Omally buried his face in his hands. ‘My true friend,’ he mumbled, his voice choked by emotion. He slumped back on his knees and stared up at the sky. Tears had formed in his deep-blue eyes and fell over his unshaven cheeks. ‘Why?’ he shouted up at the firmament. ‘Tell me why?’
Holmes came forward and, stooping, turned Pooley’s right palm upwards. The eighteen lines glowed darkly in the otherwise brilliant sunlight. ‘There is nothing you can do for him now,’ he said.
‘No!’ Omally elbowed the detective’s hand away. ‘Leave him alone, you are part of this. What the hell is going on here anyway? Why did it happen?’
‘Come, John,’ said the Professor, laying a slim hand upon the Irishman’s shoulder. ‘Come away now, there is nothing that can be done.’
Omally looked up bitterly at the old man. ‘You knew about this, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘You knew something bad was going on, you should have stopped it. You and your numbers and your magic.’
‘Come, John, come please.’
Omally rose slowly to his feet and stared down at Pooley’s mortal remains. ‘I will kill the man who did this, Jim,’ he said slowly and painfully.
Professor Slocombe pressed his hand once more to John’s shoulder, and led the stumbling man away.
‘All well and bloody good,’ came a voice from the grave. ‘But who is going to turn my head around for me?’
Omally spun about. ‘Jim, you old-!’
‘Who else would it be? My head, John, if you please? It is most uncomfortable.’
The lads at the Cottage Hospital were nothing if not thorough. Spending their days as they did, playing dominoes and hunt the hypodermic, they were more than willing to face up to the challenge of the bloody spectacle Professor Slocombe presented them with. Having run a light-pen quickly over Pooley’s right hand they pronounced him private patient and went about their tasks with a will. Had not the Professor been a member of the Board of Governors, there seemed little doubt that they would have been a great deal more thorough than they were. Most likely to the extremes of an exploratory operation or two, with the removal of Pooley’s tonsils as an encore. As it was they prodded and poked, applied iodine, took X-rays, forced him to remove his trousers, turned his head to the right, and made him cough. As an afterthought they inoculated him against tetanus, mumps, whooping cough, and diphtheria. As Doctor Kildare came up on the hospital televideo they summarily dismissed him with a few kind words, a large bill, and a prescription for Interferon no local chemist could ever hope to fill.
‘See,’ said Omally, as the four men left the hospital, ‘all this fuss and not a bone broken.’
Pooley felt doubtfully at his bruised limbs. ‘I will not bore you with my opinion of the National Health Service,’ said he. ‘Nor even waste my time bewailing my lot, as my pleas for sympathy fall for ever upon deaf ears.’
At last the four men entered the Professor’s study. A large medicinal gold watch was handed at once to the invalid who was placed in a heavily-cushioned chair. ‘My thanks,’ said Jim, pocketing it away in his throat. The sun danced in upon the carpet and the four weary men lay slumped in various armchairs, each unwilling to be the first to break the tranquil silence. Pooley’s limbs creaked and complained to themselves. With a crackling hand he poured himself another drink. Holmes and the Professor exchanged occasional guarded glances, and the old man appeared at times obsessed with the silver pentacle which hung upon his watch-chain. Omally drummed his fingers soundlessly upon the chair’s arm and waited for the storm to break; the silence was rapidly becoming close and oppressive.
Finally Jim could stand it no longer. ‘All right,’ he said, climbing painfully to his feet. ‘What is going on? You all know a lot more of this than me.’
‘I don’t,’ said Omally, ‘but I am beginning to have my suspicions.’
‘So what is it?’ Pooley turned to the Professor. ‘I have just miraculously survived an attempt upon my life by a lunatic chauffeur. Such should be the cause for some small rejoicing surely. If I was dead, Omally here would already be ordering the beer for the wake.’
Professor Slocombe stepped over to his desk and took up the day’s copy of the Brentford Mercury. He held the front page towards Jim. ‘Have you read this?’
Pooley perused the encircled article with little interest and less comprehension. ‘It’s about computer lines,’ said he. It did not go unnoticed by Holmes and the Professor that his right hand slid unobtrusively away into his trouser pocket.
