The Sprouts of Wrath

38

“Let me out!” yelled Jim Pooley with renewed vigour. Outside, in the Professor’s magical garden, bees buzzed amongst the heavy blossoms and dragonflies hung in the air, their wings a blur of rainbow colours. Beyond the gate several members of the Brentford Olympic squad trudged by wearing grim expressions. “The lads” heads were down, Brian. “I think it’s beginning to give,” Jim panted, “lend a hand there.”

“Jim, it is not beginning to give, you will bruise your knuckles.”

Pooley ceased his fruitless beating and examined his skinned fists. “Do something,” he implored, “you are the big magician.”

“Sit down and rest yourself, there is time enough to act.”

Jim slouched over to the fireside chair and dropped into it. “This won’t do for me, Professor, this is no good at all.”

“I have a plan,” said the old man, “if you are interested in hearing it.”

Pooley regarded the ancient with no small degree of bitterness. “I don’t seem to have much else on today.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Now that I do find surprising, as I have loved every minute so far.”

“Jim, there is nothing I can offer you other than my deepest sympathy for your loss. I do not expect you to get over it for some considerable time to come, should you ever truly get over it. However, if you wish to save yourself then I suggest you work with me rather than against me.”

“Save myself from what? I don’t even know what we are supposed to be fighting against anyway.”

“I will tell you all that I know. And tonight we shall put the missing pieces of the puzzle together.”

“Tonight?” and “We?” said Jim, doubtfully.

“Tonight I shall perform a conjuration. It will be a complicated procedure and I shall require your assistance. I mean to conjure our enemy into our presence, constrain him by magic and compel him to furnish us with the necessary wherewithal by which to destroy him.”

“Just like that?”

“Anything but ‘just like that’, it will be extremely dangerous. I doubt that he will come willingly. Alone I may not be able to contain him, will you help me?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Not really.”

“Then I shall be pleased to. In the meanwhile, how about me telephoning for a couple of strong lads to knock us a hole in the wall? It wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of fresh air, now, would it?”

Jim rose to take up the telephone but the Professor drew it beyond his reach. “I understand that this is something of an unofficial holiday today,” he said. “It would prove difficult to get someone at such short notice.”

“I know lots of likely lads,” said Jim brightly, “and I have nothing else to do. Hand me the telephone, it will be the work of but a minute.”

“I think not, Jim. This is a grade two listed building, we can’t just have holes knocked in it, willy-nilly, now can we?”

“Hm,” said Jim. “It is an emergency after all, perhaps a 999 call then?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “Definitely not,” said he. “That is the last thing we want. In fact I have gone to some lengths to see that we shall not be bothered by Inspectre Hovis and his boys in blue.”

“Oh yes?” said Jim, without enthusiasm. “And how is this?”

“A certain chess-playing chum of mine. A Mr Rune.”

“Oh,” said Jim, looking about, “I like a game of chess, I didn’t know you had a board.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you play at your friend’s house?”

“No.” The Professor tapped at his forehead. “Mental chess, Jim, telepathic.”

“But of course,” said Jim Pooley, “how silly of me, now about the phone “No,” said Professor Slocombe.

The constables sat in the briefing room. They’d had a rotten day what with all the disappointment and everything, and if that wasn’t enough, now Hovis had called yet another meeting. They had all slunk away from the last one wondering how they could avoid any further involvement. Fearing, not without good cause, that in such situations as the arrest of gold bullion robbers, “shooters” were likely to be wielded. And the likely wielders would be trigger-happy police officers.

Before them, Hovis perched upon the table, a gaunt bird of prey. “Are we sitting comfortably?” he asked. “Then I’ll begin.”

“Sir?” said Constable Meek.

“Yes, Meek?”

“Sir, about this gasometer business, the lads and I were wondering.”

“Yes, Meek?”

“About the way in, sir? Into the gasometer.”

Hovis took out his “Regal Chimer” and flipped open the cover. “I am expecting a visitor,” said he, “who is going to put you straight on all the details. In fact at any moment now.”

The door of the briefing room swung open to admit the entrance of a curious-looking man. He was well over six feet in height, bald of head, heavy of brow and jowl and somewhat wild of eye. His ample frame was encased in a flowing black robe constrained about the portly waist by a scarlet cummerbund.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Mr Hugo Rune.” The self-styled Perfect Master and Logos of the Aeon bowed towards his doubtful audience.

Constable Meek leapt immediately to his feet. “Hugo Rune, I arrest you in the name of the law. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

“Not now, Meek,” said Inspectre Hovis.

“But, sir, this man is wanted in connection with numerous offences in breach of the Fraudulent Mediums Act, the Witchcraft Act of 1307, the … the …”

“Not now, Meek.”

“Sir, it is my bounden duty to arrest this man, he is a charlatan and a con-man.”

“Not now.”

“Sir, we have a file on him a yard wide.”

“Meek, sit down.”

“But, sir …”

“Sit down. Mr Rune has agreed to help us in this most sensitive matter. I have offered him immunity from prosecution in return.”

