Omally stood in the doorway waving goodbye. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he called, ‘any time.’ The door swung shut upon the sound of Young Master Robert’s departing BMW.
‘How?’ said the part-time barman. ‘How did you do it?’
Omally turned to his esteemed employer, the look upon Neville’s face was one John would forever cherish. ‘Psychology,’ said the great man of Eire, ‘and a small white lie or two.’
‘Have a drink,’ said Neville, making for the whisky optic, ‘have two, have three if you like.’
‘Not when I’m working, sir,’ said John in a voice of mock sincerity.
Neville drew off a couple of large stiff ones. ‘Sit down and tell me,’ he said. ‘Every last little bit.’
‘There’s not much to it,’ said John sipping Scotch. ‘I simply told him that to my knowledge the rival brewery were converting all their pubs into Olympic theme bars and that to really clean up, with the big influx of Yanks, the best thing to do was to retain the Swan’s "Olde Worlde" atmosphere. An island of unspoilt old England in a sea of pseudo-Americana was the phrase I used. Quite a nice one I thought. Seemed to do the trick rather well.’
‘You are a genius,’ said Neville. ‘But what when he finds out that it’s all lies, when the other pubs don’t do the conversions?’
‘I took the liberty of telling him that the other pubs were not going to be converted until the day before the games begin, so when he does find out it will be too late anyway.’
Neville looked thoughtful. ‘But when he does find out.’ His voice trailed off.
‘When he does find out then I will tell him that it is yet more industrial espionage. That the rival breweries have all followed his lead. But of course it will be too late for them because our sign will already be up.’
‘Our sign, what sign?’
Omally put on a brave face. The new pub sign,’ he said in a whisper.
‘What?’ roared Neville. ‘Are we still to be the Pentathlon Bar?’
‘No, no.’ John shook his head. ‘In fact I got away with only a letter or twos’ change.’
‘All right, let’s have it.’
‘Well,’ said Omally, flinching from the part-time barman, ‘the new sign will say: YE FLYING SWAN INN, OLDEST AND MOST AUTHENTIC PUB IN BRENTFORD, WELCOMES ITS AMERICAN COUSINS.’
"Ye Flying Swan Inn,’ said Neville. ‘Ye Gods!’
28
At around four that afternoon, Omally was to be found cycling unsteadily down Cagliostro Crescent. He and Neville had enjoyed several ‘afters’ of the triple persuasion to celebrate John’s triumph in saving the Swan from a fate which, if not actually worse than death itself, amounted to very much the same thing. Neville had waxed sentimental, as was often his way when in his cups, and been effusive in his praises.
‘You have performed a service to the Flying Swan,’ he told the grinning Irishman, ‘of such magnitude that any financial reward would be pitifully inadequate as an expression of its worth, and thus to offer it would be tardy and churlish. Instead I give you my sincerest thanks, offer you my deepest respect and promise you my continued good fellowship. Such things you will agree are beyond price.’
John had no reply to make, although several sprang immediately to mind, but he was pleased beyond measure that Neville was his old self again. He had accepted a bottle of Scotch from the barman’s private stock and the evening off as tangible appreciation for his noble deed.
Omally turned right into Moby Dick Terrace and brought Marchant to a sudden, unexpected and wheel-shuddering halt. Parked outside his house was a long black car of advanced design and uncertain extraction.
‘The Garda,’ said John, hastily steering Marchant up the kerb and into an alleyway. Parking up, he dismounted and peered around the corner to see just what was what. A figure issued from his front doorway. It was not a policeman, as he had feared, but a dwarf in chauffeur’s livery. The creature hobbled around to the driver’s door and entered the vehicle which at once drew away, slowly and soundlessly. John cowered back as it passed him by and strained to get a further glimpse of the car’s occupants, but the windows were blacked out and it was impossible.
‘Curious,’ said John, as he crept out of his concealment and led Marchant home. ‘Mrs King is keeping strange company these days.’
