‘I swear not.’
‘Norman has a camel in his lock-up garage which he teleported from the Nile delta and which openly defies the law of gravity?’
‘Not openly. Norman is keeping the matter very much to himself.’
‘And he plans to alter the Earth’s axis by teleporting the Great Pyramid of Cheops into Brentford football ground?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Professor Slocombe fingered the lobe of his left ear. ‘We live in interesting times,’ he said.
Pooley shrugged and pushed a remaining portion of buttered toast into his mouth.
‘The idea does have a certain charm, though,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘I should really have to sit down and work it out with a slide rule. For the moment, however, I feel it would be better if he was dissuaded from going ahead with it. I think we should nip it in the bud.’
‘I think John and I can fit that in between engagements,’ said Pooley sarcastically. The Professor raised an eyebrow towards him, and he fell back to his toast chewing.
‘How near to completion do you believe his project to be?’
Pooley shrugged again. ‘Days away, by the manner in which he spoke. Omally, using his usual ingenuity, suggested that he might avail himself of any serviceable components from the Captain Laser machine, once he had successfully disabled it. That idea alone was enough to win him over to the cause. What with thinly-veiled threats of exposure and the assurance that his action would not only save mankind as we know it, but also secure him readmission to the Swan in time for the darts tournament, he was putty in Omally’s grubby mitt.’
‘It would certainly be nice to clear all this up before darts night,’ said the Professor enthusiastically. ‘I have booked a table at the Swan, I would not care to miss it for the world.’
‘Let us pray that none of us do,’ said Pooley. ‘Would there be any chance of a little more toast?’ Professor Slocombe reached for his small brass bell. ‘I know perfectly well that it is not how you do it,’ said Jim.
‘The toast is on the way,’ said Professor Slocombe, smiling broadly.
Neville limped painfully up the stairs to his room, bearing with him the special mid-week edition of the Brentford Mercury, which had flopped unexpectedly through the Swan’s letter-box. Propping it against the marmalade pot, he lowered himself amid much tooth-grinding on to the gaily-coloured bathing ring, which rested somewhat incongruously upon his dining chair.
As he sipped at his coffee he perused the extraordinary news sheet. BRENTFORD HOLOCAUST! screamed the six inch banner headline with typically restrained conservatism. ‘Many arrests in Battle of Brentford, rival gangs clash in open street warfare.’
Neville shook his head in wonder at it all. How had the trouble started? It was all a little hazy. That Pooley and Omally were involved, he was certain. He would bar them without further ado.
He groaned dismally and clutched at his tender parts. He surely could not afford to bar any more clients; something desperate was going to have to be done to persuade Norman to return to the fold. And Old Pete; he was sure he had barred him, but he was equally certain that the old reprobate had been in the night before. Perhaps he hadn’t. He would bar him again just to be on the safe side.
He perused the long columns of journalistic licence which covered the Mercury’s front page. It had been some kind of political rally, so it appeared, the Brown-shirts or the League of St George. Apparently these extremists had been drawn into combat with the martial acolytes of the Brentford Temple of Dimac. The police had acted bravely and justly, although greatly outnumbered. There was some talk of decorations at the Palace.
Neville skimmed along the lines of print, seeking to find some reference to the original cause of the incident, but none was forthcoming. The Swan didn’t even get a mention, nor did the names of any of the regulars appear amongst the list of arrested villains destined to go up before the beak this very morning. With the arrival of the boys in blue the Swan’s stalwarts had either melted away into the night or retired to the tranquillity of the saloon-bar to engage in games of darts and dominoes.
He read the final paragraph. The gallant bobbies had, so it was stated, become involved in a hair-raising car chase through Brentford with a black nineteen-fifties Cadillac which had roared away from the scene of the crime during the height of the disturbances. They had pursued it through the maze of backstreets before unaccountably losing it in a cul-de-sac.
