Knees Up Mother Earth (21 page)

The architectural style of the Consortium’s offices had a certain familiarity about it. In fact, it resembled a gigantic telephone box of the Giles Gilbert Scott persuasion.

Although all in black.

A broad span of black basalt steps swept up to a grandiose entranceway. John parked Marchant and he and Jim looked up at the imposing structure.

“That’s a very imposing structure,” said John. “This organisation is worth a
lot
of money.”

“Let’s not be intimidated,” Jim told him. “Size isn’t everything.”

“No, but it does give one an edge.” John squared his shoulders, which didn’t need much of a squaring. “Let’s get this done,” said he.

Jim gave John a thumbs-up and the two set off up the steps.

Vast doors of polished black glass slid soundlessly to either side at their approach and the two friends entered the building. They found themselves in an entrance hall of heroic proportions, decked out in the classical style.

There were couches that spoke of the Ottoman Empire.

And mosaics that sang of the glories of Rome.

Columns that whispered of nights in Byzantium.

A sampler that said there was no place like home.

“Very swell,” John observed.

“Very cold.” Jim hugged at his arms.

“That would be the air-conditioning. I’ve been thinking of having it installed in your office.”

“Have you, now?”

“Might I be of assistance to you gentlemen?” The voice was thin and reedy and male, which came as a slight disappointment to John, who had been hoping for a female receptionist. “Over here, if you will.”

A tiny man sat behind an enormous reception desk that murmured of Mount Parnassus, clearly upon a very high chair – he was a veritable elf, all pointy chin and pointy nose and long and pointy ears.

He pointed a pointy finger at John. “What do you want here?” he asked.

“Inspectre Hovis of Scotland Yard,” said John Omally, whipping out his wallet and flashing what Pooley recognised to be John’s Roy Rogers Appreciation Society sheriffs star at the bewildered elf. “And this is my partner, Sergeant Rock.”

“He looks more like Bertie Wooster,” said the elf.

“I don’t,” said Jim. “I’m not wearing the plus-fours suit today.”

“It must be the haircut, then. What do you gentlemen want?”

Omally cleared his throat and spoke with the voice of authority. “Kindly gather all staff who are presently within the building and lead them to the car park,” he said.

“I fail to understand.” The receptionist scratched at his pointy head.

John leaned forward across the desk and whispered the word “bomb”.

“Bomb?” The receptionist’s eyes bulged from their sockets and his mouth dropped open, exposing pointy teeth.

“Alka Seltzer,” said Jim.

“Al Qaeda,” said John. “We have received a tip-off from ZZ-Nine, Above Top Secret Department. This building has been targeted. We are here to search for and disarm the bomb.”

“No, no, no.” The pointy little man shook his pointy head. “No terrorist could have infiltrated these offices. That is impossible.”

“I’d love to spend time discussing it with you,” said John, checking his wristlet watch, “but by my reckoning there is less than half an hour before …” And he mimed the explosion of a very large bomb.

“I must telephone for confirmation.” Pointy fingers reached towards a desktop phone.

“Evacuate the staff before you do,” John told him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want their deaths on your conscience.”

“No, certainly not.” The pointy man dithered.

“Time is ticking away,” said John.

“There’s no one in the building but me. I must phone for confirmation.”

“Nobody but you?” John made the face of one appalled. “What kind of security is that for an establishment such as this?”

“There is sufficient security, I can assure you.” The pointy man’s eyes became narrow, hooded slits. “Might I see your badge of authority once more? It seemed to me to be a—”

But the pointy man said no more, because John Omally had punched him right in his pointy chin.

“Was that really necessary?” Jim climbed forward over the reception desk and viewed the unconscious figure of the tiny pointy man that now lay on the floor beyond. “You might have killed him.”

“I didn’t hit him that hard.”

“But he’s only little.”

“He’ll be fine. Come on, Jim, this was your idea, remember?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea.”

“It
was
a good idea. Have another fag and calm your nerves.”

“Good idea.”

Omally shinned over the reception desk and rooted about in search of keys, which he soon discovered.

