Robert Rankin - East of Ealing

“Absolutely not. I know Omally stuffs his peelings into his pipe, but even he would draw the line at manufacturing cigars from them.”

“They don’t roll,” said John, making the motions.

The two men lit up, and collapsed simultaneously into fits of violent coughing.

“Whatever it is,” wheezed John, tears streaming from his eyes, “it’s good stuff.”

“Perhaps a little sharp.” Jim’s face now matched the colour of his cigar.

“Do you give up?”

“Indubitably.”

“Well I shan’t tell you anyway.” Soap slumped back into his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

The ruddy hue slowly returned to Jim’s face as he got the measure of his smoke. “How long do you think we are going to have to fiddle about down here?” he asked.

Soap shrugged.

Omally tapped a quarter-inch of snow-white ash into a glass cache pot of the Boda persuasion. “We can’t stay down here indefinitely, Soap,” he said. “Although your hospitality is greatly appreciated, you must surely realize that we must make some attempts at salvaging something of our former lives. We were quite fond of them.”

Soap waved his hands at the Irishman. “All in good time, John. The Prof will tip us the wink. For now, have a drink and a smoke and a pleasant chat.”

“I fear we will shortly exhaust all topics of conversation.”

“Not a bit of it, I am a fascinating conversationalist. On most matters I am eloquence personified. My range is almost inexhaustible.”

“And your modesty legend. I know.”

“All right then, what is your opinion of evolution?”

“A nine-aeon wonder.” Omally awaited the applause.

“I have a somewhat revolutionary theory of my own.”

“I do not wish to hear it.”

“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago, complete with all records and memories. Although an improbable hypothesis, I think you will find it logically irrefutable.”

“And how long have you held this belief?”

“Hard to say, possibly four and a half minutes.”

“Fol-de-rol.”

“Well, what about politics, then? As an Irishman, you must have some definite views.”

“As an Irishman, I never trouble to give the matter a moment’s thought.”

“Religion, then?”

“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago. Are you looking for a grazed chin, Soap?”

“Only trying to pass the time with a little pleasant intercourse.”

“Careful,” said Jim.

“Well, I get few callers.”

“Hardly surprising, your address is somewhat obscure even for the A to Z.”

“Would you care to see my mushroom beds?”

“Frankly, no.”

“I spy with my little eye?”

“Stick it in your ear, Soap.”

The three men sat awhile in silence. Jim picked a bit of chive out of his teeth and won five quid from Soap. But other than that there was frankly no excitement to be had whatsoever, which might in its way have been a good thing, for there was a great deal of it in the offing. A sudden bout of urgent knocking rattled Soap Distant’s front door.

“Expecting guests?” Omally asked. “Ladies, I trust. Current affairs have played havoc with my social calendar.”

Soap’s face had, within the twinkling of an eye, transformed itself from an amiable countenance into the all-too-familiar mask of cold fear. “Are either of you tooled up?” he asked inanely.

“I have my barlow knife,” said Omally, rapidly finishing his drink.

“And me my running shoes,” said Jim. “Where’s the back door, Soap?”

Mr Distant dithered in his armchair. “No-one knows of this place,” he whispered hoarsely. The pounding on the door informed him that that statement was patently incorrect.

Omally rose hurriedly from his seat. “Lead us to the priesthole, Soap, and make it snappy.”

“I’m for that.” Jim leapt up and began smacking at the walls. “Where’s the secret panel, Soap?”

Soap chewed upon his knuckles. “It’s the other me,” he whimpered. “I knew it had to happen, even here.”

“The odds are in its favour. Kindly show us the way out.”

“There’s no other exit.”

“Then find us a place to hide, someone must continue to serve the cause, even if you are indisposed.”

“Yes, fair do’s,” Jim agreed, as the pounding rattled ornaments and nerves alike. “If it’s the other you, then he may not know John and I are here. We at least should hide until the bloodshed is over.”

“Oh, thanks very much, pals.”

“We’d do the same for you.”

“Come again?”

“Open up there.” A voice from without brought the ludicrous conversation to a halt.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes,” said Omally. “Let him in.”

Soap hastened to unfasten the front door. “Close it without delay.” The detective pressed himself inside. “They are hard upon my heels.”

“How did you know where I lived?” Soap pressed the bolts home.

“No matter. Are you three tooled up?”

Omally shook his head and fell back into his seat. Pooley did likewise. “Would you care for another splash of carrot, Jim?” Omally waggled the bottle towards Pooley.

“Another would be fine. So how goes the game afoot, Sherlock?”

“A bit iffy as it happens.” Holmes drew out his revolver and flattened himself against the front wall.

Jim rattled his glass against the bottle’s neck. “And you have brought the lads down here after us. Most enterprising.”

“I never really believed in him, you know,” said John, now refreshing his own glass.

“I looked it all up in the library,” Pooley replied.

“The evidence is very much against him. Purely fictitious, I so believe.”

“Wise up,” said Sherlock Holmes. “These mothers mean business.”

The sounds of terrible ghost train screaming leant weight to his conviction. From beyond, something malevolent was surging forward from the darkness. Pooley covered his ears and crossed his eyes. Omally snatched up a Biba table-lamp and prepared once more to do battle. If the awful screaming was not bad enough, the sounds which accompanied it were sufficient to put the wind up even Saint Anthony himself. Hideous slurpings and suckings, as of some gigantic mollusc, and thrashing sounds, dragging chains and clicking joints. All in all, anything but a Christmas hamper.

Omally turned towards Holmes, who now crouched facing the door, Magnum forty-four poised once more between his outstretched hands. “What in the name of the Holies is it?” he shouted above the growing din.

“It came at me from a basement opening. I have only seen its like before amongst the work of Hieronymous Bosch.”

This remark meant little to Omally who had always thought a Bosch to be an expensive sports car. But that the something which was approaching was very very nasty and somewhat overlarge seemed on the cards.

As the first concussion shook the front wall, Holmes fired point-blank into the door. A gale-force icy wind swept through the bullet-hole, like a blast from a ruptured gas-pipe. A fetid odour filled the room; the stench of the very pit itself, of all the world’s carrion congealed into a single rotting mass. Holmes staggered back into Omally, coughing and gagging. The Irishman fell to his knees, covering his nose, and retching violently. Outside, the thing lashed at the door with redoubled fury. The iron hinges screamed in anguish, echoing those of the satanic emissary of death. Beneath the throbbing door, slim, barbed hooks worked and tore. A yellow haze of brimstone coloured the unbreathable air and the room shook and shivered beneath the hellish assault.

Omally crawled over to Soap Distant, who had wisely assumed the foetal position beneath the table. “You’ve got to get us out,” he shouted, tearing away the hands clamped about the albino head. “There has to be a way.”