The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4

by Robert Rankin

  “Yes,” said Hovis, “I know as much.”

  “Ah,” said Paul, “but not know that it not Gas Board van that come out to fix leak.”

  Hovis nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me more.”

  “Look like Gas Board van,” Paul continued, “ID of driver seem genuine, driver spend much time chatting with policeman on duty at site while work done. But Gas Board deny all knowledge of either gas leak or call-out.”

  Hovis nodded once more. “Very clever,” said he, “very clever, indeed.”

  “Criminals cunning as desert dingo, but not too cunning for braves.”

  “Go on then.”

  “And how,” said Paul. “Now come clever bit that earn braves big kudos. We follow great white brother’s method and have pow-wow with constable who on duty at roadworks. Tell him perhaps he make a big mistake and you wear his wedding tackle on watch-chain when you find out. Him eager to oblige and tell us all he know.”

  “Very good indeed, go on.”

  Paul grinned. “Constable tell us that he actually escort Gas Board van through traffic jam from High Street on his bike. See van enter grounds of great gasometer, driver even bung him price of drink for his trouble.”

  The Inspectre’s face fell. “Then it was a real Gas Board van after all!” he cried.

  Paul shook his head, smirking mightily. “Nothing of sort,” said he. “Braves think things not add up so check with Gas Board again. Gas Board tells us they not own gasometer in Brentford, deny all knowledge. In fact, they tell us they never own gasometer in Brentford. There is no gasometer in Brentford.”

  “What?” Inspectre Hovis scratched at his snowy pelt of hair. “But it’s there for all the world to see!”

  “All world may see it, but it not bloody gasometer, that for certain.”

  “Then what?”

  “Braves suggest it headquarters of international crime syndicate.”

  Inspectre Hovis wiped away the goodly amount of perspiration that now clung to his noble brow. “We get stuck into firewater now,” he said.

  32

  Omally was in a state of near exhaustion. Both mental and physical. He leant Marchant against Jennifer’s front fence and made what efforts he could to straighten his necktie and slick down his hair over the bald spot at the back. He shook the wrinkles from his trousers and gathered up what serviceable lilies remained into a pleasing composition. With unconvincing nonchalance, he pushed open the front gate, walked up the short path and rapped upon the front door. All looked the very picture of normality. Porsche in the garage, downstairs lights on. Presently, in response to his knockings, sounds issued from within, footsteps upon the parquet floor, bolts being drawn.

  The front door opened on the chain and Jennifer looked out, cool, sophisticated, composed. “John Omally,” she said in a toneless voice, “I was expecting you.”

  Indeed, thought John, as she dropped the chain and reopened the door. “I’ve brought you some flowers.”

  Jennifer took the lilies and stared down at them with a face of pity. “They are dying,” she said, “how sad.” This was an unusual feminine response to a present of flowers and one quite new to Omally’s experience. “You’d best come in.” Omally did so, closing the front door behind him. “You would care for a drink I believe.” Jennifer laid the flowers carefully upon the hall table and led John towards the living-room.

  He followed with some trepidation, giving the place a thorough scrutiny. Happily, of homicidal packages it was the nursery cupboard of Lafayette Ron’s mother. But it gave him little peace of mind. Something was wrong, although he couldn’t put a name to quite what.

  “Do sit down.” Omally sat down. He watched Jennifer from the corner of his eye. She appeared to be having some difficulty locating the drink. She opened the doors of the television cabinet and shook her beautiful head.

  “Is everything all right?” John asked. “Can I help at all?”

  Jennifer turned upon him with unnatural speed. “Everything is just as it should be,” she said in an icy voice.

  “You seem a little, well, lost.”

  Jennifer Naylor smiled broadly, but it was a smile equally lacking in warmth. “I am just a little tired, perhaps you would …?”

