Stephen Pocklington regarded the ringing phone with a look of fear. He flung himself into his gilded chair and picked up the receiver.
‘Dundledots,’ he said in a quavering voice.
Words poured forth into his ear. Words of a violent nature.
‘I did as I was ordered,’ said the assassin formerly known as Stephen Pocklington. ‘No, my Lord, the prince still lives.’
There was a silence that the town clerk hoped might last forever. Then a verbal torrent broke upon him.
‘A titan, my Lord. The man they call the Goodwill Giant. I had no way of knowing he was in the borough.’
Further words of hardness came loudly to his ear.
‘Not alone, no my lord. A magician well versed in gramary. He destroyed those of the heath that were summoned to sacrifice the Boy King.’
More words.
‘Myself, Lord? I am packing to return at once. I can be of no further use to you here.’
And more words too.
‘But my lord, my position here is compromised. Better to escape now. Royal blood has been spilled upon the land, the plan still holds.’
The being known to some as Dundledots held the telephone receiver at arm’s length. The voice from the other end of the line rattled the window panes.
‘Hide yourself for now then,’ roared the voice. ‘A coach will come for you at the witching hour.’
John Omally waved foolishly as Leo Felix drove away in his truck with Prince Charles in the back wrapped up in a blanket.
‘Are you sure that man can be trusted?’ asked the giant Julian Adams.
‘What, Leo?’ said John. ‘For the cash I just paid him, he’ll deliver the prince to Buckingham Palace without any fuss, I promise you.’
‘Then our work here is done,’ the giant sagged slightly at the knees. ‘I must return to the professor’s,’ he said, ‘while I still have the strength left in me to walk.’
‘I’ll come too,’ said John. ‘But should you fall, I regret that my crossbar will not carry you.’
Professor Slocombe welcomed in the heroes of the day.
‘Fine work gentlemen,’ he said. ‘The prince is away safely?’ he asked of John.
John Omally nodded. ‘Being driven to the palace,’ he said, ‘but professor—?’
‘Yes?’ said the scholar.
‘Professor, I still have relatives in Dublin. Promise me that they will never hear of my part in this.’
Professor Slocombe laughed. ‘Not from me,’ he said. ‘Now lie yourself down upon the lawn, Julian, and Gammon will draw the elf shot from you.
The giant did as he was bid.
‘Elf shot is it?’ said Omally.
‘From a species of creature not unknown to those of your part of the world: banshee.’
‘But why, professor? Why here and why try to kill the prince?’
‘Good questions all,’ said the ancient scholar. ‘And I have some of my own. How they entered the Triangle, for one. There is protection in place to ward off this kind of thing.
Omally’s face was blank of expression.
‘Let us see what we shall see,’ said Professor Slocombe, and as Gammon drew elf shot from the giant’s back, to the accompaniment of rumbling grumbles, he took himself over to the birdbath.
Professor Slocombe passed his hands across the water and whispered words of magic as he did so.
The water seemed to freeze, turn black then tremble into an image of the borough viewed from high above.
‘Spirits of the Heath,’ said the professor, ‘which means that they most likely entered from the South. Across the Thames from Kew Gardens. But how?’ He wiggled his fingers and jiggled his thumbs. The image zoomed in to display the High Street from on high.
‘Oh look,’ said John. ‘There’s Jim.’
‘Oh no! For the love of God!’ cried the professor.
‘It’s only Jim,’ said Omally.
‘Not that. Look. Look.’
Omally looked and Omally shrugged.
‘The Monument,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘The one that commemorates the noble battles of Brentford. It has been torn from its plinth.’
‘Is that bad?’ John dared to ask.
‘Bad? It is beyond bad. The monument is a totem. It is a magical column of protection, placed there at the central southern base line of The Brentford Triangle. But how…how?’
‘How?’ asked John.
‘How did they destroy it? It would be death to them to even approach it. They must have enlisted the help of someone here. Some human in the borough. Someone who would betray his own kind to aid these spawn of evil.’
