East of Ealing (13 page)

“AAAAOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOO… O… UH?”

Neville the part-time barman awoke after an absence of some eleven chapters. Scorning the tried and tested “Where am I?” he settled for “Why have I got a light bulb stuck up my left nostril?” which was at least original. His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, several inches above his face, and a great hand rose to brush away the obstruction blocking one side of his nose. This bed is a bit high, thought Neville. But then the dreadful memories of his most despicable situation came flooding back in a tidal wave of adipose tissue.

“The fat!” groaned Neville, his voice rumbling up from the depths of his stomach to shiver the ceiling above. “The terrible fat!” He tried to move his great St Paul’s dome of a head, but it seemed to be wedged tightly into an upper corner of the tiny hospital room. Painfully he struggled and shifted until he was able to peer down over the great massed army of himself and gauge some idea of how the land lay. It lay someway distant in the downwards direction. “OOOOOAAAAAAOOOOOOAAA… UH,” moaned Neville. “Worse, much worse.”

A sudden sound distracted him from his misery, somewhere beneath his spreading bulk and slightly to one side, a door appeared to be opening. From his eyrie above the picture-rail Neville watched a minuscule nurse enter the already crowded room.

“And how are we today?” asked this fairy person.

“We?” Neville’s voice arose in desperation. “You mean that there is more than one of me now?”

“No, no.” The tiny nurse held up a pair of doll-like hands. “You are doing very well, making good progress, great signs of improvement, nothing to fear.”

Neville now noticed to his increasing horror that the midget was brandishing a hypodermic syringe. Which, although perched between her tiddly digits like a Christmas cracker fag-holder, looked none the less as threatening as any of the others he had recently experienced at hind quarters.

“Time for your daily jab, roll over please.”

“Roll over? Are you mad, woman?” Neville wobbled his jowls down at the nurse.

The woman smiled up at him. “Come on now, sir,” she wheedled. “We’re not going to throw one of our little tantrums now, are we?”

If Neville could have freed one of his feet, possibly the one which was now wedged above the curtain-rail surrounding his bed, he would have happily stamped the tiny nurse to an omelette.

“Come on now, sir, roly-poly.”

“Crunch crunch,” went Neville. “Fe… Fi… Fo… Fum…”

“Don’t start all that again, sir. I shall have to call for doctor.”

“Crunch… splat.” Neville struggled to free a foot, or anything.

“You leave me no choice, then.” The tiny nurse left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Neville rubbed his nose upon the ceiling. How long had he been here? Days? Months? Years? He really had no idea. What were they doing to him? Pumping him full of drugs to keep him sedated? What? He had known all along that it was a conspiracy, but what were they up to? They had blown him up like a blimp for their own foul ends. Probably for some vile new hormone research designed to increase the bacon yield from porker pigs. It was the Illuminati, or the masons, or the Moonies or some suchlike sinister outfit. Just because he was slightly paranoid, it didn’t mean they weren’t out to get him.

And far worse even, what was happening at the Swan? That defrocked Matelot Croughton would have his hand in the till up to the armpit. The beer would be flat and the ashtrays full. There was even the possibility of after-hours drinking, Omally would see to that. He was probably even downing pints on credit at this very moment. It was all too much. He must escape, if only to save his reputation. Neville twisted and turned in his confinement, a latterday Alice tormented in a sterilized doll’s house.

The door of the room flew open beneath him and the nurse re-entered, accompanied by a pale young doctor in headphones. As Neville watched in fearful anticipation, he withdrew from his belt a small black device bristling with a pair of slim metallic rods. “We are being naughty again,” he said, clearing his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound and arming the mechanism. “Will we never learn?”

Neville the part-time barman turned up his eyes and gritted his teeth, “Fe… Fi…Fo…”

The pale young man stepped forward and applied the electrodes to Neville’s groin. A mind-rending shock of raw pain, tore the captive barman’s nerve endings to a million ribbons and he sank once more from consciousness into a blinding red haze of dumb agony.

