Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “They did a good job sewing it back on,” said the councillor. “I lost a kneecap at Gallipoli, or was it Skegness? Anyway, I put it somewhere.”

  “It is getting strong,” said Norman. “It seems to be coming from the equipment on the stage.”

  “It’s coming from one of the Beverley Sisters,” said Dave Quimsby. “I can hear things popping in her neck – like transistors, I think.”

  “The Beverley Transistors?” said Old Pete. “That doesn’t sound right. Which one is it coming from?”

  “Larry, I think. Yes, definitely. You can see a bit of smoke now.”

  Old Pete stared. And Councillor Doveston stared. And Mr Rumpelstiltskin stared. And Norman stared. And so did Dave Quimsby.

  And so did the lady in the straw hat.

  Who hadn’t said anything much for a while.

  “That Beverley Sister is on fire,” she said.

  And even though she hadn’t said anything much for a while and had indeed uttered only six words now, they were potent words. Or at least one of them was.

  And that one was the word “fire”.

  “Fire exit,” said John. “Must get out of the fire exit.”

  He could have said anything, really, such as “get away from me”, which would have been equally appropriate.

  The figure in black plunged forward at John.

  “Get away from me!” shouted this man, putting up his fists. The figure was upon him, engulfing him in a terrible blackness. John swung fists, but to his further horror, for horror it was that now filled his being, he found his fists to be swinging at nothing at all.

  A cold, black force surrounded him, pressed forward upon him, smothering, consuming. But John could not strike it down. The figure was more like a fog than a man – a stifling, suffocating fog.

  “Help!” cried John, but somehow the blackness swallowed up his words.

  “Help!” cried someone else. And someone else cried, “Fire!”

  Fire! Fire! Fire! The word was repeated by mouth after mouth. And indeed a fire there was.

  A Beverley floundered about on stage, smoke issuing freely from the cleavage of her pink chiffon gown. Howard tapped madly at the remote control and the Beverley took to beating at her chest, in the manner once favoured by Tarzan.

  “For the love of God,” cried Norman, “put her out, someone.”

  “I think the fire extinguisher got broken when it fell on the juggler’s head,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “Throw your beer. Everyone throw your beer.”

  “Get real,” said Ernest Muffler, as folk took to panicking all around and about him. “Throwing beer is a last resort, surely.”

  “I’ll save you, love,” said Old Pete. “Chips,” he told his half-terrier who, although not having received a previous mention, was nevertheless, as ever, at his side, “go and piddle on the lady.”

  Chips slipped his collar and hastened to oblige.

  Larry Beverley, however, now appeared to be beyond even Chips’ piddling, even though the dog was a prolific footpath-fouler. Larry Beverley was now well ablaze. She – or possibly it is more tasteful to refer to she as it, considering that there wasn’t really too much of the original she involved – stumbled about on the stage, flaming away like a good’n and bashing into The Rock God’s speakers, setting them afire.

  “Fire!” The word was now a scream. And the stampede had begun. Folk did as folk always do in such a situation: panic and put themselves first.

  “Don’t panic!” Mr Rumpelstiltskin shinned up on to the bar counter. “Nobody panic,” he shouted. “Everything will be all right.”

  “That’s impressive,” said Old Pete, who hadn’t left his barstool, “taking control like that. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.”

  “This bar is fitted with a fire-defence system,” shouted Mr Rumpelstiltskin, which lessened the panic, the pushing and the shoving somewhat. “It will come on in just a moment and extinguish the flames.”

  “Sprinklers,” said Norman. “Good fire security that. Nobody panic” He joined his voice with Mr Rumpelstiltskin’s. “The sprinklers will kick in in a moment.”

  “Better than sprinklers,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “It’s a halon system – American chum of mine put it in.”

  “Halon?” said Norman. “That’s not for public places. That gas is deadly if you breathe it in.”

  “Panic!” shouted Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “To the exit doors, everyone.”