“Where should we begin our search?” John asked. “Start at the top, do you think?” He flourished a key, attached to which was a black metal tag with the words “Penthouse Office” inscribed upon it.

“The only way is up,” said Jim. “Shall we take the lift?”

“I think that would be the thing to do.”

The lift was one of those glass-cylinder jobbies and it travelled upwards with a giddying swiftness.

“It does seem rather odd,” said Jim, as he clung to a handrail and tried to stop his knees from knocking together. “A Diddy Man on the desk and not an armed guard with an Alsatian to be seen.”

“Overconfidence,” said John. “These fellows think themselves untouchable.”

“Perhaps.” Jim held his nose and swallowed air. “I’m going to be sick,” he said.

“Puff upon your fag and stop complaining.”

And then the lift stopped.

Very suddenly.

“We’re trapped!” cried Jim. “We’re doomed. We’ll plummet to our deaths.”

And the lift doors opened and a mechanised voice announced, “The Penthouse Office, please mind the gap.”

“Poltroon,” said John. “Come on.”

The corridor was swank, in a jet-black marbley kind of a way that babbled of Babylon. And it was cold, too.

Jim blew onto his fingers. “I think I’ve got altitude sickness,” he said. “Do you think we need oxygen masks up here?”

“Jim,” said John, “you are priceless.”

“Thank you very much,” said Jim.

“Aha.” A door loomed before them and a big one, too. John presented the key to its lock.

“You don’t think we should knock first,” Jim asked, “in case there’s anybody home?”

“No,” said John, “I don’t.” And he turned the key and pushed open the sizeable door.

Beyond lay a terrible room.

It glowed in the light of many candles, uniformly black and arrayed in elaborate
torchères
fashioned in the likenesses of naked men thrown into attitudes of appalling agony. Jim caught sight of these and Jim was ready for the off.

“Steady now, Jim,” said John. “We weren’t expecting a cosy parlour.”

“What are those?” Jim asked, and he pointed.

Omally entered the terrible room and viewed what was to be seen.

“Cabinets,” said he, “glass cabinets filled with what look to be fossils. Come and have a look, Jim.”

Jim entered upon unsteady legs. “It smells bad in here,” he said. “It smells of …” he paused as terrible memories returned to him.

“It smells of the grave,” said John.

Jim peeped into a cabinet. “What are they fossils of?” he asked. “I’ve never seen anything like these before. They’re like octopuses, but with wings.”

John shrugged. He had seen something more interesting. At the centre of the terrible room stood a kind of altar, heavily carved with scenes of damnation, tormented forms twisted in anguish, demonic creatures and fallen angels of Hell. Upon this altar there rested a red velvet cushion, and upon this cushion, a thing of great beauty indeed.

It was a gemstone the size of a golf ball. It glittered and twinkled and seemed to radiate a curious light of its own. John cast a covetous eye over it.

Pooley said, “What do you think is in there?”

John turned away from the altar. “In where?” he asked.

“Behind those big doors,” said Jim, pointing to a pair of very big doors set into the furthest wall. Elaborately carved were these doors, with further scenes of Hellish horror. “Strongroom, do you think?”

John approached the doors. “No sign of a lock,” said he. “Let’s have a look.”

Pooley drew back. “I don’t think so, John,” he said. “This place reeks of evil and I have a very bad feeling that something really ghastly lurks beyond those doors.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” And with reckless abandon, John Omally put his weight to the great doors and eased them slowly open.

Beyond lay another room.

And John looked in.

And Jim looked in.

Then John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

And then they both turned hard upon their heels.

And ran screaming in terror for their lives.

Professor Slocombe looked grimly upon the two white-faced and shivering men who sat in the armchairs to either side of his fire. The elderly scholar poured two large glasses of Scotch and pushed these into the trembling hands of his guests.

“What you did was beyond reckless,” he told them. “And I blame
you
for this.” The professor turned to confront the Campbell, who stood beside the French windows, his hand upon the pummel of his claymore. “To let them slip away from you like that—”

“They left their ales half-drunk,” said Mahatma Campbell.

