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

he. ‘I do not have identity papers suitable for this period of time. According to the documents I obtainedin ancient Egypt, Mr Arthur Knapton would appear to be engaged in legitimate business here and now with the British Government. He has the edge on me, as our American cousins might put it.’
    ‘And also—’ I began.
    But Mr Bell cut me short. ‘I am aware of every “and also”,’ he said. ‘We are in a very difficult position.’
    ‘Then let us take our leave. It is far too dangerous here. What if a bomb comes down from the sky and blows up the Marie Lloyd ?’
    ‘You make a good point,’ said my friend. ‘We would do well to depart before night falls and the Blitz begins once more.’
    ‘The Blitz ?’ I said. ‘A horrid word is that .’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’
    And I looked up to view the cause of his oh-dearings. And I was prompted to utter one of my own.
    We stood now before the Electric Alhambra. But that beautiful building within which the greatest music hall acts of the day had entertained the plain folk and the gentry . . .
    Was gone.
    Destroyed.
    A section of the façade was all that remained.
    Mr Bell stooped down and picked up a piece of golden mosaic. ‘Such a pity,’ said he, in the softest of voices.
    ‘I just cannot bear it,’ I said.
    ‘Bookshop,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘There is much I need to know, and then we will see what we will see.’
    The Atlantis Bookshop had not changed at all. It lay, as it always had done, a mere tome's throw from the British Museum, which looked for its part as yet unscathed. Mr Bellindicated a lamp post and suggested that I climb to its very top and await him there until he had done whatever business he wished to do. I set to climbing the lamp post, and Mr Bell entered the shop.
    I heard a distant church clock chiming and looked on as Londoners came and went. I do not think that I had ever felt so alone before as I did then, and I was very glad when Mr Bell finally emerged from the shop, a brown paper bag tucked under his arm, and beckoned me down to join him.
    ‘To Sydenham at once,’ said he.
    ‘Thank goodness for that ,’ said I.
    We took a taxicab to Sydenham, and a wretched taxicab it was. It smelled of sweaty men and cigarettes and it coughed black smoke as it rattled along. Recalling the sleek electric-wheelers of eighteen ninety-nine, I found that taxicab puzzling.
    Mr Bell spoke not throughout our journey. He had a very queer look on his face and his fists were knotted tightly. As we drew nearer and nearer to Sydenham Hill, I felt a growing sense of unease. A feeling of dread.
    I had, if you will, a sort of premonition.
    There was some unpleasantness regarding payment and the driver of the taxicab availed himself of Mr Bell's pocket watch. The great detective parted with this precious possession without a word of complaint. He had a weary look to him that I found most alarming.
    The taxicab left us and we trudged back to where I had landed the Marie Lloyd .
    And it came as no surprise to me, nor indeed to Mr Bell, to find that the Marie Lloyd had gone.
    *
    We sat together on high, on Sydenham Hill, and gazed down upon the rolling grasslands that spread beneath. No trace there of the Royal London Spaceport, of the great cobbled landing strip, of the vast Gothic-styled terminal buildings. No sign at all that they had ever existed.
    I looked up at Mr Bell. ‘We both knew,’ I said. ‘Somehow, we knew that the Marie Lloyd would not be here when we returned. We knew , Mr Bell. But how did we know? What does it mean, please tell me?’
    My friend took off his topper and placed it between his feet. A gust of wind caught it and it bowled down the hill. Mr Bell made no attempt to retrieve it and we watched it bounce away until it was lost to our sight.
    ‘Recall those chickens in ancient Egypt,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
    ‘Only too well, and I did not like them at all.’
    ‘And recall how you