The Brentford Triangle (10 page)

Professor Slocombe was at his desk, busily at work amongst his books, when two bedraggled and heavily bearded travellers appeared at his French windows. “Come in, lads,” he said cheerily, “I am sure I do not need to inform you where I keep the decanter.”

“Do you know how far it is to Penge?” asked John Omally.

“I’ve never troubled to find out, although they tell me that it’s very nice.”

“Oh, very pleasant,” said Pooley, “but a fair hitch from Brentford.”

“My apologies,” said the old man, when the two men were both seated and clutching at their brimming glasses. “But you see, I had no wish to force your hands over this matter. I was not altogether certain that if I simply confronted you with the truth you would believe it. Rather, I considered that if matters were simply allowed to run their course, your inquisitiveness would get the better of you and you would involve yourselves. My surmise was accurate, I see.”

“As ever,” said Pooley.

“You quite suit the beards.”

“Soap Distant doesn’t own a razor.”

“Apparently he hasn’t grown a hair on his face in five years.”

“An interesting man,” said the Professor, “if a trifle eccentric.”

Omally’s attention had become drawn to an elaborate brass device which now stood upon a pedestal in the centre of the Professor’s study. “What is that body?” he asked.

“An orrery,” said the old gentleman. “I thought it might interest you.”

“Pre-eminently,” said Omally. “I find little in life more interesting than an orrery.”

Professor Slocombe raised an admonitory eyebrow, but after a moment of brief consideration regarding the deprivations suffered by his guests over the last few days he lowered it again.

“Let me show you,” he said, gesturing towards the instrument. The two men grudgingly rose from their comfy chairs, carefully bearing their glasses.

“It’s a mechanical device of great age,” the Professor explained, “demonstrating the movement of the planets about our Sun and their relative positions to one another during their endless journeys.” He drew their attention to a brazen sphere. “Here is the Earth,” he said, “and here the legendary planet Ceres. You can see that its path of orbit lay exactly between those of Mars and Jupiter. Fifth from the Sun. I have no wish to labour this point, but might I explain that although it was a comparatively small world its mass and density were such that its destruction caused a chain reaction in our system which had very serious consequences hereabouts.”

“So we heard.”

The Professor began to hand-crank the amazing piece of machinery and the brass globes pirouetted about the central sphere in a pleasing
danse ronde
.

“Here upon this small date counter you can follow the time-scale of each yearly revolution.”

Pooley and Omally watched the years tick by as the tiny planets spun on their courses.

“Now here,” said the old man, halting the mechanism, “is where the catastrophe occurred. You will notice the alignment of the planets, almost a straight line from the Earth. With the destruction of Ceres the gravitational effects would have been shattering.”

Pooley noted the date upon the tiny brass counter. “The time of the Biblical Flood,” said he.

“Exactly. I personally subscribe to the theory of Ceres’ existence and of its destruction,” said Professor Slocombe. “It ties up a good many historical loose ends, and I will go further. It is stated in the Bible that after the waters of the great Flood subsided, God set his bow in the heavens as a sign that no such event would occur again. I believe that the popular view that it was the rainbow is incorrect. Rainbows must surely have been observed before the time of the Flood. More likely, I think, that it is to our Moon that the Almighty alluded, the lunar disc’s journey describing as it does a bow-like arc in the sky each night.”

“Has a certain ring to it,” Pooley agreed. “But what puzzles me is to why these Cereans should choose Brentford of all places as a landing site. I take it that by what Soap said regarding gravitational landing beams this is, in fact, the case.”

“Indeed yes, Brentford has been singled out as the target. I thought originally that it was Soap’s network of tunnels which had drawn them, but I find that the Cerean tunnel system extends beneath a greater part of the globe. My second thought was that some great centre existed here in the distant past, possibly a previous landing site, but I can find no evidence to support this.”

“What then?”

“I feel it to be the influence of the Brentford Triangle!”

“The Brentford what?” said both men in unison.

The Professor poured a scotch from the crystal decanter and seating himself in a fireside chair did his very best to explain. “The borough which is Brentford proper,” he said, “exists within the bounds of a great triangle. The sides of this figure are the Grand Union Canal, the Great West Road and the River Thames. These follow the courses of three major ley lines. As you may know, these are lines of subterranean force which, although never having been fully explained, nevertheless appear to exert an influence upon the surface of the planet. I walk the boundaries of the borough every day and I have dowsed these lines many times. They never move.

