“Do you think that’s it then?” Omally asked, tottering to the nearest chair.
The Professor’s face was grave. “I should hardly think so, I suspect that their next attempt to gain entry will be a little less subtle.” In that supposition the Professor was entirely correct.
Omally twitched his nostrils. “What’s that smell?”
The Professor’s eyes darted about the room. “It’s smoke, something is burning.”
Pooley pointed helplessly. “It’s coming under the study door, we are ablaze.”
“Ignore it,” said the Professor. “There is no fire, the doors are shuttered and bolted, nothing could have entered the house unheard.”
“I can see it with my own eyes,” said Pooley. “Smoke is something I can recognize, we’ll all be burned alive.”
“I don’t see any flames,” said the Professor, “but if the smoke bothers you so much.” He stepped forward and raised his hands; of the syllables he spoke little can be said and certainly nothing written. The smoke that was gathering thickly now about the room seemed suddenly to suspend itself in space and time and then, as if a strip of cinema film had been reversed, it regathered and removed itself back through the crack beneath the door, leaving the air clear, although still strangling in the tropical heat.
“That I have seen,” said Pooley, “but please do not ask me to believe it.”
“A mere parlour trick,” said the Professor matter-of-factly. “If our adversaries are no more skilful than this, we shall have little to fear; it is all very elementary stuff.”
“It is all sheer fantasy,” said Jim, pinching himself. “Shortly I shall awake in my bed remembering nothing of this.”
“The clock has stopped,” said Omally pointing to the silent timepiece upon the mantelshelf.
The Professor took out his pocket watch and held it to his ear. “Bother,” he said, giving it a shake, “I must have mispronounced several of the minor convolutions. Give the pendulum a swing, will you John?”
Omally rose unsteadily from his chair and reached towards the mantelshelf. The alcohol, however, caused him to misjudge his distance and he toppled forward head first into the fireplace. Turning on to his back in an effort to remove himself from the ashes Omally suddenly let out a terrified scream which echoed about the room rattling the ornaments and restarting the mantelclock.
Not three feet above, and apparently wedged into the chimney, a hideous, inhuman face snarled down at him. It was twisted and contorted into an expression of diabolical hatred. A toothless mouth like that of some vastly magnified insect opened and closed, dripping foul green saliva upon him; eyes, two flickering pinpoints of white light; and the entire horrific visage framed in a confusion of crimson cloth. The sobering effect upon Omally was instantaneous. Tearing himself from his ashy repose he leapt to his feet and fell backwards against the Professor’s desk, spilling books and screaming, “Up the chimney, up the chimney.”
“I don’t think it’s Santa,” said Pooley.
Omally was pointing desperately and yelling, “Light a fire, light a fire!”
Pooley cast about for tinder. “Where are the logs, Professor? You always have logs.”
The Professor chewed upon his knuckle. “The shed,” he whispered in a trembling voice.
“We’ll have to burn the books then.” Omally turned to the desk and snatched up an armful.
“No, no, not the books.” Professor Slocombe flung himself upon Omally, clawing at his precious tomes. The broadshouldered Irishman thrust him aside, and Pooley pleaded with the old man. “There’s nothing we can do, we have to stop them.”
Professor Slocombe fell back into his chair and watched in horror as the two men loaded the priceless volumes into the grate and struck fire to them. The ancient books blazed in a crackle of blue flame and from above them in the chimney there came a frantic scratching and clawing. Strangled cries rent the air and thick black smoke began to fill the room. Now the French windows burst assunder with a splintering of glass and the great curtains billowed in to a blast of icy air. The burning creature’s hooded companions beat upon the shuttered metal screen, screeching vile blasphemies in their rasping inhuman voices. There was a crash and the creature descended into the flames, clawing and writhing in a frenzy of searing agony.
Pooley snatched up his poker and lashed out at it viciously. Omally heaped more books on to the fire. The Professor stepped forward, knowing what had to be done.
Slowly raising his hand in benediction he spoke the magical words of the Holy Exorcism. The creature groaned and twisted in the flames, its arms flailing at its tormentors. Pooley held it at bay and as the Professor spoke and Omally applied more fuel to the fire, its movements began to slow and presently it crumpled in upon itself to be cremated by the all-consuming flames.
The curtains ceased their billowing and from the garden there came a great wailing and moaning. Pooley cupped his hands over his ears and the Professor stood, book in hand, frozen and corpse-like. Omally was beating away at the burning books which had fallen from the fireplace on to the carpet. His face was set into a manic grin and he prodded at the remains of the fallen creature with undisguised venom.
The wailing from the garden became fainter and as it passed into silence the Professor breathed a great sigh and said, “All the ashes must be gathered and tomorrow cast into the Thames; by fire and by water and the holy writ shall they be destroyed.”
Omally plucked a half-charred volume from the grate. “I am sorry about the books,” he said, “but what else could we do?”
“It is no matter, you acted wisely and no doubt saved our lives.” The Professor fingered the ruined binding of the ancient book. “A pity though, irreplaceable.”
Pooley had unfastened his hands from about his head. “Are they gone?” he asked inanely.
“Unless they are regrouping for another assault.”
The Professor shook his head. “I think not, they will be none too eager to return now, but what will happen when they report the loss of their comrade I shudder to think.”
Omally whistled. “Our man is not going to be very pleased.”
“We are doomed,” said Pooley once more, “all doomed.”
“Jim,” said Omally wearily, “if you say ‘we are doomed’ one more time I am going to set aside the long years of our noble friendship and remodel your beak with the business end of my knuckles.”
“Come now gentlemen,” said the Professor, “I have a bottle of port which I suggest we now consume before taking a well-earned rest.”
Omally rubbed his hands together. “That would be excellent.”
Pooley shrugged his shoulders. “What else can happen?” he asked.
A pink dawn came to Brentford, gilding the rooftops with its sickly hue. Birds that should have by now flown south to winter it in tropical climes sat in silent rows musing upon the oddness of the season. As the old sun dragged itself into the sky there was all the promise of another fine and cloudless day ahead.
Pooley was the first to awake. He heard the milk float clattering over the cobblestones of the Butts, and, rising stiffly, he stumbled to the French windows and drew back the heavy curtains. The sunlight beamed down through the metal screen, laying golden diamonds upon the Professor’s carpet and causing Jim to blink wildly whilst performing the ritualistic movements of finding the first fag of the day. Like all first fags it was a killer. Jim did his best to draw some breath from the fragrant garden between coughs while he surveyed the damage the night had brought. The French windows had been torn from their hinges once more and their splintered remains littered the small lawn and surrounding flowerbeds. Shards of glass twinkled bright in the morning sunlight.
Pooley’s vile coughing awoke Omally who, scratching his nether regions, shambled over to join him. “A rare mess,” said the Irishman, “the glaziers will think the Professor a fine man for the wild parties and no mistake.”
Pooley gripped the metal framework of the screen. “What time does this open?” he asked.
“Nine o’clock, wasn’t it?”
The Memorial Library clock struck eight.
“An hour yet then.”
