East of Ealing

10

An inexpensive veneer of sunlight was thinly varnishing the rooftops of Brentford as Norman Hartnell took up the bundle of daily papers from his doorstep and hefted them on to his counter.

The early morning was always Norman’s favourite time of the day. The nights were hell, for whilst his body slept upon its Hartnell Mark II Hydrocosipit, his brain went on the rampage, plotting, planning, and formulating, driving him on and on towards more preposterous and unattainable goals. But in the early mornings he could find just a little peace. He could peruse the daily papers as he numbered them up for delivery. He was in the privileged position of ever being the first in the parish to know the news.

On this particular morning, after a very rough night with his capricious cerebellum, Norman sliced away the twine bindings of the paper bundle with his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife, eager to see what the rest of the world had been up to. As he tore the brown paper covering aside and delved into the top copy a singularly interesting piece met his eye, almost as if it had been simply waiting there to do so: GOVERNMENT GIVES RIGHT-HAND PLAN THE BIG THUMBS UP, he read.

An all-party-sitting last night gave the Lateinos and Romiith scheme for personalized account enumeration the go-ahead. This scheme will eventually make all previous systems of monetary exchange obsolete. Through laser implantation of a personal intromagnetic computer bar code, upon either the forehead or right hand of each individual member of society, it is thought that all crimes involving monetary theft will henceforth be made impossible. Also the need for passports or any other form of identity paper will be eliminated.

Linked with Lateinos and Romiith’s master computer now currently in production, the system is expected to be instituted nationally within the next six months.

Norman whistled as he weighed up the concept. It was certainly ingenious: no-one could steal your money if you never carried any, or use your banker’s card if they found your wallet in the street. With your own personal number printed on your forehead they’d have to cut your head off and pass it across the bank counter to get at your wealth. And with no money there would be no paperwork. No more monthly accounts, the money would pass invisibly, simply at the wave of a light-pen. The more Norman thought about it the more impressed he became. And the more miffed that he hadn’t thought of it first.

He scribbled “15 Balfour” on to the first paper and turned it aside without giving the rest of the news even a cursory once-over. As it happened, there was little else but for wars and rumours of wars and a continuance of the black fly plague, so he certainly hadn’t missed much.

In the curtained alcove in the kitchenette his duplicate sat staring into space and thinking absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Neville the part-time barman stirred in his pit. He blinked open his good eye and stared up at the ceiling, which unaccountably appeared to have lowered itself by a couple of inches during the night. Drawing back his continental quilt, he set a monumental foot upon the worn Axminster. He yawned, stretched and considered his hands. “Gross,” he thought. The wrists appeared massive, swelling from his pyjama sleeves to join great five-pound hams with pork sausages glued on to them. Whatever was happening to him was doing it at an accelerated rate of knots. “It’s getting out of control,” said Neville, as to the accompaniment of groaning floorboards, he arose from his bed. He would give up eating, he told himself, live exclusively on scotch, crispbread, and the occasional lime to stave off scurvy.

Neville staggered across the floor; pictures rattled upon the wall in time with his tread, and the entire upper storey of the pub seemed dangerously near to collapse. Why would nobody admit to seeing the state he was in? It had to be part of some enormous conspiracy aimed at ousting him from the Swan. Neville pawed at his swollen skull with a preposterous forefinger. Was that it? Was it the brewery having a go? That nest of vipers? Most horrors which befell him were directly attributable to them. Possibly they were bribing his patrons to ignore his plight? Or possibly they were hypnotizing him while he slept? Neville had read of slimming courses you got on cassettes and played while you were asleep. He’d never quite figured out how you turned the tape recorder on if you were fast a-kip, but it was a thought. He would search his apartments for hidden speakers as soon as he’d had his morning shower.

He struggled to squeeze himself through the bathroom doorway. Whatever it was, he would have to suss it out pretty rapidly or the entire building was going to come down about his ears.

