“It all ends here,” said Gwynplaine Dhark.
“The oath,” said Jim. “The oath.”
“The oath,” said Mr Dhark. “And the threefold law of return, wherein a magical calling misdirected returns against the sender with thrice the power to destroy him.”
“Such is the power of the oath,” said Omally. “The professor explained it to me. Your master dare not break it, or threefold will the power return to destroy him.”
“Under normal conditions, yes,” said Mr Dhark.
“Normal conditions?” said John. “Nothing is particularly Norman about magic”
“Did you mean to say ‘Norman’?” said Norman. “No, I’m confused now.”
“What night is this?” asked Mr Dhark.
“Friday night,” said Omally. “Friday the thirteenth of May.”
“The night before the FA Cup Final, and the very Eve of the Apocalypse. And a significant night in the magical calendar. It is the feast of Corpus Negrum, the night of the Black Sabbat, second only to Walpurgis night, but more powerful in that it is the night of the magical reversal, when those normal conditions I mentioned earlier no longer apply.”
“What?” said John.
“I don’t like this,” said Jim.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Gray, “but I regret to inform you that you have walked into a trap. A carefully laid trap, one that relied upon friendship. That Norman here would turn to a friend – you, Mr Pooley – and that you in turn would have a friend who cared deeply for you and would follow you into this trap. Tonight the three of you die and the winner, my master, takes all.”
Beyond the walls, the storm seemed infernal.
Within the walls, matters seemed none too hopeful.
“Kill them all,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And leave me only their skulls for my counter.”
“No!” cried Norman. “Have mercy, don’t kill us.”
John Omally raised his fists.
Jim Pooley flapped his hands about and began to turn in small circles.
And then the red lights dimmed to black and horrible slaughter began.
40
Professor Slocombe clapped his hands. “Let there be light!” he commanded.
Light flooded The Beelzepub, dazzling radiant light. The would-be murderers of John, Jim and Norman fell back before it.
The professor stood in the doorway. The Campbell stood at his side.
“Slay them,” said Professor Slocombe. “The two men and the woman also.”
“The woman also?” said the Campbell.
“The evil inhabits her now. There is nothing I can do.”
The Campbell raised his claymore high.
More horrible slaughter began.
41
Jim Pooley awoke from a nightmare that involved horrible slaughter. Jim yawned and stretched and did easings into consciousness. And then Jim felt knottings in his stomach regions and lay, staring up at his bedroom ceiling.
He had just dreamed all that, hadn’t he?
All that hideous stuff?
Jim issued forth from beneath his duvet[49], swung his legs down to the floor and cradled his face in his hands.
What had happened last night? His memory failed him.
How much had he drunk?
Memories came drifting back to Jim. Well, not so much drifting as elbowing brutishly in. Jim shook his head fiercely, torn between trying to remember and hoping that he never would.
“John,” said Jim, and, “Norman.”
But he recalled that his two friends had also survived unhurt. “I’m really fed up with all this,” grumbled Jim. “I wish it was all over.”
In the not-too-far distance, the bells of St Joan’s Church clock struck nine and Jim took deep and steadying breaths and sought to prepare himself mentally for the big day that lay ahead.
The big FA Cup Final day when Brentford would meet Manchester United upon the hallowed turf of Wembley.
Jim Pooley’s hands began to shake. He couldn’t do this, he really couldn’t. The responsibility was all too much. Best to do a runner now, slip away, come back when it was all over with a tale about losing his memory. That would be for the best. No one would hate him for that.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said John Omally, “so please stop thinking it right now.”
Jim turned in considerable surprise. “John,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
“I slept the night upon that instrument of torture which passes for a sofa in your sitting room cum dining room cum why-do-you-never-dust-it!”
“Oh,” said Jim. “I don’t remember. My thoughts are all confused.”
“Well,” said John, flexing and clicking his shoulders and doing stretchings of the neck. “On with your lucky suit, Bertie, we have a match to win.”
Jim surveyed the lucky suit that hung from the mantelshelf on its hanger. “I really don’t want to do this,” he said.
“I know you don’t, and who can blame you? But it’s all going to come to an end today, one way or the other. And if it goes our way, which I have every confidence that it will, you and I will be wealthy men. You still have the betting slip, I trust?”
Jim’s hand slipped under his pillow and found the betting slip. “He’ll never pay up,” he said.
“He’ll pay,” said John. “The professor will see to that.”
“And if any harm comes to the professor?”
“No harm will come to him. Now pack it in, Jim, tog up in your tweeds and I’ll treat you to breakfast at The Plume.”
Norman took breakfast at Madame Loretta Rune’s in the company of Mr H.G. Wells and an ill-washed youth named Winston.
Crockery tinkled with the tune of the knife and the fork. Polite conversation was to be heard between Japanese tourists come to view the wonders of Brentford, a salesman travelling in tobaccos and ready-rolled cigarettes, a heavy-metal rock band, Stub’n, whose tour bus had broken down on the flyover, and a pair of teenage runaways who were making their way to Gretna Green. All in all, your usual group of b. & b. clients, with the possible exception of those at Norman’s table.
“So they nearly topped ya, gov’nor,” said young Winston, tucking into bacon, eggs, fried bread and tomatoes, all at the very same time. “The Dark One’s ’enchmen. Nearly ’ad your liver and lights.”
“It was close,” said Norman, “and very scary indeed.”
Mr Wells made tut-tut-tuttings. “You have no one to blame but yourself,” said he.
“I know,” said Norman. “I know. But you will be able to sort it all out, won’t you?”
Mr Wells did noddings of the head.
“And you will stay to watch the match before you travel off through time? We can drive there in my van, take the Time Machine with us in the back. I have seats in the executive box – bought them from Omally, cost me a fortune – but I’d love you to be there. My treat. My way of saying thanks for everything.”
“It will be a pleasure,” said Mr Wells. “I’ve become quite a – what is the word? – fan of Brentford United over the last few months. Do you really think they are going to win?”
“I’m quietly confident,” said Norman. “Fate leads the willing, but drives the stubborn.”
“You’re a rare ’n, gov’nor,” said Winston. “Gawd pulp me pud if you ain’t.”
“It ain’t rocket science,” said Pippa, fluttering her eyelashes and trying to pay attention.
“It’s very important,” Neville told her. “Changing a barrel correctly, it’s an art.”