The Brentford Triangle (The Brentford Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘This has all the makings of a most eventful evening,’ said Jim Pooley. ‘The first eliminator not yet over and blood already drawn.’

  The adjudicator wiped away the New Inn’s name from the board. With their best player disqualified, morale had suffered a devastating and irrevocable blow, and the New Inn had retired from the competition.

  Next up were the North Star and the Princess Royal. The North Star’s team never failed to raise eyebrows no matter where they travelled, being five stout brothers of almost identical appearance. They ranged from the youngest, Wee Tarn, at five feet five, to the eldest, Big Bob, at six foot two, and had more the look of a set of Russian dolls about them than a darts team. Their presence in public always had a most sobering effect upon the more drunken clientele.

  Their opponents, upon the other hand, could not have looked less alike had they set out to do so. They numbered among their incongruous ranks, two garage mechanic ne’er-do-wells, a bearded ex-vicar, a tall lift engineer with small ears, and a clerk of works with large ones. They also boasted the only Chinese player in Brentford. Tommy Lee was the grand master to the Brentford Temple of Dimac and was most highly danned, even amongst very danned people indeed. Few folk in the Borough ever chose to dispute with him over a doubtful throw.

  However, Tommy, who had taken the Dimac oath which bound him never to use any of the horrendous, maiming, tearing, crippling and disfiguring techniques unless his back was really up against the wall, was a fair and honest man and very popular locally. He was also the only player known to throw underarm. He fared reasonably well, and as usual it took two strong lads to withdraw his hand-carved ivory darts from the board.

  ‘I’ll bet that took the remaining plaster off Archie’s back parlour wall,’ said Omally. ‘By the way, Professor, I hope the man from Bombay is being well-catered for. We wouldn’t want him popping next door for a snack, or something, would we?’

  Professor Slocombe tapped his sinuous nose. One or other of the North Star’s men was throwing, but it was hard to tell which when they were detached from the set and you couldn’t judge them by height.

  ‘One hundred,’ bawled the adjudicator. ‘What odds are you offering at present upon the North Star?’ the Professor asked. Out of professional etiquette John answered him tic-tac fashion. ‘I will take your pony on that, then.’

  ‘From your account?’

  ‘John, you know I never carry money.’

  ‘The Princess Royal need one hundred and fifty-six,’ boomed the adjudicator, taking up the chalks.

  The lift engineer, making much of his every movement, stepped on to the oche. There was a ripple amongst the crowd as his first dart entered the treble twenty. A whistle as his second joined it and a great cry of horror as his third skimmed the double eighteen by a hairbreadth. Crimson to the tips of his small and shell-likes, the lift engineer returned to his chair, and the obscurity from which he had momentarily emerged.

  ‘Unfortunate,’ said Professor Slocombe, rubbing his hands together, ‘I have noticed in matches past that the lift engineer has a tendency to buckle under pressure.’

  Omally made a sour face, he had noticed it also, but in the heat of the betting had neglected to note the running order of the players. ‘The North Star needs eighty-seven.’

  Amidst much cheering, this figure was easily accomplished, with a single nineteen, a double nineteen and a double fifteen.

  ‘I am in profit already,’ said Professor Slocombe to the scowling Irishman.

  ‘And I,’ said Pooley.

  Now began the usual debate which always marred championship matches. A member of the Princess Royal’s team accused the men from the Star of playing out of order. The adjudicator, who had not taken the obvious course of forcing them to sport name tags, found himself at a disadvantage.

  Omally, who had spotted the omission early in the game, shook his head towards Professor Slocombe. ‘I can see all betting on this one being null and void,’ said he.

  ‘I might possibly intervene.’

  ‘That would hardly be sporting now, would it, Professor?’

  ‘You are suggesting that I might have a bias?’

  ‘Perish the thought. It is your round is it not, Jim?’

  Pooley, who had been meaning to broach the subject of a loan, set against his potential winnings, began to pat at his pockets. ‘You find me financially embarrassed at present,’ he said.

