The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4 Read online

  Pooley and Omally did not attend the brewery trip, nor the wine-tasting at Punter’s. They even missed the mayoral banquet, which was probably a good thing as it turned out to be a somewhat crowded and boisterous affair. It was complicated by the arrival of a charabanc load of pensioners, smelling strongly of brilliantine and mothballs and clad in Sunday suits of a style which was currently enjoying a renaissance in fashionable circles. They sported rainbows of medal ribbons and each clutched an official itinerary.

  Old Pete had long harboured an especial hatred for the town council over several prosecutions dealt out to him by the public health inspector. Young Chips was a prolific footpath fouler. Having left Neville that lunchtime, Pete had wasted little time in getting down to the library’s photocopier. Thirty bootlegged itineraries soon found their way into the eager wrinkled hands of his trench-footed cronies at the British Legion. These veterans, known and feared by the local Meals on Wheels as the Passchendaele Piranhas, now arrayed themselves at the mayoral table, tucked their napkins into their celluloid collars and prepared to do battle.

  Jennifer Naylor shook her head in noble defeat and smiled bravely towards the Mayor who was frantically leafing through the pages of his appointments diary and wondering where he had gone wrong.

  The representatives of Her Majesty’s Government were now somewhat thin on the ground. Despite Jennifer’s attempts to foil their many escape bids, the afternoon had seen them drifting away in ones and twos, mostly in twos. Those that remained had now reached that stage of alcoholic enlightenment so often granted to those in public office. Talk had turned naturally enough to the reinstitution of hanging, the return of the Empire and Hugo Rune’s proposition to feed the world’s starving by eating the unemployed. The fogeys called for fodder and broke wind.

  Jennifer Naylor raised her glass towards the Mayor and said, “Cheers.”

  “Cheers!” said John Omally, “Cheers and good luck!”

  Pooley raised the glass of ten-year-old malt to his nose and sniffed. “How did you come by this?” he asked.

  Omally gave his own nose a significant tap. “Services rendered, Jim,” he replied. “And so to business. You got everything?”

  “Ah yes.” Pooley had spent the balance of the afternoon in Hounslow High Street, shopping. Omally had issued him a list of requirements and although each seemed innocent and unrelated, their sum was evidently something more. This was confirmed by John’s order that if Jim was taken he must “eat the list”. “It’s all there,” said Pooley, nodding towards several bulging carrier bags. “I shall have red rings around my fingers for a week humping that lot.” Omally ignored this complaint and emptied the bags on to his work bench. He examined the boxes of washing soda, the bags of white sugar, the cans of weedkiller, the drum of red oxide and the range of other sundry items. “This will serve admirably,” he told Jim. “Now I think it would be better if you were not here. Why not go down to headquarters and clear your desk out.”

  “You mean remove incriminating evidence?”

  “I mean take what personal items you hold dear, for come midnight they will have no tomorrow. Cut along now, Jim, I’ll meet you in the Swan in an hour or so.” He cast an eye towards the rapidly retreating form of Jim Pooley. “And open up the fish pens, salmon deserve a better fate than this.” The door slammed shut upon Pooley and Omally drummed his fingers upon the work bench.

  The words of an old rebel song sprung unexpectedly to his lips.

  Five minutes later a furtive Pooley crept through the long grass towards the rusting hulk of the not-so-abandoned barge. There was a chill in the air which caused the lad to turn up his jacket collar as he trod the path of his own knowing. High above, a bloated moon swam upstream through ribbons of scudding cloud. Herons rustled mysteriously in their skyline roosts and a distant owl made personal enquiries. Suddenly a salmon went plop and Pooley’s heart momentarily lost count.

  Jim’s wide eyes glowed whitely in the moonlight. The abandoned boatyard had a certain charm in the daytime, but at night it lost all appeal and Pooley’s over-fertile imagination was already getting the better of him. All those whispered tales of the headless bargee and the smiling smuggler came flooding back. In his immediate condition Jim neglected to remember that it was he and John who had started them off in the first place. And there was always the Brentford Griffin. Jim shivered. It could be out there somewhere even now, licking its beak at the prospect of Pooley in a basket. “No,” Jim shook his head firmly. It was only a story, only a hoax invented by those nancy boys at the Arts Centre for a bit of prime-time publicity. Nevertheless, you couldn’t be sure. The salmon went plop again and Jim scuttled on towards the ancient barge.

