The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4

by Robert Rankin

  “That not heap big medicine,” said Barry Geronimo. “That fucking impossible!”

  “Not really,” said Julian Membrane. “You see, it is not actually defying gravity. The disc is falling, but it is falling so slowly that its movement is scarcely perceptible. So you see the stadium is really only moored to the five columns. During the two months or so it is in use it will fall possibly two inches or so.”

  Even though he felt sure it would get him nowhere, Clyde Ffog persisted, “What if someone drops something during the actual assembling? Hammer? Rivets? Someone in Brentford is sure to get killed!”

  “No chance of that whatsoever.” Julian’s smugness was becoming roundly intolerable. “Gravitite possesses other qualities. Its molecular structure is such that two pieces need only be touched together for them to weld unbreakably as one. Therefore no rivets, no visible joins, no hammers. The stadium will be constructed elsewhere in sections, towed into place by dirigibles and manoeuvred together at night.”

  Councillor Ffog knew when he was licked. (He also enjoyed it very much at times.) The whole thing was utterly fantastic. Pure science fiction.

  Philip Cameron’s eyes suddenly shone with a strange light. It was the light of realization. Realization that The Moment that only comes to a man once in his lifetime had just arrived. Before him, hanging motionless in the air was an apparently endless row of pound note signs.

  “This Gravitite stuff,” he said casually, “obviously it can be produced pretty cheaply if you intend to build an entire stadium out it.” Julian nodded. “Then I’m sure you won’t object if I have this piece as a souvenir.”

  Julian plucked the disc from the air. It turned weightlessly in his hand. “I’m afraid not,” he said, thrusting it back into his pocket.

  “How rude of me,” said Philip, praying despairingly that the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead would remain unnoticed. “Let me write you out a cheque for your time and trouble.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Come now,” crooned Cameron, “you’ll take Barclaycard surely, American Express?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Julian patted his pocket.

  “Oh, come on, please, it’s only a tiny piece, you can spare it!” Cameron’s voice was cracking and he knew it. So did everyone else.

  A suddenly enlightened Barry Geronimo broke in with, “I’ll go cash on it, John, how does a century sound?”

  “One hundred and fifty,” said Councillor Ffog, “no, make it two hundred.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Julian raised his hand to bring the feverish bidding to a halt. There were knighthoods in this project and he knew it. Also his partnership had been promised the Gravitite account when it went public after the games. “It is not the money, I assure you,” he lied. “I cannot sell what is not mine to sell. We have been honoured with the trust of our client. M.M.W.T. and G. never betray the trust of a client.”

  Philip Cameron sank away into a chair. He had missed his Moment and would live out the rest of his days a broken man. Mavis Peake put her arm about his shoulder and offered her hanky. “Have a good blow,” she said.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Julian Membrane raised an admonitory palm towards the Geronimo brothers, whose conversation had turned towards the taking of paleface scalps and who were delving into their medicine bags for suitable war-paint. “Lucas here is a master of Dimac, deadliest form of martial art known to mankind.”

  Paul peered suspiciously over his make-up mirror. “Sitting Bullshit,” he said, smearing Mary Quant across his right cheek.

  “If there are no further questions,” said Lucas, “we shall not take up any more of your valuable time.”

  “I have a couple,” said Clyde Ffog.

  “And they are?” The unveiled condescension in Julian’s voice grated upon Ffog’s soul. She’s a prize bitch, this one, he thought to himself.

  “Just a couple of small matters I’d like you to put me straight on.”

  Julian glanced at the Geronimos. They were momentarily preoccupied with their make-up. “Yes then?”

  “Firstly, who owns the sites on which you plan to erect the leg columns?”

  “Ah,” said Julian. “That is the beauty of the concept. Our client owns all five sites; he purchased them all most recently. From you, the Brentford Council.”

  “I see,” said Ffog. “You seem to have been very thorough indeed.”

  Julian smiled broadly and bowed slightly. “Anything else, was there?”

