East of Ealing

by Robert Rankin

  Pooley looked at Omally. ‘It’s all up and down these days, isn’t it?’

  ‘After you, Jim. I should hate you to have cold feet.’

  Muttering and complaining, the blighted billionaire clambered into the hole, followed by

  Omally, who drew the lid back into place.

  Three darting images vanished from the screen of the Lateinos and Romiith computer scan, but already the information had been processed and relayed. No less than three Pooleys and a brace of Omallys were already scaling the garden wall. None of them were wearing carnival hats.

  ‘Come on, lads.’ Soap’s voice urged them on from the darkness. ‘And get a move on, something smells a bit iffy down here.’ With hands about each other’s waists, the most unmusical of all conga lines moved along a few short feet beneath the streets of Brentford. The rumble of the heavy floats and the muffled sounds of chanting, coming faintly to them as the duplicates mouthed to the holophonic images pouring into their brains through their minuscule headphones, were anything but cheering.

  Soap suddenly came upon a heavy door blocking his way. ‘There now,’ said he.

  ‘Where now, exactly?’

  ‘We’re there.’

  ‘Good man, Soap. Now open up, let’s not waste anytime.’

  The sounds of Soap fumbling in his pockets preceded a long and dismal groan. ‘My keys.’

  ‘Where are your keys, Soap?’

  ‘In my desk, I think.’

  A piercing white light illuminated the narrow black corridor. It shone directly on to three terrified faces, which had turned instinctively towards it. From about the light source came the flashing of blue sparks as several lethal handsets energized.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ said Omally. ‘Let me at that lock.’ The Irishman squeezed past the pink-eyed man and dropped to his knees. A neat roll of house-breaking implements materialized from a hidden pocket in his waistcoat and were rapidly unfurled.

  ‘John,’ said Jim, ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘They were the daddy’s. Keep out of the light and keep those creatures back somehow.’

  The light was moving nearer, spiralling along the wet brick-worked tube of the tunnel. The crackling of the handsets became audible.

  ‘You’ll not break it,’ gibbered Soap. ‘The lock is protected, it cannot be picked.’

  ‘There is no lock which cannot be picked.’ Omally flung aside a bundle of metal tags and slotted another sequence into the shaft of the skeleton key.

  ‘You won’t open it.’

  ‘Shut up will you?’

  ‘Get away.’ For once doing the bold thing, Pooley had crept back up the tunnel towards his attackers. Now he lashed out with his hobnail at the blinding light as it reared up in his face. His boot connected and the beam swung aside, leaving Omally to fumble in the darkness. ‘Nice one, Jim,’ he spat. ‘Now I can’t see a damn thing.’

  ‘Get off me, leave hold.’ Clawing hands reached out towards Pooley. In the coruscating blue fire his face twisted and contorted. ‘John, protect me for God’s sake!’

  ‘Protect me . . .’ Omally’s brain kicked into gear. He tore his crucifix from about his neck and fumbling for the keyhole thrust it in and turned it sharply to the right. ‘We’re in, lads,’ cried John.

  ‘Go quickly,’ said Soap. ‘It is up to you now.’ With a brisk movement he vanished away as if by magic into the brickwork of the passage.

  Omally bundled his way through the doorway. Pooley wrenched himself away from his attackers, leaving them the right sleeve of his cashmere jacket as something to remember him by. The combined weight of two men hurtled the door back into its jambs. Fists rained upon it from without, but they could not penetrate the mantle of protection. Omally winkled out his crucifix and pressed it to his lips. ‘And then there were two,’ said he, sinking to his bum with a dull thump.

  Jim slowly removed his jacket, folding it neatly across his arm. He laid upon the floor and began to leap up and down upon it. ‘Damn damn damn damn damn,’ he went.

  Omally watched the performance without comment. They were a strange old breed these multi-millionaire lads and that was a fact. ‘When you are done,’ he said at length, ‘I suggest we go upstairs and break the sad news of Holmes to the old man.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Pooley.

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘No, this is another quite separate damn. I left my fags in the top pocket of the jacket I have just stamped to oblivion.’

