Knees Up Mother Earth (20 page)

Shoulders shrugged and then the countdown began. Necks craned to see what would happen. Folk at the back leaned upon shoulders and stood upon tippy-toe.

There was a general air of
expectation
.

“Three … two … one …”

And Norman threw the switch.

And then there was
ooohing
and
aaahing
and then there was silence.

For nothing whatever happened.

“Cop-out,” called someone.

“Load of old toot,” called someone else.

“No, hold on, hold on,” Norman called back. “I’ll just make an adjustment or two. It must work. I obviously haven’t charged up the capacitor enough. It needs a lot of energy – after all, the electricity does have to travel through the air.”

Norman took to cranking some more. He cranked and he cranked and he cranked. He cranked as one possessed. Sweat appeared on the shopkeeper’s brow and his face became crimson. His breath came in short pants. His short pants came in a gingham design.

“There,” gasped Norman, when he could crank no more. “One more time, if you will. Three …”

The crowd, enlivened by drink and celebratory
bonhomie
, joined Norman in his second countdown.

“Three … two … one …”

And Norman flicked the switch.

There was a moment of absolute silence. But this moment was too short to be truly registered by those present, especially because what happened next caught them somewhat unawares and unprepared.

There was a flash, as of lightning, and a sort of a blue arc. It travelled through the base of the Meccano tower, which Norman had neglected to insulate with rubber feet, and it travelled to the brass rail that ran along the edge of the mahogany bar counter. The brass rail that Norman was holding on to. And it travelled to Jim Pooley who was leaning upon Norman’s shoulder and from there to John who was leaning upon Jim’s and from there it travelled every which way, with the exception, so it seemed, of the other tower, to which was connected the light bulb.

And electricity travels fast.

And it travels, also, with vigour.

There is a story, the authenticity of which has yet to be verified, that some years ago a group of Russian scientists drilled a five-mile-deep bore hole in Siberia during a study of plate tectonics. According to this story, their drill bit broke through the ceiling of some underground cavern and a microphone (upon a
very
long cable) was lowered into the void.

The scientists claim that what they heard, relayed to them from this microphone, was the sound of millions of souls screaming in torment.

The scientists had unwittingly drilled into Hell.

No recording of this hideous cacophony of the damned has ever been played to the general public.

But if it were, then it is odds-on that the sound would be all but identical (although somewhat louder, due to the greater numbers involved) to that which was now to be heard within the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

It was one Hell of a collective scream.

Bodies shook and quivered, eyeballs rolled back into heads, teeth chattered and hair rose upon craniums to such effect that had another casual observer entered the bar at that very moment, he (or she) would have been convinced that he (or she) had entered the Don King lookalike convention.

And sparks flew.

Let us not forget the sparks.

They flew from fingertips and earlobes and privy members, too. And pints of ale bubbled on the bar top and optics shattered and …

Norman found himself barred from The Flying Swan.

Kevin Hurst, the ambulance driver from Brentford Cottage Hospital, offered Neville the bitterest of glares.

“Twice in one week,” he said. “What goes on in this bar? And what is this, anyway – a Don King lookalike convention?”

A thin haze of pale blue smoke still hung in the air of the saloon bar – a saloon bar whose patrons now sat slumped in attitudes of despondency, or lay upon the floor in attitudes of unconsciousness.

Neville, who had escaped electrocution by merit of being on the other side of the bar and consequently touching no one, was hardly able to speak.

Constables Russell Meek and Arthur Mild however, who had lately arrived on the scene, had plenty to say.

“Quietly patrolling, we were,” they told Scoop Molloy, who had his pencil and notebook out, “when we observed the premises illuminate with a fearsome fulguration. Unthinking of our personal safety, we pulled many from the jaws of death. There’ll be medals in this for us, I wouldn’t wonder.”

Scoop scribbled away in his notebook. “Fearsome fulguration. Jaws of death,” said he. “I like that.”

“My mobile phone,” croaked John Omally. “He blew up my mobile phone.”

“And singed my suit,” whinged Pooley.

“It’s what you call a glitch,” Norman explained.

“And how come
your
hair isn’t standing up?” a lady in a charred and elevated straw hat asked Norman.

John and Jim decided to call it a night. It had been an exciting day for the both of them, and enough was definitely enough.

“I will see you on the morrow,” said John, when they reached Jim’s lodgings.

Jim patted down his hair and cracked his knuckles and licked at his charred fingers. “I thought arresting Norman was somewhat over-zealous on the part of those policemen,” he said.

“They’ll probably let him out in the morning. You have a good sleep now, Jim. I’ll meet you tomorrow lunchtime in The Swan and we’ll discuss what is next to be done with the club.”

“And you can tell me everything that really went on last night,” said Jim. “And don’t think I’ll forget to ask you about it.”

“Goodnight to you, Jim,” said John, heading off for home.

“John,” Jim called after him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Is it further congratulations you’re looking for?” enquired John, turning back.

“No,” said Jim. “It’s
him
.”

“Him?” John asked.

