‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Litany.
John, whose eyes had hardly left her for a single moment, said, ‘That’s all right, Pigarse, forget it.’
‘Stone me,’ said Jim.
‘Forget it,’ said Omally. ‘I thought I’d wait until the band got really big before terminating Pigarse’s contract and chucking him out on his ear.’
‘Most amusing,’ said Pigarse.
‘Glad you think so,’ said John.
Litany took a sip at her Large and drained an even half-pint. ‘This is very good stuff,’ said she. ‘So shall we get right down to business?’
John, who had never actually seen beer vanish quite as fast as that, even when it was going down his own throat, said, ‘Yes, that would be fine.’
Litany opened her briefcase and took from it papers which she laid on a spare bit of table. ‘It is imperative,’ she said, ‘that from the word go we all know where we stand, legally. We have signed a contract with Jim, giving Brentford Records exclusive rights to our music and we have each put up five hundred pounds to make us shareholders in the company. This is to ensure that we have absolute artistic control over our music and an equal share in all profits.’
‘Absolutely,’ said John.
‘Absolutely,’ said Litany. ‘Jim and I discussed this during the afternoon and I have had these legally binding contracts drawn up to ensure your commitment to us. That you will fulfil your side of the bargain. Do what is expected of you. So forth and suchlike. Do you understand?’
‘Absolutely,’ said John once again.
Litany took up the contracts and passed them over the table. One to Jim and one to John. ‘Please read them carefully,’ she said. ‘We must get this right from the start. I don’t want us all fighting later. I have no wish to get screwed by a bunch of solicitors and end up coughing into their pockets.’
Omally tried to picture that, but his thoughts took a deviant sexual turn so he set to reading the contract.
‘This part here,’ he said.
‘Which part is that?’ asked Litany.
‘The party in the first part of this contract will be known as the party in the first part.’
‘What about it?’ asked Litany.
‘I don’t like it,’ said John.
‘Nor do I,’ said Jim. ‘It’s out of an old Marx Brothers movie.’
‘Ignore that bit, then,’ Litany said. ‘And just read through the rest.’
Jim read and John read and Jim turned pages.
John turned pages too and Jim read some more.
John turned a page then and Jim turned another one.
And then they turned some pages back. They weren’t entirely sure.
‘Happy with it?’ Litany asked.
‘It has a certain poetry,’ said John. ‘But what it says, in essence, is that Jim and I are entirely liable to all expenses incurred by the band. That we finance it ourselves, but all costs are defrayed against record sales and all profits split seven ways.’
‘That’s it,’ said Litany.
‘Well, I’m happy,’ said John. ‘What about you, Jim?’
‘The sanity clause worries me,’ said Jim. But as few around the table were big Marx Brothers fans, the remark received the contempt it deserved.
‘All right,’ said John. ‘We’ll sign.’
‘Does someone have a pen, please?’ asked Jim. ‘I lent mine to Pigarse and he never gave it back.’
‘I’ve lent it to my dad,’ said Pigarse. ‘He’s using it for art.’
‘I’ll buy another tomorrow,’ said Jim.
Litany took from her briefcase a slim black leather box. In this was an elegant silver stylus. ‘You may use this,’ she said. ‘But there is just one thing.’
‘And that is?’ John asked.
‘You have to sign it in blood.’
‘Blood’, said Norman of the corner shop, ‘is what it’s all about.’
He didn’t say this in the Flying Swan, however, because he wasn’t in the Flying Swan. Norman said it in his kitchen workshop, where he was working on his horse.
Now it might have been a coincidence that he said the word ‘blood’ at the very same moment as had Litany. Or it might have been a synchronicity, or even a fateful foreshadowing.
But say it he did and he said it again. ‘It’s all in the blood,’ said Norman.
As this was Wednesday half-closing, Norman had had the entire afternoon to work on his horse. And he had been putting considerable effort into it. Unaware that Pooley had given up the horses, Norman continued with his project, determined to have it finished by Friday, in keeping with his life-in-little-movies principle and looking forward to turning up on Jim’s doorstep on the Saturday to give him his big surprise.