  ‘I think not,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘I recall asking you for a pound’s-worth of change from the Swan’s cash register.’

  ‘You did sir, yes.’ Pooley shook his head at the Professor’s foresight and fought his way towards the bar.

  Neville faced his customer with a cold good eye. ‘Come to kick me in the cobblers again, Pooley?’ he asked. ‘You are here on sufferance you know, as a guest of Omally and the Professor.’

  Jim nodded humbly. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Very little,’ said Neville. ‘Can you smell creosote?’

  Pooley’s moustachios shot towards the floor like a dowser’s rod. ‘Where?’ he asked in a tremulous voice.

  ‘Somewhere close,’ said Neville. ‘Take my word, it bodes no good.’

  ‘Be assured of that.’ Pooley loaded the tray and cast a handful of coins on the counter.

  ‘Keep the change,’ he called, retreating fearfully to his table.

  ‘We’re up next,’ said Omally, upon the shaky Jim’s return. ‘Will you wager a pound or two upon the home team?’

  ‘Neville smells creosote,’ said Jim.

  ‘Take it easy.’ Professor Slocombe patted the distraught Pooley’s arm. ‘I have no doubt that they must suspect something. Be assured that they are being watched.’

  The Captain Laser Alien Attack machine rattled out another series of electronic explosions.

  Norman stepped on to the mat amidst tumultuous applause. He licked the tips of his darts and nodded towards the adjudicator.

  ‘Swan to throw,’ said that man.

  Norman’s mastery of the game, his style and finesse, were legend in Brentford. Certain supporters who had moved away from the area travelled miles to witness his yearly display of skill. One pink-eyed man, who kept forever to the shadows, had actually travelled from as far afield as Penge.

  ‘One hundred and eighty,’ shouted the adjudicator, although his words were lost in the Wembley roar of the crowd.

  ‘It is poetry,’ said Omally.

  ‘Perfect mastery,’ said Pooley.

  ‘I think it has something to do with the darts,’ said Professor Slocombe, ‘and possibly the board, which I understand he donated to the Swan.’

  ‘You are not implying some sort of electronic duplicity upon the part of our captain, are you?’ Omally asked.

  ‘Would I dare? But you will notice that each time he throws, the Guinness clock stops. This might be nothing more than coincidence.’

  ‘The whole world holds its breath when Norman throws,’ said Omally, further shortening the already impossibly foreshortened odds upon the home team. ‘Whose round is it?’

  ‘I will go on to sherry now, if you please,’ said the Professor. ‘I have no wish to use the Swan’s convenience tonight.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said John. ‘We would all do well to stay in the crowd. Shorts all round then.’ Rising from the table, he took up his book, and departed into the crowd.

  Old Pete approached Professor Slocombe and greeted the scholar with much hand-wringing. ‘My dog Chips tells me that we have a bogey in our midst,’ said he.

  ‘And a distinguished one of the literary persuasion,’ the elder ancient replied. ‘Tell your dog that he has nothing to fear, Mr Poe is on our side.’

  Old Pete nodded and turned the conversation towards the sad decline in the nation’s morals and Professor Slocombe’s opinion of the post office computer.

  Omally found the boy Nick at the bar, ordering a half of light and lime. ‘Have this one on me,’ he said, handing the boy two florins. ‘You are doing a g
rand job.’

  Raffles Rathbone raised a manicured eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me you now approve?’ he asked.

  ‘Each to his own. I have never been one to deny the pleasures of the flesh. Here, have a couple of games on me and don’t miss now, will you?’ He dropped several more coins into the boy’s outstretched palm.

  ‘I never miss,’ Nick replied. ‘I have the game mastered.’

  ‘Good boy. Two gold watches and a small sweet sherry please, Neville.’

  The part-time barman glared at Omally. ‘You are paying for these,’ he snarled. ‘I still have my suspicions.’

  ‘You can pay me back later,’ Omally replied, delving into his pockets. ‘I am a man of my word.’

