"Cool!"
Brinsley opened up a small silver box. "Union Jack cuff links, with miniaturized industrial-issue laser cutters inside them. They can cut through several inches of metal. I knocked these up for when my brothers get banged up by the fuzz."
"Now that's 'andsome!"
"This ballpoint pen," said Brinsley, holding up the object in question, "has a microwave generator inside it. It can disrupt a servo-bot's internal workings at a range of fifty meters."
"That's cool, mate, really cool. Listen, I…I don't think I've got enough cash on me to cover all of this. Can I, er…"
"Give me half now and I'll put the rest on your slate. You're a friend in trouble, and that's what counts."
Jimmy chatted with Brinsley for a while about the BVS, but the Trinidadian engineer couldn't add anything new. Jimmy sighed again and looked out the window at the airships floating in the distance over the Thames. His arms and legs were still tense, and trembling, from the chase earlier. He needed to rest, but he couldn't…
So time to pop a couple of Purple Hearts and move on.
Time for action.
"Cheers, mate. You in the Inferno on Friday?"
Brinsley laughed a deep mellow laugh. "Wild horses and killer robots could not keep me away from the clubs, my friend."
Jimmy picked up his sunglasses and bike keys from the side table, and looked at the tiny round tube lying on it he'd noticed earlier. Curious, he picked it up and peered at it.
"Put that down!" yelled Brinsley.
Jimmy dropped the tube like it was on fire. "Why? What is it?"
"It's the roche for the end of my spliff, man. I'm dying for a smoke."
*
By early evening, Jimmy had propped up a succession of espresso palaces and greasy spoon caffs, leaned on a succession of wide boys, and consumed a huge plate of pie, mash and parsley liquor followed by a dish of Bert's Apple Crumble over at Sweeny Todd's Pie Shop. The only thing he'd come up with was the blatantly obvious information that half the people in London were scared. Scared of the Soviets and their Cosmonauts and their orbiting Vodyanoi war satellites. Everywhere you went, someone was sounding off against Bolshoi, Ivan, Cossacks, Brezhnev, or Gulags. The wildest rumor was that space aliens in UFOs, just like in the Fifties SF movies, might land and fight with NATO against the Soviets.
"Keep watching the skies," people muttered darkly, and left it at that.
Jimmy was beginning to wonder whether Georgina would have done better spending her money on flyposting her Dad's face around the city, like the posters around Chelsea and Kensington saying LOST: ONE PEKINESE ANSWERING TO THE NAME OF POSEY-PUFF.
Towards nine, Jimmy found himself in the Suez Motel, on Rupert Street, right in the heart of Soho. All Tiki masks and South Pacific décor, girls taking their kit off on stage to the music of Martin Denny and Les Baxter.
He ordered a Scotch with ice and chatted to the barman. "Has Greek Joe been in tonight?"
The barman shot him a dirty look. "Hold on, son. I'll go and check."
Jimmy's heart sank when he saw the barman talking to the bouncers. One of them – a bruiser the size of Mount Snowdon dressed in a two-tone suit – lumbered over to Jimmy's stool at the bar.
"Camp Tony would like a word in your shell-like," the bouncer croaked in a gravelly voice.
Oh fragg, Jimmy thought to himself as the bouncer led him through a door marked PRIVATE – STAFF ONLY.
London's three brotherhoods in the world of organized crime had maintained an uneasy, peaceful alliance for as long as Jimmy could remember. There was Tony North, just like his namesake, running the north. There were the Piranha Brothers to the south. Then there was Mr. Bridger, and his fingerman Camp Tony Tyler, who controlled Soho.
Jimmy began to sweat as he followed the bouncer through the club's seedy dressing rooms. He told himself things could have been worse; if this had been Dinsdale Piranha's club, Jimmy would end up with his head nailed to the coffee table.
He was marched down a long corridor all velveteen and tinsel stars, strippers in grass skirts and leis running past them on the way to the stage. The bouncer knocked on the door marked MANAGER and a muffled voice replied. Jimmy left the dried-booze and cigarette-smoke fog of the corridor behind and walked through to his destiny.
