East of Ealing (11 page)

The conversation wore long into the night. John and Jim were anxious to know exactly what plans the Professor had formulated, but the old man was obstinately vague in his replies. It was either that he was as yet uncertain as to what had to be done, or that he had already set certain wheels in motion and feared the two men might, out of their eagerness to pitch in for the cause, confound them. Whatever the case, Jim at length returned to his rooms and fell into a most uneasy sleep beset with ghastly dreams of mechanical monsters and bogey men who loomed up from every darkened corner. Omally, as ever, slept the sleep of the just, which was quite unjust of him, considering he had no right to do it.

At around eleven the next morning, the two men met up outside the Flying Swan. Pooley emptied what pennies remained to him into the outspread palm of his fellow. “He won’t take my cash any more, simply runs his damn little wand over my hand. It gives me little pleasure.”

“If there is a word of truth to anything the Professor told us, then at least we have a vague idea what’s going on.”

“Vague would be your man, John, this is well out of my league.”

“That is a nice suit you have on there,” Omally observed as Jim strode on before him into the Swan. “If a little tight across the shoulders perhaps.”

The pale young man in the headphones stood as ever behind the jump. Nothing had been heard of Neville since he had been whisked away in the ambulance. The Sisters of Mercy said that he had been moved to another hospital but seemed uncertain where. The fact that ownership of the brewery had changed hands suggested that Brentford had seen the last of the part-time barman. “Replacement,” the Professor had said; it was a more than unsettling business. And the thought that duplicates were even now being created to replace each living individual in Brentford was no laughing matter.

“Usual please,” said Jim, extending his palm.

The man in the headset ran his electronic pen across the outstretched appendage and cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. “Great day for the race,” he said.

“Yours or mine?” muttered Jim beneath his breath.

Omally bought his own. “It’s just not the same any more,” he sighed, as he bore his pint over to the table Jim now occupied. “I miss the thrill of the chase.”

“I don’t think anything is ever going to be the same again,” said Pooley unhappily. “All is finished here. If only we had legged it away in time we would never be sitting here trapped like rats, waiting to be replaced by piles of diodes.”

John shook his head. “It is a bad one to be sure. No doubt the walls will expand to finally engulf the whole world, but the Professor never did explain why it all started right here.”

“Well, I suppose it had to start somewhere and Brentford, although worse than some, is, as the world knows, better than most. But it is the unfairness of it that gets my dander up. Me, with money to burn and two dozen High Street shops to burn it in. My God, I’m doing my best, but what about teas at the Ritz and the Concorde flight to the Bahamas? Such things are day to day affairs for lads with my kind of scratch. I can’t even buy people drinks. My entire wealth is without purpose.”

“The Professor warned you, Jim, the money wasn’t meant for you.”

“This beer is definitely not what it was.” Pooley raised his pint and held it towards the light. Through the clear amber liquid a row of computer lines etched on to the glass twinkled like the slats of a Venetian blind.

“I had been thinking the same,” Omally replied. “It has a definitely metallic tang to it nowadays.”

An odd figure now entered the Flying Swan. He appeared awkward and ill at ease amongst his surroundings. The stranger wore a wide-brimmed hat of dark material and a similarly-coloured cloak which reached to the floor, exposing only the very tips of his Wellington boots.

“It’s Soap,” Omally whispered. “Now what do you suppose he is doing here?”

“Come to pay us our thirty quid, hopefully,” said Jim, who even in wealth was never too aloof to forget a creditor.

Soap ordered a Guinness, without the head, and paid for the same with a gold nugget which the barman weighed up and committed to the till. The man in black approached the two seated drinkers. “Good day,” he said.

“Not yet,” said the Omally. “But you have my full permission to improve upon it should you so wish.”

“Might I take a seat?”

“If you must.”

Soap removed his hat and placed it upon the table. His albino coiffure glowed stunningly even in the dim light of the saloon-bar; the pink eyes wandered between the two men. “How’s tricks?” he asked.

“Oh, going great guns,” Pooley made an airy gesture. “Just sitting here drinking duff beer, waiting for the end of the world. Ringside seats to boot.”

“Hm.” Soap toyed with the ample brim of his extraordinary hat. “I’ll tell you what though, but. You’re better off here than out there.” He thumbed away towards the glistening wall of light which shimmered in the distance beyond the Swan’s upper panes. “It’s all hell for sure in that neck of the woods.”

