‘Den you better go work out in de gym, cos you gonna be doin’ the pullin’ down all on yo’ own.’
‘Perhaps seventy five then?’ John asked.
‘One hundred pounds and I spit on me hand.’
‘Done,’ said John. ‘But we can dispense with the spitting.’
‘Okay, yo’ gotta deal. But I do be tellin’ you dis. Dat Pocklington, he a dogheart. When I an’ I wid him I feel I gotta please him. All licky licky, yo’ know what I mean?’
Omally nodded. He did.
‘But when I on me own, I get to thinkin’ and I want him mash up. Dere something Obeah ‘bout dat man. Something truly dread, yo’ dig?’
Omally nodded once more. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘There is certainly something about him.’
‘Something unworldly, Babylon. You beware now, you take care. And don’t scratch me truck when yo’ do de pullin’ down.’
And so Omally hired the truck and went on about his business. But finding that he actually had no more business to do that day, his thoughts turned to a pint of Quasimodo in the Swan.
John arrived just half an hour after Jim had left the premises. John watched with interest as several of the injured were freighted into a waiting ambulance. And listened with interest as Norman tried to explain to the policemen exactly why none of this was his fault and how he had been nothing more than an innocent bystander when all the fights had broken out.
‘And what’s that contraption you have in your hands?’ asked a young and pimply constable. ‘It’s not some kind of Islamic terror weapon, is it?’
‘Old-fashioned curling tongs,’ said Norman. ‘I bought them at a boot sale.’
‘Oh Norman,’ called the voice of Neville, through the open doorway.
‘Yes,’ said the scientific shopkeeper.
‘You are barred,’ said Neville. ‘Now bugger off.’
Omally took himself inside. ‘A pint of Quasimodo, Neville,’ he said.
‘Awaiting delivery,’ said the part-time barman. ‘It’s Large or nothing at all and don’t try my patience or you will feel the joyless thud of a knobkerrie on your noggin.’
‘What did I miss?’ Omally asked.
Neville drew him off a perfect pint. Omally paid for this in perfect pennies. ‘Norman,’ said Neville. ‘Need I say more?’
‘Recall his Spirit of the Old West costume?’ said Omally, accepting his pint and taking a sip.
‘That was a night I shall never forget,’ said Neville. ‘Jim was in earlier, but he left before the fighting started.’
‘I see you’ve given all the flyers away,’ said John.
‘I’ve used them as beer-mats,’ said Neville.
‘Tickets will be going on sale tomorrow,’ said John. ‘Big cash prizes.’
‘Lotteries are a mugs’ game,’ said Neville. ‘I wouldn’t waste my money.’
‘Who’s that woman on the television that you like?’
‘Lucy Worsley,’ said Neville, sighing. ‘The thinking man’s woman. That lisp.’ And Neville sighed again.
‘I might get her to pull the winning ticket,’ said John.
‘Lucy?’ said Neville. ‘Lucy, here in Brentford?’
‘If you like,’ said John. ‘We’ll need a celeb and she’d be as good as any.’
‘Lucy wouldn’t lower herself,’ said Neville.
‘John raised an eyebrow. ‘This is the woman who dresses up in ludicrous costumes to get chaps like you all excited—’
‘That’s quite enough,’ said Neville. ‘But if you do get Lucy, you promise you will bring her in here so I can open that bottle of vintage bubbly that I’ve been saving?’
‘I promise,’ said John. For now like unto Jim an hour before, enlightenment had come.
‘There are numewous glamouwoth clebwities that might pull the pwizes in the lotewies,’ said enlightenment, in the lilting lisp of Lucy.
Whatever Stephen Pocklington’s feelings were regarding the adorable Dr Worsley, they were all his own and he was keeping them.
Having stumbled away from the Plume Café after what Holmes might have referred to as “The Curious Case of the Unhappily Ever Afters” (assuming that Holmes was having an off day and Watson wasn’t around to do the editorial work) Stephen Pocklington returned to his office in the town hall. Locking the oaken door behind him, he took himself over to his Louis XV desk (tulipwood veneer with bronze mounts) and slumped into his Louis XIV chair (gilded arm bars and gobelin fabric tapestry back).
