The Brentford Triangle (19 page)

A murderous rumble rolled through the crowd. There was a great stamping offset and squaring of shoulders. Ties were being slackened and top buttons undone. Cufflinks were being removed and dropped into inside pockets.

Young Jack raised his dart and lined up for a winner. Neville took a sharper hold upon his knobkerry and patted at his loins to ensure that the cricketer’s box he had had the foresight to hire for the occasion was in place.

Omally smote the Professor, “Save us, old man,” he implored. “I will apologize later.”

Professor Slocombe rose upon his cane and stared at his adversary.

Young Jack drew back his hand and flung his dart.

The thing creased the air at speed, then suddenly slowed; to the utter dumbfoundment of the crowd, it hung suspended in time and space exactly six feet three inches above the deck and five feet from the board.

Professor Slocombe concentrated his gaze, Young Jack did likewise.

The dart moved forward a couple of inches, then stopped once more and took a twitch backwards.

The crowd were awestruck. Neville’s knobkerry hung loose in his hand. Great forces were at work here, great forces that he would rather have no part in. But he was here at the killing, and as part-time barman would do little other than offer support.

Every eye, apart from one ill-matched pair, was upon that dart. Supporters of both Swan and Horsemen alike wrinkled their brows and strained their brains upon that dart. Beads of perspiration appeared a-plenty and fell, ruining many a good pint.

The dart eased forward another six inches. Professor Slocombe turned his stare towards the glowing red eyes of his opponent. The dart retreated.

Young Jack drew a deep breath and the dart edged once more towards its target.

“You wouldn’t get this on the telly,” whispered Jim Pooley.

Old Jack suddenly put his wrinkled hands to the wheels of his chair and propelled himself towards the Professor.

“Restrain that man!” yelled Omally.

Pooley lurched from his seat, but, in his haste to halt the wheeling ancient, caught his foot upon a chair leg and tripped. He clutched at the table, overturning it, and blundered into Professor Slocombe, propelling him into the crowd. At this moment of truth the proverbial all hell was let loose.

The night-black dart set forth once more upon its journey and thundered towards the board. Young Jack stood grinning as Pooley upset his infirm father and brought down at least another four people in his desperation. Omally struggled up and struck the nearest man a vicious blow to the skull.

Before the eyes of those stunned patrons who were not yet engaged in the fracas the dart struck the board. As it did so a devastating explosion occurred overhead which shattered the bar optics, brought down great lumps of plaster from the ceiling and upset the part-time barman into the crowd.

“It is God!” shouted Omally, hitting with a will. “He will stand no more!”

Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone fell away from the Captain Laser machine. “It wasn’t me,” he whimpered, “I didn’t do it.”

The lights of the Swan suddenly dimmed as the entire world which was Brentford proper went mad.

“It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, I swear it.”

Nobody really cared. Outside something terrific was happening. Possibly it was the prelude to the long-awaited Armageddon, possibly earthquake, or tidal wave. Whatever it was, the darts fans were not going to be caught napping, and the stampede towards the door was all-consuming. A single darkly-clad figure wearing a brand of creosote aftershave was immediately trampled to oblivion beneath the rush.

As the patrons poured into the night the enormity of what had occurred became apparent. Shards of flaming metal were hurtling down upon Brentford. Great sheets of fire were rising from the tarmac of the Ealing Road as the surface met each blazing assault. Several front gardens were ablaze.

Pooley and Omally helped the fallen Professor to his feet. “It has begun,” said John. “What do we do?”

“To the machine,” yelled the old man. “It would appear that Norman has served us right.”

Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone stood blankly staring at the screen. “I didn’t do it,” he said repeatedly.

Omally was at his side in an instant. “Play it,” he roared. “You are the kiddie, play it.”

Rathbone drew back in horror, “No,” he shouted. “Something is wrong. I will have no part of it.”

“Play it!” Omally grabbed at the green hair and drew the stinker close to the machine. “You are the unbeatable master, play it.”

Nick drew up his head in a gesture of defiance. As he did so, he stumbled upon a chunk of fallen ceiling and fell backwards, leaving Omally clutching a bundle of green hair and what appeared to be an india-rubber face mask. The figure who collapsed to the Swan’s floor, now bereft of his disguise, resembled nothing more nor less than a young Jack Palance.

