Knees Up Mother Earth

21

Professor Slocombe looked grimly upon the two white-faced and shivering men who sat in the armchairs to either side of his fire. The elderly scholar poured two large glasses of Scotch and pushed these into the trembling hands of his guests.

“What you did was beyond reckless,” he told them. “And I blame you for this.” The professor turned to confront the Campbell, who stood beside the French windows, his hand upon the pummel of his claymore. “To let them slip away from you like that—”

“They left their ales half-drunk,” said Mahatma Campbell.

“Yes.” The professor smiled wanly. “That would probably have fooled me, also.” And he turned back to his ashen guests. “Tell me what you saw,” he said.

Jim’s teeth chattered noisily.

John said, “I don’t know. But it was horrible. Terrible.” And he hid his eyes with his free hand and poured Scotch down his throat with the other.

“You said something about tentacles,” said the professor, “and bat’s wings and eyes.”

“T-t-too much,” stuttered Jim. “Too much to think.”

“I see.” The professor took himself over to one of the burgeoning bookcases and withdrew a slim volume bound in yellow calfskin. He leafed slowly through this and then he held the open book towards Jim. “Is this what you saw?” he asked.

Jim glanced at the page and went “Aaaagh!”

“I thought as much.” Professor Slocombe closed the book.

“What is it?” John asked. “You know what it is.”

“This book,” Professor Slocombe tapped at the volume, “is a first edition signed by the author – with a dedication to myself, I am proud to add. It is the work of one Howard Phillips Lovecraft. The illustration was drawn by the legendary Count David Carson. It is Lord Cthulhu, the Great Old One.”

Jim’s glass rattled against his teeth. “It was a monster from Hell,” he managed to say.

“Not from Hell,” said the professor, “but from a time when the universe was chaos. When God said, ‘Let there be light,’ the Great Old Ones, the lords of chaos and terror, were banished. Cthulhu and his kingdom sank into the ocean depths, where they were to remain for ever – not dead, but forever dreaming, dreaming of their return to rule the world of men. Legend has it that Cthulhu can only be raised by a powerful spell activated by a sacred stone known as the Eye of Utu. But as legend also has it that the Eye is hidden where no man can find it, I am at a loss to understand how Starling achieved his evil ends.

“Most believed Lovecraft to be either mad or possessed of an overly morbid imagination, and Cthulhu and the Eye nothing but myth – a fireside tale to trouble the sleep of children. But it would appear that the sceptics were sadly mistaken, and that what I always suspected to be the case is indeed reality. This William Starling has somehow raised Cthulhu from sunken R’leah and brought him to the very heights of Chiswick.”

“Real bomb,” chattered Pooley. “Real bomb, John, blow the monster up.”

“I’m with you there, my friend,” said John.

“No.” Professor Slocombe raised a slender hand. “You two will not return to that building. I forbid it.”

“That thing is evil.” Jim slurped down further Scotch. “Pure evil. We felt it. I all but pooed myself.”

“I think you did poo yourself a little,” said John, “by the niff of you.”

“Shut up, John. It must be destroyed, Professor.”

“Oh, yes, indeed it must, but that is for myself and the Campbell and others that I can call into service to deal with. You must continue with your work: taking the team on to victory.”

“Forget that,” said Jim. “That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“On the contrary, it matters more than ever. Griffin Park must remain inviolate. The serpent must not be released.”

“Blow up the Consortium building,” said John. “That will sort everything out. Could I have some more Scotch, please?”

“Getting your strength back, are you?” The professor poured John another Scotch.

“Me, too,” said Jim, finishing his.

Professor Slocombe obliged. “We cannot blow up the Consortium’s headquarters,” he said. “It is in the heart of Chiswick – hundreds of people could be killed. It is unthinkable.”

“That creature is unthinkable,” said Jim. “And impossible, too. This is Brentford, Professor, the real world. This kind of stuff does not belong in the real world. The real world is buses and babies and bedtime. It isn’t this.”

“Bedtime?” said John.

“I couldn’t think of anything else beginning with ‘b’.”

“Breasts,” said John. “Boobs, bosoms, b—”

“Shut up, John, this is serious.”

“I know, my friend, I know.”

A brass candlestick-style telephone upon the professor’s desk began to ring. The old man stared at it in alarm.

“Your phone is ringing,” Omally said.

“It shouldn’t do that,” said the professor.

“It’s what they do,” said John. “I had one of my own that did, but Norman blew it up.”

“This one should not ring, John, because this one isn’t plugged in.”

“Ah,” said John Omally.

Professor Slocombe sat down behind his desk, took up the telephone receiver and put it to his ear. Words came to him and the old man’s face became pale. At length he replaced the receiver and his fingers trembled as he did so.

“Who was it?” John asked.

“William Starling,” said Professor Slocombe, pouring Scotch for himself. “The managing director, chairman and owner of the company that calls itself the Consortium. He wishes to have a meeting with me.”

Pooley was staring at the telephone. “How did he do that?” asked the puzzled Jim, “if there are no wires?”