But it had been a difficult afternoon for Norman. What with all the magnifying glass work and the tweezer work and the splicing the genes together with really small bits of sellotape work. But the saucepan was back on the stove now and the contents were bubbling nicely.
Norman had also done some splicing with his copy of the Gandhis’ tape. He’d spliced it into a loop, so he could play it continuously while he worked. The magical music just made him feel so well, so alive, so healthy. It made him feel ready to take up any challenge and win win win win win.
He wiggled his bum in time to the tune and gave the saucepan a stir. ‘I think I’ll just pop up and have a bath,’ said he, ‘while this lot comes to the boil.’
Norman went over to switch off the tape and then thought better of it. It would be nice to hear the music while he bathed. He turned up the Gandhis full blast and danced out of the kitchen.
‘This time,’ he said, ‘I’ll make me a winner. This time I’ll go for the big one.’
‘We’re going for the big one this time,’ said Litany. ‘And it’s a rock ’n’ roll statement.’
‘Ozzy Osbourne did it,’ said Pigarse.
‘War Pigs,’ said John.
‘War Pigarse,’ said Pigarse.
‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘but blood. Real blood. My blood.’
‘Only enough to sign your name,’ said Pigarse. ‘My dad once squeezed blood out of his piles and onto a canvas for art. Saatchi bought it for his collection.’
‘Your dad has an enterprising bottom,’ said Jim, ‘but I don’t know much about art.’
‘Do it for me,’ said Litany, smiling at Jim. ‘You’re not afraid to, are you?’
Jim took the stylus. ‘I’m not scared,’ said he.
The actual thumb-pricking and the wincing and the fussing and the coming all over faint and the dipping the stylus into the blood and the puffing, the blowing and the gulping at pints afterwards wasn’t all that rock ’n’ roll. But eventually the task was completed. The contracts were signed and Litany tucked them away in her briefcase.
And then she raised her glass. ‘To success,’ she said.
‘To rock ’n’ roll,’ said John.
‘To Apocalypso music,’ said Jim.
‘To art,’ said Pigarse.
‘To Jim,’ said Ricky.
And so on and so forth.
‘And now,’ said Litany. ‘Let’s talk business.’
‘Yes,’ said John. ‘Let’s do.’
‘Oh, just one thing before we start,’ said Ricky. ‘I have to give you this.’ He handed John a folded piece of paper.
‘What is this?’ John asked, unfolding it.
‘It’s the bill for these clothes. Jim told us to dress down a bit. No leather strides and so forth. So we all went out and bought these God-awful suits. If you could let us have the money back out of petty cash it would be helpful.’
‘Oh,’ said John and, ‘Ah.’
‘And I’m going to need a new amp,’ said Ricky. ‘Mine’s really fecked.’
‘And a whole new wardrobe of stage clothes,’ said Pigarse. ‘And designer stuff, not rubbish. And I need a new set of skins for my drums.’
‘And I need a new mic,’ said Litany. ‘And our van’s knackered too.�
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‘A proper tour bus is what we need,’ said Matchbox Finial. ‘Mercedes do a great one. I’ve got a catalogue here.’
‘Right,’ said John and, ‘Yes, indeed.’
Litany smiled once more upon John. ‘I know that we’re going to work really well together,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we’ll grow very close. It’s such a relief to be signed up with professionals. You wouldn’t believe the idiots who’ve offered to manage us in the past.’
‘You’re right there,’ said Pigarse. ‘Remember that moron who thought he’d get away with recording us live on a mixing desk and knocking tapes out in his mate’s back kitchen?’
Litany laughed and Ricky laughed and Dead Boy laughed as well.
‘Whatever happened to that bloke?’ Matchbox Finial asked.
‘I took him for a little drive into the country,’ said Pigarse. ‘They haven’t found all of him yet.’
Gandhi members laughed some more.
‘Most amusing,’ said John Omally.
‘Glad you think so,’ said Pigarse.
