Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  John had been sitting at Jim Pooley’s office desk when the man with the suit had entered without knocking. He was a very large man, broad at the shoulders and at the hips also. He carried a metal executive case and this he placed upon the desk, having first swept papers to right and left to make a spot of room.

  “Steady on,” said John.

  “Many debts,” said the big, broad man, flipping the catches on the case. “Many court costs and damages.”

  “Many what?” John asked.

  The big, broad man lifted the lid of his case and brought out many papers. “You are John Vincent Omally,” he said.

  “Well—” said John.

  “It wasn’t a question,” said the man. “You are John Vincent Omally, personal assistant to James Arbuthnot Pooley, manager of Brentford United Football Club.”

  John made a face not dissimilar to that which Jim had recently been making.

  “The court summonses were all addressed to you,” said the man, “but you failed to attend any of the proceedings.”

  “I’m a very busy man,” said John, who vaguely recalled a lot of official-looking correspondence arriving for him, all of which he had consigned to the bin without opening it.

  “Perhaps you believe yourself to be above the law,” said the big, broad man.

  John made a so-so face towards this.

  The big, broad man affected a smirk. “The court found in favour of the following,” said he, and he read out a list of names.

  Omally did groanings. These were the names of the town councillors who had fallen through the floor of the executive box during the Brentford-Orton Goldhay game.

  “They all sued, and they all won, as their cases went undefended. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the Brentford Mercury more than a month ago.”

  “I only ever read the sports page,” said John, “and the front page when it’s about one of the Brentford team’s wins.”

  “This was on the court page. But no matter, I have all the information here. Perhaps you’d care to write me out a cheque – assuming that you have a lot of ink in your Biro.”

  The big man laughed. The humour was lost upon John.

  “So,” said the big man, suddenly grave, “cheque, is it, or repossession?”

  “Repossession?” John asked.

  “I represent a firm of bailiffs,” said the big man, now proffering his card. “We have taken over the debts. I must demand payment at once or I will be forced to take possession of the premises and all property within them – which would include the team’s strip, boots, oranges for half-time, et cetera.”

  “Oh no,” said John, “you can’t do that. We’re playing for the FA Cup tomorrow.”

  The big, broad man replaced his papers and closed his executive case. And then he lunged forward over the desk, snatched John up by his lapels and hoisted him into the air.

  “I trust,” said he, as he did so, “that you are not intending to obstruct a bailiff in the course of his duties.”

  “I …” gurgled John, lining up to swing a punch that would in all probability prove to be his last. “I …”

  “Put Mr Omally down, if you will.”

  John peeped over the big, broad shoulder. The Campbell stood in the doorway. “Put him down, says I.”

  The big, broad man let John slip from his fingers. He turned upon the figure in the doorway. “And who might you be?” he asked.

  “Mahatma Campbell,” said the Campbell. “Take your leave now, if you will.”

  The big, broad man stared at the Campbell. “On your way,” said he.

  “I’ll stand my ground,” said the Campbell. “And I’ll stand this ground. Take your case and begone.”

  The big, broad man lifted his metal case from the desk and then, before John’s horrified eyes, he flung it with terrific force straight at the Campbell’s head.

  And John looked on as, with unthinkable speed, the Campbell drew his claymore and swung it at the oncoming case. There was a crash and a flurry of sparks as the claymore cleaved the case into two neat halves, which crashed to the floor amidst a flutter of neatly sliced court summonses.

  The Campbell tucked away his claymore. “Away upon your toes,” said he.

  The big man glared at the Campbell, and the big man’s eyes darkened, darkened to black. And a blackness fell all about the office and John Omally took to the ducking of his head.

  “There’s no ducking out of this one,” said Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of Manchester United Football Club. “Tomorrow is the big match and we are going to win it.”

  His team sat before him in the well-posh executive boardroom of the world’s most successful football club.

  “I don’t want to have to be chucking any more football boots at players’ heads, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

  His team shifted upon their well-posh executive boardroom chairs. The chairs were Bauhaus classics; the bums that sat upon them were separated from them by Armani suit trousers and Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

  “This is a game that we must win,” continued Sir Alex. “A game that we are going to win.”

  Team heads nodded enthusiastically.

  “We’ll win, Boss,” said a player whose name had a trademark stamp upon it.

  “We will,” said another whose face adorned a million bedroom walls.

  “You will,” said Sir Alex. “But that is not why I have assembled you all here. I have done so because I want to introduce you to someone. You will not be aware of this, but the club has recently become involved in certain financial negotiations. In fact, the club has changed hands for a more than lucrative sum – one that will assure that when you win tomorrow, and you will win, you will each receive a cash bonus to the tune of half a million pounds.”

  The team did oohings and aahings. Even with all the money they made every week, half a million smackers in cash was not something to be sneezed at.

  “Allow me to introduce to you the new owner of Manchester United.” The big well-posh executive boardroom doors swung open to reveal a tall, slim man with a dark suit and a head of blondy hair.

  “Mr William Starling,” said Sir Alex Ferguson.

  “Mr Omally,” said the Campbell, “you can come out now.”

  John raised his head from the devastation that had so recently been Jim Pooley’s office.

