“Not openly. Norman is keeping the matter very much to himself.”
“And he plans to alter the Earth’s axis by teleporting the Great Pyramid of Cheops into Brentford football ground?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Professor Slocombe fingered the lobe of his left ear. “We live in interesting times,” he said.
Pooley shrugged and pushed a remaining portion of buttered toast into his mouth.
“The idea does have a certain charm, though,” said Professor Slocombe. “I should really have to sit down and work it out with a slide rule. For the moment, however, I feel it would be better if he was dissuaded from going ahead with it. I think we should nip it in the bud.”
“I think John and I can fit that in between engagements,” said Pooley sarcastically. The Professor raised an eyebrow towards him, and he fell back to his toast chewing.
“How near to completion do you believe his project to be?”
Pooley shrugged again. “Days away, by the manner in which he spoke. Omally, using his usual ingenuity, suggested that he might avail himself of any serviceable components from the Captain Laser machine, once he had successfully disabled it. That idea alone was enough to win him over to the cause. What with thinly-veiled threats of exposure and the assurance that his action would not only save mankind as we know it, but also secure him readmission to the Swan in time for the darts tournament, he was putty in Omally’s grubby mitt.”
“It would certainly be nice to clear all this up before darts night,” said the Professor enthusiastically. “I have booked a table at the Swan, I would not care to miss it for the world.”
“Let us pray that none of us do,” said Pooley. “Would there be any chance of a little more toast?” Professor Slocombe reached for his small brass bell. “I know perfectly well that it is not how you do it,” said Jim.
“The toast is on the way,” said Professor Slocombe, smiling broadly.
Neville limped painfully up the stairs to his room, bearing with him the special mid-week edition of the Brentford Mercury, which had flopped unexpectedly through the Swan’s letter-box. Propping it against the marmalade pot, he lowered himself amid much tooth-grinding on to the gaily-coloured bathing ring, which rested somewhat incongruously upon his dining chair.
As he sipped at his coffee he perused the extraordinary news sheet. BRENTFORD HOLOCAUST! screamed the six-inch banner headline with typically restrained conservatism. “Many arrests in Battle of Brentford, rival gangs clash in open street warfare.”
Neville shook his head in wonder at it all. How had the trouble started? It was all a little hazy. That Pooley and Omally were involved, he was certain. He would bar them without further ado.
He groaned dismally and clutched at his tender parts.
He surely could not afford to bar any more clients; something desperate was going to have to be done to persuade Norman to return to the fold. And Old Pete; he was sure he had barred him, but he was equally certain that the old reprobate had been in the night before. Perhaps he hadn’t. He would bar him again just to be on the safe side.
He perused the long columns of journalistic licence which covered the Mercury’s front page. It had been some kind of political rally, so it appeared, the Brownshirts or the League of St George. Apparently these extremists had been drawn into combat with the martial acolytes of the Brentford Temple of Dimac. The police had acted bravely and justly, although greatly outnumbered. There was some talk of decorations at the Palace.
Neville skimmed along the lines of print, seeking to find some reference to the original cause of the incident, but none was forthcoming. The Swan didn’t even get a mention, nor did the names of any of the regulars appear amongst the list of arrested villains destined to go up before the beak this very morning. With the arrival of the boys in blue the Swan’s stalwarts had either melted away into the night or retired to the tranquillity of the saloon-bar to engage in games of darts and dominoes.
He read the final paragraph. The gallant bobbies had, so it was stated, become involved in a hair-raising car chase through Brentford with a black nineteen-fifties Cadillac which had roared away from the scene of the crime during the height of the disturbances. They had pursued it through the maze of backstreets until unaccountably losing it in a cul-de-sac.
Neville folded the paper and flung it into the fireplace. He would get to the bottom of all this, just as soon as he could get it all clear in his mind. But for now only two things mattered: firstly, that Norman be reinstated as soon as possible in a manner in which neither party would lose face and one which would not anger his pagan deity; and, secondly, that the ice pack which he now wore strapped between his legs got another top-up from the fridge.
Small Dave sat in the sewage outlet pipe at the old dock, which he now called home. His face wore a manic expression into which it had been moulding itself, a little more permanently, with each passing day. He had given up such niceties as hygiene, and now lived for only one thing.
Dire and unremitting vengeance!
Some way further up the pipe, hovering in the darkness, was a misty figure, visible only to the small postman and to certain members of the animal elite.
Small Dave ground his teeth and spat into the daylight. So Norman had the camel penned up in his garage upon the Butts Estate, did he? He had always suspected the shopkeeper, and now Edgar had confirmed his suspicions.
“We have him,” sneered the dwarf, raising a tiny fist towards the sky. “Right where we want him.” He grinned towards the spectre, exposing two rows of evil-looking yellow teeth. Edgar Allan Poe shifted uneasily in the darkness. He was not at all happy about any of this. He had made a big mistake in allowing himself to become involved with this diminutive lunatic, and sorely craved to return to the astral plane. Although a grey and foggy realm, which offered little in the way of pleasurable diversion, it was infinitely preferable to this madhouse any day of the week.
Sadly, by the very nature of the laws which govern such matters, he was unable to gain release, other than through the courtesy of the being who had called him into service. The mighty fire which had raged through Small Dave’s house, eating up many thousands of copies of his books, had acted as some kind of sacrificial catalyst which now bound him to the material world.
Edgar Allan Poe was thoroughly Earthbound, and he was in a very, very bad mood.
At a little after eleven-thirty John Omally reached the Flying Swan. He would have reached it sooner but for the throng of reporters from the national dailies who had accosted him in the street. With his usual courtesy and willingness to be of assistance he had granted several exclusive interviews on the spot.
Yes, he had been there in the thick of it, braving the rubber bullets and the tear-gas. Yes, he had been the last man standing, by virtue of his mastery in the deadly fighting arts of Dimac. No, he had only saved the lives of three of his companions, not four, as was popularly believed. And no, he was sorry, he could not allow any photographs to be taken, modesty forbidding him to take more than his fair share of credit in saving the day.
Patting at his now heavily burdened pockets, Omally entered the Flying Swan. Neville was at the counter’s end, supported upon the gaily-coloured rubber bathing ring which he had Sellotaped to the top of a bar stool. He was studying a picture postcard which boasted a rooftop view of Brentford, but upon Omally’s approach he laid this aside and viewed the Irishman with distaste.