The Mechanical Messiah by Robert Rankin Page A

ushered inside by a slender lady. This fragile being had a curious hairstyle that resembled a helter-skelter. Tiny flowers had been inserted into it, as to resemble children’s faces peeping out. This lady enquired of Alice’s name, then introduced herself to be Lucy Gladfield, the proprietress. As she led Alice up pleasantly carpeted stairs she named the sum required for weekly rent. Which Alice did not consider excessive as long as the room proved sound. And as she tottered up the stairs on delicate heels, Lucy Gladfield extolled the virtues of her establishment. Its cleanliness, which she considered next to Godliness. Its freedom from any kind of infestation. Its warmth in winter due to a fireplace in every room.
    She then placed great emphasis upon certain matters that were clearly dear to her heart. The keeping of regular hours by her boarders. The absolute prohibition of gentlemen from visiting the rooms of ladies. The prompt payment of rent. The turning off of taps after use and the necessary flushings of toilets. There were plenty more of these besides arid Alice took all of them in.
    She did note, however, that the proprietress neglected to mention anything about boarders keeping kiwi birds in their rooms. So Alice did not raise the subject.
    The room she was shown was really quite grand, affording a fine view of the street through a high double casement. There was a single brass bed, covered by an embroidered quilt. A bedside table, with a brand-new candle in a copper holder. A pitch pine wardrobe and a single chair. A large rag rug smothered the floor and a brass-bound portmanteau stood in a corner next to a pile of clothes.
    Could Alice furnish a week’s rent in advance?
    Alice could.
    When would Alice care to move in?
    Tomorrow, if that was convenient.
    It was.
    Alice shook a fragile hand and glanced about the room and nodded gently.
    ‘Do not worry about the portmanteau and the pile of clothes,’ said Lucy Gladfield. ‘A gentleman will be calling later today to collect them.’
    ‘The previous tenant?’ Alice asked.
    Lucy Gladfield shook her narrow head. The helter-skelter bobbed from side to side. ‘I regret that the previous tenant will not be returning,’ she said. ‘The previous tenant met with a terrible accident. Not here of course. Not in this room. But at a Music Hall. Perhaps you read of it in the newspaper today. His name was Harry Hamilton.’

 
     
     
11
     

    ow listen to me, my dear fellow, ‘said Colonel Katterfelto. ‘I know that we have our differences, but it would be to our mutual advantage were we to work together.’
    His words were addressed to Darwin the monkey. The two sat in a Soho coffee house taking breakfast. They sat in a shadowy corner. The two were not observed.
    ‘The angels command—’ began Darwin.
    ‘I think we might dispense with that guff,’ the colonel suggested.
    ‘The power of Christ compels you.’
    ‘And that I believe to be somehow blasphemous. But please do listen to me. I seek to complete the Great Work that was denied me in Wormcast, Arizona.’
    Darwin almost made a guilty face. Almost, but not quite.
    ‘You seek comfort and, er—’
    ‘Bananas,’ said Darwin, and he poked a hairy finger at his breakfast. There were eggs and there were bacons, but there were no bananas.
    ‘Precisely, we both have our wants and our needs. And if we both work together, surely we might accomplish these.’
    Darwin scratched at his hirsute head. He was not exactly sure how that was going to work. He yearned for comfort, good clothes, good food and pretty much good everything. The colonel sought to build a Mechanical Messiah, infuse life into it and hasten on the End of Days.
    The two did not appear compatible.
    ‘I have a plan that will benefit us both,’ continued the colonel, in a somewhat conspiratorial fashion. Which involved a hunching of his bowed shoulders and harsh stage whispers behind the hands. ‘It is not strictly honest, but it would furnish us