Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “Bees,” said Councillor Doveston.

  “Ernest Hemingway wrote that song,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “He used to play sax with Evelyn Waugh.”

  “Waugh?” said Councillor Doveston. “What was he good for? Absolutely nothing. In my opinion.”

  “If I had an opinion,” said the casual observer, “it would be that the barmaid over there looks as if she’d know her way around the inside of a string vest.”

  “What has a string vest got to do with anything?” asked Councillor Doveston.

  “Well, Evelyn Waugh invented the string vest, didn’t he? While he was at the Somme. Or was it the hammock?” The casual observer scratched at his head. Casually.

  “It was another author who invented the hammock. Some thriller-writer chappie.”

  “Dashiell Hammock?” Rumpelstiltskin suggested.

  “Could somebody please serve us? I’d like to open an account,” said Norman. “A pint of Large for me and a—”

  “Nose bag for your horse?” asked the casual observer, casually observing Peg.

  To any observer, casual or otherwise, Jim Pooley was clearly in distress. He appeared frozen into his bathwater.

  A knock came at Jim’s door.

  “Enter, please,” called Jim. “And please help me.”

  The door swung open and a certain blackness entered Jim Pooley’s rooms.

  The jugglers wore black, and gold, and silver, too. Leotards they wore, and little pom-pommed slippers on their feet. They’d made it through the window and down the fire escape and as the Count Basie Orchestra left the stage (after an encore, which was an old George Orwell number) to riotous applause, the jugglers were doing what they did best. Or, at least, what they did second best, for they were accomplished installers of double-glazing during weekdays.

  Juggling. Of course.

  “I’ve never been a big fan of juggling,” said Barry Bustard, circus fat-boy and Bees substitute, to Don and Phil the conjoined twins (who were drinking doubles[25]). “Too much danger of stuff falling on you.”

  “Depends what’s falling on you,” said Don.

  “Or who,” said Phil.

  “It’s why I never travel by air,” said Barry.

  “No, that’s because you’re too fat to get into a seat,” said both Don and Phil.

  “That, too, but aeroplanes crash. I went to America once to tour with Barnum’s circus. I didn’t take a plane, though. I was smart, I went by ship.”

  “How did the tour go?” Phil asked.

  “No idea, I never got there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the ship sank.”

  “You’d have been better off going by plane, then.”

  “No, I wouldn’t – the ship sank because the plane fell on it.”

  A fire extinguisher fell on the head of one of the jugglers.

  “I thought he was being somewhat overambitious there,” said Councillor Doveston to Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “Do you have any objection to me handing out a few pamphlets while I’m here?”

  “I’m beyond caring, me,” said the barman. “I really do think I’ll join the circus.”

  “Have any of you seen Jim Pooley?” asked Professor Slocombe.

  Jim Pooley looked up at his potential rescuer. “Thank God you’ve arrived,” said he. “I am stuck here, and most indecently, too. Who …”

  Jim’s look became a stare. This stare became a look once more. It was a look of horror.

  Something black, blacker than black, loomed large over Jim. It was all shadows and darkness and a strange smell came to the nostrils of Jim.

  It was the smell of the grave.

  “I …” said Jim. “Oh dear God, help me, someone.”

  A voice spoke unto Jim, but in a language Jim did not understand. If he had been able so to do, then he would have known the words that were spoken.

  Those words were: “There is no help for you.”

  Then the figure of darkness plunged forwards.

  And forced Jim’s head beneath the cold bath water.

  16

  John Omally was back upon the stage. “A big hand for the jugglers,” he said, as a couple of chaps from the windscreen-wiper works who knew first aid (because they’d been on the course, because it got you off work and you got an extra five pounds a week for being a safety officer) fanned at the face of the unconscious juggler and offered him a glass of water (they hadn’t paid much attention while on the course).

  “Next up,” said John, “is another local band. They’re going to be big – and I should know, as I have lately become their manager. Please give it up—” (John had heard this expression used upon a Yoof TV programme) “– for Stevie Wonderbra.”

