Upon the allotment a tiny figure moved. He was ill-washed and stubble-chinned and he muttered beneath his breath. At intervals he raised his head and called, “Edgar.” No reply came, and he continued upon his journey, driven by a compulsion impossible to resist.
“Four Horsemen to throw,” said some drunken good-time Charlie who had no idea of the gravity of the situation. “The Four Horsemen needs forty.”
Young Jack appeared from the crowd, wielding his dreaded darts. He crossed the floor and approached the Professor. “You will not enjoy this, St Germaine,” he spat. “Be advised that I know you for what you are and accept your defeat like the gentleman you are not.”
Professor Slocombe was unmoved, his glittering eyes fixed upon Young Jack. “If you want this to be sport,” said he, “then so be it. If however you crave something more, then know that I am equal to the challenge.”
“Do your worst,” sneered Young Jack. “I am master of you.”
“So be it,” said Professor Slocombe.
Young Jack took the oché. Again his head turned one hundred and eighty degrees upon his neck as he gazed at the crowd. “The Swan is finished,” he announced. “Five years have passed and you have grown weak and complacent. Prepare to bow to a superior force. Say goodbye to your trophy, you suckers.”
A murderous rumble rolled through the crowd. There was a great stamping offset and squaring of shoulders. Ties were being slackened and top buttons undone. Cufflinks were being removed and dropped into inside pockets.
Young Jack raised his dart and lined up for a winner. Neville took a sharper hold upon his knobkerry and patted at his loins to ensure that the cricketer’s box he had had the foresight to hire for the occasion was in place.
Omally smote the Professor, “Save us, old man,” he implored. “I will apologize later.”
Professor Slocombe rose upon his cane and stared at his adversary.
Young Jack drew back his hand and flung his dart.
The thing creased the air at speed, then suddenly slowed; to the utter dumbfoundment of the crowd, it hung suspended in time and space exactly six feet three inches above the deck and five feet from the board.
Professor Slocombe concentrated his gaze, Young Jack did likewise.
The dart moved forward a couple of inches, then stopped once more and took a twitch backwards.
The crowd were awestruck. Neville’s knobkerry hung loose in his hand. Great forces were at work here, great forces that he would rather have no part in. But he was here at the killing, and as part-time barman would do little other than offer support.
Every eye, apart from one ill-matched pair, was upon that dart. Supporters of both Swan and Horsemen alike wrinkled their brows and strained their brains upon that dart. Beads of perspiration appeared a-plenty and fell, ruining many a good pint.
The dart eased forward another six inches. Professor Slocombe turned his stare towards the glowing red eyes of his opponent. The dart retreated.
Young Jack drew a deep breath and the dart edged once more towards its target.
“You wouldn’t get this on the telly,” whispered Jim Pooley.
Old Jack suddenly put his wrinkled hands to the wheels of his chair and propelled himself towards the Professor.
“Restrain that man!” yelled Omally.
Pooley lurched from his seat, but, in his haste to halt the wheeling ancient, caught his foot upon a chair leg and tripped. He clutched at the table, overturning it, and blundered into Professor Slocombe, propelling him into the crowd. At this moment of truth the proverbial all hell was let loose.
The night-black dart set forth once more upon its journey and thundered towards the board. Young Jack stood grinning as Pooley upset his infirm father and brought down at least another four people in his desperation. Omally struggled up and struck the nearest man a vicious blow to the skull.
Before the eyes of those stunned patrons who were not yet engaged in the fracas the dart struck the board. As it did so a devastating explosion occurred overhead which shattered the bar optics, brought down great lumps of plaster from the ceiling and upset the part-time barman into the crowd.
“It is God!” shouted Omally, hitting with a will. “He will stand no more!”
Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone fell away from the Captain Laser machine. “It wasn’t me,” he whimpered, “I didn’t do it.”
The lights of the Swan suddenly dimmed as the entire world which was Brentford proper went mad.
“It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, I swear it.”
Nobody really cared. Outside something terrific was happening. Possibly it was the prelude to the long-awaited Armageddon, possibly earthquake, or tidal wave. Whatever it was, the darts fans were not going to be caught napping, and the stampede towards the door was all-consuming. A single darkly-clad figure wearing a brand of creosote aftershave was immediately trampled to oblivion beneath the rush.
As the patrons poured into the night the enormity of what had occurred became apparent. Shards of flaming metal were hurtling down upon Brentford. Great sheets of fire were rising from the tarmac of the Ealing Road as the surface met each blazing assault. Several front gardens were ablaze.
Pooley and Omally helped the fallen Professor to his feet. “It has begun,” said John. “What do we do?”
“To the machine,” yelled the old man. “It would appear that Norman has served us right.”
Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone stood blankly staring at the screen. “I didn’t do it,” he said repeatedly.
Omally was at his side in an instant. “Play it,” he roared. “You are the kiddie, play it.”
Rathbone drew back in horror, “No,” he shouted. “Something is wrong. I will have no part of it.”
“Play it!” Omally grabbed at the green hair and drew the stinker close to the machine. “You are the unbeatable master, play it.”
Nick drew up his head in a gesture of defiance. As he did so, he stumbled upon a chunk of fallen ceiling and fell backwards, leaving Omally clutching a bundle of green hair and what appeared to be an india-rubber face mask. The figure who collapsed to the Swan’s floor, now bereft of his disguise, resembled nothing more nor less than a young Jack Palance.
“He’s one of them,” screamed Omally, pointing to the fallen Cerean, and dancing up and down dementedly. “He was never playing the machine, he was signalling with it. Get him, get him!”
Pooley hastened to obey. “The left armpit, isn’t it?” he growled.
The erstwhile paperboy backed away, covering his wedding tackle. “Not the armpit,” he whimpered. “Anything but the armpit.”
Professor Slocombe was at the machine. “How does it work?” he cried. “How does it work?”
“Leave him, Jim,” yelled Omally, “play the machine, shoot the bastards down.”
Upon the allotments columns of pure white light were rising into the sky. The door of Soap Distant’s hut was wide open and a great glow poured from it, silhouetting dozens of identical figures gliding through the opening.
When the first great explosion occurred, a small dwarf in a soiled postman’s suit had flattened himself into a sprout bed, but now he arose to his full height and stared about in horror at the bizarre spectacle.
He danced up and down and flapped his arms, “Edgar,” he shouted, “Edgar, help me, help me.” The figures now pouring through the shed doorway were bearing down upon him, and the postman took to his tiny heels and fled. He plunged through the open allotment gates and paused only to assure himself that he still had a tight hold upon the pair of bolt-cutters he had been carrying. Without further ado he continued his journey, bound for a certain lock-up garage upon the Butts Estate, and destiny.