Pooley groaned pathetically, ‘It would seem, John,’ said he, ‘that we have been press-ganged.’
Omally nodded bleakly. ‘As running is obviously out of the question, I suggest that we waste no more time. Tell your tale, Soap.’
‘Thank you, John, I expected at least a blow or two to the head. I am glad you are taking it so well. What I am about to tell you might seem a little hard to believe, but I can assure you it is all true.’
‘No doubt,’ said Omally.
‘The symbol upon this disc’ - Soap held the glittering item aloft - ‘means literally what the Professor told you. “I am ‘C’ the fifth of the ten.” It is the insignia of the planet Ceres which was once the tenth planet in our solar system, fifth from the sun. Ceres was the home world to a most advanced race of beings that commuted between the planets much in the way that you or I might take a sixty-five bus up to Ealing Broadway. Their world was small and their population large. They needed another planet similar to theirs for colonization. Naturally enough their eyes turned towards Earth, a world at that time only sporting a primitive society which offered little opposition to such an advanced race. They sent out scout parties, who were pleased to discover that the simple Earthers hailed them as gods. No doubt the Cereans would be running the place even now had not their warlike natures got the best of them. A great war developed upon Ceres and whilst a considerable number of the lads were here arranging matters to their satisfaction their entire planet was totally destroyed, leaving them marooned.
‘The cataclysm was, if you will pardon the expression, somewhat earth-shattering, and the shocks were felt here. A travelling asteroid, the Moon as we now know it, was blown into orbit around the Earth causing absolute devastation. Half of the world was flooded. Those Cereans who survived the holocaust did so by withdrawing here and sealing themselves in. Little remained to ever prove their existence but for legend.
‘The Cerean survivors never lost hope, although they were few in number and the centuries which passed saw mankind’s development slowly approaching that of their own. Still they remained, waiting and plotting. For they had one thing to wait and plot for.
‘Shortly before the planet’s destruction the men of Ceres had sent a great strike force out of this solar system to seek other stars and other worlds. The Cereans knew that they would one day return and, finding no Ceres, would put two and two together and revisit the Earth. Thus they have remained, waiting and waiting, preparing for this return. They are doing so still and their time has almost come. Even as I speak the Cerean strike force is streaking across the Cosmos bound for Earth. And they have only one thing upon their minds.’
Soap ceased his fantastic monologue, and Pooley and Omally stared at him dumb and slack-jawed. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so,’ said John at length, ‘and please do not construe this as any criticism of yourself or your character, that is the most absurd piece of nonsense I have ever had the misfortune of listening to.’
‘I have seen the film,’ said Pooley, ‘dubbed from the original Japanese it was.’
‘And the lights upon the allotment,’ said Soap, ‘what would you take those to be?’
‘The work of the council,’ said Omally firmly, ‘another plot to confound honest golfers.’
Soap burst into a paroxysm of laughter. Tears rolled down his pale cheeks and he clutched at his stomach.
‘Come now,’ said Pooley, ‘it is no laughing matter, those lads have it in for us.’
‘Have it in for you?’ gasped Soap between convulsions. ‘You witness a test run of laser-operated gravitational landing beams, the product of a technology beyond earthly comprehension, and you put it down to the work of Brentford Council?’
‘If you will pardon me,’ said Pooley, somewhat offended, ‘if it is the product of a technology beyond earthly comprehension I hardly feel that we can be blamed for finding it so.’
‘Quite,’ said Omally.
‘And your journey here through the solid concrete floor of an empty allotment shed?’
‘I have been meaning to ask somebody about that,’ said John.
‘It was a hologram,’ said Pooley, matter-of-factly.
‘Oh, of course, one of those lads.’
‘I must apologize for your rapid descent,’ Soap explained. ‘I had a great deal of trouble in keeping the door open long enough for you both to enter. I was unable, however, to stop the Cereans bringing down the lift.’
‘Come now,’ said Pooley, who had always been fond of the phrase, ‘be fair Soap, all this is a little hard to swallow.’
‘Nevertheless, it is true. As true as the fact that you are sitting here, a mile and a half beneath Penge, drinking one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Rhine wine.’