  Once inside, with the door closed and the lights on, things didn’t seem quite so bad, even though they indeed were. Jim perused the familiar trappings, the furniture, the fripperies, the odds and sods. All were now alien, all now had big neon lights flashing the words, “Damning Evidence” again and again.

  Pooley sat down on the Le Corbusier. Where to start? What to take? What mattered? He sighed and scratched his head and his eyes strayed towards the cocktail cabinet.

  Jim perked up. He sauntered over to the bottle of Dom Perignon 1807 which stood perpetually on ice in the electric ice bucket, awaiting its Moment. Jim spent little time in arriving at the conclusion that its Moment had now arrived. The bottle was cold and bulky, it would be far easier to carry the contents if they were in fact inside him. To leave it was to waste it and Jim abhorred waste. He would toast the end of an era in vintage shampoo whilst gathering up his goods and chattels. Out with the old and in with the new. Pleased as ever with the power of his reasoning, Jim applied pressure with his thumb and popped the cork.

  The Memorial Library clock struck ten as John Omally entered the Flying Swan. Saturday evening here was, as ever, a loud and raucous affair, but tonight more colour had been added by the addition of strings of bunting and large photographs of Daley Thompson and Sebastian Coe pinned up behind the bar. Neville greeted him without enthusiasm and John ordered a pint of the very best, declining the “Olympic Toasty” which Neville recommended as an ideal complement to his porter.

  “This is all very jolly,” said John. “If it is a taste of things to come then we are in for merry months ahead.”

  “As long as the brewery keep their hands to themselves,” said Neville, “then there might be the prospect of a few pennies to be had.”

  “The javelin.” Norman’s voice arose amidst the general hubbub to catch Omally’s ear. John received his pint, paid for same and sought out the shopkeeper. “Oh yes, John,” said Norman, “the javelin.” He made the appropriate movements. Omally sipped delicately at his ale, draining the pint glass by a third. Norman’s skills with the feathered flight were legend hereabouts. He was captain of the Swan’s team, a team unbeaten these ten long years. The thought of the paunchy shopman taking on the world’s finest athletes, however, did not seem to gel.

  “You are in training, then?” John asked.

  Norman grinned wolfishly. “It’s all on paper,” said he.

  “Ah!” Omally joined Norman in an enlightened smile. “You are designing your own javelin then?” A look passed between the two men which was of that rare sort that can only pass between old and trusted friends, or at least between those who know what each other are up to. “Then bravo,” said John. “I will have Jim put a pound or two on the home team.”

  “Best I do it,” said Norman. “The jungle drums tell me that Pooley’s face does not exactly fit in Bob’s establishment at the present time.”

  “Good man.” Omally called out for two refills. “Has Jim been in?” he asked Neville.

  “Haven’t seen him tonight. Did you want anything to eat with those?”

  “No,” said Omally, “I do not, I wonder what might have happened to Jim.”

  “Surely he is still enjoying his free meal on the council,” said the barman, taking up a glass to polish. “No doubt you have just d
one the same.”

  “I have not.”

  “Then you must be famished, have an Olympic Toasty.”

  “Neville,” said John, “the events of this lunchtime were not of my doing.”

  “Events?”

  “I am thinking of your sudden loss of clientèle which resulted in the surfeit of salmon sandwiches you are now attempting to pass off as Olympic Toasties.”

  Neville took himself off in a huff to serve an impatient customer. “Bar snacks, anyone?” he was heard to enquire.

  “Tell me, Norman,” said Omally as he passed the shopkeeper his pint. “As a man of science, what do you make of this stadium business?”

  “In what way, John?”

  “Well, is it feasible? You know, solar panels? Gravitite, all that stuff?”

  “It is feasible,” said Norman, a trace of bitterness entering his voice, “although I cannot as yet say how it is to be done.”

  Omally nodded thoughtfully. “It is all a bit sudden though.”

