“Where’s my bed then?” the ancient asked, prodding Omally’s bruised shoulderblade with his stick. “I’ve brought the money.”
“Money?” John did not recall mentioning a figure. “How much did you bring?”
“Twenty quid.”
“Twenty quid.” Omally buried his face in his hands.
“It’s enough, isn’t it? You said it was an antique. I think twenty quid’s a fair price if it’s a good one. So where’s my bed?”
“What bed?” asked Norman, who was bringing up the drinks.
“Omally said he had an antique bedstead to sell me, I want to see it.”
“The muggers took it,” said Jim Pooley helpfully. Omally, who was just coming to terms with a ten pound down payment for an antique bedstead at present being refurbished by mythical upholsterers, looked up at him in horror. “Sorry,” said Jim, shrugging innocently.
“What muggers?” asked Norman.
“The ten who blacked his eye, or did you say there were twelve, John?”
“Ah,” said Norman stroking his chin. “Come to think of it, I did see a gang of bully boys pushing an antique bed along down by the half-acre. Thought it odd at the time. A right evil-looking bunch they were, wouldn’t have dared tackle them myself. No fighter me.”
“Bah,” snarled Old Pete. “You’re all bloody mad.” Turning upon his heel, he muttered a few well-chosen obscenities, and shuffled away.
“Thanks,” said Omally when the ancient was beyond earshot. “I suppose that calls us square.”
“Good.” Norman passed the two newly-retired bedsalesmen their pints. “Then, if you will pardon me, I think I will go and have a word with Old Pete. I have an old brass bed in my lock-up he might be interested in. The money will go somewhere towards meeting the cost of a new shopdoor. So all’s well that ends well, eh? Every cloud has a silver lining and a trouble shared is a friend indeed.” With the briefest of goodbyes, Norman left the two stunned drinkers staring after him.
After a short yet very painful silence Omally spoke. “You and your bloody big mouth,” said he.
Pooley turned up his ruined palms helplessly. “Still,” he said, “your reputation is saved at least.”
“You buffoon. There is no reputation worth more than five pounds and the man who is five pounds to credit needs no reputation whatever.”
“Ah well, let’s look on the bright side. I think I can say without any fear of contradiction that nothing else can possibly happen to us today.”
It is of some small consequence to note that had Jim been possessed of that rare gift of foresight, even to the degree of a few short hours, he would certainly not have made that particular, ill-considered and totally inaccurate remark.
8
Brentford’s only cinema, the Electric Alhambra, had closed its doors upon an indifferent public some fifty years ago. The canny Brentonians had shunned it from the word go, realizing that moving pictures were nothing more than a flash in the pan. Miraculously, the building had remained intact, playing host to a succession of small industries which had sprung up like mushrooms and died like mayflies. The last occupier, a Mr Doveston, Purveyor of Steam-Driven Appliances to the Aristocracy, had weathered it out for a full five years before burning his headed notepaper and vanishing with the smoke.
Now the crumbling edifice, about the size of the average scout hut and still sporting its original mock rococo stuccoed facade, was left once more alone with its memories. The projection room, which had served as governor’s office to many a down at heel entrepreneur, now deprived of its desks and filing cabinets, suddenly took to itself once more. With the collapse of some lop-sided partitions, the old and pitted screen made a reappearance. But for the lack of seating and the scattered debris littering the floor, the ancient cinema emerged, a musty phoenix from its fifty-year hibernation.
The “Sold” notice was up out front and rumour had it that the dreaded Lateinos and Romiith had the place earmarked for redevelopment. A light evening breeze rattled a corrugated iron shutter upon a glassless window, and something that looked very much like a giant feral tom stole across the floor. In the eaves a bat awoke and whistled something in an unknown dialect.
A gaunt and fragile shadow fell across an expanse of littered linoleum and a pale hand moved into a patch of light. Ghostly fingers drew away a cowled hood, revealing a head of pure white hair, an expanse of pallid forehead, and two eyes which glowed pinkly in the failing light. Surely we have seen this pale hand before? Known the Jason’s fleece of snowy hair, and marvelled at the flesh coloured eyes? Can this be he who now dwells beneath, shunning the realm of sunlight and changing seasons? He who tills the subterranean waters in his search for Shamballa and its legendary dwellers in that world of forever night? Yes, there can be no doubt. The name of this seeker after the hidden truths below is well known to the folk of Brentford.
Soap Distant, it is he.
Soap spat his roll-up from between his teeth and ground it to oblivion beneath a boot-heel. He scrutinized the luminous chronometer upon his wrist and said, “Ten thirty-two. They’ll be a while yet.” He paced slowly to and fro, his shadow clattering soundlessly along the corrugated shutters to merge with the blackness as he moved beyond the range of the limited illumination. At length, his chronometer chimed the three-quarter hour, and Soap ceased his pacing. From without came sounds of approaching feet. Harsh footfalls echoing along the deserted street, accompanied by the sounds of foolish giggling and the occasional bout of coughing. “Pissed again,” said Soap to himself, “but no matter.”
The inebriated couple, one with a fat eye and the other sleeveless, came to a halt outside the cinema, and Soap could make out snatches of conversation that penetrated the numerous cracks in the wall.
“Who’s on then?” asked a voice. “Where’s my opener?”
“William S. Hart,” said another. “Open it with your teeth.”
“I never could abide that body’s hat. I was always an Elmo Lincoln man myself. Christ, there goes a filling. You’ve got my opener, I remember you borrowing it.”
“I gave it back. Stand aside man, I need a quick jimmy.”
“Not in my doorway!” Soap threw open the shattered glass door to admit a stumbling Jim Pooley, flies gaping.
“By the grave,” said that man.
“By the roadside, but not in my doorway.”
Omally squinted towards the dark void which had suddenly swallowed up his companion. “Soap?” said he. “Soap Distant? I know that voice.”
“Come in out of the night, and pick your friend up.”
Omally bumbled in and Soap slammed shut the door upon the Brentford night and, as far as John and Jim were concerned, life as they had once known it.
“Where’s the bog?” wailed Pooley, struggling to his feet.
“Stick it out through a crack in the wall and be done.”
Pooley did so.
“How would you two care to make thirty quid for a swift half-hour’s work?” Soap asked when Jim had finished his micturition.
Omally was about to say “Each?” but after his experiences this day he thought better of it. “I think that we would be very grateful,” he said. “This has been a bad day for us both, financially.”
“If it is decorating,” said Jim, “I do not feel that half an hour will be sufficient.”
“It is not decorating, it is a little matter, below.”
“Below… ah, well now.” Both Pooley and Omally had in chapters past had very bad experiences “below”.
“Are you sure this is safe?” queried Omally.
“As houses.”
Pooley was more than doubtful. Sudden chill memories of former times spent beneath the surface of the globe flooded over him in an icy-black tide. “You can have my half, John,” he said, “I think I’ll get an early night in.”