“The ancients knew of their existence and aligned their tumuli, barrows, standing stones and circles upon them. Apparently they believed that the power could be tapped. Sadly, down through the centuries man has built across the leys, interrupting their flow and nullifying their power.”

“So,” said Pooley, “if the power of the leys is lost, why do you attach any significance to this Brentford Triangle business?”

The Professor tapped at his nose, and for the first time both Pooley and Omally realized where Soap Distant had got the habit from. “Simply because man appears to have lost touch with the leys’ power does not mean that other creatures also have. Certain are still susceptible, the most obvious being our feathered friends.”

“Darts?” queried Pooley. The Professor ignored him.

“I have written something of a monograph upon the subject. Migrating birds inevitably take identical routes each year, and these invariably run along the major ley lines of the countrywide system.”

“This all seems a bit iffy,” Omally remarked. “Are you suggesting that Cereans, like birds, navigate by ley lines?”

“I am suggesting that an advanced civilization such as theirs must surely have discovered them. And here at a time when they were uninterrupted. As the lines appear never to move, they are surely ideal for navigation. The maps of Earth no doubt gather dust in the Cerean ships’ computer banks even now. Ready when required.”

“I suppose it is feasible,” Omally conceded. “But even so, why choose Brentford? Why not Avebury, Glastonbury, Stonehenge or somewhere?”

The Professor rose from his chair and crossed the room to where something rested upon an ornate Victorian easel covered by a green baize cloth. Drawing this aside, he exposed a large mounted map of the district. The lines of the great triangle had been inked in red and stood out clearly.

“Impressive,” said Omally.

“But, as you say, hardly sufficient. It would certainly seem more logical that the Cereans would choose one of the better-known ley centres of this country. No, there is something more here, some inner pattern which I am failing to observe. I am sure it is staring me right in the face, but I cannot find it. Something is shining out like a beacon into space guiding these beings upon their way.”

Pooley and Omally followed the old man over to the map and stood peering over his shoulders. They turned their heads from one side to the other, made as to speak, then reconsidered, traced the courses of the streets, and pointed variously at random. At length they looked at one another and shrugged.

“I cannot see anything,” said Jim, “just roads and houses, shops and pubs.” With the mention of the latter two pairs of eyes turned simultaneously towards the great ormolu mantel-clock, which obligingly struck five o’clock.

“Nearly opening time,” said Omally. “I have been a week without a pint of Large. Possibly, Professor, we might continue this discussion over a refreshing bevvy or two?”

The Professor smiled gently and withdrew from his desk a folded map of the neighbourhood. “You certainly deserve a drink,” he said, “and here” – he took out a crisp new five-pound note – “have it on me.”

Pooley accepted both map and fiver. “Thank you,” he said, “this is most kind. Will you not join us for one?”

“I think not,” said the old man. “Study the map though and employ your wits. I ask only one favour: please bring me a pound’s worth of silver from the Swan’s cash register. From there and nowhere else, do you understand?”

“The motive or the request?”

The old man smiled and tapped again at his nose.

“One question,” said Omally, as he and Jim were turning to leave. “Suppose by the vaguest of chances we were to discover this pattern, what could we do?”

The Professor shrugged his ancient shoulders. “No knowledge is ever wasted. You know my methods. I never make a move before acquainting myself with every last piece of relevant information.”

“Yes, but…” Jim made a rustling sound with the five-pound note. “We will be in touch,” said John Omally.

“Good luck,” said the Professor, returning to his desk. “I shall look forward to hearing from you.”

John and Jim wandered off towards the Flying Swan. “At least one good thing has come out of all this,” said Jim after a while.

“Then you will kindly enlighten me as to what it is, because it has certainly slipped by me in the heat of the moment.”

“Well,” said Pooley, “at least now we know that the strangers upon the allotment are not from the council, so we can continue our game.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Jim,” said Omally, dealing his companion a weltering blow to the skull.