  “Sudden is not the word. The news hits us today and construction appears scheduled to begin come Monday. That is speed beyond human capability. No, Gravitite alone must have taken years to develop. There is a good deal more to all this than meets the eye.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “Computers,” said Norman. “Computers and a single brain. And one more fearsome than that of the legendary Albert E. himself.”

  “So who is your man?”

  “The Lord alone knows. A scientific genius and one of considerable wealth. The paper says, ‘an anonymous philanthropist who desires anonymity’, and if that is his desire then no doubt such a man is quite capable of realizing same. But why do you ask, John? We shall all make something out of this. The stadium will come, the stadium will go. Life will continue. Let us enjoy it as we will.”

  Omally finished his latest pint. “You are no doubt right,” he agreed. “So whose round is it?”

  18

  Jim Pooley lazed in the Le Corbusier. Dom Perignon lazed in Jim Pooley. It is a curious thing how the simple transfer of a body of liquid from one location to another can alter so many things. Or at least appear to. The furtive, worried Pooley of the hour past had now vanished, to be replaced by a mellow, crisis-what-crisis?-God-is-in-His-Heaven-and-all’s-right-with-the-world kind of body.

  Jim tinkered with the remote controller and the twenty-five inch screen of a “re-routed” television set filled with Sergio Leone’s classic western, For a Few Dollars More. Jim greatly preferred the video (which he had viewed on many previous occasions) with the sound on, but he had never achieved full mastery of the controller and did not feel up to making the stroll over for a manual turn-up.

  “It’s not a bad old life.” Jim shifted his roll-up to the corner of his mouth. “I really cannot see what all the fuss is about,” he informed the silent set, as the “Man With No Name” drew upon Red “Baby” Kavanagh and sent the outlaw to a two-thousand-dollar grave.

  Old Pete rose unsteadily to address the assembled company. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, most honoured guests, friends, Romans and countrymen.” His cronies enjoined in hearty hand-claps. Jennifer Naylor chewed upon her lower lip. The Mayor said nothing. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking-” beneath the table Young Chips gnawed upon a chicken-leg and broke wind meaningfully- “I should just like to offer a word of thanks to all those who have made this evening possible. And to say that, on behalf of myself and the senior citizens of Brentford, how very much we have enjoyed the splendid repast and how very much we look forward to the brandy and cigars which must now bring it to a successful conclusion.” Old Pete reseated himself amidst tumultuous geriatric applause, a line or two of “Tipperary” and a further barrage of flatulence from his dog. “I thank you.”

  Jennifer Naylor stood up, this single action playing havoc with two dozen formerly defunct libidos, and putting as many pace-makers under considerable strain. A whistle of feedback, as the ancients turned their deaf-aids up full volume, piped her aboard.

  “My Lord Mayor, Government Ministers, ladies and gentlemen-” she paused and nodded towards the old contemptibles “-members of the Olympic committee.” A score of turtle necks inclined in response to this unexpected elevation in status. “Today is a day that shall be writ big in the annals of Brentford. For today, official confirmation has been made that we are indeed to host the coming Olympiad.” She put up her hand to subdue the applause that wasn’t coming anyway. “It is my great pleasure to hand you over to our honoured guest, his worship the Mayor, to give the speech of acceptance.” She primly reseated herself.

  The honoured guest rose to the occasion, arranged a sheaf of papers before him on the table and his reading glasses upon his nose. He smiled down the expanse of table towards the rows of ancient faces which regarded him with but a single expression. It was not one of solicitude.

  “Dear friends,” he began, “my dear, dear friends.”

  John Omally finished his pint and looked up towards the battered Guinness clock. Nearly eleven o’clock, Neville was calling last orders and Pooley was nowhere to be seen. This was not how he had planned things at all. In a perfect world Pooley would have been there an hour ago; leaving their drinks unfinished, the two of them would have slipped away from the Swan, picked up the explosives from the allotment, set the charges on the barge and been back in time to finish their pints and comment upon the possible causes of the loud explosion coming from the direction of the river. Surrounded by friends, they might even have taken a stroll down to see what all the hullaballoo was about. But this was not a perfect world and Jim Pooley was nowhere to be seen. Omally slid his empty glass across the bar counter. What was the lad up to? What had become of him? A sudden grim expression forced its way across John’s normally cheerful countenance. Jim had done a runner!

