The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4 Page 18

  Neville shook his head in wonder. “My hat, if I wore one, would now be off to you,” he said. “The pint is on the house. May I hang your medal behind the bar for the world to gaze at?”

  “Mine and all the rest. The applications are limitless, pole vault poles, plimsolls for the high jump, the shot-put, and one or two others I’ve got up my sleeve. ‘If gravity is holding tight, it’s just the job for “Normanite”’. Little jingle there, I’m already working on the advertising campaign. Save that until after the medals have been given out though, I think.”

  “Bloody unsporting,” said Old Pete. “Cheats never prosper.” Norman and Neville stared at him in disbelief. “Sorry,” said Old Pete, “don’t know what came over me, just slipped out.”

  “I should think so too,” said Neville. “Cheats never prosper indeed.”

  “Well, it will be good for a laugh, whatever,” said Norman. “Worth it just to see the looks on the Yanks’ faces alone.”

  “It certainly will,” Neville agreed. “Serve the buggers right, all the inconvenience. A Brentford team whopping the world’s finest, what a hoot. It is an inspired plan and one which I feel deserves yet another on the house.”

  “Thanks,” said Norman, “I haven’t finished this one yet.”

  Old Pete considered the empty bottom of his own glass. “Be all right as long as no one gets wind of it in advance,” he said meaningfully.

  “Another for yourself?” Neville asked. “As an old Brentonian, you will no doubt wish to toast Norman’s bid to gain glory for the borough.”

  “Indeed,” said Old Pete. “Nothing less than a double would be sufficient, don’t you agree?”

  “It is all you will get.”

  “My lips are sealed,” said Old Pete. “To the honour of the borough.”

  “The honour of the borough.”

  “Sssssh!” went the patrons.

  “Oh, bugger off,” said Neville the part-time barman.

  36

  In the teepee at the bottom of the garden Paul and Barry Geronimo sat cross-legged sharing a long pipe.

  “The time draws near,” said Paul solemnly. “As the great spirit moves upon the face of the waters, the sky darkens, the birds fly upside-down and the crickets call with the tongues of men.”

  Barry sucked at the pipe stem. He considered the dope-taking one of the finer aspects of Red Indian day-to-day life. Grudgingly, he passed the pipe back to his brother. “This a good toke in here,” he said, grinning lopsidedly, “dealer not stitch you up on this occasion.”

  “To become one with the Manitou,” said his brother, “to understand the ways of the elk, to soar with the eagle, to feel the pulse, the universal note of which all things, all matter, all men, are each but component parts. Each but single elements, yet one and the same. To do this, one has to get a little high once in a while. If you get my meaning.”

  “Not exactly,” said Barry, “but I get the drift.”

  “Barry,” said Paul, “Brother Barry, as a ‘human being’, you are a bit of a failure.”

  “Oh, thanks very much, you haven’t exactly excelled yourself, have you?”

  “That is not what I mean.”

  “Well, it’s what I mean.”

  “Barry, when first, in many moons past, I told you of my great revelation, your heart was troubled. You had no belief. Have I not schooled you in the ways of our fathers, taught you the skills of bow and tomahawk, made you knowledgeable with the wisdom of the people and now … .”

  “And now we’re both on the dole,” said his brother, snatching back the pipe. “A fine lot of use it’s all been.”

  “You are not a ‘human being’, Barry, you are a white man.”

  “We are both white men, for crying out loud!”

  “No, Barry, I divine the great purpose, the infinite meaning. Our trials have not been in vain. The scorn and ridicule we have suffered mean nothing to me. I am above all that, I see the golden light.”

  “You are stoned, I’m keeping this pipe.”

  “Barry, now is the time of the great awakening. The earth moves and shudders. It has grown weary of the ways of men. Those few who understand may yet survive the reckoning, by becoming at one with nature, as it was in the times of the elder ones. Those who lack wisdom will be lost amidst the tongues of leaping flame. Such it is so written and such it will be.”

  Barry sucked ruefully upon the long pipe. “You really believe all this, don’t you?”