‘Oh,’ said John Omally. ‘Or perhaps some unwary fellow, who did not know the importance of the monument.’
‘Such a fool might possibly exist,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘But—’ the professor stared at John. ‘You?’
‘Me?’ said Omally.
‘You!’ said Professor Slocombe.
‘Ouch,’ boomed the Goodwill Giant.
‘Me? Of course not,’ said Omally.
‘Confess,’ said the professor. ‘Or surely I will wreak upon you—’
‘I confess,’ said John. ‘I left a message at my landlady’s that I was away in London last night. Then I drove Leo’s tow truck to the monument, dragged it from its plinth, towed it to the Thames and shunted it in.’
‘Why?’ begged the professor. ‘Why would you do such a terrible thing?’
‘Money,’ said John. ‘Nothing more. The town clerk gave Jim and I money and—’
‘Pooley? He was in on this?’
‘Not Jim,’ said John. ‘He was against it from the start. I didn’t know it was so important. But then I do not know anything that is going on here anyway. Creatures in trees? Royal sacrifices? I am so sorry, professor.’
‘You will put it back,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘You will atone for your sin. You will drag the monument from the Thames and re-erect it.’
‘But I don’t think—’
‘I will help you,’ the giant rose to his knees and flexed his punctured shoulders. ‘We will do it together.’
Professor Slocombe smiled upon the giant. ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man,’ said he. ‘And you thought yourself afraid, Julian. Yet today you risked your own life to save a fellow man. Unlike this—’ Professor Slocombe made a distasteful face towards Omally. ‘Specimen.’
‘I didn’t know,’ wailed John. ‘And I did help to save the prince.’
‘Gammon,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Please bring out drinks of an alcoholic nature to be taken while I explain to Mr Omally just how terribly he has betrayed the borough of Brentford.’
‘Guv’nor,’ said a bearded John to the dismal Jim who sat upon a bench.
‘John,’ said Jim, aroused from gloomy thoughts.
‘Actually it’s Dave,’ said this John. ‘But I had myself renamed as John to avoid confusion with paternity orders and suchlike—’
‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘I think you explained all that.’
‘Well, we’re here,’ said this John and he indicated his brother, ‘the two of us to up the tarmac, like you said, for fifteen hundred quid of your cash money.’
‘One thousand quid,’ said Jim and he gazed from one John to the other. ‘But I am impressed. You have turned up on time. Do you have pneumatic drills? And please do not respond with trouser jokes.’
‘We have indeed,’ said the other John. ‘And we’re ready to go if you are.’
‘Splendid,’ said Jim. ‘So as I said, just drill down to the cobblestones. Do not damage the cobblestones and the tarmac is all yours to take away and do with as you please.’
‘Right,’ said John, ‘both of us together, one each end and steady as you go.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Jim. ‘And I’d like you to take down the old street signs and put up the new ones.’
‘For an extra hundred quid?’ said one of the Johns.
‘An extra hundred quid,’ Jim Pooley agreed.
/>
‘So where are the new street signs?’ asked another of the Johns.
‘They’re here,’ said Jim and he rooted into his pocket.
Both Johns looked on, then both began to laugh.
‘It’s not funny,’ said Jim. But to the Johns it was.
‘Why are they so tiny?’ one of them asked.
‘Because I did not read the description on Amazon closely enough,’ said Jim. ‘The words micro signs were printed in appropriately-sized letters.’
‘John once ordered two tons of hardcore from Amazon,’ said John. ‘Hardcore rubble was what he wanted, I’ll bet you’ll never guess what he got instead.’
‘I bet I will,’ said Jim. ‘You were flogging those porny mags in the Swan for months afterwards.’
‘You bought quite a few, if I recall.’
‘And moving right along,’ said Jim. ‘Get stuck into the High Street with your pneumatic drills and I’ll be back later to see how you’re getting on.’
