Knees Up Mother Earth (33 page)

“We came at your calling,” said Terrence.

“Positively trotlike,” said Sponge Boy.

“And I appreciate this.” The professor seated himself at his desk and toyed with a nail from the true cross. “Tomorrow it must be – are you both prepared?”

“We are, Master,” said Terrence. “But why did we have to wait for so long?”

“Many reasons,” said the professor, “but now the time has come. You are to destroy the Consortium building. The streets of Chiswick will be deserted during the big match. This is when it must be done. Also, this is the period during which our adversary will be at his weakest regarding the defence of these premises. He will be concentrating his efforts upon the defeat of Brentford United.”

“You know that he bought out Man United?” said Sponge Boy.

“I am aware of this,” said the professor. “I shall be attending the match in person. I am prepared for a battle of wills, as it were.”

“And magic,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively Dr Strange and Baron Mordo.”

“I do not expect things to be easy, but in the popular parlance of the football manager, I am ‘quietly confident’.”

“Will we have the Campbell with us?” asked Terrence.

“You will,” said the professor, “and he will fight to the death, if needs be, and beyond that, I should imagine.”

Sponge Boy said, “Professor, might I be permitted to ask you a question?”

Professor Slocombe nodded his aged head.

“What
is
the Campbell?” Sponge Boy asked.

“A familiar,” said Professor Slocombe. “A witch’s familiar. A lost soul conjured from the regions of Hell to aid one who had sold their own soul to the King of Darkness.”

“And he is in
your
employ?”

“I liberated him,” said the professor, “many years ago. I freed his soul.”

“Positively Faustian,” said Sponge Boy. “And he
can
be trusted?”

“Absolutely. Have no fear for that. I would say to you that he is my man, but the Campbell was never a man. He may appear to be a man, but he is not. The Campbell was once a Skye terrier.”

“A dog?” said Terrence. “He’s really a dog?”

“A sprout?” said Mr H.G. Wells. “Do you mean to tell me that the motive power behind my Time Machine is a Brussels sprout?”

“You built the thing,” said Norman, whose pressing appointment had been with Mr Wells and young Winston at Norman’s allotment lock-up. “Surely you know what powers it.”

“Hm,” said Mr Wells. “Perhaps it slipped my mind.”

“Well, it’s definitely the sprout,” said Norman. “I have had this thing to pieces time and time again over the last four months.”

“Long months,” said Mr Wells, “in this dire time.”

“And at my expense,” Norman said. “You’ve run up enormous bills with Madame Loretta Rune, not to mention at The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar.”

Mr Wells did
not
mention The Flying Swan or The Stripes Bar. “Merely keeping body and soul together,” he said.

“Well, be that as it may, I have reinstalled the sprout, rebuilt its broken mountings with Meccano and I truly believe that your Time Machine is now fully operational once more.”

Mr Wells patted Norman on the shoulder. “Then thank you,” said he. “Winston and I will now return to the Victorian era. Our prolonged stay here has at least assured me that the King of Darkness has not acquired any of the Victorian supertechnology I thought existed upon the computer system that you reconstructed. And so my work here is done.”

Mr Wells climbed into his Time Machine and young Winston climbed in beside him. “I am returning now to the Victorian era,” said Mr Wells, “to change my clothes and drop off young Winston here. But I will be popping back to this time briefly tomorrow. I wouldn’t wish to miss Brentford United winning the FA Cup.”

“Pleasure knowing ya, gov’nor,” said the ill-washed youth. “Gawd scupper me scrote if it weren’t.”

Mr Wells fastened his safety belt and prepared for takeoff.

Norman dithered.

And then Norman blurted.

“Mr Wells,” he blurted, “before you go, there’s something I have to tell you – something I should have told you before, but I just couldn’t pluck up the courage.”

“Yes?” said Mr Wells. “What do you have to say?”

“You’re really not going to like this,” said Norman. “And I’m really, really sorry.”

John Omally went in search of Jim.

But Jim, it seemed, was nowhere to be found.

