At last he realized the truth: his consuming disability had been nothing more than the painful and grotesque prelude to what was to come. The time for the settling of scores was fast approaching. The power of the great Old Ones. The gods of his pagan ancestry born in the dawn of the light when the world was full of wonder. The power had returned and it had returned to him. The last of the line.
A broad tight-lipped smile arced up upon the barman’s face. His fingers flexed, and beneath the surgical gown huge muscles rolled about his body, porpoises swimming in a sack. The Herculean barman pressed his hands to the ceiling of his most private ward. With a splinter of plastic-cladding, his hands rose, tightening to fists and forcing upwards, unstoppably. Neville rose with them, pouring forth from his prison, rising upon a floodtide of superhuman energy. The barman’s head and shoulders passed through the ceiling and a low choked cry rose from his throat.
He was ill-prepared for the sight which met his gaze. He had supposed himself to be in the private wing of the Cottage Hospital. The view from the window tending to support this well enough. But not a bit of it. The hospital room and its window view were nothing but a sham, hiding a grim reality. The tiny room was little more than a box, set in some great empty warehouse of a place. It spread away, dimly-lit, acre upon acre of concrete flooring and absolutely nothing. The window view, now seen from above, was a mish-mash of laser lines projected on to a screen. It was a hologram.
“Fe… fi… fo,” said Neville, as he perused his stark surroundings. Where was he? He felt like a jack-in-the-box in an empty toy factory. “Curiouser and curiouser!” Standing erect and kicking aside the make-believe walls of the movie-set hospital room, he stood upon a soundstage vaster by far than any ever envisaged by the now legendary Cecil B himself.
Neville drew in his breath and watched in pride as his great chest rose beneath the gown. This was the dream come true, surely? The impossible dream realized. His gods had at long last decided to smile upon him. He must have performed for them some great service without even realizing it. A million glorious thoughts poured into the barman’s head. He would seek out that Trevor Alvy who had bullied him at school; and parade up and down the beach come summer with his shirt actually off. No more heavy sweaters to disguise his bony physique, no more cutting jibes about his round shoulders. He would get a tan. And kick sand in people’s faces. Yes, he would definitely do that. He would eject drunks from the bar without having to resort to the sneaky knobkerry from behind. Neville threw himself into a pose, displaying muscles in places where Arnold Schwarzenegger didn’t even have places. Conan who? He was quids in here and no mistake. “Oh joy, oh bliss.” Things were happening about Neville’s groin regions which, out of common decency, he did not even dare to dwell upon. The bulging barman paused for a moment or two’s reflection. For one thing, it was impossible for him to gauge exactly how high he might be. If the hospital room was life-size, he must surely top the twenty-foot mark. That was no laughing matter. Giants, no matter how well hung they might be, were never exactly the most popular fellows in town. In fact, the more well hung they were, the worse their lot. There was always some would be “David” about, with a catapult and poor eyesight.
Neville erased such thoughts from his brain with difficulty. If this thing had been done to him, then it had been done with a purpose. There was no accident or casual element of chance evident here. This was something else, something very very special. And he would have to find out the purpose. And to do that, he would first have to make his escape from this great cold dark room at the very hurry-up. Before the chill began to shrink anything. Upon those tireless, finely-muscled legs that Charles Atlas had promised to a dozen generations of sickly youth, Neville took flight and sped away with great leaps and bounds, seeking the exit.
29
A good half-mile beneath the barbarian barman’s thundering feet, John Omally opened another bottle of carrot claret and poured himself a large glass. “Soap,” said he to his host, “this is good stuff you have here.”
“Nectar,” Jim Pooley agreed. “Write me down the recipe and I will provide for your old age.”
Soap grinned stupidly. “You must try the cigars,” he said, rising unsteadily from his horrendous armchair and tottering over to the box.
“Home-grown?”
Soap made a crooked “O” out of his thumb and forefinger. “I have a five spot says you cannot identify the blend.”
“Take it out of the money you still owe us,” said Jim.
Soap handed out a brace of lime-green coronas. Omally took his dubiously and rolled it against his ear. “Not a sprout?” he asked in a fearful voice.
“Heavens no.” Soap crossed his heart. “Would I do that to you?”
Pooley sniffed his along its length. “Not spud?”
“Absolutely not. I know Omally stuffs his peelings into his pipe, but even he would draw the line at manufacturing cigars from them.”
“They don’t roll,” said John, making the motions.
The two men lit up, and collapsed simultaneously into fits of violent coughing.
“Whatever it is,” wheezed John, tears streaming from his eyes, “it’s good stuff.”
“Perhaps a little sharp.” Jim’s face now matched the colour of his cigar.
“Do you give up?”
“Indubitably.”
“Well I shan’t tell you anyway.” Soap slumped back into his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
The ruddy hue slowly returned to Jim’s face as he got the measure of his smoke. “How long do you think we are going to have to fiddle about down here?” he asked.
Soap shrugged.
Omally tapped a quarter-inch of snow-white ash into a glass cache pot of the Boda persuasion. “We can’t stay down here indefinitely, Soap,” he said. “Although your hospitality is greatly appreciated, you must surely realize that we must make some attempts at salvaging something of our former lives. We were quite fond of them.”
Soap waved his hands at the Irishman. “All in good time, John. The Prof will tip us the wink. For now, have a drink and a smoke and a pleasant chat.”
“I fear we will shortly exhaust all topics of conversation.”
“Not a bit of it, I am a fascinating conversationalist. On most matters I am eloquence personified. My range is almost inexhaustible.”
“And your modesty legend. I know.”
“All right then, what is your opinion of evolution?”
“A nine-aeon wonder.” Omally awaited the applause.
“I have a somewhat revolutionary theory of my own.”
“I do not wish to hear it.”
“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago, complete with all records and memories. Although an improbable hypothesis, I think you will find it logically irrefutable.”
“And how long have you held this belief?”
“Hard to say, possibly four and a half minutes.”
“Fol-de-rol.”
“Well, what about politics, then? As an Irishman, you must have some definite views.”
“As an Irishman, I never trouble to give the matter a moment’s thought.”
“Religion, then?”
“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago. Are you looking for a grazed chin, Soap?”
“Only trying to pass the time with a little pleasant intercourse.”
“Careful,” said Jim.
“Well, I get few callers.”