Neville folded the paper and flung it into the fireplace. He would get to the bottom of all this, just as soon as he could get it all clear in his mind. But for now only two things mattered: firstly, that Norman be reinstated as soon as possible in a manner in which neither party would lose face and one which would not anger his pagan deity; and, secondly, that the ice pack which he now wore strapped between his legs got another top-up from the fridge.
Small Dave sat in the sewage outlet pipe at the old dock, which he now called home. His face wore a manic expression into which it had been moulding itself, a little more permanently, with each passing day. He had given up such niceties as hygiene, and now lived for only one thing.
Dire and unremitting vengeance!
Some way further up the pipe, hovering in the darkness, was a misty figure, visible only to the small postman and to certain members of the animal elite.
Small Dave ground his teeth and spat into the daylight. So Norman had the camel penned up in his lock up garage upon the Butts Estate, did he? He had always suspected the shopkeeper, and now Edgar had confirmed his suspicions.
‘We have him,’ screeched the dwarf, raising a tiny fist towards the sky. ‘Right where we want him.’ He grinned towards the spectre, exposing two rows of evil-looking yellow teeth. Edgar Allan Poe shifted uneasily in the darkness. He was not at all happy about any of this. He had made a big mistake in allowing himself to become involved with this diminutive lunatic, and sorely craved to return to the astral plane. Although a grey and foggy realm, which offered little in the way of pleasurable diversion, it was infinitely preferable to this madhouse any day of the week.
Sadly, by the very nature of the laws which govern such matters, he was unable to gain release, other than through the courtesy of the being who had called him into service. The mighty fire which had raged through Small Dave’s house, eating up many thousands of copies of his books, had acted as some kind of sacrificial catalyst which now bound him to the material world.
Edgar Allan Poe was thoroughly Earthbound, and he was in a very, very bad mood.
At a little after eleven-thirty John Omally reached the Flying Swan. He would have reached it sooner but for the throng of reporters from the national dailies who had accosted him in the street. With his usual courtesy and willingness to be of assistance he had granted several exclusive interviews on the spot.
Yes, he had been there in the thick of it, braving the rubber bullets and the tear-gas. Yes, he had been the last man standing, by virtue of his mastery in the deadly fighting arts of Dimac. No, he had only saved the lives of three of his companions, not four, as was popularly believed. And no, he was sorry, he could not allow any photographs to be taken, modesty forbidding him to take more than his fair share of credit in saving the day.
Patting at his now heavily burdened pockets, Omally entered the Flying Swan. Neville was at the counter’s end, supported upon the gaily-coloured rubber bathing ring which he had Sellotaped to the top of a bar stool. He was studying a picture postcard which boasted a rooftop view of Brentford, but upon Omally’s approach he laid this aside and viewed the Irishman with distaste.
‘You are not welcome here,’ he said in no uncertain terms.
John smiled sweetly. ‘Come now,’ he said, ‘let us not be at odds. You have no axe to grind with me. I come as the bearer of glad tidings. All your troubles are over.’
Neville’s good eye widened. ‘All my troubles are over?’ he roared, but the exertion sent blood rushing to certain areas which were better f
or the time being left bloodless and kosher. ‘I am a ruined man,’ he whispered hoarsely and between clenched teeth.
‘A regrettable business,’ said John. ‘If I ever see that fellow in the black suit again, I shall do for him.’
Neville said, ‘Hm,’ and pulled the Irishman the pint of his preference.
‘Have one yourself,’ said John.
Although the deadly phrase burned like a branding iron upon Neville’s soul, he was loath to refuse and so drew himself a large medicinal scotch.
‘About this being my lucky day then?’ he said, when he had carefully re-established himself upon his rubber ring. ‘You will pardon my cynicism I hope, but as the bearer of glad tidings you must surely rival the angel of death announcing the first innings score at the battle of Armageddon.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Omally, ‘if you will hear me out then you will find what I have to say greatly to your advantage.’
Neville sighed deeply and felt at his groin. ‘I believe that I am getting old,’ he told Omally. ‘Do you know that I no longer look forward to Christmas?’
