The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4

by Robert Rankin

  “And where’s your mate then?” Neville did the honours at the pump handle.

  Pooley perused his unpolished toecaps. “I have no idea,” he said softly. “Hasn’t he been in then?”

  “No,” said Neville, “he’s done a bunk.” He placed the perfect pint before his patron. “Jim, is everything all right?”

  Pooley shook his head. “Anything but. I don’t know what’s happened to John, the Professor says …”

  “Three more pints over here.” The voice belonged to Norman.

  “Excuse me, Jim, I’ll be back in a minute.” Neville scooped up the pennies Pooley had placed on the bar and went off to serve the shopkeeper.

  “He’s bunging money about like there’s no tomorrow,” said Old Pete at Pooley’s elbow. “I’d dive in now if I was you.”

  “Oh yes, and what’s the celebration?” Jim asked, out of no particular interest.

  “This Gravitite business. You know, that wondercrap that holds the stadium up. Norman’s knocked up his own version and you’ll never guess what?”

  “He’s won the Nobel prize.”

  “Not yet. But he took his formula down to the patent’s office and it turns out that there’s no patent on it. The other geezer never got around to having his registered. Norman is sitting on a gold mine.”

  “My old brown dog,” said Jim. “Bravo the shopkeeper.”

  “My thoughts entirely.”

  “Watchamate, Norman,” called Jim along the bar. “How’s tricks then?”

  “Never better,” crooned the half-drunken shopkeeper. “One for my good friend Jim, please, Neville.”

  “Cheers, Norman,” said Old Pete, “nice one, old mate.”

  “And another down that end for the fogey.”

  “I’ve never cared for him, you know,” Old Pete confided in Pooley, “gets right up my nose he does.”

  Jim sipped thoughfully at his pint. “He’s all right, he’s an individual.”

  “He’s a bloody nutcase! So where’s your mate then? Work-shy as ever, it seems.”

  “I don’t know, I’m not sure.”

  “Thought he’d be getting some mileage out of these.” Old Pete drew out his silver envelope. “Did you get yours?”

  “What are they?”

  “Free tickets for the big match, everybody’s got one.”

  Pooley raised his eyebrows and his glass. “Everyone in Brentford?”

  “That’s the size of it. A bit of good has come out of this fiasco.”

  “I wouldn’t go if I were you,” Jim advised. “In fact, I’d give the whole thing a very wide berth.”

  “My thoughts entirely, yet again. I’m advertising mine in The Times, there’s a bungalow in Eastbourne in this for me. I’ll give you a fiver for yours if you want.”

  Pooley hunched low over his pint, which was shortly joined by Norman’s freeman. “Mine seems to have been delayed in the post. If you want to give me the five spot now, I’ll drop it round when it arrives.”

  “Do I look like a cabbage?” Old Pete asked. “On your bike, Pooley. Good luck, Norman.” He raised his glass towards the inebriate shopkeeper. “Here’s health!”

  “So, Jim,” said Neville, when he had done with his servings, “what’s to do then?”

  Pooley shook his head. How could he possibly explain what was going on to Neville? In the cold light of day it all seemed so much nonsense. He was still not certain that he had actually seen what he thought he had seen. It was too grotesque. The more he thought about it the more convinced he became that it was some drug-induced fantasy, brought on by incense and whisky. But John, however, remained quite as dead. “I’m not well,” Jim told Neville. “Something I ate or something. As for John, I just don’t know, truly.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling up to much, Jim. You said something about the Professor before we were interrupted.”

  “It was nothing.” Without Omally, Jim felt pitifully alone, somehow incomplete. “Nothing at all, it doesn’t matter.”

  “As you please,” replied the barman. “But listen, if John does show up, you can tell him he can have his job back here. He played straight with me. I owe him a lot.”

  “We all do.” Pooley raised his glass. “You are a good man, Neville. There’s nothing the matter with mankind when there’s blokes like you around.”

  “Well, thank you, Jim, I appreciate that.”

  “You’re in a bloody wet mood,” said Old Pete. “Seen the light, have you?”