Gladness was the rage in Norman’s bathroom. Clothes were off, the tub was full, the bubbles overflowed. Norman had his own personal brand of bubble bath. He had created it himself.
The bubbles smelled great and they really got the dirt off, though it didn’t do to soak in them too long. Norman had once forgotten to pull the plug out after bathing and the next morning he had discovered that the bubbles had eaten through the enamel of the bath and right down to the iron.
But, with the bubbles gnawing him clean and the music belting up the stairs and filling the room with good vibrations, Norman sank into the scented water and felt most glad all over.
Down in the kitchen workshop the brew made bubbles of its own. Great big bubbles heaved and popped in time to the Gandhis’ music. Really beautiful bubbles, they were. Really really beautiful.
‘Really beautiful strings,’ said Ricky, back in the Swan. ‘I saw them in Minn’s Music Mine the other day, but I couldn’t afford to buy them then. I think you should get me three sets, John. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘And I need to get my roots dyed,’ said Pigarse. ‘And my dad needs a new seat for his Honda. Perhaps we could make that tax deductible.’
Jim looked at John.
And John looked back at Jim.
‘I have to go to the toilet,’ said John.
‘And so do I,’ said Jim.
Once out of the bar and in the bog, Jim Pooley closed the door.
‘Window,’ said John.
‘Window?’ said Jim.
‘We can climb out of the window and then I suggest we just run for it.’
‘You are for doing a runner, then, are you?’
‘What other choice do we have? We’re in this over our heads, Jim. We’ve made ourselves liable and we signed in our blood.’
‘Perhaps we could just ask for the contracts back,’ said Jim. ‘Explain that we’ve had a think about it and we’ve changed our minds.’
‘I can’t see that going down too well. That Pigarse is a psychopath. I don’t want the police search teams only finding bits of me.’
‘I wonder what he did with the parts they couldn’t find. Do you think his dad used them for art?’
‘Window,’ said Omally. ‘Much as I fancy that Litany and much as I’d love to—’ He paused. ‘But it can’t be done. Let’s run while we still have legs.’
‘No.’ And Pooley shook his head. ‘We can’t just run away. All right, we’ve got ourselves in big trouble here. But I’m sure we can find a way round it.’
‘Well, you have a go, Jim. I’m off.’
‘Oh, perfect,’ said Jim. ‘That’s your answer to the problem. Run away. Listen, John. We have a chance to make something of ourselves here. A chance to do something wonderful. We could manage this band if we worked hard at it. We could do it. We really could. You’ve heard Litany sing. You’ve felt what happens. You’ve experienced it. The major record companies won’t touch the Gandhis, but we could bring their music to the world. Bring their magic to the world, John.’
‘All right,’ said John. ‘I hear what you’re saying. But we don’t have the money.’
‘Then we’ll have to find it.’
‘But where, Jim? Where could we possibly find it?’
‘I don’t know,’ and Pooley shrugged. ‘But I don’t think I’ll win it on the horses.’
Now, a winning horse, as Norman knew, is made from many parts. But what only a very few people know is, there’s more to a winner than that. It is not enough just to be a beautiful model or a talented film star or a brilliant musician. It is a lot, but it isn’t enough. You need that little bit more than that. You need the extra magic.
Some might call this charisma. But what does this word really mean?
Magic is what this word means.
‘It’s a kind of magic,’ as Freddie once sang and Freddie indeed had this magic.
A special kind of magic.
Litany had it in her voice. A very special kind of magic. And, as the tape went round and round on Norman’s deck, the magic filled up Norman’s kitchen. It entered into the brew upon the stove and infused and enthused it. Assembled and improved it.
Did many magical things to it.
Things that were full of wonder.
Pooley returned to the Swan’s saloon bar, leaving Omally to wonder. His hand was on the window catch, his mind was all over the place.
‘Damn,’ said John. ‘I don’t know what to do. I can’t let Jim take all the responsibility. It was me who really got him into all this. But there’s no way we can raise the money. What am I going to do?’
‘Omally,’ came a voice from above. ‘This is the voice of God.’
‘Sod off, Dave,’ said Omally. ‘I’m trying to have a think here.’
