“Such I believe to be his name – the manager of Brentford United. Do you think you could get me his autograph? I’d ask myself, but I’d be embarrassed – you know how it is.”
Omally, a man who was not wholly averse to employing the occasional untruth should the situation so require, could almost smell the lies that issued from the landlord’s mouth.
“I must warn you,” said John, “that if you have done anything to harm Mr Pooley, you will have me to reckon with.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. How’s your Ssenniug, by the way?”
Omally took a sip. “Foul,” said he, replacing his glass upon the counter.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “If it tastes like shit and smells like a rotten corpse, then it’s all right with us.”
“Don’t forget what I said,” said John. And he stalked across the black-tiled floor to where Norman was sitting in a corner.
“Where is Jim?” John asked.
Norman looked up at John. “Hello, John,” said he.
“Jim,” said John, “have you seen him, Norman?”
Norman shook his head. Norman looked rather drunk.
“Have you been drinking?” John asked.
“Silly question, John. I’m sitting in a pub. Wine wears no britches and where there’s life there’s hope. And if it’s a ‘Road’ film, there’ll probably be Crosby, too.” Norman tittered foolishly.
“Where is Jim?”
Norman shrugged. “He hasn’t turned up. He was going to give me some moral support, but I don’t think I really need it now.”
“So you haven’t seen him?”
“I haven’t.” Norman shook his head. “And I’ll have to ask you to leave me now, John – Yola is coming over. I have to speak to her in private.”
Omally turned to watch the approach of Yola Bennett. She looked particularly stunning tonight, with heels of the highest persuasion on her thigh-high patent-leather boots. Her leather skirt was scarcely a waistband and her bodice, a black latex corset, gave her the breasts of a Manga babe. Her long blonde hair flowed every which way and she walked with a wiggle and a wowser!
Her handbag was by Vivienne Westwood.
Shampoo by L’Oreal.
Because she was worth it.
John Omally caught his breath. Now that was a sight to be seen. Especially the handbag.
“Good evening, John,” said Yola, rolling her tongue about her full red lips. “We must get together sometime soon.”
“We must,” Omally agreed.
“But for now, piss off, why don’t you? I need to speak to Norman.”
“Right,” said John. And he turned back to Norman. “You really don’t know where Jim is?” he asked.
Norman turned up the palms of his hands. “I haven’t seen Jim,” he said.
Omally felt his stomach knotting. “Where are you, Jim?” said he.
Jim Pooley sat before the bar counter at The Four Horsemen.
Jim was well within his cups and feeling all right with the world.
“I don’t know what I’ve been worrying about,” he told Jack Lane, the octogenarian landlord. “Everything will be all right, I just know it will”
“You’ll have to speak up,” said the ancient. “I’ve misplaced my hearing aid.”
Jim spoke up. “What was it like?” he asked.
“A pink thing made out of Bakelite.”
“Not your hearing aid. I mean what was it like for you when you captained the Brentford team and led them to victory in nineteen twenty-eight?”
“Ah,” said Jack Lane, “that. That was real man’s soccer back in those days. None of those leaping nancy boys you have now, with their girlie haircuts and earrings. You went out on the pitch and you fought, hammer and tongs. Kicked the bejesus from their shin pads and whacked the bastard ball into the net.”
“You reckon your lot could have taken on a present-day side, then?”
“We’d have made mincemeat of them.”
Pooley chuckled.
“But what about your lot?” said Jack Lane. “It’s bloody Billy Smart’s now, your lot.”
“We’ll succeed,” said Jim. “And when we bring the FA Cup back to Brentford, you can put it up on the shelf behind your bar.”
“Do you promise?” asked Jack.
“You have my word,” said Jim.
“Then the next drink is on the house. A half of shandy, wasn’t it?”
“It was a pint,” said Jim, “of Large.”
Old Jack Lane squinted up at his clock. “I thought you told me, when you came in here four hours ago for a quick one, that you had a pressing engagement, offering some chum of yours a bit of moral support.”
Jim now squinted up at the clock. “Norman,” he said. “Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten about Norman.”
“Norman,” said Yola, seating herself beside Norman on his pew and crossing her legs in a manner so provocative that words are insufficient to describe the erotic effect. “Norman, aren’t you going to buy me a drink?”
“A drink?” said Norman. “Not in your condition, surely?”
“My condition?”
“Our baby,” said Norman. “Does it move yet, can I feel it?”
“What?” said Yola.
“It’s wonderful news,” said Norman. “Peg and I are really thrilled.”
“Peg?” said Yola. “You’ve told Peg?”
“Of course,” said Norman. “I tell her everything.”
Yola narrowed her eyes towards Norman. “Everything?” said she.
“Absolutely,” said Norman. “A boy’s best friend is his mother, but a wife can do things a mother cannot. She’s very thrilled. You see, she and I could never have any kiddies. She’s got something amiss with her internal workings caused by an overintake of pies, possibly. But she’s keen to adopt. And if you’re not keen on that, then you’re welcome to come and live with us at the shop. You’ll enjoy working there, it will be a bit like working for Mr Gray, except you won’t have your own desk.”
