The Sprouts of Wrath

  ‘You must let him go,’ the Professor had said. ‘A soul cannot be truly free until it is released by the bereaved. You must let him go.’

  ‘Never.’ Jim swigged greatly from the dusty bottle. ‘Not until I know, not until I am really sure. But whatever . . .’ He rose to his feet and shook his clenched fist towards the stadium. ‘You will pay for this, you will pay and pay. Whoever you are, whatever you are, you will pay.’ Jim sank once more into his knackered chair. ‘But I just wish I knew how,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘They’re at it again,’ Mrs Butcher informed her hen-pecked spouse. They’re up to their old tricks again.’ Mr Butcher cowered in the Parker Knoll and took shelter behind his Angling Times. ‘Go out there, do something.’

  Mr Butcher ventured a hopeful. They’re not doing any harm, dear,’ but his good lady wife knew it was coming and slapped away his paper with her polishing cloth. ‘Get out there,’ she cried.

  ‘A fellow caught a twenty-seven pound pike down at the cut last week on a number nine hook, just fancy that.’

  ‘I’ll fancy something in a minute,’ said his wife, in the way some wives are renowned for. ‘Get out there, Reg, you tell them.’

  ‘Tell them what, dear? They’re only dancing, there’s no harm in that.’

  ‘No harm in that? It’s heathen.’ His wife crossed herself before the plastic Virgin on the mantelshelf. They are godless savages.’

  ‘They’re not savages, dear, they’re on the town council.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, they got the sack, them with their evil heathen ways.’ She made threatening motions towards the instrument of many others’ torture. ‘I shall make a phone call.’

  ‘No, don’t do that.’ Mr Butcher picked up his paper, folded it into the Peerage brass galleon rack and slipped his darned-socked feet into his Christmas slippers. ‘Don’t phone.’ The phone bill nearly rivalled the national debt these days. ‘I’ll go out to them.’

  ‘You just tell them to stop it. It’s not decent, this is a respectable neighbourhood, or at least it was until . . .’

  With his wife’s words coming hard upon his slippered heels, Mr Butcher hurried through the kitchen door and into the back-garden.

  ‘Lads,’ he called over the fence, lads, I say.’

  Paul and Barry Geronimo ignored his calls. They wore the full tribal regalia of the Sioux Medicine Man, Buffalo Horns, beaded handings, buckskin loin-cloth, the whole bit. And they danced on regardless.

  The dance was the Dance of Invocation to the Great Spirit. It would last for thirty-six hours, with only the occasional break for more Peyote or a trip to the toilet. During the latter stages of the dance Mrs Butcher would be carried, foaming at the mouth, into an ambulance and carted off for a period of intensive care at the ‘special’ hospital in Hanwell. Mr Butcher, for his part, would wave his wife the fondest of farewells, do a little dance of his own and take his Angling Times down to the Flying Swan, where he would do away with a month’s housekeeping money with a reckless abandon unknown to him during the last twenty years.

  But these things were for the future and so at present he leaned further over the fence and continued to call out imprecations to his dancing neighbours. It wasn’t for himself, he told them, he had no objections. The sound of beating tom-toms was music to his ears. It was his wife, you see, she suffered with her nerves, she was not a well woman. ‘Lads?’he called. ‘Eh, lads?’

  43

  The evening turned into night and the night into the coming day. And it was another good one. The people of the borough prepared to go about their business without any particular interest. Tomorrow was coming, the great day of the games and they all had their free tickets. Well, almost all. Old Pete waved goodbye to a well-pleased punter and pecked his old lips at the bulging bundle of money-notes he now clutched in his grubby paw. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he called. ‘Come on the Bs!’

  Norman had been up most of the night tinkering in his lock-up garage and the Hartnell Air Car was coming on a storm. He had definitely come up with a winner this time. As the dawn broke on the black horizon he yawned, scratched his bum, locked up the garage and trudged back to his shop for an hour or two’s shut-eye.

  Neville did not rise like a lark, more like a turkey on Christmas Eve. He had a bad feeling that he could not put a name to. Something was very wrong in the borough, his nose told him so. But exactly what, that was anyone’s guess. ‘Probably nothing,’ said the part-time barman as he lay in wait for Norman’s paper-boy, pointed stick in hand.