Pooley sat back down between a pair of Gandhis.
‘All right, Jim?’ asked Pigarse. ‘You look a bit pale in the face.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Jim. ‘All the better for a good piddle.’
‘Are you coming on the tour with us, Jim?’ asked Ricky.
‘Tour?’ said Jim. ‘What tour?’
‘The tour you’ll be lining up, of course. You are a joker, Jim. What kind of venues will we be playing?’
‘Well…’ said Jim, and, ‘Ooooooooh.’
‘Big ones, I hope,’ said Pigarse.
‘Huge, I should think.’ And Pooley hastily folded his arms. His hands were beginning to flap.
‘This bloke is boss,’ said Ricky. ‘We were just talking about your theory of the future, Jim. About THE END.’
‘THE END,’ said Jim, in an ominous tone.
‘It’s a blinding theory,’ said Ricky. ‘A theory like that should be taught to kids in schools. You should give it a name, Jim. The Pooley Theory. Or the Pooley Principle, that’s better. Or even just The Poole—’
‘No!’ shrieked Jim. ‘Not that!’
Neville raised an eyebrow at the bar.
Pigarse said, ‘Don’t shout like that. I nearly did art in my pants.’
‘Are you feeling okay, Jim?’ asked Litany. ‘You really do look rather ill. Would you like me to sing you better?’
Pooley sighed. ‘I’d love that,’ he said. ‘But I’ve something I have to say. There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding and I feel we should all be honest with each other. No secrets.’
‘Go on,’ said Litany.
‘It’s about the money.’ Pooley took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. ‘About the money you need for the equipment and the stage clothes and the strings and the mic and, well, everything, really.’
‘Yes?’ said Litany.
‘Well,’ said Jim. ‘You see…’
‘Go on,’ said Pigarse. ‘What is it?’
Pooley paused and glanced around the table. All eyes were upon him. Expectant eyes, they were. Eyes that seemed to look into his very soul.
‘I…’ said Pooley. ‘I…’ And then his face lit up. It
shone. It glowed. It veritably radiated. Glow and shine and glisten, went Jim’s face.
‘I have a plan,’ said Pooley. ‘And I will take care of everything.’
‘Yo,’ said Ricky. ‘The man with the plan. Is this guy boss, or what?’
The man with the plan stared into space. But the man with the plan had a plan.
And it was a blinder of a plan and it had come upon Jim in his moment of need, as if from God upon high.
It was also a terrifying plan and Jim knew that when he pulled it off it would doom his name for ever. But the cause was just, and the cause was good and Pooley’s plan was this.
Pooley would pull off The Pooley. And he would do it in this fashion. He would borrow money. Much money. All the money that was needed to finance the Gandhis for one enormous gig. One legendary gig, at Wembley, say. One that everyone would want to come to. Everyone who was a Gandhis fan would be there. Everyone. And that everyone would surely include the time-hopping Geraldo, who wouldn’t want to miss a gig like that.
Jim would track down Geraldo at the gig and force him to tell Jim the names of the following day’s racing winners. Geraldo could easily find these out, but, as Jim knew, he wouldn’t want to. But Jim would make him do it, because Jim would explain that if he, Jim, didn’t pull off The Pooley he wouldn’t have the money to pay off the debts and make the Gandhis world famous. And they had to get world famous. Because if they hadn’t, Geraldo would never have heard of them and come back through time to hear them play. Future history recorded that the Gandhis were world famous and future history also recorded that Jim had pulled off The Pooley. And so, if Geraldo didn’t want to mess around with future history, he would have to give Jim the names of the winners.
He would have to. He would. He just would.
It was a blinder of a plan, and as Jim stared into space, going over it all once again in his head, just to make sure he could understand it himself, he felt certain that it was the way things had to be. He couldn’t escape from his fate, and only he could make the Gandhis famous.
It was a blinder of a plan. It was truly dynamite.
Norman heard the explosion and ducked for cover in his bath. It wasn’t Pooley’s dynamite plan, but something down in the kitchen.
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls Page 14