  “Just one thing.” Clyde Ffog stroked at his chin. By a bizarre twist of fate his One Moment was just about to occur and he wanted to savour it. “I was just wondering,” he said slowly, “whether you’d got planning permission?”

  Julian and Lucas looked at one another. They had not got planning permission. “Ah,” said Julian. “Ah,” said Lucas. “Ah,” said the councillors, although theirs was an entirely different kind of ah. “Ah, indeed,” said Clyde Ffog, smiling broadly.

  If The Guinness Book of Records was ever to include a section for “The Largest Backhander Ever Taken By a District Surveyor” it would appear above the name of Clyde Merridew Ffog, formerly of Brentford and now domiciled in the Seychelles. “Would you gentlemen care to step into my office?” asked this most exalted amongst men.

  Amidst gasps of horror, murmurs of disbelief and the sound of tomahawks being drawn, Clyde Ffog ushered the two young oiks hurriedly from the chamber.

  8

  At precisely eleven o’clock Neville sheepishly opened the saloon-bar door, upon the safety chain. Lowering his pomander he took a delicate peck at the air. It smelt like fish. “It smells like fish,” said the puzzled barkeep.

  “That’s because it is fish.” John Omally grinned through the crack. “Open up there, Neville.”

  “Sorry, John.” The part-time barman slipped the chain and flip-flopped back across the bar. Omally followed him, a bulging bin-liner slung across his shoulder. “By the saints, Neville,” said he as the barman placed the pomander upon the bar counter and himself behind it, “you smell like the proverbial tart’s handbag!”

  “Again, sorry.” Neville held a shining glass beneath the spout of the beer engine and drew off a pint of the very best. He held it to the light. It was clear as an author’s conscience. “The drains must be up,” he tapped at his sensitive nostrils with a free finger, “or something.”

  “I understand.” Omally settled himself on to his favourite stool. He had no intention of being drawn into another discourse on the barman’s ENP. “I’ve two beauties here,” he said, depositing his load on to the bar counter. “Fresh river trout,” he explained. He placed his glass to his lips and took the first sip of the day. Neville paused a moment, his day was won or lost upon the outcome of this single sip. “Magic,” said John, smacking his lips together and taking another draught. “Magic.”

  Neville relaxed. “Still ten bob a pound, I trust?”

  “The very same, a couple of six pounders here.” Neville gave Omally the old fish-eye and took out his pocket scales. “Well, fives at the very least, hand-fed on hempseed and mealworms.”

  “Not hand fed upon spanners like those other two you sold me?”

  Omally smiled his winning smile and sipped his ale. “You will have your little joke,” said he between sippings.

  “And you yours, but not at my expense.” Neville weighed up the fish, cashed up NO SALE on the publican’s piano and drew out five crisp one pound notes. “Shall I take for your pint now?” he asked.

  “That’s a bit previous,” said John. “Jim will be here at any moment.”

  Neville offered Omally a sociable smile and hauled the day’s catch away to the pub freezer.

  Old Pete, Brentford’s horticultural elder statesman, entered the Flying Swan, his half-terrier Chips hard as ever upon his down-at-heels.

  “Morning, John,” said he, joining Omally at the bar.

  “Morning, Pete,” himself replied. “Morning, Chips.”

  The dog sniff
ed quizzically at the air. His antiquated master did likewise. “Now there’s a thing,” said Old Pete.

  Omally plucked a copy of the Brentford Mercury from the bar counter and began to fan nonchalantly at the air. “What’s that?” he enquired.

  “Funny how a particular smell can stir a particular memory.”

  “Oh yes?” How the miasmal cocktail of wet fish and pomander could stir up anything other than acute nausea escaped Omally.

  “Her name was Jasmine,” Old Pete recalled wistfully, “she ran a Bangkok brothel.”

  “You disgusting old bastard,” said John Omally, concealing his mirth.

  “Of course I could be wrong.” The ancient had another sniff or two and thought to detect the familiar whiff of a large dark rum hovering in the overcharged air. “It might just be ten pound of freshly poached river salmon,” he announced loudly.