“You mean you’ve been outside?” Omally raised his ample eyebrows.

“Naturally.” Soap tugged lewdly at his lower eye. “You know the expression you can’t keep a good man down? Well here it’s a case of a good man down is worth three in the Butts. Good’n that, eh? One of my own.”

“Bloody marvellous,” said Pooley without conviction. “So what is going on out there?”

“Bad things.” Soap stared sombrely into his pint. The sharpened, ear-rooting nail of his little finger traced a runic symbol upon the knap of his hatbrim. “Bad things.” Soap sipped at his pint and drew a slim wrist across his mouth. “Bloody chaos,” he said simply. “It makes me sick at heart to see what goes on out there, but the Professor says that I must keep the watch. Although he never says for what.”

“So what have you seen, Soap?”

“They are starving out there.” Soap’s pink eyes darted up at his inquisitor.

“You’re joking, surely?”

“I am not. Since the institution of the new non-monetary system of exchange the entire country is literally in a state of civil war.”

“Come now,” said Jim. “What you mean is that a few die-hards are giving two fingers to the printed-palm brigade. Bloody good luck to them I say. I’ll arrange to have a couple of million drawn out. You take it with my blessings.”

“Money won’t do it,” said Soap. “Paper currency is illegal. All assets were instantly frozen on the day of the change. Each individual had to hand in his cash to the bank upon his turn for registration. Those who refused to submit to the change found every door closed to them. They could not travel upon buses or trains or buy petrol for their own cars; nor milk from the milkman, nor bread from the bakers. Their friends and neighbours rejected them. Even members of their own families, those who had the mark, refused them. They were ostracized totally from society. Many went straight to the banks but were told that they had missed their opportunity and that was that.”

“And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark or the name of the beast or the number of his name,” said Jim Pooley in a leaden voice.

“The very same.”

“The callous bastards,” said John Omally. “So what happened then?”

“Exactly what you might expect. Open rebellion on the part of the unmarked. What they could no longer buy they took. There was looting and burning and killing. Much killing. Under the direction of the Government’s master computer martial law was imposed. The computer issued a brief edict: all those who do not bear the mark to be shot on sight.”

“Are you making this up, Soap?” Omally leant forward in his seat and waggled his fist threateningly beneath the hollow Earther’s all-but-transparent nose. “Jim and I have both sussed that something pretty pony is going on here. Although we are trapped by a seemingly impenetrable barrier, the shops never run dry. There is always milk and fags, bread and beer, although that is tasting a bit odd of late. It must all be coming in from the outside, although we haven’t figured out exactly how as yet. Parachutes in the dead of night we suspect.”

“You’re on a wrong’n,” said Soap. “Nothing gets in or out except me. And there’s no food going begging out there either.”

“So how do you account for it then?”

“It is all manufactured right here in the parish.”

“Oh rot,” said Jim. “Do you see any cows grazing in the Memorial Park, or any hop fields or tobacco plantations? Talk sense, Soap, please. How could any of it be made here?”

“It is all artificially produced. Every last little thing, it’s all synthetic. Including your manky beer.” Soap pushed his glass aside. “I can’t tell you how it’s done but I can tell you who’s doing it.”

“Lateinos and bloody Romiith,” said Omally in a doom-laden voice.

“None other. What do you think the walls are up for anyway?”

“To keep us in,” Jim said gloomily. “To keep me in and stop me spending my money.”

“Wrong,” said Soap. “To keep the others out. Those walls were whipped up to protect the master computer complex in Abaddon Street. It is the centre of the whole operation.”

“They got my antique bedstead, the bastards,” snarled Omally, “and now my beer also. Will it never end?”

“But why is this master complex in Brentford?” Jim asked. “I’d always pictured Armageddon getting off to its first round in a somewhat more Biblical setting. The gasworks and the flyover just don’t seem to fit.”

“You’ll have to ask the Professor about that,” said Soap. “Or possibly your man there.” Soap stretched out a pale hand towards the tall, gaunt spectre wearing long out-moded tweeds and smoking a Turkish cigarette who now stood majestically framed in the Swan’s famous portal.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr Sherlock Holmes, gesturing to the three seated figures, two of which were now cowering away and seeking invisibility, “if I might just prevail upon your aid in a small matter.”

