He leapt to his feet, striking his head on a roof timber and squinting about in what light the missing slates admitted. He was still alive, or at least he thought he was. Nursing a multiplicity of cuts and abrasions he climbed across the joists seeking the hatch which opened above the stairwell. Beneath him the sounds of groaning timbers and cracking plasterwork were not exactly music to his ears. The unstoppable package was filling the entire house. It had to be now or never.
John found his way around the unlagged water-tanks and dug his fingernails about the flap of the loft hatch, tearing it away. Without a thought for safety he leapt down through the opening and crashed in a heap on the landing. Cracks were racing across the walls of his room, furniture splintering, glass shattering. Ignoring the pain in his ankles, John dived headlong down the stairway, tore open the front door and rolled into the street. He picked himself up, hands upon knees, and bent gasping for breath, a terrific figure besmutted with plaster, roof dust, soot, blood and pigeon shit. Not a pretty sight.
“Afternoon, John,” said Old Pete. “Decorating, is it? A job for a professional, that.”
John climbed painfully on to Marchant, cocked the pedal and cycled away with as much haste as he could muster.
Old Pete watched him go, before angling his deaf aid towards the sounds of destruction issuing from Omally’s house. “Structural alterations,” the ancient told his dog. “I hope he’s got planning permission.” Young Chips woofed noncommittally and addressed his nasal attentions to a nearby lamp post.
Pooley stood in his bath-towel skirt perusing the brightly coloured parcel which rested upon a tablecloth of equal vulgarity to Omally’s. The Professor had granted him an early finish to the day and he had just been running the bath water when the package had arrived. “I don’t remember entering any competition,” said he, unfolding his pocket knife. “Still, never look a gift parcel in the wrappings.”
Omally turned right into Abbadon Street and then left, much against Marchant’s wishes, into Mafeking Avenue. “We have to get to Jim’s,” he told his complaining bike, “he’s in danger, I’ll make it up to you later.”
Jim seated himself before his free gift and turned his knife between his fingers. “Gently does it,” he said. “Don’t want to damage the contents.”
Omally mounted the pavement and rattled along over uneven slabs.
Jim applied his blade to the twine bindings. There was an almighty crash and he toppled from his chair to land in an indecent exposed heap upon the floor.
“Don’t do it!” Omally stood in the doorway. Jim’s door dangled uneasily from its hinges before slamming to the floor with a great bang.
“Don’t do it, Jim!”
Pooley looked up fearfully from beneath the table at the besmutted apparition standing shakily in his doorway.
“Watchamate, John,” he said in a voice of no small surprise. “This is all a bit drastic, is my doorbell broken or what?”
29
Professor Slocombe examined the multi-coloured parcel which lay before him on his desk.
“Don’t open it,” said John Omally. “Don’t even think about it.”
The hastily re-clad Jim nodded in agreement. “John had one too, it’s had his house down by the sound of it.”
The Professor laid Pooley’s parcel gently aside. “It is safe until opened, then?” he asked.
“So I believe.” John indicated the roaring fire. “That would be the best place for it. We brought it to you as …”
“As evidence? Yes, you did the right thing. You have been drawn into a horror not entirely of your own making.”
“Someone is out to kill us,” said John, “that is for certain. As to the who and the why, these escape me for the present.”
“It is Bob,” said Jim. “I’ll fix his wagon for this, see if I won’t.”
“No,” replied the Professor, “it isn’t your bookmaker, although I believe these matters are not entirely unconnected.”
Pooley took to the maintenance of a seething silence. “Bastard,” was his last spoken word on the subject.
“What is going on?” Omally asked. “I think we deserve to be told.”
Professor Slocombe refreshed his visitors’ glasses. “You cost me a small fortune in Scotch,” he told them, “but no matter, you are alive and well and that is cause for celebration. In answer to your question, I fear that something deadly is going on here in the borough. I have no absolute proof and I do not value speculation, but I suggest that this attempt has been made upon your lives because some person or persons consider that you have seen too much.”
“On the island?” whispered Pooley.
“Yes, and on the barge.”
“The ape?” said John sarcastically.
“It was no ape,” the old man replied. “Of that I am now quite convinced.”
“Then what?”
The Professor raised his old wrinkled palms. “I cannot say for certain. I have my suspicions.”
“Which you evidently choose not to confide in us.”
“All in good time, I must be sure.”
“You can be sure of that,” said Jim pointing to the parcel. “That leaves little to the imagination.”
“It does mine,” said Omally. “It is not your everyday murder attempt, now is it? I mean, guns I can understand, or old Mark Three Jags mounting the pavement when you’re stooping to tie your shoelace, but parcels which grow when you open them and smash your house down, this is a new innovation, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Jim, “you can at least try to explain that surely?”
The Professor looked thoughtful. “From what you have told me,” he said, “my thoughts are that it contains a multi-cellular polysilicate with an unstable atomic base which expands uncontrollably upon contact with the air through close proximity with the radiation of body heat.”
“Ah, one of those lads,” said Jim. “Then all is clear, my thanks.”
Omally was doubtful, but to save himself the spectacle of one of Pooley’s flapping and spinning displays he said, “Chemical warfare, Jim, a sophisticated anti-personnel device.”
“Something of the sort,” said the Professor. “I suspect that when expansion reaches an optimum point the polysilicate evaporates, leaving little or no trace of its existence. A devilish weapon, and the product of a dark and sardonic humour.”
“The joke is certainly lost on me,” said Omally, in an appalled voice. “Attempts upon my life rarely cause me to smile.”
“A cruel irony, John, your inquisitiveness was to prove your ruination.”
“Your understanding of such things is a tribute to your learning,” said John, “but your detachment sometimes verges upon the inhumane.”
“Quite so, I apologize.”
“We should take this thing to the police,” said Pooley.
Professor Slocombe joined John in some vigorous head-shaking. “I feel that might complicate matters even further. Inspectre Hovis is already quite keen to interview you. I should recommend strongly to the contrary on this issue.”
“Ah,” said Jim. “In that case, if irony is the name of the game, then let us readdress this parcel back to its sender.”
“The prospect has a certain charm, but we have yet to identify him. John, what do you know about the patron who has put up the money for the games?”
“As much as you, Professor, probably less, a scientific genius with money to burn and a desire for anonymity. Oh, I see, then you think …”
“I do not know, but there is much I would like to find out. Events suggest a link, both incidents occurred at sites directly connected with the construction of the stadium.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“So do you think you might make some enquiries, employ your silken tongue, ask about, subtly of course.”