma,’ he shouted, all
King Kong and raving. ‘I am still the big boss here. Kneel before your God.’

And
then the shockwave hit.

It came
as a rumble and struck like a body blow. There was shuddering and grumbling of
buildings that were shaken at foundations. Windows cracked and doors burst from
their frames. Bricks and slates and lath and plaster ripped and shivered,
trembled, tumbled, smashed and bashed and fell.

The
ground rocked and paving slabs gave. The rumbling became a roar; the roar
increased in volume. Cracks shot across Trafalgar Square and Porrig dodged and
ran.

But
where can you run to, really?

Dilbert,
one arm gripping Nelson, one fist in the air.

Danbury
struggling from the fountain holding his groin for the very last time.

Sir
John Rimmer kneeling, his hands clasped in prayer.

Dr
Harney staggering this way and that, his radio lying some distance away, with a
voice calling from it unheard that said, ‘I can put you through now, caller..,
caller… caller…?’

And
then a second shockwave hit.

White-out.
Blinding light and fireflash. Then up with a roar and a rumbling rush: Nelson’s
Column, with its lions and central plaza, up and up.

Nelson’s
Column with its raving sprouty bastard clinging to it up and up..

Nelson’s
Column.

Victorian
monument.

Nelson’s
Column.

The
secret escape pod.

‘Up and away,’ cried
Augustus. ‘I think we’re going to make it.’

The column rose upon
turbine jets, blinding light and fireflash. Porrig shielded his eyes and
watched as it rose. And stared as it dwindled and dwindled and dwindled and
dwindled away.

‘Gone,’
said Porrig. ‘He got away.’

Your
dad too,’ said Rippington. ‘He was driving that thing.’

‘Incredible.’
Porrig shook his head. ‘Look at it all. Look at it.’

Rippington
looked at it. ‘It’s quite a mess,’ he observed.

‘Mess?’
Porrig threw up his hands. ‘Mess?’ Well, you did your best. You tried your
hardest, Porrig. You have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘But he
got away.’ ‘This is true.’ ‘And the nuke…’

‘Ah
yes,’ said Rippington. ‘The nuke.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Augustus. ‘I
think we can definitely chalk this up as a success.’

‘I’m
quite glad I came,’ said the pig. ‘Even though I wasn’t invited.’

‘There’s
something up with the periscope,’ said the man in the white coat called Albert.

‘Stuff
the periscope,’ said Augustus. ‘Let’s open up the champagne.’

‘Oh but,
sir, I wanted to use the periscope. It’s really clever, you can see out of
Nelson’s spyglass.’

You do
have to hand it to those Victorians. When they built an escape pod they didn’t
miss a trick.’

‘An,
that’s got it,’ said the man in the white coat. ‘There was something blocking
the spyglass. Oh shit!’

‘Pigeon
shit?’ asked the pig.

‘No. Oh
dear, oh dear.’

‘Let me
look, you buffoon.’ Augustus elbowed the white-coat-wearer aside and peered
into the periscope.

A big
black angry eye glared back at him.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Augustus. ‘The monster’s on board!’

‘If you
think that’s bad,’ said the pig. You should take a look out of this porthole
here. There’s something heading towards us on a collision course. It’s coming
very fast and I can’t quite make out what it is. Oh yes I can. It’s got the
stars and stripes on the front. It must be the nuclear—’

26

It did make one hell of a
noise.

Well
they do, don’t they, nukes?

But as
it was very high up when it hit, there were few at ground level who heard it.
There would be fallout, of course, but then what was a bit of fallout? The
monster
was
dead. The Earth
had
been saved.

Of
course there would be some explaining to do. An official explanation would be
called for. Someone would have to own up to something.

And of
course someone did.

He
owned up to everything.

He took
all the credit.

Because,
after all, it had been a most remarkable feat. Remarkably achieved.
Single-handedly achieved. Remarkable.

The
President of the United States, in his speech, said just how remarkable he
thought it was. The Prime Minister of England, who always agreed with anything
the President said, agreed that it was in-deed remarkable. And so did all those
crowned heads of Europe and the new Pope and everybody else, really.

And as
the motor cavalcade progressed slowly through the crowded streets to Buckingham
Palace, where he received a genuine knighthood, everyone agreed that what Sir
Sir John Rimmer had achieved was truly remarkable.

Not
only to have destroyed the incoming meteor that threatened to wipe out the
planet, but in doing so to have eradicated the CONTAMINATION which had resulted
in many deaths and the hallucination by millions that they had seen God on
their television sets: that
was
remarkable.

Remarkable!

But
then, Sir Sir John Rimmer
was
a remarkable man. So remarkable, in fact,
that the British government had no hesitation at all in offering him a
full-time job.

As the
new head of the Ministry of Serendipity.

27

The wheel has come full
circle for Porrig.

It is a
month to the day since he lay in the gutter, not looking at the stars. He lay
there then because he had spoken out of turn. Was politically incorrect. And
for that he took a thumping and lost his fiancée.

But
much can happen in a month. And much indeed has happened to Porrig. He is a
changed man. A new man. A different man.

And yet
here he is lying now in the gutter and once more not looking up at the stars.

So what
has occurred?

And
why, as we bid him farewell, most likely for ever, is he in this dire predicament?

He has
blood on him, does Porrig, a gory nose has he. And there are rips upon his
clothes and bruises upon his person.

Wherefore
is this so?

Or is
that whyfore?

A sorry
business really, in a pub. And amidst so much in the way of celebration. Late extensions
too.