Pooley smiled unconvincingly. “Nothing,” he said, “just musing I suppose. Of Dave and John, I have seen nothing. Possibly they drink now at the New Inn or Jack Lane’s, I should try there if I were you.”
The priest thanked Jim, wished him all of God’s blessing for the balance of the day and jogged from the bar.
Pooley returned to his melancholic reverie. When Neville called time at three he left the bar, his half of light ale still steaming in its glass, and shambled out into the glare. He wandered off down Sprite Street and crossed beside his beloved memorial bench to enter the sweeping tree-lined drive which curved in a graceful arc towards the Butts Estate. He passed within a few yards of the Professor’s front door and crunched over the gravel footway before the Seamen’s Mission to emerge through the tiny passageway into the lower end of the High Street near the canal bridge.
As he leant upon the parapet, squinting along the dried-up stretch of ex-waterway into the shimmering distance, Pooley’s thoughts were as parched and lifeless as the blistered canal bed. He wondered what had become of Soap Distant. Had he been blasted to dark and timeless oblivion by the floor tide which engulfed him, or had the rank waters carried him deep into the inner earth where even now he swapped drinking stories with old Rigdenjyepo and the denizens of that sunless domain? He wondered at Archroy’s misery and at what urgent business might have lured Hairy Dave and his hirsute twin from their Friday payment at St Joan’s.
Pooley tried to marshal his thoughts into some plan of campaign, but the sun thrashed down relentlessly upon his curly head and made him feel all the more dizzy and desperate. He would repair to the Plume Cafe for a cup of char, that would invigorate and refresh, that was the thing, the old cup that cheers. Pooley dragged his leathern elbows from the red-hot parapet and plodded off up the High Street.
The door of the Plume was wedged back and a ghastly multi-coloured slash curtain hung across the opening. Pooley thrust the gaudy plastic strips apart and entered the cafe. The sudden transition from dazzling sunlight to shadowy gloom left him momentarily blind and he clung to a cheap vinyl chair for support.
Lily Marlene lurked within, fanning her abundant mammaries with a menu card and cooling her feet in a washbowl of iced water. She noted Pooley’s entrance without enthusiasm. “We still give no credit, Jim Pooley.”
Pooley’s eyes adjusted themselves, and he replied cheerfully, if unconvincingly, “I return from foreign parts, my pockets abulge with golden largesse of great value.”
“It’s still sixpence a cup,” the dulcet voice returned, “or eight pence for a coffee.”
“Tea will be fine,” said Pooley producing two threepenny bits from his waistcoat pocket.
The grey liquid flowed from the ever-bubbling urn into the chipped white cup and Pooley bore his steaming prize to a window table. Other than Jim the cafe contained but a single customer. His back was turned and his shoulders hunched low over his chosen beverage, but the outline of the closely cropped head was familiar. Jim realized that he was in close proximity to the semi-mythical entity known as the Other Sam.
Strange rumours abounded regarding this bizarre personage, who was reputed to live the life of a recluse somewhere within an uncharted region of the Royal Botanical Garden at Kew. Exactly who he was or where he came from was uncertain. It was said that he rowed nightly across the Thames in a coracle of ancient design to consort with Vile Tony Watkins, who ran the yellow street-cleaning cart, a grim conveyance which moved mysteriously through the lamplit byways.
Vile Tony was an uncommunicative vindictive, with an ingrained distrust of all humanity and a dispassionate hatred for anything that walked upon two legs and held its head aloft during the hours of sunlight. Being a deaf-mute he kept his own counsel no matter what should occur.
Pooley had never spoken with the Other Sam, but felt a certain strange comfort in the knowledge of his being. The stories which surrounded him were uniformly weird and fantastical. He was the last of a forgotten race, some said; daylight would kill him, some said, for his eyes had never seen it. Others said that during her pregnancy his mother had observed something which had gravely affected her and that the midwife upon seeing the child had dropped it in horror, whereupon the tiny creature had scampered from the room and disappeared into the night.
Pooley the realist pooh-poohed such notions, but Pooley the mystic, dreamer and romantic sensed the aura of pagan mystery which surrounded the crop-headed man.
“Will you not join me at table, James Pooley,” said a voice which weakened Jim’s bladder in a manner that formerly only large libations of ale had been able to do. “I would have words with you.”
Pooley rose from his chair and slowly crossed the mottled linoleum floor of the Plume, wondering whether a leg-job might be preferable to a confrontation that most of Brentford’s population would have taken great lengths to avoid.
“Be seated, James.” The face which met Jim’s guarded glance was hardly one to inspire horror; it was pale, such was to be expected of one who dwelt in darkness, but it was a face which held an indefinable grandeur, an ancient nobility. “Your thoughts press heavily upon me, James Pooley,” said the Other Sam.
“I do not know which way to turn,” said Jim, “such responsibilities are beyond my scope.”
The Other Sam nodded sagely and Jim knew that he had nothing to fear from the pale blue eyes and the haunting thoughts which dwelt behind them. “The evil is among us,” said the Other Sam. “I will help you as best I may, but my powers are limited and I am no match for such an adversary.”
“Tell me what I should do.”
“The Professor is a man who may be trusted,” said the Other Sam. “Act upon his instructions to the letter, accept no other advice, although much will be offered, follow your own feelings. The Dark One is vulnerable, he lives a life of fear, even Satan himself can never rest, truth will be for ever the final victor.”
“But who is he?” said Jim. “I have been plunged into all this. Outside the sun shines, in offices clerks toil away at their mundane duties, buses rumble towards Ealing Broadway and I am expected to do battle with the powers of darkness. It all seems a little unfair.”
“You are not alone, James.”
“I feel rather alone.”
The Other Sam smiled wanly; wisdom shone in his ageless blue eyes. Professor Slocombe was a wise and learned man, but here was knowledge not distilled from musty tomes, but born of natural lore. Pooley felt at peace, he was no longer alone, he would cope with whatever lay ahead.
“I have stayed too long already,” said the Other Sam, “and I must take my leave. I will not be far when you need me again. Take heart, James Pooley, you have more allies than you might imagine.”
With this he rose, a pale ghost who did not belong to the hours of daylight, and drifted out into the sunlit street where he was presently lost from view behind the gasometers.
Pooley took his teacup to his mouth, but the insipid grey liquid had grown cold. “Cold tea and warm beer,” said Jim, “and they say an army marches on its stomach.”
16
As August turned into September the residents of Brentford stared from their open windows and marvelled at the endless sunshine. Norman tapped at his thermometer and noted to his despair that it was up another two degrees. “It’s the end of the world for certain,” he said for the umpteenth time. “I am working at present on an escape ship,” he told Omally, “I am not going to be caught napping when the continents begin to break up.”
“I wish you luck,” replied Omally. “I notice that there are no new Fine Arts Publications in your racks.”
“Business has fallen off of late.”
“Oh,” said John, “must be the heat.”
“I hear,” said Norman, “that the rising temperatures have started something of a religious revival hereabouts.”
“Oh?” said Omally, thumbing through a dog-eared copy of
“The Church of the Second Coming, or suchlike, seems to be taking the ladies’ fancy, although”