  Professor Slocombe watched the two men plod wearily up the cellar steps, slouch down the side-corridor, and halt before the study door, twin looks of indecision upon their unshaven faces. He opened his eyes. ‘Come in, lads,’ he called. ‘No need to skulk about out here.’ Beyond the heavy panelled door, Omally shrugged. With evasive eyes and shuffling feet, he and Jim sheepishly entered the study. Professor Slocombe indicated the decanter, and Omally grasped it up by the neck and rattled it into a crystal tumbler.

  ‘Easy on the glassware, John.’

  Omally, his face like a smacked bottom, looked up at the ancient. ‘Sherlock Holmes is dead,’ said he.

  Professor Slocombe’s face was without expression. His eyes widened until they became all but circular.

  The whites formed two Polo mints about the pupils. The narrow jaw slowly revolved as if he was grinding his teeth upon Omally’s words.

  ‘That cannot be,’ he said, slowly drawing himself from his desk and turning his back upon his uninvited guests. ‘It cannot be.’

  Omally poured his drink down his throat and slung another large measure into his glass. ‘And mine,’ complained Pooley.

  The Professor turned upon them. ‘How did this happen? Did you see it?’ A high tone of fear choked at his voice.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Jim replied nervously, ‘but believe us, sir, he could not have survived.’

  ‘He saved our lives,’ said Omally.

  ‘But you did not actually see?’

  ‘Not exactly, thank God.’

  Professor Slocombe smiled ruefully. ‘I thought not.’

  Omally opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. If the old man did not care to accept the truth, then there was no good to be gained through labouring the point. ‘All right,’ said he carefully, ‘we did not actually see it.’

  ‘No,’ said the Professor. ‘You did not. So let us speak no more of the matter. There is little time left and much which must be done.’

  ‘We are actually somewhat knackered,’ said Jim, sinking into a chair. ‘We’ve had a trying day.’

  ‘I am afraid that it is not over yet. Kindly follow me.’

  The Professor strode across the room and made towards the study door. Jim shrugged towards John, who put his finger to his lips and shook his head. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve nothing left to lose have we?’ Omally followed the old man into the corridor.

  Jim, left alone for a moment, suddenly smiled. He drew from his trouser pocket the ormulu-trimmed Boda hip-flask he had recently purchased and not yet had the opportunity to use, and hastily filled it from the old man’s decanter. ‘No point in going unarmed,’ said he, following up the rear.

  The Professor led them up several flights of steps to the room which housed the camera obscura. When Jim had closed the door and plunged them into darkness, he winched the apparatus into action and brought the image of the surrounding area into focus upon the polished marble table-top. The sight which leapt into vision was such as to take the breath from their lungs. Omally crossed himself and took an involuntary step backwards.

  The evil travesty which was the Festival procession now filled every road and side-street in view. And the tableaux wrought upon them were now becoming recognizable for the horrors they were. It was as if those earlier floats they had seen were but the blurred and ill-formed shapes of clay, awaiting the hand of the master craftsman to draw form from them. Now the lines were distinct, the contours clearly defined.

  ‘Look there.’ Jim pointed to a lighted float whic
h passed close to the Seaman’s Mission, a stone’s throw from the Professor’s door. Depicted there was the form of a giant, clad in robes of crimson and seated upon a great throne, carved with the gilded heads of bulls. Golden banners, each emblazoned with similar motifs, fluttered above and five hooded, stunted figures cowered at his feet in attitudes of supplication. The crimson giant raised and lowered his hand in mechanical benediction, and it appeared that for a moment he raised his eyes, twin blood bowls of fire, towards the men in the rooftop bower, and stared into their very souls.

  ‘Him,’ said Omally, ‘Alexander the Sixth. The Antipope himself

  ‘And there.’ Jim pointed vigorously. ‘Look at that, look at that.’

  As the throned float moved beyond the range of vision, another rose up behind it. Here, a legion of men climbed one upon another, pointing towards the sky. They were identical in appearance, each resembling to a tee the young Jack Palance, the Cereans.

