The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4

by Robert Rankin

  “Oh, be fair, Professor, you are a man of the old school, your knowledge is this here.” Pooley indicated the antique library and for the first time realized that the Professor’s study had been completely restored as if the destruction wrought upon it had never occurred. “This, er, old stuff,” Jim continued. “But the world is changing. It’s all computer whizz-kids and micro-technology, silicon chips, things like that. Who can say how it’s all done? Not me for one. You read mysticism into everything.”

  “And that is your considered opinion?”

  “Well, sort of. I admit that I only know what I read in the newspapers or see on the television. But that is the only information most of us have to go on. If it is incorrect or biased or even downright lies, how can we be expected to know? We can only believe what we are told. We have to believe in something.”

  “Why, why believe what you are told?”

  “Well. Well, you kind of learn it from childhood. Someone tells you that two and two make four and you believe it. It does make four, doesn’t it?”

  “Most of the time, yes.”

  “Well then.”

  “Well then, and you have already made most of my arguments for me, I am telling you that something totally at odds with all you have been told is occurring, so where does that leave you?”

  “It doesn’t leave me anywhere, you have told me nothing, you have only asked me questions I cannot answer.”

  “Then I will tell you this. The stadium is not simply a stadium. It was built by a man who is not simply a man, if he is even a man at all, which I doubt. And this man who is not a man has …” The Professor halted in his words and stared at Pooley with a look of deepest compassion.

  “Yes,” said Jim slowly, “has what?”

  “Has murdered your dearest friend.”

  Jim’s jaw dropped. “Has what?” he said in a voice hardly audible. “Murdered John? What are you saying?”

  “I regret to say it, I would have given anything in my world not to say it, but yes, Jim. John Omally is dead.”

  Jim rose to his feet, there were tears in his eyes. “No,” he said, “John is not dead. If he was dead, somehow I would know it. It cannot be true, why are you saying this?”

  “Jim, there is a dark power behind this stadium, a malevolent power which must be destroyed. I have stared it face to face right here. You have seen its work at the barge and on Griffin Island, it froze you into your bath, it killed your closest friend.”

  “John,” said Pooley, his voice toneless and numb. “God, I love that man as I love myself, we have been friends since … we have always been friends. No, it cannot be.”

  “It can and it is and that is why you must fight with me.”

  “I understand nothing of this, Professor. Up there is just a bloody stadium. Who killed John, and why? Why?”

  “Because you had seen things that you should not have. You were a threat, hence the parcels.”

  “Bombs. It was Bob, that. Bob has killed John.”

  “No, no, Jim, you must pull yourself together. The world as we know it may shortly be coming to an end, if something is not done fast.”

  “Then let it. If John is dead, then I no longer care, I will collect my money and take my grief elsewhere and I will enjoy it for John and his memory, bugger Brentford, bugger the stadium and bugger you.”

  “Then leave,” said Professor Slocombe, “leave if you can.” He took the tobacco tin containing Pooley’s betting slip from his pocket and tossed it into the mourner’s hand. “Make your getaway, collect your winnings, if you get the chance, desert the sinking ship. When this comes you will have nowhere to run to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean leave if you can.”

  “Then I shall.” Jim strode to the french windows. “I don’t know what all this is about,” he said, turning, “I never have. If you know about all this then maybe you should have saved John. I’m done here, I’m away.” He turned once more towards the outside world and flattened himself upon an invisible barrier which sealed the Professor’s study from escape. “Let me go!” howled Pooley, rising from the carpet and nursing his bruised nose. “Let me out!”

  “I cannot,” said Professor Slocombe. “That is why the lawn weeding has had to be postponed.”

  Outside, the crowds were gathering. The Swan had opened somewhat earlier than is prescribed by law and the patrons jostled on the pavement. Croughton, the potbellied potman, fresh from Strangeways where he had learned the error of his ways, had been re-employed by Neville in desperation, after he had failed to track down Omally. Now he was dispensing drinks and failing to fill his pockets in the process.