It was a comfortable office; an impressively stocked mini-bar opposite the door, a large armchair, and a studio couch. To the side stood a small green baize table with sealed packs of cards, ashtrays, and four gold-painted chairs.
Camp Tony was standing by the mini-bar, holding a Mai Tai with a ludicrous amount of fruit stuffed into the glass. "Well, James," he said in a voice as silky as his tie, "I hear you're being a bit of a Nosy Parker."
Meeting Camp Tony Tyler was always a highly unsettling experience. His reputation for violence was disguised by his immaculate, gentlemanly appearance; dark blue mohair suit, three-button jacket with one-inch side vents and paisley handkerchief carefully arranged in his top pocket, button-down silk shirt, narrow trousers tapering onto an immaculate pair of black Cuban heels. His thick, curly hair was so blonde it was almost white; he could have been an Ace Face, if it weren't for the wrinkles around his eyes and lips.
The most unsettling things about Camp Tony, however, were not the stories of him breaking arms and heads; they were the antechamber of tropical plants next to the office that he devoted himself to, and the skintight black leather gloves that he insisted on wearing all the time. Jimmy had heard rumors that Camp Tony had disfigured his hands mixing up a bunch of chemicals for insecticide, and the gloves were to hide the scars; others said that he wore them because he had a phobia about shaking hands and touching other people's skin. Jimmy suspected the truth was a little bit of both.
Camp Tony waved a gloved hand and the bouncer poured Jimmy another Scotch.
"So," Jimmy said conversationally, "When's Mr. Bridger getting out of the clink?"
"Not for a long time. He says he likes it there. It's the perfect place to make plans, meet contacts, and maintain a sense of perspective."
"How's Charlie?"
"He's off doing a job in Rome."
"That's nice. Very romantic."
Camp Tony finished his Mai Tai and signalled for another. "Listen, gumshoe," he said, his voice suddenly low, "I admire your tenacity, but you're in over your head. There are big stakes in this game."
Jimmy tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Like the freedom of the western world?"
"You could say that. We keep a nice racket going here. We don't want the Bolshies coming along and spoiling it."
"This is not about the Bolshies," said Jimmy. "It never was."
Camp Tony looked at the bouncers by the door as if he was sending telepathic messages to them.
"A little bird tells me," he continued, "that you've been asking questions about the British Venusian Society."
Jimmy nodded.
"Might I inquire why are you so interested?"
Jimmy stared moodily back. Bridger's lot were villains, but they had a reputation for fair play; Bridger insisted on it. He decided the best thing was to tell the truth. So he spilled the beans – on Georgina, her father, her sister, Venus Jones, the full monty.
Afterwards, Camp Tony nodded and took another sip of his Mai Tai. From downstairs, Jimmy could hear the tom-toms and vibraphone of 'Hana Maui' by Chick Floyd and his Orchestra. The exotic melody was meant to be relaxing, but now it sent a chill down his spine.
"Ron," Camp Tony said to one of the bouncers.
"Yes, Mr. Tyler."
"I'm not to be disturbed for the next ten minutes. After that I'll need the Rolls, so tell Elkins to get it ready."
"Very good, Mr. Tyler."
"James…would you care to join me in the greenhouse? There's something I'd like you to see."
Oh fragg, thought Jimmy, I've had it. I'll end up buried in the compost with orchids growing out of my arse.
He stood up and gave the bouncers a wan smile as he followed C
amp Tony. Not a flicker of emotion crossed their faces.
The greenhouse was a profuse riot of steamy greens, reds and purples. Jimmy was already sweating with nervous tension, and the heat wasn't going to do him any good at all.
Camp Tony sauntered over to a growth on the second row of wooden benches. "Do you know what this is, James?"
They stood in front of a bulbous, vivid green plant, and Jimmy instantly recognized the leaves. Large, divided in two and hinged like oyster shells, their red interior fringed with long spikes like eyelashes. Jimmy remembered them from a dozen biology textbooks.
"Venus…" Jimmy coughed at the sudden hoarseness clogging his throat. "Venus Fly Trap."
Camp Tony turned to a stack of wooden shelves full of jars, bottles and plastic sacks, and took a jar and a pair of tweezers from the middle shelf.
