Neville tossed back his scotch and looked up at the Guinness clock; nearly five-thirty, nearly opening time. He squared up his scholar’s stoop and took another deep breath. He would just have to pull himself together. Embark upon a course of positive activism. Be polite to his patrons, tolerant of their foibles, and indulgent towards their eccentricities. He would smile and think good thoughts, peace on earth, good will towards men. That kind of thing. He was certain that if he tried very very hard the horrid odour would waft itself away, to be replaced by the honeysuckle fragrance of spring.
From not far away the library clock struck the half-hour, and Neville the part-time barman flicked on the lights, took himself over to the door, and opened up. On the doorstep stood two bearded men.
‘Good evening, barlord,’ said Jim Pooley.
‘God save all here,’ said John Omally.
Neville ushered them into the bar without a word. Now was the present and what was to happen happened now and hereafter and it surely couldn’t be all bad, could it? The two men, however, seemed to be accompanied by a most extraordinary smell. Neville pinched at his nostrils and managed a somewhat sickly grin. ‘Your pleasure, gentlemen?’ he asked when he had installed himself behind the jump, and his two patrons had resumed residency of the two barstools which had known not the pleasure of their backsides for more than a week. ‘What will it be?’
Pooley carefully withdrew from his pocket the five-pound note, which had not left his clammy grip since it had been handed to him, and placed it upon the bar counter.
Neville’s eyebrows soared into a Gothic arch. He had hoped that if he thought positively things might turn out OK, but this? This transcended even his wildest expectations. Jim Pooley with a five-pound note?
And there was more to come. ‘Two pints of Large please, Neville,’ said Pooley, smiling almost as hideously as the barman, ‘and have one yourself!’
Neville could feel a prickling sensation rising at the back of his neck. Have one yourself? He had read in paperback novels of the phrase being used by patrons of saloon-bars, but he had never actually encountered it in real life. ‘Pardon,’ said the part-time barman, ‘might I have that last bit again?’
‘Have one yourself,’ Pooley said once more.
Neville felt at his pulse. Could this really be? Or had he perhaps died and gone to some kind of barman’s Valhalla or happy drinking ground? The nervous tic went into overdrive.
Omally, who was growing somewhat thirsty, made the suggestion that if Neville wanted to take advantage of Jim’s generosity it would be better if he dropped the amateur theatricals and did so at once. Neville hastened to oblige. ‘Thank you Jim,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what got into me then. Your kindness is well received, I thank you.’
Still mumbling the phrase ‘Have one yourself under his breath, Neville pulled two pints of the Swan’s finest. As he did so he took the opportunity to study the two men, whose eyes were now fastened by invisible chains to the rising liquid. The beards were odd enough in themselves, but that Pooley’s shirt appeared to have shrunk by at least two sizes and that the colour of Omally’s regimental tie had run on to his neck were things of exceeding strangeness. Caught in a sudden downpour perhaps? Neville could not remember any rain. The ducking stool then? Some lynch mob of cuckolded husbands exacting a medieval revenge? That seemed feasible.
The barman passed the two exquisitely drawn pints across the counter and took possession of the magical blue note, which he held to the light as a matter of course. Having waited respectfully whilst Pooley and Omally took the first step towards quenching their long thirst he said at length, ‘Well now, gentlemen, we have not had the pleasure of your company for more than a week. You have not been taken with the sickness I hope, nor struck by tragic circumstances.’
Pooley shook his head. ‘We have been in Penge,’ he said.
‘Penge,’ said Omally, nodding vigorously.
‘Ah,’ said Neville thoughtfully. ‘I understand that it’s a very nice place, although I have never actually been there myself.’
‘Splendid,’ said Pooley.
‘Very nice indeed,’ his colleague agreed. ‘You’d love it.’
Neville shrugged and turned away to cash up the traditional ‘No Sale’ and extract for himself the price of a large scotch. As he did so Pooley remembered the Professor’s request.
‘Could I have a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it?’ he asked politely.
Neville froze in his tracks. A pound’s worth of change? So that was it, eh? The old ‘have one yourself, barman’ was nothing more than the Judas kiss. Pooley planned to play the video machine. ‘You bastard!’ screamed Neville, turning upon the drinker.
‘Pardon me?’ said Jim.
‘Pound’s worth of change is it? Pound’s worth of change? You treacherous dog.’
‘Come now,’ said Jim, ‘steady on.’
‘Steady on? Steady on? Have one yourself barman and a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it! What do you take me for?’
‘Seemed a reasonable request to me.’ Pooley looked towards Omally, who was covering his drink. ‘What is going on, John?’ he asked.
Omally, who was certainly never one to be slow on the uptake, explained the situation. ‘I think that our good barman here believes that you want the money to play the video machine.’
Pooley, whose mind had been focused upon matters quite removed from video games, suddenly clicked. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘good idea, make it thirty-bobs’ worth, Neville.’
‘AAAAAAGH!’ went the part-time barman, reaching for his knobkerry.
Pooley saw the hand vanishing below counter level and knew it to be a very bad sign. ‘Come now,’ he implored, backing away from the bar, ‘be reasonable. I haven’t played it in a week, I was just getting the hang of it. Look, let’s just say the quid’s-worth and call it quits.’
Neville brought the cudgel into prominence. ‘I’ve had enough,’ he shouted, hefting it hi a quivering fist. ‘You traitor. Touch the thing and you are barred, barred for life. Already today have I barred one regular, another will do no harm.’
‘Who is the unhappy fellow?’ asked Omally who, feeling himself to have no part in the present altercation, had not shifted from his seat.