“And there was I utterly convinced that things could get no worse,” said John Omally. “Oh foolish fellow me.”

Sherlock Holmes strode up the Ealing Road, his cigarette billowing smoke about his angular visage. Pooley and Omally plodded behind, and had they chosen to pause a moment and look around they might just have caught sight of the manhole cover which closed upon Soap’s retreating form.

“I merely wish you to be close at hand,” said Sherlock Holmes as he marched along. “Just button your lips and hang loose, got me?”

Pooley, who had recently purchased for the detective an advanced video recorder and the complete series of Basil Rathbone cassettes, thought to detect the hint of an American accent creeping into the Victorian voice. “Oh, gotcha,” he said.

Outside Norman’s corner-shop Holmes drew to a sudden halt. His two followers did likewise and peered without enthusiasm through the spotless plexiglass of the new aluminium-framed door to where Norman stood behind his shining counter. The true shopkeeper was busy in his kitchenette, bent low over a set of indecipherable plans scrawled on to the innards of a cornflake packet. He scarcely heard the shopdoor-bell chime out an electronic fanfare. His double peered up from the countertop computer terminal and surveyed his three potential customers. The Irish one, cowering to the rear, owed, he recalled. Clearing his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound, he asked, “How might we serve you, gentlemen?”

“We?” queried Sherlock Holmes.

“The plurality is used in a purely business sense,” the robot replied. “We, the interest, which is Norman Hartnell, corner shop, as a small concern, realize the need to extend a personal welcome to the prospective client in these competitive times.”

“Very precise,” said Sherlock Holmes. “An ounce of Ships, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir.” The robot slipped his hand behind his back and drew out the packet. Omally considered that to be a pretty sneaky move by any reckoning.

“You have redecorated your premises, I see,” said Holmes.

Considering this to be a simple statement of fact which required no reply, the robot offered none.

“And all achieved with the left hand.”

The creation stiffened ever so slightly but retained its composure, although a fleeting look of suspicion crossed its face. Pooley and Omally both stepped back unconsciously.

“I was always given to understand that you were right-handed,” Holmes continued.

“That will be eighteen shillings and sixpence, please, sir.” The robot stretched forward both hands, that he might exhibit no personal preference.

“Put it on my slate, please,” said Sherlock Holmes.

Beneath his breath John Omally began to recite the rosary.

Holmes’ deadly phrase clanged amongst the robot’s network of inner circuitry and fed out the word “Dimac” in any one of a dozen known languages. “Eighteen shillings and sixpence, please,” he said. “The management regret that…”

“So I have been given to understand,” said Holmes. “If it is not inconvenient, I should like a word or two with the management.”

“I am it.” The robot pressed his hands to the countertop and prepared to spring over. “Kindly hand me the eighteen shillings and sixpence.”

“I think not,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Let us not bandy words, please. If the real Norman Hartnell still draws breath then I wish to speak with him. If not, then I am making a citizen’s arrest.”

The robot lunged forward across the counter and made a grab at the detective’s throat. Holmes stepped nimbly beyond range and drew out his revolver. He pointed it at the space between the robot’s eyes, his aim was steady and unshaking. “Hurry now,” he said, “my time is valuable.”

The robot stared at the great detective. Its lips were drawn back from its plasticized teeth which glowed an evil yellow. Its eyes blazed hatred and its hands crooked into cruel claws.

“Hold hard or I fire.”

The pseudo-shopkeeper crouched low upon his knees and suddenly leapt upwards. Holmes’ finger closed about the trigger, but the inhuman reactions of the creation far outmatched his own. The thing leapt upwards, passing clean through the ceiling of the shop, bringing down an avalanche of lathe and plaster and tumbling timber-work. Holmes staggered backwards, shielding his face from the falling debris. Pooley and Omally adopted the now legendary foetal position. A series of further crashes signalled the departure of the robot through the walls of Norman’s back bedroom.

Startled by the sounds of destruction, the shopkeeper burst through his kitchenette door into the now thoroughly ventilated shop. He gazed up at the crude hole yawning above and then down at the faces of the three coughing and spluttering men as they slowly appeared amidst the cloud of dust. “What… who… why…?” Norman’s voice trailed off as Sherlock Holmes rose from the debris, patting plaster from his shoulders, and removing a section of lathing from his hair.