  To either side of the floats marched a legion of men, women, and children. Familiar faces, now alien and unknown; their faces wore determined expressions and each marched in step, raising his or her own banner. Each illuminated with eighteen vertical lines, placed in three rows of six. The number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. Professor Slocombe pointed towards the image. Away in the distance, far greater shapes were looming into view, things so dark and loathsome, that even there, upon the flat white marble surface, their ghost images exuded a sense of eldritch horror which numbed the senses.

  ‘Switch it off,’ Omally demanded. ‘There is too much madness here.’

  ‘One more small thing you must see, John.’ Professor Slocombe adjusted the apparatus and the image of the Lateinos and Romiith building drew a black shroud across the table-top. The old man cranked the mechanism and enlarged an area at the base of the building. ‘Now look carefully, did you see that?’

  His guests blinked and squinted at the image. ‘I saw something,’ said Jim, ‘but what?’

  ‘Look harder.’

  ‘Yes, I see it.’ It was but a fleeting movement, a single figure detached himself from the throng, pressed his hand to a section of the wall and was instantly swallowed up into the building to vanish without trace.

  ‘I was at a loss to find a means of gaining entry,’ the Professor explained, ‘but Holmes reasoned the thing through and deduced their method.’

  ‘If it’s a lock then I shall pick it.’

  ‘Not on this occasion, John. But one of us here has the key in his hand even now.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Jim, thrusting his tattooed hand into his pocket. ‘Not this boy, not in there.’

  ‘You have the price of admission, Jim, right there in the palm of your hand.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Pooley shook his head vigorously, ‘An eight a.m. appointment with Albert Pierrepoint I should much prefer.’

  ‘In my mind, only one course of action lies open. Unless we can penetrate the building and apply the proverbial spanner to the computer’s works, all will be irretrievably lost. We cannot think to destroy the dark God himself. But if his temple is cast down and his worshippers annihilated, then he must withdraw once more, into the place of forever night from whence he has emerged.’ Professor Slocombe re-cranked the mechanism and the room fell into darkness.

  ‘Oh doom,’ said Jim Pooley. ‘Oh doom and desolaoooow! Let go there, John.’

  ‘We must make our move now.’ Professor Slocombe’s voice echoed in the void. ‘There is no more time, come at once.’ He opened the door and the wan light from the stairs entered the strange roof chamber.

  ‘But we cannot go outside,’ said Omally. ‘One step out of this house and good night.’

  ‘Have no fear, I have taken the matter into consideration.’ Professor Slocombe led the two lost souls back to his study. ‘You are not going to like this, John,’ said he, as he opened the desk drawer.

  ‘That should create no immediate problem. I have liked nothing thus far.’

  ‘So be it.’ Professor Slocombe drew out a number of items, which had very much the appearance of being metallic balaclava helmets, and laid them on the table.

  ‘Superman outfits,’ said Pooley, very impressed. ‘I should have realized, Professor, you are one of the Justice League of America.’

  ‘Silence, Pooley.’

  ‘Sorry, John.’

  ‘As ludicrous as these items at first must appear, they may well be our salvation. As you are no doubt now aware, the Lateinos and Romiith computer scan cannot penetrate lead. Hopefully, these lead-foil helmets will shield our brain patterns from the machine’s detection and allow us to move about unmolested.’

  ‘Size seven and a half,’ said Jim. ‘But I can fit into a seven at a push.’

  ‘Good man. As an extra precaution, if each of you could slip another piece of foil into your breast pocket then your heartbeat should be similarly concealed. No doubt the infra-red image produced by body heat will still register, but the result should be somewhat confused. "Will not compute", I believe the expression to be.’

  ‘Bravo.’ Omally slipped on his helmet without hesitation.

  ‘Very Richard the Lionheart,’ chuckled Pooley.

  ‘A fine man,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘I knew him well.’

  The three men, now decked out in their ludicrous headgear, slipped through the Professor’s French windows and out into the garden. At times one has to swallow quite a lot for a quiet life in Brentford.

