Robert Rankin - East of Ealing

“As we discussed, we will have to be very much upon our guard from now on. I have taken what protective measures I can, but my powers are not inexhaustible, I can feel the pressure upon me even now.”

Holmes slid a pale hand about the decanter’s neck and poured himself a small scotch. “I have just spent a most informative hour with Norman Hartnell. A man of exceptional capability.”

Professor Slocombe smiled ruefully. “He keeps us all guessing, that is for certain.”

“I discovered the hand of a duplicate replacement at work in his shop and sought to question it.”

Professor Slocombe raised his eyebrows in horror. “That was a somewhat reckless move upon your part.”

“Perhaps, but when confronted by the gun you gave me, the thing took flight, literally, through the ceiling of the shop. To my astonishment the real Mr Hartnell appears from his quarters. The mechanical double was, in fact, something of his own creation. To spare his time for more important matters, according to himself.”

Professor Slocombe chuckled loudly. “Bravo, Norman,” he said. “The shopkeeper does have something rather substantial on the go at the present time. It is of the utmost importance that nothing stand in his way.”

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “Your corner-shopkeeper produces an all-but-perfect facsimile of himself with no more than a few discarded wireless-set parts and something he calls Meccano and you treat it as if it were an everyday affair.”

“This is Brentford. Norman’s ingenuity is not unknown to me.”

“And do you know how his mechanical man is powered?”

“Knowing Norman, it probably has a key in its back or runs upon steam.”

“On the contrary,” said Sherlock Holmes, taking the opportunity to spring from his chair and take up a striking pose against the mantelpiece, “it runs from a slim brass wheel set into its chest. Your shopkeeper has rediscovered the secret of perpetual motion.”

“Has he, be damned?” The Professor bit upon his lower lip. “Now that is another matter entirely.”

“Ha,” said Holmes, nodding his head, “and now would you like me to bring you the automaton, that you might inspect his workings at first hand?”

“Very much. Do you consider that such might be achieved in safety?”

“Certainly, I took the liberty of following the ample trail he left, after my interview with Norman. He is holed up on the allotment.”

“Holed up?”

“Certainly, in Mr Omally’s shed. If I can catch him unawares I shall bring him here at gunpoint. Although I must confess to a certain bafflement here. How might it be that an automaton who can leap without effort or apparent harm through ceilings and walls, fears the simple bullet?”

“Ha, yourself!” said Professor Slocombe. “You have your secrets and I have mine. Go then, with my blessing, but stay upon your guard. Take no unnecessary risks.”

“Natcho,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning as he left to make a gesture which all lovers of the New York television cop genre know to be the “soul fist”.

“Natcho?” Professor Slocombe shook his old head and returned once more to his work.

Having slipped away to Jack Lane’s for a pint or three of non-takeover-brewery beer, Pooley and Omally now loped down a bunting bedecked Sprite Street. To either side, front gardens bulged with sections of the home-made floats destined to join the grand carnival procession of this year’s Festival which, meaningless as it now appeared, showed every sign of going on regardless. Exactly what the theme of the parade was, neither man very much cared. As they ambled along they muttered away to one another in muted, if urgent, tones.

“As I see it,” mumbled John, “we have few options left open to us at present. If the end of civilization is approaching there is little, if anything, we can do about it.”

“But what about all my millions?” Jim complained. “I thought that the holders of the world’s wealth always had it up and away on their hand-mades and sailed their luxury yachts into the sunset at the merest mention of impending doom.”

“What, off down the canal you fancy?”

“Well, somewhere, surely? Let us at least go down with Soap and weather it out until the troubles are over.”

“I had considered that, but you will recall that it is very dark down there in his neck of the woods. And darkness would seem to be the keynote of this whole insane concerto.”

“So what do we do then?”

The two stopped on the corner of Abaddon Street and stood a moment, gazing up at the great black monolith towering above them.

“I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought and I think I have come up with an answer.”

“It better be a goody.”

“It is, but not here. Walls have ears as they say. Let us hasten away to a place of privacy and discuss this matter.”

It did not take a child of six to put the necessary two and two together and come up with Omally’s suggestion for a likely conspiratorial hideaway. “My hut,” said John.

The two men strode over the allotments, each alone with his particular thoughts. The first inkling that anything of a more untoward nature than was now the common norm was currently on the go thereabouts hit them like the proverbial bolt from the blue. The sound of gunfire suddenly rattled their eardrums, and the unexpected sight of Omally’s corrugated iron roof rising from its mountings and coming rapidly in their direction put new life into their feet.

“Run for your life,” yelled Omally.

“I am already, get out of my way.”

The roof smashed to earth, sparing them by inches. The cause of the shed’s destruction tumbled down to bowl over and over between them. Norman’s duplicate rose to his feet and glared back towards the ruined hut. Sherlock Holmes appeared at the doorway wielding his gun.

“Not again.” Pooley crawled away on all fours, seeking safety.

“Stop him,” cried Sherlock Holmes.

“With the corner up, pal.”

“Hold hard or I fire.”

Norman’s duplicate turned upon his attacker. He snatched up a ten-gallon oil-drum which was harmlessly serving its time as a water-butt and raised it above his head. Holmes stood his ground, feet planted firmly apart, both hands upon his weapon. “This is a Magnum Forty-four,” he said, “biggest handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off your shoulders.”

“He has definitely been watching too many videos,” whispered Omally as he crawled over to Pooley’s place of safety.

“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Holmes continued, “you’re thinking, in all that commotion did he fire five shots or six, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, punk?”

“I much preferred the Victorian approach,” said Jim Pooley.

Norman’s robot stiffened; he was not adverse to watching the occasional Clint Eastwood movie himself on Norman’s home-made video.

“Do you know, in all the excitement I’m not really sure myself? So what do you say, punk?”

The mechanical punk, who had seen that particular film six times said, “It’s a fair cop, governor,” and raised its hands.

“Up against the wall and spread’m mother,” cried Sherlock Holmes, causing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to veritably spin in his grave.

Not too long later, Jim Pooley, John Omally, and Mr Sherlock Holmes, this time accompanied by a near-perfect facsimile of a highly-regarded local shopkeeper, entered the Professor’s study. The scholar looked up from his desk and turned about in his chair. “You made very short work of that,” he said. “Good afternoon, Norman.”

The mechanical shopkeeper regarded the Professor as if he was guano on a hat-brim. “You would do well to leave well enough alone,” said he.