From a drawer he withdrew an antique hip flask, removed its top and decanted a considerable quantity of its contents into his throat. With a silken handkerchief he dabbed at his mouth and spoke to himself in rhyme.
For careful I must surely be,
For none can do this job but me.
What must be done, be done with care,
From there to here and here to there.
My lady, Gloriana, she
Has offered up this task to me.
That I find favour in her eyes
And lead her to these open skies.
And I will do as I am bid
And what was done will be undid.
This leopard soon will change its spots
This world will know of Dundledots.
Outside the sun went momentarily behind a cloud and something that was not a dog howled strangely in the distance.
10
With plodding steps the Goodwill Giant crossed The Butts Estate. Head bowed beneath the antique oaks he walked. As he entered the professor’s garden, on all fours squeezing through the gateway, the ancient scholar sat at his desk, forever leafing through his leathern tomes.
The giant rose ponderously to his feet, dusted down his clothing and approached the French windows. As his shadow blotted out all light from the old man’s study, Professor Slocombe rose to greet his guest.
‘Julian,’ he said. ‘You come at last.’
‘I will not try to enter, sir,’ the giant offered in reply. ‘For I fear that I would destroy your fine collection.’
‘I will come out,’ the professor said. ‘We can talk in the garden. Would you care for some refreshment?’
The Goodwill Giant nodded, his head amongst the ivy and the bird’s nests.
The professor rang his Burmese temple bell and presently Gammon appeared, struggling beneath the weight of an enormous chalice filled to the brim with beer.
‘I’ll just take a sherry,’ the professor said. ‘And do have one yourself and join us in the garden.’
Those who write of gardens and the merits there-to-for, find themselves at times in disagreement.
Whose garden is the most marvellous of all? Would be a question often asked. That of Professor Slocombe, or of Gandalf, or of Mazirian from The Dying Earth?
Upon such a summer’s day as this, with sunlight slanting through the trees, to fall upon a giant’s head and that of a white-haired gentleman who is not without some magic of his own, it might be felt that here was enchantment as should rival any other. Even of Old Pete’s allotment patch.
Professor Slocombe lazed in a hammock, sipping sherry and listening to bird song. Julian sat upon the lawn, his seven league sandals at his side, his naked feet a cooling in the ornamental pond.
‘Your koi carp nibble my toes,’ said he, as at a single gulp he drained the chalice dry.
Gammon said, ‘I’ve made you up a bed.’
‘Ah yes,’ agreed the professor. ‘There is a double garage attached to this property and Gammon has worked tirelessly to tailor it to your requirements.’
‘You are most kind,’ the giant smiled and leaning on his elbows he peered around and about. ‘How well I remember this garden,’ he said. ‘When I was a boy I spent so much time here.’
‘I remember too,’ said the professor. ‘Happy days.’
‘No,’ said Julian Adams. ‘They were not.’
Gammon took the empty chalice from the grass and returned with it to the house.
‘I understand,’ Professor S
locombe said.
‘Do you, sir? Do you?’
‘You played here alone,’ said the professor. ‘Because the children mocked you for your size. Your father and I did what we could to protect you. We tried as hard as we could to make you happy.’
‘I know,’ said Julian Adams. ‘I know. But it is lonely, being one apart. I have tried in my way to bring happiness to others. You taught me to pay back cruelty with kindness. It is not always easy, as you can imagine.’
‘I can only imagine,’ the professor said. ‘And news of your good works precede you. You are loved for your kindness.’
‘I am lonely,’ said the Goodwill Giant. ‘I am always so alone.’
Professor Slocombe nodded his snowy head. ‘We shall have to see what can be done about that, then,’ he said.
The Goodwill Giant laughed, his laughter scattering birds from the tree-tops. ‘I do not believe that you brought me here to find me a mate. But if such you can do, I would be grateful beyond words.’
