Omally, both feet on the brake and telling Norman’s van what a lovely van it was, heaved the steering wheel portside.
The van hit the junction, swerved and then rolled.
The limo rushed on towards the Gas Showroom building before it.
“Ooooo!” went John and Jim and the professor and the mysterious stowaway in the back as Norman’s van rolled over and over, scattering pedestrians and cyclists and oncoming cars and cats and dogs and a casual observer.
The limousine struck the Gas Showroom building before it.
A mighty explosion occurred.
46
Jim Pooley raised his head from a tangle of twisted limbs and body parts that were not his own.
“Am I dead?” Jim asked.
“Not dead,” came the voice of Omally. “Get your damned foot off my head.”
“Professor?”
“Fine, Jim – somewhat battered, but fine. The van seems to have landed the right way up, which is a blessing.”
“Untangle me,” said Jim. “There’s a hand in my trouser parts that is not my own.”
The Gordian knot that was John, Jim and the professor was finally cut with the aid of oncoming onlookers, or good Samaritans as they are sometimes called.
“Now, in my opinion,” began a casual observer. But he said no more, for Pooley swung open the passenger-side door and knocked him from his feet.
“Has anyone been listening to the match?” Jim asked the onlookers. “Anybody know what the score is?”
Professor Slocombe crawled from the van. “Your assistance would be appreciated,” he told Jim.
Jim Pooley hastened to oblige the scholar.
“The limousine,” said the professor. “Starling. Is he dead?”
Jim viewed the devastation fifty yards behind them. “Are you okay, John?” he asked.
Omally heaved himself from the van. “Battered but all in one piece.”
“We have to see if Starling survived,” said Jim.
“I’ll finish him off if he has.”
As the onlookers onlooked and the casual observer observed small stars and sailing ships and sausages and sprouts, the three front-seat survivors made their way towards the now open-fronted building from which projected the rear of the limousine. Smoke was rising freely and flames crackled around and about the wrecked automobile.
“Careful,” said the professor. “If he is alive, he won’t be pleased to see us.”
Jim Pooley took hold of a rear doorhandle. “It’s hot,” he said, blowing on to his fingers.
“Open it, Jim, but be careful.”
Pooley dragged open the door and peered into the rear compartment. It was very much of a mess, thoroughly mangled, and shards of twisted metal had ripped through the seats. But of William Starling there was nothing to be seen.
“He’s not in here,” said Jim. “He’s gone.”
A sudden cry of pain was to be heard.
The three men turned. Along the road, beside Norman’s somewhat dented van, they saw Starling. His clothes were torn, but he was still in one piece. The cry of pain had come from a motorcyclist whom Starling had unseated. As the three men looked on, William Starling climbed astride the motorcycle and swerved away at speed.
“Back to the van,” the professor cried. “And after him.”
“It’s all go nowadays, isn’t it?” said Omally.
“Maybe the crash will have got the radio working again,” said Jim.
Sponge Boy, Terrence and the Campbell were working their way steadily up the many floors of the Consortium building. Flames now roared beneath them in the stairwell.
The Campbell had a sweat on, but his claymore arm was still more than sound. He hacked away with a vim and vigour, cleaving darksters before him.
In his claymore-free hand, the Campbell carried a tartan holdall. Within this holdall lurked many pounds of Semtex.
“The crash and the explosion should have killed him,” said Jim, as John swore at Norman’s van and Norman’s van set off once more at speed.
“We are dealing with no ordinary man,” said Professor Slocombe.
“Who – or what – is he?” Jim asked.
“A man from another time,” said Professor Slocombe. “Another period of time – the late-Victorian age. He sold himself to the Dark Side, if I might put it so, and he should have died when the clock struck twelve midnight on the thirty-first day of December in the year eighteen ninety-nine.”
“Time travel,” said Jim. “Is that what all this has been about? Norman there bringing Brentford’s nineteen twenty-eight team to Wembley with the help of Mr H.G. Wells? This really is beyond belief.”
“I think I’m probably able to believe absolutely anything at all now,” said Omally, “no matter how absurd it may appear. And thus I think I’ll give up being a Catholic and become a Wiccan instead. Get on, you worthless ****.”
Norman’s van got on at the hurry-up.
“Another world existed in Victorian times,” Professor Slocombe continued, “a world of supertechnology, but it vanished from the pages of history. It was erased at the stroke of midnight, with the coming of the twentieth century.”
“This supertechnology,” said Jim, “is this the stuff that you mentioned to us? The stuff you said Starling needed to free the serpent from beneath Griffin Park?”
“The very same, Jim. William Starling should have died when the holocaust occurred at the turn of the twentieth century and all the supertechnology was destroyed. I do not know all of the details. It all has to do with alternative histories and alternative futures. Such things cause the mind to spin. Somehow some remnants of the super-technology survived, and Norman acquired them.”
“His patents?” said Jim.
“They were not his. Starling had accumulated his wealth because for a period he had been able to travel freely from his present into our present. Consequently he knew what to invest in, and he knew what would happen before it did so. But then, I am not without knowledge and I was able to predict what would occur – including the arrival of my old friend Mr H.G. Wells, with whom I have had the pleasure of spending many delightful chess-playing evenings over the last few months whilst Norman worked on repairing his Time Machine. The one in the back of the van here. I hope it didn’t take too much of a knock in the crash.”
Jim shook his head, but it didn’t help to ease his confusion. “Are we nearly there yet?” he asked.
“Nearly,” said John.
“Can’t you catch up with Starling?”
“He’s riding a Harley Davidson,” said John. “And I do not know swearwords of sufficient obscenity to make this knackered old van keep up with a Harley.”
“I do,” said Professor Slocombe. “Press on.”
And Professor Slocombe spoke Babylonian cusswords.
And Norman’s van went even faster.
And William Starling’s purloined Harley soared into the car park of the Consortium building. Smoke issued freely from the shattered windows on many levels Starling stepped from the motorcycle and gazed up at the conflagration. And words issued from his mouth. Words of no language spoken by man. Words of the language of the Great Old Ones.
The language of the Lord Cthulhu.
Starling reached into an inner pocket of his ruined jacket, drew out a pistol, tore the jacket from his shoulders and flung it aside. And then he stalked across the car park and entered the unholy building.
“Unholy bastards.” Terrence blasted away at darksters that rose up before him. And then gun barrels continued to spin, but nothing issued from them. “Sponge Boy,” shouted Terrence, “I’m out of ammunition.”
They were on the topmost floor, advancing along the black marble corridor that led to the terrible room.