“Him,” said Jim. “You, Mr Campbell. Goodnight to you, too. Go along with John.”

“I’m staying,” said the Campbell.

“You’re not staying with me.”

“I’ll be here, outside your door, maintaining the vigil.”

“I’d rather you just went home, thank you very much.”

The Campbell sat down upon the pavement. “Away to your bed, wee laddie,” said he. “I’ll see that no harm comes to you.”

“John,” said Jim, “I don’t like this, John.”

“Humour him,” said John. “He has your interests at heart.”

“But it’s not right. It’s indecent somehow.”

“Goodnight to you, Jim,” said John once more.

Jim Pooley shrugged. “Goodnight to you, John,” said he. “And goodnight to you, Campbell,” he said also.

The night passed without incident, and presently changed into coming day.

Lunchtime of this coming day found John and Jim
and
the Campbell, who had maintained his vigil outside Jim’s lodgings throughout the night, once more in the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

Neville did not greet his now unbarred patrons with a smile and a merry quip. Neville was very down in the dumps.

“Why me?” he asked. “My only desire is to serve fine ale and maintain a happy bar. What have I done to bring all this down upon me? Have I offended the Gods in some way? Tell me, won’t somebody tell me?”

“You’ve done nothing,” said John, accepting the ale he had ordered and paying for same with the exact amount of pennies and halfpennies. “You’re a good man, Neville. I’m sure you find favour in the eyes of your Gods.”

“I’m seriously thinking about running away with the circus,” said Neville.

“Strike that thought from your mind,” said John. “You are the finest barman in Brentford – probably in the country.”

“You really think so?” Neville preened at his lapels.

“Certainly,” said John. “Do you think you could open a window? It’s still a bit whiffy in here.”

Neville sloped off to open a window.

“He sat outside my place all night long,” Jim whispered to John, turning his eyes towards the Campbell, who sat by the door polishing his claymore with his kilt. “He fair puts the wind up me, John. Couldn’t he be your minder for a while?”

“Take it like a man, Jim,” said John. “You are a man of responsibility now. And there’s a Wednesday-night game coming up. You should be applying your mind to this.”

“I don’t think I’ll survive the season, John. This is all too much for me.”

“You’ll be fine. Let’s take a seat yonder. There are matters to be discussed.”

“Such as what actually happened on Friday night.”

“Oh, that, of course, but first things first. On the strength of the team’s great victory, I think we can bring in some big outborough money. People like to associate themselves with winners. I have one or two ideas that should bring us in a good many pennies.”

“John,” said Jim, “there is something you’re not telling me, something that has to do with the real reason why that lunatic in the kilt is following me around. I demand to be told, John. You’re my bestest friend. Please don’t lie to me.”

“Jim, just concentrate on the matters at hand.”

“Tell me now, John, all of the truth – or although we have been lifelong friends, I will walk out of this pub right now and I swear that I will not see you again.”

John Omally took in breath. “Now, Jim,” he said. “Don’t be hasty, now.”

“I mean it, John.”

Omally took a large swallow of ale. “All right,” said he. “I’ll tell you. You won’t like it and you’ll be very angry and feel that you have been betrayed – that’s the way I felt. But you deserve to be told and I’ve not been happy keeping it from you. You are my bestest friend.”

“I really don’t like the sound of this.”

“Then don’t make me tell you.”

“I have to know, John, and you know that I have to know.”

“All right,” said Omally. “Let us sit over in the corner. I’ll get us in more ale.”

“At
your
expense? Now I really
am
worried.”

“Go and sit in the corner.”

Jim went and sat in the corner. John joined him in the company of further ales.

And then John told to Jim everything that the professor had told to John. And John told to Jim everything that had really happened to Jim.

And John omitted nothing.

And Jim chain-smoked cigarettes until John had eventually done with his telling.

And Jim was not a happy man.

And then John stared into the face of Jim Pooley, a face that was bereft of colour, and John said unto Jim, “Are you all right?”

And Jim could not speak for a moment. And it was a long moment. But when Jim was able to speak, he simply said, “Yes.”

“Yes?” said John. “Is that all you have to say on the matter?”

“No,” said Jim, “I have much to say. I must say thank you to the Campbell for saving my life and I will have much to say to the professor. But for all that you have said, let me ask you this: do you actually believe it?”

“I believe what I saw with my own eyes and what I experienced. I have never been so afraid in all of my life, which is one of the reasons that I didn’t want to tell you. It is all so fearsome, Jim.”

“What are we going to do, John?”

“I really wish I knew.”

“But if these dark, black things are really out to kill us—”

“I know, my friend. But the Campbell will protect you.”

“And what about you? Who’s going to protect you?”

“I trust the professor. We’ll come out of this in one piece.”

“It’s absurd,” said Jim. “It’s beyond absurd. And above that it’s unfair that we should have been dragged into this.”

“I think you’re taking it very well.”

“I don’t think it’s fully sunk in yet.”

“I think we should just get on with doing what we’re doing – stick with trying to take the club to victory and leave all the magical stuff to the professor and the Campbell.”