As he pressed his key towards the lock, the door receded before it and there in the passageway stood that very woman, John’s landlady. She was dressed for the ‘out’, cashmere coat, knitted hat and string shopper. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, which would have left most people lost for a reply.
‘Your servant, ma’am,’ said himself.
‘You’ve had a visitor.’
‘Did they leave cash or a cheque?’ Omally asked. ‘I am expecting several such callers this week.’
‘And so you should be, you owe a month’s back rent.’
‘Where did they leave the money?’ John enquired. ‘I will pay you at once.’
‘He didn’t leave any money as far as I know, just a parcel.’
‘Oh yes?’ Omally certainly didn’t recall ordering anything.
‘He said that you and that Jim Pooley had won prizes. He didn’t have your mate’s address so I gave it to him.’
‘Prizes, eh? Well, I did enter a competition in hope of winning you a microwave oven, perhaps that’s it.’
Omally often amazed himself by the ease with which words of untruth sprang to his lips. ‘Shall we open it together?’
‘I haven’t got time for that, I must get out before the shops close. I’ve left it on your kitchen table. And that kitchen wants cleaning, Mr Omally, it’s a health hazard.’
‘I came home at this time expressly to deal with that.’ Omally eased himself past the woolly-hatted harridan.
‘Just see that you do.’ The front door slammed shut upon her words in blessed relief.
John bested the twenty-three stairs which led to his chambers and pushed open the door. Things were very much as he had left them, no good-housekeeping fairy had descended from the lands of the blessed during his absence to flick the much-needed duster or make free with the vacuum cleaner. Although he was a stickler for personal hygiene, John’s rooms left very much to be desired, tidiness-wise.
Omally took off his jacket and tossed it on to his unmade bed. Turning back his shirt cuffs he entered the kitchenette to examine the package lying on the oilcloth covered table. It was a brightly coloured affair, bound in twine and scaled with sealing wax in a quaint old-fashioned manner. There was, however, no accompanying card expressing congratulations or ill-founded birthday greetings.
‘Further curiousness,’ said the Irishman, lifting it and weighing it in his hands. It was approximately twelve inches to the side and of no particular weight. Omally shook it, something within thumped to one side and so he replaced it upon the table lest he damage its contents. ‘It’s not a microwave oven,’ he said, searching for a clean knife to slit the bindings. As none was readily available he wandered back to his jacket to fetch his barlow knife. Selecting a blade suitable to the task he returned to confront the package.
Upon his return he observed a curious phenomenon. The package appeared slightly larger than before. He lifted it. Slightly heavier also. John shook his curly head. Neville’s private stock evidently had somewhat special qualities. He would save the gift bottle for a worthy occasion.
John sliced through the bindings and laid aside the wrapping paper which came away in bright folds. He delved in to gain his prize but, to his surprise and annoyance, he found himself confronted by a further set of wrappings. John flung away the former and reconsidered the remaining parcel. It was no longer a cube, rather a tetrahedron. And . . . it was bigger!
Omally scratched his head. That was a good trick. He lifted the parcel. It was heavier yet again. A very good trick. With renewed vigour he fell upon the thing, slicing at strings, tearing away paper. They fell away with ease, almost springing from the parcel. The shape which now came to lig
ht was distinctly pyramidal, well wrapped and at least twice the size of the original cube. John was beginning to work up a healthy sweat. He folded his knife and tore at the parcel with his bare hands. Paper swept away in great sheets and he flung it to every direction. The revealed cylinder filled most of the kitchen table and Omally found himself standing knee-deep in wrapping paper. He found the parcel now impossible to lift. ‘Perhaps it’s an AGA?’ he said, wiping sweat from his eyes. ‘We’ll soon see.’ Ripping at the paper as one possessed, he revealed shape after shape, growing all the time. Suddenly, with an almighty crack, the kitchen table gave at its wormy legs and Omally tumbled aside into the confusion of multi-coloured wrapping paper as the now enormous package struck the floor with a deafening thump.