“Yes.” The professor smiled wanly. “That would probably have fooled me, also.” And he turned back to his ashen guests. “Tell me what you saw,” he said.

Jim’s teeth chattered noisily.

John said, “I don’t know. But it was horrible. Terrible.” And he hid his eyes with his free hand and poured Scotch down his throat with the other.

“You said something about tentacles,” said the professor, “and bat’s wings and eyes.”

“T-t-too much,” stuttered Jim. “Too much to think.”

“I see.” The professor took himself over to one of the burgeoning bookcases and withdrew a slim volume bound in yellow calfskin. He leafed slowly through this and then he held the open book towards Jim. “Is this what you saw?” he asked.

Jim glanced at the page and went “Aaaagh!”

“I thought as much.” Professor Slocombe closed the book.

“What is it?” John asked. “You know what it is.”

“This book,” Professor Slocombe tapped at the volume, “is a first edition signed by the author – with a dedication to myself, I am proud to add. It is the work of one Howard Phillips Lovecraft. The illustration was drawn by the legendary Count David Carson. It is Lord Cthulhu, the Great Old One.”

Jim’s glass rattled against his teeth. “It was a monster from Hell,” he managed to say.

“Not from Hell,” said the professor, “but from a time when the universe was chaos. When God said, ‘Let there be light,’ the Great Old Ones, the lords of chaos and terror, were banished. Cthulhu and his kingdom sank into the ocean depths, where they were to remain for ever – not dead, but forever dreaming, dreaming of their return to rule the world of men. Legend has it that Cthulhu can only be raised by a powerful spell activated by a sacred stone known as the Eye of Utu. But as legend also has it that the Eye is hidden where no man can find it, I am at a loss to understand how Starling achieved his evil ends.

“Most believed Lovecraft to be either mad or possessed of an overly morbid imagination, and Cthulhu and the Eye nothing but myth – a fireside tale to trouble the sleep of children. But it would appear that the sceptics were sadly mistaken, and that what I always suspected to be the case is indeed reality. This William Starling has somehow raised Cthulhu from sunken R’leah and brought him to the very heights of Chiswick.”

“Real bomb,” chattered Pooley. “Real bomb, John, blow the monster up.”

“I’m with you there, my friend,” said John.

“No.” Professor Slocombe raised a slender hand. “You two will not return to that building. I forbid it.”

“That thing is evil.” Jim slurped down further Scotch. “Pure evil. We felt it. I all but pooed myself.”

“I think you did poo yourself a little,” said John, “by the niff of you.”

“Shut up, John. It must be destroyed, Professor.”

“Oh, yes, indeed it must, but that is for myself and the Campbell and others that I can call into service to deal with. You must continue with your work: taking the team on to victory.”

“Forget that,” said Jim. “That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“On the contrary, it matters more than ever. Griffin Park must remain inviolate. The serpent must not be released.”

“Blow up the Consortium building,” said John. “That will sort everything out. Could I have some more Scotch, please?”

“Getting your strength back, are you?” The professor poured John another Scotch.

“Me, too,” said Jim, finishing his.

Professor Slocombe obliged. “We cannot blow up the Consortium’s headquarters,” he said. “It is in the heart of Chiswick – hundreds of people could be killed. It is unthinkable.”

“That creature is unthinkable,” said Jim. “And impossible, too. This is Brentford, Professor, the real world. This kind of stuff does not belong in the real world. The real world is buses and babies and bedtime. It isn’t
this
.”

“Bedtime?” said John.

“I couldn’t think of anything else beginning with ‘b’.”

“Breasts,” said John. “Boobs, bosoms, b—”

“Shut up, John, this is serious.”

“I know, my friend, I know.”

A brass candlestick-style telephone upon the professor’s desk began to ring. The old man stared at it in alarm.

“Your phone is ringing,” Omally said.

“It shouldn’t do that,” said the professor.

“It’s what they do,” said John. “I had one of my own that did, but Norman blew it up.”

