East of Ealing (17 page)

“Look there.” Jim pointed to a lighted float which passed close to the Seaman’s Mission, a stone’s throw from the Professor’s door. Depicted there was the form of a giant, clad in robes of crimson and seated upon a great throne, carved with the gilded heads of bulls. Golden banners, each emblazoned with similar motifs, fluttered above and five hooded, stunted figures cowered at his feet in attitudes of supplication. The crimson giant raised and lowered his hand in mechanical benediction, and it appeared that for a moment he raised his eyes, twin blood bowls of fire, towards the men in the rooftop bower, and stared into their very souls.

“Him,” said Omally.

“And there.” Jim pointed vigorously. “Look at that, look at that.”

As the throned float moved beyond the range of vision, another rose up behind it. Here, a legion of men climbed one upon another, pointing towards the sky. They were identical in appearance, each resembling to a tee the young Jack Palance: the Cereans.

To either side of the floats marched a legion of men, women, and children. Familiar faces, now alien and unknown; their faces wore determined expressions and each marched in step, raising his or her own banner. Each illuminated with eighteen vertical lines, placed in three rows of six. The number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. Professor Slocombe pointed towards the image. Away in the distance, far greater shapes were looming into view, things so dark and loathsome, that even there, upon the flat white marble surface, their ghost images exuded a sense of eldritch horror which stunned the senses.

“Switch it off,” Omally demanded. “There is too much madness here.”

“One more small thing you must see, John.” Professor Slocombe adjusted the apparatus and the image of the Lateinos and Romiith building drew a black shroud across the table-top. The old man cranked the mechanism and enlarged an area at the base of the building. “Now look carefully, did you see that?”

His guests blinked and squinted at the image. “I saw something,” said Jim, “but what?”

“Look harder.”

“Yes, I see it.” It was but a fleeting movement, a single figure detached himself from the throng, pressed his hand to a section of the wall and was instantly swallowed up into the building to vanish without trace.

“I was at a loss to find a means of gaining entry,” the Professor explained, “but Holmes reasoned the thing through and deduced their method.”

“If it’s a lock then I shall pick it.”

“Not on this occasion, John. But one of us here has the key in his hand even now.”

“Oh no,” said Jim, thrusting his tattooed hand into his pocket. “Not this boy, not in there.”

“You have the right of admission, Jim, right there in the palm of your hand.”

“No, no, no.” Pooley shook his head vigorously, “An eight a.m. appointment with Albert Pierrepoint I should much prefer.”

“In my mind, only one course of action lies open. Unless we can penetrate the building and apply the proverbial spanner to the computer’s works, all will be irretrievably lost. We cannot think to destroy the dark God himself. But if his temple is cast down and his worshippers annihilated, then he must withdraw once more, into the place of forever night from whence he has emerged.” Professor Slocombe re-cranked the mechanism and the room fell into darkness.

“Oh doom,” said Jim Pooley. “Oh doom and desolaoooow! Let go there, John.”

“We must make our move now.” Professor Slocombe’s voice echoed in the void. “There is no more time, come at once.” He opened the door and the wan light from the stairs entered the strange roof chamber.

“But we cannot go outside,” said Omally. “One step out of this house and good night.”

“Have no fear, I have taken the matter into consideration.” Professor Slocombe led the two lost souls back to his study. “You are not going to like this, John,” said he, as he opened the desk drawer.

“That should create no immediate problem. I have liked nothing thus far.”

“So be it.” Professor Slocombe drew out a number of items, which had very much the appearance of being metallic balaclava helmets, and laid them on the table.

“Superman outfits,” said Pooley, very impressed. “I should have realized, Professor, you are one of the Justice League of America.”

“Silence, Pooley.”

“Sorry, John.”

“As ludicrous as these items at first must appear, they may well be our salvation. As you are no doubt now aware, the Lateinos and Romiith computer scan cannot penetrate lead. Hopefully, these lead-foil helmets will shield our brain patterns from the machine’s detection and allow us to move about unmolested.”

“Size seven and a half,” said Jim. “But I can fit into a seven at a push.”

“Good man. As an extra precaution, if each of you could slip another piece of foil into your breast pocket then your heartbeat should be similarly concealed. No doubt the infra-red image produced by body heat will still register, but the result should be somewhat confused. ‘Will not compute’, I believe the expression to be.”