  And John Omally left the stage.

  But not, as in the case of Elvis, the building.

  Professor Slocombe caught John’s attention as he left the stage. “John,” said the professor, “where is Jim?”

  “Skiving off,” said Omally. “Went home for a bath, leaving me to do all his work for him. You should give me his job, Professor. I wouldn’t say a word against Jim, of course, he’s my bestest friend, but the responsibility is too much for him. Perhaps we could draw up a contract and—”

  “Silence.” Professor Slocombe put his finger to his lips and John fell silent. “I believe Jim to be in danger,” the professor said.

  “Danger?” said John. “Jim?” said John. “What danger? What can I do?”

  “Just carry on with what you are doing. I will attend to what must be done. The evil is amongst us here, I believe.”

  “Evil?” said John, recalling the conversation that he had overheard between the Campbell and the professor. The one he had really been meaning to pluck up enough courage to ask the professor about. “What evil is this?”

  “I will be keeping an eye upon you,” said Professor Slocombe. “You have nothing to fear.”

  “Me?” said John, “I have nothing to fear?”

  Jim had only known true fear on one previous occasion.

  And that had involved drowning.

  It was when Jim had, as he told it, fallen off the pier at Brighton.

  Jim had been a teenager in the days of the Mods and the Rockers. Jim had gone to Brighton with his teenage sweetheart Enid Earles to have one of those dirty weekends that Brighton is famous for. Jim had really loved Enid Earles. They’d been at Grange Junior School in South Ealing together and had met again at The Blue Triangle Club on the night Jeff Beck played there. Jim had thought that it would take a lot of persuading to get Enid to go down to Brighton with him. Jim had called upon all of his powers of persuasion to assist him. And Jim being Jim, and being the big romantic that he was, he had even bought Enid an engagement ring from Mr Ratter’s jewellery shop in the High Street.

  In case it was needed.

  Enid, however, had gone remarkably willingly. Somewhat too remarkably willingly, as it happened. Enid had really been up for a dirty weekend in Brighton.

  Although, as it turned out, not necessarily with Jim.

  They had taken an evening stroll upon the pier, which was a very romantic thing to do, in Jim’s opinion. Enid had imbibed somewhat too freely of Babycham in the pier bar. And there had been this young hobbledehoy from Canvey Island there with his mates, and they had been Mods – Ivy-shop loafers, parkas, the whole business. And they had come down on their motor scooters.

  Jim and Enid had come on the train.

  And there had been some unpleasantness in the bar.

  And there were a lot of Canvey Island Mods and only one of Jim.

  And the Canvey Island Mod squad had thrown Jim off the end of the pier.

  And Jim couldn’t swim.

  And Jim had sunk beneath the waves and the last thing he’d seen was the face of Enid, laughing at him. The Canvey Island Mod was kissing her neck.

  And the fear of impending death had been so great.

  And the water had been so cold.

  And Jim had woken up in the back of an a
mbulance.

  But there was no ambulance now to wake up in.

  And Jim’s head was beneath the cold bath water.

  And there was no breath left in the lungs of Jim Pooley.

  And he could see once more the laughing face of Enid Earles.

  “A G and T,” said Enid Earles to Tracy the temporary barmaid at The Stripes Bar. Enid was married now, with three kids. She hadn’t married the Mod from Canvey Island, though. She had married the butcher’s lad who had got her up the duff at an offal-rendering convention in Isleworth. She’d put on a lot of weight since her teenage years, but this hadn’t lessened her enthusiasm for dangerous sexual liaisons with strangers.

  “What danger?” John spoke closely into the ear of Professor Slocombe. Stevie Wonderbra were making a whole lot of noise now – though good noise it was, all funk and soul and everything.

  “That lead girl singer has an Adam’s apple,” Old Pete, now up at the bar for a doorman’s freeman, observed, for although his hearing was ropy, his eyesight was acute.