  Omally spluttered into what was left of his pint. “A large dark rum over here, please, Neville,” he said, wiping foam from his nose.

  “Why, thank you, John,” said Old Pete, chuckling wickedly, “most unexpected.” Neville, returning from the freezer, wiping his hands upon his bar apron, drew the old rogue his prize from the bullseye optic.

  “Your very good health, John.”

  “And yours, Pete.” Omally raised his glass and peered sadly through its now empty bottom.

  “Same again, is it?” Neville enquired. “Care to settle up now, would you?”

  As if upon cue Jim Pooley entered the Flying Swan. “Watchamate all,” said he.

  Pete touched his flat cap, Neville inclined his shining pate, Young Chips woofed non-committally and Omally said, “Good day.”

  “Who’s in the chair?” Jim enquired.

  “Guess?” Omally proffered his empty glass.

  “Ah.” Jim patted his pockets. “I regret that a business transaction has sorely taxed my purse upon this morning,” said he, turning to Omally with what he considered to be a “significant look”.

  “We’ll split it then.” Omally pushed his glass across the shining bar top. “Two pints of Large, please, Neville.”

  “And a dark rum,” said Old Pete with a blackmailer’s optimism.

  “And a small dark rum,” said Omally, “which will be your last.”

  Old Pete grinned toothlessly. He knew better than to kill the fish that laid the golden egg. There was always another Friday. “Much obliged,” said he.

  The honours were done and Omally called to account. John led his partner away to the privacy of a side table where he split the change and tossed Jim another pound note.

  Pooley sorrowfully examined the residue of the day’s wages. “I do not appear to be quids in here,” he observed.

  “It is impossible to project a specific return upon working capital,” said John informatively. “For the wheels of commerce to spin freely, their axles must receive constant financial lubrication.”

  “You mean paying off that old villain?” Pooley nodded towards Pete, who raised his glass in reply and said “Cheers!” Young Chips, whose hearing was more than acute, made a mental note to visit Jim’s ankle when the occasion arose.

  “A mere bagatelle,” said Omally. “Now what about that other bit of business?”

  Pooley supped his ale. “Your prediction odds-wise was somewhat over-optimistic,” said he, “but then it is always impossible to project a specific return upon …”

  “Touchée,” said Omally, peeling another pound note into Jim’s direction. “I believe I might have short-changed you in error.”

  “By another ten shillings, I believe,” replied Pooley.

  “Ah, yes.” A ten-shilling note changed hands.

  “Thank you, John, but truly, do you honestly believe that this is going to come off?”

  Omally nodded. “It is a sure thing, I am telling you.” He drew his companion closer. “And Bob went for it?”

  “He made a small provision or two, but, yes, well, he went for it.”

  “Wonderful,” said Omally. “Then shortly we will both be very, very rich. Neville!” he called out, “what is the exact time, do you know?”

  The part-time barman eye-balled the battered Guinness clock. “Do you mean pub time or GMT?”

  “GMT.”

  “Eleven twenty-two.”

  “Thank you, Neville.” Omally turned to Jim and patted him upon the shoulder. “You honestly have nothing to fear,” said he, “we can now leave it all to the messenger of the gods.”

  “The what?”

  “The what and the whom. Mercury, the wing-heeled wonderboy.”

  “Oh, that lad.”

  “That lad,” said Omally. “Now drink up, the next is on me.”

  “To Mercury.” Jim raised his glass.

  9

  The editor of the Brentford Mercury peered up from the dog-eared reporter’s note-book towards the dog-eared reporter who stood panting breathlessly before his desk, one Seamus Molloy. “Scoop” to his friends. “And this is actually true?” he asked.

  Scoop nodded vigorously. “I interviewed the councillors who were at the meeting. Those that were still able to stand, that is. It all ended in a bit of a punch-up. The garda and all. I ran all the way back.”

  The editor scratched at his head with the wrong end of his magic marker. Scoop watched in silent fascination as royal blue zig-zags appeared across his employer’s polished cranium.

  “You are not pulling my wire, Molloy?” The aforementioned employer squinted towards the desk calendar. Even allowing for a day or two unturned, it was well starboard of April the first.