John called at Jim’s rooms, The Plume Café and the bench before the Memorial Library. He returned to Griffin Park and The Stripes Bar and eventually to Jim’s office, where he found the Campbell sitting cross-legged on Jim’s desk, his claymore cradled in his ample arms.

“I can’t find Jim,” said John, and he glanced at his wristlet watch. “And it’s almost ten of the evening clock now.”

“Did you try The Flying Swan?” asked the Campbell.

“I didn’t,” said John. “But I have no idea why not.”

The Campbell raised an eyebrow towards his turban. “Best guard your thoughts,” said he. “The evil is truly amongst us now. It will distract you.”

“You mean—” said John.

“I do,” said the Campbell. “Try The Flying Swan.”

Omally set out towards The Flying Swan. There was a chill wind whipping up and thunder in the heavens. John turned up the collar of his jacket and pressed on down the Ealing Road.

The Swan’s saloon bar was crowded. Brentford fans in reproduction kaftans sang club anthems, drained their glasses and raised them once refreshed towards the team’s success on the morrow. Neville stood at the end of the bar, ready to serve all comers. But the all comers directed their requests exclusively to Neville’s topless bar staff.

“Neville,” said Omally, elbowing his way through the crush.

“At last,” said Neville. “How might I help you, sir? We have eight hand-drawn ales upon tap – two more than at Jack Lane’s
and five more
than at The Stripes Bar. If I might recommend—”

“Has Jim been in?” Omally asked.

“A pint of Large, would it be?”

“I have to find Jim, it’s very important.”

“A half then, although you won’t feel the benefit.”

“Neville, have you seen Jim?”

“Oh,” said Neville, raising himself as if from a trance. “Jim, you say?”

“Have you seen him? Has he been in here?”

“He was in earlier, but now he’s gone.”

“Do you know where he might be now?”

Neville shrugged. Omally turned to take his leave.

“Hold on there, Omally.” Old Pete laid a wrinkled palm upon the Irishman’s shoulder. “You’re looking for Jim,” said Old Pete.

“I am,” said John. “Do you know where he’d be?”

“He’s with Norman.”

“At his shop?”

“No,” said Old Pete, “at another pub. Norman’s meeting his lady friend there and he wanted Jim to go along.”

“For a
threesome
?” said Omally.

“No, for moral support. Although Pooley couldn’t offer support to a pair of trousers if he had both belt and braces.”

“Which pub have they gone to?” John Omally asked.

“The Beelzepub,” said Old Pete.

John made haste through the gathering storm. The night had a horrible feel to it now. Omally’s ears popped as if from pressure and his footsteps echoed hollowly, as if he marched upon the skin of a drum. Brentford seemed suddenly alien and Omally felt most ill at ease.

Lights glowed a hideous red from the mullioned gothic windows of the deconsecrated Spiritualist church that was now Brentford’s satanic theme bar, The Beelzepub.

Omally paused, breathing heavily, before the portal.

Upon the arched brickwork above the door, words were printed in gothic script:

ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE THAT ENTER HERE.

Omally shuddered. “Get a grip on yourself, John,” said he.

Taking a deep yet unsteadying breath, he pushed upon the heavy door and entered The Beelzepub, to face the indecorous decor.

The walls and vaulted ceiling were painted the blackest of black. So black, it appeared that they were hardly surfaces at all, more dark voids of space. Many of the chapel’s original fixtures and fittings remained. The pews had been drawn about to flank long medieval tables and the altar now housed the obligatory inverted cross and a naked woman, who sat darning socks.
[48]
From the rafters hung realistic facsimiles of human corpses in various degrees of decomposition. Deicide’s greatest hits blared from an unseen jukebox. The air was rank with the smell of brimstone and redly bulbed iron
torchères
lit each and everything to imperfection.

Omally squinted about the bar. In a far corner he spied Norman. Omally made off in Norman’s direction.

“Oi, you,” a harsh voice called out to him. “If you’re not buying, then you’re out.”

Omally turned to the source of this voice and recognised it to be that of Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, the landlord. Gwynplaine stood behind a bar counter distastefully composed of human skulls. He wore a black undertaker’s suit that highlighted the paleness of his gaunt facial features. Omally approached the bar counter.

“What will it be?” asked Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Anything,” said John. “It doesn’t matter.”

