East of Ealing

“So what do you intend to do?”

“Down a few more pints for a first off. Drink up, John, you haven’t touched yours.”

“I am not thirsty. Don’t you understand? We are in an even worse position now than ever we were. We know what is to come, but we can do nothing whatever to stop it. We know that it ca

“Oh fish,” said Jim Pooley. Delving into his trouser pocket he drew out a bulging drawstring pouch. “Didn’t know I had these, did you?” he asked, weighing it in his hand. “Pooley’s ace in the hole.”

Omally extended his hand but Jim held the thing beyond reach. “No touching,” he said. “All mine, but you can have a peep.” He loosened the neck of the pouch and held it tantalizingly apart.

Omally peered forward. “Diamonds,” he gasped. “A king’s ransom.”

“I should say at the very least. I was going to have some cufflinks made up, but in all the excitement I completely forgot. I have no doubt they are synthetic, but nobody in this day and age is going to know that.”

“So what do you intend to do with them?”

“I am going to become a philanthropist,” said Jim. “I am going to build a church.”

“A church?”

“A cathedral. And do you know where I’m going to build it?”

Omally nodded slowly. “On the bombsite.”

“Exactly. No dirty big satanic buildings are going to come springing up from consecrated soil. What do you think, brilliant, eh?”

Omally leant back in his seat, his head nodding rhythmically. “Brilliant, you almost cracked it.”

“I don’t know about almost.”

“I do.” Omally’s eyes flickered up towards Jim’s. His hand moved towards his trouser pocket wherein rested a small black box, attached to which were a pair of wicked-looking rods. John Omally cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. “Hand me the diamonds, Jim,” he said in a cold dead voice. “We have other plans for them.”

Pooley’s mouth dropped open in horror. Clasping his diamonds to his bosom, he kicked over the table on to the robot double of his dearest friend and made for the door.

“You’re both barred,” screamed Neville, finding his voice, as the sleeveless Jim passed him by at speed, a raging Irishman with a black transitor radio close upon his heels.

As the two pounded off up the Ealing Road they all but collided with a brace of young gentlemen, who were strolling towards the Swan, studying a racing paper.

“Did you see what I just saw?” asked Jim Pooley, rubbing at his eyes and squinting off after the rapidly diminishing duo.

John Omally shook his head. “No,” said he. “I am certain that I could not. How do you fancy Lucky Number for the three-fifteen?”

“What, out of that new Lateinos and Romiith stable? I wouldn’t put my money on that.”

Robert Rankin

Robert Fleming Rankin (born July 27, 1949) is a prolific British humorous novelist. Born in Parsons Green, London, he started writing in the late 1970s, and first entered the bestsellers lists with Snuff Fiction in 1999. His books are a unique mix of science fiction, fantasy, the occult, urban legends, ru