  “Where are they then?” asked Old Pete, as the bands played, the Boy Scouts drilled, the morris dancers danced and the accordians and penny whistles did their bit to add to the general confusion.

  “Here comes the Mayor!” shouted someone and the crowd parted to admit the arrival of a big shining car. The Mayor, clad in full regalia of office, clambered out. “Where are they?” he asked Old Pete.

  “Buggered if I know, your Lordship,” said the ancient as his dog took a well-aimed pee at a mayoral mudguard.

  “Hot-dogs! Get your Olympic hot-dogs while they’re hot!” Shouts rang out amongst the joyful throng, watches were being perused and doubts expressed. Perhaps they’re not coming. Perhaps it’s the wrong day. Perhaps, perhaps.

  Young Master Robert entered the Flying Swan and approached the bar counter. “Where’s that Irish barman?” he demanded.

  Neville did some pretty nifty thinking. “I sacked him,” he said, “a spy from the rival brewery he was, saw through him in no time. Why do you ask?”

  “Quick,” came a chorus of voices, “they’re coming!”

  Neville put the towels up. “I’ll speak to you later,” he said to the fuming brewery boy.

  A dull hum filled the air above Brentford, the flapping of copter blades, the whirr of drazy hoops. From the direction of Heathrow a fleet of helicopters and dirigibles was approaching. A cheer went up from the assembled multitude beneath, a cheer which faded almost as quickly as it had begun. The crowds watched in silence as the flying machines drew nearer, passed overhead and vanished into nothingness as they came in to land at the stadium far above. “They came in by air,” said someone, and the carnival world that had been Brentford suddenly came apart at the seams. There was to be no golden jubilee, no big march past, no big welcome, no jamboree, no bloody nothing. They came in by air. The borough had been betrayed.

  The crowds stood in embarrassed silence and then melted away as if they had never been. The drinking men took themselves off to the pubs, the womenfolk to their unenlightened kitchens, the children, who had at least got a day off school, to joyful street corners. The Mayor climbed back into his car and waved the chauffeur homeward.

  The copperplate letterist, poised over the Brentford annals, stuck his pen back in his pocket, drew up his invoice for waiting-time in ball-point pen and buggered off back home. The bunting hung limp and meaningless, the hot-dog sellers and all their dire ilk slunk away and that, for all it was worth, was very much that.

  38

  “Let me out!” yelled Jim Pooley with renewed vigour. Outside, in the Professor’s magical garden, bees buzzed amongst the heavy blossoms and dragonflies hung in the air, their wings a blur of rainbow colours. Beyond the gate several members of the Brentford Olympic squad trudged by wearing grim expressions. “The lads” heads were down, Brian. “I think it’s beginning to give,” Jim panted, “lend a hand there.”

  “Jim, it is not beginning to give, you will bruise your knuckles.”

  Pooley ceased his fruitless beating and examined his skinned fists. “Do something,” he implored, “you are the big magician.”

  “Sit down and rest yourself, there is time enough to act.”

  Jim slouched over to the fireside chair and dropped into it. “This won’t do for me, Professor, this is no good at all.”

  “I h
ave a plan,” said the old man, “if you are interested in hearing it.”

  Pooley regarded the ancient with no small degree of bitterness. “I don’t seem to have much else on today.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Now that I do find surprising, as I have loved every minute so far.”

  “Jim, there is nothing I can offer you other than my deepest sympathy for your loss. I do not expect you to get over it for some considerable time to come, should you ever truly get over it. However, if you wish to save yourself then I suggest you work with me rather than against me.”

  “Save myself from what? I don’t even know what we are supposed to be fighting against anyway.”

  “I will tell you all that I know. And tonight we shall put the missing pieces of the puzzle together.”

  “Tonight?” and “We?” said Jim, doubtfully.