Old Pete ambled along the Ealing Road, his tatty half-terrier, as ever, upon his heels. He had just paid his weekly visit to each of Brentford’s two sub-post offices, in order to cash the two pension cheques the post office’s errant computer chose weekly to award him. “God bless the GPO,” the old reprobate had been heard to utter upon more than one occasion.

The ancient shuffled cheerfully along, rattling his stick noisily across Mrs Naylor’s front railings in a manner calculated to rudely awaken the insatiable lady librarian from her erotic dreams. Young Chips chuckled to himself and gave the lampposts a bit of first-thing nasal perusal. Norman’s new paperboy bustled out of the corner-shop, the heavy bag upon his shoulders, and mounted his bike. Chips momentarily bared his teeth, but it was early yet and he hardly felt up to making the effort.

Pete steered his way between the posts supporting Norman’s shopfront and thrust open the temporary door. “Morning Norman,” said he. The shopkeeper tucked away the copy of Donkey Capers he had been ogling and turned to seek out Pete’s weekly quota of tobacco.

“How’s the bed, Pete?” he asked. “To your satisfaction I trust?”

“Magic,” said Old Pete.

“I’m so glad. Two ounces of Ships is it?”

“And a copy of the Mercury.” Old Pete pushed a crisp fiver across the counter.

“Ever had a credit card, Pete?” Norman rang up the sale on his cash register.

Old Pete shook his head. “Don’t think so. I have a membership card for the British Legion, and a special doo-dad which lets me travel free on the buses, other than that…” Old Pete scratched his snow-capped head. “Had a pack of nudie playing-cards I bought in Cairo during the last lot. What does it do then?”

Norman did his best to explain.

“Oh no,” said Pete. “Never had one of those. Mind you, I’ve never had a bank account. You selling them now, then?”

Norman shook his head. “I was just reading this article. It seems that they are now obsolete. The Government are taking to stamping the numbers on people’s heads.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Old Pete. “Here now, what is this?” He pointed to his tin of tobacco.

“What is what?”

“This.” Old Pete indicated a series of little lines imprinted upon the lid. “They weren’t there last week. What are they?”

Norman took the tin and examined it. “That’s the lads,” said he. “Computer bar coding, it’s called. That’s what I was trying to explain. All commodities are now being printed with them. They tell you the price and the date you purchased the item and all that sort of thing. You pass a light-pen over them and it logs all the information straight into some master computer. The Government are simply taking the process a logical step further.”

“I don’t like the smell of that,” said Old Pete. “After all, you know when you purchased it and how much it costs, what do you need the lines for?”

Norman shrugged. “Progress,” he said. “We must all move with the times you know.”

“You must.” Old Pete snatched back his tobacco. “For myself, I say a pox on the times. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against computers, one in particular there is which I hold in the highest esteem. But for progress in general…” Old Pete made the appropriate two-fingered gesture, snatched up his paper, which unbeknown to him bore a not dissimilar set of lines upon it, and shuffled from the shop.

“Daft old fogey,” said Norman to himself; but squinting around it did occur to him that every item he had ordered during the last few weeks possessed similar markings. No doubt it was all for the common good. There could not possibly be anything sinister at the back of it, surely? No, it was all part of a great masterplan to free society of crime and bring prosperity to all. Norman went off about his business, whistling, “The Rock Island line is a mighty fine line”.

Jim Pooley was already upon his favourite bench. He had accosted Norman’s paperboy and wrung from his clammy grip a copy of the Sporting Life. Yesterday had been a total disaster. His life savings, in the biscuit tin on the mantelpiece, were sadly depleted. In the dubious excitement of the night before, he and Omally had actually forgotten to ask Soap for the thirty quid. Such events were wont to dash any hopes Jim had for the future. He would simply have to pull off The Big One today and that was that.