‘I have faced greater challenges,’ the professor said. ‘Trust in me Julian, I shall not disappoint you.’
Gammon tottered gamefully beneath the weight of yet another chalice. The giant took it up and knocked it back. ‘So why have you called me here?’ he asked.
‘Ah,’ said the professor. ‘It is a queer business indeed. You have no doubt felt the wrongness, as I might put it.’
‘I have indeed, sir, it is all around. Uncle Peter feels it too but knows not what it is.’
‘And he is not alone in this. It presses closer every day, but I am unable to identify it. It shades itself before my vision. It is there, but it is not. There have been many threats to the borough, but never one such as this.’
‘So what would you have me do?’
‘Stand beside me,’ the professor said. ‘Support the borough in its hour of need. It is a lot to ask, I know.’
‘But I will do it,’ said Julian Adams. ‘I will do whatever I can. I am big and you are wise and together we will do whatever we must. But we are only two, sir, and this threat, whatever it is, feels terribly large.’
‘There are others I might call upon,’ said the professor. ‘And whom I feel certain will rise to the occasion. But until we know precisely what we are dealing with I think it best that they are left alone for now to carry on their business.’
Local businessman Jim Pooley, having paced the streets of Brentford for a while in search of local businessman John Omally, returned at length to the Flying Swan.
John Omally waved as he entered and Jim ordered two pints of Large.
‘Two?’ queried Neville. ‘Both for yourself?’
‘One for John,’ said Jim.
‘Well I never did,’ said Neville, pulling two fine pints.
‘And sorry I have nothing smaller,’ said Jim, presenting the part-time barman with a twenty pound note.
‘Neville took the thing in both hands, held it up to the light and viewed it with caution.
‘One for John and a twenty pound note?’ he said in the harshest of whispers.
‘And have one yourself,’ said Jim.
The part-time barman shuddered. ‘I’m getting too old for this job,’ he said, but he thanked Jim and swiftly did the business.
With a pint now held most firmly, Jim steered John to a corner table where the two of them might chat in privacy.
‘You’ll never guess what I’ve found out,’ said Jim.
‘I’d be prepared to bet on that,’ said John.
‘We are fictional characters in a set of rubbishy books.’
‘Jim,’ said John. ‘Have you been watching The Matrix again on your video machine? You know it gets you all in a state.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Jim. ‘I threw the tape away.’
‘Is there a rerun of The Prisoner, then? Remember when you became convinced that Brentford was The Village?’
‘Stop it John, this is serious.’ Jim took out his Kindle. ‘You know the work of P.P. Penrose?’ he asked.
‘The Lazlo Woodbine man,’ said John. ‘Brentford’s most distinguished man of letters.’
‘Well, he’s used us in a set of books. Us and a whole lot of other Brentonians. Using their real names and everything. The only thing he appears to have changed is the name of the Flying Swan.’
‘Sounds most unlikely,’ said John. ‘But go on.’
‘All on here,’ said Jim, handing John the Kindle.
‘Ah,’ said John. ‘EBooks, is it. Or as a wise man once said, “bringing the otherwise unpublishable to the mostly illiterate”.’
‘A little harsh,’ said Jim. ‘But see, Rule Brentannia, it’s all there, have a look.’
John had a look. ‘The screen is blank,’ said he.
‘Give me that,’ Jim took the Kindle, rattled it about. ‘It was going all right an hour ago.’
‘Of course it was, Jim.’
‘It was,’ said Jim. ‘Oh I see, the battery is flat.’
‘Well plug in the charging cable. There’s a wall socket here, Neville won’t mind.’
Jim fumbled in his pockets, ‘Ah,’ said he.
‘Ah?’ John enquired.
‘I never got a charging cable. When I bought the Kindle.’
‘Very good, Jim,’ said John. ‘So let us forget this foolishness and discuss business. Did you do everything I asked you to?’
‘Everything,’ said Jim. ‘But you and I are in these books. That can’t be right can it? Not without our permission. It occurred to me that we might sue this Mr Penrose.’
