The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4

by Robert Rankin

  “And so die,” said Jennifer Naylor. Her left hand slid up behind her back, rose to the nape of her neck where it took hold of something which might have been a zip fastener. She drew it down the length of her naked spine.

  Kaleton’s image bulged and grew, the mouth was a great black hole, all-consuming. A bottomless pit, into which all must surely fall. The Professor folded his arms across his chest and uttered the syllables of his final spell.

  A great shock wave passed through the ether of humankind.

  The outer shell, which had been the skin of the bogus Jennifer Naylor, dropped to the floor, a crumpled empty husk. Before Omally stood a group of elemental horrors supported one upon another in a writhing mass, which momentarily retained Jennifer’s shape before tumbling towards the boy in the boxer shorts.

  “Hell’s teeth!” said John Omally, which was a close approximation.

  The things swept towards him in a heaving, crying cacophony. Great bloated maggots with the heads of babies, beasts all spine and scorpion stings, bladders and entrails. Eyeless heads with one mouth set beneath another. A gross and fetid stench burned the air like fumes of acid. Omally flattened himself against the bedhead as the whirling, screaming nightmare engulfed him.

  “Up and begone!” Professor Slocombe raised his arms and exerted the final issue of his strength, spoke the final syllable of the great spell. The black image wavered in intensity, crumpled in upon itself with a deafening explosion, re-gathered in a cluster of spinning fragments and finally flew upwards through the ceiling, an icy maelstrom of escaping energy.

  “Aaaaaaaagh!” Jim Pooley howled in anguish as his bath-water froze into a solid block of ice.

  In a room of unutterable blackness, Professor Slocombe collapsed unconscious to the floor.

  In the bedroom of a house not so very far away, a thick green slime dripped down a silken sheet to mingle in a pool of human blood.

  “Oh, help,” wailed a living iceberg in a marble bath. “Oh, bloody hell, help!”

  34

  The police cordon parted as the Inspectre’s car tore through it at speed. As it slewed to a halt amidst the confusion of police cars, ambulances and fire-engines, Hovis leapt from the cab and followed a wildly gesticulating constable towards the house of Professor Slocombe. In the rear seats of the car, Paul leant over and whispered into his brother’s ear, “More big shit going down here, best we bugger off pronto.” With all the tenacity of the four-toed civet the two braves eased open the offside rear door and melted into the night.

  “Stand aside if you please.” Hovis elbowed his way through the crush before the Professor’s gateway and into the magical garden. “Is he alive?” the Inspectre demanded. The constable’s head bobbed up and down. “Only just, sir. Constable Meek was on beat duty here when the whole place went up. He pulled the old man out and gave him mouth to mouth. He was nearly gone. They’re treating him in the ambulance, sir. Sir, he’s frostbitten, in a terrible state!”

  “Where is Meek?”

  “He’s inside, sir, but sir, frost-bitten, it’s nearly midsummer!”

  “Clear everyone out and that means now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hovis thrust his way up the garden path and between the shattered French windows, which lay driven from their hinges. “God, what’s that terrible smell? Something dead in here, is there?”

  “Could be, sir, place is in a terrible mess.” Within the study, flash-bulbs popped and the lads from forensic took readings and measurements, made educated guesses and sipped coffee from Thermos flasks. Several constables, whose sole function appeared to consist of getting in everybody’s way, went about their duties with a will. The room was devastated, the precious tomes scattered, antique furniture upturned, priceless artifacts smashed beyond repair.

  “Good God!” said Hovis. “He lived through this?”

  “Just about, sir.”

  Hovis turned upon the lookers and loafers. “Out!” he ordered. “Clear the room! Where is Meek?”

  The constable was stoking up the fire, beside which sat Jim Pooley, swathed in towels and blankets, blue of face and bitter of eye. “Here, sir,” said Meek.

  Hovis glared down at the kneeling constable. “This is a balls-up of the first magnitude. Meek,” he roared. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “Sir?”

  “Meek, I ordered a twenty-four-hour watch put on this house, where were you when this occurred?”