“He wants back what you stole from him.” Professor Slocombe stared hard at John Omally.

“Stole?” And then John’s fingers tightened on his bulging trouser pocket.

“You brought it here,” said Professor Slocombe, “to my house, and I was unaware.”

“It just sort of fell into my pocket. Heat of the moment. He can have it back, I don’t want it.”

“Show it to me, John.”

“Yes, sir.” John fished into his pocket and brought out the gem – the golfball-sized gem that had rested on the cushion upon the dreadful altar in the terrible room. It glistened and flickered; rays of light seemed to emanate from it.

“I never saw you nick that,” said Jim.

“It is a very pretty thing,” said John.

“And very deadly,” said the professor. “Place it upon my desk, John, please.”

John arose from his seat and did so. “Is it important?” he asked.

“Important?” Professor Slocombe smiled. “Your light-fingeredness may well have saved all of our lives.”

“Really?” said John. “Well, naturally …”

Professor Slocombe now began to laugh. “You do not have the faintest idea as to what you have here, do you, John?”

“Something valuable, I think.”

“Something beyond value. You will recall what I told you about the raising of Cthulhu, regarding the Eye of Utu?”

John nodded.

“This,” said Professor Slocombe, “is the Eye of Utu.”

The metal shutter slid aside and an eyeball peered in through the eyehole and into the prison cell.

Where Norman sat, the very picture of dejection.

“On your feet, prisoner,” called the voice of Constable Meek. “You’re going home.”

Norman dragged himself to his feet, which wasn’t easy, for his knees were still numb and his finger-ends likewise. Constable Meek dragged open the door and grinned upon the slammed-up shopkeeper.

“Peg?” said Norman. “Has Peg bailed me out?”

“No,” said the constable. “Some big swell from the city.”

Norman shook his bewigged, befuddled head. “I don’t know any big city swells.”

“Well, he knows you and he’s outside in his car. You’re being chauffeured home.”

“Oh,” said Norman. “It’s a long straight road that has no turning.”

“Yeah, and a trouble shared can get you five years in Strangeways.”

Norman took up his jacket from the bed and shrugged it on.

“Normally,” said Constable Meek, “myself and Constable Mild would give you a summary beating with our truncheons to teach you the error of your ways and to discourage you from further wrong-doing, but Constable Mild has the day off and it’s no fun doing it on your own.” Constable Meek handed Norman his duffel bags. “Go forth and sin no more,” he told him.

The Sunday sunlight was bright to Norman’s eyes as he left the confines of the Brentford Nick. He did a bit of blinking and a car beeped at him.

Norman looked towards the car that stood at the kerbside. It was a very posh-looking car, very long and shiny-black. An electric window in its rear compartment swished down.

“Mr Hartnel?” called a voice, and a posh voice it was. “Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel?”

“That’s me,” said Norman.

A long rear door swung open. “Please step inside,” called the voice.

Norman shrugged and did so. The door swung shut behind him. “Electric door,” said Norman, much impressed.

“Please sit yourself down, Mr Hartnel.”

Norman sat himself down upon a comfy seat upholstered with the skin of some endangered species.

“Comfy seat,” said Norman, patting same. “Thank you very much.”

“My card.” A gloved hand passed a business card to Norman. Norman took the card and smiled towards the owner of the hand. He was a most impressive figure – clearly tall, although sitting down, young and with striking features. He had a head of the blondest hair and eyes of the deepest blue and when he smiled he showed off teeth that really were the whitest of whites.

“I am very pleased to meet you,” said this fellow, now putting forward his gloved hand for a shake.

Norman shook it. “I don’t understand,” said he.

“Patents,” said the fellow in his very posh voice. “You have recently registered five original patents.”

“Yes,” said Norman proudly. “Yes, I have.”

“And these were entirely your own work?”

“Well,” said Norman guardedly, “I think you’ll find that no one has registered them before. But how did you know about this?”

“My company,” said the gentleman, “deals in acquisitions. We acquire patents and develop new products. We developed Blu-Tack, Velcro and the jumbo jet. Not to mention the Octotron.”

“The Octotron?” asked Norman.

“I told you not to mention that.”[29]

“Sorry,” said Norman.

“All new patents go into a government database, and my company is privy to that database. I had some difficulty in locating you. I called at your address. Your wife – Peg, is it?”

Norman nodded dismally.

“She told me that you were incarcerated. She didn’t seem to know anything about your patents. She was most surprised when I informed her.”

Norman groaned.

“Are you all right?” asked the gentleman. “Would you care for some champagne?”

“Yes, please,” said Norman.

The gentleman tapped buttons upon a little keypad arrangement on his seat arm. A cocktail cabinet slid out from somewhere and opened. The gentleman took from it a bottle of vintage Krug and popped the cork. Then he poured out two full glasses and handed one to Norman.

“Bottoms up,” said the shopkeeper, downing champagne.

“To you,” said the gentleman, sipping his.

“So you want to buy my patents?” said Norman. “They’re worth a great deal of money, I know that.”