‘Ah,’ said John. ‘You see now you are talking my language. Perhaps Neville has a charging cable that we might borrow.’
Neville did not.
‘I know where he lives,’ said Jim.
‘Who, Penrose?’
‘In that shabby house on The Butts, near to the professor’s.’
‘You are suggesting that we might pay him a visit?’
‘Well, it surely can’t be legal can it? Using peoples’ names and giving them adventures without asking their permission first.’
‘If it’s a work of fiction,’ said John. ‘There’s probably no law against it.’
‘He should pay us something,’ said Jim. ‘It doesn’t seem right.’
‘It’s quite got under your skin, Jim, hasn’t it?’
Jim Pooley swallowed Large. ‘It just isn’t right,’ he said once more.
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘We could go round and have it out with him.’
‘We could, I suppose. But it is a hot day and we are sitting in the shade drinking cold beer. Have you engaged the tarmac-uppers?’
‘Yes,’ said Jim.
‘And ordered the new street signs?’
‘Also that,’ said Jim.
‘Oh all right,’ said John. ‘Let’s have a couple more here and then we’ll take a stroll to The Butts and have some words with Mr P.P. Penrose.’
Regarding time and the sensory experience of its movement, there has never ever been any doubt in anyone’s mind that time travels very quickly when you’re enjoying yourself.
And here were two seemingly successful businessmen, their pockets lined with lucre, enjoying each other’s company on a sunny afternoon.
‘Time gentlemen please,’ shouted Neville the part-time barman.
‘Already?’ said Jim. ‘One more for the road please, barlord.’
‘The knobkerrie craves to find service,’ said Neville.
‘A bottle or two as a carry-out?’
Neville nodded. ‘All right.’
Oh what can one say about those sultry summer nights, when the moon is high in the Brentford sky and the stars are as diamonds sewn to a velvet mantle?
‘I need a pee,’ said Pooley.
‘Norman’s doorway beckons,’ said Omally.
‘Not in Norman’s,’ said Jim. ‘I like Norman. Norman is an interesting fellow. A kindly soul. A—’
‘Do it in Uncle Ted’s next door then.’
‘Now you are talking,’ Pooley said and reaching the doorway took to the unzippings. ‘No news of whatever happened to him, I suppose,’ he asked John, who stood sentinel in case of passing garda.
‘Not a word,’ said John. ‘Just vanished and is gone.’
Pooley giggled as he piddled. ‘Went off to Banarnia, you think?’
‘Ran off with some fancy piece more like. Now you stand guard, I need to do one too.’
Jim zipped himself into respectability. John prepared to take aim. ‘Blimey Jim,’ said John Omally. ‘You didn’t pee through the letterbox?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Well, where did you pee then?’
‘Just in the doorway, don’t be silly.’
John stepped back. ‘Show me where?’
The big full moon shone in on that doorway. All was dry as could be.
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Jim. ‘There should be a puddle, you must have heard me go.’
‘I heard you splashing about the place in an uncouth manner, yes.’
‘So where did my wee-wee go?’
John Omally shook his head. ‘Yes, hold on,’ said he. ‘Is this what we’ve come to? A brace of entrepreneurs such as ourselves. Discussing urine, or the lack thereof?’
‘Yes, but where did it go?’
‘I care not,’ said John, ‘but I know where mine’s going and it’s going now before I burst.’
And with that John took aim.
‘You know what I always think when I look up at a sky like that?’ said Jim, uncorking a bottle of ale.
‘Yes, I do,’ said John. ‘Holy Mary would you look at that?’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Jim. ‘I know we live in enlightened times, John, but—’
‘It’s going in the keyhole.’
‘A lucky shot, no more.’
‘The piddle is going onto the step, then up the door and through the keyhole.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, John,’ Jim glanced. ‘Oh my,’ he said, ‘it is.’
‘And it certainly should not be doing that, should it?’
‘It rather flouts the law of gravity.’
‘Oooh!’ went John.
Then ‘Oooh!’ went Jim as well.