Pooley scanned the pages in search of inspiration. Almost at once he spied out a little series of lines printed on the lower left-hand corner of the sixth page. “Aha,” said Jim, “a code, possibly masonic.” He recalled a discussion he had recently had with Professor Slocombe about what the ancient termed The Science of Numerology. The scholar was convinced that the answer to most if not all of existence could be divined by the study of numerical equivalents. It was all down to breaking the code. The Professor had, of course, said a great deal more at the time, but that was the general gist which Jim managed to take in. No knowledge was ever wasted upon the lad, for as his father, like Omally’s, had told him somewhat obscurely when he was a lad, “a dead bird never falls out of the nest.”

So here was a little offering, possibly a secret code, printed for the benefit of that dark order, The Bookie Brotherhood, who, as any good punter knows, are always tipped the wink in advance. Pooley turned quickly to the front page and his heart jumped for joy. It was true. He had Bob the bookie’s Sporting Life. Oh, happy day.

“I’ve cracked it,” said Jim Pooley to the assortment of Brentford wildlife which watched him from the surrounding trees. The squirrels shook their heads and nudged one another. The pigeons turned their beaked faces aside and tittered into their wings. They had seen all this many times before. “Eighteen lines,” Jim began, “three groups of six, thick ones and thin ones, now how exactly does this work? Six six six, what might it mean?”

Pooley ran his Biro down the list of runners for the first race, six horses. The first thick line in the first group was number four. It was an outsider, the odds were enormous. Still it was worth a try. If he got it wrong today he could always steal Bob’s paper again on the morrow. Jim scribbled the horse’s name on to a betting-slip and applied himself to the next race. For the fourth, fifth, and sixth races, he returned to the three groups of lines and selected the second thick bar in each sequence. Satisfied that, even if he was incorrect, he had at least performed this daily task with speed and alacrity, Jim took out his exercise book and made an attempt to calculate his potential winnings. The eventual figure was so large that the last row of noughts flowed off the edge of the page. Pooley folded his betting-slip into his breastpocket and tucked away his exercise book. “That will do nicely thank you,” he said, leaning back upon the bench to enjoy the air.

Professor Slocombe sat taking a late breakfast with his Victorian guest. Mr Sherlock Holmes ate sparingly as he studied the day’s newspaper. “I see,” he said at length, as he pushed the tabloid aside, “that very little has changed since my day.”

“Come now, Holmes,” said the Professor. “More strides forward have been taken this century than during the previous five.”

“I think not.”

“And what of technological advancement, telecommunications, space travel? We possess sciences now that in your day were undreamed of.”

“And what of poverty, squalor, and cruelty? What of injustice, intolerance, and greed? Has your age of wonder succeeded in abolishing those?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “Sadly, no,” said he.

“Then little has changed. If anything, these horrors have been intensified. Details which I read here would never have been made public knowledge in my time. But if what I see is typical, and such I have no reason to disbelieve, then I am appalled to find that with the resources you now possess, little has been done.”

Professor Slocombe was for once lost for words, and chewed ruefully upon a piece of toast.

“And so I am prompted to ask,” Holmes continued, “your reason for stranding me in this most dismal age.”

The toast caught in the old man’s throat and he collapsed red-faced into a violent fit of coughing.

“Come now,” said Holmes, patting him gently upon the back, “surely you did not think to deceive me with your display of apparent surprise at my arrival? My favourite cigarettes are in your case and my tobacco in the humidor. You serve me with a Ninety-two Vamberry, by now surely a priceless vintage. I could enumerate another twenty-three such facts regarding the ‘singular case of the reanimated detective’, but I do not believe it to be necessary. Why have you called me here, Professor?”

The scholar took a sip of coffee and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. He rose carefully from his chair and took himself over to the French windows, where he stood, his back to the detective, staring out into his wonderful garden. “It is a bad business,” he said, without turning.

“I have no doubt of that.”

“I am not altogether certain at present as to what steps can be taken. There is very much I have to know. I cannot face it alone.”