The afflicted sun swung slowly into the Brentford sky, illuminating a parish which seemed already very much on the go. There were now none of the customary morningtide grumblings and complaints which greeted the arrival of each new day. Here were lads leaping to their feet anxious to continue their labours; and their labours as ever centred upon the forthcoming Festival of Brentford. Barefooted children already pranced stiff-leggedly about the maypoles set upon the Butts. The sounds of hammering and nailing echoed in the streets as the great floats were being hobbled into shape in myriad back to backs. The borough was obsessed by the approaching event, but the whys and the wherefores were misty businesses not lightly dwelt upon.

John and Jim slumbered amongst the potato sacks beneath a corrugated iron lean-to, sleeping the blessed sleep of the Bacchanalian. Professor Slocombe toiled with book and abacus, and Sherlock Holmes crept over a distant rooftop, magnifying glass in hand. Norman of the corner shop tinkered with Allen key and soldering iron upon the project of his own conception, and Old Pete with Chips at heel made his way along the Ealing Road, cursing bitterly. Neville slept in a netherworld of force-fed suppressants, dreaming escape and revenge. The old gods slept also, but the morning of the magicians was not far from the dawning.

“Things are certainly not what they used to be in Brentford,” groaned Jim Pooley.

The allotments being something of a parish nature reserve, the over-abundance of hearty birdsong tore the million-dollar bum and his Irish companion grudgingly from the arms of good old munificent Morpheus. Jim emerged from beneath his corrugated iron four-poster and grimaced at the world to be. He shushed at the feathered choristers and counselled silence. “Before I was rich,” he said, tapping at his skull in the hope of restoring some order, “before I was rich, I rarely took up a night’s lodgings upon the allotments.”

A woebegone face emerged from the lean-to, the sight silencing the birdies in a manner which normally it would have taken a twelve-bore to do. The godforsaken thing that was John Omally was far better kept from the gaze of children or the faint of heart. “Morning, Jim,” said he.

Pooley caught sight of the facial devastation. “Put that back for your own sake,” he advised. “I should not wish to come to close quarters with an article such as that until far starboard of breakfast time.”

Omally’s stomach made a repulsive sound. “Now breakfast would indeed be your man,” he said, taking his ravaged features back into the darkness. The birdsong welled forth anew.

“Shut up,” bawled Pooley, clutching his skull. The birdies put the proverbial sock in it.

“Shall we try the Professor for a slice or two of toast?” Jim asked.

“Definitely not,” a voice called back from the darkness. “I have no wish to see that good gentleman again. Buy me back my introduction please, Jim. I will owe you.”

“I can lend you a quid, John, but no more.”

“Let us go round and impose upon Norman. He is currently at a disadvantage. A bit of company will do him no harm.”

Pooley rubbed at his forehead and did a bit of hopeless eye focusing. “All right,” he said, “but if he starts to part the bacon with his left hand then I am having it away on my toes.”

Omally’s face appeared once more in the light. This time it had been translated into the one worn by his normal self.

“You have remarkable powers of recuperation, John,” said Jim.

“l am a Dubliner.”

“But of course.”

The two men tucked in their respective shirt-tails and strolled as best they could over the allotments, through the gates, and off up the Albany Road. A hundred or so yards behind them another Pooley and Omally fell into step and did likewise.

“You were saying last night,” said Jim, as they reached Moby Dick Terrace, “although I should not broach the subject so early in the morning, something about reaching a decision?”

“Oh yes,” John thrust out his chest and made some attempt to draw in breath. “My mind is made up, I have the thing figured.”

“And as to this particular plan. Is it kosher and above board or is it the well-intentioned codswallop of the truly banjoed?”

“I had a drink on me, truly. But in no way did it affect my reason.”

Now fifty yards behind, the other Pooley and Omally marched purposefully on in perfect step, their faces staring ever ahead.

“So tell me all about it then, John.”

Omally tapped at his nose. “All in good time. Let us get some brekky under our belts first.”

As they rounded the corner into Ealing Road they saw Old Pete approaching, cursing and swearing, his daily paper jammed beneath his arm. Young Chips followed, marking the lampposts for his own. The elder hobbled on, and as he caught sight of John and Jim he grunted a half-hearted “good morning”. As they all but drew level the old man suddenly dropped his paper and raised his stick. He stared past John and Jim and his mouth fell open, bringing the full dental horror of his National Healthers into hideous prominence. “G… gawd,” he stammered, “now I
have
seen it all.”