  His brother nodded sagely. “I have numerous A-levels and an honours degree. Do you think I would act as I do if I did not have the conviction that I am right?”

  “You just might be bonkers.”

  “Barry, the soul of the great chief now dwells within me, and you also. This makes us aloof to the jibes of lesser men. I shun them all, I am led by a guiding star and by the glorious golden light.”

  “So what do you propose we do, oh learned brother?”

  “We will act as the spirit dictates, open our minds to its instruction, we will smoke many pipes and speak of many things.” He opened a bag of Peyote buttons. “Here,” he said, “chew upon these awhile and I will tell you of the dreams I have dreamed. Then we will act together, as one.”

  “In for a penny then,” said Barry. “Bung them over.”

  “There is a big evil abroad amongst the fields of the white man. It overshadows us, darkens the sky, I sense it, we must combat it.”

  “All right,” said Barry, “but I’ll hang on to the pipe for now, in case these magic mushrooms turn out to be the ten-bob-a-pound variety from Tesco’s.”

  Inspectre Hovis paced the floor of the briefing room. He was not alone. The seated ranks of the Brentford constabulary watched without comment. Presently, the great detective halted and turned to face them. “One hundred million pounds in gold bullion,” his voice echoed about the room, “and it is all right here.”

  The beat-plodding bobbies jerked upright in their seats. Their crime-consciousness extended little beyond the bounds of the occasional collar-feel for petty pilfering. There was mass murmuring in the ranks.

  “One hundred million,” Hovis reiterated. “Right here and I want it back,” He peered about the sea of faces, seeking a little island of intelligence. “Not keen, gentlemen? A little out of our league, is it?”

  Constable Meek raised a tremulous hand. “Sir?”

  “Meek?”

  “Is this the proceeds from the Heathrow robbery, sir?”

  “Oh, very good, Meek, been watching Police Five, have we? Good lad,” Meek grinned foolishly. “Of course it is the Heathrow robbery!” thundered Hovis. “How many more hundreds of millions in gold are knocking about?” Meek’s mouth opened. “The question was rhetorical,” said Hovis, “if you have an answer I do not wish to know it.”

  “But the gold is really in Brentford, sir?”

  “Right here.”

  “Gosh, sir.”

  “Officer,” Inspectre Hovis gestured towards a constable who stood to his rear before a large draped easel. The constable drew away the drape with a flourish and a chorus of oohs and ahhhs filled the metropolitan air.

  Exposed to the mass gaze was none other than old TQ 17 NE, the Ordnance Survey map of the borough. As on the Professor’s copy, this had Brentford’s triangular boundaries blued in, the great Star Stadium superimposed in red, but unlike the Professor’s version, this had a thick black ring in the lower right hand section. A ring drawn about the location of the great gasometer.

  “Now for all you lovers of geometry,” said Hovis, “this will prove a disappointment. This is not the square on the hypotenuse, nor any other Pythagorean tongue-twister. Here,” he tapped with his cane, “the Brentford Triangle, here,” another tap, “the Star Stadium and here,” multiple tapping and a firm face towards the troops, “here, the Brentford gasometer containing, unless I am very much mistaken, one hundred million in gold bullion.”

  There was a moment of silence during which many glances, which meant many thing
s, were exchanged.

  “Inside the gasometer, sir?” Whatever tones of sarcasm existed in Meek’s voice they were concealed with considerable skill.

  “As cunning a concealment as any I have yet experienced.”

  “Who’s in there then, Doctor No or Goldfinger?”

  “Who said that?” Silence reigned supreme. Hovis cast his eagle eye over the congregation. “It is the headquarters of an international crime syndicate and we, gentlemen, that is all of us, are going to nick the blighters. All leave is cancelled, all other investigations shelved, I am about to outline to you our plan of campaign and by God I want no balls-up this time. Do I make myself understood?” A roomful of heads bobbed up and down in unison. “This, gentlemen, is the big one.”

  “Fuck me,” said Constable Meek.

  Gammon brought the Professor a tray of light lunch, consisting of exotic tropical fruits, a few nuts and raisins and a glass of water. “As you ordered, sir.”

