East of Ealing

by Robert Rankin

  Within .666 of a second they had done with their main course and were seeking a mangy-looking half-terrier for afters. The read-out which followed, had it been broadcast in standard five-point lettering, would have formed an equation sufficient to engirdle the Earth several times around. Summing up, the computer pronounced Old Pete a harmless loony and no threat to security. It did, however, suggest that certain discrepancies existed regarding multiple payment of pensions in the past and that the data relating to this would require a prolonged period to assess accurately. It refused to comment on Young Chips, offering only a cryptic remark that the wearing of flea collars should be made compulsory.

  Old Pete finally gave up his unequal struggle and limped off down the street effing and blinding for all he was worth. Young Chips lifted his furry leg contemptuously on to the dull black-glass wall and skipped off after his master. The Lateinos and Romiith mainframe filed away Old Pete’s vitals and beamed a triplicate copy of the now completed programme to the bio-gene constructional workshop, twenty-six storeys below. The probe moved up once more to the building’s roof and turned itself to more pressing business. Included amongst a billion or so other tiny matters which required attention was the removal from this plane of existence of a certain local Professor and his unclassifiable house-guest.

  The sensory scanner criss-crossed the triangle of streets and houses, prying and probing. The X-ray eye of the great machine penetrated each dwelling, highlighting the plumbing pipes and television tubes. The house-owners were tiny red blotches moving to and fro, going about their business unaware that all was revealed to the voyeuristic machine which lurked above their heads. The data whirred into the computer banks, but at intervals the motors flicked and whined as a patch of impenetrable white light appeared on the screen. As the macroscope focused upon the area of disturbance and intensified its gaze, the area revealed itself to be a large house and garden set upon the historic Butts Estate. The data retrieval cross-locators coughed and spluttered, fruitlessly seeking a snippet of relevant information, but none was to be found. The white patch glared on the screen, the missing piece of a great jigsaw. The best the print-out could come up with was ‘Insufficient data, scan penetration negative, over-ride and re-submit.’

  20

  Professor Slocombe rewound the great ormulu mantel-clock and, withdrawing the fretted key from the gilded face, set the pendulum in motion. The sonorous tocking of the magnificent timepiece returned the heartbeat once more to the silent house.

  Sherlock Holmes entered the study through the open French windows. ‘It has stopped again?’ said he.

  The Professor nodded sombrely. ‘The mechanism has become infected, I believe.’

  Holmes slumped into a fireside chair. ‘You have had the electricity disconnected, I trust?’

  ‘As we discussed, we will have to be very much upon our guard from now on. I have taken what protective measures I can, but my powers are not inexhaustible, I can feel the pressure upon me even now.’

  Holmes slid a pale hand about the decanter’s neck and poured himself a small scotch. ‘I have just spent a most informative hour with Norman Hartnell. A man of exceptional capability.’

  Professor Slocombe smiled ruefully. ‘He keeps us all guessing, that is for certain.’

  ‘I discovered the hand of a duplicate replacement at work in his shop and sought to question it.’

  Professor Slocombe raised his eyebrows in horror. ‘That was a somewhat reckless move upon your part.’

  ‘Perhaps, but when confronted by the gun you gave me, the thing took flight, literally, through the ceiling of the shop. To my astonishment the real Mr Hartnell appears from his quarters. The mechanical double was, in fact, something of his own creation. To spare his time for more important matters, according to himself.’

  Professor Slocombe chuckled loudly. ‘Bravo, Norman,’ he said. ‘The shopkeeper does have something rather substantial on the go at the present time. It is of the utmost importance that nothing stand in his way.’

  Sherlock Holmes shook his head. ‘Your corner-shopkeeper produces an all-but-perfect facsimile of himself with no more than a few discarded wireless-set parts and something he calls Meccano and you treat it as if it were an everyday affair.’

  ‘This is Brentford. Norman’s ingenuity is not unknown to me.’

  ‘And do you know how his mechanical man is powered?’