  “Tonight I shall perform a conjuration. It will be a complicated procedure and I shall require your assistance. I mean to conjure our enemy into our presence, constrain him by magic and compel him to furnish us with the necessary wherewithal by which to destroy him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Anything but ‘just like that’, it will be extremely dangerous. I doubt that he will come willingly. Alone I may not be able to contain him, will you help me?”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then I shall be pleased to. In the meanwhile, how about me telephoning for a couple of strong lads to knock us a hole in the wall? It wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of fresh air, now, would it?”

  Jim rose to take up the telephone but the Professor drew it beyond his reach. “I understand that this is something of an unofficial holiday today,” he said. “It would prove difficult to get someone at such short notice.”

  “I know lots of likely lads,” said Jim brightly, “and I have nothing else to do. Hand me the telephone, it will be the work of but a minute.”

  “I think not, Jim. This is a grade two listed building, we can’t just have holes knocked in it, willy-nilly, now can we?”

  “Hm,” said Jim. “It is an emergency after all, perhaps a 999 call then?”

  Professor Slocombe shook his head. “Definitely not,” said he. “That is the last thing we want. In fact I have gone to some lengths to see that we shall not be bothered by Inspectre Hovis and his boys in blue.”

  “Oh yes?” said Jim, without enthusiasm. “And how is this?”

  “A certain chess-playing chum of mine. A Mr Rune.”

  “Oh,” said Jim, looking about, “I like a game of chess, I didn’t know you had a board.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then you play at your friend’s house?”

  “No.” The Professor tapped at his forehead. “Mental chess, Jim, telepathic.”

  “But of course,” said Jim Pooley, “how silly of me, now about the phone “No,” said Professor Slocombe.

  The constables sat in the briefing room. They’d had a rotten day what with all the disappointment and everything, and if that wasn’t enough, now Hovis had called yet another meeting. They had all slunk away from the last one wondering how they could avoid any further involvement. Fearing, not without good cause, that in such situations as the arrest of gold bullion robbers, “shooters” were likely to be wielded. And the likely wielders would be trigger-happy police officers.

  Before them, Hovis perched upon the table, a gaunt bird of prey. “Are we sitting comfortably?” he asked. “Then I’ll begin.”

  “Sir?” said Constable Meek.

  “Yes, Meek?”

  “Sir, about this gasometer business, the lads and I were wondering.”

  “Yes, Meek?”

  “About the way in, sir? Into the gasometer.”

  Hovis took out his “Regal Chimer” and flipped open the cover. “I am expecting a visitor,” said he, “who is going to put you straight on all the details. In fact at any moment now.”

  The door of the briefing room swung open to admit the entrance of a curious-looking man. He was well over six feet in height, bald of head, heavy of brow and jowl and somewhat wild of eye. His ample frame was encased in a flowing black robe constrained about the portly waist by a scarlet cummerbund.

  “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Mr Hugo Rune.” The self-styled Perfect Master and Logos of the Aeon bowed towards his doubtful audience.

  Constable Meek leapt immediately to his feet. “Hugo Rune, I arrest you in the name of the law. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

  “Not now, Meek,” said Inspectre Hovis.

  “But, sir, this man is wanted in connection with numerous offences in breach of the Fraudulent Mediums Act, the Witchcraft Act of 1307, the … the …”

  “Not now, Meek.”

  “Sir, it is my bounden duty to arrest this man, he is a charlatan and a con-man.”

  “Not now.”

  “Sir, we have a file on him a yard wide.”

  “Meek, sit down.”

  “But, sir …”

  “Sit down. Mr Rune has agreed to help us in this most sensitive matter. I have offered him immunity from prosecution in return.”

  “A supergrass!” said Meek. “So that’s his game now, is it?”

  “Sit down and shut up, Meek.”

  “But, sir …”

  Rune took a step forward, and stood towering over the young officer. “I can seal your mouth with a single word,” said he, “and you will be forced to sup tea through your nostril.”

  “Threatening behaviour. I’ll add that to the charge sheet.”

  “Sit down, Meek, Mr Rune is helping us with our inquiries. During this period, he is under my protection.”

  “And afterwards?”

  Hovis looked at Rune. “We will see.”