  And he launched himself from the bar counter into the pushing, shoving crowd.

  Who had now reached the exit doors.

  The exit doors that would not open.

  John Omally, swallowed up in darkness, was pressed against one of these very exit doors.

  Kicking, stamping, screaming, panicking, the crowd surged towards the exit doors – but only those before the bar counter. John was on his own. On stage now, all three Beverleys crackled and flared. Amps and speakers took fire.

  The flames licked at the low ceiling, licked at the halon system.

  It was mayhem now. It was fear and horror.

  Death by fire or suffocating gas.

  Crushed folk were passing from consciousness. The weak were being trampled by the strong.

  And …

  “Stop!”

  A voice rang out above the screams and cries of horror and pain. A single voice that spoke with authority. And something more.

  “Stop!”

  The crowd seemed to freeze.

  And to turn.

  And to look.

  Towards …

  Professor Slocombe.

  The ancient scholar stood upon the stage, the flames roaring about him.

  “Cease!” Professor Slocombe flung out his fragile arms. A wave of force swept the length of the bar. The flames to either side and behind him froze. Became still. And vanished away.

  “And open!”

  The exit doors burst from their hinges, flinging themselves away from the building. Folk fled, but somehow in a more orderly fashion. They helped up their fallen comrades, comforted the weak. They fled with dignity.

  Professor Slocombe leapt down from the stage.

  It was an impressive leap. Old Pete, who had not left his barstool, was mightily impressed by it. For one thing, it was the grace of the leap – it appeared to be in slow motion. And the very scale of the leap, too, for it was a leap that travelled the entire length of the bar.

  “Unhand that man.” The voice of the professor rang out once more. Old Pete gazed towards the subject of this command, but could see nothing. Nothing but a curious darkness that seemed to engulf the rear fire door beyond the bar counter.

  “Release him, I say.” The professor, his feet now once more upon the floor, upon the unspeakable carpet, raised his hands above his head. And to Old Pete’s amazement the area of darkness at the door appeared to coalesce into the figure of a man. And behind this man another figure appeared – that of John Omally. And John Omally sank to his knees and then fell forward on to his face.

  And then Old Pete – and indeed Councillor Doveston, who had also remained upon his barstool, for, being ancient, as was Pete, what chance would they really have had by joining in with the panicking? And also, it had to be said, Norman, who had been cowering and constructing for himself a makeshift gas mask from ale-soaked beer mats – each and all of these three were forced to shelter their eyes from the glare.

  It began as sparklets of light issuing from the fingertips of Professor Slocombe. And these sparklets grew into a blinding light and this light swept towards the figure of darkness that now stood defiantly before the professor.

  And so the three observers did not see the gush of rainbow colours as the figure of darkness dissolved into absolute nothingness.

  17

  John Omally awoke, coughing and gagging, to find himself no longer in The Stripes Bar but in the study of Professor Slocombe, sprawled upon an overstuffed chaise-longue.

  John caught his breath and coughed and gagge
d some more. And then words came to him and John managed, “Jim. Where is Jim?”

  “Jim is fine,” said the professor. “Have no worries for Jim.”

  “I do.” John tried to rise, but fell back in exhaustion.

  “He’s fine,” said the voice of Mahatma Campbell. And John looked up to see this fellow standing framed in the opening of the professor’s French windows. Mahatma Campbell held in his arms the prone and lifeless-looking body of Jim Pooley.

  “Jim!” cried John. “What have you done to him?”

  “He’ll be fine,” said the Campbell. “I got to him in time.” And he carried Jim to a fireside chair and dropped him into it.

  “Careful,” said John, coughing somewhat more.

  “I’ll raise Jim to consciousness,” said the professor. “And I think some drinks are called for.” And he rang the little Burmese brass bell upon his desk.

  “Drinks,” said John, “and an explanation also. What have you got us into, Professor? That man who attacked me – he wasn’t a man.”

