My Hero (36 page)

‘You would be,' the man replied, ‘if you existed. But you don't.'

‘Don't I?'

‘Not since you come in 'ere you don't. On account of nuffin' can exist in 'ere.'

‘Because this place doesn't exist?'

‘You're catching on, my son. There should be a quarter-be-twenty-Whit tap in that box by yer left foot, if you wouldn't mind.'

Regalian picked up the box and carried it over to where the man was working. ‘Excuse me if this is a silly question, ' he said, ‘but if this place doesn't exist, how come you're here?'

‘Some poor bugger's got to be here,' he replied. ‘Make sure the machines don't play up. Do all the fiddly jobs. Like this,' he said, pointing. ‘That's an equation, that is. For a maffs book. Got to be exactly right, or the whole shooting match'll be up the pictures. You show me a machine'll do that an' I'll show you half a ton of rocking'orse shit.'

‘What he's trying to say—' said the Scholfield.

‘'Ere, who said that?'

‘My gun,' replied Regalian, embarrassed. ‘It can talk. I wish it couldn't, but it can.'

‘Give it 'ere a minute.'

‘Hey, hang on, what d'you think you're—?'

‘Stroof,' said the man, ‘it can talk. Nice bit of work, too. Nice machining. People knew how to make fings in them days.'

As he took the gun back, Regalian could hardly bring himself to look at it. Revolvers can't smirk, of course, or look revoltingly smug. They can't talk, either.

‘As I was saying,' the Scholfield continued, ‘none of this exists, because there aren't any imaginary characters in Non-Fiction; but because somebody's got to do it, they bend the rules.'

‘Oh,' said Regalian. ‘So he does exist.'

‘No, of course not. He doesn't exist, this workshop doesn't exist, none of it exists. They just happen to be here, that's all. The universe turns a blind eye.'

‘On account,' the man agreed, nodding, ‘of if they closed me down, they'd be in shit up to their ears. Which is good,' he added. ‘Means I can do what the bloody 'ell I like, and if they try an' stop me I tell 'em to get stuffed. Nuffin' they can do about it.'

‘I see.' Regalian leaned back, letting it sink in. ‘So it's impossible for me to get out of here.'

‘That's right.'

‘But since nobody gives a toss—'

‘Knew you'd get the 'ang of it eventually,' the man said, grinning. ‘Least, they do give a toss, but they can't do nuffin' about it.'

‘So,' Regalian went on, ‘although it'd be impossible for me to open that door there and find myself ever-so-conveniently exactly where I wanted to be—'

‘Do us a favour an' put the kettle on first,' replied the man. ‘Any time you're passing, feel free to drop in.'

Regalian had walked to the door and his hand was on the handle when he stopped, thought for a moment and turned back. ‘One last thing,' he said.

‘Hm?'

‘Science. You know all about it, presumably?'

Without looking up, the man pointed to a large tea-chest in a corner. It was full to the top with strange, tiny artefacts, and there was a label on it, which read:

 

‘'Sall in there,' the man said. ‘Help yourself.'

Regalian shook his head. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘it wouldn't mean anything to me. I was wondering if you could sort of translate for me.'

‘Do me best.'

‘Thanks.' Regalian perched on the edge of a huge machine and folded his arms. ‘About the end of the world,' he said.

‘What about it?'

‘How does it work? And how would you go about stopping it?'

The man stopped what he was doing, switched off the power and wiped his hands on his trouser legs. There was something - difficult to describe, when you've only got
shoddy, post-modernist adjectives to work with - cheerfully reverential in his manner, as if he had just seen the Messiah and remembered that the Messiah owed him twenty quid.

‘Ah,' said the man, ‘you're one of them, then.'

 

Basic apocalypse theory.

It is now, for the sake of argument, the End of the World. Earthquakes are shaking the surface of the planet, making life difficult for all the nations of the earth who are trying to exterminate each other in the War To End All Wars - a difficult enough undertaking without the ground suddenly opening up and swallowing the enemy battalion you've spent all day carefully pinning down and enfilading in preparation for the Big Push - while overhead the upper atmosphere is nose-to-tail with executive shuttlecraft trying to make it to Alpha Centauri before the currency in the hold becomes totally worthless. The Four Horsemen™ roam the surface of the planet, trying to find an open blacksmith's forge. The Antichrist paces through the devastated streets, dodging falling bombs and selling lottery tickets.

Seen it. Old hat. Yawn. What's on the other channel?

This is
not
how the world ends.

This
is how the world ends . . .

 

 

‘Oh,' said Regalian.

The man nodded. ‘Won't affect me, of course,' he said, ‘on account of me not existing anyway. There'll just be me an' all this Non-Fiction, all the science and maffs an' stuff, like in Plato.'

Regalian frowned. ‘That's out the other side of Neptune, isn't it? They always told me it was uninhabited. '

‘That's Pluto, you pillock. Plato's in Filosofy. It's where all that's material and corruptible is purged away, leavin' only the eternal verities in their true spiritchual essence. That's here,' he added, making a wide gesture towards the machines, the workbenches, the teachests and the carefully labelled plastic dustbins full of shiny metal bits. ‘All this lot. Goin' to be borin' as fuck, you mark my words.'

Regalian nodded. ‘That,' he said, ‘is why I'd like some help making sure it doesn't happen.'

‘Wot, you mean stop the end of the world?'

‘Mhm.'

The man grinned. ‘That's impossible,' he said.

Regalian grinned too. ‘God, I'm relieved to hear you say that.'

 

With a crash, the crypt door fell inwards. Dust settled.

‘Right,' said the goblin captain, turning his back on the vault. ‘That's that, then. Don't suppose you'll be needing me and my lads for the rest of it, so we'll be on our way . . .'

‘No,' said Claudia. ‘You stay there.'

‘Ah
shit
,' whined the goblin. ‘Don't make us go in there, please.'

Claudia looked at him, amused and bemused. ‘Why ever not?' she asked.

‘Well.' The goblin shuffled his feet. ‘It's just - well, don't like crypts. Spooky.'

‘Oh get a grip, you silly little man. Whatever can there be in there that can possibly hurt you?'

- Whereupon five coffins simultaneously opened, their lids hitting the ground in unison, and five hideous spectral figures loomed up out of the darkness -

‘Eeek!' the goblin explained, pointing. ‘Ghugug . . .'

‘Not ghosts,' Claudia sighed, ‘just vampires. Honestly!'

‘Eeek! Vuvuv . . .'

‘Oh go away, then, see if I care,' Claudia snapped. ‘And I don't expect to receive a bill, either.'

Much pattering of iron-shod feet; then silence, broken only by the
shunk-shunk
of Max chambering a silver-headed bullet into the chamber of his rifle.

‘Well, here we all are,' Claudia said briskly. ‘Or at least, almost all.' She frowned, then shrugged. ‘Can't waste any more time, we'll just have to make do with three horsepersons. Jane, you can double up as Famine and Death. On second thoughts,' she added, looking Jane over, ‘not Famine, you wouldn't fool anybody. You'd better be Pestilence and Death. Ready?'

‘No.'

Claudia allowed herself a moment to soliloquise about bloody prima donna starlets who hold everything up, and then said, ‘Max.'

‘Howdy.'

‘Shoot them for me, there's a love.'

‘Sure thing, ma'am,' he replied, and did so.

As the smoke cleared and the echoes of the shots died away, Jane found herself thinking,
Odd. Death's obviously not so very fatal in these parts
. She sat up and, instinctively, felt the side of her mouth. The big, pointed teeth had gone.