East of Ealing (20 page)

“That was quite close,” said John, dusting down his trousers. “But where now?”

Norman’s impossible machine was parked near at hand. An icy wind screamed over the rooftop, howling and moaning. “This way,” cried Norman. With tears flying from their eyes, they followed the shopkeeper. Pooley shielded his face and moved with difficulty, the gale near tearing him from his feet.

The sky above was black and starless. The blank vista of the rooftop seemed to stretch towards impossible extremes in every direction. Beyond, in the vertical seas which girded the borough, strange images burst and sparkled projecting themselves as if on three vast screens. But the panorama was shrinking, the streets still dimly visible below were diminishing. The building was shuddering beneath them, rising like a lift in a shaft. Its distant edges were becoming ever more distant. The building was duplicating itself. Time had run out, Holmes had not been successful, the Professor’s programme had failed.

“The Millennium!” cried Norman, as he forced himself into the driving seat. “Hurry!”

Pooley clung to the handrail of the time machine. The duplicates were pouring through the roof opening, a screaming mass tumbling towards them through the smashing firmament.

“This helicopter will never fly,” Jim told the shopkeeper.

“You have lost the last of your marbles.”

“All aboard now.” Omally did just that, as the satanic horde engulfed them.

Norman turned the ignition key and engaged reverse.

Neville, the new part-time barman, pushed the two brimming pints of Large across the polished counter-top and chalked the difference on to Pooley’s slate, a mistake he would soon, through experience, come to rectify. He studied the two men who now sat before him. The sudden change in them was dramatic, it was as if they had aged by twenty years, literally overnight. And the state of them, their clothes hung in ribbons. Evidently they had taken work in the building profession and experienced a hard morning’s graft.

The two men stared beyond his crisp right shoulder as if not noticing him. Their eyes seemed glued to the brewery calendar which hung unobtrusively amongst the Spanish souvenirs. Yet there was nothing strange to be seen in it. A simple cardboard rectangle with the brewery’s name surmounting an out of register colour print of Constable’s “Haywain” and the hanging tab: June 6 1969. What could they see in it?

As if suddenly aware of the barman’s scrutiny, the two men drew themselves away to a side-table, glasses in hand.

Omally studied his pint. “And so, what do you propose we do now?” he asked.

Pooley sucked beer froth from his upper lip and made smacking sounds. It really did taste better back in those days. He tapped at his nose. “I have a plan,” said he.

“Oh yes?” Omally’s voice lacked enthusiasm.

“Indeed. Don’t you understand? We’ve been given another chance to stop it all. At this moment, the Professor toils amongst his books and Holmes lies sleeping in his mausoleum. Norman chats, no doubt, with Leonardo da Vinci. Or has. I can’t be certain exactly how it all works.”

“So what do you intend to do?”

“Down a few more pints for a first off. Drink up, John, you haven’t touched yours.”

“I am not thirsty. Don’t you understand? We are in an even worse position now than ever we were. We know what is to come, but we can do nothing whatever to stop it. We know that it cannot be stopped.”

“Oh fish,” said Jim Pooley. Delving into his trouser pocket he drew out a bulging drawstring pouch. “Didn’t know I had these, did you?” he asked, weighing it in his hand. “Pooley’s ace in the hole.”

Omally extended his hand but Jim held the thing beyond reach. “No touching,” he said. “All mine, but you can have a peep.” He loosened the neck of the pouch and held it tantalizingly apart.

Omally peered forward. “Diamonds,” he gasped. “A king’s ransom.”

“I should say at the very least. I was going to have some cufflinks made up, but in all the excitement I completely forgot. I have no doubt they are synthetic, but nobody in this day and age is going to know that.”

“So what do you intend to do with them?”

“I am going to become a philanthropist,” said Jim. “I am going to build a church.”

“A church?”

“A cathedral. And do you know where I’m going to build it?”

Omally nodded slowly. “On the bombsite.”

“Exactly. No dirty big satanic buildings are going to come springing up from consecrated soil. What do you think, brilliant, eh?”

Omally leant back in his seat, his head nodding rhythmically. “Brilliant, you almost cracked it.”

“I don’t know about almost.”

“I do.” Omally’s eyes flickered up towards Jim’s. His hand moved towards his trouser pocket wherein rested a small black box, attached to which were a pair of wicked-looking rods. John Omally cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. “Hand me the diamonds, Jim,” he said in a cold dead voice. “We have other plans for them.”

Pooley’s mouth dropped open in horror. Clasping his diamonds to his bosom, he kicked over the table on to the robot double of his dearest friend and made for the door.

“You’re both barred,” screamed Neville, finding his voice, as the sleeveless Jim passed him by at speed, a raging Irishman with a black transitor radio close upon his heels.

As the two pounded off up the Ealing Road they all but collided with a brace of young gentlemen, who were strolling towards the Swan, studying a racing paper.

“Did you see what I just saw?” asked Jim Pooley, rubbing at his eyes and squinting off after the rapidly diminishing duo.

John Omally shook his head. “No,” said he. “I am certain that I could not. How do you fancy Lucky Number for the three-fifteen?”

“What, out of that new Lateinos and Romiith stable? I wouldn’t put my money on that.”

Robert Fleming Rankin (born July 27, 1949) is a prolific British humorous novelist. Born in Parsons Green, London, he started writing in the late 1970s, and first entered the bestsellers lists with Snuff Fiction in 1999. His books are a unique mix of science fiction, fantasy, the occult, urban legends, running gags, metafiction, steampunk and outrageous characters. According to the (largely fictional) biography printed in some Corgi editions of his books, Rankin refers to his style as 'Far Fetched Fiction' in the hope that bookshops will let him have a section to himself. Many of Rankin's books are bestsellers.

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