deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, and that he could instantly disable you should he so wish, his hands and feet being deadly weapons.” Soap’s face took on a look of bewilderment as Jim rambled on. “That he was personally schooled by Count Dante, dubbed by friend and foe alike as none other than the Deadliest Man on Earth. That he is a master of Poison Hand, surely the most horrendous of all the vicious crippling skills, whose maiming, mutilating, disfiguring, tearing and rending techniques strike terror into the hearts of even the most highly danned and darkly belted Kung Fu, Karate and Ju-jitsu exponents. That with little more than a deft touch he can…”
“Enough, enough,” said Soap, “it was merely a difference of opinion, nothing more. Here, John, let us speak no more of such things, join me in a pint.”
John waggled his fingers in a movement suggestive of immense dexterity. “I shall be pleased to,” said he, “and possibly as our friend Jim here has acted the role of arbitrator you would wish to show your appreciation with a similar gesture of goodwill.” He clicked his knuckles noisily.
“Three pints please, Neville,” said Soap, “and have one yourself.” With many echoes of “Cheers” and “Down the hatchway”, the three set in for an evening’s drinking.
Thus did Omally form a deep and meaningful relationship with Soap Distant. That the two held each other generally in absolute and utter contempt was no longer important. Here, as Neville ejected the dear friends into the street and pushed the bolt home, Soap Distant, Jim Pooley and John Omally found themselves swaying along the highway, arms about each other’s shoulders, engaged upon the vocal rendition of one of Pooley’s own compositions, “If there are no spots on a sugar cube then I’ve just put a dice in my tea.”
Omally halted to urinate into the doorway of Norman’s papershop. “That is for all waders to France,” he said.
“And for the exorbitant price of imported Fine Art Publications,” Pooley added, following suit.
“I have no axe to grind regarding the proprietor of this establishment,” said Soap, “but I perform this function out of biological necessity and the spirit of pure badness!”
“Well said, Soap,” said Omally, “I have surely misjudged you as an individual.”
“All for one and one for all,” said Jim Pooley, as three golden rapiers crossed in the moonlight. Amid much fly zipping, in which three separate shirt fronts were torn asunder, Soap said, “I have maturing in my cellar several bottles of a home-produced claret which I think you gentlemen might find most pleasing.”
“If, in this newfound eloquence,” said Omally, “you refer to that home-brewed lighter fuel which you call Chateau Distante, then we would be pleased to join you in a glass or three.”
8
Rumours abounded regarding the mysteries lurking behind the gaily painted front door of 15 Sprite Street. Strange noises had been heard in the nights coming as from the bowels of the earth, weird rumblings and vibrations. Cats gave Soap’s back yard a wide berth and the milkman would venture no further than the front gate. How this ordinary little house had managed to gain such notoriety had always been beyond Omally’s understanding. Believing as he did that Soap was little more than a buffoon, the way in which his neighbours avoided him and even crossed over the street before reaching his house had the Irishman baffled.
Pooley, to whom most doors swung open one way or another, had never yet managed to cross the portal, although he had employed many devious devices. He could probably have persuaded even Cerberus to leave his post and go off in search of a few dog biscuits. Soap had always been impervious. Thus it came as something of a shock to find himself and Omally now standing in the tiny front garden whilst Soap shushed them into silence and felt about in his pockets for the key.
“Now,” said Soap in a voice of deadly seriousness, “before you enter I must ask that all you may see within must never be divulged to another living soul.”
Pooley, who had been in the Scouts for a day, raised two fingers to his forehead and said, “Dib-Dib-Dib.” Omally, who was finding it hard to keep a straight face, licked his thumb and said, “See this wet, see this dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie.”
Soap shrugged. “I suppose I can expect no more. Now come, step carefully because the light will not function until the front door is closed and bolted from within.” He turned the key and pushed the door open into the Stygian darkness within.
“You seem somewhat security-conscious, Soap,” said Omally.
Invisibly in the darkness Soap tapped his nose. “One cannot be too careful when one is Keeper of the Great Mystery.”
Pooley whistled. “The Great Mystery, eh?”
Soap threw the bolt, made several inexplicable clicking noises with what seemed to be switches and suddenly the room was ablaze with light.
“My God,” said Omally in a voice several octaves higher than usual. As the two stood blinking in the brightness Soap studied their faces with something approaching glee. These were the first mortals other than himself ever to see his masterwork and their awe and bewilderment were music to his eyes. “What do you think then?”
Omally was speechless. Pooley just said, “By the gods!”
The wall dividing the front room from the back parlour had been removed along with all the floorboards and joists on the ground floor. The section of flooring on which the three now stood was nothing more than the head of a staircase which led down and down into an enormous cavern of great depth which had been excavated obviously with elaborate care and over a long period of time. A ladder led up to the bedroom, the staircase having been long ago removed.
Omally stared down into the blackness of the mighty pit which yawned below him. “Where does it go to?” he asked.
“Down,” said Soap. “Always down but also around and about.”
“I must be going now,” said Pooley, “must be up and making an early start, lots to do.”
“You’ve seen nothing yet,” said Soap, “this is only the entrance.”
Omally was shaking his head in wonder. “You dug this then?”
“No, not just me.” Soap laughed disturbingly. “My great-grandfather began it shortly after the house was built, the lot fell then to my grandfather and down the line to me, last of the Distants, and guardian of the Great Mystery.”
“It’s madness,” said Omally, “the whole street will collapse.”
Soap laughed again. “No, never, my family have the know as it were, they worked upon the Thames tunnel back in the days of Brunei.”
“But that collapsed.”
“Never, that’s what the authorities said. The truth was that the navigators who dug that ill- fated pit stumbled upon an entrance to the worlds beneath and the tunnel had to be closed hurriedly and an excuse found to please the public.”
“You mean your old ones actually met up with these folk below?”
“Certainly. Shall we go down then?” said Soap.
Pooley said, “I’ll wait here.”
“I invited you in for a drink and a drink you are going to have.”
“I think that I am no longer thirsty,” said Jim, “and after this, I think that I might take a vow of abstinence.”
“God,” said Omally, “don’t say such a thing even in jest.”
“Come on then,” said Soap, “I will lead the way, it is not far to the first chamber.”
“First chamber?”
“Oh, yes, the caverns lead down into the bowels of the earth and subsidiary tunnels reach out in all directions, some for several miles at a stretch.” Soap flicked several more switches and led the way down the long flight of steps which reached downward into the darkness. As they descended the way before them sprung into light and the pathway behind fell to darkness.
