East of Ealing

by Robert Rankin

  ‘It is no matter,’ said the young man. ‘Had you fallen you might have damaged some valuable equipment.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much.’

  ‘It is no matter. This site has been acquired and excavated for a new complex to be built. Lateinos and Romiith Limited.’

  ‘Oh, those lads.’ Pooley blew on to the scorched palms of his hands. The ‘Acquired for Lateinos and Romiith’ signs had been blossoming upon all manner of vacant plots in Brentford recently, and the black-glazed complexes had been springing up overnight, like dark mushrooms. Exactly who Lateinos and Romiith were, nobody actually knew, but that they were very big in computers was hinted at. ‘Don’t let the marker posts on your allotment fall down,’ folks said, ‘or the blighters will stick a unit on it.’

  ‘Well again, my thanks,’ said Jim. ‘I suppose you didn’t see anything of an old bedframe while your lads were doing the excavations?’

  ‘Bedframe?’ The young man suddenly looked very suspicious indeed.

  ‘Well, never mind. Listen, if you are ever in the Swan I would be glad to stand you a pint or two. ‘Not only did you save my life but you saved me a good deal of unnecessary labour.’ Pooley made as to doff his cap, but it was now many hundreds of feet beneath his reach. Cursing silently at Omally, he said, ‘Thank you, then, and farewell.’ Snatching up Omally’s pickaxe head, he shambled away down Abaddon Street leaving the young man staring after him wearing a more than baffled expression.

  Jim thought it best to return Omally’s pickaxe head at once to his allotment shed before any more harm could come to it. He also thought it best not to mention the matter of the spade, which having been one of Omally’s latest acquisitions was something of a favourite with him. Possibly then, it would be a good idea to slip around to Norman’s and stick his nose once more against the kitchenette window.

  As Jim came striding over the allotment ground, pickaxe head over shoulder and ‘Whistle while you Work’ doing that very thing from between his lips, he was more than a little surprised to discover Omally in his shirt-sleeves, bent over the zinc water-butt, dabbing at his tender places. ‘John?’ said Jim.

  Omally looked up fearfully at the sounds of Jim’s approach. His right eye appeared to have a Victoria plum growing out of it. ‘Jim,’ said John.

  ‘You have been in a fight.’

  ‘Astute as ever I see.’

  ‘Outnumbered? How many of them, three, four?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Not from around these parts then. Circus strongman was it? Sumo wrestler? Surely not . . .’ Pooley crossed himself, ‘Count Dante himself?’

  ‘Close,’ said Omally, feeling at his jaw, which had developed a most alarming click. ‘Corner-shopkeeper, actually.’

  Pooley hastily secreted the pickaxe head behind his back, turned over a handy bucket, and sat upon it.

  ‘Not Norman? You jest, surely?’

  ‘Look at my shirt-collar.’ Omally waggled the frayed relic which now hung over his shoulder, college scarf fashion.

  ‘Aren’t they supposed to be sewn on all the way round?’

  ‘I will punish him severely for this.’

  ‘You fancy your chances at a rematch then?’

  Omally shook his head painfully and whistled. ‘Not I. Certainly the man has been personally schooled in the brutal, maiming, disfiguring art of Dimac by none other than that very Grand Master of the craft to whom you formerly alluded.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Jim.

  ‘I will have him down from a distance when he comes out to take in his milk tomorrow.’

  ‘The half-brick?’

  ‘Nothing less. I feel that we can forget all about ever-spinning wheels for the time being. Still all is not yet lost. How did you fare with the bed?’ Omally peered over Jim’s shoulder. ‘Got it locked away somewhere safe then?’

  Pooley scraped his heels in the dust.

  ‘What have you done with the bed, Jim, and where are the sleeves of your jacket?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jim, ‘about the bed.’

  7

  Norman sat in his kitchenette, dismally regarding the slim brass wheel spinning once more upon its table-top mountings. Over in the corner alcove his other self sat lifeless and staring, a gaping hole in its chest. Norman swung his leg over the kitchen chair and leaned his arms upon its worm-eaten back. The first run had not been altogether a roaring success. If Omally’s bike had not chosen to intervene and trip the robot into the street, there seemed little doubt that it would have killed Omally there and then, merely to retrieve the tobacco from his pocket.