  Professor Slocombe smiled up at his elderly retainer. “Thank you, Gammon. Just place it upon the small table.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “And how is Mr Pooley, Gammon?”

  “He is recovering, sir. I have just topped up his hot water bottles.”

  “And Mr Omally?”

  “Still no news, sir. I have followed up the few slim leads we have. I fear for the worst, sir.”

  “I also, Gammon. Mr Omally is, I think, beyond our help now.”

  “That is very sad, sir, shall I inform Mr Pooley?”

  “No, Gammon, I will do so, all in good time.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Thank you, Gammon.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  37

  It was to be a day to remember and one to be inscribed in the very bestest copperplate lettering upon a nice clean page of the annals of Brentford. The arrival of the athletes from the globe’s four corners, the official ribbon-cut and stadium opening. Brass bands were to play, morris dancers to dance, the biggest parade in the borough’s checkered history. Streamers and spangles, balloons and bangles, flowers and fripperies. An unparalleled extravaganza.

  Minions of the town council, all hearts of oak and double time, had been at work half the night, festooning the lamp posts with bunting and flower garlands. The Boy Scouts and Girl Guides had been rehearsing their marching for weeks. The hot-dog hucksters, souvenir programme-sellers, ice-cream vendors, Union Jack wallahs and general wide-boys were already on their pitches. The good people of Brentford had declared the day an unofficial bank holiday and were preparing to line the streets. The mayoral limousine stood polished and waiting before the town hall, upon its gleaming bonnet, the borough flag fluttering in the gentle breeze. The Brentford Olympic squad were bending their knees in the Memorial Park to the rallying cries of Father Moity, and the sun was shining bravely in a sky that was rich and blue and cloudless. This was the big one, the biggest one that ever was.

  Jim Pooley sat up in bed supported by several comfy pillows, perusing the latest batch of holiday brochures which had arrived with the morning post. Gammon cleared away the few sparse remnants of Jim’s morning fry-up.

  “Will sir be requiring any coffee?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” said Jim, “cream and sugar.”

  “Then sir knows where the kettle is and can make his own,” said the Professor’s retainer, taking up the tray. “And before sir says anything, the Professor suggests that sir gets on with weeding the west lawn.”

  “But,” said Jim, “but… but…”

  “The Professor says that sir is swinging the lead,” Gammon continued. “He says that he values my time at ten pounds a minute and begs to enquire whether sir will be requiring my services any further this day.”

  “Come on, Gammon, old buddy,” crooned Jim, “I’m not up to any work just yet, I’m still in shock.”

  Gammon took out his pocket watch and watched the second hand sweeping the face. “Will there be anything else, sir? Time is money, you know.”

  “Certainly not, Gammon, you are dismissed, depart in haste now, I should not want to keep you from your work.”

  “Very good, sir.” Gammon left without bothering to close the bedroom door, his undisguised chuckles echoing down the hallway.

  “Weed the west lawn,” moaned Jim, “what a carve-up.” He tossed aside the holiday brochures and climbed gingerly from his cosy bed. Here he was just days away from millionairedom and he was expected to weed lawns, it seemed hardly fair. The Professor was definitely having a pop at him. No doubt because Omally had legged it. Jim sought his shirt amongst the untidy pile of clothing which lay at the bedside. It was just typical of Omally to leave him holding the baby. The Irishman would come swanning back all smiles and excuses once Jim picked up his winnings, that was for sure.

  But that, Jim considered, was the lot of the millionaire. There was always some “Johnny-come-lately” out to get a share of the booty. The world was full of avarice. Sad times, everybody wanted to cop the pot of gold. This cosmic truth set the lad a-thinking. Now, the Professor was actually paying him to do the gardening, so perhaps a deal could be struck. A thousand or two out of the winnings wasn’t going to hurt the bank balance very much. He could write out an IOU and put his feet up for a couple of weeks. A bit of “tax free” for the old boy and an easy life for himself. Gammon’s services came a mite expensive, he would engage his own servant, an au pair girl perhaps, or one of those Filipino beauties one reads about, or even two.

