East of Ealing

15

At a little after five of the clock, Pooley and Omally left Professor Slocombe’s house behind and trudged up the long crescent bound for the Swan. Although the old man had served a fine tea, neither could raise much of an appetite, finding to it more than a hint of the Messianic feast. With rumbling guts and grumbling tongues they mooched along, ignoring the gaily-coloured bunting which fluttered between the great Horse Chestnuts, raised in preparation for the forthcoming Festival of Brentford. Pooley was in full slouch, his chin upon his chest, and his hands thrust deeply into his tweedy trouser pockets. His last suit was in exquisite ruin and lacked a right sleeve, which an over-zealous hospital intern who watched too many Aldo Ray films had cut away from his grazed elbow with a pair of surgical scissors. The thought that he could buy a thousand suits and all of them of the hand-tailored, Saville Row variety, did little to raise his spirits. Jim’s right thumbnail worried at his hidden palm.

Omally worried at Marchant’s pitted handlebars, the old boy seemed to have developed an irritating pull to the left, which was either something to do with its political leanings or something even more sinister. “Give it a rest,” growled John as the thing had him in the gutter once more.

After what seemed an age they arrived at the Swan’s welcoming portal. And found to their increased horror that it was no longer welcoming. A large plastic sign fastened to the front window announced to the world that THE BUYING OF “ROUNDS” IS HENCEFORTH FORBIDDEN BY ORDER OF THE BREWERY. ANY CUSTOMER ATTEMPTING TO VIOLATE THIS PRINCIPLE WILL BE BARRED FOR AN INDEFINITE PERIOD.

“By the Saints,” said Omally, turning wobbly at the knees. “Would you look at that?”

Pooley curled his lip. “This is too much. I am even to be denied spending my money as I please.” He thrust Omally aside and entered the bar.

The Swan was empty of customers. The only folk present were a pale young man in headphones who stood behind the jump, and two brewery henchmen in drab-coloured overalls, who appeared to be screwing a gleaming contrivance of advanced design on to the bar counter.

“What is the meaning of that notice?” Pooley stormed up to the bar.

The strange young barman watched his furious approach with an untroubled expression. His head moved to and fro to a rhythm only he heard.

“I demand an explanation,” foamed the red-faced Jim.

The young man pushed back his headphones. “What will it be then, sir?” he asked.

Jim raised his fist. “That, that bloody notice in the window. What’s your game, eh?”

“Oh, that.” The young man was all bland composure. “Rules and regulations, what can we do?”

“We can tear the bloody thing down for a kick off.”

The young man waggled a finger. “Naughty, naughty,” said he.

Jim clenched and unclenched his fists. “Has the world gone mad?” he asked. “Has the brewery lost its bloody marbles?”

The young man shrugged. “Since the takeover everything seems to have changed.”

“Takeover, what takeover?”

“Hadn’t you heard? Lateinos and Romiith bought the brewery out. An offer too good to refuse I suppose.”

Jim began to flap his hands wildly and spin about in small circles. Omally, who had followed him in, knew this to be a bad sign. Pooley sought men to kill. Two of such were now tinkering at the counter’s end. “Who are they?” Jim ceased his foolish gyrations. “What are they up to?”

The pale young man smiled wanly. “Installing a terminal, of course. Under the new system every establishment must have its own terminal, you know.”

“John,” said Jim, “John, hold me back.” Omally did as he was bidden. “What, if one might make so bold, is a terminal?” he asked.

“My goodness me,” the pale young man tittered to himself, “we do live in the dark ages around here, don’t we?” He grinned towards the two henchmen, who exchanged knowing glances and sniggered. “This terminal,” he explained, “is modular in concept, with a networking capability that is virtually plug-in. It has a one hundred and twenty-eight bit multitasking operation, super-advanced WP forms and spread sheet planner; wide area network configuration, multi-key ISAM on shared data bases, L and R six-six-six Asynch emulations, soft font and bitmapped graphics.”

“Bit-mapped graphics, eh?”