“As you please.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark drew off a pint of Ssenniug – a pint of white ale with a jet-black head. He presented this to John, who viewed it with suspicion.

“Ssenniug,” explained Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “is satanically back-masked Guinness.”

“Most amusing,” said Omally, parting with a pound note and receiving from it no change.

“You’re Mr Omally, aren’t you?” said Mr Dhark as Omally was about to make off towards Norman. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

The landlord extended his hand for a shake and Omally grudgingly shook it. The landlord’s hand was cold and cadaverous. Omally shook the thing with haste. “I must be on my way.”

“Oh, please stay a while and talk. We don’t get many celebrities such as yourself in here, as you can see.”

Omally cast an eye across what clientele there was, which wasn’t much, mostly underage youths in black T-shirts and Gothy girls with nose studs.

“I have an appointment,” said John Omally. “My friend is waiting over there.”

“Waiting for his girlfriend,” said Mr Dhark, “and for your employer, I understand.”

“You do?” said John.

“Such is what he told me. He was very talkative. Said he’d got something really big off his chest this afternoon and was now prepared to take on the world and all it had to throw at him.”

“Really?” said John, peering once more in Norman’s direction. “And my employer, that would be Mr Pooley you’re talking about?”

“Such I believe to be his name – the manager of Brentford United. Do you think you could get me his autograph? I’d ask myself, but I’d be embarrassed – you know how it is.”

Omally, a man who was not wholly averse to employing the occasional untruth should the situation so require, could almost smell the lies that issued from the landlord’s mouth.

“I must warn you,” said John, “that if you have done anything to harm Mr Pooley, you will have me to reckon with.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. How’s your Ssenniug, by the way?”

Omally took a sip. “Foul,” said he, replacing his glass upon the counter.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “If it tastes like shit and smells like a rotten corpse, then it’s all right with us.”

“Don’t forget what I said,” said John. And he stalked across the black-tiled floor to where Norman was sitting in a corner.

“Where is Jim?” John asked.

Norman looked up at John. “Hello, John,” said he.

“Jim,” said John, “have you seen him, Norman?”

Norman shook his head. Norman looked rather drunk.

“Have you been drinking?” John asked.

“Silly question, John. I’m sitting in a pub. Wine wears no britches and where there’s life there’s hope. And if it’s a ‘Road’ film, there’ll probably be Crosby, too.” Norman tittered foolishly.

“Where is Jim?”

Norman shrugged. “He hasn’t turned up. He was going to give me some moral support, but I don’t think I really need it now.”

“So you haven’t seen him?”

“I haven’t.” Norman shook his head. “And I’ll have to ask you to leave me now, John – Yola is coming over. I have to speak to her in private.”

Omally turned to watch the approach of Yola Bennett. She looked particularly stunning tonight, with heels of the highest persuasion on her thigh-high patent-leather boots. Her leather skirt was scarcely a waistband and her bodice, a black latex corset, gave her the breasts of a Manga babe. Her long blonde hair flowed every which way and she walked with a wiggle and a wowser!

Her handbag was by Vivienne Westwood.

Shampoo by L’Oreal.

Because she was worth it.

John Omally caught his breath. Now that
was
a sight to be seen. Especially the handbag.

“Good evening, John,” said Yola, rolling her tongue about her full red lips. “We must get together sometime soon.”

“We must,” Omally agreed.

“But for now, piss off, why don’t you? I need to speak to Norman.”

“Right,” said John. And he turned back to Norman. “You really don’t know where Jim is?” he asked.

Norman turned up the palms of his hands. “I haven’t seen Jim,” he said.

Omally felt his stomach knotting. “Where are you, Jim?” said he.

Jim Pooley sat before the bar counter at The Four Horsemen.

Jim was well within his cups and feeling all right with the world.

“I don’t know what I’ve been worrying about,” he told Jack Lane, the octogenarian landlord. “Everything will be all right, I just know it will”

“You’ll have to speak up,” said the ancient. “I’ve misplaced my hearing aid.”

Jim spoke up. “What was it like?” he asked.

“A pink thing made out of Bakelite.”