“Mr Hartnell,” he said, “it is a pleasure to meet you actually in the flesh, as it were.”

Pooley and Omally blinked their eyes towards the gaping ceiling, towards the startled shopkeeper, and finally towards each other. Shaking their dust-covered heads in total disbelief, they followed the detective who was even now ushering the fretful Norman away into his kitchenette. Holmes suggested that Omally might bolt the front door and put up the “Closed For The Day” sign. This the Irishman did with haste, fearing that he might miss anything of what might be yet to come. When he entered the kitchenette he found Norman squatting upon his odd-legged chair in the centre of the room, surrounded by a clutter of bizarre-looking equipment which was obviously the current fruit of his prodigious scientific brain. Holmes perched behind him upon the kitchen table, a tweedy vulture hovering above his carrion lunch. Without warning he suddenly thrust a long bony finger into Norman’s right ear.

“Ooh, ouch, ow, get off me,” squealed the shopkeeper, doubling up.

Holmes examined his fingertip and waggled it beneath his nose. “I pride myself,” said he, “that, given a specimen of earwax, I can state the occupation of the donor with such an accuracy that any suggestion of there being any element of chance involved is absolutely confounded.”

“Really?” said Omally studying the ceiling and kicking his heels upon the new lino of the floor.

“Who’s your friend?” whined the persecuted shopkeeper.

“Don’t ask,” counselled Jim Pooley.

“I will ask the questions, if you don’t mind.” Holmes prodded Norman in the ribs with a patent leather toecap.

“I do, as it happens,” said Norman, flinching anew.

“Be that as it may, I believe that you have much to tell us.”

“Bugger off, will you?” Norman cowered in his seat.

“Language,” said Jim. “Mr H, our companion here, is a house-guest of the Professor’s. He can be trusted absolutely, I assure you.”

“I have nothing to say. What is all this about anyway? Can’t you see I’m busy redecorating?”

“The shop ceiling seems a bit drastic,” said John.

“Blame the wife,” Norman said sarcastically. “She said she wanted two rooms knocked into one.”

“I once heard George Robey tell that joke,” said Holmes. “It was old even then.”

“George Robey?”

“No matter. Now, sir, there are questions that must be answered. How can it be that your duplicate works in your shop yet you still exist? Show me your palms, sir.”

“Show me your palms? Jim, where do you meet these people?” A sudden clout on the back of the head sent the shopkeeper sprawling.

“Here, steady on,” cried Jim. “There’s no need for any of that. Sherlock Holmes never engaged in that kind of practice.”

“Changing times,” the detective pronounced, examining his knuckles.

“Sherlock Holmes?” sneered Norman from the desk. “Is that who he thinks he is?”

“Your servant, sir,” said Holmes, bowing slightly from the waist.

“Oh yes?” Norman cowered in the corner shielding his privy parts. “Well if you’re Sherlock Holmes then tell me, what are the thirty-nine steps?”

“This is where I came in,” said Jim.

Holmes leant forward and waggled his waxy finger towards Norman. “Spill the beans, you,” he cried. “Spill the beans!”

“He’s been watching the Basil Rathbone reruns,” Pooley whispered to Omally.

“If you don’t mind,” said John, “I think Jim and I will take our leave now. We are men of peace, and displays of gratuitous violence trouble our sensitivities. Even in the cause of justice and the quest for truth, we find them upsetting.”

Pooley nodded. “If you are now preparing to wade in with the old rubber truncheon, kindly wait until we have taken our leave.”

“Fellas,” whined the fallen shopkeeper, “fellas, don’t leave me here with this lunatic.”

“Sorry,” said Jim, “but this is none of our business.”

“If you really wish to make a fight of it, your Dimac should be a match for his Barritso.” Omally pointed to the still prominent lump upon his forehead, which bore a silent if painful testimony to his previous encounter with the martial shopman.

“That wasn’t me, John, I swear it.”

“So,” said Sherlock Holmes, “then spill the beans, buddy.”

“All right, all right, but no more hitting.”

“No more hitting,” said Sherlock Holmes.

Buddy prepared himself to spill all the beans.