The young man cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. “Bit-mapped,” he said slowly. Above his left eyebrow the short row of eighteen vertical lines gave his face a permanently quizzical expression. “Now, perhaps, sir, you would care to order?”

“Two pints of Large,” said Omally.

“As you wish, sir. Will your irate companion be thinking to order two for himself also, do you think? Once he recovers his senses?”

“We are only just outnumbered,” quoth Pooley. “Shall we make a fight of it?”

“All in good time, Jim. Now please calm yourself and lend me a couple of quid.” The pale barman raised a tattooed eyebrow. “Usury is strictly forbidden upon the premises, by order of the brewery.”

“A pox on the brewery,” said John. “Jim is minding some money for me. Can I have it back please, Jim?”

“Certainly.” Pooley thrust a couple of hundred smackers into Omally’s outstretched palm and outstretched his own towards the nearest pint.

The new barman deftly reached across the counter-top and caught up Jim’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

Turning Jim’s palm towards the ceiling he drew out a light-wand and ran it across. “Your credit rating is triple A,” he said. “Two pints for yourself is it?”

“Make it three,” said Jim bitterly. “I feel a bit of a thirst coming on.”

“As you please, sir.” The pale young barman replaced his headphones and, nodding to himself, drew off the business.

Bearing their pints away, John and Jim stalked off to a side-table where they dropped into a brace of chairs and sat staring into one another’s eyes.

After a somewhat pregnant pause, Jim said, “I’ve had enough of all this, John.”

Omally nodded thoughtfully. “It is not very much to my own liking,” said he, gulping away the nearest pint. “If you want my considered opinion I feel that we should both do very well to have it away from this district post haste.”

“Look at those bastards.” Jim gestured towards the brewery henchmen who were even now tearing up the Swan’s antique carpeting to run a power-line across the floor.

“Rio would be your man,” said John. “Dusky maidens rolling green cigars upon their bronzed thighs. A train-robber chum of mine has lodgings thereabouts. The climate so they say is ideal for the professional drinking man or the unemployed war criminal.”

Pooley considered his printed palm. “I can’t be having with all this stuff. Things are no longer healthy hereabouts.”

“So let us away.”

Jim chewed upon a thumbnail. “I think you’re right,” said he. “But what about all this Revelations business? Do you think that the Professor is correct in his theories? If it is the end of the world then it might catch up with us even in Rio.”

Omally downed another pint. “I have my doubts about the whole thing. Listen, with the old currant bun beaming down and a bottle or two of duty-free on the patio table we can give the matter serious thought. What do you say?”

“I say it’s time we had a holiday.”

“Good man. Now the travel agent’s in the Ealing Road closes at six, I can be up there in five minutes on the bike and back in another five, I’ll book us aboard an aeroplane for first thing tomorrow.”

“Do it then.” Jim dragged out another bundle of banknotes and thrust them at John. “Go at once. I’ll get some bottles to take out, this place is beginning to depress me.”

“Right then, I will be back directly.” Omally left the Swan and mounted up Marchant, who had set himself in for an evening kip. He bumped down the kerb and pedalled furiously up the Ealing Road. Cresting the railway bridge he swept down the other side, legs outspread, past the Mowlem’s building. Without warning he suddenly came into contact with a great body of halted traffic. The road was a shambles of stalled automobiles and shouting drivers. Cars were parked at crazy angles across the road, and those at the vanguard lay, their bonnets stove in and steam issuing from their shattered radiators. A blank wall of dark light rose from the street at the junction with the Great West Road. It soared into the sky, an impenetrable barrier blocking all further progress. Omally dragged on his brakes but his iron stallion appeared to have developed ideas of its own. It rocketed him headlong into the boot of a stalled Morris Minor. John sailed forward in a blizzard of whirling banknotes, to tumble down on to the bonnet of the defunct automobile and roll on to the roadway. Cursing and spitting he slowly dragged himself to his feet and stared up at the grim barrier ahead, struck dumb with amazement and disbelief. The curtains, which the Professor had observed for so many weeks through his rooftop viewer, had finally closed upon the borders of the Brentford triangle.

And the parish was now completely sealed off from the outside world.