  Jim lay long in bed, nursing a hangover of extreme proportions. When the cabbage wine had gone he had done the unthinkable and broken into Omally’s hut wherein lay a half-crate of five-year-old Scotch. ‘If he is dead,’ Pooley reasoned, ‘he will forgive me, if alive then I can always apologize.’ Such reasoning had got Pooley where he was today, wherever that might have been.

  The Professor looked in at his door. ‘Sleep on, sweet prince,’ he said softly. ‘You are going to need all the strength you have.’

  Inspectre Hovis had had a rough night. It had all been in newspaper headlines again. Each announcing in big black letters the sacking in great disgrace of the great detective. His commander had given him twenty-four hours to wind up his investigations, arrest the master criminals and recover the gold. Hovis awoke in a cold sweat to the sound of his telephone ringing.

  ‘It must be tonight,’ said the voice of Hugo Rune. ‘Be ready.’

  Hovis replaced the receiver; his number was unlisted, he had not given it to Rune. Tonight,’ said Inspectre Hovis, ‘tonight.’

  ‘And this is the London Olympics,’ said the television set.

  ‘And off you go,’ said Neville, pulling the plug.

  Young Master Robert danced before him in a youthful delirium. ‘That is for the benefit of the punters,’ he cried, ‘switch it back on this minute.’

  Neville gazed round at the deserted bar. ‘Why don’t you get stuffed?’ he enquired beneath his breath.

  ‘Your job’s on the line here, pal,’ bawled the bouncing boy. ‘Get it back on, that’s an order!’

  ‘As you please.’ Neville inserted the plug in its socket. He could have found a far better place to stick it. ‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’ he asked.

  ‘You useless skinny turd,’ said the Young Master. ‘You and your paddy mate thought you’d got the better of me, didn’t you? Thought you could wind me up, eh?’

  ‘No offence meant,’ said Neville, ‘none taken, I hope.’

  ‘Do you see this?’ The boy waggled an official-looking document beneath the barman’s nose. Neville did not like the smell of it. ‘See it, do you?’

  ‘I think I can just make it out.’

  ‘Well, take a good long look.’ He spread the paper out upon the bar-top. ‘Peruse and inwardly digest,’

  Neville cocked his good eye over it, firstly with disinterest, then with amazement, latterly with horror. ‘You are selling the Swan?’ he whispered in a creaking, breathless voice.

  ‘Yes indeedy. This dump never made a decent profit, most likely because your hand was always in the till.’ Neville took the greatest exception to that remark, but he was dumb-struck. ‘Well, now you can do the other thing. We’re selling it off. The brewery is diversifying, expanding into other areas, leisure complexes, recreational

  facilities, the growth market of tomorrow. These old spit and sawdust pubs are a thing of the past. The Swan is finished, you are finished.’

  Neville’s brain swam in soup. ‘I. . . you . . . what. . .’

  ‘Watchamate, Neville,’ said Jim Pooley who, upon rising from his pit, knew exactly where he should take his breakfast.

  ‘Jim,’ said Neville, ‘Jim.’

  Jim spied the barman’s grave demeanour. ‘Something up?’ he asked, astute as ever.

  ‘He’s just about to get his coat on and go down to the Job Centre,’ said Young Master Robert.

  ‘He is what?’ Jim looked at Neville. ‘Wh
at is all this?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ said the boy, ‘but this scrawny excuse for a barman is getting the elbow.’

  ‘You are sacking Neville?’ Pooley shook his head in order to wake up his brain. He surely hadn’t had that much to drink last night. But perhaps he had, perhaps he was having the DTs. ‘Sacking Neville?’

  ‘He’s out. The brewery is selling the Swan.’

  ‘Selling it, for how much?’

  The Young Master turned the property details, for such they were, about on the bar-top. ‘Seventy-five-thousand pounds. More than it’s worth.’

  ‘And when does it go on the market?’

  ‘End of the week. Interested, are you?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘You look like you could run to a sleeping-bag and a quart of cider.’

  ‘There are no witnesses,’ said Jim to Neville, ‘shall I kill him now?’

  Neville hung his drowning head. ‘You know my feelings about murder in the bar.’