‘It is much more than that,’ said the old man. ‘It is an essential link in a dark chain of events which, unless severed, will inevitably engirdle us all. To our ultimate destruction.’
‘Come now,’ said Jim. ‘It is just some nonsense about banks and computers, nothing more I assure you.’
Professor Slocombe shook his head, ‘Sadly, it is a great deal more than that. It is conclusive proof that all my worst fears are founded and even now the prophecies of the book of Revelation are coming to pass.’
‘You jest, surely?’
Professor Slocombe shook his head once more. ‘Believe in what I say,’ said he. ‘We are facing the greatest threat mankind has faced since the deluge. We are facing the final conflict. The Apocalypse. Even now the curtains are closing.’
‘No.’ Jim shook his head violently and not a little painfully. ‘All the stuff in that old book is most depressing. Look at me now. I experienced a slight setback, but it was the result of pure spite on Bob’s part. Just because I won and he’s banged up in hospital a bit scorched. I am battered but wealthy. The gods are smiling upon me.’
‘No,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Money will not buy you out of this one, especially money which was never intended for your use.’
Pooley scratched at his head, raising a fine cloud of dust. ‘You wouldn’t care to enlarge a little on this would you Professor?’ he asked. ‘You see such news catches me at a rather inopportune moment. John and I are planning a bit of a holiday. Armageddon might interfere with our traveller’s cheques.’
Professor Slocombe shook his head once more. Jim was beginning to find the habit mildly annoying. He had millions of pounds knocking about in the bank and was now really looking forward to spending them before they caught the moth. ‘Do you really believe yourself to be one favoured of the gods?’
Jim nodded noisily. ‘At this time definitely yes.’
‘All right then, I will make this short, but by no means sweet. We will speak of these matters again. For now let me read you a verse or two from the Revelation; possibly it will convince you, possibly not.’ Definitely not, thought Jim Pooley. The Professor took himself over to his desk where he sat before the large and outspread family Bible. ‘I will spare you the preliminaries as it is obvious that you consider your time valuable. I will simply give you the relevant part and allow you to muse upon it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jim doubtfully.
‘Revelation, Chapter Thirteen,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘This speaks of the beast that has risen from the Earth. We will address our attention to verses sixteen, seventeen; and eighteen.’ He spoke the final number with a deadly intensity.
‘Go ahead then.’
The Professor adjusted his ivory pince-nez and read aloud from the open book:
‘16. And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond to receive a mark in their right hand or in their foreheads.
17. And that no man might buy or sell save that he had the mark or the name of the beast or the number of his name.
18. Here is wisdom. Let he that hath understanding count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man, and his number is six hundred, three score and six.’
The Professor gently closed the Holy Book and looked up towards Jim Pooley. The millionaire sat bolt upright in his chair. His eyes were unblinking and stared ever downward towards the open palm of his right hand, where the computer bar code
was indelibly printed. Eighteen computer lines. Three ro
ws of six. The number of a man, six hundred, three score and six.
666
The number of the Beast. Things were suddenly beginning to sink in.
‘Oh dear,’ said John Omally, who was not a man unacquainted with the Scriptures. ‘Why did I just know you were going to choose those very verses to be today’s text?’
15
At a little after five of the clock, Pooley and Omally left Professor Slocombe’s house behind and trudged up the long crescent bound for the Swan. Although the old man had served a fine tea, neither could raise much of an appetite, finding to it more than a hint of the Messianic feast. With rumbling guts and grumbling tongues they mooched along, ignoring the gaily-coloured bunting which fluttered between the great Horse Chestnuts, raised in preparation for the forthcoming Festival of Brentford.
Pooley was in full slouch, his chin upon his chest, and his hands thrust deeply into his tweedy trouser pockets. His last suit was in exquisite ruin and lacked a right sleeve, which an over-zealous hospital intern who watched too many Aldo Ray films had cut away from his grazed elbow with a pair of surgical scissors. The thought that he could buy a thousand suits and all of them of the hand-tailored, Saville Row variety, did little to raise his spirits. Jim’s right thumbnail worried at his hidden palm.
