The Japanese Devil Fish Girl (5 page)
Read The Japanese Devil Fish Girl Online
Authors: Robert Rankin
‘Oh no.’ George did groanings and worried at his head.
Delved into his waistcoat, recovered his match case, removed and struck fire to a Lucifer.
The pickled Martian fixed him with a pickled baleful eye. George did groanings once again, then took to a fitful sleep.
He awoke this time to the wagon’s rear doors being flung open and a great deal of bright white sunshine flooding in all over the place.
‘Up, my sorry fellow,’ called the voice of Professor Coffin. ‘Another fine day awaits your late arrival.’
George did the regulation blinkings of the eyes and, upon finding his voice, asked, ‘What happened?’
‘I worried for your safety, as well I might,’ replied the professor, all in silhouette before the beastly morning light. ‘And not without good cause, as I found you in the grounds of the Crystal Palace, all bleeding, broken and banjoed.’
‘Banjoed?’
‘Done for. Patched your bruises, so I did, then brought you back to your home.’
Even in his loosely semi-conscious state, George could sense a certain duplicity in these words. It was not, as it might be put, the whole story.
‘But another day has dawned.’ Professor Coffin leaned into the wagon and tousled George’s hair. ‘You are fit and well once more, or certainly will be once you have some vittles housed ’neath your belt, and together we must make up for our loss of earnings last night.’
‘And where are we now?’ asked George, squinting into the light and discerning a humble cottage or two.
‘A tiny rural hamlet by the name of Brentford.’ Professor Coffin straightened up and twirled his cane a little. ‘Upon the northern bank of the Thames, opposite Her Majesty’s Royal Gardens of Kew.’
George did strugglings from the wagon and took in pleasant surroundings.
‘Yonder inn.’ Professor Coffin pointed with his cane. ‘The Flying Swan. We shall take our breakfast there.’
The Flying Swan served a goodly breakfast. Specialising as it did in the popular dishes of the day, George enjoyed amongst other such popular dishes a helping of chibberlings, two portions of Melbury chubs, three wifters (finely sliced) and a quick-fired crad that would have done credit to Her Majesty’s breakfasting table at Windsor. And all washed down with porter. Splendid stuff.
George drew a jacket cuff across his mouth and nodded his approval. ‘Would you like to tell me what really happened last night?’ he asked.
Professor Coffin swallowed a slice of Corby snaffler. ‘Would
you?
’ was his reply.
you?
’ was his reply.
‘I made a mistake,’ said George. ‘And I abandoned you, my employer. I apologise for this. I paid a price for my thoughtless behaviour.’
‘We will speak no more of the matter.’ Professor Coffin gulped porter. ‘Tit for tat, black for white, the balance of equipoise is maintained.’
‘Professor.’ George Fox looked up from his breakfast. ‘Have you ever met a Venusian?’
‘Many, my boy. Most many. And not a single one of them would I trust.’
‘But for why? They have such rare beauty and seem so benign in their manners.’
‘They have three sexes, you know?’ Professor Coffin forked up a rumpling and popped it into his mouth.
‘Male, female and “of the spirit”,’ said George, knowledgeably.
‘No,’ said the professor. ‘All in a single being. They are what are called “tri-maphrodites”. They can self-reproduce. They do not require sexual partners.’
‘They have sex with themselves?’ George spat out breakfast.
‘Well, don’t think I haven’t seen you doing it.’
George now choked on his breakfast.
‘Jesting, of course,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘Don’t cough your minced pappings into my porter, please.’
George took sup from his own porter pot.
‘I don’t trust the blighters.’ Professor Coffin made the face of disgust. ‘They are all too sweet and kindly. And I have heard it said that they have no machines whatsoever. They cause things to happen through the power of their minds. Move their ships of space through the heavens by the power of faith alone.’
‘I did hear that,’ said George, reapplying himself to his breakfast.
‘Venusians are a bunch of black magicians,’ said Professor Coffin, spitting onto the sawdust on the floor.
‘Steady on now,’ said George. ‘Black magicians, you say? That is rather strong, surely?’
‘Then think on this,’ said the professor. ‘You would call yourself a Christian boy, would you not?’
‘That is the way that I was brought up.’
‘That is not what I asked.’
‘Then I
am
a Christian, yes. I believe in God.’
am
a Christian, yes. I believe in God.’
‘And do you believe in magic?’
‘Witchcraft, do you mean?’
Professor Coffin’s head went bob-bob-bob. ‘Magic is presently quite the fashion amongst the London toffs. Seances are regularly held in the parlours of the gentry.’
George nodded to this intelligence. The papers were filled with stories about a certain Daniel Dunglas Home, who held such seances. And in whose spiritual presence tables moved of their own accord, instruments played themselves and Mr Home himself had been known to levitate. Mr Home was quite the darling of the upper classes, lionised by ladies of the court. A certain expression crossed George’s face.
‘Do
not
even think about it,’ said his employer. ‘Your future does not lie in spiritualism.’
not
even think about it,’ said his employer. ‘Your future does not lie in spiritualism.’
George tucked into his tucker.
‘My point is this,’ the professor continued. ‘Magic is practised here on Earth, but in my opinion to little or no effect. I concede that conditions upon another planet might be conducive to practical magic. Magic that is controllable and employable. But is this
Godly
magic, or is it the work of the Devil?’
Godly
magic, or is it the work of the Devil?’
‘I have always wondered,’ said George, giving his mouth another cuff-wipe, ‘who was the very first magician? Magicians always claim to have these ancient books of magic. Grimoires penned by Paracelsus, or your namesake Cagliostro. But who wrote the very first one? And where did the information come from? That is what I would like to know.’
