The Sprouts of Wrath (25 page)

“She’s nice and safe, would you like to join her? Shall I call Jennifer that you might see her one more time, kiss those soft red lips? She’s so close you could reach out and touch her.”

“In here?” Omally’s free hand reached to the gasometer, but an icy blast tore it away, numb and bleeding.

“No,” said Kaleton, “she’s in here,” he pointed to his mouth, “and now you can come inside.”

“You’ve killed her, you… whatever you are.”

“Whatever I am. Who do you think I am?”

“You are Choronzon,” said Professor Slocombe, “lord of all anarchy, destroyer. You are Choronzon.”

Kaleton spun about. Above him on a higher catwalk stood Pooley and the Professor. Jim’s eyes bulged, filled with tears. “John,” he gasped, “John, is that you?”

“Watchamate, Jim,” said that very man.

“Blessed be,” said Jim Pooley.

“I am the Soul of the World,” cried Kaleton in many voices and many tongues, “I am Choronzon, I am Baal, I am Kali, I am Shiva. I am all that has gone before and all that is yet to come. Ruination lies in my hands, ruination for you and your kind. You dirt, you worms. Your time is at hand.”

“Where’s my girlfriend?”

“My future wife?” asked Jim. “He’s got her?”

“I am yesterday and tomorrow, Alpha and Omega. You are finished.” Kaleton twisted, distorted, the hideous mouth opened wider, swelled as if to encompass everything, the borough, the earth, the universe, the whole damn lot.

The earth trembled. The warriors beneath gazed up towards the iron tower. The riot police, prepared to batter skulls, halted in mid-swing. Rune made sacred signs. Meek continued to fill his pockets for the meek shall inherit the earth, after all. Hovis considered bee-keeping on the Sussex Downs. Behind Pooley’s left ear a particle of dirt resembled the exact shape of the lost continent of Atlantis.

“I am Choronzon,” cried the voices of Kaleton, the voices of the millions gone forward into the oblivion of yesterday. “We are the planet’s revenge, we will have no more of you. All die.”

“But you first,” said Omally, priming the suitcase and thrusting it into the ghastly void which spread before him, the mouth of hell.

The facade of human resemblance fell away from Kaleton. He was an unearthly shape, an elemental, the bogey man, the nightmare of children, the dreams of the mad, the delirium of the dying. He was all that was opposite, life in reverse. “You cannot stop us. You cannot reverse the process. A great shot will ring out across the universe. All will die, forever die, be gone. We are your Nemesis!”

Pooley swung down from the catwalk, struck the swelling creature from behind and catapulted it into space. Kaleton flew into the air, a whirling mass of neutrinos, primal flux, ancient evil made flesh, a formless horror that was many forms, many pasts and presents. And somewhere in that hinterland of time, lost between seconds, between yesterday, today and tomorrow, Omally’s suitcase exploded. It might have been in Brentford or even anywhere in the unknown world or the partially explored cosmos. But it was within the universe that was Kaleton. Great streamers of trailing sparks spun across the sky, the gasometer rocked and shook, the stadium shuddered and trembled, the air swam with visions, dreams, memories.

Pooley clung to the rocking staircase and saw it all. The world as it was, torn by elemental forces, a battlefield of unreason. Man’s ascent from the darkness, towards the glorious future. And he saw much more, the mistakes of generations who had lost their way. The terrible mistakes which had led to this. Pooley saw it all, and it was dead profound, I can tell you. All in the split second, or the lifetime or the eternity, it was all one and the same.

The streaming motes which were Kaleton, Beelzebub, the old serpent, the Grex, rained down upon Brentford. Flowed in a pure golden shower, dissolved and were gone. The stars returned, reason returned. Truth and tomorrow returned.

With a startled cry Jennifer Naylor returned from a deep, dark unknown place and fell into Omally’s arms. There was a bit of a hush.

Commander West stood in the now empty Ealing Road wondering where Armageddon just went.

“Shall I cancel the reinforcements?” asked Constable Briant.

In the teepee at the bottom of the garden, Paul Geronimo said, “It is done, the gods are happy, and now we smoke many pipes.”

“And possibly get some kip,” his brother suggested.

Neville turned once more in his sleep. “Alison,” he said, “you naughty girl.”