  “I swear not.” Molloy crossed his heart. “See this wet, see this dry …”

  “Quite so, but I should take an extremely poor view of this if it turned out to be another Brentford Griffin story.”

  Molloy hung his head. “It’s as true as I am standing here, sir,” said he. “Been following the story for weeks now,” he lied.

  “Then, it’s … wonderful!” The editor’s voice rose an entire octave. “Wonderful!” He thrust aside his chair and clasped Molloy’s sweaty mitt, wringing it between his own. “Do you realize what this means, Molloy?” he asked.

  Scoop’s head bounced up and down; he did indeed. “It cost me an arm and a leg,” he said guardedly.

  “We have it.” The editor clenched a fist towards a damp patch on the ceiling. “I have it! The story! The exclusive!” He turned upon the broth of a boy who stood smiling modestly. “The exclusive! And it’s all mine!” He flung out a hand towards the internal telephone. “All mine!” Suddenly he froze. His eyes flashed towards the reporter. His hand hovered over the handset. “Molloy,” he said slowly, “Molloy, you have not given this story to anybody else, have you?”

  “Anybody else, sir?”

  “You know … them …” The hated words stuck in his throat.

  “You mean Fleet Street, sir?”

  The editor flinched and made the sign of the cross. Molloy genuflected subconsciously.

  “You haven’t, Molloy?”

  “Certainly not, sir!”

  “Good man! Good man!” Snatching up the receiver the editor dialled six. As his finger described the mystical arc he whispered to himself, as one reciting a catechism, “Twenty years in this game. Twenty long years of flower shows and boy scout jamborees and now, and now …” He paused a moment, a hand across the mouthpiece and stared towards the unspeakable ceiling beyond which, somewhere distant, sat the great proprietor in the sky. “Thank you, God,” he said. “Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed Molloy pushing across the desk a petty cash slip which was in its way as great a work of fiction as any that Harold Robbins had ever come up with. “If I might just have your signature, sir.”

  Without even looking, the editor signed away a sizeable chunk of the paper’s financial resources. “All these years,” he continued, “I’ve prayed for an opportunity to do this.”

  “Sir?” said Molloy.

  “Listen,” said the editor.

>   “Hello,” said a sleepy voice at the other end of the line, “Print Room.”

  “Williams?” said the editor. “Williams, is that you?”

  “Of course it is, who’s that speaking?”

  “Williams.” The editor took a deep breath and said, “Williams, hold the front page!”

  “Oh, not again, Molloy, said the voice, “just piss off, will you!” The receiver fell and the line went prrrrrrrr …

  10

  The brothers Paul and Barry Geronimo sat in the police cell, handcuffed together. A more disconsolate pair of renegade redmen it was hard to imagine. With his unmanacled hand Paul nursed the Victoria plum which had ripened upon his left temple. Barry made dismal groaning sounds as he tested his many tender spots for signs of fracture. At great length it was he who was the first to speak. “Mum is not going to like this,” he said simply.

  Paul made as to affect a surly frown which caused him considerable pain. “This mean warpath for certain,” he muttered. “Many scalps decorate lodge before teatime.”

  Barry glanced sidelong at his bandaged brother. “Paul,” he said, “Paul, you really are quite certain about us being the dual reincarnation of Geronimo, aren’t you? I mean, there couldn’t be any mistake now, could there? I mean, I reckon we’re on a hiding to nowhere here… I mean…” For his outspokenness, brother Barry received a blow much favoured by the now legendary Billy Two Rivers and known as the Tomahawk Chop. “You bastard, I’m telling Mum.”

  “Break it up in there,” a Metropolitan Police voice called through the peephole, “and get on your feet, you’ve got a visitor.”

  A heavy key turned in the lock, making all those really good noises that jail door locks make in prison movies. The door swung in to reveal a grinning Constable Meek, bearing three teacups and a plate of digestives on a regulation enamel tray. “Here you go, Tonto,” he smirked. “Sorry, we’re out of firewater.”