The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends (6 page)

‘I must express my extreme disappointment,’ said I.

And Cameron Bell asked me just why this was.

‘Because it has been my conviction,’ I explained, ‘that the race of Man descended from Ape, as popularised by the theory of my namesake, Mr Darwin. The Ape being God's noblest creature, as you yourself would attest, having spent so much time in my company.’

Mr Bell rolled his eyes somewhat at this. Perhaps he had some sand in them.

‘It certainly puts a new perspective upon history,’ he said.

‘Not one that
I
will readily embrace,’ I replied. ‘There will be some rational explanation, I am sure. Perhaps they are a special breed of worker chicken bred by an ape of the scientific persuasion.’

‘As likely an explanation as any, I suppose.’

Mr Bell shrugged and I, having nothing better to do, joined him in shrugging.

‘Will this affect
our
plan?’ I asked, when I had tired of shrugging.

‘In no way.’ Mr Bell arose and dusted sand from himself.

‘That there may be no misunderstandings,’ I said, doing likewise, ‘please outline to me
precisely
what your intentions are.’

‘Certainly.’ My friend drew from an inner pocket a hip flask that greatly dwarfed my own and acquainted himself with its contents. ‘Today is the day of Akhenaten's coronation. The city will swell with visitors, many many visitors, from all parts of this ancient realm. We will be able to move unnoticed amongst them—’

I made a coughing-mumbling sound, which signified a degree of uncertainty. Mr Bell continued undeterred.

‘And we shall take ourselves to a hostelry and learn what there is to be learned. Our aim is ultimately the capture and return to London of the elusive Mr Knapton. This we
will
achieve, but by what means depends upon the intelligence gained within the city. I can offer little more in the way of specifics than this.’

‘Perhaps we should return once more to the
Marie Lloyd
and iron out the details,’ I said. ‘I recall that I made several suggestions earlier which do not now appear to be included in your scheme.’

‘Darwin,’ said Mr Bell, ‘do you wish to see Beethoven conduct the Ninth, or do you not?’

‘Let us hasten to the city,’ I said. ‘I am confident that the details will iron themselves out soon enough.’

*

It was fearsomely hot. We trudged over sand dunes and eventually found ourselves upon a paved road. Here we fell in with other travellers, some on horseback, some upon camels, some simply plodding on foot. All were bound, as we were, to the great city of Akhetaten, and none paid us any attention.

Mr Bell had suggested that it would be better if I did not display my vocal skills whilst in unfamiliar company, but that I might instead employ my considerable talents as an actor by posing as his servant. He was quite profuse in his praises for my acting skills and likened me to a simian Henry Irving.

I had acquiesced to this on the condition that I remained in my white linen suit and pith helmet and was not required to don the hated fez and waistcoat.

Onward we marched to Akhetaten.

I confess to no little sense of awe. For here was I, actually in the past, amongst people of history, walking towards a city of a biblical persuasion. I had become the first Ape of Time and this was my first adventure.

Those we marched amongst were certainly striking to behold. So much so, in fact, that I feel the need to versify.

There were tall Zoroastrians all the way from Persia.

Gaunt Ethiopians in colourful attire.

Princes of Atlantis and of Narnia and India,

Who travelled to the music of the flute and lute and lyre.

There were worshippers of Hanuman, of Hathor and of Horus,

Freya and Fortuna, Marduk and Mummu.

Dagon and Demeter, Ganesha and Fanjita,

Achilles and Adonis and Agamemnon, too.

I will, in the fullness of time, add other verses to this text to bring the reader further joy, but those two for now are sufficient. Mr Bell identified to me Babylonians, Mesopotamians, denizens of Phoenicia, Nineveh, ancient Greece and Rome. It seemed as if all of the antique world had been invited to attend the coronation of Akhenaten. And given Mr Arthur Knapton's intentions for world domination, this was not altogether surprising.

A thousand thoughts must have whirled their way through my mind as we moved on towards the great city. Many many questions sprang forward, but few answers moved to greet them.

We passed rather too closely to one of the half-built pyramids and viewed the chickens that worked upon it. They were fearsome chickens.

Each one of them was the height of a man and possessed of considerable strength, for they hauled those granite blocks with ease. I looked up at Mr Bell and caught sight of a most quizzical expression upon the great detective's face. It was evident to me that Cameron Bell was baffled by those chickens.

We entered the city through a gateway that yawned between two monstrous statues of Akhenaten, seated and stately and striking to behold. I have seen several of the capital cities of Earth during my travels and also once Rimmer, the capital city of Venus. But I had never before seen such a city as this.

Its architecture was daunting to the eye, its scale beyond an ape's ability to encompass. It was not as if the mighty buildings rose up from the ground, but rather that they appeared to soar down from the sky. They conformed to a curious geometry that played havoc with perspective and brought troubles to the mind. This was indeed a biblical
city. And new thoughts crowded my head. I thought of those mighty men of old, the patriarchs and prophets, of Moses, Aaron, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Abraham and the rest. Did their feet, in these ancient times, walk upon the pavements of this city? Were such Old Testament heroes here at this very moment?

Mr Bell was searching for a public house. Whilst I gazed up in awe at obelisks inlaid with tiger's-eye, chalcedony, chrysoprase and jasper, he sought out a bar. I knew Mr Bell to be a man of integrity and ingenuity, but also a man who was keen to haunt taverns.