Inspectre Hovis struggled towards the hastily commandeered ice-cream van with an arm load of gold bars. “Keep sticking them in,” he told Hugo Rune, “there’s plenty of room in the back.”

“Do I understand that you are taking an early retirement?” the mystic asked.

Professor Slocombe turned his face towards the heavens. “It is done, I so believe,” said he, “it is done.”

“Does this mean I am a millionaire?” asked Jim Pooley.

A beaming face beamed out across the world. “This is the London Olympics.”

In the stadium flags flew, athletes marched and the cheering of a million voices rose towards the summer sky, like a prayer of thanks.

In the Professor’s study Jim popped the cork from a bottle of champagne. “Easy does it, Jim,” said the old man. “That’s a hundred-year-old vintage.”

“Put it on the slate,” the lad replied, distributing large libations. “In five minutes the games begin, in six John and I take a stroll down to Bob’s, in the company of the local constabulary. In an hour we shall be gloriously drunk.”

“I will drink to that,” said Omally. “A toast to the Brentford Olympics.”

“To the games,” said Jim. “Although not to their founder.”

“Hm.” John sipped champagne. “That blaggard, what was he, Professor, was he a man or a devil or what?”

“I am not certain even Kaleton knew that. He loathed mankind because he was not of man, thus he had to prove he was greater than man. His character, if indeed he possessed one in the true sense of the word, was one of constant turmoil, a torment of raw conflicts. He was ego, power, good and evil by degree. He denied all human emotion but he was subject to it nevertheless. Egoism, pride, monomania, he craved recognition for his own mad genius.”

“The stadium,” said John.

“Indeed yes, the stadium was to be his apotheosis. I believe that had the stadium taken life it would have been literally unstoppable.”

“Then why didn’t he set the thing off last night?”

“His super-ego would not allow it. He wanted the whole world watching when he demonstrated his power. I had to count on this ‘human’ weakness, it was all I had.”

“You took a bit of a chance then,” said Omally.

“I took a good many chances — that Norman’s car would work, that you would be in the right place at the right time with your suitcases.”

Pooley looked long and hard at the old man. “There has been something of a run on happy coincidence lately,” he observed.

Professor Slocombe winked. “I don’t happen to believe in it myself. Drink up, Jim, I’ll open another bottle.”

Pooley peered into his glass. “So Kaleton was not the Soul of the World then?” he asked in a tone which almost amounted to disappointment. Omally gazed at him strangely.

“No, Jim,” said the Professor, dusting off another antique bottle, “I refuse to believe that. Kaleton was composed of a chaos of organisms, you saw that for yourself. For him to maintain human form, or any other form for that matter, became more and more difficult for him. He knew his time was running out. I believe that Kaleton was somehow a product of the very pollution and decay he loathed so much. The product of many centuries’ festering evil made flesh.”

“I hate to say anything in his favour,” Pooley replied, “but there was a lot of truth in what he said. Great wrong has been done to the planet. Entropy is the order of the day. We’ve all been part of it, but we’ve never paid attention. Now no-one will know what he said, nor, I suspect, do anything about it if they did.”

“Good bloody riddance to him,” said Omally.

Pooley shook his head, “But someone should do something, John, the world is going down the plug-hole, I realize that now. My eyes have been well and truly opened. What if Kaleton was the first of a coming race? He’s been a warning. Men must change their ways or pay a high price.”

Professor Slocombe nodded. “A man of independent means might dedicate himself to such a cause,” he suggested.

“What do you say, Jim?”

Pooley smiled, patted his million-pound pocket and raised his glass for a refill. “I say yes, Professor. I have much to be thankful for, I say yes.”

“You are a good man, Jim. Perhaps the future will find you to be a great one, although.”

“Although what, Professor?”

“Well,” said the old man, thoughtfully, “I feel that somewhere there is a loose end. That somehow I have missed something obvious. There are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

“TEMPORA PATET OCCULTA VERITAS,” said John.

“Eh?”

“In time the hidden truth will out,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Perk up,” said Omally, sticking his head out through the french windows. “Sounds like they’re on the starting-blocks.”

High above Brentford the stadium was hushed, upon the rostrum the master of ceremonies raised his starting pistol to begin the first race. All over the world men drew closer to their television sets and held their breath.

