Captain Carson watched the vehicle approach the Mission. He had never seen anything quite like it before. The enormous lorry was absolutely, unutterably black. Not a trace of colour was there upon its deathly sides, but for a single red crest emblazoned in the likeness of a bull. The vehicle moved in total silence and seemed strangely lacking in form, like some half-remembered version of the way a lorry should be. It bore neither headlights nor radiator grille, and the windscreen, if such it were, was of the same night hue as the rest of the vehicle. The doors lacked any sign of handles nor even a crack or line to signify their location. It was a thing to inspire nightmare. Soundlessly it drew up before the Mission door, enveloping the Captain within its cold shadow. Shaking away his feeling of revulsion the Captain squared his shoulders and stalked up the short path to confront the dark vehicle.
Certainly it was a unique and striking thing. The Captain noted with interest that there was not a single sharp corner, edge or angle to it, the surfaces flowed away from one another in curve after curve.
The Captain stretched out an inquisitive finger to touch the lorry but withdrew it at a vastly accelerated rate. It was as if he had thrust it into a vat of liquid oxygen. “By the gods,” he said, examining his frost-bitten digit.
As if in response to the Captain’s oath there was a click near the front of the vehicle and the cab door swung slowly open. The Captain wandered towards it upon hesitant feet. No light showed from within, it was like peering into the black void of space.
Without warning a figure appeared from the darkness as one stepping from behind a velvet curtain. He was as black and featureless as his conveyance. Down from the cab he climbed, bearing in his gloved hand a clipboard to which was attached a sheaf of papers.
“Captain Horatio B. Carson?” he enquired in a voice of indeterminate accent. The Captain nodded slowly and without enthusiasm. “Delivery.”
“I ordered nothing!”
“There is no cause for alarm,” said a soft voice behind and slightly above the Captain.
Turning, the Captain squinted up into the face of the tramp. “What is all this?” he demanded.
“Kindly assist this gentleman with the removal of all the old furniture from the dining- room.”
“Old furniture? You can’t do that, the furniture is the property of the Mission.”
“Kindly do as I request, all will be explained to you later.”
The Captain threw up his arms in a gesture of helplessness and led the dark figure into the Mission, where under the tramp’s direction the two stripped the dining-room of its furnishings. When these had been heaped into an untidy pile in the yard, the tramp said, “And now if you will be so kind, the new furniture is to be brought in. May I beg your caution when handling it as some pieces are of great worth and all irreplaceable.”
The Captain shook his head in bewilderment and mopped the perspiration from his brow with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. For the next half an hour his life was nothing short of a nightmare. The truck’s dark occupant swung open the rear doors of the mighty vehicle, exposing another fathomless void. Working without apparent effort and clearly oblivious to the great weight of some of the more ornate and heavily gilded pieces of furniture he and the Captain unloaded and installed in the Mission an entire suite, table, chairs, sideboard, cabinet, a pair of golden candelabra, velvet wall-hangings and a crested coat of arms. All these items would clearly have been well at home amid the splendours of Fontainebleau. Each was the work of exquisite and painstaking craftsmanship, and each bore etched into the polished woodwork or inlaid in precious metals the motif of the bull.
When all was installed the Captain numbly put his signature to the manifest, which was printed in a language he did not understand. The driver returned to his black cab, the door swinging closed behind him leaving no trace of its presence. The vast black vehicle departed as silently as it had arrived. The Captain leant upon the Mission porch exhausted, breathing heavily and clutching at his heart.
“There is one more thing to be done and you may return to your quarters,” said the tramp looming above him.
“I can do no more,” gasped the Captain, “leave me here to die, I have seen enough of life, too much in fact.”
“Come now,” said the tramp, “no need to be melodramatic, this is but a simple task.” He handed the Captain a gallon can of petrol. “That rubbish in the garden, dispose of it.”
“What?”
“It is offensive, put it to the torch!”
The Captain took the can. Upon giddy legs he stumbled through the Mission and out into the yard to confront the mound of furniture which had served him these thirty long years.
“The torch,” ordered the tramp.
The Captain’s fingers tightened around the petrol cap, he was powerless to resist. “Damn you,” he mumbled beneath his breath. “Damn and blast you to hell.”
11
It was Thursday. The sun shone enthusiastically down through Neville’s window and twinkled upon the white cowboy suit which hung in its plastic covering upon the bedroom door. Neville raised a sleepy eyelid and yawned deeply. Today was going to be one to remember. He cast an eye towards the suit, pristine as a bridal gown. Beside it upon the chair hung the silver pistols in their studded holsters and the fringed white stetson. He put a hand beneath the pillow and withdrew the chromium sheriffs star. Squinting at it through his good eye he noted well how it caught the light and how the mirrored surfaces shone like rare jewels. Yes, he was going to look pretty dapper tonight, that was for sure.
He was still, however, harbouring some doubts regarding the coming festivities. It was always impossible to gauge exactly what the locals might do. He knew some would attend, if only for a chance at the scotch and to take advantage of the cheap drink and extended hours. But the dart players had already defected and the seasoned drinkers were hard upon their heels, tired of being jockeyed from their time-honoured places at the bar by the continual stream of tourists and sensation-seekers currently filling the Swan. But still, thought Neville, if only a small percentage of the morbid canal viewers turned up, the evening would be far from dull.
Neville climbed out of bed, placing his star reverently upon the side table. He stifled another yawn, straightened his shoulders and stepped to the window. From Neville’s eyrie high in the upper eaves of the Swan he was afforded an excellent view of the surrounding district. With the aid of his spyglass he could see out between the flatblocks as far as the roundabout and the river. He could make out the gasometer and the piano museum and on further into the early haze where the cars were already moving dreamily across the flyover.
It was a vista which never ceased to inspire him. Neville’s spirit was essentially that of the Brentonian. From this one window alone he could see five of Brentford’s eighteen pubs, he could watch the larval inhabitants of the flatblocks stirring in their concrete cocoons, Andy Johnson’s milkfloat rattling along the Kew Road and the paperboy standing in the shadow of the bus shelter smoking a stolen Woodbine and reading one of Norman’s Fine Art Publications, destined for a discerning connoisseur in Sprite Street.
This morning, as he drew great draughts of oxygen through his nose, an ominous and hauntingly familiar perfume filled Neville’s head. He had scented it vaguely upon the winds for many weeks, and had noted with growing apprehension that each day it was a little stronger, a little nearer, a little more clearly defined. What it was and what it meant he knew not, only that it was of evil portent. Neville pinched at his nostrils, shrugging away this disturbing sensation. Probably it was only nerves. He stepped into his carpet slippers and down two flights of stairs to the bar.
The paperboy, seeing the bar lights snap on, abandoned his study of the female form and crossed the Ealing Road to deliver Neville’s newspaper.
Omally was stirring from his nest. Wiping the sleep away from his eyes with a soiled pyjama