  “Right here, sir, I…”

  “You what? What happened here? Who did this?”

  “Well, sir…” the constable hung his head, “I can’t rightly remember, there was this car …”

  “Car, lad?”

  “A long black car, I’ve never seen one like it before.”

  A loud and plaintive groan issued from the fireside blanket man.

  “Ah,” said Hovis, raising a quizzical eyebrow, “and what do we have here?”

  “Chap was upstairs in the bath, sir, frozen into a block of ice. The firemen had to cut him out with their axes.” Meek stifled a titter. “You should have heard him howl, sir.”

  As Jim stared daggers at the young policeman, Inspectre Hovis stared hard at Jim. “Mr Pooley, is it not?”

  Jim cowered nearer to the fire and did drum rolls with his teeth. “James Arbuthnot Pooley, born 27th July nineteen forty-nine, Parsons Green Maternity Hospital. No previous convictions.”

  “No previous, eh?” said the Inspectre. “And what is your part in all this?”

  “An innocent bystander, caught in the cosmic crossfire,” Jim declared. “One minute I’m having a bath and the next thing bejam! I’m a bloody fish-finger!”

  “I think we’ll get you down to the nice warm interview room before any more misfortune befalls you,” said Hovis.

  “I’m fine here, thank you.”

  “Meek, kindly escort Mr Pooley to the station. Presently I will speak to you both.”

  “You can’t do this to me,” Jim complained. “I’ve done nothing, it’s a frame-up whatever it is. Is there no justice, answer me someone?” Constable Meek took Jim firmly by the elbow. “Police brutality!” howled the innocent man. “I’m not without influence, you see if I’m not.”

  “Take him out, Constable.”

  Amid further protestations of innocence, cries of outrage, and pleas for mercy, Jim was led away. By the time he had reached the squad car, martyrdom was very much in the forefront of his mind. “Cossacks!” he cried, as the car door slammed upon him. “Wield your rubber truncheons, stick your electrodes up my bottom, I’ll never talk, the present-day Pooley refuses to die!”

  Hovis surveyed the tragic room. “I wonder,” said he.

  “And what do you wonder, Sherringford?”

  The Inspectre’s face broke into a smile. “I wonder how you did that, Professor,” he said, turning to confront that very man, who was standing with his back to the now blazing fire.

  “An extremely complicated transperambulation,” the magus replied, by way of explanation. “I should not wish to repeat it, nor expound upon its intricacies. Frankly, I am somewhat spent.” He looked about at his study. “Oh dear,” he said, “this is something of a shambles. Allow me to set it to rights.”

  Hovis held up his hand, “Before you demonstrate the impossible yet again, I should care for a few words.”

  “As you will.” The Professor crossed the room, stepping carefully through the debris, swept fallen papers from the chair by his desk and settled into it. Hovis scratched his head and wondered where to begin. “Begin at the beginning,” the old man suggested.

  “Then, what happened here?”

  “I was subject to a visitation.”

  “Evidently, but by whom?”

  “By whom — or by what?”

  “You have lost me already.”

  Professor Slocombe dug amongst the chaos of his desk top and unearthed the sherry decanter and two glasses. “I am not certain that I was visited by a ‘whom’. I spent twenty ye
ars in the Potala, Tibet, studying under the Dalai Lama. I can read men’s auras, which gives me a certain edge, shall we say. I can often tell what questions they are likely to ask, or what moves they might make, shortly in advance of them doing so. My ‘visitor’ had no aura, Inspectre, none whatsoever. This can mean only one of two things, either that he was dead, which I consider unlikely, or that he was not human.” He poured sherry and handed the baffled detective a slim glass.

  “Not human?” said Hovis. “Kindly continue.”

  “It was possessed of enormous power, certainly more than a mere man could contain. There was a great rage there, something primordial, atavistic, inhuman, subhuman, protohuman, call it what you will, but not human.”

  “You are telling me that some ‘thing’ is abroad on the streets of Brentford?”

  “It has been for several weeks now.”

  “And you have destroyed this thing, whatever it might be?”