  “Has he gone?” John asked.

  “For ever,” said the Campbell, wiping something black from his claymore on to the hem of his kilt.

  “He was one of—”

  “Lord Cthulhu’s dark and scaly minions, aye. I’m thinking that you should accompany Mr Pooley to a place of safety for the night. I would advise the professor’s.”

  John rose to his feet and did dustings down of himself. “Starling took a magical oath not to harm Jim or me.”

  “Best to be safe,” said the Campbell. “Unless you think otherwise.”

  “No,” said John. “And thank you.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for coming here once again,” said Professor Slocombe. Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy grinned at him from the fireside chairs in the professor’s study.

  “We came at your calling,” said Terrence.

  “Positively trotlike,” said Sponge Boy.

  “And I appreciate this.” The professor seated himself at his desk and toyed with a nail from the true cross. “Tomorrow it must be – are you both prepared?”

  “We are, Master,” said Terrence. “But why did we have to wait for so long?”

  “Many reasons,” said the professor, “but now the time has come. You are to destroy the Consortium building. The streets of Chiswick will be deserted during the big match. This is when it must be done. Also, this is the period during which our adversary will be at his weakest regarding the defence of these premises. He will be concentrating his efforts upon the defeat of Brentford United.”

  “You know that he bought out Man United?” said Sponge Boy.

/>   “I am aware of this,” said the professor. “I shall be attending the match in person. I am prepared for a battle of wills, as it were.”

  “And magic,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively Dr Strange and Baron Mordo.”

  “I do not expect things to be easy, but in the popular parlance of the football manager, I am ‘quietly confident’.”

  “Will we have the Campbell with us?” asked Terrence.

  “You will,” said the professor, “and he will fight to the death, if needs be, and beyond that, I should imagine.”

  Sponge Boy said, “Professor, might I be permitted to ask you a question?”

  Professor Slocombe nodded his aged head.

  “What is the Campbell?” Sponge Boy asked.

  “A familiar,” said Professor Slocombe. “A witch’s familiar. A lost soul conjured from the regions of Hell to aid one who had sold their own soul to the King of Darkness.”

  “And he is in your employ?”

  “I liberated him,” said the professor, “many years ago. I freed his soul.”

  “Positively Faustian,” said Sponge Boy. “And he can be trusted?”

  “Absolutely. Have no fear for that. I would say to you that he is my man, but the Campbell was never a man. He may appear to be a man, but he is not. The Campbell was once a Skye terrier.”

  “A dog?” said Terrence. “He’s really a dog?”

  “A sprout?” said Mr H.G. Wells. “Do you mean to tell me that the motive power behind my Time Machine is a Brussels sprout?”

  “You built the thing,” said Norman, whose pressing appointment had been with Mr Wells and young Winston at Norman’s allotment lock-up. “Surely you know what powers it.”

  “Hm,” said Mr Wells. “Perhaps it slipped my mind.”

  “Well, it’s definitely the sprout,” said Norman. “I have had this thing to pieces time and time again over the last four months.”

  “Long months,” said Mr Wells, “in this dire time.”

  “And at my expense,” Norman said. “You’ve run up enormous bills with Madame Loretta Rune, not to mention at The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar.”

  Mr Wells did not mention The Flying Swan or The Stripes Bar. “Merely keeping body and soul together,” he said.

  “Well, be that as it may, I have reinstalled the sprout, rebuilt its broken mountings with Meccano and I truly believe that your Time Machine is now fully operational once more.”

  Mr Wells patted Norman on the shoulder. “Then thank you,” said he. “Winston and I will now return to the Victorian era. Our prolonged stay here has at least assured me that the King of Darkness has not acquired any of the Victorian supertechnology I thought existed upon the computer system that you reconstructed. And so my work here is done.”

  Mr Wells climbed into his Time Machine and young Winston climbed in beside him. “I am returning now to the Victorian era,” said Mr Wells, “to change my clothes and drop off young Winston here. But I will be popping back to this time briefly tomorrow. I wouldn’t wish to miss Brentford United winning the FA Cup.”

  “Pleasure knowing ya, gov’nor,” said the ill-washed youth. “Gawd scupper me scrote if it weren’t.”

  Mr Wells fastened his safety belt and prepared for takeoff.

  Norman dithered.

  And then Norman blurted.

  “Mr Wells,” he blurted, “before you go, there’s something I have to tell you – something I should have told you before, but I just couldn’t pluck up the courage.”

  “Yes?” said Mr Wells. “What do you have to say?”

  “You’re really not going to like this,” said Norman. “And I’m really, really sorry.”

  38

  John Omally went in search of Jim.

  But Jim, it seemed, was nowhere to be found.

  John called at Jim’s rooms, The Plume Café and the bench before the Memorial Library. He returned to Griffin Park and The Stripes Bar and eventually to Jim’s office, where he found the Campbell sitting cross-legged on Jim’s desk, his claymore cradled in his ample arms.

  “I can’t find Jim,” said John, and he glanced at his wristlet watch. “And it’s almost ten of the evening clock now.”

  “Did you try The Flying Swan?” asked the Campbell.