  Norman chewed upon his lip. It was a regular Frankenstein’s monster, that one. Not what he’d had in mind at all. Placid pseudo-shopkeeper he wanted, not psychotic android on the rampage. He would have to disconnect all the Dimac circuits and pep up the old goodwill-to-mankind modules. Possibly it was simply the case that the robot had been a little over-enthusiastic. After all, it had had his interests at heart. Norman shuddered. Omally had got away with the tobacco, and Hairy Dave had charged him fifty quid to shore up the front of the shop and screw a temporary door into the splintered frame. The robot had not been in service more than a couple of hours and it was already bankrupting him. Fifty quid for a half-ounce of Golden. And what if Omally decided to sue or, more likely, to exact revenge.

  It didn’t bear thinking of. He would have to go round to the Swan later and apologize, stand Omally a few pints of consolation. More expense. The harassed shopkeeper climbed from his chair and sought out a quart of home-made sprout wine from the bottle-rack beneath the sink.

  At length the Memorial Library clock chimed five-thirty p.m. in the distance, and upon the Swan’s doorstep stood two bedraggled figures who, like Norman, had the drowning of their sorrows very much to the forefronts of their respective minds. Neville the part-time barman drew the polished bolts and swung open the famous door.

  ‘By Magog!’ said the pagan barkeep. ‘Whatever has happened to you two? Should I call an ambulance?’

  Pooley shook his head. ‘Merely draw the ales.’

  With many a backwards glance, Neville lumbered heavily away to the pumps. ‘But what has happened to you both? Your eye, John? And Jim, your sleeves?’

  Neville pushed two brimming pints across the counter towards the straining hands of his two patrons.

  ‘We were mugged,’ said Omally, who was finding it hard to come to terms with the concept of defeat at the hands of a humble shopkeeper.

  ‘Ten of them,’ Pooley added. He had once read of a mugger’s victim being carried into a pub and revived with free ale.

  Neville had also read of it and took up a glass to polish. ‘We live in troubled times,’ he said profoundly. ‘Ten and six please.’

  Omally drew his boot away from his bruised ankle and pulled out several pound notes. Neville, who had never before seen the Irishman handling paper money in public, was anxious to see if they were the real McCoy. The wrinkled relic John handed him smelt a bit pony, but it did have a watermark.

  Neville rang up ‘No Sale’ and obligingly short-changed his customer. Omally slung the pennies into his trouser pocket without even checking them.

  ‘Mugged then is it?’ Neville almost felt guilty. ‘Did you best the villains?’

  ‘Did we?’ Pooley raised his scorched palm and made chopping movements. ‘The blaggards will think twice about molesting the folk of Brentford again I can tell you.’

  ‘I see Norman is having his shopfront done up,’ said Old Pete, who had sneaked in hard upon the heels of the two warriors.

  Omally spluttered into his beer. ‘Is that a fact?’ said he.

  ‘Had his shop front mugged so I hear.’

  ‘Give that gentleman a large dark rum,’ said Omally.

  The ancient accepted his prize and slunk away to a side-table with much malicious chuckling.

  Omally grudgingly paid up and joined Pooley, who had taken to hiding in a suitably darkened corner.

  ‘I shan’t be able
to live with this,’ said John, seating himself. ‘That old one knows already; it will be all over the parish by morning.’

  ‘But Norman?’ said Pooley. ‘I still can’t quite believe it. Norman wouldn’t hurt a spider, and by God his shop gives lodging to enough.’

  ‘A lover of the insect kingdom he may be, but let humankind beware. The shopkeeper has finally lost his marbles. He took it out on me as though violence was going out of fashion.’

  Jim sighed. ‘This is a day I should certainly choose to forget. We have both paid dearly for our greed.’

  John nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose there are lessons to be learned from it. We have certainly learned ours the hard way.’

  ‘Talking of lessons, I think your homework has just arrived.’ Jim pointed over Omally’s shoulder to where Norman now stood squinting about the bar.

  John sank low in his high-backed chair. ‘Has he seen me?’ he whispered.

  Pooley nodded. ‘I’m afraid so, he’s coming over.’

  ‘When you hit him go for his beak, ignore the groin.’