  Smiling and whistling at the same time, Jim unearthed his trousers and a jumper and slipped them on over his pyjamas. “No sense in going the whole hog,” he told himself. “If the Professor agrees, I can be back in bed in ten minutes.”

  Professor Slocombe worked at his study desk. He did not look up as Jim entered the room. “Nice to see you up and about,” he said, as Jim dithered in the doorway. “You’ll be a bit hot working with your pyjamas still on, I would have thought.”

  Jim chewed at his bottom lip. “I’ve been thinking,” said he.

  “Good, then your time has not been altogether wasted. I trust that the conclusions reached during this period of cogitation will be put to practical use in the garden?”

  “Might I have a cup of coffee?” Jim asked, spying the turkish pot bubbling at the fireside.

  “But of course, Jim. Kindly pour one for me if you will.”

  Pooley did so. “About this lawn weeding business,” he said as he placed the Professor’s cup upon his desk, “under the circumstances, I think we might dispense with it.”

  “My feelings exactly,” said Professor Slocombe, much to Jim’s surprise and momentary relief. “Under the circumstances.”

  “Oh good, that is pleasing to my ears.”

  “Yes, we must place lawn weeding as one of the least of our priorities.”

  “That’s the stuff,” said Jim.

  “Yes, we must channel every ounce of our energy and resources into a matter of a far more pressing and urgent nature.”

  “We must?” Already Jim didn’t like the sound of it.

  “Sit down, Jim. You will not like what I have to tell you.”

  Taking the Professor, as ever, at his word, Pooley settled into a fireside chair. “What do you see here, Jim?” Professor Slocombe rose from his desk and displayed his map of Brentford. Jim perused it with less than passing interest.

  “Am I looking for anything in particular?” he asked.

  “This.” The sage tapped at the outline of the Star Stadium.

  “The stadium?”

  “Yes, but what do you see?”

  Jim was as ever puzzled. “I see a big star, what else should I see?”

  “A five-pointed star.”

  “Well, of course I see that.”

  The Professor took up his quill and joined the five star points. “Now what do you see?”

  “A thingamegig, pentathing.”

  “Pentagram, Jim, an inverted pentagram.”

  �
�Ah!” said Pooley. He didn’t know much about the occult, but anybody knew this much. “That’s not good, is it?”

  “No, it is anything but. The inverted pentagram is the symbol of diabolism, the symbol of negative energy, negative force, all that is evil.”

  Jim was unconvinced. “You see an inverted pentagram, Professor, the world sees an Olympic stadium.”

  “I think there is a great deal more to it than that.”

  “No,” said Jim, “put such dark thoughts from your mind. The thing is the proverbial work of genius. Eighth wonder of the world. Today the athletes are coming — in fact I thought I’d take a stroll down to join in the festivities myself, why don’t you come too?”

  “Does nothing about this stadium strike you as mysterious, Jim?”

  Pooley blew out his cheeks. “Well, of course it does, but the world is full of mysteries, what is one more or less to me? We do live in quite extraordinary times, by any account.”

  Professor Slocombe rolled the map and flung it down on his desk. “The Birmingham stadium meets with disaster after disaster, culminating in a fire which destroys it completely. Within a single day — a single day — mark you, a substitute is proposed here. It is instantly accepted and construction begins almost at once. A few short weeks later it is completed and the athletes arrive. What does this say to you?”

  “Fast thinking?” Pooley suggested. “That is the way of the world today.”

  “It is impossibly fast, Jim. It is frankly impossible from beginning to bitter end. If this stadium was preconstructed by any normal means, it would be the work of years. But it springs up here in days. Where was it constructed? How could it be ready for erection precisely when it was required? How did the land on which the legs rest come to be available at exactly the right time? Where did the money come from? How could such a vast project be conducted in utter secrecy? How was it all done, Jim?”

  “You’ve got me, but it certainly was, you can trust the evidence of your own eyes.”

  “I have learned, through bitter experience, never to trust that alone.”