‘Penge?’ Pooley shook his head once more. ‘Where the hell is Penge?’
‘I’ve never been quite certain myself, but I’m told that it’s a very nice place.’
John and Jim finished their second bottles and sat in silence wondering what in the world they were to do next. Omally sat glowering into the carpet. Pooley took off his jacket, which was starting to steam at the shoulders. ‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘say that we do believe you.’
‘I don’t,’ Omally interrupted.
‘Yes, well, say that we did. What do you suppose we can do about it? How can we-’ he indicated himself and his bedraggled companion’ - how can we battle it out with an intergalactic strike force? I myself possess a barlow knife which is good for whittling and Omally has an air pistol. Could you perhaps chip in with a few Sam missiles and the odd thermonuclear device?’
‘Sadly no,’ said Soap. ‘But I am open to any suggestions at this time.’
‘I have one to make,’ said John Omally. Pooley covered his ears.
14
Small Dave lay in his hospital bed for some days before the doctors released him. He seemed sound enough physically, a little scorched about the extremities, but nothing more.. It was his mental state which put the wind up the hospital staff. The constant talking to himself. Still, there was no law as yet against that sort of thing, and he wasn’t a private patient, was he? The doctors consequently turned the dwarf postman out on to the street and left him to fend for himself.
At length he returned to the boarded-up shell which had been his family seat for countless generations. As he stood peering up at the blackened brickwork there was little emotion to be found upon his elfin face. With a mere shrug, a brief display of hand-flapping, and a word or two to an invisible companion, he turned upon his heel and shambled away towards the Ealing Road.
Neville watched him pass from the Swan’s doorway. ‘Vindictive, grudge-bearing wee bastard,’ was all the part-time barman had to say.
As the dwarf receded into the distance, Neville noted to his dismay that a bouncing, striding figure, sporting a lime-green coiffure and a natty line in bondage trousers, was rapidly approaching, his denim pockets bulging with coin of the realm and his trigger finger already a-twitch. It was, in fact, twitching at a rate exactly equivalent to that of the nervous tic the part-time barman had recently developed in his good eye.
‘Damn,’ said Neville, as Raffles Rathbone offered him a cheery wave. The bouncing boy squeezed past him into the saloon-bar and jogged up to the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine. ‘Good morning to you,’ he said, addressing the thing directly. ‘Ready for the off?’
With a single movement he tore aside the ‘Out of Order’ sign Neville had Sellotaped over the video screen and cast it across the floor.
‘Broken,’ said the part-time barman, without turning from his position in the doorway. ‘Coin jammed in the mechanism, won’t work.’
Nick eyed the barman’s rear quarters with suspicion. ‘I’ll give it a try, to make sure,’ he said slowly.
‘Brewery say to leave it, might blow up if anyone tampers with it.’
‘Can’t see any coin,’ said the lad, squinting into the slot.
‘I have my orders. Have to wait for the engi
neer.’
‘Really?’ Nick’s ill-matched eyes flickered between the barman’s back and the humming machine. A florin hovered in his hand and a look of indecision wrinkled his brow.
Neville turned suddenly. ‘Best leave it, eh?’
The coin was an inch from the slot and the youth’s hand was beginning to tremble. A certain electricity entered the air, and with it the distinctive wail of a harmonica, as next door in the rear yard of the Star of Bombay Curry Garden, Archie Karachi performed an apt rendition of ‘Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling’. It was not that he had any knowledge of the drama enacting itself within the saloon-bar of the Swan, but rather that his son’s bar mitzvah was coming up and he wanted to put on a decent show.
Neville’s nervous tic accelerated slightly, but he fixed the boy with a piercing gaze of the type favoured by cobras whilst surveying their four-footed lunch-to-be. Nick for his part was not really equal to such a battle of wills. He did his best to look determined, but a bead of perspiration appeared upon his lofty hairline and, taking with it a quantity of green dye, descended towards the bridge of his nose, leaving an unpleasant slug trail behind it.
‘Leave it, eh?’ said Neville.
‘I . . . er.’ The boy blew the green bead from the tip of his nose. A minute passed, a long long minute.
Nothing moved in the Swan but for a twitching eyelid, and a synchronized right forefinger. Nick’s face was now striped, giving him the appearance of a sniper peering through long grass.