‘Going back to your office?’ asked a John.
‘Business, always business,’ said Jim as he steered his shoes towards the Flying Swan.
Drinks were being taken in Professor Slocombe’s garden.
‘Allow me to explain,’ said the professor. ‘The pink granite monument, which up until last night adorned our High Street commemorates four historic battles that took place within the borough. In BC 54, when British tribesmen opposed Julius Caesar; 1016, when Edmund Ironside defeated King Canute, right here in the area now known as The Butts Estate. In 1642 when the town was sacked by the forces of King Charles 1. And finally, 1796. When, and I quote, “townsmen loyal and courageous did in the service of Christendom engage in battle and drive forth diverse forces diabolic unto a place from which they were forbidden ever to return”. It is to this final battle that I would draw your close attention.’
Omally shifted uneasily. He had already consumed the beer he had been offered but felt it was certainly not his place to ask for more.
‘Diverse forces diabolic,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘What might you suppose is meant by that?’
John Omally shrugged in further unease.
‘Those words were chosen with care, because even though they express something outré and possibly supernatural they avoid the use of a word which nowadays is considered to be one associated with myth and indeed foolishness. The word would be faerie, or fairy as it is popularly written.’
Had John Omally been guzzling beer he might perhaps have choked upon it now.
‘Fairy?’ said he. ‘Those creatures today were fairies?’
‘They were “of the fairy kingdom” yes. Banshee, wraith, siren, sprite. They go by many names. What did you think they were, John? Little men in monster costumes?’
‘Something evil,’ said John. ‘But fairy?’
‘A most emotive word, almost as emotive as God.’
‘I am a Catholic,’ said John Omally. ‘God, I accept, but fairies—’
‘Yet you come from the land of the leprechaun.’
‘I think you’ll find that leprechauns are the stuff of tall stories that Irishmen spin to gullible tourists,’ said John.
Professor Slocombe shook his head. ‘Before the year 1796 when the last battle was fought, you would have found it hard to find a man hereabouts who doubted the existence of the fairy folk. Because most men encountered upon them almost daily. They dealt with them in the market place. Drank with them in the ale houses. And fought against them on a regular basis.’
‘But fairies?’ said John, ‘little fluttery things.’
‘As presented in the Victorian cannon of art and literature. And indeed in the famous Cottingley fairy photographs. Which, by the way are quite genuine. Shape-changing is a singularly fairy ability. But there is nothing little and fluttery about them. As you saw today.’
‘The master blasted them with magic,’ said Gammon. ‘Which is really the most efficient way to dispose of them.’
‘It was a battle won too easily,’ said the professor. ‘They were not expecting Julian or myself. Future attacks will not be so easily dealt with.’
‘Future attacks?’ Omally shook his head.
‘In 1796 a great battle took place here between the forces of Christendom and the forces of evil. These forces of evil were driven forth to a place from which they were forbidden to return and certain measures of magical protection were put into place to assure that they could not.’
‘So fairies are evil?’ said John.
‘Ah,’ Professor Slocombe shook his head. ‘Here we have difficulties. Many believe that the fairy is of an order half way between man and the angels. Others, however adhere to the reverse. Half way between man and demon they believe.’
‘So what is the truth?’
Professor Slocombe raised his palms. ‘One might quote the great cliché “there are good and bad in all races”,’ said he. ‘It is a very complex matter. Fairies claim that they are the first folk of Earth. That Man came into the world later and drove them from their lands. That the world is predominantly under the control of Man today might tend to reinforce this conviction. Those men who know of such matters and I hold myself to be one of these men, contend that God created Man in his own image and gave him dominion over the Earth. It is all a very vexed question and one that I had hoped I would never be called upon to answer. The battle was fought, the fairy folk were defeated and driven forth. History is the property of the victor. The fairy folk were written from it. But now it would seem they are intent upon making their return. To wage new wars and take back the lands that they feel to be rightfully theirs. The first new war will be fought in Brentford methinks.’
