Robert Rankin - East of Ealing

“A manhole, two gardens up, leads indirectly into a tunnel to his basement.”

“Oh no.” This voice belonged to Jim Pooley. “Down again we do not go. I will take my chances above ground.”

“Well, please yourself. Whatever killed Holmes could not pursue us, it was pretty big. The tunnels hereabouts are small. I shall travel below; you do as you see fit.”

“I think we should stick together,” Omally advised.

“Are you sure it’s safe, Soap?”

“To tell the absolute truth, I’m not too sure of anything any more.”

“Oh doom, oh desolation. Oooh, ooooow!”

“Come on then.” Omally eased open the door, and the three men, one now limping a little and clutching at himself, ducked across the garden and shinned up a dividing fence. Soap’s manhole was overgrown with weeds, which seemed promising. The hollow Earther took a slim crooked tool from his belt and, scraping away the undergrowth, flipped off the cover in a professional manner. “Follow me,” he said, vanishing from sight.

Pooley looked at Omally. “It’s all up and down these days, isn’t it?”

“After you, Jim. I should hate you to have cold feet.”

Muttering and complaining, the blighted billionaire clambered into the hole, followed by Omally, who drew the lid back into place.

Three darting images vanished from the screen of the Lateinos and Romiith computer scan, but already the information had been processed and relayed. No less than three Pooleys and a brace of Omallys were already scaling the garden wall. None of them were wearing carnival hats.

“Come on, lads.” Soap’s voice urged them on from the darkness. “And get a move on, something smells a bit iffy down here.” With hands about each other’s waists, the most unmusical of all conga lines moved along a few short feet beneath the streets of Brentford. The rumble of the heavy floats and the muffled sounds of chanting, coming faintly to them as the duplicates mouthed to the holophonic images pouring into their brains through their minuscule headphones, were anything but cheering.

Soap suddenly came upon a heavy door blocking his way. “There now,” said he.

“Where now, exactly?”

“We’re there.”

“Good man, Soap. Now open up, let’s not waste anytime.”

The sounds of Soap fumbling in his pockets preceded a long and dismal groan. “My keys.”

“Where are your keys, Soap?”

“In my desk, I think.”

A piercing white light illuminated the narrow black corridor. It shone directly on to three terrified faces, which had turned instinctively towards it. From about the light source came the flashing of blue sparks as several lethal handsets energized.

“Get out of the way,” said Omally. “Let me at that lock.” The Irishman squeezed past the pink-eyed man and dropped to his knees. A neat roll of house-breaking implements materialized from a hidden pocket in his waistcoat and were rapidly unfurled.

“John,” said Jim, “I had no idea.”

“They were the daddy’s. Keep out of the light and keep those bastards back somehow.”

The light was moving nearer, spiralling along the wet brick-worked tube of the tunnel. The crackling of the handsets became audible.

“You’ll not break it,” gibbered Soap. “The lock is protected, it cannot be picked.”

“There is no lock which cannot be picked.” Omally flung aside a bundle of metal tags and slotted another sequence into the shaft of the skeleton key.

“You won’t open it.”

“Shut up will you?”

“Get away.” For once doing the bold thing, Pooley had crept back up the tunnel towards his attackers. Now he lashed out with his hobnail at the blinding light as it reared up in his face. His boot connected and the beam swung aside, leaving Omally to fumble in the darkness. “Nice one, Jim,” he spat. “Now I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Get off me, leave hold.” Clawing hands reached out towards Pooley. In the coruscating blue fire his face twisted and contorted. “John, protect me for God’s sake!”

“Protect me…” Omally’s brain kicked into gear. He tore his crucifix from about his neck and fumbling for the keyhole thrust it in and turned it sharply to the right. “We’re in, lads,” cried John.

“Go quickly,” said Soap. “It is up to you now.” With a brisk movement he vanished away as if by magic into the brickwork of the passage.

Omally bundled his way through the doorway.

Pooley wrenched himself away from his attackers, leaving them the right sleeve of his cashmere jacket as something to remember him by. The combined weight of two men hurtled the door back into its jambs. Fists rained upon it from without, but they could not penetrate the mantle of protection. Omally winkled out his crucifix and pressed it to his lips. “And then there were two,” said he, sinking to his bum with a dull thump.

Jim slowly removed his jacket, folding it neatly across his arm. He laid upon the floor and began to leap up and down upon it. “Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger,” he went.

Omally watched the performance without comment. They were a strange old breed these millionaire lads and that was a fact. “When you are done,” he said at length, “I suggest we go upstairs and break the sad news of Holmes to the old man.”

“Oh bugger,” said Pooley.

“So you said.”

“No, this is another quite separate bugger. I left my fags in the top pocket.”

Professor Slocombe watched the two men plod wearily up the cellar steps, slouch down the side-corridor, and halt before the study door, twin looks of indecision upon their unshaven faces. He opened his eyes. “Come in, lads,” he called. “No need to skulk about out here.” Beyond the heavy-panelled door, Omally shrugged. With evasive eyes and shuffling feet, he and Jim sheepishly entered the study. Professor Slocombe indicated the decanter, and Omally grasped it up by the neck and rattled it into a crystal tumbler.

“Easy on the glassware, John.”

Omally, his face like a smacked bottom, looked up at the ancient. “Sherlock Holmes is dead,” he blurted out.

Professor Slocombe’s face was without expression. His eyes widened until they became all but circular. The whites formed two Polo mints about the pupils. The narrow jaw slowly revolved as if he was grinding his teeth upon Omally’s words.

“That cannot be,” he said, slowly drawing himself from his desk and turning his back upon his uninvited guests. “It cannot be.”

Omally poured his drink down his neck and slung another large measure into his glass. “And mine,” complained Pooley.

The Professor turned upon them. “How did this happen? Did you see it?” A high tone of fear choked at his voice.

“Not exactly,” Jim replied nervously, “but believe us, sir, he could not have survived.”

“He saved our lives,” said Omally.

“But you did not actually see?”

“Not exactly, thank God.”

Professor Slocombe smiled ruefully. “I thought not.”

Omally opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. If the old man did not care to accept the truth, then there was no good to be gained through labouring the point. “All right,” said he carefully, “we did not actually see it.”

“No,” said the Professor. “You did not. So let us speak no more of the matter. There is little time left and much which must be done.”

“We are actually somewhat knackered,” said Jim, sinking into a chair. “We’ve had a trying day.”

“I am afraid that it is not over yet. Kindly follow me.”

The Professor strode across the room and made towards the study door. Jim shrugged towards John, who put his finger to his lips and shook his head. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve nothing left to lose have we?” Omally followed the old man into the corridor.