“A supergrass!” said Meek. “So that’s his game now, is it?”

“Sit down and shut up, Meek.”

“But, sir …”

Rune took a step forward, and stood towering over the young officer. “I can seal your mouth with a single word,” said he, “and you will be forced to sup tea through your nostril.”

“Threatening behaviour. I’ll add that to the charge sheet.”

“Sit down, Meek, Mr Rune is helping us with our inquiries. During this period, he is under my protection.”

“And afterwards?”

Hovis looked at Rune. “We will see.”

“Oh, will we?” said Rune. “And I the only man who can get you into the gasometer!”

“That remains to be seen.”

Hugo Rune drew himself up to his full improbable height. “I am Rune,” quoth he, “Rune whose eye is darkness, Rune whose brain fathoms the impossible conundra. Rune whose soul seeks ever the light of infinite knowledge.”

“That also remains to be seen.”

“Then be it as it will, I shall take my leave now and my chances as they present themselves. Goodbye.” Rune turned upon his heel.

“Not so fast. If you succeed, I will waive any other charges.”

“But, sir!”

“Do shut up, Meek. Rune, kindly tell us what you have to say.”

“Mr Rune,” said Mr Rune.

“Mr Rune then, if you will.”

“All right, you may find it difficult to comprehend, but I will do my best to simplify matters for you.”

Hovis made an exasperated face. “Then kindly do so, we have little enough time to waste.”

“So be it.” Rune clapped his enormous hands together and a shaven-headed acolyte in shabby robes of a saffron hue, entered the room, burdened by the weight of several ancient tomes. He had a small red R tatooed on his forehead. “Master,” he said.

“Place them on the table, Rizla.”

“Yes, Master.” Rizla did as he was bid and departed, bowing to the floor.

“The neophyte Rizla,” Rune explained. “And so to the facts in the case.”

Hovis jostled away a constable and settled into a front-row seat, resigned to the ridiculous. “Go ahead then.”

“Thank you, Inspectre.” Rune leafed through a leather-bound volume until he found the page he sought. “The great gasometer, or gasholder, call it what you will. According to the county records, constructed in eighteen-eighty-five by the West London Coal Gas Company. The surrounding gasworks were demolished in nineteen-sixty-two and the site is now occupied by that bastion of ethnic ‘entertainment’ and mis-spent local government funding, the Arts Centre.”

“Easy on the personal prejudice,” said Hovis. “It is well known that their Board of Directors refused your repeated demands to be made Magus in Residence.”

“Quite so, but be that as it may. The gasometer. A local landmark, used by RAF Northolt during the Hitlerian War as a ground-marker. A symbol of the borough. It is not a gasometer, never has been a gasometer, never will be a gasometer. It is something else entirely.”

There was a murmuring and a mumbling amongst the constables.

“I know that,” said Hovis, “it is no revelation. So what is it, Rune?”

“I will not bore you with the intricacies of my research, the difficulties encountered, the countless hours of fruitful meditation.”

“Good, then do not.”

“Then I will tell you this. It has existed throughout at least eight centuries of recorded history. Local legend speaks of the two kings of Brentford, warlords in the time of King Arthur, one dwelt in a tower of stone and one in a tower of iron, such the old rhyme tells us. I cannot speak for the tower of stone, perhaps it has long become dust, but the tower of iron is here for all to see. It is the gasometer. Possibly it has not always appeared as it does now, but the deception it creates has existed in one form or another down the centuries.”

“Ooooh!” and “ahhhh!” went the constables.

“Go on,” said Inspectre Hovis.

“I quote the words of Samuel Johnson on his trip to the Brentford Bull Fayre: ‘I entered the town of Brentford by the river road, passing beneath the old iron tower, a fortress of great age, which still survives, although weed-grown and hung with ivy, striking in its presence.’ Johnson visited the fayre and actually witnessed a live griffin in a showman’s booth. All this is recorded in his memoirs, for anyone to check.”

“Curious,” said Hovis. “Continue.”

“A record of land charters, granted in fourteen-seventy-two, states that, ‘One Able John Rimmer tills land to the North and West of the iron tower. His land extends to the North Road for Ealing, up against Ye Flying Swan Inn and bordering upon the dell of Chiswick, wherewhich the pasture grounds of our Lord the King abound for twenty leagues.’ I have sought even further back, but it is all the same, the gasometer is old beyond the point of memory. And where memory and the written word become myth and legend still it is there. It has been there for perhaps one thousand years.”

“And now it is a den of thieves,” said Hovis.

“You are dealing with no ordinary thieves,” Rune warned. “I can offer you many quotations to prove that you are dealing with a legacy of evil which has existed for a millennium unrealized.”

The constables shifted uneasily in their seats. This was all beginning to sound distinctly iffy.

“So,” said Hovis, “can you guide us in, that we might beard the evil lion in his den?”

“Of course,” said Rune, “am I not Rune the all-knowing, Rune the cosmic warrior, Rune the …”

“Yes, yes, we all know that.”