‘Sir,’ said Omally to the professor. ‘I can tell by what you say that you would have preferred to remain neutral in this.’
‘I had hoped that I would never be called upon to take sides.’
‘Because, if you will pardon the word, you are a sorcerer?’
‘Precisely. Although I consider that the magic I practise is white and never for my own aggrandisement, in earlier times I would have been burned as a witch.’
Omally shook his head and said, ‘I am most confused by all this.’
‘But look on the bright side,’ sad the professor. ‘At present you are only a tad confused.’
‘And that is the bright side?’ asked John.
‘In the light of what will surely come, it is,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘History, I fear, might well be in for a rewrite.’
‘Shall I return to the house for more drinks?’ asked Gammon, ‘and then, in my infirmity, struggle manfully beneath their weight?’
‘No,’ said the professor, ‘you sit down, Gammon, and we will let the fellow who has got us all in this dreadful mess fetch the drinks. Up and at it John and the same again.’
John Omally saluted the ancient scholar. ‘Same again with pleasure, sir,’ he said.
16
Having binned the gruesome elf shot, mowed the lawn, cleaned the downstairs windows and fed the koi carp, John Omally was sent on his way with orders to restore the fallen monument.
‘This very night,’ the professor told him. ‘Or else.’
Feeling disinclined to rejoin the celebrations, even though The Sumerian Kyngs were now on stage spreading good vibrations with their special brand of suburban psychedelia, John Omally sloped off in search of some peace at the Flying Swan.
And here found Pooley. Slouched upon a bar stool, elbows on the counter and head bowed low above a pint.
Omally hoisted himself onto the next stool along, ordered a pint of Quasimodo and assumed a similar steace.
Neville counted John’s pennies and halfpennies into the till and rang up “no sale”.
‘Watchamate Jim,’ said John.
‘Watchamate John,’ said Jim.
‘Everything good?’ asked John.
‘Never better,’ said Jim. ‘And yourself?’
‘Tickety-boo,’ said John Omally. ‘Everything coming u
p roses so to speak.’
Neville viewed the both of them. Rarely had he seen a more dejected duo ill-favouring his establishment. Being the professional he was, however, he did not ask any questions, but rather took himself to the end of the bar. There to polish glasses and feign nonchalance.
John Omally sighed and sipped Quasimodo. ‘Do you want to go first?’ he asked of his companion.
Jim Pooley shook his head with vigour. ‘No, please help yourself,’ was his reply.
‘There’s been a bit of a situation,’ whispered John. ‘It would appear that an action of mine, carried out as you might imagine, in the spirit of altruism, has slightly backfired.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Jim.
And Neville’s ears pricked up.
‘I might have started World War Three,’ said John.
Pooley spluttered into his beer.
Neville’s mouth became a perfect O.
‘What did you do?’ asked Jim, when he became able.
‘I knocked down the monument in the High Street.’
‘You did what?’ roared Neville. ‘You did what, I say?’
‘I didn’t know it was magic,’ said John.
‘Magic?’ said Jim.
‘You didn’t know?’ Neville had a fair old rave on now. ‘You went to school here, didn’t you?’
Both men nodded.
‘Every child in the borough is taught the story of the two kings of Brentford and the importance of the monument.’
Both men shook their heads.
‘Oh right,’ said Neville. ‘Everyone in Brentford except you two idiots.’
‘Harsh,’ said Jim.
‘But true,’ said John. ‘We did bunk off school a lot.’
‘But why would you do such a thing?’ asked Neville.
‘It was the town clerk’s idea,’ said John. ‘When he put us in charge of pedestrianising the town centre.’
‘You?’ puffed Neville. ‘You two?’
‘We didn’t know what he was up to,’ said John. ‘He must have been behind the assassination attempt on Prince Charles.’
Neville clutched at his heart and managed, ‘What?’ in a cracked little voice.