  Above the wall the titanic floats filled the street. As one by one the balaclava-ed good guys eased their way into the swaying crowd, each held his breath and did a fair bit of praying. Professor Slocombe plucked at Omally’s sleeve. ‘Follow me.’ The marching horde plodded onward. The floats dwarfed both street and sky. Jim peered about him; he was walking in a dream. The men and women to either side of him, each wearing their pair of minuscule headphones, were unreal. And that he knew to be true in every sense of the word. At close hand, the floats appeared shabby and ill-constructed; a mishmash of texture and hue coming together as if, and no doubt it was exactly thus, programmed to create an overall effect. No hand of man had been at work here. Like all else it was a sick parody, a sham, and nothing more. The bolted wheel near at hand turned in faulty circles grinding the tarmac, untrue. But it was hypnotic, its unreality drew the eye and held it there. ‘Come on, Jim.’ Omally tugged at Pooley’s sleeve. ‘You’re falling behind again.’

  Pooley struggled on. Ahead, the Lateinos and Romiith building dwarfed all beneath its black shadow. The sky was dark with tumbling clouds, strange images weaved and flowed beyond the mysterious glittering walls, shimmering over the roof-tops. Even now something terrible was occurring beyond the boundaries of the borough.

  The awful procession turned out of the Butts and up into Moby Dick Terrace. Professor Slocombe drew his followers aside from the throng and the helmeted duo scuttled after him. ‘Make haste now.’

  The Lateinos and Romiith building filled the eastern skyline. Jim noted with increasing gloom that an entire terrace of houses had gone, overwhelmed by the pitiless structure which reared into the darkling sky.

  On a roadside bench ahead an old man sat with his dog.

  ‘Good day, lads,’ said Old Pete, as the strangely-clad threesome passed him by at close quarters. ‘Fair old do this year, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely marvellous,’ Pooley replied. ‘Hope to see you later for one in the Swan if all goes well.’

  Old Pete cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. ‘Look out for yourself,’ said he.

  The three men continued their journey at the jog.

  ‘Stop here now,’ said Professor Slocombe, as they came finally to the corner of the street. ‘I am expecting somebody.’

  ‘A friend I hope.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Jim, with a little more flippancy than the situation warranted. ‘Organizer of the Festival raffle is it? Or chairman of the float committee?’

  Omally took what
he considered to be one of the last opportunities left to him to welt Jim about the head. ‘Oow ouch!’ he said, clutching at a throbbing fist. Pooley smiled sweetly. ‘How much do you want for the copyright of this helmet?’ he asked the Professor.

  ‘Cease your nonsense. Here he comes.’

  Along the deserted pavement, weaving with great difficulty, came an all too familiar figure, clad in grey shopkeeper’s overall and trilby hat. But what was this that the clone shopkeeper rode upon his precarious journey? Could this be that creaking vestige of a more glorious age, now black and pitted and sorely taken with the rest? Surely we have seen these perished hand-grips before? Marvelled at the coil-spring saddle and oil-bath chain-guard? The stymied Sturmey Archer Three-speed and the tungsten-carbide lamp? Yes, there can be no doubt, it is that noted iron stallion, that prince of pedaldom, squeaking and complaining beneath the weight of its alien rider, it can be no other. Let men take note and ladies beware: Marchant the wonder bike, it is he.

  ‘Get off my frigging bicycle,’ yelled John Omally.

  Norman the Second leapt down from his borrowed mount with some alacrity. Not, however, with sufficient alertness to avoid the sneaky pedal which had been awaiting its chance to drive in deep. Norman’s right trouser cuff vanished into the oil-bath and the automated shop-man bit the dust.

  ‘Blaggard,’ squealed the mechanical man. ‘I’ll do for you.’

  ‘Nice one, Marchant,’ said John, drawing his bike beyond reach. The bicycle rang its bell in greeting and nuzzled its handlebar into its master’s waistcoat.

  ‘Pathetic isn’t it?’ said Jim. ‘A boy and his bike, I ask you.’

  ‘Do you think we might apply ourselves to the job in hand?’ the Professor asked.

  ‘I like the helmets,’ said Norman the Second. ‘What is it then, Justice League of America?’

  ‘A running gag I believe,’ Jim replied. ‘Did you have to bring his bike? That thing depresses me.’

  ‘Easy Jim,’ said Omally. ‘If I am going to die, I will do it with Marchant at my side, or at least under my bum.’