  ‘This is a somewhat exceptional circumstance, we might waive the rule on this occasion.’

  ‘You pair of no-marks, go screw yourselves.’ With this parting shot, the Young Master stepped around the bar counter and drew himself a large Scotch. Grinning like a dead moggy, he took his drink off to a distant table.

  Jim looked at the lost barman. ‘Golly,’ said he.

  ‘The game would appear to be up,’ the other replied. ‘Have a pint on the house.’ He took down a glass, stared through it wistfully and placed it beneath the beer spout.

  ‘Seventy-five thousand,’ said Jim. ‘Not an unreasonable sum, all things considered.’

  ‘Well beyond my means.’ Neville pulled upon the pump handle and presented Jim with his pint. ‘And yours also.’

  Pooley smiled. ‘Not necessarily. Have a little look at this, and take a large Scotch for yourself.’ Jim dug out his betting slip that the Professor had just this morning returned to him and spread it before the barman.

  Neville looked at the slip, he looked at Pooley, at the slip, at the Scotch optic, at Young Master Robert, at Pooley. Neville did a whole lot of looking. ‘So it’s true,’ he said in a whisper, appropriate to the occasion. This is the genuine article. I heard talk, of course.’

  Jim nodded. The real McCoy, as they say.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Neville was unable to muster a lot of conviction. ‘I mean, well done, I am happy for you.’

  ‘Come on, Neville,’ said Jim, ‘it would be a great shame to see the Swan change hands or ever, God forbid, close down. It’s kind of my past, I’d hate to see it go.’

  ‘Then you . . .’

  ‘Not me, Neville, you

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Pooley grinned, a warm flush of pure pleasure crept all over his body. This is your pub, you should own it, it is your right.’

  ‘My right?’

  ‘I give it to you as a present,’ said Jim, ‘on the promise that you never change a thing, not a hair of the carpet, not a tatty old bar-stool, not a nothing. That you keep it as it always has been, for ever.’

  ‘I promise.’ Neville crossed his heart. ‘You really mean it?’

  Jim dug a leaky biro from his pocket and wrote upon a beer-mat, NEVILLE, IOU £75,000, signed Jim Pooley. ‘I’ll be around twelve tomorrow with the money, God willing.’

  ‘God willing?’

  ‘There are a few matters that the Professor and I have to sort out. Oh and Neville, you will take down that silly sign, won’t you? I always liked The Flying Swan, just as it was.’

  ‘Oh yes, Jim, oh yes indeed!’ Neville clutched the beermat to his chest. Tell me once again that this is really true!’

  ‘It is really true, and why shouldn’t it be. Every man should be entitled to his "happy ever after", it’s only fair.’

  ‘Oh yes, Jim, yes, yes, yes!’ Neville pulled the plug from the television set. Time, gentlemen, please,’ he called. ‘Come on now, gents, have you no homes to go to?’

  The Young Master leapt up from his seat and stormed across the bar. Time, gentlemen, please? What’s your game? Have you gone stone bonker mad?’

  Neville took up the soda syphon and levelled it at the young tormentor. ‘Should I, Jim? What do you think?’

  ‘Oh. you should,’ said Jim Pooley. ‘You really should.’

  The Brentford sun moved across the sky, became a projected image for the balance of the day, dipped towards the horizon and made off towards foreign parts. Night fell upon Brentford.

  Neville sniffed at the air. It ponged like crazy, but a broad smile was on the face of the part-time barman as he tapped the top pocket which contained a certain signed beer-mat. ‘We will ceremonially burn that,’ he said, glancing at the ridiculous sign hanging outside the pub. ‘Ye Flying Swan Inn, indeed!’

  ‘I don’t think I can go through with this,’ said Neville’s erstwhile saviour, ‘I don’t think my bottle is up to it.’

  Professor Slocombe smiled. ‘You will manage, Jim. My faith is in you.’

  ‘But what exactly are you intending to do?’

  ‘Well, I must confess that Kaleton has very much placed the cat amongst the pigeons by putting forward the start of the games. I am not as well prepared as I might like.’

  ‘We are doomed,’ said Jim.

  ‘Nothing of the kind. The fact that he has done this suggests that he has doubts, fears that he will not succeed in his insane scheme.’