Yola made a disgruntled face. “Work in your shop?” said she. “Are you mad?”
“Mad?” said Norman. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you have twenty-three million pounds coming to you tomorrow. You surely weren’t thinking of keeping your shop. Or, indeed, your wife.”
“It’s really Peg’s shop,” said Norman. “She made me sign one of those prenuptial agreements.”
“But the twenty-three million is yours?”
“Seemingly not,” said Norman. “What’s mine is hers and what’s hers is her own, apparently.”
Yola looked deeply into the eyes of Norman. “Ah,” she said. “Nice try, Norman, you almost had me believing you.”
“Excuse me?” said Norman.
“I said ‘nice try’. Who put you up to this? Was it John Omally?” Yola glanced about the bar, but John Omally had gone.
“No one put me up to anything,” said Norman.
“You’re a very sad little man.”
“Excuse me once more,” said Norman.
Outside thunder crashed and lightning flashed and the rain fell down in torrents. Jim Pooley peered out from the porch of Jack Lane’s pub. “It will lift in a minute,” said Jim to himself, “and then I’ll be on my way to offer my moral support to Norman.”
“Norman,” said Yola, “there’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?” said Norman. “I don’t understand.”
Mr Richard Gray smiled down upon Norman. “Good evening to you,” he said.
“Oh,” said Norman, looking up to take stock of the man in the long, dark coat with the astrakhan collar. “Mr Gray, I didn’t see you coming.”
“Really?” said Mr Gray, seating himself opposite Norman and placing a pint of Ssenniug before him on the table. “Mr Omally left this at the bar upon his departure. A shame to let it go to waste.”
“What is going on here?” Norman asked.
“Business,” sa
id Mr Richard Gray. “Strictly business. You should have taken the deal I offered you when you came into my office and showed me the contract for your patents.”
“Oh that,” said Norman. “Well, that doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Believe you me, it matters.”
“It doesn’t,” said Norman, “because after the match tomorrow there won’t be any patents any more, nor will there be any money.”
“He’s lying,” said Yola. “He just told me a pack of lies and now he’s telling more.”
“I’m not,” said Norman. “Well, perhaps I was a bit before, but I’m not now. I did a very bad thing. Those weren’t really my patents – I discovered the technology on an antique computer system. This friend of mine thought they’d been destroyed when he destroyed my computer, but they hadn’t because I’d already patented them in my own name and sold the rights – to a very, very bad man, it seems, who will do terrible things if he has them.”
“Mr William Starling,” said Mr Richard Gray. And the whites of his eyes turned horribly black and these black eyes gazed upon Norman.
“But it’s all going to be sorted,” said Norman, “after my friend and I have been to the match at Wembley tomorrow. Apparently he’s booked seats in the executive box. At my expense, apparently, but that doesn’t matter. But what does matter is that after the match he is going to go, er, back and sort out all the business with the patents. Everything is going to work out fine.”
“Mad,” said Yola. “He’s as mad as a drawerful of jewellery.”
“A drawerful of jewellery?” said Norman. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
Mr Richard Gray pulled an envelope from the pocket of his long, dark coat with the astrakhan collar and pushed it across the table towards Norman.
“What’s this?” Norman asked.
“Open it,” said Mr Richard Gray.
Norman opened the envelope and read its contents. “It’s a Last Will and Testament,” said Norman. “It’s a Last Will and Testament made out in my name.”
“Read it aloud,” said Mr Richard Gray.
Norman read it aloud. “‘This is to testify that I, Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath my worldly goods as follows:
‘To Yola Sarah Hopkins Bennett of Thirteen Willow Cottages, Kew, the sum of £12,500,000. And to Mr Richard Gray of Eighty-two The Butts Estate, Brentford, the sum of £12,500,000 and all further income deriving from the rights upon any patents that exist in my name.
‘Signed …’”
Norman looked up at Mr Richard Gray.
“You want me to sign this?” he said.
Mr Richard Gray took out his fountain pen and handed it to Norman. “Now, if you will,” said he.
“But I’ve told you,” said Norman, “there won’t be any money.”
“Then where’s the harm in signing it?”
Norman looked into the eyes of Mr Richard Gray and saw there only darkness.
“I don’t feel comfortable with this,” said Norman. “And wills have to be witnessed.”
“The landlord will witness it,” said Mr Gray.
“I’ll have to think about it,” said Norman.
“But I insist that you sign it now.”
“I’m leaving,” said Norman, and he made to rise, but to his horror found that he could not.
“I’m incapacitated,” said Norman. “My knees won’t work at all.”
“Sign the will,” said Mr Richard Gray.
“It will soon lift,” said Pooley, sheltering still beneath the porch. “It’s a goodly storm, but it will lift.”
“Lift the pen and sign your name,” said Mr Richard Gray.
“But there won’t be any money,” repeated Norman, “I told you. What have you done to my legs? You’ve done something terrible to them.”
“They’ll lift you up once you’ve signed.”
“All right,” said Norman. “I’ll sign.” And he did so without a flourish. “Happy now? And can I please go home?”
“Home?” said Mr Richard Gray. “Home?”