‘Aha,’ said he of a sudden, and drew me from the throng that was now pressing hard about my small self. ‘Here will serve us fine, I do believe.’

He pointed up to a row of hieroglyphics above an open doorway.

And once more proved the extent of his arcane knowledge by interpreting them.

‘Fangio's Bar,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

‘
Fangio's Bar!?!
’ I would have said, but I was sworn to silence.

‘Let us enter and see what we can see.’ Mr Bell dusted down his tweeds, removed his pith helmet and, in the company of myself, entered Fangio's Bar.

It came as a surprise to me on this occasion, but would fail to do so upon others, that a bar looks just like a bar no matter which where or when you happen to be. And this one was ever so typical.

It was long and low and loathsome, dimly lit and evil-smelling. A bar-counter ran the length of the far wall and a
cockroach was sauntering along its length. The floor was cobbled with sandstone and clothed with rotten rugs. The walls were dressed with sporting prints and I viewed what looked to be a number of Spanish souvenirs behind the bar-counter amongst the optics, along with several picture postcards and a scale model of Noah's Ark.

It was not a big bar and my eyesight is acute.

Patrons of this sorry establishment lounged upon rough wooden stools, taking their Egyptian porter from earthenware tankards and mumbling in those Neanderthal tones common to bar patrons the whole world over, throughout the length and breadth of time.

Having taken it in, I turned to take my leave.

Mr Bell, however, would have none of that.

‘We shall stay,’ said he, a-pushing me forward. ‘We will taste ale and
I
will chat with the locals.’

I mentioned in passing that this bar was evil-smelling. Much of this foetor clearly emanated from the patrons, who were surely not of princely stock. The beer had a malodorous quality that was all its own and I felt disinclined to sample it.

Mr Bell approached the bar, one hand upon my shoulder. A barman, of filthy aspect, viewed our arrival with a jaundiced expression, a jaded eye and a nose with a boil on the end.

‘Two measures of your finest ale,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

The barman just stared on and made no movement.

‘
Two . . . measures . . . of . . . your . . . finest . . . ale
,’ said Mr Bell once more, this time more slowly and more loudly, for as any Englishman knows, Johnny Foreigner
can
understand the Queen's English if he chooses to, and if you say what you have to say
very
loudly and
very
slowly he will
eventually acknowledge this fact and you will get what you require.

Fellow time traveller Hugo Rune suggested that to enforce a point in circumstances such as these, the employment of a stout stick had an educational effect. Mr Bell did carry such a stick!

‘I said . . .’ said he, ‘
TWO . . . MEASURES . . . OF—
’

‘There's no need to shout,’ said the barman. ‘I heard you the first time.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Bell.

‘And I would have answered you the first time, too, had I not become overwhelmed by wonder.’

Mr Bell was now speechless. For after all, here was a barman, in the historical city of Akhetaten, who spoke Her Majesty's tongue.

‘Wonder?’ said Mr Cameron Bell in a very small voice indeed.

‘Wonder as to what a gentleman such as yourself is doing on a hot day as is this, wearing a three-piece suit of Boleskine tweed more suited to a spot of grouse-shooting on a Highland moor, and in the company of an ape got up in more appropriate apparel. An ape, I might add, as carries himself in such a manner as to affect a certain snootiness. And—’

‘A Scotsman,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, extending his hand for a shake. The barman took this hand for a shake and gave it a thorough shaking. I had learned through keeping company with Mr Bell that
certain
handshakes had
certain
significances, and I felt that this particular handshake was one of those.

‘Have you travelled far?’ asked the barman.

And whispered words were now exchanged.

‘Well now,’ said Mr Bell, a-settling himself onto a tall and rugged stool set against the bar-counter. ‘A Scotsman
serving ale in the city of Akhetaten. How could I possibly have guessed?’

The Scotsman offered an enigmatic smile. ‘You don't think the tam-o’-shanter, the clan cloth and the kilt give it away, then?’ he asked.

And Mr Bell laughed somewhat.

‘I do not think that you are altogether surprised at all,’ said the barman. ‘I would have you down as a seasoned traveller, would I not, sir?’

‘You would,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘And one who has acquainted himself with many bars in many places.’

‘That, too,’ agreed the detective.

‘And in each of these bars, all over the world, there is one thing notable?’

‘More than just one thing,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But perhaps the most notable is that no matter in what far-flung reach of civilisation one finds oneself, if there is a bar to be found, there will like as not be found also a Scotsman standing behind the counter.’

The barman nodded. ‘They predict that in a future time it will be an Australian,’ said he.

‘Pray that it be not so,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But it is a pleasure to meet with a fellow son of the isles I call my home.’

‘A joy indeed,’ said the barman. ‘It will be a pleasure to shoot the breeze and chew the fat, talk the toot and drink the drink with your good self, a fellow lover of equality, liberty and egalitarianism.’

Mr Bell nodded.

‘So what shall it be then, sir?’ asked the Scottish lover of freedom, equality, liberty and egalitarianism.

‘Two measures of your finest ale,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

‘You are a thirsty gentleman indeed.’

‘One, of course, is for my servant.’ Mr Bell smiled upon me.

‘No,’ said the barman, smiling not. ‘We don't serve
his
kind in here!’

7

‘
ou are surely jesting,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

‘Indeed I am,’ agreed the barman, displaying a toothless grin.