“I’ll be fine, thanks,” said Norman. “Twenty-three million will be more than enough to be going on with. I’m not a greedy man.”
“But …” Mr Richard Gray now clawed at the air, almost in the manner of a drowning man. “No, wait. You can’t leave. You can’t.”
“I have to get back,” said Norman. “The lady outside said there was a twenty-five-pound consultancy fee. I paid her in cash. Thanks for your time. Goodbye.”
And with that, Norman left the office of Mr Richard Gray. And Mr Richard Gray opened his office window and threw himself out of it.
On to the dustbins outside.
For the office was on the ground floor.
“Mr Hartnel,” said Ms Bennett as Norman was leaving the building, “the office intercom was still on and I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Mr Gray.”
“Better an egg in peace than an ox in war,” said Norman.
“I do so agree,” said Ms Bennett.
“You do?” said Norman.
“I so do. And I love the way you said it. You’re a very assertive man, Mr Hartnel.”
“I am?” said Norman, adjusting his wig.
“You are. And a very handsome one, if I dare say so.”
“Well,” said Norman, “there’s no harm in daring.”
“Perhaps we might go for a drink at lunchtime?”
“Why?” Norman asked.
“Well.” Ms Bennett threw back her blondey hair and thrust out her preposterous bosoms. “To get to know each other a little better, perhaps.”
“I’d like that,” said Norman. “What shall we say? One o’clock in The Swan, would that be all right?”
Ms Bennett left her chair and moved to sit upon her desk, where she crossed her shapely legs in a most provocative fashion. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” she said.
“Looking forward to the match on Wednesday, Neville?” asked Old Pete, reacquainting himself with his favourite stool in The Swan’s saloon bar.
“I’m damn sure I barred you for a week,” said the part-time barman.
“What’s a week between old friends?” Old Pete grinned a toothless grin. “And you barred Norman, too. I think I’m losing the plot. I heard you have unbarred John and Jim.”
“Yes,” said Neville, “well—”
“And a very wise move on your part. A large dark rum, if you will. I have the exact change.”
Neville drew off a large dark rum for the antiquated horticulturalist. “What match is this you’re talking about?” he asked.
“The team’s next match, against Orton Goldhay Wanderers, the legendary thrashers of Penge upon their legendary Day of Shame. Should be a good’n.”
“And you’ll be there, will you?”
“In spirit,” said Old Pete, “but out of loyalty to yourself and The Swan I’ll be drinking here rather than in The Stripes Bar.”
“Cheese,” said Neville.
“And I have something for you.” Old Pete rooted about in his tweedy pocket. “As a token of our longstanding friendship, as it were.”
“Oh,” said Neville. “What’s that then?”
“Mandragora,” said Old Pete. “The crop has come in. The first batch is on the house, Neville.” And Old Pete passed Neville a bag of what looked to all the world to be Mary Johanna herself.
“This place is a crack den,” said a casual observer.
“Back to the Cottage Hospital with you,” said Neville, showing the casual observer the door.
“This stuff,” said Old Pete, “will make you a god-damn sexual tyrannosaurus. Just like me.”
“I don’t think so.” Neville pushed the bag back across the mahogany bar counter.
“Give it a go,” said the elder, pushing it back. “Two teaspoons in your morning coffee. Trust me, it will perk up your old chap no end.”
“My old chap does not need perking up.”
“Neville,” said Old Pete, “I have no wish to be crude here, but when was the last time you had a shag?”
“That is none of your business.” Neville made an appalled face and pushed the bag back towards Old Pete.
“Not in my living memory,” said Old Pete, “and my living memory goes back one heck of a long way.”
“I’m a busy man, Pete. I have no time for trivial dalliances.”
“I see you ogling the office girls that come in here at lunchtimes, but you don’t have the courage to ask them out. You’re afraid that your old chap will let you down.”
“Lies,” said Neville. “Damned and filthy lies.”
