East of Ealing

“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.”

25

Norman had the door of his shop well-barred. Trade had fallen off to such an alarming degree that, but for serving Old Pete with his newspaper and tobacco, there seemed no point whatever in opening. Absolute panic, and the fear of his duplicate’s return, or possibly the arrival of something far worse, had prompted him this day, upon the ancient’s departure, to barricade the premises against the outside world. The counters now stood across the front door, with what few items still remained stacked upon them. Viewing the hole in his ceiling, Norman considered these moves to be little more than token opposition. But even token opposition was surely better than no opposition at all. “Many hands make light work,” said the shopkeeper, irrelevantly recalling a faith- healing session he had once attended, where a defunct fuse box which had thrown the place into darkness, had been miraculously restored to life.

Norman tottered over the newly-laid linoleum, wielding his screwdriver Excalibur-fashion. He entered the kitchenette. There wasn’t a lot of room in there at present. The object of his most recent, all- consuming attention occupied more than a little floor space.

Norman’s time machine was a big filler!

There was very much of the electric chair evident in the overall design of the thing. But also a good deal of NASA’s mission control and a fair degree of Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. A soupcon of the pumping station at Kew and Doctor F’s laboratory completed the picture. The thing bristled with the banks of twinkling lights Norman always felt were so essential to lend the necessary atmosphere to such a project. Above the driving seat, commandeered from his Morris Minor, a slim brass wheel turned at precisely twenty-six revolutions per minute. From the axle-rods, wires trailed to every compass point like the ribbons of an eccentric electronic maypole, enshrouding the entire contraption, which rested upon a kind of Father Christmas sleigh.

“Now then.” Norman consulted a ludicrous wiring diagram scrawled on to the back of a computer stock control print-out. It was all something to do with E equalling MC², the parallax theory, whatever that might be, and the triangulations of Pythagoras. Oh yes, and the space-time continuum, not that that even bore thinking about.

Norman shook his head at the wonder of it all. Scientists always did tend to over-complicate the issues. Professional pride, he supposed. To him science was, and always had been, a pretty straightforward affair, which required only the minimum of writing down. Once you’d nicked the idea, this time from HG Wells, you simply went down to Kay’s Electrical in the High Street and purchased all the component parts. What you couldn’t buy you hobbled up out of defunct wirelesses and what was left of the Meccano set. Scientists always made such a big deal out of things and did it all arse about face. Norman was the happy exception to this rule.

Brentford seemed to be in a bit of schtuck at the present, but the shopkeeper considered that once he had the machine on the go he would at least be able to set matters straight once and for all. He always liked to think that he was helping out, and seeing as how nobody had cared to put him in the picture he meant to go it alone. Not being at all silly he had tracked down the root cause of the Parish’s ills to the dreaded Lateinos and Romiith concern, and it seemed but a simple thing to him to slip back into the past and make a few subtle changes. Like murdering the bastards where they slept in their cribs for a first off. Then bending the council records so he got that planning permission to do his loft conversion. And he had always wanted to shake the hand of that editor of the Brentford Mercury who had run off with his wife. There was quite a lot you could achieve once you’d got time travel licked.

Norman had definitely decided to travel backwards first; the future looked anything but rosy. He dived forward with his screwdriver into an impenetrable-looking network of wires and fuse boxes and twiddled about here and there. The strains of the Rolling Stones’ legendary composition “Time Is On My Side” sprang almost unconsciously to his lips. The whole concept of the enterprise pleased Norman with its every single detail. There was the sheer naked thrill of hurtling into the unknown, allied with the potential power a man might wield once able to traverse the fields of time. Also, and by no means the smallest part of it, was the infinite variety of puns and proverbs that could be drawn from the word “time”. Such things must never be overlooked. “Time, gentlemen, please,” said Norman, tittering loudly to himself. He flicked a random selection of likely-looking switches in the hope that he might get some clue as to why he had fitted them. One brought his old Bush Radiogram bucketing into life, “It’s time for old time,” sang a disembodied voice. Norman creased up. He was having the time of his life.

The shopkeeper straightened his back and scratched at his head with the end of his screwdriver. It did all look about finished really. He could always tighten up the odd bolt, or give the gleaming brasswork another polish, but apart from these niceties it looked very much complete. “And not before time,” chuckled Norman, making nudging notions towards an imaginary companion.

The sounds of sharp tapping suddenly drew his attention. Someone, or something, was knocking upon the barricaded shop-door. An icy hand clutched at the shopkeeper’s heart. Of course, it could be just a customer anxious to pay his newspaper bill? Well, it could be.

The Lateinos and Romiith computer scan monitored Norman’s infra-red image as it dithered about in the crowded kitchenette. The sensors gauged the increase in his pulse rate and analysed the sweat particles which broke out on his forehead. It also relayed this information instantly to the shopkeeper’s mirror