  “All in good time,” said the professor.

  “Now is the best time there is.”

  “Then at least wait until I have awakened Jim.”

  Gammon brought drinks upon a tray: a large decanter of whisky and four large glasses.

  Professor Slocombe drew Jim Pooley into consciousness. Jim spewed water then took to coughing and gagging.

  “A spell of disablement was placed upon him,” said the Campbell as he sampled Scotch and found it pleasing. “A darkster entered his dwelling and pushed his head ’neath his bathwater. I’d been keeping an eye out as you told me to, Professor. I crept up upon it and struck its head from its shoulders with the claymore you’d blessed for that purpose.”

  “What is going on here?” Omally demanded to be told.

  “When Jim is his old self again,” said the professor.

  “I almost am,” said the sodden and shivering Pooley. “I will be when I’ve had a glass of Scotch. And Christ’s cap and old brown dog!” exclaimed Pooley. “I’m naked.”

  “We did observe that,” said John, “but I, for one, was too polite to mention it.”

  “You?” Jim gawped at the Campbell. “You carried me naked through the streets of Brentford?” Jim covered himself with a velvet cushion.

  “I’ll have Gammon bring you some clothes.” Professor Slocombe reached towards his brass bell.

  But Gammon was already standing in the inner doorway. “I felt that our nudist guest might feel the need for these,” he said, proffering a set of silk pyjamas and a dressing gown.

  The fire blazed away in the fireplace and offered warmth to Jim, who sat before it cradling his glass of Scotch in trembling fingers, well dressed in PJs and a dressing gown, but still in a state of shock and no small terror.

  “I am so sorry,” said Professor Slocombe. “I never thought it would come to this. Well, not quite so soon, anyway.”

  “Not so soon?” said Omally. “You set us up for something terrible. You betrayed our trust in you.”

  “I know it appears that way, but it was not my intention.”

  Jim looked towards John. It was quite clear to Jim that something terrible had happened to John also.

  “Sorry I missed the Benefit Night,” said Pooley foolishly. “How did it go? Did you raise a lot of money?”

  “He’s in shock,” said Omally. “Look what you’ve done to him.”

  “I am sorry,” said Professor Slocombe, easing himself into the fireside chair opposite Jim. “The two of you deserve an explanation and I will give it to you. You will not like it, but I will give it to you just the same.”

  “What about the team?” Jim asked. “They didn’t get too drunk, did they, John? They’ll be all right for tomorrow’s game?”

  “They’re fine,” John assured Jim. “They didn’t get drunk at all. I had the brewery knock up a special batch of non-alcoholic beer – Team Special. The team may have thought they were getting drunk, but they weren’t.”

  “You’re a genius,” said Jim. “Where am I, by the way? This doesn’t look like my bedroom.”

  “He is in shock,” said Professor Slocombe. “Perhaps we should speak of these matters on the morrow.”

  “We’ll speak of them now,” said John. “You have put the life of my bestest friend in danger – and my own, but that is by the by. Tell us what is going on and what you have got us involved in.”

  “Indeed. Mahatma, if you would be so kind, would you kindly refresh the glasses of my guests?”

  Mahatma Campbell poured Scotch for John and Jim.

  “What I am about to tell you,” said Professor Slocombe, “is the truth as far as I know it to be. You may choose not to believe it. Indeed, the Buddha himself said, ‘Doubt everything and find your own truth.’ But I say unto you, I believe this to be the truth.”

  “Go on,” said Omally.

  “Firstly,” said the professor, “it is essential that Brentford United win the FA Cup. This is what it is all about.”

  John Omally sighed, loudly and pointedly. And he coughed a little, too, as he still had a cough or two left in him. “Let me get ahead of you here,” he said. “Are you suggesting that whatever attacked me and attempted to murder Jim has something to do with football?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Oh,” said John. “So what attacked us, demons raised by a rival team? What would that team be, then – Hell United?”