  “But of course, how ungallant of me.” Omally took himself over to the drinks cupboard, and extracted bottle and glasses with slow deliberation. Jennifer stood like a statue in the middle of the room, staring into space. John did not like the look of her one bit. It was more than possible that she was in a state of shock. Whatever she had seen in the gasometer had unhinged that brilliant mind. He would have to tread a very wary path. He decanted two professional Scotches and topped them up with ice. “Here you go then,” he said, approaching cautiously, “gold ones on the rocks.”

  Jennifer took her glass and stared into it, rattling the ice cubes. “What do you want here?” she asked.

  “A social call,” John lied, “nothing more. It’s a while since I’ve seen you. Here, come and sit with me on the sofa.” He took Jennifer gently by the arm, but she resisted and remained firmly rooted to the spot.

  “As you please then.” John sat down before her and sipped his Scotch.

  “Do you believe in God?” asked Jennifer Naylor.

  Omally glanced over his glass. The emerald eyes fixed him in their stare. “I am a Catholic by birth,” he said slowly.

  “You were nothing by birth other than man. Please answer the question.”

  John took another sip of Scotch. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I wish to know.”

  “Then in all candour I must confess to uncertainty.”

  “Uncertainty as to a Divine Creator?”

  “There are many doctrines, each claiming to be true, each at odds with the other. I was brought up to recognize one, to follow it without question. I asked questions but no-one furnished me with satisfactory answers. I do not know.”

  “You lack knowledge.”

  “As do we all, I fear. I exist, of that I am reasonably sure. You exist, what senses I possess inform me of the fact. Above and beyond are realms that greater minds than mine have floundered when seeking to explore.”

  “The minds of men,” said Jennifer Naylor. “Pitifully limited.”

  “They are all we have, we can only make the best of them.”

  “Then you never wish to seek a Higher Truth?”

  Omally finished his drink. In his experience, such discussions as this rarely led to a satisfactory conclusion, and when held with attractive women, almost never in the direction of the bedroom. “I have no evidence to suggest that Higher Truth exists,” he said, rising to refill his glass. “In my small experience I consider it better to appreciate that which you have, than to vainly seek that which you will never find.” With that banal homily out of the way, he splashed further Scotch into his glass.

  “And that is your philosophy of life?”

  John sighed inwardly; all this was quite exasperating. He was getting nowhere. “I am sorry if I cannot furnish you with satisfactory answers,” he said, at length. “If you wish an in-depth theological discussion, then I suggest that Professor Slocombe would be your man. He is one who has dedicated his life to the search for these Higher Truths. In fact if the mood is on you, why do we not go and visit him now? I am sure he’d be very pleased to see you.”

  “No!” said Jennifer Naylor. “I have no wish to speak to him!”

  “Then I’m sorry, because I can’t tell you what you obviously wish to know.”

  “No,” said Jennifer, “you cannot.” With that, she raised her glass to her lips and, to Omally’s amazement, poured the entire drink, ice cubes and all, straight down her throat.

  “Here, steady on!” croaked John. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “Omally,” said Jennifer, “exactly what are you good for?”

  John grinned crookedly. “I wouldn’t have thought you needed to ask.”

  The terrible smile once more spread across the woman
’s face. “Would you like some sex?” she asked.

  “Well,” said John, “now that you ask …”

  33

  The grounds surrounding the house of Professor Slocombe had long been protected by an ancient spell which afforded the sage advance warning of all who entered there. Upon this night, as upon countless others past, he sat at his study desk, deep in thought. Before him was spread Ordnance Survey map TQ 17 NE, and upon this cartographical representation of the borough, the lines of the great Star Stadium were etched in green ink within the blued boundaries of the Brentford Triangle. The Professor worked tirelessly with compass and protractor as a long black automobile of advanced design and uncertain nationality drew to a silent halt beyond the walls of his domain. The liveried chauffeur stepped from the cab and opened the rear door, a handkerchief clasped across his face.