Omally worried at Marchant’s pitted handlebars, the old boy seemed to have developed an irritating pull to the left, which was either something to do with its political leanings or something even more sinister. ‘Give it a rest,’ growled John as the thing had him in the gutter once more.
After what seemed an age they arrived at the Swan’s welcoming portal. And found to their increased horror that it was no longer welcoming. A large plastic sign fastened to the front window announced to the world that THE BUYING OF ‘ROUNDS’ IS HENCEFORTH FORBIDDEN BY ORDER OF THE BREWERY. ANY CUSTOMER ATTEMPTING TO VIOLATE THIS PRINCIPLE WILL BE BARRED FOR AN INDEFINITE PERIOD.
‘By the Saints,’ said Omally, turning wobbly at the knees. ‘Would you look at that?’
Pooley curled his lip. ‘This is too much. I am even to be denied spending my money as I please.’ He thrust Omally aside and entered the bar.
The Swan was empty of customers. The only folk present were a pale young man in headphones who stood behind the jump, and two brewery henchmen in drab-coloured overalls, who appeared to be screwing a gleaming contrivance of advanced design on to the bar counter.
‘What is the meaning of that notice?’ Pooley stormed up to the bar.
The strange young barman watched his furious approach with an untroubled expression. His head moved to and fro to a rhythm only he heard.
‘I demand an explanation,’ foamed the red-faced Jim.
The young man pushed back his headphones. ‘What will it be then, sir?’ he asked.
Jim raised his fist. ‘That, that damnable notice in the window. What’s your game, eh?’
‘Oh, that.’ The young man was all bland composure. ‘Rules and regulations, what can we do?’
‘We can tear it down for a kick off.’
The young man waggled a finger. ‘Naughty, naughty,’ said he.
Jim clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘Has the world gone mad?’ he asked. ‘Has the brewery lost its marbles?’
The young man shrugged. ‘Since the takeover everything seems to have changed.’
‘Takeover, what takeover?’
‘Hadn’t you heard? Lateinos and Romiith bought the brewery out. An offer too good to refuse I suppose.’
Jim began to flap his hands wildly and spin about in small circles. Omally, who had followed him in, knew this to be a bad sign. Pooley sought men to kill. Two of such were now tinkering at the counter’s end. ‘Who are they?’ Jim ceased his foolish gyrations. ‘What are they up to?’
The pale young man smiled wanly. ‘Installing a terminal, of course. Under the new system every establishment must have its own terminal, you know.’
‘John,’ said Jim, ‘John, hold me back.’ Omally did as he was bidden. ‘What, if one might make so bold, is a terminal?’ he asked.
‘My goodness me,’ the pale young man tittered to himself, ‘we do live in the dark ages around here, don’t we?’ He grinned towards the two henchmen, who exchanged knowing glances and sniggered. ‘This terminal,’ he explained, ‘is modular in concept, with a net-working capability that is virtually plug-in. It has a one hundred and twenty-eight-million giga-byte multitasking operation, super-advanced WP forms and spread sheet planner; wide area network configuration, multi-key ISAM on shared data bases, L and R six-six-six Asynch emulations, soft fort and bitmapped graphics.’
‘Bit-mapped graphics, eh?’
The young man cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. ‘Bit-mapped,’ he said slowly. Above his left eyebrow the short row of eighteen vertical lines gave his face a permanently quizzical expression. ‘Now, perhaps, sir, you would care to order?’
‘Two pints of Large,’ said Omally.
‘As you wish, sir. Will your irate companion be thinking to order two for himself also, do you think? Once he recovers his senses?’
‘We are only just outnumbered,’ quoth Pooley. ‘Shall we make a fight of it?’
‘All in good time, Jim. Now please calm yourself and lend me a couple of quid.’ The pale barman raised a tattooed eyebrow. ‘Usury is strictly forbidden upon the premises, by order of the brewery.’
‘A pox on the brewery,’ said John. ‘Jim is minding some money for me. Can I have it back please, Jim?’
‘Certainly.’ Pooley thrust a couple of hundred smackers into Omally’s outstretched palm and outstretched his own towards the nearest pint.