John shook his head. He didn’t know that, although he wondered how it might be relevant.
‘I haven’t had a birthday card in ten years.’
‘Sad,’ said John.
‘At times I wonder whether it is all worthwhile. Whether life is really worth all the pain, disappointment, and misery.’ He looked towards Omally with a sad good eye. ‘People take advantage of my good nature,’ he said.
‘No?’ said John. ‘Do they?’
‘They do. I bend over backwards to help people and what do I get?’ Omally shook his head. ‘Stabs in the back is all I get.’ Neville made motions to where his braces, had he worn any, would have crossed. ‘Stabs in the back.’
‘I really, genuinely, can help you out,’ said Omally with conviction. ‘I swear it.’
‘If only it were so,’ moaned Neville. ‘If only I could see some ray of hope. Some light at the end of the dark tunnel of life. Some sunbeam dancing upon the bleak rooftop of existence, some . . . ‘
‘All right, all right!’ Omally said. ‘That’s enough, I’ve been kicked in the cobblers a few times myself, I know how much it hurts. Do you want to know how I can help you out or not?’
‘I do,’ said Neville wearily.
Omally peered furtively about the bar and gestured the barman closer. ‘This is in the strictest confidence,’ he whispered. ‘Between you and me alone. Should you wish to express your gratitude in some way when the thing is accomplished, then that is a matter between the two of us.’
Neville nodded doubtfully. Whatever it was that Omally was about to say, he knew that it would as usual cost him dearly. ‘Say your piece then, John,’ he said.
‘As I see it,’ John continued, ‘you have two big problems here. Five, if you wish to number your wounded parts. Firstly, we have the problem of the rapidly approaching darts tournament and the Swan’s prospect of certain defeat, should Norman fail to captain the team.’ Neville nodded gravely. ‘Secondly, we have that.’ Omally gestured towards the shrouded video machine, which was even now receiving the attention of a green-haired youth with a large nose and a pair of wire-cutters. Neville bared what was left of his teeth.
‘If I was to tell you that I can solve both problems at a single stroke what would you say to me?’
‘I would say free beer to you for a year,’ said Neville, rising upon his elbows. ‘But for now I must say, please get out of my pub and do not return. I am not able to assault you physically at present, but be assured that when I am fully restored to health I shall seek you out. You add insult to my injury and I will have no more of it.’
John tapped at his nose. ‘We will let the matter drop for now, as I can see that you are feeling a little under the weather. By the by, might I take the liberty of asking after the postcard.’
‘You may,’ said Neville, ‘and I will give you that small part before you depart. It is from Archroy, he says that he has now removed the Ark of Noah from the peak of Ararat and is in the process of transporting it through Turkey to Istanbul. He hopes to have it here within a week or two.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Omally, grinning hugely. ‘We do live in interesting times, do we not?’
‘Get out of my pub now,’ growled Neville with restrained vehemence, ‘or truly, despite my incapacitation, I shall visit upon you such a pestilence as was never known by any of your bog-trotting ancestors in all the hard times of Holy Ireland.’
‘God save all here,’ said Omally.
‘Get out and stay out,’ said Neville the part-time barman.
19
Professor Slocombe laid aside a scale model of the Great Pyramid and leant back in his chair. ‘No’ he said to himself, ‘it couldn’t be, no, ludicrous, although . . .’ He rose from his desk and took himself over to the whisky decanter. ‘No,’ he said once more, ‘out of the question.’
Partially filling an exquisite crystal tumbler, he pressed the prismed top back into the decanter’s neck, and sank into one of the leathern fireside chairs. Idly he turned the tumbler between thumb and forefinger, watching the reflected firelight as it danced and twinkled in the amber liquid. His eyelids became hooded and heavy, and his old head nodded gently upon his equally aged shoulders. It was evident to the gaunt-faced figure who lurked in the darkness without the French windows, polluting the perfumed garden air with the acrid stench of creosote, that the old man was well set to take a quick forty winks.