  “Something like that — belt up, you old bastard.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Old Pete.

  There was a sudden disruption in the middle of the bar. “Watch this,” said Norman, clearing space in the crowd. “Now just watch this.”

  The onlookers and good-time-charlies, who had been accepting his free drinks, drew back to a respectful distance and egged him on. “Watchagonnado?” they asked.

  “A demonstration of the Norman Hartnell Mark One Flying Jacket, Wallah!” Norman opened his coat. Around his waist was a broad belt loaded with lead weights and general junk of the heavy variety. “The miracle of Normanite,” Norman unbuckled the belt and it fell to the floor with a loud crash. “Up and away,” To massed amazement, he rose from his feet and drifted towards the ceiling. “He leaps tall buildings at a single bound!” the shopman called down to his speechless spectators.

  “Bloody idiot,” muttered Old Pete. “My glass is empty yet again.”

  “Give the man his due,” said Neville. “That is not the kind of thing one sees every day.”

  Norman bobbed about on the ceiling, giggling foolishly. To Pooley’s rear the shabby-looking man in the greasy brown trilby rolled his newspaper into a tight tube, inserted something dubious into the end and placed it to his lips.

  “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” sang the crowd, “and so say all of us.”

  “If he throws up on my carpet, he’ll pay for the cleaning,” said Neville. “Pooley, look out!” Jim ducked instinctively. Something whistled past his left ear and thudded into the haunches of a souvenir Spanish bull upon the bar shelf. “Stop that man!” cried Neville, but the crowd was too entranced with Norman’s antics. The shabby-looking man fled the Swan. “It’s a blowpipe dart,” said the part-time barman, examining the bull’s punctured rump. “By the gods!”

  “That bastard Bob is not giving up,” Pooley climbed to his feet. “Thanks very much, Neville.”

  The barman sniffed at the end of the dart. “Curare,” he said. “He was out to kill you, Jim, and in my pub, the bloody cheek.” Old Pete chuckled, Pooley had nothing to say. “Curare,” said Neville, “a distillation from the Amazon plant Cameracio Apolidorus. The natives boil up the tubers and the roots, you know. The poison maintains its potency for years, a single prick and you’ve less than a minute to say your prayers. Attacks the central nervous system, you see.”

  “Thank you,” said Jim. “I had no idea you harboured an interest in toxicology.”

  “I did a night-school course at the Arts Centre,” said the barman, “from their Poisoner in Residence. Funny what you remember.”

  “Oh, dead amusing, yes. And how are you on anti-gravity? Your man Norman looks to be in some difficulty.”

  Indeed the floating shopman was exhibiting signs of extreme discomfort. He was flattened against the ceiling and now very red in the face. “Oh help!” wailed Norman. “Get me down, for Godsake!”

  Neville sighed deeply and climbed on to the bar counter, disciplinary knobkerry in hand. “Take hold,” he called. Norman gripped the knobkerry, the onlookers gripped the barman’s ankles. Amidst much puffing and blowing and with no small utterances of profanity, the zero-gravity shopkeeper was returned to terra firma and the weighted belt was hastily clamped once more about his waist.

  “It’s handy stuff though,” said Norman, breathlessly. “Got it sewn into the jacket, you see.”

  The onlookers saw. “Clever,” they said, wondering if the source of the free drinks had now dri
ed up. “You are a genius, Norman.”

  “A large brandy on me for Mr Einstein,” said Pooley, pressing his way through the crowd.

  “My thanks, Jim.” Norman checked his belt. “Perhaps in my zeal, I overdid it. I shall have to watch the walk home, or I could end up in orbit.”

  “Norman,” said Jim, “could I have a word or two with you in private?”

  “As many words as you wish, Jim, what’s on your mind?”

  Pooley led the shopkeeper away to a quiet corner. The onlookers looked on in disgust and purchased their own drinks. “A small word,” said Jim.

  “And why not?” Norman tapped his nose. “From one millionaire to another.”

  “Ah, you heard about my bet.”

  “There’s not much stays quiet in Brentford. I do live next door to Bob after all.”