“They’re under starter’s orders,” cried Jim. “I am rich!”

Abacus paperback ending:

The barrel of the gun pointed towards the summer sky, a finger pulled upon the trigger. It was a curious finger. And then a great shot rang out across the universe.

“Oh dear,” said Jim Pooley. “Watchamate God.”

Corgi paperback ending:

There’s never a policeman around when you need one. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. The sign on the door of the Brentford nick read “GONE TO THE GAMES”. And that was that.

“Bloody typical.” Champagne Pooley levelled his boot at the constabulary door, setting off the alarm. But nobody came. The streets were deserted. Everybody had gone to the games.

“Come on,” said Omally. “Let’s get this done. If Bob gives you any trouble, he’ll have me to settle with.”

“Well said, that man.”

The two turned away from the abandoned police station and made off up the abandoned Albany Road. They were just passing the abandoned recreation ground when a terrible thought struck them in anything but an abandoned manner.

“Could it just be possible?” asked this thought. “That Bob the Bookie might choose, rather than pay Jim his winnings, to make away to distant parts, leaving naught behind him but an evil memory?”

Pooley and Omally stopped short in mid stride. John looked at Jim and Jim looked at John.

“Oh no,” gasped Jim. “Say it isn’t so.”

“It isn’t so.” Omally broke into a run. Pooley was already way ahead of him.

As they neared Bob’s shop on the corner of the Ealing Road, they saw to their shared horror that things were not as they should have been in that particular neck of the Brentford woods.

Several large vans were drawn up outside the bookies. Men in grey overalls were going in and coming out. They were going in empty-handed, but that wasn’t the way they were coming out.

“Oh no!” A breathless Pooley skidded to a halt, Omally hard upon his Blakey-sparking heels. A surly-looking gent in a dapper business suit, armed with a clipboard and pen, was supervising the goings-in and comings-out. He offered Pooley a brief and disparaging glance. “Do you work here?” he asked.

Jim shook his head.

“Then bugger off because I am.”

“You what?” Jim drew back his cuffs and knotted his fists. Omally held him back. “Where is the proprietor?” he enquired.

“Inside.” The surly gent cast an eye over a rare potted lily that a grey-overalled minion was freighting from Bob’s shop. He ticked it off on his clipboard. “Rubber plant,” he said. “Fiver.” He waved the minion away to the yawning rear door of one of the vans.

“What is going on here?” Omally demanded.

“Repossession. Oi, you!” the surly one yelled across the road to where Leo Felix was cranking Bob’s latest Rolls-Royce up the back of his knackered tow truck. “Careful with the chromework, Chalkie, that car’s going to the auction.”

“Come on.” Omally thrust Jim through the open door and into the betting shop. Things didn’t look too promising in there. The grey-overalled lads were setting about the premises with a will. Prising pictures from the walls. Rolling up the lino.

Omally grabbed the nearest by his collar and swung him aloft. “Where is Bob the Bookie?” he spat through seriously gritted teeth.

“In there.” The minion offered shaky thumbings towards Bob’s back office.

“Thank you.” Omally let him slide to the floor. “Follow me, Jim.”

The Irishman took the shop in two long strides and the office door from its hinges with a single well-aimed boot.

And then he stopped. Pooley stumbled forwards and peeped over his friend’s broad shoulder.

“Oh dear,” said he. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

The office was empty of furniture, fixtures and fittings. On the bare boards, in a corner, huddled a cowering, cringing, quaking wreck of a man. It was Bob the Bookie.

Omally gazed down at the human disaster area. He noted well the dishevelled hair, the stubbled chin, the torn shirt collar and the broken finger-nails. “Bob,” said John. “Bob, what is happening here?”

The broken bookie turned up red-rimmed eyes to his uninvited guests. “Oh no!” he wailed. “No no no.”

“I like not the looks of this fellow,” Jim whispered. “Let us collect the winnings and take our leave directly.”

“No no no.” The pitch of Bob’s voice soared to new heights of tragedy.

“No?” Omally glared down upon him.

“No.” Bob shook his head furiously. “All of the money. Gone. All gone.”

“Gone?”

Pooley tried to say “gone” also, but the word would not come.

