Robert Rankin - Web Site Story

'All right,' said Shibboleth. 'But I'm no great dancer.'

'Nor conversationalist,' said Kelly. 'But we can't all be good at everything, can we? Are you ready?'

'Ready,' said Shibboleth.

'Then here I go,' and Kelly bounced and bobbed away. She took the odd little sidesteps, then the dancings forward, then the steps backwards and then the steps forward again.

And then she vanished.

'Brilliant,' said Shibboleth. 'You did it.'

'No I didn't,' called a voice in the darkness. 'I just tripped and fell on my face.’

‘Anything hurt?’

‘Only my pride. I'm coming back to have another go-'

And so Kelly had another go.

And another.

And another.

And not to be beaten, she had another go too.

And another.

'This really isn't working, is it?' Shibboleth asked.

'There'd be a knack to it.'

'Not one you've mastered quite yet, by the look of it.'

'Perhaps you'd prefer to have a go yourself.'

Shibboleth shrugged in the uncertain light. 'I'd probably only fare as well as you,' he said. 'Although if I was going to do it, I'd probably do it exactly the same way the high priest did. By taking three steps to the right instead of the two you keep taking.'

Kelly returned to Shibboleth and punched him hard in the face.

'Oh, ouch, damn,' wailed Shibboleth. 'There was no need for that.'

'There was every need for that. If this is the way to get into the chapel, the service will be over before we even arrive. Do the dance. Go on, or I'll hit you again.'

'I think you've broken my nose.'

'I haven't. I could have done, but I didn't.'

'It really hurts,' moaned Shibboleth.

'Do the silly dance.'

And Shibboleth lined himself up, said, 'OK,' and did the silly dance.

And then he vanished. Just like that.

'Have you fallen over?' Kelly asked.

But there was no reply.

'Oh,' said Kelly. 'You did it. You actually did it.'

She stood alone there in the uncertain light, looking down at the pavement slabs through her infra-red goggles. They shone faintly, offering up the heat of the day that they had stored within their ancient granite pores. A giant chessboard? A game board? An entrance? To what?

To the chapel of It.

Kelly drew draughts of healthless Mute Corp Keynes night air up her nostrils. This was to be it. Possibly a confrontation with It. Possibly anything. And this Shibboleth had gone before her. Was he on the level? Or was he leading her to her doom? Should she go on, or turn away and run? That was an option. Not much of one, but it was an option.

'I have to see this through,' Kelly told herself. 'Innocent people have been hurt, killed. I don't know what I can do about it. But I have to do something.'

She glanced all around and about. She was all alone.

If she was going to do it.

Then now was the time.

To do it.

To do

It.

Kelly took another breath and blew it out into the night. And then she too did the silly dance.

From paving stone to paving stone and never stepping on the cracks.

And she, like Shibboleth, vanished.

The moon appeared from behind industrial clouds-. It shone down upon the great paved space, turning the paving stones the colour of a silver without price.

And out of nowhere, or so at least it seemed, a fat man appeared. He was the fat man who had leaned upon the lamppost opposite the Swan and studied Kelly through his macrovision spectacles.

The fat man crossed the wide open space. And then the fat man stopped. And then he too danced forward. Taking sideways steps, and three instead of two, and moving forwards and backwards.

And presently and under the eye of the moon, the fat man vanished too.

It was no longer night.

And it was no longer Mute Corp Keynes.

A big smiley sun beamed down from the heavens of blue. Sparrows chorused from the branches of ancient riverside oaks. Flowers prettified their -well-tended beds in the memorial park and a snoozing tomcat snored upon the window sill of the Flying Swan. The milk float jingle-jangled on its wibbly wobbly way. Another glorious day had dawned upon Brentford.

Derek awoke to find that the world had gone upside down.

He blinked and focused and stared upon the shelves of video games. Why were they all upside down, he wondered? And why was the ceiling now the floor?

Derek coughed. He didn't feel at all too well. Why would that be, then? Ah, oh dear and yes, that would be the drink and that -would be -why.

Derek heaved himself into the vertical plane. That would be -why the world had all turned upside down. He'd been lying, fully clothed, on his bed, flat on his back with his head hanging over the end.

Not the way he usually slept.

Which was all tucked up beneath his Star Wars duvet.

'Oh what happened?' Derek groaned, and slumping down upon his bed, he placed his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. 'I got drunk, that's what happened,' he mumbled. 'What did I do? Did I do something terrible?'

Circuits meshed in Derek's head. No, he hadn't done anything terrible. He'd got drunk. Wandered about. Met up with Mad John and Mad John had brought him home. That wasn't too terrible, although his mum wouldn't be smiling at him this morning over the cornflakes. 'It's all her fault,' mumbled Derek. 'That Kelly. She's got inside my head. Oh damn it. I really am in love with her. Oh God, what am I going to do?' Derek peered at his wristwatch. It was nine thirty. He should have been at the offices of the Brentford Mercury half an hour ago.

Derek dragged himself over to the dressing table and peered at his reflection in the mirror. It was grim. A boggy-eyed unshaven face peered back at him. 'Oh God,' mumbled Derek once more. 'I've really fouled up this time. Those horrible sods from Mute Corp will be sitting at Mr Shields's desk waiting for me. I have to go.'

Derek did pathetic little pattings-down at his hair, muttered something about designer stubble coming back into fashion, opened his bedroom door and stumbled down the stairs. And he almost made it to the front door too.

'Is that you, Derek?' called the voice of his mum.

'Yes Mum,' called Derek. 'Who else would it be?' He picked up a folded piece of paper from the doormat. It was addressed to him in Kelly's handwriting. But as Derek had never seen Kelly's handwriting, he didn't recognize it.

'Well, aren't you going to give your mother a goodbye kiss before you go off to work?'

'Oh,' went Derek, shrugging, then, 'OK,' he said.

Derek thrust the folded and unread piece of paper into his trouser pocket, then he bumbled along the passageway to the kitchen. Past the framed photograph of the Queen Mother, presently celebrating her one hundred and twenty-second year. Past the framed photograph of his dad, possibly celebrating something up in Heaven. And past the framed photograph of himself as a baby. The Derek of today was in no mood at all for celebration.

'Morning, darling,' said Derek's mum, beaming at him from the kitchen sink, where she stood drying her hands on an oversized brown gingham tea towel.

'Morning, Derek,' said Mad John, looking up from the breakfasting table.

Derek stared at Mad John. Mad John was wearing Derek's dressing gown.

'Give your mum a kiss,' said Derek's mum.

'And you can shake my hand if you want,' said Mad John. 'But no kissing please, it makes me want to shout.'

Derek made that face you make, when you find out that some vagrant loony's been having it off with your mum. It's a very specific sort of face, it doesn't really apply to any other situation.

'And what kind efface is that?' asked Derek's mum. 'The last time I saw a face like that, your father was making it. Shortly before he met with his tragic accident.'