"A few weeks ago, something rather unusual happened," Camp Tony said, his voice never changing its quiet, velvety tone. "This establishment received a visit from representatives of the British Venusian Society. They were offering Mr. Bridger and myself honorary membership."
"Well, you are both fine, upstanding figures in London society," Jimmy said with a weak smile.
Camp Tony gave him an intense glare before continuing. "Mr. Bridger and I do not join societies or clubs, as a matter of principle. We find the whole concept rather vulgar. I explained this to the BVS delegates, and they became quite agitated. They wouldn't take no for an answer. They were insistent on Mr. Bridger and myself joining, and the whole thing became rather unpleasant. They were eventually escorted off the premises."
Camp Tony held up the glass jar in his gloved hands. Jimmy felt queasy when he saw it was full of insects, like beetles, crawling and squirming all over each other.
"Being a player in the London Underworld, James, is very similar to running a greenhouse. There are a number of factors that must be in harmony with each other. Temperature, humidity, the nutrients in the soil, the amount of water given to the plants. All these factors are held in the most careful balance."
The well-dressed gangster unscrewed the lid and reached inside with the tweezers. He pulled out a small beetle, its legs waving helplessly.
"Imagine if a weed gets into the greenhouse from outside. It could upset the whole delicate ecosystem. It could suck the water and the nutrients away from the other plants, and they would…wither. And die."
Gloved hands poised the tweezers over the Venus Fly Trap. The beetle dropped into the outstretched leaf, and the two halves closed slowly, almost lazily, around the insect. Jimmy could still see the head through the 'teeth' of the leaves, struggling, the insect's legs making a faint scratching noise from inside its prison. He stared at it in fascinated revulsion, wondering how long it would take to be digested.
Camp Tony stared at the young Mod with unblinking eyes. "I am authorized to tell you, James, that Mr. Bridger is not a friend of the BVS. He would condone anything that damages their reputation. If you think you have an angle on them, I can offer a small amount of assistance."
Jimmy nodded, the sweat of the greenhouse vapors trickling down his brow.
"We have a lock-up," the gangster continued, "where we keep certain goods for safe keeping, located in the basement of a certain building on Great Newport Street. Recently, I've had disturbing reports from my employees. They…heard things…while they were working in the basement. Noises like machines moving underground. Tapping on the walls. Voices."
"Ghosts?" Jimmy whispered. "Something nasty in the sewers?"
"There was some panicky talk of Russian commandos gathering in the sewers, preparing troops for an invasion of London. Now that kind of hysteria is bad for business, James. Someone should take a look and see what's going on…"
An immaculately gloved finger pointed at the floor.
"Down there."
SIX
Jimmy flew back to his office and allowed himself a slug of Jameson's before getting down to business. He took out the folder of pictures that Tom and Isobel had electrostated over to him and shuffled through them again. Civil servants, military officers, executives from companies like Bletchley Park and Esso, newspaper editors, TV celebrities…and politicians.
One politician in particular.
Jimmy put the photos back in the folder and looked at the clock. Round about now, Chaz and the others would be hitting the pubs before going clubbing. Jimmy always kept a change of clothes in his office; he hung up his suit and tie and slipped into a pair of black Levis, navy blue Fred Perry long-sleeved shirt, tan desert boots, and a Harrington jacket – with Brinsley's Union Jack badge tacked on the front. Where he was going, he didn't want to get his suit dirty.
He flew over to the Punch and Judy pub at Covent Garden and caught Chaz and the others swigging Nukie Brown and popping pills. He gave them instructions. As he'd thought, they indignantly refused at first, but he kept on until they reluctantly agreed.
Then he gave them the tracker controls.
After that he adjusted his cuff links and set off for some breaking and entering. Cheers, Brinsley, he thought with a smile.
After anti-grav technology had been successfully developed in 1956, the transport industry – mostly in the USA and the New British Empire, so far – was revolutionized. One of the effects was that the London Underground had closed down and been turned into a museum. Needless to say, there was a great deal of public debate and demonstrations on the matter; many Londoners wanted the Tube kept open for the sake of nostalgia. Plunging profits, in the end, decided the argument, and the GLC halted the trains for the final time on 26th January 1959.