Neville sat alone at a side table in his favourite darkened corner of the empty saloon-bar. He heard the library clock faintly chiming the hour over towards the Butts Estate and sighed a deep and heartfelt sigh.

This was one of the part-time barman’s favourite times, when, the optics replenished, the pumps checked, and the glasses polished, he could sit alone for the short half-hour before opening and reflect upon days gone by and days possibly yet to come.

This afternoon, however, the barman felt oddly ill at ease. Something was going on in the borough, something sinister, and he could smell it. Although whatever it was lurked just out of earshot and beyond his range of vision, Neville knew he could smell it. And what he could smell, he most definitely did not like. It was musty and tomb-like and had the sulphurous odour of the pit to it, and it made him feel awkward and uneasy.

The part-time barman’s long thin hand snaked out from the darkness and drew away a tumbler of scotch from the table top. There came a sipping sound, a slight smacking of lips, and another great dismal sigh. Neville leant forward to replace the glass and his nose cleaved through the veil of shadow, a stark white triangle.

He shook his head vigorously in an attempt to free himself of the gloomy feeling which oppressed him. The feeling would not be so easily dislodged, however. Neville took a deep, deep breath, as a drunken man will do under the mistaken belief that it will clear his head. The effort was wasted of course, and the part-time barman slumped away into the darkness taking his scotch with him.

Something was very wrong in Brentford, he just knew it. Some dirty big sword of Damocles was hanging over the place, waiting to drop at any minute. His nose told him so and his nose was never wrong. Certainly the Swan’s patrons scoffed and sneered at his extra-nasal perception, but he knew what was what when it came to a good sniff. It was a family gift, his mad Uncle Jimmy had told him when he was but a scrawny sprog. The entire clan possessed it in varying degrees, and had done so since some half-forgotten time, in the pagan past, at the very dawn of mankind. Down through the centuries it came, father to son, turning up again and again and again. A great and wonderful gift it was, a blessing from the elder gods, which should never be used for personal gain or profit. “But what exactly is it?” the young Neville had asked his musty-looking relative. “Search me,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I’m on your mother’s side.”

Neville had total recall when it came to his childhood. He could remember every dismal dreary moment of it, with soul-destroying clarity. He, the gangling lad, always head and shoulders above his classmates and always sniffing. Such children do not have any easy time of it. And with the coming of his teens it got no better. Although highly sexed and eager to make the acquaintance of nubile young ladies, Neville’s gaunt, stooping figure, with its slightly effeminate affectations, had attracted the attention of quite the wrong sort of person. Big fat girls, some sporting cropped heads and tattoos, had sought to smother him with their unsavoury affections. Young fellow-me-lads of the limp-wristed persuasion were forever asking him around for coffee to listen to their Miles Davis records with the lights out. Neville shuddered, grim times.

He had given up all thoughts of being a young buck and a bit of a ladies’ man at an early age, and had fallen naturally enough into the role of aesthete. He had dutifully nurtured a six-hair goatee and frayed the bottom of his jeans. He had done the whole bit: the Aldermaston marches, which he joined for the last half mile to arrive in Trafalgar Square amidst cheering crowds; the long nights in coffee bars discussing Jack Kerouac and René Magritte over cold cups of espresso; the dufflecoats and Jesus boots, the night-school fine arts courses. But he never got his end away.

He had met many a big-breasted girl in a floppy sweater, smelling of joss sticks, who spoke to him of love being free and every experience being sacred. But they always ended up at the art teacher’s pad and he back at home with his mum.

He’d never been one of them, and he couldn’t blame it all on his nose. He was simply an outsider. That he was an individualist and an original meant little to a lad with stirrings in the groin department.

Neville rose from his seat and padded across the threadbare carpet to the whisky optic. Surely things hadn’t been all that bad, had they? Certainly his childhood and years of puberty had not exactly been the stuff of dreams, but there had been moments of joy, moments of pleasure, hadn’t there?

Neville’s total recall could not totally recall any. Still, things weren’t all that bad now. He was the Swan’s full-time part-time barman, and it was an office which made him as happy as any he could imagine.

If he had known when he was fifteen that this lay in store for him, he would never have suffered such agonies of self-doubt when he realized that he could not understand a single bit of Bob Dylan’s “Gates of Eden”.

