Robert Rankin - Web Site Story

'I think that's exactly what we shouldn't do,' said Kelly. 'I don't think we should go anywhere near the cottage hospital.'

'Why not?'

'It's just a theory.'

'I thought we were friends now. Tell me.'

'All right,' said Kelly. 'People are vanishing. Literally disappearing. The first one we know of is this Malkuth off the bus, after him go Periwig Tombs, Big Bob Charker and Malkuth's mum, off the bus, then goes Dr Druid. One after another. Like a disease which is being passed from one person to another, perhaps.'

'There's no disease that makes people vanish. Get real.'

'No disease that we know of, perhaps.'

'No disease. Period.'

'Period,' said Kelly. 'Your aunty said that. People are vanishing and it's all on the police computer. It all leads to Mute Corp Keynes. The black hole of cyberspace. This is somehow related to the country's computer system.'

'I can't imagine by what logic you can possibly draw that conclusion.'

'That is because you are a man, Derek, and I am a \voman.'

'That is no argument at all. Are you calling this woman's intuition?'

'Do you have any theories?'

'The Rapture?' said Derek.

'I thought not. Let's go to your house. I only need about half an hour on your home computer.'

'Er, no,' said Derek. 'My mum will be up. She doesn't like me bringing ladies into my room.'

Kelly gave Derek one of those looks.

'We could use the computer at the Brentford Mercury.'

'I thought it wasn't unpacked. And I think you'll find it's now at the police station.'

'You heard about that, did you? Not much slips by you. But I have my own workstation. I'm not a Luddite like Mr Shields.'

'Then shall we go?'

Derek glanced towards the Space Invaders machine. 'There is that matter of the deciding game,' he said.

'Best out of three. But then we definitely go.'

Derek had his head down as they walked along the High Street. He'd pushed Kelly into best out of seven, but she still just kept on winning.

It was another joyous day. The sun swelled high in the clear blue sky. Birdies called and twittered. There was something about the High Street, however, that didn't seem altogether right.

'Is it early closing day?' asked Kelly. 'An awful lot of shops seem to be shut.'

'Well, it is,' said Derek. 'But they shouldn't be shut this early.'

'Ah,' said Kelly, pointing. 'Look at that.'

Derek followed the direction of the elegant digit. On the door of Mr Beefheart's hung a simple note. 'Closed,' it read. 'Family awaiting The Rapture.'

'Oh dear,' said Derek. 'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.'

'I think perhaps that we should be grateful for that.'

'Grateful?' said Derek. 'Why grateful?'

'Because it's infinitely preferable to a great black plague cross.'

'God, you don't think it will come to that, do you?'

'I don't know. Let's hope not.'

'Well we're here. The Mercury's offices seem to be open.'

'Then let's get right to it.'

Up the stairs they went. Kelly insisted that Derek led the way. Not because she didn't know the way. But just because she didn't want him looking up her dress.

No receptionist sat in reception.

'I hope Dettox hasn't been Raptured,' said Derek. 'She's the only one who ever makes me a cup of tea.'

'Do you know what,' said Kelly. 'I've never made a cup of tea or coffee for a man in all of my life. And I have no intention of ever doing so.'

Derek smiled. 'There's an old saying,' he said. 'A beautiful woman doesn't have to know how to change a tyre. Or something like that. I'm not being sexist of course. Oh, hold on, what's happening here?'

'Where?' Kelly asked.

Derek put his finger to his lips. 'There are people in Mr Shields's office. You can make them out through the frosted glass partition. I can see a fuzzy pink shape and a fuzzy red one and a large fuzzy Mr Shields-looking one.'

'Nothing unusual in that, surely.'

'Are you kidding? Mr Shields never has visitors. I don't know how you ever got through.'

'Dettox offered to make me a cup of tea. What are you doing?'

Derek was beckoning. 'Come with me quickly, to my office.'

Kelly shrugged and followed.

Derek's office was a dire little room that looked out onto a blank brick wall. There were no signs here of Derek's private obsession. Just a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet and a Mute Corp 4000 word processor. And a telephone with a voice broadcaster attachment jobbie. Derek picked up the receiver, tapped out several numbers then dropped it into the voice broadcaster attachment.

'What are you doing now?' Kelly asked.

'Being nosey. I took the liberty of installing a bug in Mr Shields's office. It helps me keep ahead of him and not get sacked.'

'Very enterprising.'

'Ssh,' said Derek and listened.

Kelly shushed and listened. She heard first the voice of Mr Shields.

'I'm sorry,' said Mr Shields. 'But I don't think I quite understand what you're talking about.' His voice sounded fierce. It didn't sound very happy at all.

'It is very straightforward,' said the voice of one of his visitors. 'My companion and I represent a multinational corporation. My card.'

There was a pause.

'Oh,' said the voice of Mr Shields. 'I see, that organization.'

'That organization, yes. They don't come any bigger, I'm sure you'll agree.'

'I'm very busy,' said Mr Shields. 'Perhaps this could wait until another day.'

'No,' said the voice of visitor number two. 'Our organization never waits. It gets things done at once.'

'Not here it doesn't,' said Mr Shields. 'This is Brentford.'

'Exactly!' said visitor number one. 'This is Brentford. Which is why we are here.'

'I've told you that I don't understand and I still don't.' Mr Shields was still keeping it fierce. The voices of his visitors were, however, calm.

'Do you know what data reaction is?' asked visitor number one.

'No,' said Mr Shields. 'And neither do I care.'

'It is what keeps our organization at the cutting edge of technology and everything else. Our mainframe scans the world for data. It assesses, it assimilates, it correlates, it sorts the wheat from the chaff and then it makes informed decisions.'

'Have you been sent by head office?' asked Mr Shields.

'Our organization owns head office,' said the voice of visitor number two. 'It owns the newspaper.'

'But you can't close it down. You can't touch it. I have a contract for life.'

'We have no wish to tamper with the way you run this newspaper. We have merely come to inform you of the organization's plans for the borough, so that you can play an active promotional role.'

Mr Shields made grumbling sounds.

'Data reaction,' said visitor number two. 'The mainframe received a sudden inrush of data from this borough, the evening before last, at precisely eight minutes past eight. Much of it was jumbled nonsense. But some of it was pertinent and of commercial value. Regarding something called Suburbia World Plc. Does this mean anything to you?'

'No,' said Mr Shields in a voice both fierce and puzzled.

'No-one has ever spoken to you about Suburbia World Plc?'

'No,' said Mr Shields. 'Never. What is it?'

'A theme park,' said visitor number one. 'It concerns turning the whole of Brentford into a suburban theme park.'

'What?' went Mr Shields.

'What?' went Derek.

'What?' went Kelly.

' Your week in Suburbia World Plc would not be complete without a boat trip to Brentford's own Fantasy Island.' Visitor number one spoke in a curious tone, as if he was a voice-over to a web site commercial. 'See the creature of myth that once inhabited this enchanted realm in the dream world days of the magic distant past. Take a safari through the wildlife sanctuary and rare bird reserve of Allotment World . You have to picture the images, sweeping aerial shots of the borough, taken from a helicopter. This will be big, very big.'