Robert Rankin - East of Ealing

The afflicted sun swung slowly into the Brentford sky, illuminating a parish which seemed already very much on the go. There were now none of the customary morningtide grumblings and complaints which greeted the arrival of each new day. Here were lads leaping to their feet anxious to continue their labours; and their labours as ever centred upon the forthcoming Festival of Brentford. Barefooted children already pranced stiff-leggedly about the maypoles set upon the Butts. The sounds of hammering and nailing echoed in the streets as the great floats were being hobbled into shape in myriad back to backs. The borough was obsessed by the approaching event, but the whys and the wherefores were misty businesses not lightly dwelt upon.

John and Jim slumbered amongst the potato sacks beneath a corrugated iron lean-to, sleeping the blessed sleep of the Bacchanalian. Professor Slocombe toiled with book and abacus, and Sherlock Holmes crept over a distant rooftop, magnifying glass in hand. Norman of the corner shop tinkered with Allen key and soldering iron upon the project of his own conception, and Old Pete with Chips at heel made his way along the Ealing Road, cursing bitterly. Neville slept in a netherworld of force-fed suppressants, dreaming escape and revenge. The old gods slept also, but the morning of the magicians was not far from the dawning.

“Things are certainly not what they used to be in Brentford,” groaned Jim Pooley.

The allotments being something of a parish nature reserve, the over-abundance of hearty birdsong tore the million-dollar bum and his Irish companion grudgingly from the arms of good old munificent Morpheus. Jim emerged from beneath his corrugated iron four-poster and grimaced at the world to be. He shushed at the feathered choristers and counselled silence. “Before I was rich,” he said, tapping at his skull in the hope of restoring some order, “before I was rich, I rarely took up a night’s lodgings upon the allotments.”

A woebegone face emerged from the lean-to, the sight silencing the birdies in a manner which normally it would have taken a twelve-bore to do. The godforsaken thing that was John Omally was far better kept from the gaze of children or the faint of heart. “Morning, Jim,” said he.

Pooley caught sight of the facial devastation. “Put that back for your own sake,” he advised. “I should not wish to come to close quarters with an article such as that until far starboard of breakfast time.”

Omally’s stomach made a repulsive sound. “Now breakfast would indeed be your man,” he said, taking his ravaged features back into the darkness. The birdsong welled forth anew.

“Shut up,” bawled Pooley, clutching his skull. The birdies put the proverbial sock in it.

“Shall we try the Professor for a slice or two of toast?” Jim asked.

“Definitely not,” a voice called back from the darkness. “I have no wish to see that good gentleman again. Buy me back my introduction please, Jim. I will owe you.”

“I can lend you a quid, John, but no more.”

“Let us go round and impose upon Norman. He is currently at a disadvantage. A bit of company will do him no harm.”

Pooley rubbed at his forehead and did a bit of hopeless eye focusing. “All right,” he said, “but if he starts to part the bacon with his left hand then I am having it away on my toes.”

Omally’s face appeared once more in the light. This time it had been translated into the one worn by his normal self.

“You have remarkable powers of recuperation, John,” said Jim.

“l am a Dubliner.”

“But of course.”

The two men tucked in their respective shirt-tails and strolled as best they could over the allotments, through the gates, and off up the Albany Road. A hundred or so yards behind them another Pooley and Omally fell into step and did likewise.

“You were saying last night,” said Jim, as they reached Moby Dick Terrace, “although I should not broach the subject so early in the morning, something about reaching a decision?”

“Oh yes,” John thrust out his chest and made some attempt to draw in breath. “My mind is made up, I have the thing figured.”

“And as to this particular plan. Is it kosher and above board or is it the well-intentioned codswallop of the truly banjoed?”

“I had a drink on me, truly. But in no way did it affect my reason.”

Now fifty yards behind, the other Pooley and Omally marched purposefully on in perfect step, their faces staring ever ahead.

“So tell me all about it then, John.”

Omally tapped at his nose. “All in good time. Let us get some brekky under our belts first.”

As they rounded the corner into Ealing Road they saw Old Pete approaching, cursing and swearing, his daily paper jammed beneath his arm. Young Chips followed, marking the lampposts for his own. The elder hobbled on, and as he caught sight of John and Jim he grunted a half-hearted “good morning”. As they all but drew level the old man suddenly dropped his paper and raised his stick. He stared past John and Jim and his mouth fell open, bringing the full dental horror of his National Healthers into hideous prominence. “G… gawd,” he stammered, “now I have seen it all.”

John and Jim looked at one another, towards the gesturing ancient, and finally back over their shoulders, following the direction of his confounded gaze. Bearing down upon them at a goodly rate of knots marched their perfect doubles. “Run for your life!” screamed Omally. Jim was already under starter’s orders. The two tore past the befuddled ancient and his similarly bemused pet at an Olympic pace. Their doubles strode on in unison, hard upon the retreating heels.

Old Pete turned to watch the curious quartet dwindle into the distance. He stooped crookedly to retrieve his fallen paper and shook his old head in wonder. “I am certain that I saw that,” he told Chips. “Although I am sure it will pass.”

Young Chips made a low gummy sort of growling sound. He had recently bitten a postman’s leg and lost several of his favourite teeth for his pains. He just wasn’t certain about anything any more.

John and Jim were making admirable time along the Ealing Road. They passed Norman’s corner-shop, the Swan, the Princess Vic, and drew level with the football ground. “Where do we go?” gasped Pooley. “There’s nowhere to run to.”

“Just keep running, we’ve got to lose them.” John squinted back over his shoulders. Himself and Jim showed no signs of fatigue, if anything they looked more sprightly, as if the exercise was doing them good. “Run, man, run!”

Round into the maze of back streets behind the football ground went the hunted pair. The doubles came forward at the jog, staring ever ahead. John dragged Pooley into an alleyway. “Along here and keep it sprightly,” he urged.

The breathless Jim collapsed into a convulsion of coughing, hands upon knees. “I cannot continue,” he croaked. “Leave me here to die.”

“And die you surely will. Ahead, man.”

Omally thrust Pooley forward, the sound of approaching footfalls echoing in his ears. Down the dustbin-crowded alley they ran, John overturning as many as he could behind him. The duplicates crashed along, behind, casting the toppled bins effortlessly aside. John and Jim emerged into an obscure side-street neither of them could put a name to. The Lateinos and Romiith computer scan which observed their every movement had it well-catalogued in degree and minutes to a fearful number of decimal places.

“There has to be some way to dodge them,” gasped Pooley.

“Keep going, damn you.”

The duplicates crashed out into the street behind them.

Across Brentford ran Pooley and Omally, zigzagging through people’s back gardens, up and down fire escapes, in between the trees of the Memorial Park, and ever onwards. Behind them came the pounding of synchronized feet, never letting up for an instant.