  ‘Knowing Norman, it probably has a key in its back or runs upon steam.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Sherlock Holmes, taking the opportunity to spring from his chair and take up a striking pose against the mantelpiece, ‘it runs from a slim brass wheel set into its chest. Your shopkeeper has rediscovered the secret of perpetual motion.’

  ‘Has he, be damned?’ The Professor bit upon his lower lip. ‘Now that is another matter entirely.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Holmes, nodding his head, ‘and now would you like me to bring you the automaton, that you might inspect his workings at first hand?’

  ‘Very much. Do you consider that such might be achieved in safety?’

  ‘Certainly, I took the liberty of following the ample trail he left, after my interview with Norman. He is holed up on the allotment.’

  ‘Holed up?’

  ‘Certainly, in Mr Omally’s shed. If I can catch him unawares I shall bring him here at gunpoint. Although I must confess to a certain bafflement here. How might it be that an automaton who can leap without effort or apparent harm through ceilings and walls, fears the simple bullet?’

  ‘Ha, yourself!’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘You have your secrets and I have mine. Go then, with my blessing, but stay upon your guard. Take no unnecessary risks.’

  ‘Natcho,’ said Sherlock Holmes, turning as he left to make a gesture which all lovers of the New York television cop genre know to be the ‘soul fist’.

  ‘Natcho?’ Professor Slocombe shook his old head and returned once more to his work.

  21

  Having slipped away to Jack Lane’s for a pint or three of non-takeover-brewery beer, Pooley and Omally now loped down a bunting bedecked Sprite Street. To either side, front gardens bulged with sections of the home-made floats destined to join the grand carnival procession of this year’s Festival which, meaningless as it now appeared, showed every sign of going on regardless. Exactly what the theme of the parade was, neither man very much cared. As they ambled along they muttered away to one another in muted, if urgent, tones.

  ‘As I see it,’ mumbled John, ‘we have few options left open to us at present. If the end of civilization is approaching there is little, if anything, we can do about it.’

  ‘But what about all my millions?’ Jim complained. ‘I thought that the holders of the world’s wealth always had it up and away on their hand-mades and sailed their luxury yachts into the sunset at the merest mention of impending doom.’

  ‘What, off down the canal you fancy?’

  ‘Well, somewhere, surely? Let us at least go down with Soap and weather it out until the troubles are over.’

  ‘I had considered that, but you will recall that it is very dark down there in his neck of the woods. And darkness would seem to be the keynote of this whole insane concerto.’

  ‘So what do we do then?’

  The two stopped on the corner of Abaddon Street and stood a moment, gazing up at the great black monolith towering above them.

  ‘I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought and I think I have come up with an answer.’

  ‘It better be a goody.’

  ‘It is, but not here. Walls have ears as they say. Let us hasten away to a place of privacy and discuss this matter.’

  It did not take a child of six to put the necessary two and two together and come up with Omally’s suggestion for a likely conspiratorial hideaway. ‘My hut,’ said John.

  The two men strode over the allotments, each alone with his particular thoughts. The first inkling that anything of a more untoward nature than was now the commo
n norm was currently on the go thereabouts hit them like the proverbial bolt from the blue. The sound of gunfire suddenly rattled their eardrums, and the unexpected sight of Omally’s corrugated iron roof rising from its mountings and coming rapidly in their direction put new life into their feet.

  ‘Run for your life,’ yelled Omally.

  ‘I am already, get out of my way.’

  The roof smashed to earth, sparing them by inches. The cause of the shed’s destruction tumbled down to bowl over and over between them. Norman’s duplicate rose to his feet and glared back towards the ruined hut. Sherlock Holmes appeared at the doorway wielding his gun.

  ‘Not again.’ Pooley crawled away on all fours, seeking safety.

  ‘Stop him,’ cried Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘With the corner up, pal.’

  ‘Hold hard or I fire.’

  Norman’s duplicate turned upon his attacker. He snatched up a ten-gallon oil-drum which was peacefully serving its time as a water-butt and raised it above his head. Holmes stood his ground, feet planted firmly apart, both hands upon his weapon. ‘This is a Magnum forty-four,’ he said, ‘biggest handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off your shoulders.’