It was at about this time that he felt cause to question the wisdom of his actions. The hulking parcel now effectively blocked the door from the kitchenette. John arose from his colourful nest, puffing and blowing for all he was worth, and attempted to shift the obstacle. But to no avail. All he succeeded in doing was tearing away several more layers of paper. The parcel burst asunder, now visibly growing in size, to the accompaniment of loud ripping and tearing sounds.
John flattened himself against a wall. He was trapped and not only that, he was in dire peril. The door was now completely blocked, the kitchenette window too small to permit squeezing through, and a further series of ominous sounds informed him that the parcel was far from finished with its untoward quest for further expansion. With a sharp snap the thick length of rope which had restrained the Pandora’s box severed, whipping Omally painfully across the face. Spitting blood, the indefatigable Irishman sought escape. Take your Pick’ this wasn’t, and he had no further wish to ‘open the box’.
The parcel bulged menacingly about its lower regions and a huge appendage sprang out from it, splintering the remnants of the dilapidated kitchen table and pummelling against the wall. Omally leapt up on to it and clung on for dear life. Crockery crashed down from the dresser shelves and the elderly porcelain sink crumbled from its mountings and was gone in a cloud of whitened splinters. John scrambled across the seething parcel which was unfolding into every direction with unrestrained force, destroying all that lay before it and rapidly filling the room. The thing pulsed with life and John could feel a hideous strength moving beneath him. Suddenly he was in darkness.
The window was blocked and he was now being driven upwards into the ceiling. It was not going to be a pleasant way to go. John lay on his back across the swelling mass of homicidal packaging, his hands pressed against the polystyrene ceiling tiles he had known and always hated. The smell of a generation’s nicotine, much of it his own, filled his nostrils, his ears popped from the pressure and his breath came in short pants. He was surely done for.
The spreading parcel of death rumbled beneath him wreaking further destruction, pulverizing furniture and fitments, horrendous, unstoppable. Omally’s nose edged closer to the ceiling, he fought to reach his knife, but his hands were trapped at his sides, he was powerless to resist the irresistible, relentless force which bore up underneath him.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ said John Omally, ‘put a good word in at some speed for this unworthy son.’ There was a bone-sickening crunch and Omally was no more. Omally was no more in the kitchenette, he was now in the loft.
John opened his eyes; if this was Heaven, then it didn’t look all that heavenly. Dust and dirt and pigeon poo weren’t much of a happy ever after. Perhaps he’d gone to the bad place. So Hell was an eternity of loft space. John sought to escape before the rolls of insulation arrived, his for the perpetual laying. What torment!
He leapt to his feet, striking his head on a roof timber and squinting about in what light the missing slates admitted. He was still alive, or at least he thought he was. Nursing a multiplicity of cuts and abrasions he climbed across the joists seeking the hatch which opened above the stairwell. Beneath him the sounds of groaning timbers and cracking plasterwork were not exactly music to his ears. The unstoppable package was filling the entire house. It had to be now or never.
John found his way around the unlagged water-tanks and dug his fingernails about the flap of the loft hatch, tearing it away. Without a thought for safety he leapt down through the opening and crashed in a heap on the landing. Cracks were racing across the walls of his room, furniture splintering, glass shattering. Ignoring the pain in his ankles, John dived headlong down the stairway, tore open the front door and rolled into the street. He picked himself up, hands upon knees, and bent gasping for breath, a terrific figure besmutted with plaster, roof dust, soot, blood and pigeon plops. Not a pretty sight.
‘Afternoon, John,’ said Old Pete. ‘Decorating, is it? A job for a professional, that.’
John climbed painfully on to Marchant, cocked the pedal and cycled away with as much haste as he could muster.
Old Pete watched him go, before angling his deaf aid towards the sounds of destruction issuing from Omally’s house. ‘Structural alterations,’ the ancient told his dog. ‘I hope he’s got planning permission.’ Young Chips woofed noncommittally and addressed his nasal attentions to a nearby lamp post.
Pooley stood in his bath-towel skirt perusing the brightly coloured parcel which rested upon a tablecloth of equal vulgarity to Omally’s. The Professor had granted him an early finish to the day and he had just been running the bath water when the package had arrived. ‘I don’t remember entering any competition,’ said he, unfolding his pocket knife. ‘Still, never look a gift parcel in the wrappings.’