Neville’s good eye was starting to water. Somebody had to crack.
‘I’ll have a half of shandy please,’ said the boy, breathing a great sigh of relief. Neville smiled broadly and turned towards the pumps.
There was a sudden metallic click, a clunk and then . . . Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow went the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine.
‘It’s all right,’ said Nick sweetly, ‘it’s mended. You can phone up the brewery and tell them to cancel the engineer.’
Neville ground his teeth sickeningly and clutched at the counter top. He had been so close. So very, very close.
Old Pete entered the Flying Swan, Chips close upon his well-worn heels. ‘Good day to you, Neville,’ said the ancient. ‘A large dark rum if you please.’
Neville did the business, the exact coinage changed hands, and the part-time barman rang up ‘No Sale’.
Old Pete eyed the player at the games machine with contempt and unplugged his hearing aid. ‘Pardon me whilst I withdraw into a world of silence,’ he told Neville.
‘Have you seen anything of Pooley and Omally?’ the part-time barman asked.
‘Pardon?’ said Old Pete.
‘Pooley and Omally!’ shouted Neville. ‘Plug the thing in, you old fool!’
Pete refitted his jack plug. ‘Haven’t seen them,’ he said, sipping at his drink.
‘It has been more than a week now,’ said Neville, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘They are supposed to be doing a little bit of work for me. I fear that they have had it away on their toes.’
Old Pete shook his snowy head. ‘Perhaps the Four Horsemen has dropped its prices or the Red Lion has got a stripper in.’
Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow went the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine.
Bitow Bitow - Whap - ‘What?’ Raffles Rathbone turned upon Neville. ‘You’ve been at this again,’ he said, curling his lip. ‘The sequences have changed again, it’s not fair.’
‘Get stuffed,’ Neville told him.
‘But it doesn’t give you a fair chance,’ whined the young sportsman. ‘That’s the second time the sequences have changed.’ He stalked over to the bar counter. ‘Give me a light ale,’ he said bravely.
Neville whistled through his ruined teeth. ‘A whole half, eh, and no lemonade?’
‘Straight,’ said the lad.
Old Pete eyed the youth with distaste. Young Chips licked his lips and considered the boy’s ankles.
Neville poured a half of light and Raffles Rathbone flung a handful of silver across the counter. Neville obligingly short-changed him.
‘Anything new with you?’ Old Pete asked the barman when the shock-headed hooligan had returned once more to the humming machine.
‘Very little,’ said Neville. ‘I had another postcard from Archroy. Delivered, I hasten to add, by a relief postman of charm and good character, who chooses to deliver a fellow’s mail unread.’
Old Pete chuckled. ‘Wee Dave still shacked up in the loony ward at the Cottage Hospital then?’
‘No, he’s out, but happily he has not returned to the round.’
‘Vindictive, grudge-bearing wee bastard,’ said Old Pete. ‘So what of Archroy, how fares the lad upon his travels?’
‘He claims to have discovered Noah’s Ark upon the peak of Ararat,’ said Neville rather proudly. ‘His last card said that he has employed a gang of Kurds to work upon chipping the lower portion of the great vessel from the glacial floor. It is tough going by all accounts.’
‘It would be.’ Old Pete stifled a snigger.
Neville shrugged. ‘It is a queer business. I confess that I do not know exactly what to make of it. It would be a rare one if it were true. I can’t help feeling that there is a catch in it somewhere and that it will cost me dearly.’
‘Well,’ said Old Pete, in a tone of great seriousness, ‘do not get me wrong, for I am no churchman, but I will tell you a strange thing. During the Hitlerian War I was serving as warden in a refugee centre in South London. One night I got chatting with a young Russian, and he showed me four photographs which he claimed to be of the Ark of Noah.’ Neville’s good eye widened. ‘They were old grainy sepia prints, much- travelled and much-stained, but he treated them as if they were holy relics. He’d been torpedoed off a troop ship and he claimed that the photos had saved his life. It seems that the folk who live around Ararat have always known of the Ark’s existence. Apparently it is visible for only a few short months, once or twice a century, and during this time their holy men make a pilgrimage up the mountainside to scrape off pitch from the hull. This they make into amulets as a protection against drowning.’