  “I didn’t,” said John. “But I have no idea why not.”

  The Campbell raised an eyebrow towards his turban. “Best guard your thoughts,” said he. “The evil is truly amongst us now. It will distract you.”

  “You mean—” said John.

  “I do,” said the Campbell. “Try The Flying Swan.”

  Omally set out towards The Flying Swan. There was a chill wind whipping up and thunder in the heavens. John turned up the collar of his jacket and pressed on down the Ealing Road.

  The Swan’s saloon bar was crowded. Brentford fans in reproduction kaftans sang club anthems, drained their glasses and raised them once refreshed towards the team’s success on the morrow. Neville stood at the end of the bar, ready to serve all comers. But the all comers directed their requests exclusively to Neville’s topless bar staff.

  “Neville,” said Omally, elbowing his way through the crush.

  “At last,” said Neville. “How might I help you, sir? We have eight hand-drawn ales upon tap – two more than at Jack Lane’s and five more than at The Stripes Bar. If I might recommend—”

  “Has Jim been in?” Omally asked.

  “A pint of Large, would it be?”

  “I have to find Jim, it’s very important.”

  “A half then, although you won’t feel the benefit.”

  “Neville, have you seen Jim?”

  “Oh,” said Neville, raising himself as if from a trance. “Jim, you say?”

  “Have you seen him? Has he been in here?”

  “He was in earlier, but now he’s gone.”

  “Do you know where he might be now?”

  Neville shrugged. Omally turned to take his leave.

  “Hold on there, Omally.” Old Pete laid a wrinkled palm upon the Irishman’s shoulder. “You’re looking for Jim,” said Old Pete.

  “I am,” said John. “Do you know where he’d be?”

  “He’s with Norman.”

  “At his shop?”

  “No,” said Old Pete, “at another pub. Norman’s meeting his lady friend there and he wanted Jim to go along.”

  “For a threesome?” said Omally.

  “No, for moral support. Although Pooley couldn’t offer support to a pair of trousers if he had both belt and braces.”

  “Which pub have they gone to?” John Omally asked.

  “The Beelzepub,” said Old Pete.

  John made haste through the gathering storm. The night had a horrible feel to it now. Omally’s ears popped as if from pressure and his footsteps echoed hollowly, as if he marched upon the skin of a drum. Brentford seemed suddenly alien and Omally felt most ill at ease.

  Lights glowed a hideous red from the mullioned gothic windows of the deconsecrated Spiritualist church that was now Brentford’s satanic theme bar, The Beelzepub.

  Omally paused, breathing heavily, before the portal.

  Upon the arched brickwork above the door, words were printed in gothic script:

  ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE THAT ENTER HERE.

  Omally shuddered. “Get a grip on yourself, John,” said he.

  Taking a deep yet unsteadying breath, he pushed upon the heavy door and entered The Beelzepub, to face the indecorous decor.

  The walls and vaulted ceiling were painted the blackest of black. So black, it appeared that they were hardly surfaces at all, more dark voids of space. Many of the chapel’s original fixtures and fittings remained. The pews had been drawn about to flank long medieval tables and the altar now housed the obligatory inverted cross and a naked woman, who sat darning socks.[48] From the rafters hung realistic facsimiles of human corpses in various degrees of decomposition. Deicide’s greatest hits blared from an unseen jukebox. The air was rank with the smell of brims
tone and redly bulbed iron torchères lit each and everything to imperfection.

  Omally squinted about the bar. In a far corner he spied Norman. Omally made off in Norman’s direction.

  “Oi, you,” a harsh voice called out to him. “If you’re not buying, then you’re out.”

  Omally turned to the source of this voice and recognised it to be that of Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, the landlord. Gwynplaine stood behind a bar counter distastefully composed of human skulls. He wore a black undertaker’s suit that highlighted the paleness of his gaunt facial features. Omally approached the bar counter.

  “What will it be?” asked Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

  “Anything,” said John. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “As you please.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark drew off a pint of Ssenniug – a pint of white ale with a jet-black head. He presented this to John, who viewed it with suspicion.

  “Ssenniug,” explained Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “is satanically back-masked Guinness.”

  “Most amusing,” said Omally, parting with a pound note and receiving from it no change.

  “You’re Mr Omally, aren’t you?” said Mr Dhark as Omally was about to make off towards Norman. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  The landlord extended his hand for a shake and Omally grudgingly shook it. The landlord’s hand was cold and cadaverous. Omally shook the thing with haste. “I must be on my way.”

  “Oh, please stay a while and talk. We don’t get many celebrities such as yourself in here, as you can see.”

  Omally cast an eye across what clientele there was, which wasn’t much, mostly underage youths in black T-shirts and Gothy girls with nose studs.

  “I have an appointment,” said John Omally. “My friend is waiting over there.”

  “Waiting for his girlfriend,” said Mr Dhark, “and for your employer, I understand.”

  “You do?” said John.

  “Such is what he told me. He was very talkative. Said he’d got something really big off his chest this afternoon and was now prepared to take on the world and all it had to throw at him.”

  “Really?” said John, peering once more in Norman’s direction. “And my employer, that would be Mr Pooley you’re talking about?”