Needless to say, this was far from being the case, and beneath the snowy lashes two glittering blue eyes watched as a flicker of movement close by the great velvet curtains announced the arrival of a most unwelcome guest. It was a flicker of movement and nothing more, for again the room appeared empty, but for an elderly gentleman, now snoring noisily hi a fireside chair.
Professor Slocombe watched as the silent figure delved amongst the crowded papers of his desk and ran his hands over the bindings of the precious books. The Cerean, convinced of his invisibility, went about his evil business with a will, but naught was missed by the Professor, to whom the word ‘hologram’ meant little more than ‘electronic party trick’.
At length, however, he could stand the defilement of his property no longer. Rising suddenly from his sham repose he addressed his uninvited visitor in no uncertain terms. ‘Replace my papers and get out of my study at once,’ said he, ‘or know the consequences for your boorish behaviour.’
The Cerean stiffened and turned a startled face towards the Professor. He fingered the dials upon a small black box which hung at his belt.
‘You can tinker with that piece of junk until the sun goes dim, but I can assure you that it will not work upon me.’
The Cerean opened his cruel mouth and spoke in an accent which was unlike any other that the Professor had ever heard. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
Professor Slocombe smiled wanly. ‘I am either your saviour or your nemesis.’
‘I think not,’ said the Cerean.
‘If you are inclined to prolong your visit, might I offer you a drink?’ the old man asked courteously.
The Cerean laughed loudly. ‘Drink?’ said he. ‘Drink is the ruination of your species. Who do you think invented it for you in the first place?’
‘Hm.’ The old man nodded thoughtfully; it would be better to keep that piece of intelligence from Pooley and Omally. They might feel inclined to change sides. ‘As you will,’ he said blandly. ‘May I inquire then why you have come here?’
‘I have come to kill you,’ said the Cerean, in such an offhand manner that it quite unsettled the Professor’s nerves. ‘You are proving an annoyance, you and the pink-eyed man beneath. We shall deal with him shortly.’
‘That may not be so easy as you might believe.’
The Cerean turned up the palms of his hands. ‘You are old and decrepit. A single blow will cut the frail cord of your existence.’
‘Appearances can sometimes be deceptive,’ sa
id the Professor. ‘I for example happen to be a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind. My hands and feet are registered with the local constabulary as deadly weapons. They can . . . ‘
‘Rip, maim, mutilate, disfigure and kill with little more than the application of a fingertip’s pressure,’ said the Cerean. ‘I know. Who do you think invented Dimac in the first place?’
‘I find your conversation tending towards the repetitious. Kindly take your leave now, I have much to do.’
‘Such as plotting the downfall of the Cerean Empire?’
‘Amongst other things - I do have more important business.’
The man from Ceres laughed in a hollow fashion. ‘You have great courage, old man,’ said he. ‘We of Ceres hold courage and bravery above all other things.’
‘I understand that you like a good fight, yes,’ said the Professor. ‘Although you do not always win. How’s the armpit?’
The Cerean clutched at his tender parts. ‘Shortly,’ he snarled, ‘your race will again know the might of Ceres. They will feel the jackboot upon their necks. You, however, will not be here to witness it.’
‘I am expecting to enjoy a long and happy retirement,’ said Professor Slocombe, noting to his satisfaction and relief that Gammon had now entered the French windows, wielding an antique warming-pan. ‘I worry for you, though.’
‘Do not waste your concern. When the battle fleet arrives and the true masters of Earth once more set foot upon the planet, they will have none to spare for your puny race.’
‘Brave talk. And when might we expect this happy event?’
‘Two days from now. It is a pity you will miss it.’
‘Oh, I won’t miss it. I have a table booked at the Swan upon that evening. It is the darts tournament. We hold the challenge shield, you know.’
The Brentford Triangle (The Brentford Trilogy Book 2) Page 15