“It will be no easy venture,” said Hugo Rune.

“That which is done with ease is done without conviction.”

Rune raised an eyebrow, twisted into a waxed spike. “Please spare me the homilies, I shall require payment for my services.”

“What? I offer to absolve you of your crimes and you demand payment to boot?”

“The reward for the recovery of the gold is one per cent. As an arbiter of justice you must respect my entitlement. Under the circumstances I consider the sum barely sufficient, nevertheless”

“Nevertheless, you will have it over my carcass.”

“Inspectre, you can huff and puff for all you are worth, but without me you will not blow this house down.”

“Then I will call in the SAS.”

Rune closed the book with a resounding thump. “If you no longer require my services, I shall depart. I have stuck to my side of the bargain, our tally is now even. I leave with a clean slate.”

“Hold hard. Rune. Why do you think that we will not be able to enter the gasometer without your help?”

“Because a wall of force surrounds it. It is a powerful force and one that cannot be breached by ordinary means. If you bluster in you will lose men. Death will be the reward of folly.”

The constables shrank in their seats. “Hear him out,” said somebody.

“This is supposed to be the age of reason and logic,” Rune declared, “of advancement, of knowledge. Take what I say to be superstitious nonsense if you please, but you will pay for your lack of foresight. There is an old evil here that cannot be dealt with by any means you understand. It is my territory and not yours, Inspectre. Without me you will not enter the iron tower.” Hovis chewed ruefully upon his lip and tapped his cane upon the floor. The constables were growing restless. “If I lead you in,” Rune continued, “then I demand the reward. If not, then you can do as you please, put me up as public enemy number one if you wish.”

“How do I know that I can trust you?”

“What do you have to lose?”

“All right,” said Hovis. “Then we go in tonight.”

“All right,” said Hugo Rune. “So be it.”

“Hip, hip, hoorah!” went the constables, and then wondered why.

At a little after three Neville had cashed up. Despite the debacle, Ye Flying Swan had done a most profitable lunchtime’s trade. If Croughton’s hands had wandered, Neville had not observed them. Now the part-time barman sat in a lounge chair sipping Scotch and musing upon the peculiarities of the present times. His Open University course in Psychology had gone right out of the window.

What did psychologists know about life? he asked himself. About as much as the legendary late and learned pig, he concluded. Psychology was as history had been to Henry Ford, bunk. The barman sipped his Scotch and thought all the things that drunken men always think. Why wars, why profiteering, why religion, why racial intolerance, it was a lot of whys. Mankind was an enigma, an impalpable mystery and for all the why-are-we-here’s and where-are-we-going’s that had ever been asked, we were no-nearer-to-learning-the-truth.

Neville’s good eye wandered about the confines of his world. The Swan had seen him fine for twenty years. He was barlord, confidant, guru, bouncer, jovial mine host to patrons he neither knew nor understood. He watched them turn from likeable personalities to unlikeable drunks nightly, but he didn’t “know” them. He liked them, perhaps he even loved them, but he didn’t know them. They were basically good people, a little misguided perhaps, but then who wasn’t these days? Who was there to guide them? The words of self-obsessed politicians, media personalities, newspaper magnates and half-mad clerics? Who could reason sensibly when supplied with all the wrong information for all the wrong reasons? Neville sank down in his seat, he was really pissed off.

And this business today? The games? It was evident that the people of Brentford were not to be any part of it. The promised free tickets had yet to materialize. Brentonians didn’t matter, they were nobody. It all took a lot of thinking about. Neville took a pull at his Scotch. Was there any truth in drink? Experience had taught him to doubt that one. Was there any truth in anything? The barman was forced to conclude once more that he just didn’t know. Where had it all gone? Those grand thoughts and dreams of his youth had become trivialized by uneven memory and present-day responsibility, and such it was with all of them. He recalled the high-jinx of Pooley and Omally. He had watched them mellow down, lose their edge, although he still admired them for their freedom.

About the only patron who never changed was Old Pete, but he was hardly any example.

“Where did all the good times go?” Neville asked bitterly. “If only we had known how fragile they were, would we have treated them with such indifference?” He finished his Scotch and forbore another. Life had to go on, he had to open up in the evening, the game had to be played out. Where it was all leading, he didn’t have a clue. The world was changing, and one had to change with it or get left behind. That the planet seemed to be going down the sewer to him did not mean that it actually was. There was always the young, there was always hope for the future.

Neville twirled his glass upon his finger and began to whistle. “I think I’ll have a root in the attic for the old record collection. Dig out some Leonard Cohen and cheer myself up.”

Down in the teepee Paul and Barry Geronimo swayed back and forth chanting softly. In the Professor’s study, Pooley paced likewise, a tumbler of Scotch in his hand. In the briefing room Hugo Rune pointed variously about a map of Brentford, whilst constables made jottings in regulation police note-books. And on high in the Star Stadium, athletes trained and practised within a self-contained and air-conditioned environment. While deep within the great gasometer a power beyond any human reckoning seethed and thrashed against the iron walls.