“This one should not ring, John, because this one isn’t plugged in.”

“Ah,” said John Omally.

Professor Slocombe sat down behind his desk, took up the telephone receiver and put it to his ear. Words came to him and the old man’s face became pale. At length he replaced the receiver and his fingers trembled as he did so.

“Who was it?” John asked.

“William Starling,” said Professor Slocombe, pouring Scotch for himself. “The managing director, chairman and owner of the company that calls itself the Consortium. He wishes to have a meeting with me.”

Pooley was staring at the telephone. “How did he do that?” asked the puzzled Jim, “if there are no wires?”

“He wants back what you stole from him.” Professor Slocombe stared hard at John Omally.

“Stole?” And then John’s fingers tightened on his bulging trouser pocket.

“You brought it here,” said Professor Slocombe, “to
my
house, and I was unaware.”

“It just sort of fell into my pocket. Heat of the moment. He can have it back, I don’t want it.”

“Show it to me, John.”

“Yes, sir.” John fished into his pocket and brought out the gem – the golfball-sized gem that had rested on the cushion upon the dreadful altar in the terrible room. It glistened and flickered; rays of light seemed to emanate from it.

“I never saw you nick that,” said Jim.

“It is a very pretty thing,” said John.

“And very deadly,” said the professor. “Place it upon my desk, John, please.”

John arose from his seat and did so. “Is it important?” he asked.

“Important?” Professor Slocombe smiled. “Your light-fingeredness may well have saved all of our lives.”

“Really?” said John. “Well, naturally …”

Professor Slocombe now began to laugh. “You do not have the faintest idea as to what you have here, do you, John?”

“Something valuable, I think.”

“Something beyond value. You will recall what I told you about the raising of Cthulhu, regarding the Eye of Utu?”

John nodded.

“This,” said Professor Slocombe, “is the Eye of Utu.”

The metal shutter slid aside and an eyeball peered in through the eyehole and into the prison cell.

Where Norman sat, the very picture of dejection.

“On your feet, prisoner,” called the voice of Constable Meek. “You’re going home.”

Norman dragged himself to his feet, which wasn’t easy, for his knees were still numb and his finger-ends likewise. Constable Meek dragged open the door and grinned upon the slammed-up shopkeeper.

“Peg?” said Norman. “Has Peg bailed me out?”

“No,” said the constable. “Some big swell from the city.”

Norman shook his bewigged, befuddled head. “I don’t know any big city swells.”

“Well, he knows you and he’s outside in his car. You’re being chauffeured home.”

“Oh,” said Norman. “It’s a long straight road that has no turning.”

“Yeah, and a trouble shared can get you five years in Strangeways.”

Norman took up his jacket from the bed and shrugged it on.

“Normally,” said Constable Meek, “myself and Constable Mild would give you a summary beating with our truncheons to teach you the error of your ways and to discourage you from further wrong-doing, but Constable Mild has the day off and it’s no fun doing it on your own.” Constable Meek handed Norman his duffel bags. “Go forth and sin no more,” he told him.

The Sunday sunlight was bright to Norman’s eyes as he left the confines of the Brentford Nick. He did a bit of blinking and a car beeped at him.

Norman looked towards the car that stood at the kerbside. It was a very posh-looking car, very long and shiny-black. An electric window in its rear compartment swished down.

“Mr Hartnel?” called a voice, and a posh voice it was. “Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel?”

“That’s me,” said Norman.

A long rear door swung open. “Please step inside,” called the voice.

Norman shrugged and did so. The door swung shut behind him. “Electric door,” said Norman, much impressed.

“Please sit yourself down, Mr Hartnel.”

Norman sat himself down upon a comfy seat upholstered with the skin of some endangered species.

“Comfy seat,” said Norman, patting same. “Thank you very much.”

“My card.” A gloved hand passed a business card to Norman. Norman took the card and smiled towards the owner of the hand. He was a most impressive figure – clearly tall, although sitting down, young and with striking features. He had a head of the blondest hair and eyes of the deepest blue and when he smiled he showed off teeth that really were the whitest of whites.