  “I fear not; temporarily disabled it, perhaps. I countered its attack with ‘calling of disassociation’, of confusion. I preconceived what was about to occur and created a ‘tulpa’ or ‘doppelgänger’ of myself upon which I allowed it to spend its energy, before I struck back at it.”

  “Then the you in the ambulance is not the you that is here, or is it…”

  “I was in Penge during the attack, but I will not add to your confusion.”

  “My thanks,” said Hovis. “But what was this creature, the devil is it, or some monster from outer space? Come now, Professor.”

  “Not outer space. This thing was impossibly strong, it was almost as if it drew its power from the planet itself, from the Earth.”

  “Is this connected with the business on the island?”

  “Almost definitely, and by the by, I never got to see those plastercasts.”

  Hovis looked shamefaced. “Yet another balls-up,” he said. “The casts were mysteriously broken. By the time they got around to taking more, rain had washed the original prints away.”

  “I see,” said the Professor, in a tone which suggested that he did. “And how goes the great quest?”

  “Great quest?”

  “The search for gold.”

  “Ah now,” said the Inspectre, “I believe the popular expression is, that police are expecting to make an early arrest.”

  “Bravo, then you evidently have made significant progress.”

  “I believe I know where the loot is stashed. The dawn swoop is imminent.”

  “Then the case is all but wrapped up.”

  “All but,” said Hovis proudly.

  “Good, then I would appreciate the immediate release of my gardener.”

  “Ah!” said Hovis. “The holidaymaker.”

  “Yes, Sherringford. Rather unsporting of you I thought, you may use my telephone if you wish.”

  “I would rather not, but I suppose …” Hovis was interrupted by the sudden arrival of two white-faced ambulance men.

  “He’s … gone …” said one.

  “It’s all right,” the Inspectre replied, “he’s here.” Turning towards the Professor’s desk he was surprised to discover that the old man was not. “A man of many talents,” said Inspectre Hovis. “None of which I understand.”

  35

  A beaming face beamed out across the nation. “This is the London Olympics.”

  “London Olympics?” muttered Neville. “What happened to the Brentford Olympics?”

  “Sssssh!” went the patrons gathered about the large television set, which had been supplied by the brewery and bolted firmly to the bar counter “for the sake of security”.

  “A miracle of modern technology, a wonder of the age, the great Star Stadium straddles an anonymous West London borough.”

  “I think we’ll have this off now,” said Neville.

  “Sssssh!” went the patrons.

  The camera dipped low over the seemingly endless spread of the stadium, a mind-boggling panorama. It swivelled about, following the running tracks, the jumps and throwing areas and then swept down into the subterranean world beneath the arena. Here it found the squash courts, rifle ranges, swimming pools and further a myriad of sports complexes. Then out it went towards the five star points which housed the Olympic villages, each like a five star hotel, rising towards the heavens. “The world of tomorrow today.” Throughout the camera’s wondrous journey the announcer’s voice-over continued to pour forth a never-ending stream of minutiae, seating capacities, dimensions, miracles, miracles, miracles.

  “Oooooh!” and “Aahhh!” went the patrons, well hooked.

  Old Pete entered the portal of the newly named Ye Flying Swan Inn. “The whole bloody lot will be down about our ears, you mark my words,” muttered the old reprobate shuffling up to the bar counter, his dog Chips as ever upon his down-at-heels. Neville nodded in profound agreement and drew the kindred spirit a freeman’s from the rum optic. “Your very good health.” said the ancient. “I see that idiot sign is up outside, but a small price to pay, I suppose. No signs of any wall bars creeping in here, I’m pleased to say.”

  Neville smoothed down the folds of his apron and straightened his bow-tie. “That has been dealt with for good, I hope. Although I see no sign of Omally creeping in here either.”

  “Lying in his drunken pit I should think.”

  Neville made a thoughtful face. “If he doesn’t show up by twelve, I may be forced to ‘let him go’, if you will pardon the euphemism.”

  “I will pardon almost anything of the man who buys me a drink. A man’s religious persuasions are his own affair.”