  ‘He has definitely been watching too many videos,’ whispered Omally as he crawled over to Pooley’s place of safety.

  ‘Now I know what you’re thinking,’ Holmes continued, ‘you’re thinking, in all that commotion did he fire five shots or six, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, punk?’

  ‘I much preferred the Victorian approach,’ said Jim Pooley.

  Norman’s robot stiffened; he was not adverse to watching the occasional Glint Eastwood movie himself on Norman’s home-made video.

  ‘Do you know, in all the excitement I’m not really sure myself? So what do you say, punk?’

  The mechanical punk, who had seen that particular film six times said, ‘It’s a fair cop, governor,’ and raised its hands

  ‘Up against the wall and spread’m mother,’ cried Sherlock Holmes, causing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to veritably spin in his grave.

  A short while later, Jim Pooley, John Omally, and Mr Sherlock Holmes, this time accompanied by a near-perfect facsimile of a highly-regarded local shopkeeper, entered the Professor’s study. The scholar looked up from his desk and turned about in his chair. ‘You made very short work of that,’ he said. ‘Good afternoon, Norman.’

  The mechanical shopkeeper regarded the Professor as if he was guano on a hat-brim. ‘You would fare better by leaving well enough alone,’ said he.

  Professor Slocombe turned up his palms. ‘Please be seated, I have no wish to detain you longer than necessary. I merely seek a few answers to certain pressing questions.’

  The duplicate clutched at his chest. ‘To take away my life, more likely.’

  ‘No, no, I swear. Please be seated.’ Professor Slocombe turned to his other guests. ‘Please avail yourselves, gentlemen, Norman and I have much to speak of.’

  Holmes held his gun pointing steadily towards the robot’s spinning heart. ‘You counselled care, Professor,’ said he, ‘and now it is my turn.’

  ‘A degree of trust must exist, Holmes, kindly put aside your gun.’

  Holmes did so. Pooley and Omally fought awhile over the decanter and finally came to an agreement.

  ‘It is of the greatest importance that we speak with each other,’ Professor Slocombe told the robot. ‘Please believe that I wish you no harm. Will you play straight with me?’

  ‘I will, sir, but have a care for him. The man is clearly mad. Calls himself Sherlock Holmes but knows not a thing of the thirty-nine steps. I would have come to you of my own accord.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The robot cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound which sent the wind up Pooley and Omally. ‘Things cannot be allowed to continue as they are.’

  Professor Slocombe raised his eyebrows. ‘You are aware of that?’

  ‘I can hear them talking. They gnaw at my brain but I will not allow them ingress. I am Norman’s man and sworn by the bond of birth to protect him.’

  ‘Your loyalty is commendable.’

  ‘I am sworn to serve mankind.’

  ‘From behind a counter,’ sneered Omally.

  The robot nodded grimly. ‘It sounded a little more noble the way I put it, but no matter, there is little enough of mankind now left to serve. The shop doorbell is silent the better part of the day. Trade declines; I rarely punch an order into the terminal, and when I do, the new stocks which finally arrive are further foreshortened. The master computer now runs it all. Mankind is on the wane, the new order prevails. Night falls upon Brentford and the world. It is the coming of Ragnorok. Götterdammerung.’

  ‘Stick the Laurence Olivier circuits into override, you clockwork clown,’ said John Vincent Omally, Man of Earth.

  ‘How would you like me to fill your mouth with boot?’ the robot enquired.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Professor Slocombe, ‘let us have a little decorum please.’

  ‘Well, he’s had my shed down,’ Omally complained. ‘For one sworn to protect mankind he’s about as much use as a nipple on a-’

  ‘Quite so, John. Please be calm, we will achieve nothing by fighting amongst ourselves. We must all pull together.’

  ‘You can pull whatever you want,’ said the robot, ‘but take it from me, you had better start with your fingers. Unless you can come up with something pretty special, pretty snappish, then you blokes are banjoed, get my meaning, F . . . U . . . C . . . ‘

  ‘Language, please,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘I think we catch your drift. Something pretty special was what I had in mind.’