Neville was fascinated. ‘But how did this fellow come by the photographs?’
Old Pete rattled his empty glass on the counter and feigned deafness. Neville snatched it up from his fist and refilled it. Old Pete continued with his story. ‘Told me that his father got them from one of a party of Russians who rediscovered the thing during the time of the Czar.’
‘And did you think them genuine?’
‘Who can say? They were definitely photographs of some very old and very large vessel half submerged in a glacier. I confess that I never took a lot of notice of them at the tune. There was an air raid going on.’
‘But what happened to the young Russian?’
‘Got blown up!’ said Old Pete maliciously. ‘Seems that the photographs offered no protection against that kind of thing.’
‘You made it all up,’ sneered Neville, reaching for a glass and his polishing cloth.
Old Pete took out his shabby-looking wallet and laid it reverently upon the bar. ‘And what if I told you that he gave me one of the photographs and that I have been carrying it with me for more than thirty years? What would you say to that, oh doubting Thomas?’
Neville’s twitch, which had taken a temporary leave of absence, returned reinvigorated. ‘He didn’t? You haven’t . . . ?’
Old Pete swept up his wallet and thrust it back into his pocket. ‘Course I bloody haven’t!’ he said triumphantly. ‘You’ll believe any damn thing at times, won’t you, Neville?’
The part-time barman bit upon a filling. That was twice he had been done down in a single lunchtime and he would have no more of it. Silently he swore a great and terrible oath to his pagan deity, that he would unremittingly bar for life the next person, no matter whom it might be, who tried to get one over on him. To make it more binding he pricked his finger and drew the blood the length of his knobkerry. There was no getti
ng out of a vow like that.
‘Give me the same again please, Neville,’ said the chuckling ancient.
Norman entered the Flying Swan looking somewhat ashen. Neville hadn’t seen him for some time and he marvelled at the shopkeeper’s lack of eyebrows and apparently hand-carved wooden teeth. Some new frippery of fashion amongst the shop-keeping fraternity, he supposed.
‘Give me one of those,’ said Norman, gesturing towards the scotch.
‘Closed for stock-taking?’ Neville asked. ‘Or have the health people been sampling your toffees again?’
‘Just pour the drink.’ Neville did so.
Norman suddenly stiffened. ‘Has Small Dave been in here?’ he asked, squinting about the bar.
‘No,’ said Neville, ‘but I think I am about ready for him now.’
‘You’re not,’ moaned Norman, ‘take my word for it.’ As he had already thrown the scotch down his throat, Neville refilled his glass. ‘He was in my place and there is something not altogether right about him.’
‘There never was.’
‘This is different.’ Norman peered over his shoulder to assure himself that he had not been followed in. ‘He knows things.’
‘Course he knows things, he’s always reading your damned mail and squinting through people’s letterboxes. Vindictive, grudge-bearing wee . . . ‘
‘Yes, I know all that, but listen!’ Norman composed himself. Neville took the opportunity to collect payment for the drinks. ‘He comes into my shop,’ said Norman, ‘wants his copy of Pony Girls Gazette. Isn’t in, says I. He mutters away to himself for a moment and then, it’s third from the bottom of the pile, says he. With the bloody corner up, says I.’
‘Well of course you did,’ said Neville.
‘May I continue?’ Neville nodded and Norman drew him closer and spoke in hushed and confidential tones.
Old Pete turned up his hearing aid and placed it upon the counter.
‘I root through the pile of papers and there it is, plain as plain, third up from the bottom, just like he’d said. Here you go then, says I. Five Woodbine also, says himself. I hand him a packet, he has another mutter then tells me they’re stale. Without even opening them! I get in a lather then, but I open up the packet just to be polite, and damn if the things aren’t as dry as dust.’ Neville looked at Old Pete, who merely shrugged. Young Chips, however, was taking it all in. ‘Anyway,’ Norman continued, ‘he then points to another packet on the shelf and says that he understands that they are all right and so he’ll take them. If this wasn’t bad enough, as he’s leaving the shop, he tells me that my false teeth are going mouldy under the counter.’