  “Quite so, but listen, Norman. This Normanite of yours. A man wearing such a flying-jacket could, I suppose, drift up to the stadium, could he not?”

  Norman looked doubtful. “If the wind was favourable. I don’t think I’d care to take my chances though. You could end up, well, up, indefinitely speaking.”

  Jim nodded thoughtfully. “Somewhat dangerous, yes I agree. It’s a pity though.”

  “What are you up to then, Jim?”

  “Not me,” said Pooley, “the Professor. He wants to get a look at the stadium before it opens, some matter of public safety, I believe.”

  “He’s got his free ticket, hasn’t he?”

  “I understand he’d like a private viewing.”

  “He’s a man of some influence, can’t he swing it with the organizers?”

  “I don’t think they would approve, this is something of a secret operation.”

  “Ooh.” Norman placed a finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word, eh? Well, I might be prevailed upon to …” He made thoughtful faces.

  “To what, Norman?”

  “To drive him up.”

  “What?”

  “A little top secret project of my own.” Norman spoke in the conspiratorial whisper much favoured by conspiratorial whisperers. “I have done a bit of a conversion job on the old Morris Minor. The Hartnell Harrier is now the Hartnell Air Car.” Pooley shook his head, the man was a genius. “A revolution in personal transportation with almost limitless potential in the fields of haulage, commuter-carriage, inter-city travel, et cetera, et cetera. Another first for Hartnell International.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Does it work? How dare you? It’s a bit spartan at present, only a prototype, but when they start rolling off the production line. I’ve come up with some great little modifications,” Norman rattled on with boundless enthusiasm, “a single tiny switch which cuts out those annoying red dashboard lights that always come on when you’re half-way up a motorway. Rear headlights to revenge yourself on those blighters who come up behind you at night with their main beams on. A sweety dispenser, in-car commode, automatic pilot, self-contained …”

  “You don’t waste any time once you’ve an idea in your head,” Pooley put in hastily, to staunch the verbal flow which showed no immediate signs of abating.

  “There’s no time like the present, Jim. A lot of it is still in the ideas stage, but the car does work, I’m telling you.”

  “And would you be prepared to take the Professor up to the stadium?”

  “Why not? I’d like a sneak preview myself. There are also one or two matters I’d like his advice on. Tit for tat, eh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t!”

  “When does he want to go?” Norman asked.

  “Tomorrow night, how does that sound?”

  “The night before the games start.”

  “What?” said Jim. “They’ve brought them forward?”

  “Yes, it was announced this morning, didn’t you know?”

  “No, I did not, oh dear.” Jim chewed upon his knuckles.

  “There’s no sweat, the car will be ready, sounds like a bit of an adventure. Yes, I shall look forward to it.” Norman raised his glass. It was empty. “Want another, Jim?”

  “I’ll get them,” said Pooley. “Another pint?”

  “No. Just a light ale, don’t want people thinking I’m a heavy drinker, light, heavy, get it, eh?” Norman tapped at his weighted belt and giggled foolishly. “Can’t keep a good man down, eh? Good man down? There I go again.” He creased up with mirth.

  “Norman, you are a caution,” said Pooley, taking the glasses up to the bar. As he stood waiting to be served he pondered upon the rare coincidence that Norman had conceived and constructed the very means by which he and the Professor could enter the stadium, exactly when it was required, and that he should just happen to bump into him at the very moment. Many would argue that such a chance was one in a million, improbable to the point of near impossibility and they would no doubt be absolutely right.

  42

  By “towels up”, Pooley was what the English magician Crowley referred to as “nice drunk”. He wandered off down the Ealing Road, hands in pockets, roll-up between his teeth. Jim paused a moment outside Bob the Bookie’s, considering what form his retribution should take. It would have to keep for the present, Bob’s security was of the Fort Knox persuasion and Jim did not possess the necessary military hardware to storm the premises. “You will get yours,” he told the iron-bound doorway. Out of sheer badness, Jim ran his pocket-knife down the length of Bob’s parked Rolls-Royce and signed his handiwork with a flourished JP.