“He’s one of them,” screamed Omally, pointing to the fallen Cerean, and dancing up and down dementedly. “He was never playing the machine, he was signalling with it. Get him, get him!”

Pooley hastened to obey. “The left armpit, isn’t it?” he growled.

The erstwhile paperboy backed away, covering his wedding tackle. “Not the armpit,” he whimpered. “Anything but the armpit.”

Professor Slocombe was at the machine. “How does it work?” he cried. “How does it work?”

“Leave him, Jim,” yelled Omally, “play the machine, shoot the bastards down.”

Upon the allotments columns of pure white light were rising into the sky. The door of Soap Distant’s hut was wide open and a great glow poured from it, silhouetting dozens of identical figures gliding through the opening.

When the first great explosion occurred, a small dwarf in a soiled postman’s suit had flattened himself into a sprout bed, but now he arose to his full height and stared about in horror at the bizarre spectacle.

He danced up and down and flapped his arms, “Edgar,” he shouted, “Edgar, help me, help me.” The figures now pouring through the shed doorway were bearing down upon him, and the postman took to his tiny heels and fled. He plunged through the open allotment gates and paused only to assure himself that he still had a tight hold upon the pair of bolt-cutters he had been carrying. Without further ado he continued his journey, bound for a certain lock-up garage upon the Butts Estate, and destiny.

In the Swan, Pooley was at the controls. “There’s eight of them,” he said, “moving in a V formation.” His finger rattled upon the neutron bomb release button, and tiny beads of yellow light swept upwards towards the bobbing cones at the top of the screen.

“Get them, Jim,” screamed Omally. “Come on now, you know how it’s done.”

“I’m trying, aren’t I? Get us a drink for God’s sake.”

Neville, who had fallen rather heavily but happily not upon his tender parts, was on all fours in the middle of the floor. “What the hell is going on?” he gasped. “Get away from the counter, Omally.”

“We’re breaking your machine,” said the breathless Irishman, “don’t knock it.”

“But what was that explosion? My God!” Neville pointed out through the Swan’s front windows. “Half the Ealing Road’s on fire. Call the appliances.”

Pooley bashed at the button with his fist and jumped up and down. “I’ve got one! I’ve got one!”

Overhead, but a little less loudly this time, there was another explosion, followed by the sound of faltering engines and a Messerschmitt dive-bomber scream.

Those present at the Swan ducked their heads as something thundered by at close quarters and whistled away into the distance. There was a moment’s deadly silence followed by a muted but obviously powerful report.

Another Cerean craft had fallen to Earth upon Brentford; given its point of impact, it was unlikely that Jim Pooley would ever again receive a threatening letter regarding an overdue library book.

“There! There!” Neville was pointing and ranting. “It is the third world war and we never got the four-minute warning. I am withholding my vote at the next election.”

Small Dave struggled up from the gutter and shrieked with pain. He had been rather nearer to the library’s destruction and a sliver of shrapnel from the founder’s plaque had caught him in the backside.

“Oh woe, oh woe, oh damn!” he wailed. A less determined man would by now have called it a day and dived for the nearest foxhole, but loathing and hatred overwhelmed the postman, and nothing would turn him from his vendetta. Feeling tenderly at his bleeding bum, he raised the bolt-cutter to the garage lock and applied all his strength. He strained and sweated as he fought with the steel clasp. Finally, with a sickening crunch the metal gave, and the garage door swung upwards.

Small Dave stood panting in the opening, his features shining pinkly by the light of ten thousand blazing dogeared library books. Sweat poured from his face as he surveyed the object of his quest. Snorting and wriggling in the eaves of the lock-up garage was Simon. A camel far from home.

“Now that you have it,” said a voice which loosened Small Dave’s bowels, “what are you going to do with it?”

The postman swung upon his blakeys. “Edgar,” he said, “where in the holy blazes have you been?”

Norman had been almost the first man out of the Swan. As the explosion rang in his ears he had realized that big trouble was in store and that if he was to take his great quest to its ultimate conclusion, now was going to have to be the time.

