East of Ealing

29

A good half-mile beneath the barbarian barman’s thundering feet, John Omally opened another bottle of carrot claret and poured himself a large glass. “Soap,” said he to his host, “this is good stuff you have here.”

“Nectar,” Jim Pooley agreed. “Write me down the recipe and I will provide for your old age.”

Soap grinned stupidly. “You must try the cigars,” he said, rising unsteadily from his horrendous armchair and tottering over to the box.

“Home-grown?”

Soap made a crooked “O” out of his thumb and forefinger. “I have a five spot says you cannot identify the blend.”

“Take it out of the money you still owe us,” said Jim.

Soap handed out a brace of lime-green coronas. Omally took his dubiously and rolled it against his ear. “Not a sprout?” he asked in a fearful voice.

“Heavens no.” Soap crossed his heart. “Would I do that to you?”

Pooley sniffed his along its length. “Not spud?”

“Absolutely not. I know Omally stuffs his peelings into his pipe, but even he would draw the line at manufacturing cigars from them.”

“They don’t roll,” said John, making the motions.

The two men lit up, and collapsed simultaneously into fits of violent coughing.

“Whatever it is,” wheezed John, tears streaming from his eyes, “it’s good stuff.”

“Perhaps a little sharp.” Jim’s face now matched the colour of his cigar.

“Do you give up?”

“Indubitably.”

“Well I shan’t tell you anyway.” Soap slumped back into his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

The ruddy hue slowly returned to Jim’s face as he got the measure of his smoke. “How long do you think we are going to have to fiddle about down here?” he asked.

Soap shrugged.

Omally tapped a quarter-inch of snow-white ash into a glass cache pot of the Boda persuasion. “We can’t stay down here indefinitely, Soap,” he said. “Although your hospitality is greatly appreciated, you must surely realize that we must make some attempts at salvaging something of our former lives. We were quite fond of them.”

Soap waved his hands at the Irishman. “All in good time, John. The Prof will tip us the wink. For now, have a drink and a smoke and a pleasant chat.”

“I fear we will shortly exhaust all topics of conversation.”

“Not a bit of it, I am a fascinating conversationalist. On most matters I am eloquence personified. My range is almost inexhaustible.”

“And your modesty legend. I know.”

“All right then, what is your opinion of evolution?”

“A nine-aeon wonder.” Omally awaited the applause.

“I have a somewhat revolutionary theory of my own.”

“I do not wish to hear it.”

“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago, complete with all records and memories. Although an improbable hypothesis, I think you will find it logically irrefutable.”

“And how long have you held this belief?”

“Hard to say, possibly four and a half minutes.”

“Fol-de-rol.”

“Well, what about politics, then? As an Irishman, you must have some definite views.”

“As an Irishman, I never trouble to give the matter a moment’s thought.”

“Religion, then?”

“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago. Are you looking for a grazed chin, Soap?”

“Only trying to pass the time with a little pleasant intercourse.”

“Careful,” said Jim.

“Well, I get few callers.”

“Hardly surprising, your address is somewhat obscure even for the A to Z.”

“Would you care to see my mushroom beds?”

“Frankly, no.”

“I spy with my little eye?”

“Stick it in your ear, Soap.”

The three men sat awhile in silence. Jim picked a bit of chive out of his teeth and won five quid from Soap. But other than that there was frankly no excitement to be had whatsoever, which might in its way have been a good thing, for there was a great deal of it in the offing. A sudden bout of urgent knocking rattled Soap Distant’s front door.

“Expecting guests?” Omally asked. “Ladies, I trust. Current affairs have played havoc with my social calendar.”

Soap’s face had, within the twinkling of an eye, transformed itself from an amiable countenance into the all-too-familiar mask of cold fear. “Are either of you tooled up?” he asked inanely.

“I have my barlow knife,” said Omally, rapidly finishing his drink.

“And me my running shoes,” said Jim. “Where’s the back door, Soap?”

Mr Distant dithered in his armchair. “No-one knows of this place,” he whispered hoarsely. The pounding on the door informed him that that statement was patently incorrect.

Omally rose hurriedly from his seat. “Lead us to the priesthole, Soap, and make it snappy.”

