Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

“Look there, sir!” shouted Constable Meek. “Up there, up in the sky!”

“Birds?” said Hovis, squinting up. “No, not birds, bats! No! Bloody hell! ”

“And there, sir, who’s that?”

Hovis peered about, following the constables wavering digit. On one of the high catwalks of the gasometer a solitary figure was edging along, carrying what looked to be a couple of heavy suitcases. “What’s going on here?” Hovis demanded. “I demand an explanation!”

“What’s he doing, sir?” The solitary figure was lowering one of the suitcases down the side of the gasometer on a length of rope.

“Is this your doing, Rune? Rune, come back! Stop that man, Constable!”

“Blimey,” said Meek. “And will you look at that lot!”

Along the Kew Road came the army of King Bran, riding now at the gallop. The war-horses heaved and snorted, their hooves raising sparks from the tarmac. The riders turned their noble faces towards the sky and raised their swords. King Bran ran a tail-comb through his gorgeous locks and urged on his charger. “Giddy up, Dobbin!” he cried. “Good boy there, gee up!”

Constable John Harney brought down Hugo Rune with a spectacular rugby tackle. “Gotcha!” said he, quoting the now legendary headline from the Sun . It may not have been much, but considering it was all he was going to get to say in the entire book, at least it was something.

Hovis leapt up and down. “Arrest everybody!” he cried. “Get on the walkie-talkie, Meek. I want the SPG, the SAS, the reserves, the bloody Boys Brigade, get them all here!”

“Yes, sir.” Meek whipped out his walkie-talkie. “Calling all cars,” he said in his finest Broderick Crawford, “calling all cars.”

“Please, sir, about this suitcase?”

“What suitcase, what, Reekie?”

“This suitcase, sir.” Constable Reekie pointed to the thing which now dangled a few feet above his head.

“Arrest it, boy! Arrest that holidaymaker. That case is probably full of drugs.”

“It’s ticking rather loudly, sir.”

“Ticking? Oh my God!”

“Duck, you suckers!” called a voice from above. “Hit the deck!”

The army of King Bran reached the Arts Centre. From out the night sky their mortal enemies fell upon them. The dark creatures dropped down upon the horsemen, beaks snapping, claws crooked to kill. The legions of darkness led by their evil lord. Balin the bad. Balin with his brow of burnished copper. Balin with his nose of black lead, his navel of tungsten carbide and a rare alloy with a complicated chemical figure.

“No prisoners,” cried Balin. “Spare not a filling, not a spectacle-frame, kill them all, kill, kill, kill!”

“Kill, kill, kill!” echoed his men, spurring down their nightmare steeds.

“God for Harry!” cried King Bran.

Tic-Toc-Tic-Toc went a certain suitcase.

Professor Slocombe laid a hand upon Pooley’s shoulder. “I think I have him distracted,” he told the flinching, cowering Jim. “We must get to work.”

“All work and no play,” said Jim painfully. “The hours in this job suck.”

“But the pay is good. Come, Jim, bring the bag, we must penetrate to the heart of the stadium.”

“What’s going on downstairs?” Pooley asked, gesturing in a downwards direction. “I saw all these flying things and now it sounds like a terrible punch-up.”

“It is only just the beginning, come on.”

“Not quite so fast.” Kaleton rose up before them. “Don’t take another step.”

“Help is on the way, sir.” Constable Meek crawled over to Inspectre Hovis. “A Commander West is coming over in person. He’s bringing a special task-force. He seemed terribly upset, sir, do you know him?”

Hovis buried his face in the ground and thrashed about with his legs. “You’re all under arrest!” he foamed.

Tic-Toc-Tic-Toc-Tic-Toc went the suitcase.

“And now the end is near and you must face the final curtain,” said Kaleton. “Tomorrow belongs to me, you are yesterday once more.”

“I’ll name that tune,” said Jim.

“So die, puny earthlings!” Kaleton raised his crooked arms.

“Don’t do it! Stay back!” shouted the Professor. “Jim, the bag.”

Jim tossed the Gladstone to the old man. It sailed through the air and departed into the darkness. “Sorry,” said Jim. “I suppose that means we’re in trouble.”

“You could say that.”

Tongues of fire grew from Kaleton’s fingers, leapt into the sky, veered down towards the two men.

The armies of Bran and Balin locked in titanic conflict the length of the Ealing Road. Big and bad was the fighting, great and terrible the hewing, the war cries, the blood and the torment. There was cleaving and cutting, hacking and stabbing.

Old Pete turned in his sleep. “Get down, Chips,” he muttered.

“And so die!” called Kaleton as he stood amidst the raining fire.

“I arrest myself in the name of the law,” said Inspectre Hovis.

Tic-Toc and finally Kaboom!!! said the dangling suitcase.

The gasometer erupted in a burst of crimson flame. The figure on the catwalk shinned up another staircase clutching his single suitcase. Torrents of debris filled the air and a cloud of golden dust.

In the stadium Kaleton shook and shivered, the flames about him guttered and died. “You have done this, you have tricked me. The tower, the sanctuary!”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand that man,” said Jim.

“Run for your life, Jim,” said the Professor.

“Now that I do understand.” Jim took to his heels.

Kaleton staggered down the walkway towards the gaming ground. “The sanctuary, the wall is breached.”

“Blimey,” said Constable Meek emerging from a pile of golden debris. “Look in there.”

Hovis raised his charred head and gazed at the gasometer. A great hole yawned in its side and from within glowed … “Gold!” cried the Inspectre. “It’s full of gold!” Gold spilled from the ragged opening, but it was not just the gold from the robbery. This was a king’s ransom, a god’s ransom, the gold of centuries, the very gold of the gods, “The Gryphon’s golden hoard”.

“I get one per cent,” said Hugo Rune, “and don’t forget that.”

“God for Harry.” King Bran swung his mighty battle-axe taking several heads from as many shoulders. “Forward men, the battle is ours!” The horsemen moved onward, carrying the fight to the very doorway of Ye Flying Swan Inn.

“Same old sign,” said Bran. “A cup of mead later, I think.” Upstairs Neville pulled a pillow over his head. “Another bloody party,” he mumbled, snuggling down. “Now where was I? Oh yes, Alison, the appliance.”

Kaleton bounded over the artificial turf. “The sanctuary, the sanctuary.” Charles Laughton wasn’t in it.

The figure on the high catwalk faced another stairway. Below him the battle raged, cruel and bloody. Other tiny figures danced before the torn opening, delving into the golden hoard.

From the direction of the Brentford Half Acre came the scream of police sirens as a convoy of armoured vehicles moved into view.

The solitary figure climbed up and up, labouring beneath the weight of his suitcase. The stairways led ever upwards, towards heaven — the gasometer was never this high — yet it was. Upwards and ever upwards.

“I think I’m lost,” said Jim Pooley, “in fact I know I am.”

“Well done, Jim.”

“Now listen.” Pooley turned upon the Professor. “None of this is my doing, I don’t see why I should carry the can.”

“Or the Gladstone?”

“You’re the magician, wave the magic wand or something.”

“Really, Jim.”

“Well,” said Pooley, all sulks. “I got us up here and a fine waste of time it’s been. The least you can do is get us down.”