  ‘But what of it all? You can’t be certain he isn’t telling the truth.’

  ‘No, I cannot be certain, but the threat is palpable and we must make all efforts to confound his plans.’

  ‘The Soul of the World,’ said Pooley. ‘Some adversary.’

  ‘No, Jim, I will not have it. We now have the wherewithal to enter the stadium, we shall see what we shall see.’

  ‘Professor,’ said Jim seriously, ‘you have held your ceremonies here, upon home territory. I am not a fool, I know that here you are at your strongest, your most powerful. But up there, out in the open, on Kaleton’s home pitch, we might not fare too well.’

  ‘Jim, do you understand what is meant by the "balance of equipoise"?’

  ‘Like Newton’s third Law of Motion - every force has an equal and opposing force, that kind of thing?’

  The Professor scratched at his chin. ‘You are coming into your own, Jim.’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Jim, although he knew that he did.

  ‘Terrible forces rage and thrust, the universe is not a peaceful place, but the balance remains, one thing cancels out another. There is harmony. A universal plan exists.’

  ‘God,’ said Pooley, ‘you are talking about God.’

  ‘If you put it in those terms, then yes I am. Universal Spirit, call it what you will, for every yes there is a no, two sides to every question. Without an over-lying logic there would be just chaos.’

  ‘I dare not think about the stars,’ said Jim.

  ‘That is one of the most profound statements I have ever heard.’

  ‘It is?’ Jim asked. ‘I have others if you wish to compile a list.’

  ‘Now is not the appropriate time, perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘If there is a tomorrow.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Perk up, Jim, here comes Biggles.’

  ‘What ho, chaps,’ said Norman Hartnell, thrusting his head through the french windows.

  ‘Watchamate, Norman, oh dear me.’ Jim made a painful face as the scientific shopkeeper stepped into the study. He was clad in a leather helmet, replete with the kind of goggles that would find favour with steampunks thirty years into the future. Little woolly explosions broke from his ancient RAF flying jacket, a silk scarf hung about his neck.

  ‘Wizard prang,’ said Norman Hartnell.

  Professor Slocombe glanced at Pooley. Jim made a brave face. In his left trouser pocket a nubbin of fluff resembled the ear-lobe of the legendary Jack Palance. ‘Bear with him,’ said Jim. ‘He says it will work.’
>
  ‘And so it will and does,’ said Norman. ‘Who’s going up for a spin then?’

  The Professor placed instruments of his enigmatic trade into a Gladstone bag and snapped it shut. ‘If we are all ready,’ said he.

  Pooley took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

  The three men walked out into the night streets of Brentford. It seemed a clear night, peaceful, just like any other. But Jim and the Professor knew to the contrary. Something lurked, a big bad troll, waiting to gobble them all up. Norman marched ahead with a jaunty step. He just doesn’t know, thought Pooley, but what if he did? What if everyone knew? If things went badly tonight and all was as Kaleton had said, the world of men would soon be in for a dire shock. A rude awakening. All that was normal, all that was expected to be, all those plans and futures, gone up in a puff of smoke, or a dirty great bang. Or something. Jim had no idea what, but whatever it was it was no laughing matter.

  Norman led them to the row of lock-up garages, amidst many a furtive sideways glance to assure himself that they were not to be observed. Amidst many more furtive sideways glances, he took out his ring of keys and applied one to the lock. The up-and-over door did that very thing and Norman turned with a flurry of flapping arms. ‘Your chariot awaits,’ said he.

  The Morris Minor stood, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Pooley and the Professor edged about it, peering and wondering. Strange metal carbuncles had been welded on to the bonnet and a battery of commandeered flue-pipes, vacuum cleaner nozzles and shower sprinklers projected from beneath the boot. Metal hawsers were strung across the car and secured to iron rings set into the concrete floor.

  ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ said Norman to the Professor, who was eyeing these with suspicion. ‘Now if you two gentlemen would like to sit in the back? I need quite a bit of space in the cockpit.’

  Pooley and the Professor climbed aboard and Norman swung back the driving seat after them. ‘My, my,’ said Jim, ‘that looks quite busy.’ The dashboard of the Morris now bore a distinct resemblance to that of Concorde, with rows of twinkling lights, gauges, dials, switches and the like.