The new barman deftly reached across the counter-top and caught up Jim’s wrist in a vice-like grip. Turning Jim’s palm towards the ceiling he drew out a Lateinos and Romiith light-wand and ran it across. ‘Your credit rating is triple A,’ he said. ‘Two pints for yourself is it?’
‘Make it three,’ said Jim bitterly. ‘I feel a bit of a thirst coming on.’
‘As you please, sir.’ The pale young barman replaced his headphones and, nodding to himself, drew off the business.
Bearing away their pints, John and Jim stalked off to a side-table where they dropped into a brace of chairs and sat staring into one another’s eyes.
After a somewhat pregnant pause, Jim said, ‘I’ve had enough of all this, John.’
Omally nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is not very much to my own liking,’ said he, gulping away the nearest pint. ‘If you want my considered opinion I feel that we should both do very well to have it away from this district post haste.’
‘Look at those swine.’ Jim gestured towards the brewery henchmen who were even now tearing up the Swan’s antique carpeting to run a power-line across the floor.
‘Rio would be your man,’ said John. ‘Dusky maidens rolling green cigars upon their bronzed thighs. A train-robber chum of mine has lodgings thereabouts. The climate so they say is ideal for the professional drinking man or the unemployed war criminal.’
Pooley considered his printed palm. ‘I can’t be having with all this stuff. Things are no longer healthy hereabouts.’
‘So let us away.’
Jim chewed upon a thumbnail. ‘I think you’re right,’ said he. ‘But what about all this Revelations business? Do you think that the Professor is correct in his theories? If it is the end of the world then it might catch up with us even in Rio.’
Omally downed another pint. ‘I have my doubts about the whole thing. Listen, with the old currant bun beaming down and a bottle or two of duty-free on the patio table we can give the matter serious thought. What do you say?’
‘I say it’s time we had a holiday.’
‘Good man. Now the travel agent’s in South Ealing closes at six, I can be up there in five minutes on the bike and back in another five, I’ll book us aboard an aeroplane for first thing tomorrow.’
‘Do it then.’ Jim dragged out another bundle of banknotes
and thrust them at John. ‘Go at once. I’ll get some bottles to take out, this place is beginning to depress me.’
‘Right then, I will be back directly.’ Omally left the Swan and mounted up Marchant, who had set himself in for an evening kip. He bumped down the kerb and pedalled furiously up the road in the direction of South Ealing. Cresting the railway bridge he swept down the other side, legs outspread, past the Mowlem’s building. Without warning he suddenly came into contact with a great body of halted traffic. The road was a shambles of stalled automobiles and shouting drivers. Cars were parked at crazy angles across the road, and those at the vanguard lay, their bonnets stove in and steam issuing from their shattered radiators. A blank wall of dark light rose from the street at the junction with the Great West Road. It soared into the sky, an impenetrable barrier blocking all further progress.
Omally dragged on his brakes but his iron stallion appeared to have developed ideas of its own. It rocketed him headlong into the boot of a stalled Morris Minor. John sailed forward in a blizzard of whirling banknotes, to tumble down on to the bonnet of the defunct automobile and roll on to the roadway. Cursing and spitting he slowly dragged himself to his feet and stared up at the grim barrier ahead, struck dumb with amazement and disbelief. The curtains, which the Professor had observed for so many weeks through his rooftop viewer, had finally closed upon the borders of the Brentford triangle.
And the parish was now completely sealed off from the outside world.
16
As word spread from house to house that the veil was drawn down, the people of the parish flocked into the streets. They flowed hurriedly towards the borders to stand, their noses pressed against the walls of hard air, staring out into the beyond. The vista, normally so mundane as to be invisible, now assumed a quality of remoteness and unreality. That none might any longer pass into that world made it fairyland and the figures that moved there became exaggerated and larger than life. And though they shouted and coo-eed and smote the barrier with sticks and staves, the world beyond did not see them, nor hear their cries for help. The world beyond simply went on doing that which it had always done – which wasn’t very much, although it seemed so now. Although the trapped people watched desperately for some sign which might signal the recognition of their plight by the free folk, who now passed within inches, none came. Their faces never turned and they went about their business as ever they had. To the world outside it seemed that Brentford had simply ceased to exist.