Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

Pooley ran the video forward to the chiming watch gun-fight sequence at the end, his favourite bit. Without the sound, however, the tension lost much of its impact. Jim rose unsteadily and rooted about amongst the rack of video tapes. He had some crackers here and no mistake: They Saved Hitler’s Brain, Plan Nine from Outer Space, Mars Needs Women . Every one a classic, you couldn’t blow these up. There had to be another way.

Pooley almost scratched at his head, it was a close thing. “Perhaps we can refloat the barge,” he said drunkenly. “Drift downstream for a bit, that would be the business.” He rattled the neck of the champagne bottle into a Georgian rummer. Empty. “Time for a top-up,” said the lad, swaying over to the cocktail cabinet. “Now, eenie, meenie, my knee …” There was a wide range of drinks on offer, but most were of the “brought-home-from-holiday-because-we-liked-the-colour” variety, which seemed a good idea at the time when drunk, but inevitably led to severe brain damage the next morning.

“Banana Liquor,” said Jim. “That seems like a good idea.” Twisting away a plastic stopper the shape of Carmen Miranda’s hat, he decanted a large slug of the yellow liquid into his glass. “Anchors away,” said Jim.

There was a loud thump upon the hull of the barge. Pooley stiffened. John, already. He hiccupped foolishly. “You’ll have to hang on a minute,” he giggled. “I’ve not quite got everything.” There was another thump and the sound of something metallic being drawn down the side of the barge. “Now what’s he up to?” queried Jim. “Setting the charges, you buffoon,” he answered himself. “So get a move on.” Pooley took a hasty look around. Most of it was out of focus and none of it really seemed to matter much. He took a deep unsteady breath. He’d be a millionaire soon, who cared about a barge load of booty? This was a new beginning. A new honest beginning. He stumbled over to a nearby porthole and drew aside the blinds.

Peering out, Pooley found himself staring directly into the face of death itself! The face was big and bloated, hideously swollen, a mass of folds and pouches. The skin looked dead and white, the skin of a corpse. But the eyes were alive, round and black with white pupils. Jim drew back in horror, and then in anger. It was the head of a scarecrow, or a somesuch. John was winding him up, and him with a weak heart and everything. And then the eyes blinked, the horrible eyes blinked and a mouth like a gash amongst the folds and flaps of skin opened. It opened to reveal a hideous maw, a gaping black cavern devoid of teeth and gums. And a sound, a voice, a cry … Jim thrust back the blind and lurched back in terror. Turning to make his getaway he caught his foot in the TV cable, wrenched the improvised socket from the wall, fused the lights, plunged the salon into darkness, tripped, fell, struck his head on the cocktail cabinet and knocked himself unconscious.

John Omally climbed down through the open hatchway, clutching a bulging holdall and peered into the darkness. He flicked the light switch. “Damn it,” said he. “Jim, are you in there?”

All was silent, except for the gentle lap of water against the hull. Even the plopping salmon had turned in for the night.

“Jim?” There was no reply. Pooley had evidently done a runner. “Poltroon,” muttered Omally. “I shall have words to say to that lad when I catch up with him. Buggers the electrics, leaves the door open to all and sundry.” He stood up in the hatchway and placed the holdall upon the deck before him. He didn’t need much light for this, it was all down to a single flick of a switch to set the five-minute egg-timer, the work of but a moment.

Omally unzipped the holdall, flipped the switch, rezipped the holdall and received a violent blow to the forehead which sent him tumbling backwards into the blackness of the salon. “What the … who?” Omally sprawled in the dark, cursing and spitting oaths. He drew a deep breath and prepared to come up fighting. The lozenge of moonlight visible through the open hatchway was momentarily blotted out as a dark shape dropped down into the barge after him. “Who is this?” John demanded. “What’s your game?” Something bowled across the floor and struck him in the shins with a sickening crack. Omally screamed in anguish and not a little fury, and doubled up clutching his legs. He fell in an untidy heap on top of an unconscious Jim Pooley.

“Oh, ouch, what’s going on here?” mumbled a bleary drunken voice.

“Pooley, is that you?”

“John? Get off there.” This was the second time in one day that Jim had woken up to find a man on top of him. “John, unhand me … my God, I’ve gone blind.”

“Shut up, man.”

“What’s going on? Get off me, I say!”

“Pooley, be quiet.” Omally sought to stifle Jim’s cries with one hand whilst seeking out his lighter with the other. “There’s someone in here.” John felt Pooley shudder. The terrible memory of whatever he’d seen through the porthole suddenly resobered his drunken brain.

“John, there’s a thing, a mons …”

“Shut up!” Omally struck fire to his Zippo and held it above him. Pooley did what he could to focus his eyes.

“You’ve got a nose bleed,” he observed.

“And I’ll not be the only one.” Omally addressed his unseen assailant. “Fight like a man, come out!” The slim flame burned and fluttered, the shadows danced. Within the cocoon of light Omally helped his companion to his feet, wincing at the pain of his own battered legs. “Come on out, you coward, show yourself!”

There was a sudden rush of movement. Something leapt before them. Leapt up. Omally held high his lighter and ducked away as it loomed above them. A terrific figure, gross, unnatural. It clung impossibly, upside down upon the ceiling.

Pooley stood frozen with horror. John thrust him out of the way and dived for cover as the thing scuttled across the ceiling like a great black beetle and vanished through the open hatchway. And the moonlight vanished with it as the hatch swung shut with an almighty crash. John leapt to his feet in the darkness and flung himself towards the hatchway. Above him the bolt slid home, the padlock clicked. They were trapped.

Omally beat at the hatch. “Let us out!” he yelled. “Let us out!”

Pooley’s voice came from the darkness, “Don’t do that, John. It’s on the outside and we’re on the in, for God’s sake. At least we’re safe.”

“Safe?” Omally’s voice rose to a pitch that was new to Jim’s hearing. “Jim, you bloody fool, I armed the bomb! It’s out there. We’ve got about two minutes left and then …”

“Let us out!” screamed Jim at the top of his voice. “Let us out!”

“Light, we must get some light.” Omally floundered about the salon. “Where’s the torch? Where’s anything?” Unseen, even to himself, Jim’s hands began to flap. “Don’t do it,” warned Omally. “Where’s the torch? Where is it?”

“On the hook! On the hook!”

“Where’s the hook?”

“By the door!”

“Where’s the door?”

“Over there … or is it over …?”

“It’s here.” Omally flicked on the torch. It actually worked. He shone it into the idiot face of Jim Pooley.

“Help,” said Jim in a small foolish voice. “Help.”

“There must be some way out.”

“If the hatch is locked we can’t squeeze through a porthole.”

The torchlight glanced off a glass panel in the floor. “The fish pens,” said Omally.

“Ah,” said Jim. “I forgot to open them.”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s the only way out, come on.”

“We’ll drown.”

“We won’t.” Omally tore up the glass-panelled trap-door that covered the fish pens and jumped down into the water. It was very cold and very black and sadly lacking in promise. Between his wounded knees, a great trout moved ominously. “Come on, Jim, we can punch our way through the wire netting and swim out underneath.”