  Professor Slocombe reached towards the tantalus and poured a single dry sherry. A slight tingling at the nape of his neck set his head on one side, but he shrugged it off and continued with his work. The unbearable stench which then soured his nostrils and the cold chill which swept up his backbone, set him bolt upright in his chair.

  “Professor Slocombe,” came a harsh whisper, “am I not to be invited in?” The old man swung about with a gasp of surprise. “You appear startled,” said the figure who now stood in the french windows.

  Professor Slocombe regained his composure with some difficulty. The fact that someone had actually slipped unfelt into his presence was sufficient to rattle him considerably. But the appearance of his uninvited guest was one to inspire horror.

  He was of medium height, clad in a suit of dark stuff, but of his actual physiognomy, what could be seen was at all odds with all normality. The upper part of the head was covered by what appeared to be a plastic film, strung tightly to contain a mass of ugly folds and bulges. Across the eyes a complicated contraption served as an optical aid, with artificial eyelids which opened and closed at measured intervals. The mouth was hardly visible beneath a bulbous shapeless nose. “Calm yourself, Professor,” whispered the apparition. “I must apologize for my intrusion and also for my appearance. I am not pleasant to gaze upon, I know. Might I sit down, I have little strength?”

  Professor Slocombe nodded, “Please do so, can l offer you anything?”

  “No, no, do not trouble yourself, I have learned to … to live with my infirmity.” The intruder moved awkwardly, his legs seemed to bend in the wrong places, low at the ankles, high at the misshapen thighs. Whatever was contained within the folds of the dark suit was a human form far gone in disfiguring malady.

  Professor Slocombe winced as the cripple lowered himself into a fireside chair; his every movement appeared to cause him excruciating pain. “You are in evident discomfort,” said the Professor. “Might I ask the nature of your illness? I have some skills in healing.”

  “No, no,” the intruder raised a gloved hand, “you will not find it listed in any Encyclopedia Pharmacia, nor in any one of your extraordinary books.” He made an inclusive gesture towards the Professor’s vast collection of Thaumaturgical librams. “I am a scientist and a victim of my own experimentation.” Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow; the invalid had much the look of one who had tampered with occult forces and become subject to the three-fold law of return, whereby an evil sending rebounds upon the magician thrice powerfully. “That, I can assure you, is not the case,” whispered the intruder, breaking in upon the thoughts of his unwilling host.

  Professor Slocombe lowered a mental shield and watched in fascination as a shiver ran through the body of his guest.

  “As you now understand, my infirmity has brought with it some compensations. They say that when one sense is lost the others become heightened. In my case I have lost almost all my senses. I now possess others that most men would fail to understand.”

  “You are an unusual man, to say the very least.”

  “I might well say the same about you.”

  The Professor composed the fingers of his right hand into a curious grouping. “And now that we have exchanged these pleasantries, I suggest that you outline the purpose of your visit.”

  “Quite so. But I surmise that during the brief moments of our acquaintanceship you have already surmised who I am, and suspect why I am here.”

  “I believe that you are the organizer of the games, the designer of the stadium and the inventor of the improbable Gravitite.”

  “Do I detect a note of chagrin in your pronunciation of the word ‘improbable’?”

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “My name is not important. For the sake of commerce, I am called Kaleton. Do not waste yourself trying to read into it, it was chosen at random. I am here upon what you might call a diplomatic mission to engender a peaceful co-existence between us.”

  “‘As a thief in the night’,” said the Professor, quoting Scripture.

  Ignoring this, Kaleton said simply, “I am dying.”

  “You seek my help.”

  “On the contrary, I seek only that you do not hinder me.”

  “In dying?”

  Kaleton’s mouth became a perfect “O” and an exhalation of rancid air escaped from it. Professor Slocombe, who had switched off his olfactory sense upon Kaleton’s entrance, sat back in his chair, fearing the spread of disease.