  ‘I’m not going to hit him, this is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you? You started it, you and your money-making wheel. .

  ‘Evening gents,’ said Norman.

  ‘Evening to you, old friend,’ said Pooley, smiling sweetly.

  Omally rummaged in his pockets and brought out a crumpled packet of cigarette papers and a somewhat banjoed half-ounce of tobacco. ‘I never smoked it,’ he said. ‘You can have it back if you still want it.’

  Norman held up his hand, which made Omally flinch painfully. ‘No, no, I have come to apologize. I really don’t know what came over me, to lose my temper like that. I have been working too hard lately, I have a lot of worries. There is no permanent damage done, I trust?’

  ‘I am still in a state of shock.’ Omally sensed possibilities. ‘Numb all over. I suspect a fracture here and there, though. I’ll be off work a good while I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Norman nodded good-naturedly. Omally would be wanting his pound of flesh, better get it over with in one go. ‘Might I buy you a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘You might,’ said Omally, ‘and we will see where it leads. If you could manage one for my companion also it would not go unappreciated.’

  Norman smiled. He wondered whether or not to ask Pooley where the sleeves of his jacket were, but he presupposed the answer to be of a somewhat poignant nature, evoking images of such hardship and tragedy as to morally oblige the asker to purchase many further pints. ‘I’ll get the round in then,’ said Norman, departing to the bar.

  ‘One pint and one half-ounce up,’ said John bleakly. ‘What profit the day, I ask you?’

  ‘Perk up, John, it can only get better, surely.’ Pooley now sighted Old Pete hobbling purposefully towards them. ‘Or possibly not.’

  ‘Where’s my bed then?’ the ancient asked, prodding Omally’s bruised shoulder-blade with his stick. ‘I’ve brought the money.’

  ‘Money?’ John did not recall mentioning a figure. ‘How much did you bring?’

  ‘Twenty quid.’

  ‘Twenty quid.’ Omally buried his face in his hands.

  ‘It’s enough, isn’t it? You said it was an antique. I think twenty quid’s a fair price if it’s a good one. So where’s my bed?’

  ‘What bed?’ asked Norman, who was bringing up the drinks.

  ‘Omally said he had an antique bedstead to sell me, I want to see it.’

  ‘The muggers took it,’ said Jim Pooley helpfully. Omally, who was just coming to terms with a ten pound down payment for an antique bedstead at present being refurbished by mythical upholsterers, looked up at him in horror. ‘Sorry,’ said Jim, shrugging innocently.

  ‘What muggers?’ asked Norman.

  ‘The ten who blacked his eye, or did you say there were twelve, John?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Norman stroking his chin. ‘Come to think of it, I did see a gang of bully boys pushing an antique bed along down by the half-acre. Thought it odd at the time. A right evil-looking bunch they were, wouldn’t have dared tackle them myself. No fighter me.’

  ‘Bah,’ snarled Old Pete. ‘You’re all barking mad.’ Turning upon his heel, he muttered a few well-chosen obscenities, and shuffled away.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Omally when the ancient was beyond earshot. ‘I suppose that calls us square.’

  ‘Good.’ Norman passed the two newly-retired bed-salesmen their pints. ‘Then, if you will pardon me, I think I will go and have a word with Old Pete. I have an old brass bed in my lock-up he might be interested in. The money will go somewhere towards meeting the cost of a new shop door. So all’s well that ends well, eh? Every cloud has a silver lining and a trouble shared is a friend indeed.’ With the briefest of goodbyes, Norman left the two stunned drinkers staring after him.

  After a short yet very painful silence Omally spoke. ‘You and your ruddy big mouth,’ said he.

  Pooley turned up his ruined palms helplessly. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘your reputation is saved at least.’

  ‘You buffoon. There is no reputation worth more than five pounds and the man who is five pounds to credit needs no reputation whatever.’

  ‘Ah well, let’s look on the bright side. I think I can say without any fear of contradiction that nothing else can possibly happen to us today.’

  It is of some small consequence to note that had Jim been possessed of that rare gift of foresight, even to the degree of a few short hours, he would certainly not have made that particular, ill-considered and most inaccurate remark.