  “Just trust me,” said the professor. “All will be well.”

  “But you said Jim was in danger,” said John. “What kind of danger? Real danger? Is someone trying to kill him?”

  “Calm yourself, John. No one is going to kill Jim Pooley.”

  Hands clapped together in wild applause. Stevie Wonderbra waved and wiggled their hips about.

  “That bass player’s legs need a shave,” Old Pete observed.

  “Tell me what is going on,” said John to the professor.

  “Now is neither the time nor the place.”

  “I’m going to Jim.”

  “Stay here, beside me. All will be well.”

  “Well, well, well,” said Old Pete, drawing out his pocket watch and perusing the face. “Ten o’clock already.”

  Now, there are sometimes moments of silence even in the most crowded bar. Generally these occur at precisely twenty minutes past the hour, or twenty minutes to. Why this is, nobody knows, though many have their suspicions. However, upon this particular evening, the moment of silence occurred on the stroke of ten.

  And from the distance somewhere came a sound: a dull but powerful thump, it was. It rattled the optics behind the bar.

  “What was that?” was the question that issued from many mouths.

  “Sounded to me,” said Dave Quimsby, whose very large ears rarely failed him, “to be the sound of a lock-up garage in Abaddon Street exploding. Third from the bottom end.”

  Norman heard the words of Quimsby, as indeed did many other folk. Norman turned his eyes upon Old Pete.

  “Don’t you turn your eyes upon me,” said the elder. “I told you those computer parts were dangerous.”

  Norman opened his mouth to issue accusations but thought better of it and tried once more to open an account at the bar.

  Peg was chatting with Scoop Molloy from the Brentford Mercury.

  “Yes,” Scoop was saying, “apparently it’s a sure thing. The team’s tactics have been formulated by an international expert. It’s just a matter of the team turning up and going through the motions, really. The Brentford Mercury’s name is going on all the team’s shirts. Cost an arm and a leg, but what publicity, eh?”

  Peg viewed the chatty young man. She’d noticed that he had a nice little bum.

  Scoop Molloy viewed Peg. He’d always had this thing for fat women.

  “You have magnificent tits,” said Scoop Molloy.

  “Would you care for a shag?” asked Peg.

  “Now, don’t call me crude,” said Old Pete to Councillor Doveston, “but between the two of us, I’d shag that.”

  “I do call you crude,” said the councillor. “But what is it that you’d shag?”

  “Any one of them,” said Old Pete, pointing a wrinkly paw towards the side of the stage. “The Beverley Sisters.”

  “Why are they in wheelchairs?” asked the councillor.

  “Saving their legs for the dancing, I expect. I can never remember their names though, can you?”

  “Larry, Curly and Mo,” said Councillor Doveston.

  “I won’t be a mo,” said John. “I’m just going to check the pumps – can’t have the beer running out, can we?”

  “You weren’t thinking of running out yourself, were you, John?” Professor Slocombe asked.

  “Perish the thought,” said John and he pushed his way into the crowd.

  Stevie Wonderbra had finished their set with a Stevie Wonder number.[26]

  Howard wheeled the Beverleys across the stage, set them in a row, adjusted the microphones before them, then climbed down and began to jiggle with his remote control.

  John made his way to the door and prepared to take his leave at the hurry-up.

  But, to John’s consternation, the door was closed and apparently locked.

  “That’s probably a breach of fire regulations,” said John, rattling the door. “No, hang about, this door bolts from the inside, and it’s not bolted.”

  John rattled at the door once more, but the door remained firm. It wasn’t going to budge. “Someone’s jammed it from the outside,” was John’s opinion, and he made off in further haste to seek another exit.

  “Oh, they’re up,” said Councillor Doveston, “although they do look a bit shaky on their pins.”

  “They still look good for their ages,” said Old Pete. “What do you think they must be in years, now? Seventy? Eighty?”