“I am very pleased to meet you,” said this fellow, now putting forward his gloved hand for a shake.

Norman shook it. “I don’t understand,” said he.

“Patents,” said the fellow in his very posh voice. “You have recently registered five original patents.”

“Yes,” said Norman proudly. “Yes, I have.”

“And these were entirely your own work?”

“Well,” said Norman guardedly, “I think you’ll find that no one has registered them before. But how did you know about this?”

“My company,” said the gentleman, “deals in acquisitions. We acquire patents and develop new products. We developed Blu-Tack, Velcro and the jumbo jet. Not to mention the Octotron.”

“The Octotron?” asked Norman.

“I told you not to mention that.”
[29]

“Sorry,” said Norman.

“All new patents go into a government database, and my company is privy to that database. I had some difficulty in locating you. I called at your address. Your wife – Peg, is it?”

Norman nodded dismally.

“She told me that you were incarcerated. She didn’t seem to know anything about your patents. She was most surprised when I informed her.”

Norman groaned.

“Are you all right?” asked the gentleman. “Would you care for some champagne?”

“Yes, please,” said Norman.

The gentleman tapped buttons upon a little keypad arrangement on his seat arm. A cocktail cabinet slid out from somewhere and opened. The gentleman took from it a bottle of vintage Krug and popped the cork. Then he poured out two full glasses and handed one to Norman.

“Bottoms up,” said the shopkeeper, downing champagne.

“To you,” said the gentleman, sipping his.

“So you want to buy my patents?” said Norman. “They’re worth a great deal of money, I know that.”

“A very great deal,” said the gentleman. “You will be a very wealthy man.”

“I’d quite like a car like this,” said Norman. “What would one of these cost, do you think?”

“I’ll let you have this one, if you’d like it.”

“Wow,” said Norman.

“I have contracts already drawn up, if you’d care to peruse them.”

“I certainly would.” Norman finished his champagne. “The bubbles go right up your nose, don’t they?” he said. “Could I have some more?”

“Help yourself to the bottle.”

“Thank you very much indeed.”

The gentleman took papers from a glossy executive case and passed these to Norman. Norman put down the champagne bottle and perused the papers. “That is a good many papers to peruse,” said he.

“You will no doubt want a solicitor to look through them.”

“Oh,” said Norman.

“Oh?” said the gentleman.

“Well,” said Norman, “naturally I assumed that you were intending to ply me with champagne in order to get me to sign away my patents for peanuts because I’d failed to look at the small print.”

“You are most astute, Mr Hartnel.”

“Not really,” said Norman. “It’s just what always happens in the movies.”

“More champagne?”

“Yes, please.” Norman took up the bottle once more and refilled his glass.

Professor Slocombe refilled John Omally’s glass. “This puts us in a far more powerful position,” said he. “William Starling called me, using this defunct telephone to impress me with his powers, but
he
called
me
. I deduce from this that he believes that
I
dispatched you two to his headquarters upon a mission to purloin the Eye of Utu, a mission that you successfully accomplished. We now have a certain degree of bargaining power.”

“Destroy it,” said Jim. “It is in your hand, Professor. If it is as powerful as you say, and as valuable to them, grind it to smithereens.”

“Tempting as that is, Jim, I do not feel that by doing so we would benefit.”

“Well, you can’t just give it back to him,” said John.

“A deal might be struck. But, as is said, he who dines with the Devil must do so with a very long fork.”

“Probably said by Norman,” said John.

“It’s us,” said the suddenly enlightened Jim. “You’re going to bargain with him – the Eye in return for him making no further attempts upon our lives.”

“It seems the most logical thing to do,” said the professor. “I involved you in this, so I must do whatever I can to protect you.”

“But how can you trust him?” asked Jim. “If he gives you his word, how will you know whether he will keep it?”

“The Brotherhood of Magic,” said Professor Slocombe, “whether white or black, exists within a certain framework. There are rules to every game, rules that must be obeyed. A magical oath, once sworn, cannot be broken, save at the great expense of he that breaketh it.”