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

those of cells, but I passed one door marked PRIVATE RECORDS KEEP OUT . Crudely scrawled in English, these words were, and I viewed them with some puzzlement.
    At little length, Mr Bell was flung into a cell and the door closed and bolted upon him. I hid as best I could as the chicken militia hens swaggered back along the corridor and took their leave.
    I watched the horrid things depart and trembled not a little.
    And then I set to the task of releasing my bestest friend.

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    ow nice it was to see a smile on the face of Mr Bell.
    When eventually I peeped in through the little grille in his cell door and blew a raspberry at him.
    I say ‘eventually’ because I had waited for what I considered to be a respectable length of time before seeking to effect his rescue. I felt that my friend might do well to endure a solitary period during which he might engage in valuable contemplation. To dwell upon the error of his ways and, hopefully, given the mortal danger that embraced him, to abandon this wretched venture and accompany me instead to Beethoven's concert.
    I counted up to one thousand, but went no further as I could abide the smell of this dismal place no longer.
    ‘Mr Bell,’ I called as I grinned in and waggled my fingers. ‘I have come to rescue you.’
    Mr Bell smiled back at me. Although he did it with difficulty as his face displayed many a graze and a bruise.
    ‘You are as ever a hero, Darwin,’ he said. *
    I put up a struggle with the bolt and finally opened the door.
    Mr Bell tousled my head and thanked me for saving his life.
    ‘Let us return to the Marie Lloyd and be off upon our way,’ I said. ‘There is nothing more we can do here. When they find your cell empty they will hunt you down. It is obviously far too dangerous for us to remain here.’
    ‘I do so agree,’ said Mr Bell.
    And I was glad for that.
    ‘However, there are certain things that must be done first.’
    ‘Lunch would be nice,’ I said, for my stomach grumbled. ‘But in a part of this city far distant from here.’
    ‘It is here that these things must be done,’ said Cameron Bell.
    As we made our way back along the grim passage, Mr Bell stopped of a sudden.
    ‘Our investigations begin here ,’ said he.
    We stood before the door that had the words PRIVATE RECORDS KEEP OUT scrawled upon it in English.
    I looked up at Mr Bell, who tapped his snubby nose. ‘I caught a glimpse of this as I was being bullied down the corridor,’ said he. ‘The crude lettering of my old bootboy Arthur Knapton was instantly recognisable to me.’
    And Mr Bell examined the door. ‘Locked with a key, this one,’ he observed. *
    I turned to take my leave.
    ‘Not quite yet, Darwin.’
    And I turned back to find Mr Bell tinkering in his trouser pockets. Presently he drew out his little roll of house-breaking instruments and set to an act of lock-picking.
    I glanced fearfully up and down the passageway. I had no wish at all to remain here and cared not at all for whatever PRIVATE RECORDS this locked room contained.
    The locked room soon became an unlocked room. Mr Bell pressed open the door and entered it. I followed hard upon his heels and closed the door behind us.
    We stood in darkness a moment or two, then the room came to a sudden illumination and we cried out in some surprise at all that lay before us.
    Mr Bell was examining a switching arrangement upon the wall. His finger rested upon it. ‘Electrical lighting,’ said he.
    ‘But look.’ And I pointed. ‘See all of this.’
    My companion now viewed the contents of the room that spread all around and about us. We stood within a vault of considerable size, in what appeared to be—
    ‘A library,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘And if I am not entirely mistaken—’ and he plucked a book from one of the nearest shelves and examined it with interest ‘—the British Library. All twenty thousand, two hundred and forty volumes, I suspect.’
    The shelves diminished into hazy perspective.
    They