“Bravo.” Omally slipped on his helmet without hesitation.

“Very Richard the Lionheart,” chuckled Pooley.

“A fine man,” said Professor Slocombe. “I knew him well.”

The three men, now decked out in their ludicrous headgear, slipped through the Professor’s French windows and out into the garden. At times one has to swallow quite a lot for a quiet life in Brentford.

Above the wall the titanic floats filled the street. As one by one the balaclava’d goodguys eased their way into the swaying crowd, each held his breath and did a fair bit of praying. Professor Slocombe plucked at Omally’s sleeve. “Follow me.” The marching horde plodded onward. The floats dwarfed both street and sky. Jim peered about him; he was walking in a dream. The men and women to either side of him, each wearing their pair of minuscule headphones, were unreal. And that he knew to be true in every sense of the word. At close hand, the floats appeared shabby and ill-constructed; a mish-mash of texture and hue coming together as if, and no doubt it was exactly thus, programmed to create an overall effect. No hand of man had been at work here. Like all else it was a sick parody, a sham, and nothing more. The bolted wheel near at hand turned in faulty circles grinding the tarmac, untrue. But it was hypnotic, its unreality drew the eye and held it there. “Come on, Jim.” Omally tugged at Pooley’s sleeve. “You’re falling behind again.”

Pooley struggled on. Ahead, the Lateinos and Romiith building dwarfed all beneath its black shadow. The sky was dark with tumbling clouds, strange images weaved and flowed beyond the mysterious glittering walls, shimmering over the roof-tops. Even now something terrible was occurring beyond the boundaries of the borough.

The awful procession turned out of the Butts and up into Moby Dick Terrace. Professor Slocombe drew his followers aside from the throng and the helmeted duo scuttled after him. “Make haste now.”

The Lateinos and Romiith building filled the eastern skyline. Jim noted with increasing gloom that an entire terrace of houses had gone, overwhelmed by the pitiless structure which reared into the darkling sky.

On a roadside bench ahead an old man sat with his dog.

“Good day, lads,” said Old Pete, as the strangely-clad threesome passed him by at close quarters. “Fair old do this year, isn’t it?”

“Bloody marvellous,” Pooley replied. “Hope to see you later for one in the Swan if all goes well.”

Old Pete cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. “Look out for yourself,” said he.

The three men continued their journey at the Jog.

“Stop here now,” said Professor Slocombe, as they came finally to the corner of the street. “I am expecting somebody.”

“A friend I hope.”

“That would be nice,” said Jim, with a little more flippancy than the situation warranted. “Organizer of the Festival raffle is it? Or chairman of the float committee?”

Omally took what he considered to be one of the last opportunities left to him to welt Jim about the head. “Oow ouch!” he said, clutching at a throbbing fist. Pooley smiled sweetly. “How much do you want for the copyright of this helmet?” he asked the Professor.

“Leave it out, you two. Here he comes.”

Along the deserted pavement, weaving with great difficulty, came an all too familiar figure, clad in grey shopkeeper’s overall and trilby hat. But what was this that the clone shopkeeper rode upon his precarious journey? Could this be that creaking vestige of a more glorious age, now black and pitted and sorely taken with the rest? Surely we have seen these perished hand-grips before? Marvelled at the coil-spring saddle and oil-bath chainguard? The stymied Sturmey Archer Three-speed and the tungsten-carbide lamp? Yes, there can be no doubt, it is that noted iron stallion, that prince of pedaldom, squeaking and complaining beneath the weight of its alien rider, it can be no other. Let men take note and ladies beware: Marchant the wonder bike, it is he.

“Get off my bleeding bicycle,” yelled John Omally.

Norman the Second leapt down from his borrowed mount with some alacrity. Not, however, with sufficient alertness to avoid the sneaky pedal which had been awaiting its chance to drive in deep. Norman’s right trouser cuff vanished into the oil-bath and the automated shopman bit the dust.

“Bastard,” squealed the mechanical man. “I’ll do for you.”

“Nice one, Marchant,” said John, drawing his bike beyond reach. The bicycle rang its bell in greeting and nuzzled its handlebar into its master’s waistcoat.