“You don’t think that perhaps we’d both be better off just running away?”

“To where? Brentford is our home. I don’t know about you, but I have no wish to leave it. I like it here. I love it here.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “me, too. This is all very hard to take in.
Very
hard. It’s not exactly your everyday problem, now is it?”

Omally shrugged and shook his head.

“And the more I think about it, the more I think that you are going about all this in the wrong way.”

“How so?” John asked.

“Because of the scale of the problem, John. This is big, really big. Brentford hadn’t even played a single FA Cup qualifying game before these monsters were dispatched to kill us. Now Brentford
has
won a game, and handsomely, too. So what’s next? More assaults upon us, I would guess, more attempts upon our lives.”

“That will probably be the case.”

“And this Consortium that wants to take the football ground – it is run by some satanic magician, this William Starling character?”

“He would seem to be the villain of this piece,” said John.

Jim Pooley shrugged and continued, “How much power does this character have? A lot, would be my guess, and with every success the team has, he will throw more and more monsters at us.”

“The professor will protect us.”

“And who will protect the professor?”

“Ah,” said John. “Good point.”

“They’ll beat us,” said Jim. “They’ll kill us, and the professor, too. We can’t just sit around waiting for this to happen. Well,
you
can, if you want, but I won’t. We’re sitting targets, John, they’ll get us sooner or later. There could be thousands of them. You hear talk about Satanists and Black Magic covens, that they’re everywhere. Anyone could be a member. I’ve seen movies like this – you don’t know who to trust.”

“Stop this now,” said John. “Let’s just do our jobs.”

“No,” said Jim. “If we do that, then we’re doomed. If we’re involved in this, and seemingly we are, then
we
have to do something about it in order to protect our own lives. I trust the professor, the same as you do, but he’s a frail old man, not a superhero. We’re still young men, John.
We
should be doing something.”

“But what?” John drained away further ale.

“Get them before they get us,” Jim Pooley suggested.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Know your enemy,” said Jim. “I read that somewhere. Let the hunted become the hunter. Things of that nature, generally.”

“There is a wisdom in your words, Jim Pooley.”

“Thank you,” said Jim, finishing his pint. “The only question is, what should we do, and to whom?”

“Surely that’s
two
questions.”

Jim ignored this remark. “What do you know about this Consortium, John?” he asked.

“Probably as much, or as little, as you do. It’s a big multinational affair, property development. The headquarters are in Chiswick.”

“Just down the road,” said Jim. “Which makes a lot of sense.”

“It does?”

“If the ultimate goal of the character who owns this Consortium is to release the old serpent that is imprisoned beneath Brentford’s football ground, then it’s unsurprising that the headquarters would be nearby rather than, say, in Rio de Janeiro.”

“Ah yes,” said John. “I suppose it would.”

Jim raised an eyebrow at John.

“I’m really glad I told you all about this,” said John. “We work really well as a team.”

“Hm,” went Jim. “Well, that’s where we should start – at their headquarters. And today.”

“Today?”

“It’s Sunday,” said Jim. “Offices are closed on Sunday – a good time to have a little look around, I would have thought. See what might be seen. Find out what might be found out.”

“You really
are
on the case, Jim.”

“I don’t want to die, John. The prospect of impending death does tend to concentrate the mind.”

“So are you suggesting that we break into the offices?”

“Would
I
suggest a thing like that?”

“I’m beginning to wonder whether I really know you at all,” said John.

“We could pay the offices a little visit. I feel confident that you could talk our way in.”

John Omally put his hand out for a shake.

“Let’s take a trip to Chiswick,” said John.

“Let’s lose him first,” said Jim, rolling his eyes once more towards the Campbell.

John and Jim went off to the bog and left The Swan via the window. They shinned over the rear wall and had it away on their toes.

“We’ll take the bus,” said Jim.

“We’ll take Marchant,” said John.

Marchant was still in Jim Pooley’s allotment shed where John had left him when he stored the cache of Dadarillos – a cache that Jim was digging into once again.

“We’ll never make any profit from those,” John told Jim. “You’ll soon have smoked them all.”

“I’m not too happy about travelling on that bike of yours,” said Jim, filling his pockets with packs of cigarettes. “That bike hates me.”

“The lad’s all right,” said John, stroking Marchant’s saddle. “He’ll see us all right, too, won’t you, Marchant?”

The bicycle kept its own counsel.

“Let’s get this done,” said John, leading it from Jim’s shed.

The journey to Chiswick was uneventful but for the occasional tippings of Jim from the handlebars of Marchant. At length, the offices of the Consortium rose up in the distance. When the distance became the near-at-hand, the very scale of these offices revealed itself to be …

Awesome.

“By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth,” said Jim, who favoured a
Dr Strange
comic. “That is a very big building.”

“And very black, too,” said John. “All black, in fact.”

“There’ll be a doorman or a security guard or something,” said Jim, as Marchant unexpectedly applied its front brake and spilled Pooley once more to the road. “You do the talking.” And Jim picked himself up from the gutter.