“I’m for that.” Jim leapt up and began smacking at the walls. “Where’s the secret panel, Soap?”

Soap chewed upon his knuckles. “It’s the other me,” he whimpered. “I knew it had to happen, even here.”

“The odds are in its favour. Kindly show us the way out.”

“There’s no other exit.”

“Then find us a place to hide, someone must continue to serve the cause, even if you are indisposed.”

“Yes, fair do’s,” Jim agreed, as the pounding rattled ornaments and nerves alike. “If it’s the other you, then he may not know John and I are here. We at least should hide until the bloodshed is over.”

“Oh, thanks very much, pals.”

“We’d do the same for you.”

“Come again?”

“Open up there.” A voice from without brought the ludicrous conversation to a halt.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes,” said Omally. “Let him in.”

Soap hastened to unfasten the front door. “Close it without delay.” The detective pressed himself inside. “They are hard upon my heels.”

“How did you know where I lived?” Soap pressed the bolts home.

“No matter. Are you three tooled up?”

Omally shook his head and fell back into his seat. Pooley did likewise. “Would you care for another splash of carrot, Jim?” Omally waggled the bottle towards Pooley.

“Another would be fine. So how goes the game afoot, Sherlock?”

“A bit iffy as it happens.” Holmes drew out his revolver and flattened himself against the front wall.

Jim rattled his glass against the bottle’s neck. “And you have brought the lads down here after us. Most enterprising.”

“I never really believed in him, you know,” said John, now refreshing his own glass.

“I looked it all up in the library,” Pooley replied.

“The evidence is very much against him. Purely fictitious, I so believe.”

“Wise up,” said Sherlock Holmes. “These mothers mean business.”

The sounds of terrible ghost train screaming leant weight to his conviction. From beyond, something malevolent was surging forward from the darkness. Pooley covered his ears and crossed his eyes. Omally snatched up a Biba table-lamp and prepared once more to do battle. If the awful screaming was not bad enough, the sounds which accompanied it were sufficient to put the wind up even Saint Anthony himself. Hideous slurpings and suckings, as of some gigantic mollusc, and thrashing sounds, dragging chains and clicking joints. All in all, anything but a Christmas hamper.

Omally turned towards Holmes, who now crouched facing the door, Magnum forty-four poised once more between his outstretched hands. “What in the name of the Holies is it?” he shouted above the growing din.

“It came at me from a basement opening. I have only seen its like before amongst the work of Hieronymous Bosch.”

This remark meant little to Omally who had always thought a Bosch to be an expensive sports car. But that the something which was approaching was very very nasty and somewhat overlarge seemed on the cards.

As the first concussion shook the front wall, Holmes fired point-blank into the door. A gale-force icy wind swept through the bullet-hole, like a blast from a ruptured gas-pipe. A fetid odour filled the room; the stench of the very pit itself, of all the world’s carrion congealed into a single rotting mass. Holmes staggered back into Omally, coughing and gagging. The Irishman fell to his knees, covering his nose, and retching violently. Outside, the thing lashed at the door with redoubled fury. The iron hinges screamed in anguish, echoing those of the satanic emissary of death. Beneath the throbbing door, slim, barbed hooks worked and tore. A yellow haze of brimstone coloured the unbreathable air and the room shook and shivered beneath the hellish assault.

Omally crawled over to Soap Distant, who had wisely assumed the foetal position beneath the table. “You’ve got to get us out,” he shouted, tearing away the hands clamped about the albino head. “There has to be a way.”

“No way.” Soap tore himself from Omally’s hold. “No way.”

Shivers of woodwork flew from the bottom of the door as the evil barbs, now showing porcupine quills and scorpion tails thrashing about them, stripped the Ronseal finish clear down to the filled knot-holes. Omally stumbled to his feet. Sherlock Holmes was standing alone in the whirlwind, a speckled band tied bandana-fashion across his face. A finger in the air. The doyen of dicks was definitely off his trolley, thought John. As if reading his thoughts, Holmes suddenly struck him a weltering blow to the skull. Caught in surprise John hit the deck. Holmes leapt down upon him and pointed frantically through the swirling, cascading stench. “Fireplace,” he shouted, his voice all but lost amidst the screaming, the hurricane, and the splintering woodwork. “Up the chimney, get going, quick.”