  Neville slicked down his brilliantined scalp, he’d need some time to work that one out. But where was Omally? His work record so far was flawless. Neville had tried every trick in the publican’s book to catch him out, but his behaviour was above reproach. His timekeeping was impeccable, his helpfulness a legend, his politeness in the face of drunken insult another legend, his honesty a thing to fear. So now why suddenly go and ruin it all by taking time off and not calling in with an excuse, however lame? It was very strange indeed. A terrible thought crossed Neville’s mind: perhaps there had been an accident, perhaps Omally was lying ill in his bed? The part-time barman felt suddenly wretched, how shallow he was, how pitifully shallow, and him a budding psychologist. What did he really know of human nature, sweet bugger all, that was what. Neville hung his head. He’d go round to Omally’s come closing-time and see how he was. “At times I think that this profession has ruined me,” Neville told Old Pete. “I have become an uncompromising, untrusting, single-minded pedagogue.”

  “There’s no shame in that,” said the old one. “Many of my best pals lost a limb or two back in the first lot. A man with one leg can hop as easily as a man with two.”

  “And the lion never roars until after he’s eaten,” Norman chimed in as he jogged up to the bar. “What’s to do then, Pete?”

  “Neville has joined a religious order and has had one of his legs amputated,” the other replied. “What do you look like, Norman?”

  “Good, eh?” said the shopkeeper, giving a twirl. “Designed it myself, pretty natty, eh?”

  Old Pete scrutinized the shopkeeper’s apparel and Neville leant forward across the bar counter to get a better look. Norman was sporting, and that was definitely the word, a confection which, even given his penchant for eccentricity, was extreme to say the very least. Ancient plimsolls dyed a dayglo orange, football socks in the Brentford colours, knee-length shorts cut from mattress ticking and a baggy T-shirt with the Olympic rings and the legend “Hartnell Goes For Gold” emblazoned across the chest in felt-tip pen. A pink towelling headband and matching wristlets completed the ensemble to a pleasing effect. “The official Brentford Olympic kit,” said Norman proudly. “I designed it and Father Moity is fitting out the whole team.”

  “The whole team?” queried Neville.

  “Secret training sessions.” The shopkeeper tapped his nose. “Seems fitting that the home team take most of the gol
d medals.”

  “Norman,” said Neville, “surely there is an official British team. Haven’t I heard such names as Daley Thompson and Sebastian Coe being bandied about?”

  “They won’t let you in,” said Old Pete scornfully, “it’s the Olympic games not the bloody Notting Hill Carnival.” Chips stifled a titter.

  “A prophet is without honour in his own land,” quoted Norman. “Just you wait and see.”

  “And what’s your event then?” Old Pete asked. “Or are you just the frigging mascot?”

  “Javelin.” Norman mimed a mighty throw. “Up and away and Hartnell takes the world record.”

  “Sssssh!” went the patrons at the counter’s end.

  “A pint of Large, please, Neville,” said Norman.

  “Not while you’re in training, surely?”

  “My … er … technique requires the minimum physical effort, a pint will be fine.”

  “He means to cheat,” said Old Pete. “Some electronic hocus-pocus, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Ssssh!” went Norman. “There’s nothing wrong with having the edge on the foreigners. That has always been the British way, hasn’t it?”

  Neville pulled the gold medallist a pint of Large. “So how is it done?” he asked.

  Norman accepted his pint, tapped once more at his nose and drew the two listeners close. “Gravitite,” he whispered.

  “Gravitite? You mean you’ve nicked a bit of it?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I concede that the idea is not my own, but I perfected the formula unaided. Took me almost two weeks to get it right; you see, the old chemistry set is a bit limited and I was right out of copper sulphate and pink litmus paper.”

  “Are you confident that it will work?”

  “Just watch this.” From a pocket in his voluminous shorts Norman withdrew a single dart. He rested it upon the palm of his hand and lined up at the dartboard, a good twenty feet beyond. With a casual flick of a right forefinger he sent the missile winging upon its way. It struck home in the double twenty with a resounding whack. “Double top,” said Norman, smiling proudly.