John and Jim looked at one another, towards the gesturing ancient, and finally back over their shoulders, following the direction of his confounded gaze. Bearing down upon them at a goodly rate of knots marched their perfect doubles. “Run for your life!” screamed Omally. Jim was already under starter’s orders. The two tore past the befuddled ancient and his similarly bemused pet at an Olympic pace. Their doubles strode on in unison, hard upon the retreating heels.

Old Pete turned to watch the curious quartet dwindle into the distance. He stooped crookedly to retrieve his fallen paper and shook his old head in wonder. “I am certain that I saw that,” he told Chips. “Although I am sure it will pass.”

Young Chips made a low gummy sort of growling sound. He had recently bitten a postman’s leg and lost several of his favourite teeth for his pains. He just wasn’t certain about anything any more.

John and Jim were making admirable time along the Ealing Road. They passed Norman’s corner-shop, the Swan, the Princess Vic, and drew level with the football ground. “Where do we go?” gasped Pooley. “There’s nowhere to run to.”

“Just keep running, we’ve got to lose them.” John squinted back over his shoulders. Himself and Jim showed no signs of fatigue, if anything they looked more sprightly, as if the exercise was doing them good. “Run, man, run!”

Round into the maze of back streets behind the football ground went the hunted pair. The doubles came forward at the jog, staring ever ahead. John dragged Pooley into an alleyway. “Along here and keep it sprightly,” he urged.

The breathless Jim collapsed into a convulsion of coughing, hands upon knees. “I cannot continue,” he croaked. “Leave me here to die.”

“And die you surely will. Ahead, man.”

Omally thrust Pooley forward, the sound of approaching footfalls echoing in his ears. Down the dustbin-crowded alley they ran, John overturning as many as he could behind him. The duplicates crashed along, behind, casting the toppled bins effortlessly aside. John and Jim emerged into an obscure side-street neither of them could put a name to. The Lateinos and Romiith computer scan which observed their every movement had it well-catalogued in degree and minutes to a fearful number of decimal places.

“There has to be some way to dodge them,” gasped Pooley.

“Keep going, damn you.”

The duplicates crashed out into the street behind them.

Across Brentford ran Pooley and Omally, zigzagging through people’s back gardens, up and down fire escapes, in between the trees of the Memorial Park, and ever onwards. Behind them came the pounding of synchronized feet, never letting up for an instant.

“No more,” gulped Jim, when the two had shinned with difficulty over a high wall and dropped down into no safety whatsoever on the other side. “I am finished.”

The sweat ran freely into Omally’s eyes as he tore off his jacket and flung it aside. “Not me,” said he. “I’m not giving in to some clockwork copy, not while I still draw breath.”

With a great rending of brick and mortar, a section of the wall collapsed about them as the two duplicates applied their combined force.

“Run, Jim.”

“I’ll race you.”

Along the cobbled way towards Old Brentford Docks staggered John and Jim, their last reserves of stamina all but drained away. Their hobnails sparked and clattered upon the cobbles and behind them in perfect unison their soulless pursuers were to be heard click-clacking at an easy pace. John pulled Jim into one of the disused warehouses. As he did so, their infra-red images unaccountably vanished from the screen of the Lateinos and Romiith computer. They ducked away behind a stack of abandoned loading pallets and shrank into the darkness, hearts pounding. From without, the sound of approaching footsteps drew nearer, then suddenly ceased. “Quiet now,” whispered Omally, ramming his hands over Pooley’s convulsing cherry-red face. Jim gasped for breath and sank down on to his bum with a dull thud. Omally ssshed him into silence, his finger upon his lips. The sound of slow, steady footfalls reached their ears. “Stay quiet.”

The duplicates moved about the building, uncertain of which way to go; they tested the air with their sophisticated nasal sensory apparatus, in the hope of catching the scent of their quarries, but the ozone of the old dock drew the kipper over their tracks. Jim Pooley drew a fistful of sweat from his brow and spattered it on to the dusty floor of the old warehouse. He looked towards John, who shrugged in the darkness. Long, painful minutes passed. Jim folded his jacket across his chest to muffle the sound of his deafening heartbeat. Omally slunk to and fro seeking an exit or a reason or an anything. Outside, the duplicates stealthily encircled the building, sniffing and peering. The Omally gestured to the yawning doorway. The Pooley nodded. The duplicates entered the warehouse. Omally saw their shadows spread across the floor and flattened himself on to the deck. The two came slowly forward, scanning the way before them. Circuits meshed and weaved in their mechanized brains, drawing in the data, and processing it in the twinkling of a plastic eyelid.