  ‘And I mine, eighteen and six please.’

  ‘Do you know something I don’t?’ Nick asked the Irishman.

  ‘A good many things. Did you have anything specific in mind?’

  ‘About the machine?’

  ‘Nothing. Is something troubling you?’

  Nick shook his limey head and turned his prodigious nose once more towards the unoccupied machine. ‘I must be going now,’ he said, ‘the Captain awaits.’

  ‘Buffoon,’ said Omally beneath his breath. By the time he returned to the table, the Swan’s team had disposed of their adversaries in no uncertain fashion.

  ‘I am sure that I am up by at least two bob on that game,’ said Pooley.

  ‘Two and four-pence,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’

  The final eliminating match lay between the Four Horsemen and the Albany Arms, whose team of old stalwarts, each a veteran of Gallipoli, had been faring remarkably well against spirited opposition.

  ‘Albany Arms to throw,’ boomed himself.

  ‘Leave me out of this one,’ said Pooley. ‘Unless God chooses to intervene upon this occasion and despatch Young Jack into the bottomless pit, I feel it to be a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘I will admit that you would have a wager at least one hundred pounds to win yourself another two and four-pence.’

  ‘Don’t you feel that one thousand to one against the Albany is a little cruel?’

  ‘But nevertheless tempting to the outside better.’

  ‘Taking money from children,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘How can you live with yourself, John?’

  Omally grinned beneath his beard. ‘Please do not deny me my livelihood,’ said he.

  From their first dart onwards, the Albany began to experience inexplicable difficulties with their game. Several of the normally robust geriatrics became suddenly subject to unexpected bouts of incontinence at their moments of throwing. Others mislaid their darts or spilled their beer, one even locked himself in the gents’ and refused to come out until the great grinning black goat was removed from in front of the dartboard.

  It was remarkable the effect that Young Jack could have upon his team’s opponents. The crowd, however, was not impressed. Being responsive only to the finer points of the game and ever alert to such blatant skulduggery, they viewed this degrading spectacle with outrage and turned their backs upon the board.

  Young Jack could not have cared less. The Four Horsemen needed but a double thirteen to take the match and the Albany had yet to get away. The present-day Faust smirked over towards the Professor and made an obscene gesture.

  Professor Slocombe shook his head and made clicking noises with his tongue. ‘Most unsporting,’ said he. ‘I shall see to it that none of this occurs in the final.’

  Without waiting to watch the inevitable outcome of the game, he rose from his chair and took himself off to where the Swan’s team stood in a noisy scrum, ignoring the play.

  ‘He has gone to bless the darts, I suspect,’ said Omally. ‘In his yearly battle of wits with Young Jack, the Professor leaves nothing to chance.’

  ‘Do you believe it possible?’ Pooley asked wistfully. ‘That somewhere in this green and pleasant land of ours, this sceptred isle, this jewel set in a silver sea and whatever, that there might somewhere be a little darts team, based possibly in some obscure half-timbered country pub out in the sticks, which actually plays the game for the love of it alone, and without having recourse to some underhand jiggery-pokery?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ enquired Omally. ‘Or merely drunk?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘I just wondered how such a game might look. If played by skill alone, I mean.’

  ‘Jolly dull, I should think. Here, take this one-pound note, which you can owe to me, and get in another round.’

  Jim watched a moment as Young Jack’s hellish black dart cleaved the air, leaving a yellow vapour trail, and thrust its oily nose into the double thirteen. ‘I should still like to see it,’ he said. ‘Just the once.’

  ‘Naive boy,’ sighed Omally, running his pencil down endless columns of figures, and wondering by how many thousands of pounds he was up this particular evening.

  Professor Slocombe finished muttering a Latin text over the table of laid-out darts and gave the benediction. ‘This will not of course enable you to play any better,’ he explained, ‘but it will protect your darts from any mysterious deflections which might occur.’