“A very great deal,” said the gentleman. “You will be a very wealthy man.”

“I’d quite like a car like this,” said Norman. “What would one of these cost, do you think?”

“I’ll let you have this one, if you’d like it.”

“Wow,” said Norman.

“I have contracts already drawn up, if you’d care to peruse them.”

“I certainly would.” Norman finished his champagne. “The bubbles go right up your nose, don’t they?” he said. “Could I have some more?”

“Help yourself to the bottle.”

“Thank you very much indeed.”

The gentleman took papers from a glossy executive case and passed these to Norman. Norman put down the champagne bottle and perused the papers. “That is a good many papers to peruse,” said he.

“You will no doubt want a solicitor to look through them.”

“Oh,” said Norman.

“Oh?” said the gentleman.

“Well,” said Norman, “naturally I assumed that you were intending to ply me with champagne in order to get me to sign away my patents for peanuts because I’d failed to look at the small print.”

“You are most astute, Mr Hartnel.”

“Not really,” said Norman. “It’s just what always happens in the movies.”

“More champagne?”

“Yes, please.” Norman took up the bottle once more and refilled his glass.

Professor Slocombe refilled John Omally’s glass. “This puts us in a far more powerful position,” said he. “William Starling called me, using this defunct telephone to impress me with his powers, but he called me. I deduce from this that he believes that I dispatched you two to his headquarters upon a mission to purloin the Eye of Utu, a mission that you successfully accomplished. We now have a certain degree of bargaining power.”

“Destroy it,” said Jim. “It is in your hand, Professor. If it is as powerful as you say, and as valuable to them, grind it to smithereens.”

“Tempting as that is, Jim, I do not feel that by doing so we would benefit.”

“Well, you can’t just give it back to him,” said John.

“A deal might be struck. But, as is said, he who dines with the Devil must do so with a very long fork.”

“Probably said by Norman,” said John.

“It’s us,” said the suddenly enlightened Jim. “You’re going to bargain with him – the Eye in return for him making no further attempts upon our lives.”

“It seems the most logical thing to do,” said the professor. “I involved you in this, so I must do whatever I can to protect you.”

“But how can you trust him?” asked Jim. “If he gives you his word, how will you know whether he will keep it?”

“The Brotherhood of Magic,” said Professor Slocombe, “whether white or black, exists within a certain framework. There are rules to every game, rules that must be obeyed. A magical oath, once sworn, cannot be broken, save at the great expense of he that breaketh it.”

“But that thing,” said Jim, “that thing in the building—”

“One thing at a time, Jim. If we obtain a truce from Mr Starling, his promise that he will make no further attempts upon your lives, then you can concentrate upon the job at hand – protecting Griffin Park. I and my associates will deal with Lord Cthulhu.”

Jim threw up his hands, all but spilling his Scotch (but not quite). “It all seems terribly complicated,” he said. “And if you’ll pardon me saying this, aren’t we missing something obvious?”

“Enlighten me,” said the professor.

“Well,” said Jim, “all right, if the team wins the FA Cup, then Griffin Park is saved and the Consortium cannot dig it up and release the serpent. But why are they even bothering to attempt to buy the ground in the first place? Why don’t they just sneak in one night with a load of shovels and simply dig up the blighter?”

“Good point,” said John. “Jim has a good point there, Professor.”

“He does, John, and I will tell you why they cannot do this. It is not a matter of simply digging up the serpent. If it were, then they would have done so already. The serpent remains constrained through the will of God. A digger and a spade would not be sufficient.”

“Then what would?” Jim asked.

“Something,” said the professor, “beyond more than, if I might misuse the word, mere magic. And something that will involve more than a furtive overnight dig. I suspect, and it is only a suspicion, that it would involve the employment of some kind of alternative technology, some kind of energy – although I know not what.”

“And where would this Starling acquire such alternative technology?” Jim asked.

“I have no idea, Jim, but if it exists, then I have no doubt that if he has not already acquired it, he most certainly will.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “but where from?”

“Possibly anywhere, Jim. Possibly from right here.”

“Right here,” said Norman. “Can you drop me off right here?”

“This isn’t your shop,” said the gentleman.

“No, it’s The Flying Swan,” said Norman, who had quite forgotten that he had been barred. “I think I might down a celebratory stiff one or two before I go home.”

“And face your lady wife.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Then I shall say farewell to you, Mr Hartnel. It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have your solicitor go through the contracts tomorrow. I will telephone you tomorrow evening and hopefully we will have a deal.”

“Hopefully,” said Norman.

The electrically operated rear door opened and Norman stepped from the car.

“I am very excited about your patents,” said the gentleman. “I make no secret of the fact. They offer, how shall I put this, an alternative technology to the world. We can expect most astonishing things to occur through their employment.”

“The biggest fish swim near the bottom,” said Norman, “and a cheerful look makes a dish into a feast.”

“Quite so.”

“Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” Norman peered at the gentleman’s business card. “Mr Starling,” he said.