“Try it,” said Old Pete, pushing the bag once more in Neville’s direction. “What have you got to lose?”
“I don’t take drugs,” said Neville, pushing it back.
“It isn’t drugs,” said Old Pete, pushing it back at Neville once again. “It’s a natural herb extract. You’ll thank me for it, Neville, you really will.”
Neville gazed down upon the little bag. “No,” said he.
“Go on, Neville. Trust me, I’m a horticulturist.”
Neville sighed, took the bag and placed it upon a shelf behind the bar, amongst the Spanish souvenirs.
“Good boy,” said Old Pete.
“I’m not going to take it,” said Neville.
“Of course you’re not.” Old Pete finished his large dark rum. “Same again,” he said, “and have one yourself, on me.”
“One for yourself?” said John Omally.
He and Jim stood in The Stripes Bar. It was a Stripes Bar that was still undergoing redecoration. Hairy Dave and Jungle John, Brentford’s builders in residence, were bashing away with the three-knot emulsion brushes and spreading paint in most places other than on the walls.
“I’m cutting down,” said Jim. “Make mine a half.”
“Two more pints over here, please,” John told Mr Rumpelstiltskin.
Mr Rumpelstiltskin drew off two pints of Large.
“A shame about the Beverley Sisters catching fire like that,” said Jim as he took his up.
“Swings and roundabouts,” said John, “but at least The Rock Gods escaped unscathed. I’m sure I can persuade them to attend another Benefit Night, although I’m not so sure that I’ll be able to provide an audience. Shall we adjourn to my office? It escaped the worst of the holocaust.”
John and Jim adjourned to John’s office in The Stripes Bar and sat themselves down, John upon his comfy recliner.
“Do you really think we’re safe?” Jim asked.
“If the professor says we’re safe, we’re safe.”
“I hope so.”
“And the Campbell is no longer following you around, which must prove something. Jim, we are presently weird-free. Nothing else weird is going to occur, nothing else preposterous.”
“I really do hope so.”
“Perk up, Jim.” John raised his glass. “We’re back in the game. There are pennies to be made, games to be won and a betting ticket in your pocket that will take us both to wealth.”
“If Brentford wins seven games on the trot.”
“Trust the professor’s tactics. So far, so good.”
“But another game on Wednesday – so soon.”
“It’s hard work in the big league, but the payoffs are more than favourable. Now, about these strippers.”
“Strippers,” said Jim. “Strippers?”
“Strippers,” said John. “I thought I might engage some for lunchtimes in here, to bring in a bit of trade.”
“Neville won’t take kindly to that.”
“I have not entirely forgiven Neville for bopping us on the head. But this is business, Jim. We need the money to pay the team.”
“I’ve been wondering about my wages, John. When do you think I’ll be seeing any? I’m all but broke and my landlady is all for casting me into the street.”
“What? The manager of Brentford United? I’ll have words with that lady. You leave it to me.”
Jim shrugged and sighed. “So, strippers it is,” he said
in a hopeless tone. “What else?”
“More sponsorship. I have a new mobile phone.” John flourished same and Jim flinched. “And new stock for the club shop. You can leave all that to me, I’m on the case.”
“And me?”
“You just enthuse the team, pass on the professor’s tactics – do your job. We’ll succeed. I have every confidence that we will.”
“We can but try,” said Jim Pooley. “But see, who is this?”
Jim pointed and John followed the direction of his pointing.
“It’s Small Dave,” said John, “Brentford’s dwarfish postman, locally known as a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard with nasty warty little hands.”
“I know who he is,” said Jim, “and his horrid warty little hands fair put the wind up me. But what is he doing here?”
“Good day, each,” said Small Dave, waddling over.
“Good day, Dave,” said John.
And Jim did likewise.
“Thought I’d just pop in,” said the diminutive deliverer of the Queen’s mail. “Tell you a bit of hot news.”
“Really?” said Jim. “What news is this?”