The three main lines, Central, Victoria, and Piccadilly, were in the process of being converted into the New London Transport Museum, with the scheduled completion date set for early 1968. Nevertheless, the die-hards hadn't given up. A high-profile campaign was under way to keep the Northern Line exactly as it was – to resist any alterations or modernizations, and to keep it closed to the public.
Jimmy flew the short hop to the metal-shuttered entrance to what used to be Tottenham Court Road tube station, waited until the street was quiet, then got to work with Brinsley's laser-cutters. He wheeled the bike through and manhandled it carefully down the dusty staircase.
The Vespa GX2000 was designed for travel in urban airlanes, but it could hover in any environment for one hour before needing recharging – even underground. One hour wouldn't be a problem; Camp Tony's lock-up was on Great Newport Street, which meant that the abandoned Leicester Square tube station was only a few feet away through the brick walls and water pipes and power cables. Not far from Tottenham Court Road and straight down the Northern Line. Jimmy eased the Vespa off the platform and began to float down the eerie, abandoned tunnel.
Going underground, without the wind in his hair and the sparkling, crowded city below him, made Jimmy feel claustrophobic. The air was hot and musty with neglect. He couldn't shake the feeling that there were things moving behind him, in the shadows, beyond the reach of his mirrors.
There were rumours of all kinds of spooky stuff down in the dark, empty Tube tunnels. Unexploded Nazi rockets. Demons and poltergeists. Giant rats left over from genetic experiments gone horribly wrong. Ghosts of people accidently locked in bank vaults and suffocated. He wished he'd brought the bottle of Jameson's, but gulped a couple more Purple Hearts instead to keep him focused.
Up ahead, he saw a glimmer of light.
Ghostly white figures moved across his line of vision and onto a platform ahead; yes, in the gloom Jimmy noticed the big red and white sign declaring Leicester Square. He had kept the headlamp off and the anti-grav engine was virtually silent. He floated on ahead.
He rose up on to Leicester Square platform and parked the scooter. The maps said there was an old World War II shelter adjacent to the station – and sure enough, he found a door at the side, that looked like it had been tampered with very recently. He steeled himself and pushed the door open.
"Mr. Drake! Or should I call y
ou – Mr. Diamond?"
Sure enough, Venus Jones was there herself, surrounded by a chorus line of her Elvis boys. She wore something that looked like a space-age silver bikini with high-heeled boots – enough to make Jimmy almost glad to see her again.
Almost.
Beside them were two figures wearing white silver suits with hoods, holding big metal drums that they must have retrieved from further down the tunnel. Jimmy knew that under the hoods, there would be more Elvis-faces.
Across the room, strapped to two operating tables and looking terrified, was a dolly bird in mini-skirt, boots and Mary Quant top, and a middle-aged man in glasses, tweed jacket and linen slacks. The missing professor and his other lovely daughter, Jimmy presumed.
"How did you find our secret base?"
"Easy peasy." Jimmy pulled the crumpled photograph out of his jacket pocket. "Sir Derek Camfield, head of the protest group to keep the Northern Line closed. Also a BVS member, photographed here walking out of your Kensington offices. This is what we private dicks call putting one and one together."
"Well, seeing as you are here, we may as well welcome you to our brotherhood. That is what you said you wanted, is it not?"
"That was as false as that face you're wearing, love. I've come for the Prof and his daughter – and you and your Rockers here are not going to stop me. Alright?"
Venus glared at him with her huge eyes for a moment and started to laugh. Seconds later, her Elvis boys all began to laugh as well. It was unspeakably creepy.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" Jimmy cut in.
Venus flashed her eyes all around, and cocked her head as if listening to a voice that Jimmy couldn't hear. Then she turned to him with a terrible smile.
"Why not? It will serve to entertain me – before your execution."
SEVEN
Jimmy squared his shoulders and fingered the Union Jack badge on his jacket. "You're not in contact with Venusians. You are the Venusians, aren't ya?"
Venus smiled and walked around the operating tables, her back straight and her head high like a model on the catwalk. "Yes. Yes, we are. But of course, we do not look like this. Your human senses would be driven mad if you looked upon our true form, which is mostly gaseous, so we have assumed these…bodies."
Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One Page 14