  “Eighty at least,” said the councillor. “And do you know,” and he spoke behind his hand, “I seem to recall that I shagged the one in the middle about fifty years ago. I was greatly attracted to her beehive hairdo. I was in the music biz then, you know. I was one of Johnny Kidd’s original Pirates.”

  “You too?” said Old Pete.

  The door at the other end of the bar was closed, too, and John Omally couldn’t open it. Sounds, however, came from beyond this door. John recognised these sounds: they were the sounds of passion. John put his ear to the door.

  “Do it to me, big boy,” he heard the voice of Peg urging.

  “Open this door!” shouted Omally.

  The sounds of passion died. The sound of a trouser zip being pulled up was faintly to be heard.

  “I know you’re out there,” called Omally. “Open the door, this is an emergency.”

  Sounds of the door being rattled now came to John and he did some rattling of his own. But this door, like the last, would not be opened.

  “Rear door,” said John to himself. “Door leading to the fire escape.” And John was off on his frantic way once more.

  “Great to see them once more,” said Councillor Doveston. “They haven’t lost their old magic, have they? They wobble a bit, but they can still belt out a number.”

  “So which one did you say you’d shagged?” Old Pete asked. “Larry, was it, or Mo?”

  “Not sure now,” said the councillor, “but I recall that she was a bit curly, if you know what I mean.”

  Norman, who had given up on getting a drink for himself, was tucking into whatever anyone put down near him. “You have no respect for women,” he told Councillor Doveston.

  “That’s true,” said the councillor, “but I display no prejudice. I have no respect for men, either. Bugger off.”

  “Women are precious,” said Norman. “Well, some of them are.”

  “I respect bees,” said councillor Doveston, “and I’m getting up a petition to save the Africanus psychopathia.”

  “That’s the killer bee,” said Norman. “Why would you want to save that?”

  “Bees only sting you if you upset them. Here, have a pamphlet. You send me a quid and you can adopt a bee from one of my hives. You get an adoption certificate and everything.”

  “That sounds like a sound business proposition,” said Old Pete.

  “Would you care for a pamphlet, then?”

  “No,” said Old Pete, “but my bog is full of bluebottles. Bung us half a quid and you can have the lot. I’ll ev
en paint stripes on them, if you want.”

  John Omally wanted out. He wanted to get to Jim. Jim was in danger. Big danger. And John would never be able to forgive himself if something was to happen to Jim. Something that he, John, could have stopped from happening.

  The door that led to the fire escape would not be opened. John fought with this door. This was the last door. There was no other way out of The Stripes Bar. The door remained impervious to John’s assault. It was a sturdy door, as were the others, made sturdy to withstand the attentions of the light-fingered gentry who targeted the rear doors of licensed premises.

  Regularly.

  “Open!” shouted John, kicking at the door.

  A curious gurgling sound caused John to turn his head.

  A gaunt, black figure looked down upon him.

  “Door won’t open,” said John. “Give me a hand, please.”

  The gaunt, black figure extended a hand. Clothed in a black leather glove, it was. The forefinger of this hand waggled at John and the blackly hatted head slowly shook.

  “Who are you?” asked John. And then a certain coldness entered his being, a certain feeling of dread, of not-rightness. And a smell entered the nostrils of John.

  And it was the smell of the grave.

  “What is that smell?” asked Councillor Doveston.

  “Beer,” said Norman. “Team Special, all the team are guzzling it down.”

  And so the team were, and singing, too, a limerick kind of a song about a young girl from St Mawes.

  “Not that smell,” said Councillor Doveston. “It’s a kind of electrical smell.”

  “Ah,” said Norman, “an electrical smell. Let me have a sniff.” And he sniffed. “Definitely an electrical smell. Ozone, that is – or possibly it’s called Freon – but it’s one of my favourite smells.”

  “It’s growing a bit strong,” said Old Pete, “and my sense of smell has been somewhat impaired since I had my nose blown off at Ypres in the first lot.”