Small Dave made gagging sounds in his throat. “My voice departs me,” he whispered. “My throat is parched.”
“Pint of Large over here, please, barman,” Omally called. “Courtesy of the management.”
“Cheers,” said Small Dave. And upon receiving his pint, he said “cheers” once again and climbed on to a chair to address his benefactor. “He’s back,” said the small one.
“Who’s back?” Jim asked.
“Archroy is back.”
“Archroy?”
John looked at Jim.
And Jim looked at John.
“Archroy is back?” said Jim.
“That’s what I said.” Small Dave took up his pint in his two tiny hands, which Jim and John refrained from gazing upon, and gulped away the better part of it. “Arrived this morning, looking very full of himself. Well tanned he is and wearing a pith helmet.”
“He’s been gone for ages,” said Jim. “How long has it been?”
“Eighteen months,” said Small Dave, finishing his pint. “Went in search of the Ark of Noah that supposedly rests upon Mount Ararat, which is now buried in the ice.”
“And did he find it?” asked Jim.
“Apparently not. The borders are closed – there was some unpleasantness – so he set sail for other parts.”
“He’s a nutter,” said John. “Always was. A dreamer, even when we were back at school together. He goes off on his wanderings in search of mythical artefacts and always comes back empty-handed.”
“Not this time,” said Small Dave, rattling his empty glass upon the table. “This time he’s hit the motherlode. Oh no, my voice is giving out again.”
“One more, then,” said Omally, calling out to Mr Rumpelstiltskin for more. “But this had better be good.”
“Oh, it is.” Small Dave awaited the arrival of his new pint and, upon its arrival, continued with the telling of his tale. “He got blown off course somewhere in the Adriatic. Got washed up upon an island.” Small Dave went on to name the island.
“Never heard of it,” said John.
“That’s because it’s not on any modern map. Did you ever see that film Jason and the Argonauts?”
“One of my favourites,” said Jim. “A Ray Harryhausen.”
“That’s the one,” said Small Dave.
“Ah, yes,” said Jim, “and that island is where Jason captured the Golden Fleece.”
“You are correct,” said Small Dave. “And that’s what Archroy’s done.”
“What has he done?” John asked.
“He’s found the Golden Fleece and he’s brought it back to Brentford.”
John looked at Jim once more.
And Jim looked back at John.
“On your way, Dave,” said John Omally. “And give that pint to me.”
“I’m not kidding, lads,” said Small Dave, clinging on to his pint. “He really has found it, and it really is magic. Remember the warts?”
“What warts would these be?” asked John, as if he didn’t know.
“As if you don’t know,” said Small Dave. “All over my hands. Well, look at them now.” And Small Dave held up his hands. “He laid the Golden Fleece upon me and all my warts vanished away.”
And John beheld the hands of Small Dave.
And Jim beheld these hands also.
And lo, these hands were free of warts.
These tiny hands were wartless.
“Now let me just quote you, John,” said Jim. “Nothing else weird is going to occur, you said. Nothing else preposterous.”
Norman drank that lunchtime in The Flying Swan, in the company of Ms Bennett. Later, the two of them took a little drive in Norman’s van.
And what went on in that van, somewhat later, when it was parked-up in a quiet cul-de-sac, would have been considered by John to be more than quite preposterous.
24
Archroy did not pop into The Stripes Bar for a pint or two to celebrate his unexpected return to Brentford. Neither did he pop into The Flying Swan. Which was probably a good thing, because Neville was having a bit of trouble with the brewery.
It was Tuesday now and Neville was cringing at the unexpected and truly unwelcome arrival of the brewery-owner’s son, Young Master Robert.
Young Master Robert paced up and down The Swan’s saloon bar, turning occasionally to glance at Neville before pacing on.
“Everything is in order,” Neville told him. “The books balance, as near as books can balance. Trade is good.”