  The Swan’s team nodded. They had defeated the Four Horsemen in the final five years on the trot now, which was, by way of coincidence, exactly the length of time that the Professor had been acting as honorary President. They took the old man’s words strictly at their face value. None of the accidents which marred the play of the Horsemen’s other opponents ever befell them, and although few of the team knew anything whatever about the occult, each blessed the day that Norman had suggested the elderly scholar’s nomination.

  ‘Be warned now,’ Professor Slocombe continued, ‘he does appear to be on superb form tonight. Look wherever you like, but avoid his eyes.’

  Neville appeared through the crowd bearing a silver tray. On this rested a dozen twinkling champagne saucers and a Georgian silver wine cooler containing a chilled and vintage bottle of Pol Roger.

  This little morale-booster was another of the Professor’s inspirations.

  ‘Good luck to you all,’ said the part-time barman, patting Norman gingerly upon the shoulder. ‘Good luck.’

  A warlike conclave had formed at the other end of the bar. Young Jack and his demonic cohorts were clustered about Old Jack’s wheelchair, speaking in hushed, if heated, tones. Neville sensed that above the smell of creosote, which so strongly assailed his sensitive nostrils, there was a definite whiff of brimstone emanating from the satanic conspirators. The part-time barman shuddered. Why did things always have to be so complicated?

  The Swan now swelled with crowds literally to bursting point. It was almost impossible to move amongst the throng, and tray-loads of drinks were being passed from the bar counter over the heads of patrons, generally to arrive at their destinations somewhat lighter of cargo. It was rapidly reaching the ‘every man for himself stage. The atmosphere was electric with anticipation and unbreathable with cigar smoke. The noise was deafening and even the Captain Laser Alien Attack machine rattled mutely, lost amidst the din. Croughton the pot-bellied potman had come down with a severe attack of no bottle and had taken himself off to the rear yard for a quiet fag.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ bellowed the adjudicator at the top of his voice, ‘it is my pleasure to announce the final and deciding contest of the evening. The very climax of this evening’s sport.’ Omally noted that the word ‘sport’ appeared to stick slightly in the adjudicator’s throat. The final for the much coveted Brentford District Darts Challenge Trophy Shield.’

  Neville, who had taken this cherished item down from its cobwebby perch above the bar and had carefully polished its tarnished surface before secreting it away in a place known only to himself, held it aloft in both hands. A great cheer rang through the Swan.

  ‘Between the present holders, five years’ champions, the home team, the Flying Swan.’ Another deafening cheer. ‘And their challengers from the Four Horsemen.’
r />   Absolute silence, but for the occasional bitow in the background.

  ‘Gentlemen, let battle commence.’

  The home team, as reigning champions, had call of the toss. As the adjudicator flipped a copper coin high into the unwholesome smoke-filled air, Professor Slocombe, who had taken up station slightly to the rear of Young Jack, whispered, ‘The same coin had better come down and it had better not land upon its edge.’

  Young Jack leered around at his adversary. ‘As honorary President,’ he said, ‘I shall look forward to you personally handing me the shield upon your team’s crushing defeat.’

  Whether through the action of that fickle thing called fate, or through the influence of some force which the Professor had neglected to make allowance for, unlikely though that might seem, the coin fell tail-side up and the Four Horsemen were first upon the oche.

  Through merit of his advanced years and the ever-present possibility that he would not survive another championship game through to the end, Old Jack threw first.

  Professor Slocombe did not trouble to watch the ancient as he struggled from his wheelchair, assisted by his two aides, and flung his darts. His eyes were glued to the hands of Young Jack, awaiting the slightest movement amongst the dark captain’s metaphysical digits.

  It was five hundred and one up and a five-game decision and each man playing was determined to give of his all or die in the giving. Old Jack gave a fair account of himself with an ample ton.

  Norman took the mat. As he did so, both Pooley and Omally found their eyes wandering involuntarily over the heads of the crowd towards the electric Guinness clock.

  Three times Norman threw and three times did those two pairs of eyes observe the fluctuation in the clock’s hand.