‘Then I will tell you.’ Professor Coffin finished his porter and called for more from the bar. ‘From Moses is the answer to that. When Moses ascended Mount Sinai and received the tablets of stone upon which God had hewn the Ten Commandments, God took Moses into his confidence. God gave Moses more than just the Ten Commandments. He gave him the very first grimoire. Or rather he dictated it to Moses, who wrote it all down.’
‘But why?’ asked George.
‘For the improvement and advancement of Mankind. Moses was to employ the magic at his discretion.’
‘And did he?’
‘You know that he did
not.
When he came down from the mountain the first time and found the Israelites worshipping a golden calf, he flung down not only the tablets of stone, but also the grimoire.’
not.
When he came down from the mountain the first time and found the Israelites worshipping a golden calf, he flung down not only the tablets of stone, but also the grimoire.’
‘So how does that make Moses the very first magician if he threw down the very first grimoire and never used it?’
‘I said that it was dictated to him. This gave him the status of being the very first magician. The only man ever to receive magic directly from God. He flung down the grimoire but it was not destroyed in flames. It was recovered, and passed from hand to hand and generation to generation. Few could interpret it correctly. The magic got all dissipated. The world would no doubt be a different place if the Israelites had not made that golden calf. Mind you . . .’ Professor Coffin made a significant pause.
‘Go on,’ said George. ‘You have me hooked.’
‘Some do say that this event gave birth to the very first conspiracy theory. That the making of the golden calf took place through the influence of a certain evil Israelite who planned the whole thing, knowing that Moses, who was noted for the shortness of his temper, would be so upset when he came down from the mountain bearing God’s words and saw that calf being worshipped that he would fling down whatever he had been given and get in a proper huff.’
‘Ah,’ said George. ‘I understand. And then this evil man would hastily avail himself of whatever it was that Moses threw down in a huff.’
‘Quite so. And what was intended as “good” white magic by God, as a present to Man, ended up as “bad” black magic, in the hands of bad black magicians.’
‘It is a good story,’ said George, who had now finished his breakfast. ‘But let me put this to you. What if God not only put an Adam and Eve upon this planet, but also upon Venus, Mars and Jupiter? And what if the Moses of Venus was not caused to cast down his grimoire? Then the magic employed by Venusians would be good magic, would it not?’
Professor Coffin made grumbling sounds underneath his breath.
‘Well, I have nothing personal against Venusians,’ said George. ‘They have yet to do me wrong. Young women of Earth, however, are quite another matter.’
‘I knew it!’ Professor Coffin rose to his feet and danced a little jig. ‘I just knew it. You were befuddled and befooled by a pretty young thing last night. I just knew it.’
George made a mumbled assent.
‘Do not feel bad about it, my boy. It happens to us all. Try to learn from your mistakes. You never know, you might prove to be the first man in the history of the planet who actually
can
learn from his mistakes. And now,’ Professor Coffin bowed before George, ‘the show must go on. We are bound for the fair at Hounslow and I for one would be gratified if we turned a shiny penny or two before this day is out.’
can
learn from his mistakes. And now,’ Professor Coffin bowed before George, ‘the show must go on. We are bound for the fair at Hounslow and I for one would be gratified if we turned a shiny penny or two before this day is out.’
George Fox smiled and rose to his feet and dusted crumbs from his waistcoat.
Professor Coffin drove the traction engine. George, on this occasion, stood beside him. The traction engine was marvellous, all barley-twists of polished brass, great whirling flywheels, sniffs of smoke and oil. This wondrous vehicle had but recently come into the hands of Professor Coffin. He had been fortunate enough to win it during a game of cards with a carnival proprietor named Mandible Haxan, who advertised himself as ‘the Sorcerer Genius’ and presented an attraction known as ‘the Hieronymous Machine’ or ‘Intuitive Prognosticator’ – a construction of brass, ivory, leather and tinted gutta-percha that took questions from members of the crowd and replied to them by means of a mechanical voice. The Hieronymous Machine cast horoscopes and offered those who chose to pay an extra florin ‘accurate foretellings of the future’.
Clearly Mr Mandible Haxan had not had recourse to employ the Hieronymous Machine to predict his own immediate future, before engaging Professor Cagliostro Coffin in that fateful game of cards.
George Fox knew well the professor’s skill at cards. George Fox had once owned a gold pocket watch. This gold pocket watch now resided in the waistcoat watch pocket of Professor Cagliostro Coffin.
George
had
learned from
that
particular mistake. He would never play another game of cards with his employer.
had
learned from
that
particular mistake. He would never play another game of cards with his employer.
The road between Brentford and Hounslow passes by the Park of Syon, that great estate that was the property of Lord Brentford himself. The high walls topped by the distinctive urns of Robert Adam shielded George’s gaze from the cultivated gardens and pleasure domes within. It was rumoured that Lord Brentford had twenty concubines and a monkey butler that wore a fez and an embroidered waistcoat. It was also rumoured that His Lordship, when not pushing though reform bills in the House of Lords to benefit the poor at the expense of the wealthy, engaged in the practice of those
Artes Diabolique
of which Professor Coffin had accused the Venusians.
Artes Diabolique
of which Professor Coffin had accused the Venusians.
George knew that he was beginning to make that face once again and so he tore his eyes away from the high walls of the opulent estate and fixed them on the road ahead. Beyond the farms and wayside coaching inns lay Hounslow. Hounslow with the Hounslow Fair, that wonderful famous fair.
George Fox flicked coal-smuts from his jacket and gave himself up to optimistic thoughts.
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