  “Hull United?” said Jim. “Are we playing them tomorrow? I thought it was Penge.”

  “Why don’t you take a little sleep, Jim?” said John. “I’ll wake you up when all this is over and take you home.”

  “It would probably be better if both of you spent the night here,” said Professor Slocombe.

  “Better and better,” said John. “Get your head down, Jim, and keep it down until morning. I’ll mind your Scotch for you.”

  “I can mind my own Scotch, thank you,” said Jim. “How were The Rock Gods? Were they good?”

  “Fair to middling,” said John. “You didn’t miss much. Now please go on, Professor.”

  “Thank you, John. When I said that in a manner of speaking this is all about football, what I meant by it is that this is all about football grounds. And magic. And the forces of evil. And the past, as we understand it, not being what we understand it to be.”

  “What could be clearer?” said John.

  “I will start at the very beginning,” said the professor, “when God created man and placed him in the Garden of Eden.”

  “Have to stop you there,” said John. “I am not unacquainted with scripture. I know both Old and New Testaments well.”

  “The Garden of Eden,” said Professor Slocombe, “was right here – right here in Brentford.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have stopped you just there,” said John. “I should have let you build up to that.”

  “I was planning to do it in a most dramatic way.”

  “The Garden of Eden was right here?”

  “Right here.”

  “Right here,” repeated John. “And do you know what?”

  “What?” Professor Slocombe asked.

  “That’s the biggest load of old rubbish I have ever heard in my life. Apart from the time Jim told me that he had acquired a goose that laid golden eggs.”

  “It did,” said Jim. “Sporadically.”

  “It was a chicken,” said John. “And this is a turkey.”

  “Where?” Jim asked, looking around. “What kind of eggs does it lay?”

  “Fried ones, probably. But this is rubbish, Professor. I want the truth from you. Something terrible happened tonight. You owe us the truth.”

  “I am telling you the truth. You know that I am working upon my book – The Complete and Absolute History of Brentford. I have uncovered many strange things regarding the borough. This is perhaps the strangest, but this is what all this is about. The biblical Eden was here, John, right here in Brentford.”r />
  “Are you serious?” John stared at the antiquated scholar. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

  “If the Garden existed, it had to be somewhere.”

  “In a somewhat more southerly and sunnier clime, I had been led to believe.”

  “It was here,” said the professor, “where the football ground now stands.”

  “So what is it that lies beneath the turf?”

  “Ah.” Professor Slocombe smiled. “You show your hand, John. How much did you overhear of my conversation with Mahatma Campbell?”

  “Not enough to understand what’s really going on.”

  “Then let me put this to you as simply as possible. Yes, something does exist, imprisoned beneath the football ground, something that must not be released upon mankind.”

  “What?” John asked.

  “The serpent,” said Professor Slocombe.

  “The serpent? The serpent that tempted Eve? The Devil?”

  “Not the Devil. Not Satan. Satan, as we know him, is Lucifer, the morning star, the fallen angel. This is a more ancient evil – the original evil that is responsible for the original sin.”

  “And it’s under the football ground?” John’s voice lacked somewhat for conviction.

  “The serpent never left Eden,” said Professor Slocombe. “You know your scripture. God punished the serpent, cursed it to crawl for ever upon its belly. And he confined it also, that it might never leave Eden.”

  “And someone wants to dig it up? Is that what you’re saying? If I believed for a moment what you’re saying, which I’m most uncertain as to whether or not I do.”

  “You have experienced the evil,” said the professor.

  “I certainly have, but who sent this evil to attack Jim and me? The serpent – is that what you’re saying?”

  “A magician,” said the professor, “as skilled in the Black Arts as I am in the White. Whether I am his equal or not I do not know. Myself and the Campbell here are guardians, guardians of Eden. It is our duty to protect the borough, indeed the world, you might say, because there is no telling what horrors might be unleashed should the serpent be released from its bonds.”