“Really?” Young Master Robert ceased his pacing and turned his visage fully upon Neville. “Words reach my ear,” said he, “words to the effect that The Stripes Bar has engaged the services of a lunchtime stripper.”
“No,” said Neville. “Really?”
“Trade appears somewhat slack in here at the present,” said the young master. “And the present is lunchtime, is it not?”
“They’ll be in soon,” said Neville. “They always are – young pasty-faced office types. We get through a lot of cider.”
“But not today, apparently.”
“They’ll be in.”
“Then perhaps I’ll wait and say my hellos.”
“Cheese,” said Neville.
“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “This place needs a pep-up, something to draw in the punters.”
“We have regular trade,” said Neville. “This is a highly respected establishment, very popular with the locals.”
“A lot of no-marks.” Young Master Robert paced up to the bar counter and sat himself down upon Old Pete’s favourite stool, which was unusually empty. “I hear that the team actually won a match on Saturday.”
“Indeed,” said Neville, “and I am responsible for appointing the new manager, not that I wish to take any credit. Although if any is going, I will receive it without complaint.”
“Needs a pep-up,” said Young Master Robert. “Needs a new look.”
“It really doesn’t.” Neville found himself wringing his hands. He thrust these wringing hands into his trouser pockets. “It’s perfect as it is. It couldn’t be more perfect.”
“New look,” said Young Master Robert. “Pep-up. Vodka and Slimline.”
Neville hastened to oblige. “Please don’t do anything to the decor,” he begged the young master as he presented him with his drink.
“One thing at a time,” said the brewery-owner’s one and only boy-child. “Let’s start with the bar staff.”
“Oh no,” said Neville. “You’re not going to sack me?”
“Oh no, not yet, but the place needs a little colour. And if The Stripes has strippers, then The Flying Swan needs ladies, too.”
“Not strippers,” said Neville. “Anything but strippers.”
“Not strippers, but female bar staff.”
Neville flinched, horribly. He’d ne
ver met a woman yet who could draw a decent pint.
“Female bar staff?” he said in a tremulous tone.
“Topless female bar staff,” said Young Master Robert.
“By the shades of the seraphim,” said Jim Pooley, for Dr Strange Comics were rarely far from his mind these days, “that lady has very large bosoms.”
“Very large,” said John Omally. “I agree that she doesn’t have much of an act, just sort of crawls on to the stage and tries to stand upright, but it works for me.”
John and Jim viewed the stripper, as did the large male contingent that thronged The Stripes Bar. Which included, upon this occasion, the now legendary Ivor Biggun.
“A decent turnout for a lunchtime,” said Jim.
“It’s a wonder what a few posters will do,” said John.
“Neville is not going to like this.”
“He’s a professional. He understands the spirit of healthy competition. Hey, look, here’s Norman. And who’s that with him? I know that woman.”
“Hello, lads,” said Norman, mooching up to the bar counter. “This is my business associate, Ms Bennett.”
“We’ve met,” said John, putting out his hand for an intimate shake.
“Have we?” said Ms Bennett, declining the offer of John’s hand.
“Champagne,” said Norman, “if you have any.”
“Of course we have.” John drew the attention of Mr Rumpelstiltskin, which was difficult as the barman’s eyes were fixed upon the bosom of the stripper. “Champagne over here.”
“She’s nearly up,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “No, she’s down again.”
“Champagne,” repeated Omally.
“Cheers,” said Norman. “And get in further glasses. You can have some, too.”
“So what are we celebrating?” Omally asked.
“My patents,” said Norman. “I am shortly to be very rich indeed.”
“This would be the electrical business that nearly killed us all in The Flying Swan, would it?” said John.
“I’ve done a deal,” said Norman. “Signed the contracts yesterday evening.”
Mr Rumpelstiltskin uncorked a bottle of warm champagne and decanted it into champagne flutes and into John and Jim’s pints. “Can I have a glass myself?” he asked. “I’ve never tasted champagne.”
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