It took very little time for Omally to cop on. Grabbing the huddled Pooley firmly by the collar, he dragged him towards what was surely the only hope of escape. Holmes stepped over to Soap and booted him in the ribcage. Soap peered up bitterly towards his tormentor, a dizzy blur, lost for the most part in the maelstrom of tearing elements. Holmes stretched deftly forward and hooked a pair of fingers into the sub-Earther’s nostrils. “Lead us out!” he cried, bearing him aloft. Whimpering and howling, but somehow happy for the nose-plugs, Soap staggered forward. Holmes thrust his head first into the fireplace and then, suddenly enlightened, Soap turned towards his persecutor with a nodding, smiling head and gestured upwards. Within a moment he was scrabbling into the darkness above. Omally pressed Jim onwards and followed hard upon his heels. Holmes spun about, revolver in hand, as the door burst from its hinges to spin a million whirling fragments about him. The icy gale tore his tweedy jacket from his shoulders as the thing rolled into the room, a tangle of barbs, quills and spikes, whipping and lashing and screaming, screaming. The great detective held his ground and fired off his revolver again and again into the spinning ball of death as it charged towards him.

The wind and the terror coming from below spurred on the three-man escape committee as it crept higher and higher up the narrow black chimney. Soap’s voice called down from above, “Come on, lads, shouldn’t be more than a mile at most.” Pooley mumbled and complained, but Omally, who was tail-end Charlie and in the most vulnerable position, bit him in the ankle. A howl of pain and a sudden acceleration from Jim assured the struggling Irishman that the message was well-received.

The going was far from certain and made ever more perilous by the cramped space and the complete and utter darkness. Stones and grit tumbled down into the climbers’ faces. Soap trod upon Jim’s hands and Jim out of fairness trod upon John’s. Higher and higher up the slim shaft of hope they clambered until at last they could no longer feel the icy wind rushing from below or the awful stench souring their nostrils. They paused a moment, clinging to what they could for dear life, to catch their breath, and cough up what was left of their lungs.

“How much farther, Soap?” Omally wiped at his streaming eyes and strained to support himself whilst delving in his pockets for a fag.

“A goodly way and all of it straight up.”

“There is actually an opening at the top?” Jim ventured. “I mean I’d just hate to climb all this way and find myself peering out of a ventilation duct in Lateinos and Romiith’s basement.”

“Hm. To be quite candid, this digging is one of the great grandaddy’s. We shall have to trust to the luck of the Distants.”

“Oh, very comforting. Ooh, ow, ouch!”

“Sorry, Jim. Did I singe your bum?”

“Pass me up that fag, you clumsy oaf.”

“Smoking cigarettes can harm your health,” said Soap. “Ooh, ow, ouch!”

“Onward, Christian Soldier,” said Jim, withdrawing the lighted fag from Soap’s trouser seat.

The three continued their bleak and harrowing journey, now illuminated by the firefly-glow of three burning cigarettes. The first hour was really quite uneventful, other than for the occasional minor avalanche which threatened to plunge them to a most uninviting oblivion. It was several minutes into the second that things took a most depressing turn for the worst.

“I hate to tell you this,” said Soap Distant, “but I’ve run out of passage.”

“You’ve bloody what? Careful there, that’s my damn hand you’re treading on.”

“Get a move on, Pooley.”

“Shut up, John.”

“Stop the two of you, for God’s sake. I can’t climb any higher.”

“Then get to one side and let us pass.”

“He means the passage has come to an end, John.”

“Then stand aside and let me kill him.”

“Shut up, I can see daylight.”

“What?”

The three men strained their eyes into the darkness above. In the far distance a dim light showed. A mere pinprick, yet it was some kind of hope, although not a lot.

“Get a move on,” yelled Omally.

“I’ve told you, something’s blocking my way.”

“I just knew it,” said Jim, with the voice of one who just knew it. “No way up, no way down. Doomed to starve here until we drop away one by one like little shrivelled up…”

“Give it a rest, Jim. What’s in the way, Soap?”