  Half-way down the Albany Road, he wondered if he should pop into the Police Station and report the shabby man’s attempt on his life. Attempted murder was a punishable offence after all. But Jim’s recent encounters with the law, particularly that personified by Inspectre Hovis, led him to consider this action pure folly. And of course the Professor had said that he preferred no police intervention in his schemes.

  Jim steered his shabby shoe in the direction of the allotments. He hadn’t been down that way for weeks and his own plot was in a sorry state. The rhubarb was running to seed, sending out its hideous tendrils towards the potato patch, and the runner beans were ripe for harvesting.

  He unpadlocked the door of his hut, savouring that special aroma which is unique to the interiors of allotment sheds. He sought out a bottle of private stock from its secret hideaway and a folding garden-chair of uncertain security. Labouring bravely at its rusted springs, he set the thing up before his hut doorway, settled into it and uncorked the bottle. A sip or two told him that it was cabbage wine, one of Norman’s specials, not a great vintage, but acceptable to his present condition. He picked a bit of stalk from his teeth and took another slug.

  His thoughts turned almost at once to the comforts of the old barge which had been, until so recently, the headquarters of the P & O Line. That all seemed so long ago now. Another world. Jim became reflective in the way that only a drunken man can. He had not yet come to terms with the prospect of life without John. The future seemed an empty affair. Even if he got out of all this business with his life and copped the ten million smackers, the future looked far from rosy.

  There was an ache in him that would not go away. It was the ache that he had felt when his father died. But then Omally had been there to comfort him in his time of loss. They had gone down to the undertakers together to say their farewells to the old man. Jim had placed a packet of fags in his pocket to send him on his way, John had shaken the dead man’s hand and then the two of them had gone off on a week-long drunk. They had raised their glasses together, made many toasts and drunk away the sorrow. The ache had been soothed away, leaving nothing but the warmth of happy memories. But now Jim was truly alone and he sighed mournfully. He didn’t even have a body to weep over or a grave to place flowers upon. He can’t be dead, Jim told himself. He just can’t be, I won’t let him.

  “You must let him go,” the Professor had said. “A soul cannot be truly free until it is released by the bereaved. You must let him go.”

/>   “Never.” Jim swigged greatly from the dusty bottle. “Not until I know, not until I am really sure. But whatever …” He rose to his feet and shook his clenched fist towards the stadium. “You will pay for this, you will pay and pay. Whoever you are, whatever you are, you will pay.” Jim sank once more into his knackered chair. “But I just wish I knew how,” he muttered to himself.

  “They’re at it again,” Mrs Butcher informed her hen-pecked spouse. “They’re up to their old tricks again.” Mr Butcher cowered in the Parker Knoll and took shelter behind his Angling Times. “Go out there, do something.”

  Mr Butcher ventured a hopeful. “They’re not doing any harm, dear,” but his good lady wife knew it was coming and slapped away his paper with her polishing cloth. “Get out there,” she cried.

  “A fellow caught a twenty-seven pound pike down at the cut last week on a number nine hook, just fancy that.”

  “I’ll fancy something in a minute,” said his wife, in the way some wives are renowned for. “Get out there, Reg, you tell them.”

  “Tell them what, dear? They’re only dancing, there’s no harm in that.”

  “No harm in that? It’s heathen.” His wife crossed herself before the plastic Virgin on the mantelshelf. “They are godless savages.”

  “They’re not savages, dear, they’re on the town council.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, they got the sack, them with their evil heathen ways.” She made threatening motions towards the instrument of many others’ torture. “I shall make a phone call.”

  “No, don’t do that.” Mr Butcher picked up his paper, folded it into the Peerage brass galleon rack and slipped his darned and stockinged feet into his Christmas slippers. “Don’t phone.” The phone bill nearly rivalled the national debt these days. “I’ll go out to them.”

  “You just tell them to stop it. It’s not decent, this is a respectable neighbourhood, or at least it was until …” With his wife’s words coming hard upon his slippered heels, Mr Butcher hurried through the kitchen door and into the back-garden.