Omally turned right into Abbadon Street and then left, much against Marchant’s wishes, into Mafeking Avenue. ‘We have to get to Jim’s,’ he told his complaining bike, ‘he’s in danger, I’ll make it up to you later.’
Jim seated himself before his free gift and turned his knife between his fingers. ‘Gently does it,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to damage the contents.’
Omally mounted the pavement and rattled along over uneven slabs.
Jim applied his blade to the twine bindings. There was an almighty crash and he toppled from his chair to land in an indecent exposed heap upon the floor.
‘Don’t do it!’ Omally stood in the doorway. Jim’s door dangled uneasily from its hinges before slamming to the floor with a great bang.
‘Don’t do it, Jim!’
Pooley looked up fearfully from beneath the table at the besmutted apparition standing shakily in his doorway.
‘Watchamate, John,’ he said in a voice of no small surprise. This is all a bit drastic, is my doorbell broken or what?’
29
Professor Slocombe examined the multi-coloured parcel which lay before him on his desk.
‘Don’t open it,’ said John Omally. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
The hastily re-clad Jim nodded in agreement. ‘John had one too, it’s had his house down by the sound of it.’
The Professor laid Pooley’s parcel gently aside. ‘It is safe until opened, then?’ he asked.
‘So I believe.’ John indicated the roaring fire. That would be the best place for it. We brought it to you as . . .’
‘As evidence? Yes, you did the right thing. You have been drawn into a horror not entirely of your own making.’
‘Someone is out to kill us,’ said John, ‘that is for certain. As to the who and the why, these escape me for the present.’
‘It is Bob,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll fix his wagon for this, you see if I don’t.’
‘No,’ replied the Professor, ‘it isn’t your bookmaker, although I believe these matters are not entirely unconnected.’
Pooley took to the maintenance of a seething silence. ‘Ratbag,’ was his last spoken word on the subject.
‘What is going on?’ Omally asked. ‘I think we deserve to be told,’
Professor Slocombe refreshed his visitors’ glasses. ‘You cost me a small fortune in Scotch,’ he told them, ‘but no matter, you are alive and well and that is cause for celebration. In answe
r to your question, I fear that something deadly is going on here in the borough. I have no absolute proof and I do not value speculation, but I suggest that this attempt has been made upon your lives because some person or persons consider that you have seen too much.’
‘On the island?’ whispered Pooley.
‘Yes, and on the barge.’
‘The ape?’ said John sarcastically.
‘It was no ape,’ the old man replied. ‘Of that I am now quite convinced.’
‘Then what?’
The Professor raised his old wrinkled palms. ‘I cannot say for certain. I have my suspicions.’
‘Which you evidently choose not to confide in us.’
‘All in good time, I must be sure.’
‘You can be sure of that,’ said Jim pointing to the parcel. That leaves little to the imagination.’
‘It does mine,’ said Omally. ‘It is not your everyday murder attempt, now is it? I mean, guns I can understand, or old Mark Three Jags mounting the pavement when you’re stooping to tie your shoelace, but parcels which grow when you open them and smash your house down, this is a new innovation, is it not?’
‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘you can at least try to explain that surely?’
The Professor looked thoughtful. ‘From what you have told me,’ he said, ‘my thoughts are that it contains a multicellular polysilicate with an unstable atomic base which expands uncontrollably upon contact with the air through close proximity with the radiation of body heat.’
‘Ah, one of those lads,’ said Jim. ‘Then all is clear, my thanks.’
Omally was doubtful, but to save himself the spectacle of one of Pooley’s flapping and spinning displays he said, ‘chemical warfare, Jim, a sophisticated anti-personnel device,’
‘Something of the sort,’ said the Professor. ‘I suspect that when expansion reaches an optimum point the polysilicate evaporates, leaving little or no trace of its existence. A devilish weapon, and the product of a dark and sardonic humour.’
The Sprouts of Wrath Page 14