Soap prodded above. “Some old grill or grating, rusty as hell.”

“Easy on the descriptions.”

“Solid as a rock also.”

“Doom and desolation oh misery, misery.”

“I have plenty of fuel in my lighter, Jim.”

“Sorry, John. Can’t you wiggle it loose, Soap?”

“It’s bloody rusted in. Can’t you hear what I’m saying?”

“Let me get up there then.”

“There’s no room, John.”

“Then we’ll all just have to push, that’s all. Brace yourself, lads, after three. Three!”

Soap wedged his shoulders beneath the obstruction, Jim got a purchase under his bum, with Omally straining from below.

“Heave.”

“AAAGH!”

“OOOOW.”

“Get off there.”

“My God.”

“Again, it’s giving.”

“It’s not giving, I am.”

“I felt it give.”

“That was my shoulder.”

“Put your back into it.”

“Mind where you’re holding.”

“We’re there, we’re there.”

“Who said that?”

“One more time…”

“It’s giving… It’s giving… It’s gone.”

Soap’s head and shoulders battered up through the obstruction, a thin and crumbling iron grid cemented solidly into place through the application of fifty-years pigeon guano. “You bastards!” Soap’s arms were pinned at his sides, his feet lashed out furiously. “You bastards!”

“Watch where you’re kicking,” Pooley complained.

Soap’s muffled voice screamed down at them from above. “You bloody lunatics, I’m stuck in here.”

Now, as you might reasonably expect, a heated debate occurred beneath the struggling Soap, as to what might be the best means of adding the necessary irresistible force to the currently immovable object.

“We must pull him down and give him another charge,” Jim declared.

“Down on top of us so we all fall down the hole?”

“Grease him with goose fat.”

“You wally.”

“Tickle his feet then.”

“And you a millionaire, Jim. I thought you blokes had it all sussed.”

“A hoist, a hoist, my kingdom for a hoist.”

“I’m starting to suffocate, lads,” called Soap distantly.

Pooley weighed up the situation. “Doom and desperation,” he concluded.

“Stop everything,” Omally demanded. “Enough is enough. It is a well-attested fact that the man who can get his head and shoulders through a gap can get the rest of him through also.”

Soap wriggled like a maggot on a number nine hook.

“Stick your head down here, Jim. I want to whisper.”

Soap thrashed and struggled, but his movements were becoming weaker by the moment.

“I can’t do that to Soap!”

“It only takes a second. Take my word for it, it will do the trick.”

“But it’s not decent.”

“Do it to Soap or I’ll do it to you.”

Pooley closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Reaching up he performed a quick vicious action.

“EEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! ”

A few moments later three men lay puffing and panting in the entrance to the loading bay at Meeks Boatyard on the bank of the Grand Union Canal. A few feet away a wall of impenetrable turquoise light rose from the water and spread away to either side and ever above.

“Too much to hope that we’d come up on the other side,” sighed Pooley.

Soap Distant, red-faced and clutching at himself, looked daggers at him. “I’ll have you for that,” he said painfully.

Jim smiled sickly. “What could we do? Look on the bright side, at least we all got out alive.”

“Not all,” said John Omally.

“Eh?”

Omally gestured towards the open manhole through which they had just emerged. “And then there were three,” he said in a leaden tone.

“Holmes,” cried Pooley. “In all the excitement…” he scrabbled over to the manhole and shouted the detective’s name into the void. His voice came back to him again and again, mocking his cries.

“Leave it, Jim.” Omally put his hand to his best friend’s shoulder. “He never had a chance.”

“I didn’t think.” Pooley looked up fearfully. “I didn’t think.”

“None of us did. We only thought of ourselves and our own.”

“We left him to…”

“Yes.”

“The poor bastard.”

“The poor noble bastard. He saved our lives at the expense of his own.”

Pooley climbed slowly to his feet and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked up to where the Lateinos and Romiith building rose, filling the skyline. “Oh shit!” he said, kicking at the toppled manhole cover. “Oh, that’s me finished. Those bastards are going to pay for this.”

“Oh yes,” said John Omally. “They are definitely going to do all of that.”