Robert Rankin - East of Ealing

Jim, left alone for a moment, suddenly smiled. He drew from his trouser pocket the ormulu-trimmed Boda hip-flask he had recently purchased and not yet had the opportunity to use, and hastily filled it from the old man’s decanter. “No point in going unarmed,” said he, following up the rear.

The Professor led them up several flights of steps to the room which housed the camera obscura. When Jim had closed the door and plunged them into darkness, he winched the apparatus into action and brought the image of the surrounding area into focus upon the polished marble table-top. The sight which leapt into vision was such as to take the breath from their lungs. Omally crossed himself and took an involuntary step backwards.

The evil travesty which was the Festival procession now filled every road and side-street in view. And the tableaux wrought upon them were now becoming recognizable for the horrors they were. It was as if those earlier floats they had seen were but the blurred and ill-formed shapes of clay, awaiting the hand of the master craftsman to draw form from them. Now the lines were distinct, the contours clearly defined.

“Look there.” Jim pointed to a lighted float which passed close to the Seaman’s Mission, a stone’s throw from the Professor’s door. Depicted there was the form of a giant, clad in robes of crimson and seated upon a great throne, carved with the gilded heads of bulls. Golden banners, each emblazoned with similar motifs, fluttered above and five hooded, stunted figures cowered at his feet in attitudes of supplication. The crimson giant raised and lowered his hand in mechanical benediction, and it appeared that for a moment he raised his eyes, twin blood bowls of fire, towards the men in the rooftop bower, and stared into their very souls.

“Him,” said Omally.

“And there.” Jim pointed vigorously. “Look at that, look at that.”

As the throned float moved beyond the range of vision, another rose up behind it. Here, a legion of men climbed one upon another, pointing towards the sky. They were identical in appearance, each resembling to a tee the young Jack Palance: the Cereans.

To either side of the floats marched a legion of men, women, and children. Familiar faces, now alien and unknown; their faces wore determined expressions and each marched in step, raising his or her own banner. Each illuminated with eighteen vertical lines, placed in three rows of six. The number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. Professor Slocombe pointed towards the image. Away in the distance, far greater shapes were looming into view, things so dark and loathsome, that even there, upon the flat white marble surface, their ghost images exuded a sense of eldritch horror which stunned the senses.

“Switch it off,” Omally demanded. “There is too much madness here.”

“One more small thing you must see, John.” Professor Slocombe adjusted the apparatus and the image of the Lateinos and Romiith building drew a black shroud across the table-top. The old man cranked the mechanism and enlarged an area at the base of the building. “Now look carefully, did you see that?”

His guests blinked and squinted at the image. “I saw something,” said Jim, “but what?”

“Look harder.”

“Yes, I see it.” It was but a fleeting movement, a single figure detached himself from the throng, pressed his hand to a section of the wall and was instantly swallowed up into the building to vanish without trace.

“I was at a loss to find a means of gaining entry,” the Professor explained, “but Holmes reasoned the thing through and deduced their method.”

“If it’s a lock then I shall pick it.”

“Not on this occasion, John. But one of us here has the key in his hand even now.”

“Oh no,” said Jim, thrusting his tattooed hand into his pocket. “Not this boy, not in there.”

“You have the right of admission, Jim, right there in the palm of your hand.”

“No, no, no.” Pooley shook his head vigorously, “An eight a.m. appointment with Albert Pierrepoint I should much prefer.”

“In my mind, only one course of action lies open. Unless we can penetrate the building and apply the proverbial spanner to the computer’s works, all will be irretrievably lost. We cannot think to destroy the dark God himself. But if his temple is cast down and his worshippers annihilated, then he must withdraw once more, into the place of forever night from whence he has emerged.” Professor Slocombe re-cranked the mechanism and the room fell into darkness.

“Oh doom,” said Jim Pooley. “Oh doom and desolaoooow! Let go there, John.”

“We must make our move now.” Professor Slocombe’s voice echoed in the void. “There is no more time, come at once.” He opened the door and the wan light from the stairs entered the strange roof chamber.

“But we cannot go outside,” said Omally. “One step out of this house and good night.”

“Have no fear, I have taken the matter into consideration.” Professor Slocombe led the two lost souls back to his study. “You are not going to like this, John,” said he, as he opened the desk drawer.

“That should create no immediate problem. I have liked nothing thus far.”

“So be it.” Professor Slocombe drew out a number of items, which had very much the appearance of being metallic balaclava helmets, and laid them on the table.

“Superman outfits,” said Pooley, very impressed. “I should have realized, Professor, you are one of the Justice League of America.”

“Silence, Pooley.”

“Sorry, John.”

“As ludicrous as these items at first must appear, they may well be our salvation. As you are no doubt now aware, the Lateinos and Romiith computer scan cannot penetrate lead. Hopefully, these lead-foil helmets will shield our brain patterns from the machine’s detection and allow us to move about unmolested.”

“Size seven and a half,” said Jim. “But I can fit into a seven at a push.”

“Good man. As an extra precaution, if each of you could slip another piece of foil into your breast pocket then your heartbeat should be similarly concealed. No doubt the infra-red image produced by body heat will still register, but the result should be somewhat confused. ‘Will not compute’, I believe the expression to be.”

“Bravo.” Omally slipped on his helmet without hesitation.

“Very Richard the Lionheart,” chuckled Pooley.

“A fine man,” said Professor Slocombe. “I knew him well.”

The three men, now decked out in their ludicrous headgear, slipped through the Professor’s French windows and out into the garden. At times one has to swallow quite a lot for a quiet life in Brentford.

Above the wall the titanic floats filled the street. As one by one the balaclava’d goodguys eased their way into the swaying crowd, each held his breath and did a fair bit of praying. Professor Slocombe plucked at Omally’s sleeve. “Follow me.” The marching horde plodded onward. The floats dwarfed both street and sky. Jim peered about him; he was walking in a dream. The men and women to either side of him, each wearing their pair of minuscule headphones, were unreal. And that he knew to be true in every sense of the word. At close hand, the floats appeared shabby and ill-constructed; a mish-mash of texture and hue coming together as if, and no doubt it was exactly thus, programmed to create an overall effect. No hand of man had been at work here. Like all else it was a sick parody, a sham, and nothing more. The bolted wheel near at hand turned in faulty circles grinding the tarmac, untrue. But it was hypnotic, its unreality drew the eye and held it there. “Come on, Jim.” Omally tugged at Pooley’s sleeve. “You’re falling behind again.”

Pooley struggled on. Ahead, the Lateinos and Romiith building dwarfed all beneath its black shadow. The sky was dark with tumbling clouds, strange images weaved and flowed beyond the mysterious glittering walls, shimmering over the roof-tops. Even now something terrible was occurring beyond the boundaries of the borough.