East of Ealing

24

A half a mile beneath the surface of Planet Earth, Soap Distant offered Omally a cup of tea.

“This time I think I will,” said John. “Is there any chance of breakfast, Soap?”

“Certainly.” The pink-eyed man applied himself to the frying-pan.

“Are you all right, Jim?” Omally prodded his companion who was staring dumbly into space.

“It was me,” mouthed Jim.

“Well, it isn’t now. You’re safe.”

“It was me.”

“Sunnyside up,” piped Soap.

“Two on a raft,” Omally replied, “with all the trimmings.”

Shortly a fine breakfast was in the offing. With the aid of much pushing, prompting, and cuffing, Jim was slowly brought back to the land of the living to enjoy his. For every “It was me”, he received a blow to the head. Somewhat after the fashion of the now legendary Pavlov’s pooches he learned the error of his ways. “Could I have another fried slice?” he asked.

Soap obliged. As he turned the bread in the pan he said. “The lead you see, the scan cannot penetrate it. They’ve got an eye in the sky up there watching everybody that’s left, but they can’t see through the lead. I myself lined the Professor’s loft with lead foil. Keeps the buggers out it does.”

Omally wiped his chin. “Very good, Soap. It is pleasing to hear that some precautions can be taken.”

“Oh yes, no system is infallible. Old Ratinous and Loathesome think they’ve got it all figured out, but there is always a dodge to be found by the thinking man.”

“Such was once the credo of my karma but I am now experiencing some doubts.”

“Don’t,” said Soap. “We’ll beat the blighters yet.”

“You seem very confident.”

Soap dumped the fried slice on to Pooley’s plate, and popped a grilled tomato into his mouth. “Oh yes,” he said between munchings, “there is not a machine yet that will not fare the worse for a well-placed spanner jammed up its works.”

“Good man,” said Omally, leaning forward to pat his host upon the shoulder. “I hope you know where to place the spanner.”

“Never fear.” Soap pulled at his lower eye. “Never fear.”

“See,” said Omally, nudging Pooley in the rib area, “even with Armageddon staring you in the face there is always a flanker to be pulled.”

“It was me,” said Jim. “Could I have another grilled sausage do you think, Soap?”

The pink-eyed man laughed heartily. “Have two,” he cried, “have three if you wish.”

“Three would be fine,” said Jim. “I have no wish to appear greedy.”

The three sub-Earthers enjoyed a hearty breakfast washed down with several bottles of Chateau Distant carrot claret. “I think you might do well to lie low here for a while,” Soap advised his guests. “Your cards would seem to be well and truly marked at present.”

“What about the spanner?” Omally made turning motions with his hand.

“All in good time, Professor Slocombe has the matter well in hand. He will tell us when the time is right.”

Omally made a sour face. “Much as I love that old man, I am not altogether sure that his reasoning is quite as clear as it once was.”

Soap flapped his hands wildly. “Do not say such things. The Professor is an Illuminati. You must trust in all he says.”

“Perhaps,” Omally finished his glass. “But it is all theories, theories, and there is precious little of what he says that makes any sense to me.”

“I would have thought that as a Catholic yourself, the idea would have held great appeal.”

“What Armageddon? The Twilight of the Gods? Not a lot.”

“No, not that side of it, I mean about the garden.”

“What garden?”

“About the garden being in Brentford. That is the whole point of it all, surely?”

“Soap, in a single sentence you have lost me completely. What are you talking about?”

“Eden, the Garden of Eden. Do you mean he didn’t tell you?”

“Hold on, hold on.” Omally held up his hands. “Go through this again slowly. What are you talking about?”

“The Garden of Eden,” said Soap. “You know the one, gets a big mention in Genesis.”

“Of course I know. What are you saying?”

Soap shook his head; he was clearly speaking with a half-wit. “Why do you think the walls have come down about Brentford?”

“To stop me spending my millions,” said Pooley bitterly.

“Hardly that. To protect Eden against the fall of Babylon.”

“I always had Babylon pegged as being a little further south.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Soap. “Chiswick.”

“Chiswick?”

“Yes. You see, the Professor solved the whole thing years ago, when he reorientated all the old maps. He was under the belief that the entire chronology and location of Biblical events was wildly inaccurate. He spent years piecing it all together before he finally solved the riddle.”

“That Babylon was in Chiswick.”

“Yes, but more importantly, that the Garden of Eden was planted right here. Upon the very spot now enclosed within the Brentford Triangle.”

“Madness,” said Omally, “nothing more, nothing less.”

“Not a bit of it. He showed me all the reorientated maps. All the events chronicled in the Bible took place right here in England.”

“And Christ?”

“And did those feet in ancient times? Liverpool born, crucified in Edinburgh.”

“Blasphemy,” said Omally, “heresy also.”

“It is as true as I am sitting here.” Soap crossed his heart with a wet finger. “All the stories in the Bible are based upon more ancient texts than scholars suppose. The events took place in a more northerly clime. They were transferred to their present incorrect locations upon far later translations of the Holy Word. The dates are thousands of years out. It all happened right here, and, for that matter, it is still happening. I would have thought that matters above make that patently obvious.”

“Blessed Mary,” said John Omally.

“Born in Penge.”

“Where else?”

“Makes you think, though,” said Pooley, freshening his glass. “After all, we all knew that Brentford was the hub of the universe. This simply confirms it.”

“Exactly,” said Soap. “And we have always known that God is an Englishman.”

“Steady on,” said John Omally. “I will swallow a lot but never that. British at a pinch. But English? Never.”

“Ipso facto,” said Soap, “or something like.”

“I will need to give this matter a considerable amount of intense thought,” said John Omally, “which I believe might necessitate the consumption of a litre or two more of your claret to aid cogitation.”

“Cogitate on me,” said Soap Distant, drawing out a brace of flagons from beneath his chair.

“You are a gentleman, sir.”