From behind the stack of pallets a very foolish voice indeed said suddenly, “Well, I think we’ve outrun them, John. Care for a tailor-made?”

Omally’s eyes widened in horror as he watched the two heads, one his own and the other that of his dearest friend, swivel upon their frictionless bearings, and swing in the direction of the sound. He gestured towards Jim, whose face could just be seen grinning from behind the stack of pallets. “Come, come.”

The robot Pooley leapt forward and grasped the obstruction barring his way. He tore the stack apart with a single movement, sending them smashing to all sides.

Jim looked up white and trembling and saw death staring him right between the eyes. “Help, John,” he squealed, cowering back against the wall. “Do something.”

Grinning like a gargoyle, the robot slowly withdrew from the pocket of his brand new suit, a small wicked-looking black instrument with two extendable electrodes. With a flick of the thumb he armed the mechanism and sent sparks crackling about the tips of the rods.

Omally floundered about seeking a suitable weapon, his hand closed over a length of iron conduit. “Up the rebels,” he cried as he flung himself towards Jim’s attacker. His own double turned upon him to stand glaring, eye to eye. “You bastard,” spat Omally, “come and try your luck.” He swung his cudgel with terrific force but the robot shot out a hand and grasped it, tearing it from his grip and flinging it the length of the warehouse. Omally ducked back as his double delved into its pocket. The smile widened upon its lips as the small black box appeared.

“Hold hard,” a voice echoed about the warehouse. Four pairs of eyes shot in the direction of the sound. A tall, gaunt figure stood crouched in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, legs spread widely apart and hands held forward. “This is a Magnum Forty-four,” he shouted, “biggest handgun in the world and can blow your heads clean off your shoulders. What do you say, punks?”

The robot duplicates looked towards their respective quarries, one cowering and covering his nuts, the other standing defiant, thirty-four-function barlow knife now in hand. They turned in unison towards the source of their annoyance.

“Hold hard or I fire,” cried Sherlock Holmes.

The robots stole forward upon synthetic heels.

“Right on.” Holmes’ trigger finger tightened. Two shots rang out in rapid succession. The robot Pooley span from his feet in a hazy blur, his head a mass of trailing ribbons and sparking wires. The Omally sank to its knees, foul yellow slime spurting from two over-large holes front and back of its plastic skull. He rose to stumble forward, cruel claws scratching at the air, jerked upright, then slumped to the deck, a rag doll flung carelessly aside. Holmes blew into the barrel of his Forty-four, spun it upon his forefinger, and tucked it away into his shoulder holster. “Gotcha,” he said.

Omally clicked back the blade of his barlow knife and thrust the thing into his breast pocket. He stepped over to console the gibbering Pooley. “Thanks yet again,” he said to Sherlock Holmes. “It seems that we are once more in your debt.”

“No sweat,” the great detective replied. He stooped over the twisted “corpse” of the false and fallen Pooley and began to turn out its pockets. Jim crept forward and watched in horror as Holmes examined the contents before tossing them aside. A besmutted handkerchief, a leaky ballpoint pen, an initialled gold Cartier lighter, and a packet of Passing Cloud cigarettes.

Pooley patted frantically at his pockets; they’d been picked obviously. To his further horror his patting disclosed an identically besmutted handkerchief, a leaky ballpoint pen, and the same Cartier lighter, which he had not as yet learned how to fill; even the packet of fags. Pooley held out his hands to Sherlock Holmes. The detective took the cigarette packet and shook it open: seventeen cigarettes. He picked up the robot’s packet: three gone from the packet of twenty.

“Very thorough. Every last detail absolutely correct,” said Holmes. “I would hazard a guess that, should we analyse the fluff in your trouser pockets and that of this demon-spawn here, they would match exactly.” Jim shuddered. Holmes completed his search and satisfied himself that he had taken all relevant matters into account. He rose to leave. “I must away now,” he said. “The game is afoot.”