Holmes took out his greasy, black clay pipe from the inner pocket of his dressing-gown and filled it from the Professor’s humidor. “So,” said he, “once more we are to work together.”

“Let me show you something and then you can decide.” Professor Slocombe lead his gaunt visitor through the study door, along the elegant hall, and up the main staircase. Holmes followed the ancient up several more flights of stairs, noting well the narrow shoulders and fragile hands of the man. The Professor had not aged by a single day since last they met so very long ago.

The two were now nearly amongst the gables of the great house, and the final staircase debouched into an extraordinary room, perfectly round, and some ten or twelve feet in diameter. It was bare of furniture save for a large, circular table with a white marble top which stood at its centre and an assortment of cranks and pulleys which hung above it. The walls were painted the darkest of blacks and there was not a window to be seen. Holmes nodded approvingly, and the Professor said, “Of course, a camera obscura. This simple device enables me to keep a close eye upon most of the parish without the trouble of leaving my house. Would you be so kind as to close the door?”

Holmes did so, and the room plunged into darkness. There was a sharp click, followed by the sound of moving pulleys, and clattering chains. A blurred image appeared upon the table-top, cast down through the system of prisms linked to the uppermost lens mounted upon the Professor’s roof. Slowly the image was brought into focus: it was a bird’s-eye view of the Memorial Library. Before this, draped across the bench, lay Jim Pooley, evidently fast asleep. The Professor cranked away and the rooftop lens turned, the image upon the table swam up towards the High Street. It passed over Norman’s corner-shop and the two observers were momentarily stunned by the sight of the shopkeeper alone in his backyard, apparently breaking up paving-stones with his bare hands.

“Most probably Dimac,” Professor Slocombe explained. “It has come to be something of the vogue in Brentford.”

“I favour Barritso, as you well know,” said Holmes.

“Now,” said Professor Slocombe, as he swung the lens up to its highest mounting and passed the image along the borders of the Brentford Triangle, “what do you see?”

Holmes cradled his chin in his right hand and watched the moving picture with great interest. “Some trick of the light, surely?”

“But what do you see?”

Holmes plucked at a neat sideburn. “I see a faint curtain of light enclosing the parish boundaries.”

“And what do you take it to be?”

Holmes shook his head. “Some natural phenomenon perhaps? Something akin to the aurora borealis?”

“I think not.” The Professor closed the rooftop aperture and the room fell once more into darkness. Holmes heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, and a thin line of wan light spread into the room from a previously concealed doorway. “This is a somewhat private chamber,” the Professor whispered as he led the detective through the opening and into a gabled gallery set in the very eaves of the roof. What light there was entered through chinks between the slates. The old man struck flame to an enamelled oil-lamp, and the golden light threw a long and cluttered garret into perspective. It was lined on either side with tall, dark filing cabinets. Bundles of bound documents, some evidently of great age, were stacked upon and about these, or spilled out from half-opened drawers.

“As you can observe, I have been following the course of this particular investigation for a good many years.”

Holmes ran his finger lightly over the waxen paper of a crumbling document exposing a seal imprinted with the date 1703. “And all this has been amassed to the furtherance of one single goal?”

The Professor nodded. “It is the product of many lifetimes’ work and yet now, with all this behind me, I am still lost for a solution to the matter now closely pressing upon us.”

“But what is it, Professor? What have you found and what do you yet seek? Tell me how I might aid you, you have but to ask.”

“What I have here is evidence. But it is evidence of a most unique nature, for it is evidence of a crime which is yet to be committed; the greatest crime of them all. I have my case together and I can predict fairly accurately as to what will occur and when, but I have yet to come up with a solution as to a way that I might prevent it happening.”

“But what is it?”

“Armageddon. The apocalypse,” said Professor Slocombe. “The coming of the millennium. Did you think that I would have gone to all this trouble for anything less?”

Sherlock Holmes shook his head slowly. “I suppose not,” said he.