Knees Up Mother Earth

39

Gwynplaine Dhark tried to slam shut the door, but Jim put his shoulder to it. There was something of a struggle, but presently Pooley prevailed.

The landlord stood back, breathing heavily. Jim stood in the doorway, viewing the tableau before him. Norman stood trembling, held in the grip, it seemed, of a woman who had surely stepped out from the glossy pages of one of the racier publications that filled Norman’s uppermost shop shelves. And to the other side of Norman stood a man in a long, dark coat whose face was all over black.

Jim Pooley blinked at this tableau. The word “outnumbered” entered his thoughts.

“Norman,” said Jim. “Norman, are you all right?”

“I’m not,” said Norman, struggling to no avail. “These lunatics are going to drown me in the canal.”

“That’s not very nice,” said Jim. “I think you’d better come with me.”

“I think not.” Gwynplaine Dhark did gesturings.

The door of The Beelzepub slammed shut behind Jim with a death-cell finality.

“Now, let’s not do anything silly,” said Jim.

“Luck indeed.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark rubbed his clammy palms together. “Two birds with one stone, as it were – the moneyman and the manager of Brentford United. My master was forced to take a magical oath not to harm you.”

“Your master?” said Jim.

“William Starling,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I have been his man from the start. If your friend Neville had not put his spoke in at the council meeting, the football ground and what lies beneath it would already be in the hands of my master.”

“This is new,” said Norman. “What is this all about?”

“Unfinished business,” said Mr Dhark, “but it will be finished tonight.”

“Your master took the oath,” said Jim. “You cannot harm me.”

“But this man is your friend,” said Mr Dhark, pointing a pale finger towards Norman. “What would you do to protect your friend from certain death?”

“Whatever I could,” said Jim. “And whatever I can.”

“Even if it were to cost you your own life?”

“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that.”

Rain lashed in once more through the once-more-open doorway. An open doorway in which now stood John Omally.

“You!” said Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Me,” said John Omally. “I came back. I knew Jim would not let down a friend, even though he might be a bit late. Jim is a good man, you see, although you’d know nothing of that.”

“Pleased to see you, John,” said Jim. “Norman and I were just leaving.”

“No,” said Gwynplaine Dhark. “Nobody leaves. Alive, that is.”

“Remember your magical oath,” said John. “It must not be broken.”

“I just mentioned that,” said Jim.

Lightning struck home near to The Beelzepub and the bar’s windows rattled in their mullions and the brightness cast shadows that were blacker than the walls.

“A dilemma,” said Mr Dhark. “But you all must surely die.”

“We’re leaving,” said Jim. “Come, Norman.”

“You will find,” said Mr Dhark, “that the door will not open. In fact, you will find that there’s no door there at all.”

Norman looked and John looked and Jim Pooley, he looked, too. And where the door to the street had just been, there was now but an empty wall.

“It all ends here,” said Gwynplaine Dhark.

“The oath,” said Jim. “The oath.”

“The oath,” said Mr Dhark. “And the threefold law of return, wherein a magical calling misdirected returns against the sender with thrice the power to destroy him.”

“Such is the power of the oath,” said Omally. “The professor explained it to me. Your master dare not break it, or threefold will the power return to destroy him.”

“Under normal conditions, yes,” said Mr Dhark.

“Normal conditions?” said John. “Nothing is particularly Norman about magic”

“Did you mean to say ‘Norman’?” said Norman. “No, I’m confused now.”

“What night is this?” asked Mr Dhark.

“Friday night,” said Omally. “Friday the thirteenth of May.”

“The night before the FA Cup Final, and the very Eve of the Apocalypse. And a significant night in the magical calendar. It is the feast of Corpus Negrum, the night of the Black Sabbat, second only to Walpurgis night, but more powerful in that it is the night of the magical reversal, when those normal conditions I mentioned earlier no longer apply.”

“What?” said John.

“I don’t like this,” said Jim.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Gray, “but I regret to inform you that you have walked into a trap. A carefully laid trap, one that relied upon friendship. That Norman here would turn to a friend – you, Mr Pooley – and that you in turn would have a friend who cared deeply for you and would follow you into this trap. Tonight the three of you die and the winner, my master, takes all.”

Beyond the walls, the storm seemed infernal.

Within the walls, matters seemed none too hopeful.

“Kill them all,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And leave me only their skulls for my counter.”

“No!” cried Norman. “Have mercy, don’t kill us.”

John Omally raised his fists.

Jim Pooley flapped his hands about and began to turn in small circles.

And then the red lights dimmed to black and horrible slaughter began.