  22

  ‘AAAAOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOO . . . o . . . UH?’

  Neville the part-time barman awoke after an absence of some eleven chapters. Scorning the tried and tested ‘Where am I?’ he settled for ‘Why have I got a light bulb stuck up my left nostril?’ which was at least original. His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, several inches above his face, and a great hand rose to brush away the obstruction blocking one side of his nose. This bed is a bit high, thought Neville. But then the dreadful memories of his most despicable situation came flooding back in a tidal wave of adipose tissue.

  ‘The fat!’ groaned Neville, his voice rumbling up from the depths of his stomach to shiver the ceiling above. ‘The terrible fat!’ He tried to move his great St Paul’s dome of a head, but it seemed to be wedged tightly into an upper corner of the tiny hospital room. Painfully he struggled and shifted until he was able to peer down over the great massed army of himself and gauge some idea of how the land lay. It lay someway distant in the downwards direction. ‘OOOOOAAAAAAOOOOOOAAA . . . UH,’ moaned Neville. ‘Worse, much worse.’

  A sudden sound distracted him from his misery, somewhere beneath his spreading bulk and slightly to one side, a door appeared to be opening. From his eyrie above the picture-rail Neville watched a minuscule nurse enter the already crowded room.

  ‘And how are we today?’ asked this fairy person.

  ‘We?’ Neville’s voice arose in desperation. ‘You mean that there is more than one of me now?’

  ‘No, no.’ The tiny nurse held up a pair of doll-like hands. ‘You are doing very well, making good progress, great signs of improvement, nothing to fear.’

  Neville now noticed to his increasing horror that the midget was brandishing a hypodermic syringe. Which, although perched between her tiddly digits like a Christmas cracker fag-holder, looked none the less as threatening as any of the others he had recently experienced at hind quarters.

  ‘Time for your daily jab, roll over please.’

  ‘Roll over? Are you mad, woman?’ Neville wobbled his jowls down at the nurse.

  The woman smiled up at him. ‘Come on now, sir,’ she wheedled. ‘We’re not going to throw one of our little tantrums now, are we?’

  If Neville could have freed one of his feet, possibly the one
which was now wedged above the curtain-rail surrounding his bed, he would have happily stamped the tiny nurse to an omelette.

  ‘Come on now, sir, roly-poly.’

  ‘Crunch crunch,’ went Neville. ‘Fe . . . Fi . . . Fo . . . Fum . . .’

  ‘Don’t start all that again, sir. I shall have to call for doctor.’

  ‘Crunch . . . splat.’ Neville struggled to free a foot, or anything.

  ‘You leave me no choice, then.’ The tiny nurse left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Neville rubbed his nose upon the ceiling. How long had he been here? Days? Months? Years? He really had no idea. What were they doing to him? Pumping him full of drugs to keep him sedated? What? He had known all along that it was a conspiracy, but what were they up to? They had blown him up like a blimp for their own foul ends. Probably for some vile new hormone research designed to increase the bacon yield from porker pigs. It was the Illuminati, or the masons, or the Moonies or some suchlike sinister outfit. Just because he was slightly paranoid, it didn’t mean they weren’t out to get him.

  And far worse even, what was happening at the Swan? That defrocked matelot Croughton would have his hand in the till up to the armpit. The beer would be flat and the ashtrays full. There was even the possibility of after-hours drinking, Omally would see to that. He was probably even downing pints on credit at this very moment. It was all too much. He must escape, if only to save his reputation. Neville twisted and turned in his confinement, a latter-day Alice tormented in a sterilized doll’s house. The door of the room flew open beneath him and the nurse re-entered, accompanied by a pale young doctor in headphones. As Neville watched in fearful anticipation, he withdrew from his belt a small black device bristling with a pair of slim metallic rods. ‘We are being naughty again,’ he said, clearing his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound and arming the mechanism. ‘Will we never learn?’