  8

  Brentford’s only cinema, the Electric Alhambra, had closed its doors upon an indifferent public some fifty years before. The canny Brentonians had shunned it from the word go, considering that moving pictures were nothing more than a flash in the pan. Miraculously, the building had remained intact, playing host to a succession of small industries which had sprung up like mushrooms and died as mayflies. The last occupier, a Mr Doveston, Purveyor of Steam-Driven Appliances to the Aristocracy, had weathered it out for a full five years before burning his headed notepaper and vanishing with the smoke.

  Now the crumbling edifice, about the size of the average scout hut and still sporting its original mock rococo stuccoed facade, was left once more alone with its memories. The projection room, which had served as governor’s office to many a down at heel entrepreneur, now deprived of its desks and filing cabinets, suddenly took to itself once more. With the collapse of some lop-sided partitions, the old and pitted screen made a reappearance. But for the lack of seating and the scattered debris littering the floor, the ancient cinema emerged, a musty phoenix from its fifty-year hibernation.

  The ‘Sold’ notice was up out front and rumour had it that the dreaded Lateinos and Romiith had the place earmarked for redevelopment. A light evening breeze rattled a corrugated iron shutter upon a glassless window, and something that looked very much like a giant feral torn stole across the floor. In the eaves a bat awoke and whistled something in an unknown dialect.

  A gaunt and fragile shadow fell across an expanse of littered linoleum and a pale hand moved into a patch of light. Ghostly fingers drew away a cowled hood, revealing a head of pure white hair, an expanse of pallid forehead, and two eyes which glowed pinkly in the failing light. Surely we have seen this pale hand before? Known the Jason’s fleece of snowy hair, and marvelled at the flesh coloured eyes? Can this be he who now dwells beneath, shunning the realm of sunlight and changing seasons? He who tills the subterranean waters in his search for Shamballa and its legendary dwellers in that world of forever night? Yes, there can be no doubt. The name of this seeker after the hidden truths below is well known to the folk of Brentford.

  Soap Distant, it is he.

  Soap spat his roll-up from between his teeth and ground it to oblivion beneath a boot-heel. He scrutinized the luminous chronometer upon his wrist and said, ‘Ten thirty-two. They’ll be a while yet.’ He paced slowly to and fro, his sha
dow clattering soundlessly along the corrugated shutters to merge with the blackness as he moved beyond the range of the limited illumination. At length, his chronometer chimed the three-quarter hour, and Soap ceased his pacing. From without came sounds of approaching feet. Harsh footfalls echoing along the deserted street, accompanied by the sounds of foolish giggling and the occasional bout of coughing. ‘Drunk as ever,’ said Soap to himself, ‘but no matter.’

  The inebriated couple, one with a fat eye and the other sleeveless, came to a halt outside the cinema, and Soap could make out snatches of conversation that penetrated the numerous cracks in the wall.

  ‘Who’s on then?’ asked a voice. ‘Where’s my opener?’

  ‘William S. Hart,’ said another. ‘Open it with your teeth.’

  ‘I never could abide that body’s hat. I was always an Elmo Lincoln man myself. damn, there goes a filling. You’ve got my opener, I remember you borrowing it.’

  ‘I gave it back. Stand aside man, I need a quick jimmy.’

  ‘Not in my doorway!’ Soap threw open the shattered glass door to admit a stumbling Jim Pooley, flies gaping.

  ‘By the grave,’ said that man.

  ‘By the roadside, but not in my doorway.’

  Omally squinted towards the dark void which had suddenly swallowed up his companion. ‘Soap?’ said he. ‘Soap Distant? I know that voice.’

  ‘Come in out of the night, and pick your friend up.’

  Omally bumbled in and Soap slammed shut the door upon the Brentford night and, as far as John and Jim were concerned, life as they had once known it.

  ‘Where’s the bog?’ wailed Pooley, struggling to his feet.

  ‘Stick it out through a crack in the wall and be done.’

  Pooley did so.

  ‘How would you two care to make thirty quid for a swift half-hour’s work?’ Soap asked when Jim had finished his micturition.

  Omally was about to say ‘Each?’ but after his experiences this day he thought better of it. ‘I think that we would be very grateful,’ he said. ‘This has been a bad day for us both, financially.’