“Gone.” Bob began to gibber. “All of it. I invested everything I had to cover your winnings. Put it all into The Kaleton Organization. Stocks and shares. A dead cert. Now this morning — gone. The Kaleton Organization has ceased to exist. I’m wiped out. Bankrupt.”

“Bankrupt?” Omally was across the room in a flash. And Bob was dragged from the floor and hoisted up the wall. “All of the money? Jim’s millions? You lost it all?”

“All.” Bob’s head went bob bob bob.

“No.” Omally gave it a smack. “Jim deserves his happy ever after. All he’s been through. All he’s suffered. You won’t deny him it.”

“All gone,” Bob burbled. “No money. All gone.”

“Then you are all gone too.” Omally’s eyes narrowed and his hands closed upon the throat of the banjoed bookie.

“John, no.” Pooley found his voice. It was a still small version of its normally robust self. But it was his none the less. “Let him go, John. Leave him be.”

“Leave him be?” Omally shook Bob all about. “But it’s not fair, Jim. You should win out this time. You should.”

Jim shook his head. “All that money. All those dreams. What can you say? Put him down, John. Put him down.”

“Jim.” Omally let the bookie sink back to the uncarpeted floor. “Oh, Jim.”

“Let’s go.” Pooley turned to take his leave. “There’s nothing for us here.”

“But, Jim …” Omally scowled down at the fallen bookie and prepared to put the boot in.

“Leave him alone, John,” said Jim, without looking back. “Let’s go.”

Omally threw up his hands. It was all too much.

“Hold on, Pooley, don’t go.” Bob raised himself on a besmutted elbow. “Wait. Don’t go.”

Jim turned in the doorway.

“Pooley, I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

“Forget it.” Jim turned away once more.

“No, wait.” Bob struggled to his knees. “I want you to have something.”

Jim glanced over his shoulder. “If it’s a tip for the three-thirty, I’m no longer your man. I’ve given up betting.”

“No, it’s this.” Bob fumbled in his jacket. He brought out something shiny and exquisite-looking. “My new watch. It’s not worth a great deal, but I’d like you to have it.”

“How much is it worth?” Omally tore the thing from the outstretched hand.

“A hundred at least.”

“A hundred pounds?”

“A hundred grand,” said Bob. “I don’t wear cheap tat.”

“A hundred thousand pounds?” Pooley sank in the doorway.

“Well, seventy-five at least.”

“We’ll take it.” Omally held up the consolation prize.

“And call it all square?”

“All square?” Pooley found his feet.

“The betting slip?” Bob’s voice quivered plaintively.

“Oh, that.” Jim took the passport to paradise from his pocket and gazed at it sadly. And then, without a second thought, he tore the thing to shreds.

“Seventy-five thousand pounds.” Omally admired the watch on his wrist.

“Hand it over.”

Omally grudgingly handed it over. “I was only looking.”

“Indeed you were.” Pooley strapped his winnings to his own wrist.

They were strolling up the Ealing Road en route to the Flying Swan. They had a certain spring in their step.

“We’ve come out on top.” Omally thrust out his chest and drew in great draughts of healthy Brentford air. “We have actually come out on top this time.”

“Perhaps by proxy. Sort of.”

“By proxy? What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s owed.” Pooley took a nimble sidestep as Omally leapt at him.

“Owed?” Omally floundered in the gutter.

“Owed.” Pooley helped him up. “To Neville. I said I’d give him seventy-five thousand. He needs it to buy the Swan. The brewery are selling it. Sacking him.”

“Sacking Neville?” Omally took in the enormity of Jim’s words. “Sacking Neville?”

“Kicking him out. Well, we can’t have that, can we?” John shook his head freely. No, we certainly could not have that.

“So I gave him an IOU,” Pooley went on. “For seventy-five thousand. Handy this, eh?” He tapped the wristlet watch. “What a happy ever after.”

“A happy ever after?” Omally sighed. Then he put his arm about the shoulder of his dearest chum. “You are a good man, Jim Pooley,” said he. “And I’m proud to call you my friend.”

The two men approached the door of the Flying Swan.

Neither of them actually had the price of a pint in their pockets.

But for today at least, that was hardly going to matter.

And as to tomorrow?

Well, tomorrow’s anyone’s bet.

Isn’t it?