But how had he come to get the job in the first place? It had been a strange enough business by any accounts.

Neville remembered the advert in the
Brentford Mercury
: “Part-time barman required, hours and salary negotiable, apply in person. Flying Swan.”

Now in his late twenties and making a career out of unemployment, Neville had jettisoned the camphor bags and forced himself into his one suit, given his brothel creepers a coat of Kiwi, and wandered down to the Swan to present himself. The acting part-time barman, who shortly afterwards absconded with a month’s takings and several cases of scotch, had given him the summary once-over. He asked if he thought he could pull a pint, then hired him on the spot.

As to who the actual tenant of the Flying Swan was, Neville had not the slightest idea. The paint had flaked off the licensee plate outside, and those who swore they knew the man like a brother gave conflicting accounts as to his appearance. Neville had been handed the keys, told to take his wages from the disabled cash register, and left to get on with it. It had been a rare challenge but he had risen to it. He had no knowledge of running a pub but he had learned fast, and the ever-alert locals had only ever caught him the once on any particular dodge. He had single-handedly turned the Swan from a down-at-heel spit and gob saloon to a down-at-heel success. He had organized the trophy-winning darts team, who had now held the local shield for a record five consecutive years. He had supervised the numerous raffles and alehouse events, acted as oracle and confessor to local drunks, and strangely and happily had evolved into an accepted part of the Brentford landscape.

He was at home and he was happy.

Neville’s smile broadened slightly, but a grim thought took off its edges. The brewery. Although they had no objection whatsoever to his residency, him being basically honest and the pub now running at a handsome profit, the brewery gave him no rest. They were forever suggesting special events, talking of modernization, and installing things… His eyes strayed involuntarily towards the bulky contours of the humming monster which he had now covered with a dust sheet tightly secured with baling wire.

Neville tossed back his scotch and looked up at the Guinness clock; nearly five-thirty, nearly opening time. He squared up his scholar’s stoop and took another deep breath. He would just have to pull himself together. Embark upon a course of positive activism. Be polite to his patrons, tolerant of their foibles, and indulgent towards their eccentricities. He would smile and think good thoughts, peace on earth, good will towards men. That kind of thing. He was certain that if he tried very very hard the horrid odour would waft itself away, to be replaced by the honeysuckle fragrance of spring.

From not far away the library clock struck the half-hour, and Neville the part-time barman flicked on the lights, took himself over to the door, and opened up. On the doorstep stood two bearded men.

“Good evening, barlord,” said Jim Pooley.

“God save all here,” said John Omally.

Neville ushered them into the bar without a word. Now was the present and what was to happen happened now and hereafter and it surely couldn’t be all bad, could it? The two men, however, seemed to be accompanied by a most extraordinary smell. Neville pinched at his nostrils and managed a somewhat sickly grin. “Your pleasure, gentlemen?” he asked when he had installed himself behind the jump, and his two patrons had resumed residency of the two barstools which had known not the pleasure of their backsides for more than a week. “What will it be?”

Pooley carefully withdrew from his pocket the five-pound note, which had not left his clammy grip since it had been handed to him, and placed it upon the bar counter.

Neville’s eyebrows soared into a Gothic arch. He had hoped that if he thought positively things might turn out OK, but this? This transcended even his wildest expectations. Jim Pooley with a five-pound note?

And it got worse. “Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Pooley, smiling almost as hideously as the barman, “and have one yourself!”

Neville could feel a prickling sensation rising at the back of his neck. Have one yourself? He had read in paperback novels of the phrase being used by patrons of saloon-bars, but he had never actually encountered it in real life. “Pardon,” said the part-time barman, “might I have that last bit again.”

“Have one yourself,” Pooley reiterated.

Neville felt at his pulse. Could this really be? Or had he perhaps died and gone to some kind of barman’s Valhalla or happy drinking ground? The nervous tic went into overdrive.

Omally, who was growing somewhat thirsty, made the suggestion that if Neville wanted to take advantage of Jim’s generosity it would be better if he dropped the amateur theatricals and did so at once. Neville hastened to oblige. “Thank you Jim,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me then. Your kindness is well received, I thank you.”