  “The games,” said Kaleton, “the stadium and the games are to be my epitaph. I may not live to see them, but through them I will live for ever.”

  “Posthumous fame for one who will not reveal his true name to the public, how can this be?”

  “By their deeds shall you know them.”

  “But at what expense?”

  “Expense?”

  “Deaths have already occurred, I believe you must answer for them.”

  Sounds came from Kaleton’s mouth, sounds of coarse mocking laughter, “No one has died. Professor,” he crowed. “Are you too so easily fooled?”

  “Not as easily as you might believe.”

  “The creation of holographic images as a security system, guard dogs without teeth, without substance, conjured from the Ids of the trespassers. Effective, do you not think?”

  “The chimera on the barge and the island griffin?”

  “Advanced optical trickery, nothing more.”

  “I think not, Kaleton.” Professor Slocombe reached beneath his desk and brought out Pooley’s present. “And this?”

  “All right,” said Kaleton. “The creation of the stadium is too important to risk interruption from meddling ne’er-do-wells.”

  “Quite simply, you are prepared to kill in order to protect your interests, your immortality.”

  “Men die daily, men without vision, without worth. My genius will benefit generations to come.”

  “Monomania. You are sick not only in body, but also in mind.”

  “If you are not for me, then you are against me!”

  “Then I am against you, in body and soul. I do not fully comprehend your true motives, but I suspect them to be anything other than beneficial to mankind. I request that you leave immediately.”

  Kaleton climbed with difficulty to his feet and stood with his back to the Professor. “You are an annoyance,” said he, “I think perhaps I should be rid of you.”

  “That might prove more difficult than you imagine.”

  “You say that, knowing how simply I voided the spell of protection which surrounded your house.”

  “You will not invade my privacy with such ease in the future, I can assure you.”

  Kaleton’s head revolved slowly until it reached a point midway between his malformed shoulder-blades. “You have no future,” he said, in a voice which might have been one, or a chorus of many. “You are finished.”

  “Leave now while you are still able.”

  “I think not.” Kaleton’s mouth widened, became a gaping maw, devoid of teeth, gums or tongue. A torrent of icy wind swept from it, striking the Professor from his chair and blasting him a
gainst the wall. But the effect was momentary for the sage rose from behind his desk and stared defiantly at his attacker, words of an ancient formula upon his lips.

  Above the study Jim Pooley reclined in rose-scented bath-water, a copy of the Lazlo Woodbine thriller Farewell my Window propped before him upon the bath-rack. “That Laz,” said Jim, “he slays me.”

  In a house, not so very far away, John Omally lazed upon silken sheets, clad only in his boxer shorts. Before him, humming gently to herself, Jennifer Naylor shed her outer garments.

  Kaleton raised a crooked hand to fend off the tongue of darting fire which leapt towards him. The flames froze into glassy splinters tinkling on to the Persian carpet to dissolve into nothingness. A look of perplexity crossed Professor Slocombe’s face as he summoned the powers that greater words commanded. Kaleton made a single gesture and the world which was the Professor’s study vanished, became a darkened sphere enclosing only himself and the magus. “There is no future,” whispered the crippled man, “not for you or any of your cohorts.”

  Jennifer Naylor’s brassiere fell to the floor, exposing a pair of breasts most men could only dream of witnessing, first hand. Omally felt the mark of his manhood rising to meet the occasion as the rare beauty slipped her thumbs into her silken camiknickers and dropped them to her feet.

  “Only you and I,” said Kaleton.

  “Only you and I,” echoed Jennifer Naylor.

  Professor Slocombe made a series of lightning passes with his old frail hands. Before him a wall of white chitin composed itself and behind the light returned, as a small opening, through which he stepped backwards with some alacrity. He was once more at his desk, but from within the dark sphere the wall of protection crumbled away and the image of Kaleton swam into view swelling ever larger. The black mouth spread encompassing all before it. “And so die,” came the chorus of a thousand voices which were also only one.