Clutching his purloined microcircuit to his bosom he had braved the rain of fire and legged it back to his shop and his workroom. Now, as the explosions came thick and fast from all points of the compass, he fiddled with a screwdriver and slotted the thing into place.

“Power inductor,” he said to himself, “will channel all the power from miles around directly into the apparatus. Wonderful, wonderful!”

Norman threw the much-loved “we belong dead” switch and his equipment sprang into life.

In the Swan, the lights momentarily dimmed. “Another power cut,” groaned Neville. “All I bloody need, another power cut. Typical it is, bloody typical.”

Pooley thundered away at the machine, watched by the Professor and John Omally, who was feeding the lad with scotch.

“Go to it, Jim,” Omally bashed Pooley repeatedly upon the back. “You’ve got them on the run. Here you missed that one, pay attention, will you?”

Pooley laboured away beneath the Irishman’s assault. “Lay off me, John,” he implored. “They’re firing back. Look at that.”

The skyline upon the screen had suddenly been translated into that of the immediate area. The silhouettes of the flatblocks and the gasometer were now clearly visible. As the three men stared in wonder, a shower of sparks descended upon the screen from one of the circling craft and struck the silhouette. Outside, a great roar signalled the demolition of one of the flatblocks.

“Get them, you fool, get them.”

Unnoticed, Raffles Rathbone edged towards the door and slipped through it, having it hastily away upon his toes towards the allotments.

The Swan’s lights dimmed once more.

In Norman’s kitchenette, lights were flashing, and a haze of smoke was rising from many a dodgy spot weld.

Norman sat at his console, punching coordinates into his computer, an ever-increasing hum informing him that the equipment was warming up nicely.

Clinging to the controls of a not altogether dissimilar console was a swarthy clone of a famous film star; Lombard Omega had taken the controls.

“Treachery,” he spat, from between his gritted and expensively capped teeth. “Fucking treachery! Those bastards have drawn us into a trap. Bleeding change of government, I shouldn’t wonder. How many ships lost, Mr Navigator?”

The navigator shrank low over his guidance systems. “Four now, sir,” he said, “no, make that five.”

“Take us out of autopilot then, I shall fly this frigging ship manually.”

One of the remaining blips vanished from the video screen of the Captain Laser Alien Attack machine.

“Oh dear,” said the Professor. “It had occurred to me that they might just twig it.”

“There’s still another two,” said Omally. “Get them, get them!”

There was now a good deal of Brentford which was only memory. The New Inn had gone, along with the library, and one of the gasometers was engulfed in flame. A falling craft had cut Uncle Ted’s greengrocery business cleanly out of the Ealing Road, which, survivors of the holocaust were later to remark, was about the only good thing to come out of the whole affair. There had miraculously been no loss of life, possibly because Brentford boasts more well-stocked Anderson shelters per square mile than any other district in London, but probably because this is not that kind of book.

Pooley was faltering in his attack. “My right arm’s gone,” moaned he, “and my bomb release button finger’s got the cramp, I can play no more.”

Omally struck his companion the now legendary blow to the skull.

“That does it!” Pooley turned upon Omally. “When trouble threatens, strike Jim Pooley. I will have no more.”

Pooley threw a suddenly uncramped fist towards Omally’s chin. By virtue of its unexpected nature and unerring accuracy, he floored the Irishman for a good deal more than the count of ten.

Professor Slocombe looked down at the unconscious figure beneath the beard. “If that score is settled, I would appreciate it if you would apply yourself once more to the machine before the other two craft catch wind of what is going on and switch to manual override.”

“Quite so,” said Pooley, spitting upon his palms and stepping once more to the video screen.

Small Dave backed away from Edgar Allan Poe, his tiny hands a flapping blur. “What is all this?” he demanded. “I don’t like the look of you one bit.”

The Victorian author approached upon silent, transparent feet. “You conjured me here,” he said, “and I came willingly, thinking you to be a disciple. But now I find that I am drawn into a position from which I am unable to extricate myself. That I must serve you. That cannot be!”

“So leave it then,” whined Small Dave. “I meant no offence to you, I only wanted a little assistance.”