“Not your hearing aid. I mean what was it like for you when you captained the Brentford team and led them to victory in nineteen twenty-eight?”

“Ah,” said Jack Lane, “that. That was real man’s soccer back in those days. None of those leaping nancy boys you have now, with their girlie haircuts and earrings. You went out on the pitch and you fought, hammer and tongs. Kicked the bejesus from their shin pads and whacked the bastard ball into the net.”

“You reckon your lot could have taken on a present-day side, then?”

“We’d have made mincemeat of them.”

Pooley chuckled.

“But what about your lot?” said Jack Lane. “It’s bloody Billy Smart’s now, your lot.”

“We’ll succeed,” said Jim. “And when we bring the FA Cup back to Brentford, you can put it up on the shelf behind your bar.”

“Do you promise?” asked Jack.

“You have my word,” said Jim.

“Then the next drink is on the house. A half of shandy, wasn’t it?”

“It was a
pint
,” said Jim, “of Large.”

Old Jack Lane squinted up at his clock. “I thought you told me, when you came in here four hours ago for
a quick one
, that you had a pressing engagement, offering some chum of yours a bit of moral support.”

Jim now squinted up at the clock. “Norman,” he said. “Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten about Norman.”

“Norman,” said Yola, seating herself beside Norman on his pew and crossing her legs in a manner so provocative that words are insufficient to describe the erotic effect. “Norman, aren’t you going to buy me a drink?”

“A drink?” said Norman. “Not in your condition, surely?”

“My condition?”

“Our baby,” said Norman. “Does it move yet, can I feel it?”

“What?” said Yola.

“It’s wonderful news,” said Norman. “Peg and I are really thrilled.”

“Peg?” said Yola. “You’ve told Peg?”

“Of course,” said Norman. “I tell her everything.”

Yola narrowed her eyes towards Norman. “Everything?” said she.

“Absolutely,” said Norman. “A boy’s best friend is his mother, but a wife can do things a mother cannot. She’s very thrilled. You see, she and I could never have any kiddies. She’s got something amiss with her internal workings caused by an overintake of pies, possibly. But she’s keen to adopt. And if you’re not keen on that, then you’re welcome to come and live with us at the shop. You’ll enjoy working there, it will be a bit like working for Mr Gray, except you won’t have your own desk.”

Yola made a disgruntled face. “Work in your shop?” said she. “Are you mad?”

“Mad?” said Norman. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you have twenty-three million pounds coming to you tomorrow. You surely weren’t thinking of keeping your shop. Or, indeed, your wife.”

“It’s really Peg’s shop,” said Norman. “She made me sign one of those prenuptial agreements.”

“But the twenty-three million is yours?”

“Seemingly not,” said Norman. “What’s mine is hers and what’s hers is her own, apparently.”

Yola looked deeply into the eyes of Norman. “Ah,” she said. “Nice try, Norman, you almost had me believing you.”

“Excuse me?” said Norman.

“I said ‘nice try’. Who put you up to this? Was it John Omally?” Yola glanced about the bar, but John Omally had gone.

“No one put me up to anything,” said Norman.

“You’re a very sad little man.”

“Excuse me once more,” said Norman.

Outside thunder crashed and lightning flashed and the rain fell down in torrents. Jim Pooley peered out from the porch of Jack Lane’s pub. “It will lift in a minute,” said Jim to himself, “and then I’ll be on my way to offer my moral support to Norman.”

“Norman,” said Yola, “there’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?” said Norman. “I don’t understand.”

Mr Richard Gray smiled down upon Norman. “Good evening to you,” he said.

“Oh,” said Norman, looking up to take stock of the man in the long, dark coat with the astrakhan collar. “Mr Gray, I didn’t see you coming.”

“Really?” said Mr Gray, seating himself opposite Norman and placing a pint of Ssenniug before him on the table. “Mr Omally left this at the bar upon his departure. A shame to let it go to waste.”

“What is going on here?” Norman asked.

“Business,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Strictly business. You should have taken the deal I offered you when you came into my office and showed me the contract for your patents.”

“Oh that,” said Norman. “Well,
that
doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Believe you me, it matters.”