  Pooley ran the video forward to the chiming watch gun-fight sequence at the end, his favourite bit. Without the sound, however, the tension lost much of its impact. Jim rose unsteadily and rooted about amongst the rack of video tapes. He had some crackers here and no mistake: They Saved Hitler’s Brain, Plan Nine from Outer Space, Mars Needs Women. Every one a classic, you couldn’t blow these up. There had to be another way.

  Pooley almost scratched at his head, it was a close thing. “Perhaps we can refloat the barge,” he said drunkenly. “Drift downstream for a bit, that would be the business.” He rattled the neck of the champagne bottle into a Georgian rummer. Empty. “Time for a top-up,” said the lad, swaying over to the cocktail cabinet. “Now, eenie, meenie, my knee …” There was a wide range of drinks on offer, but most were of the “brought-home-from-holiday-because-we-liked-the-colour” variety, which seemed a good idea at the time when drunk, but inevitably led to severe brain damage the next morning.

  “Banana Liquor,” said Jim. “That seems like a good idea.” Twisting away a plastic stopper the shape of Carmen Miranda’s hat, he decanted a large slug of the yellow liquid into his glass. “Anchors away,” said Jim.

  There was a loud thump upon the hull of the barge. Pooley stiffened. John, already. He hiccupped foolishly. “You’ll have to hang on a minute,” he giggled. “I’ve not quite got everything.” There was another thump and the sound of something metallic being drawn down the side of the barge. “Now what’s he up to?” queried Jim. “Setting the charges, you buffoon,” he answered himself. “So get a move on.” Pooley took a hasty look around. Most of it was out of focus and none of it really seemed to matter much. He took a deep unsteady breath. He’d be a millionaire soon, who cared about a barge load of booty? This was a new beginning. A new honest beginning. He stumbled over to a nearby porthole and drew aside the blinds.

  Peering out, Pooley found himself staring directly into the face of death itself! The face was big and bloated, hideously swollen, a mass of folds and pouches. The skin looked dead and white, the skin of a corpse. But the eyes were alive, round and black with white pupils. Jim drew back in horror, and then in anger. It
was the head of a scarecrow, or a somesuch. John was winding him up, and him with a weak heart and everything. And then the eyes blinked, the horrible eyes blinked and a mouth like a gash amongst the folds and flaps of skin opened. It opened to reveal a hideous maw, a gaping black cavern devoid of teeth and gums. And a sound, a voice, a cry … Jim thrust back the blind and lurched back in terror. Turning to make his getaway he caught his foot in the TV cable, wrenched the improvised socket from the wall, fused the lights, plunged the salon into darkness, tripped, fell, struck his head on the cocktail cabinet and knocked himself unconscious.

  John Omally climbed down through the open hatchway, clutching a bulging holdall and peered into the darkness. He flicked the light switch. “Damn it,” said he. “Jim, are you in there?”

  All was silent, except for the gentle lap of water against the hull. Even the plopping salmon had turned in for the night.

  “Jim?” There was no reply. Pooley had evidently done a runner. “Poltroon,” muttered Omally. “I shall have words to say to that lad when I catch up with him. Buggers the electrics, leaves the door open to all and sundry.” He stood up in the hatchway and placed the holdall upon the deck before him. He didn’t need much light for this, it was all down to a single flick of a switch to set the five-minute egg-timer, the work of but a moment.

  Omally unzipped the holdall, flipped the switch, rezipped the holdall and received a violent blow to the forehead which sent him tumbling backwards into the blackness of the salon. “What the … who?” Omally sprawled in the dark, cursing and spitting oaths. He drew a deep breath and prepared to come up fighting. The lozenge of moonlight visible through the open hatchway was momentarily blotted out as a dark shape dropped down into the barge after him. “Who is this?” John demanded. “What’s your game?” Something bowled across the floor and struck him in the shins with a sickening crack. Omally screamed in anguish and not a little fury, and doubled up clutching his legs. He fell in an untidy heap on top of an unconscious Jim Pooley.