“Home,” said Norman. “I do have a home to go to. Home is where the heart is and there’s no place like home.”
Mr Richard Gray laughed hideously and, to Norman’s further horror as he looked upon the solicitor’s teeth, he saw that they were now as dead dark black as Mr Gray’s coal-like peepers.
“There’s no going home for you,” said Mr Richard Gray. “A will is nothing more than a piece of paper until the man who signed it is dead. And tonight, Mr Hartnel, you are going to die.”
“Yola.” Norman turned to the woman beside him. “Yola, do something – this man is a monster. Yola, you can’t let this happen.”
But Yola’s eyes were now also black. And so, too, were her breasts.
“Time, gentlemen, please,” called Jack Lane. “And Pooley, I can still see your shadow on the glass of my door. Get off into the rain and offer your friend your moral support.”
“Time, gentlemen, please,” called Mr Gwynplaine Dhark and, approaching Norman’s table, he added, “Where would you like me to put my signature, Mr Gray?”
“Time, gentlemen, please.” Omally heard the words called out by the barman of The Shrunken Head. Jim wasn’t in there either, and John set out once more into the storm.
“Let me go,” begged Norman. “I’ve signed the will. You never know, I might die a natural death in my sleep tonight. It could happen. Death keeps no calendar, you know.”
“Up,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Your knees will work for you now. Up, we have places to go.”
“What places?” Norman asked.
“The canal,” said Mr Richard Gray. “We’ll take a walk to the canal. You’re going to have a tragic accident.”
“No,” begged Norman. “No. Won’t somebody help me, please?” And he shouted out “Help!” at the top of his voice. But The Beelzepub was now empty.
Empty, that is, but for Norman, Yola, Richard Gray and Gwynplaine Dhark, the landlord.
“Take him out,” said Gwynplaine Dhark, “and do what must be done.”
“No,” begged Norman. “No!”
But Yola dragged him from his seat with a most unnatural strength and propelled Norman in the direction of the door.
“Help me!” wailed Norman. “Won’t somebody help me? Somebody help me, please!”
“There’s no help for you,” said Gwynplaine Dhark, pulling open the door and holding it so.
Rain lashed down beyond, exploding all over the street. Thunder groaned above in a sky that the lightning tore apart.
Jim Pooley’s face peered in from the maelstrom. “Is Norman still here?” he asked.
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Gwynplaine Dhark tried to slam shut the door, but Jim put his shoulder to it. There was something of a struggle, but presently Pooley prevailed.
The landlord stood back, breathing heavily. Jim stood in the doorway, viewing the tableau before him. Norman stood trembling, held in the grip, it seemed, of a woman who had surely stepped out from the glossy pages of one of the racier publications that filled Norman’s uppermost shop shelves. And to the other side of Norman stood a man in a long, dark coat whose face was all over black.
Jim Pooley blinked at this tableau. The word “outnumbered” entered his thoughts.
“Norman,” said Jim. “Norman, are you all right?”
“I’m not,” said Norman, struggling to no avail. “These lunatics are going to drown me in the canal.”
“That’s not very nice,” said Jim. “I think you’d better come with me.”
“I think not.” Gwynplaine Dhark did gesturings.
The door of The Beelzepub slammed shut behind Jim with a death-cell finality.
“Now, let’s not do anything silly,” said Jim.
“Luck indeed.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark rubbed his clammy palms together. “Two birds with one stone, as it were – the moneyman and the mana
ger of Brentford United. My master was forced to take a magical oath not to harm you.”
“Your master?” said Jim.
“William Starling,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I have been his man from the start. If your friend Neville had not put his spoke in at the council meeting, the football ground and what lies beneath it would already be in the hands of my master.”
“This is new,” said Norman. “What is this all about?”
“Unfinished business,” said Mr Dhark, “but it will be finished tonight.”
“Your master took the oath,” said Jim. “You cannot harm me.”
“But this man is your friend,” said Mr Dhark, pointing a pale finger towards Norman. “What would you do to protect your friend from certain death?”
“Whatever I could,” said Jim. “And whatever I can.”
“Even if it were to cost you your own life?”
“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that.”
Rain lashed in once more through the once-more-open doorway. An open doorway in which now stood John Omally.
“You!” said Gwynplaine Dhark.
“Me,” said John Omally. “I came back. I knew Jim would not let down a friend, even though he might be a bit late. Jim is a good man, you see, although you’d know nothing of that.”
“Pleased to see you, John,” said Jim. “Norman and I were just leaving.”
“No,” said Gwynplaine Dhark. “Nobody leaves. Alive, that is.”
“Remember your magical oath,” said John. “It must not be broken.”
“I just mentioned that,” said Jim.
Lightning struck home near to The Beelzepub and the bar’s windows rattled in their mullions and the brightness cast shadows that were blacker than the walls.
“A dilemma,” said Mr Dhark. “But you all must surely die.”
“We’re leaving,” said Jim. “Come, Norman.”
“You will find,” said Mr Dhark, “that the door will not open. In fact, you will find that there’s no door there at all.”
Norman looked and John looked and Jim Pooley, he looked, too. And where the door to the street had just been, there was now but an empty wall.
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