Still mumbling the phrase “Have one yourself” under his breath, Neville pulled two pints of the Swan’s finest. As he did so he took the opportunity to study the two men, whose eyes were now fastened by invisible chains to the rising liquid. The beards were odd enough in themselves, but that Pooley’s shirt appeared to have shrunk by at least two sizes and that the colour of Omally’s regimental tie had run on to his neck were things of exceeding strangeness. Caught in a sudden downpour perhaps? Neville could not remember any rain. The ducking-stool then? Some lynch mob of cuckolded husbands exacting a medieval revenge? That seemed feasible.

The barman passed the two exquisitely drawn pints across the counter and took possession of the magical blue note, which he held to the light as a matter of course. Having waited respectfully whilst Pooley and Omally took the first step towards quenching their long thirst he said at length, “Well now, gentlemen, we have not had the pleasure of your company for more than a week. You have not been taken with the sickness I hope, nor struck by tragic circumstances.”

Pooley shook his head. “We have been in Penge,” he said.

“Penge,” said Omally, nodding vigorously.

“Ah,” said Neville thoughtfully. “I haven’t actually been there myself, but I understand that it’s very nice.”

“Splendid,” said Pooley.

“Very nice indeed,” his colleague agreed. “You’d love it.”

Neville shrugged and turned away to cash up the traditional “No Sale” and extract for himself the price of a large scotch. As he did so Pooley remembered the Professor’s request.

“Could I have a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it?” he asked politely.

Neville froze in his tracks. A pound’s worth of change? So that was it, eh? The old “have one yourself, barman” was nothing more than the Judas kiss. Pooley planned to play the video machine. “You bastard!” screamed Neville, turning upon the drinker.

“Pardon me?” said Jim.

“Pound’s worth of change is it? Pound’s worth of change? You treacherous dog.”

“Come now,” said Jim, “steady on.”

“Steady on? Steady on? Have one yourself barman and a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it! What do you take me for?”

“Seemed a reasonable request to me.” Pooley looked towards Omally, who was covering his drink. “What is going on, John?” he asked.

Omally, who was certainly never one to be slow on the uptake, explained the situation. “I think that our good barman here believes that you want the money to play the video machine.”

Pooley, whose mind had been focused upon matters quite removed from video games, suddenly clicked. “Oh,” he said, “good idea, make it thirty-bobs’ worth, Neville.”

“AAAAAAGH!” went the part-time barman, reaching for his knobkerry.

Pooley saw the hand vanishing below counter level and knew it to be a very bad sign. “Come now,” he implored, backing away from the bar, “be reasonable. I haven’t played it in a week, I was just getting the hang of it. Look, let’s just say the quid’s-worth and call it quits.”

Neville brought the cudgel into prominence. “I’ve had enough,” he shouted, hefting it in a quivering fist. “You traitor. Touch the thing and you are barred, barred for life. Already today have I barred one regular, another will do no harm.”

“Who is the unhappy fellow?” asked Omally who, feeling himself to have no part in the present altercation, had not shifted from his seat.

“Norman,” growled Neville. “Out, barred for life, finished, gone!”

Omally did his best to remain calm. “Norman?”

“Norman.”

“Norman Hartnell of the corner shop?”

“That Norman, yes.”

“Norman Hartnell, the finest darts player this side of the Thames? Norman the captain of the Swan’s darts team? The five times trophy-winning darts team? The very darts team that plays at home for the championship on the twenty-ninth? That Norman you have barred for life?”

What colour had not already drained from Neville’s naturally anaemic face took this opportunity to make an exit via his carpet-slipper soles.

“I… I…” The barman rocked to and fro upon his heels; his good eye slowly ceased its ticking and became glazed, focused apparently upon some point far beyond the walls of the Swan. He had quite forgotten the darts tournament. The most important local sporting event of the entire calendar. Without Norman the team stood little hope of retaining the shield for a sixth year. What had he done? The locals would kill him. They would tar and feather him and ride him out of the town on a rail for this. Darts wasn’t just a game in Brentford, it was a religion, and the Flying Swan its high temple. A bead of perspiration appeared in the very centre of Neville’s forehead and clung to it in an appropriately religious fashion like some crystal caste mark. “I… I… I…” he continued.