The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends by Robert Rankin FVSS Page B

chap.
    Mr Bell nodded. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
    ‘Well, you'd best get inside, mate. You know you can be shot for a looter if you're out after the siren.’
    Mr Bell perused the chap, his gaze moving from the fellow's shoes to his trouser-cuffs, to his waistcoat and shirt-collar. Mr Bell drew a sudden breath. ‘We are at war,’ he said.
    ‘And the geezer in the topper wins a big cigar,’ said the chap in the helmet. ‘Now inside with you both and let's ’ave no more nonsense.’
    Mr Bell looked down at me and shook his head in sadness. ‘This is very bad indeed,’ he said.
    The interior of what once had been the Adequate had not changed very much, a tad shabbier, perhaps, and duller tothe eye, and the carpet was now threadbare. The lighting, however, was electric.
    The hotel reception area now served as a saloon bar, littered with ill-matched tables and chairs. These were adorned by working types, who upon viewing us displayed expressions of dire perplexity.
    Someone said, ‘Are you ’avin’ a gi-raffe?’ But this offered no comfort. A poster pinned to a nearby pillar displayed the words WALLS HAVE EARS , which I found most perplexing.
    ‘They're with the circus,’ said the chap with the painted helmet.
    Mr Bell doffed his topper and said, ‘Greetings, one and all.’
    The working men returned to their conversations as the chap in the helmet led us to the bar.
    ‘This is Doris,’ he said, indicating a vast woman who swelled behind the bar-counter, her costume a floral symphony, her face a crimson sunset. ‘She will serve your needs. I ’ave a call that must be made.’ And with that said, the chap in the helmet bowed and took his leave.
    Doris smiled upon Cameron Bell, then turned her gaze towards me. ‘And who is this cheeky little rascal?’ she asked.
    I opened my mouth to reply.
    ‘His name is Darwin,’ said Mr Bell, thrusting a rough hand over my face to stifle my conversation. ‘Naturally he cannot answer for himself –’ Mr Bell gave me a meaningful glance ‘– but he is a highly trained circus ape. House-trained also and not at all fierce.’
    I bit the hand of Cameron Bell, but not hard enough to draw blood.
    ‘A cheeky rascal indeed,’ said Mr Bell. And his eyes turned towards the row of handpumps.
    ‘Only bottled, I'm afraid,’ said Doris. ‘And only pale ale, I regret.’
    ‘I'll take one of those, then,’ said Mr Bell, ‘and a bowl of water for Darwin.’
    I showed Mr Bell my teeth and a second pale ale was swiftly added to the order.
    ‘One and six,’ said Doris, serving same.
    Mr Bell dug into his trouser pocket and produced a half-crown coin that bore the head of Queen Victoria on its shiny face.
    Doris received it, examined it and bit it, smiled and said fair enough and took herself off to the till.
    I climbed onto the counter-top and poured my pale ale into a waiting glass. This received applause from the working men. I raised my glass and mimed a toast and they clapped once again. Doris brought change to Mr Bell and he examined this.
    ‘It's real enough,’ said Doris.
    ‘King George the Sixth,’ said Mr Bell.
    Doris said, ‘God save the King.’
    And all around folk raised their glasses and also said, ‘God save the King.’
    I raised my glass, too, but did not speak.
    I became gloomy in this future time.
    Queen Victoria would now be long dead and a king sat on the throne of England. Winston Churchill was the Prime Minister and the Empire was under attack by raids from the air. Not Martians again, I hoped.
    Mr Bell noted my disposition and patted me on the back. ‘All will be well,’ he said to me. ‘Do not worry yourself.’
    And at that very moment, the soldiers entered the British Bulldog.
    They were rather fierce-looking soldiers and they entered in the company of the chap in the painted helmet.
    ‘That's them,’ said this chap to the soldiers, and he pointed his finger at me and Mr Bell.
    ‘German spies, the both of them,’ said the man