  “Oh, will we?” said Rune. “And I the only man who can get you into the gasometer!”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Hugo Rune drew himself up to his full improbable height. “I am Rune,” quoth he, “Rune whose eye is darkness, Rune whose brain fathoms the impossible conundra. Rune whose soul seeks ever the light of infinite knowledge.”

  “That also remains to be seen.”

  “Then be it as it will, I shall take my leave now and my chances as they present themselves. Goodbye.” Rune turned upon his heel.

  “Not so fast. If you succeed, I will waive any other charges.”

  “But, sir!”

  “Do shut up, Meek. Rune, kindly tell us what you have to say.”

  “Mr Rune,” said Mr Rune.

  “Mr Rune then, if you will.”

  “All right, you may find it difficult to comprehend, but I will do my best to simplify matters for you.”

  Hovis made an exasperated face. “Then kindly do so, we have little enough time to waste.”

  “So be it.” Rune clapped his enormous hands together and a shaven-headed acolyte in shabby robes of a saffron hue, entered the room, burdened by the weight of several ancient tomes. He had a small red R tatooed on his forehead. “Master,” he said.

  “Place them on the table, Rizla.”

  “Yes, Master.” Rizla did as he was bid and departed, bowing to the floor.

  “The neophyte Rizla,” Rune explained. “And so to the facts in the case.”

  Hovis jostled away a constable and settled into a front-row seat, resigned to the ridiculous. “Go ahead then.”

  “Thank you, Inspectre.” Rune leafed through a leather-bound volume until he found the page he sought. “The great gasometer, or gasholder, call it what you will. According to the county records, constructed in eighteen-eighty-five by the West London Coal Gas Company. The surrounding gasworks were demolished in nineteen-sixty-two and the site is now occupied by that bastion of ethnic ‘entertainment’ and mis-spent local government funding, the Arts Centre.”

  “Easy on the personal prejudice,” said Hovis. “It is well known that thei
r Board of Directors refused your repeated demands to be made Magus in Residence.”

  “Quite so, but be that as it may. The gasometer. A local landmark, used by RAF Northolt during the Hitlerian War as a ground-marker. A symbol of the borough. It is not a gasometer, never has been a gasometer, never will be a gasometer. It is something else entirely.”

  There was a murmuring and a mumbling amongst the constables.

  “I know that,” said Hovis, “it is no revelation. So what is it, Rune?”

  “I will not bore you with the intricacies of my research, the difficulties encountered, the countless hours of fruitful meditation.”

  “Good, then do not.”

  “Then I will tell you this. It has existed throughout at least eight centuries of recorded history. Local legend speaks of the two kings of Brentford, warlords in the time of King Arthur, one dwelt in a tower of stone and one in a tower of iron, such the old rhyme tells us. I cannot speak for the tower of stone, perhaps it has long become dust, but the tower of iron is here for all to see. It is the gasometer. Possibly it has not always appeared as it does now, but the deception it creates has existed in one form or another down the centuries.”

  “Ooooh!” and “ahhhh!” went the constables.

  “Go on,” said Inspectre Hovis.

  “I quote the words of Samuel Johnson on his trip to the Brentford Bull Fayre: ‘I entered the town of Brentford by the river road, passing beneath the old iron tower, a fortress of great age, which still survives, although weed-grown and hung with ivy, striking in its presence.’ Johnson visited the fayre and actually witnessed a live griffin in a showman’s booth. All this is recorded in his memoirs, for anyone to check.”

  “Curious,” said Hovis. “Continue.”

  “A record of land charters, granted in fourteen-seventy-two, states that, ‘One Able John Rimmer tills land to the North and West of the iron tower. His land extends to the North Road for Ealing, up against Ye Flying Swan Inn and bordering upon the dell of Chiswick, wherewhich the pasture grounds of our Lord the King abound for twenty leagues.’ I have sought even further back, but it is all the same, the gasometer is old beyond the point of memory. And where memory and the written word become myth and legend still it is there. It has been there for perhaps one thousand years.”