“Bloody pathetic isn’t it?” said Jim. “A boy and his bike, I ask you.”

“Do you think we might apply ourselves to the job in hand?” the Professor asked.

“I like the helmets,” said Norman the Second. “What is it then, Justice League of America?”

“A running gag I believe,” Jim replied. “Did you have to bring his bike? That thing depresses me.”

“Easy Jim, if I am going to die, I will do it with Marchant at my side, or at least under my bum.”

“Bloody pathetic.”

“Time to do your party trick, Jim,” said Omally. “Professor?”

The old man indicated a dimly-lit panel on the bleak wall. “Just there,” he said.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Jim complained. “I think the best idea would be to give the place a good leaving alone.”

“Stick your mitt out, Jim.”

The cursed Croesus placed his priceless palm on to the panel. There was a brief swish and a section of the wall shot aside. A very bad smell came from within.

“Quickly now,” said the Professor. “Keep your hand on the panel until we’re all in, Jim.”

A moment later the gap closed upon three men, one robot shopkeeper, and a bike called Marchant.

“Blimey,” said Omally. “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

They stood now in what might have been the lobby and entrance hall of any one of a thousand big business consortiums. The traditional symbols of success and opulence, the marble walls, thick plush carpeting, chromium reception desk, even the rubber plant in its Boda plant-stand, were all there. It was so normal and so very ordinary as to be fearful. For behind this facade, each man knew, lurked a power more evil than anything words were able to express.

“Gentlemen,” said Professor Slocombe, “we are now in the belly of the beast.”

Omally suddenly clutched at his stomach. “I think I’m going to chuck up,” he said. “I can feel something. Something wrong.”

“Hold on.” The Professor laid a calming hand upon Omally’s arm. “Speak the rosary; it will pass.”

Beneath his breath Omally whispered the magical words of the old prayer. Its power was almost instantaneous, and the sick and claustrophobic feeling lifted itself from his shoulders, to alight upon Jim Pooley.

“Blech,” went Jim. Being a man of fewer words and little religious conviction, he threw up over the rubber plant.

“That will please the caretaker,” chuckled Omally.

“Sorry,” said Jim, drawing his shirt-sleeve over the cold sweat on his brow. “Gippy tummy I think. I must be going cold turkey for the want of a pint.”

“You and me both. Which way, Professor?”

The old man fingered his chin. “There is no-one on the desk, shall we take the lift?”

Norman the Second shook his head, “I would strongly advise the stairs. A stairway to oblivion is better than no stairway at all I always say. Would you like me to carry your bike, John, or would you prefer to chain it to the rubber plant?”

“I’ll carry my own bike, thank you.”

Pooley squinted up at the ragged geometry, spiralling into nothingness above. “Looks like a long haul,” said he. “Surely the cellar would be your man, down to the fuse boxes and out with the fuse. I feel that I have done more than my fair share of climbing today.”

“Onward and upward.”

Now there just may be a knack to be had with stairs. Some speak with conviction that the balls of the feet are your man. Others favour shallow breathing or the occupation of the mind upon higher things. Walking up backwards, that one might deceive your legs into thinking they were coming down, has even been suggested. In the course of the next fifteen minutes it must fairly be stated that each of these possible methods and in fact a good many more, ranging from the subtly ingenious to the downright absurd, were employed. And each met with complete and utter failure.

“I’m gone.” Pooley sank to his knees and clutched at his heart.

“Nurse, the oxygen.” Omally dragged himself a stair or more further and collapsed beneath his bike. “We must give poor Jim a breather,” he said. “The life of ease has gone to his legs.”

“Are you all right yourself?” Norman the Second enquired.

“Oh yes.” Omally wheezed bronchitically and wiped the sweat from his eyes. “It is Jim I fear for.”

Professor Slocombe peered down from a landing above. If his ancient limbs were suffering the agonies one would naturally assume them to be, he showed no outward sign. The light of determination burned in his eyes. “Come on now,” he urged. “We are nearly there.”

“Nearly there?” groaned Jim. “Not only can I hear the grim reaper sharpening his scythe, I am beginning to see the sparks.”

“You’ve enough breath, Jim; lend him your arm, John.”