‘Norman,’ growled Neville. ‘Out, barred for life, finished, gone!’
Omally did his best to remain calm. ‘Norman?’
‘Norman.’
‘Norman Hartnell of the corner shop?’
That Norman, yes.’
‘Norman Hartnell, the finest darts player this side of the Thames? Norman the captain of the Swan’s darts team? The five times trophy-winning darts team? The very darts team that plays at home for the championship on the twenty-ninth? That Norman you have barred for life?’
What colour had not already drained from Neville’s naturally anaemic face took this opportunity to make an exit via his carpet-slipper soles.
‘ ! . . . ! . . . ‘ The barman rocked to and fro upon his heels; his good eye slowly ceased its ticking and became glazed, focused apparently upon some point far beyond the walls of the Swan. He had quite forgotten the darts tournament. The most important local sporting event of the entire calendar. Without Norman the team stood little hope of retaining the shield for a sixth year. What had he done? The locals would kill him. They would tar and feather him and ride him out of the town on a rail for this. Darts wasn’t just a game in Brentford, it was a religion, and the Flying Swan its high temple. A bead of perspiration appeared in the very centre of Neville’s forehead and clung to it in an appropriately religious fashion like some crystal caste mark. ‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’ he continued.
Old Pete entered the Swan, Chips as ever upon his heels. Being naturally alert, he spied out the barman’s unnatural behaviour almost at once. ‘Evening to you, Omally,’ he said, nudging the Irishman’s arm. ‘Haven’t missed anything, have I?’
‘Sorry?’ Omally, although a man rarely rattled, had been severely
shaken by the barman’s frightful disclosure.
‘The mime,’ said Old Pete. ‘I’m very good at these. Spied out Norman’s Quasimodo some days back and won an ounce of tobacco. This one looks quite easy, what’s the prize?’
Omally scratched his whiskers. ‘What are you talking about?’
The old loon put his head upon one side and stroked his chin. ‘Is it a film or a television programme?’ he asked. ‘Do I get any clues?’
‘It’s a book,’ said Pooley, taking the opportunity to retrieve his pint before retreating to a safe distance.
‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’ went Neville.
‘Must be the Bible then,’ said Old Pete. ‘Not that I’ve ever read it. Should say by the look of the stick and everything that it’s either Moses parting the Red Sea or Samson slaying all those Philippinos with the jawbone of an ass.’
Young Chips, who was of a more metaphysical bent, suspected that it was more likely Lobsang Rampa’s The Third Eye, with the caste mark and the glassy stare and what was quite obviously some kind of mantra based upon the concept of self-realization; the I.
Neville slowly replaced his knobkerry, and turned to the cash register where he drew out Pooley’s change, including amongst it thirty shillings’-worth of florins. Preventing patrons from playing Captain Laser machines did not seem to be of much importance any more. ‘Enjoy your game,’ he said, handing the still flinching Jim the money. Old Pete shook his head. ‘Can’t abide a poor sport,’ he said. ‘Guessed it in one, did I? Told you I was good.
‘What about the prize then?’ Neville, however, had wandered away to the end of the bar where he now stood polishing an imaginary glass with an invisible bar cloth. ‘What about a drink then?’ The ancient turned imploringly towards Pooley and Omally, but the two had taken themselves off to a side table where they now sat muttering over an outspread map. ‘I won it fair and square,’ said Old Pete to his dog. Chips shrugged, he had a bad feeling about all this and wished as usual to remain non-committal.
Jim Pooley ran his finger up and down the cartographical representation of Brentford and made a wash-hand-basin out of his bottom lip. ‘This really is all getting rather dire,’ he said. ‘Spacemen on the allotment, starships on the attack, and the Flying Swan without a darts captain. Are we dreaming all this or can it really be true?’
Omally fingered his beard and examined the tide marks about his cuff. ‘It’s true enough,’ said he, ‘and I think we might do no better than to apply ourselves to the problem in the hope that a solution might be forthcoming.’
‘We’ll have to do something about Neville.’ Pooley peered over his shoulder towards the dejected figure. ‘I can’t stand seeing him like that.’
‘All in good time,’ said Omally, giving his nose a tap. ‘I am sure I shall be able to effect some compromise which will satisfy both parties and get us one or two freemans into the bargain. For now though the map must be the thing.’
Jim had his doubts but applied himself once more. ‘What are we looking for?’ he asked very shortly.
Omally took out his Asprey’s fountain pen, which by virtue of its quality had withstood its ordeal by water with remarkable aplomb, or la plume, as the French would have it. ‘If a pattern exists here I shall have it,’ he said boldly. ‘When it comes to solving a conundrum, the Omallys take over from where the fellow with the calabash and the deerstalker left off. Kindly turn the map in my direction.’
‘Whilst you are solving the Enigmatic Case of the Cerean Cipher,’ said Pooley sarcastically, ‘I shall be off to the bar for another brace of Large. I am at least getting pleasure from my newly acquired wealth.’
The ordnance survey map had received more than a little attention on his return. ‘Looks very nice,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know that there was a streak of William Morris in you, John. Taken to designing wallpaper, is it?’
‘Silence,’ said Omally. ‘If it is here, I will have it.’
Jim sucked at his pint. ‘What are all those?’ he asked, pointing to a network of squiggles.
‘The drainage system of the borough.’
‘Very good, and those?’
‘All the houses that to my knowledge have recently fitted loft insulation.’
‘You are nothing if not thorough. And the curlicues?’
‘That is a personal matter, I have left nothing to chance.’
Pooley stifled a snigger. ‘You surely don’t believe that an alien strikeforce has plotted out the homes of your female conquests as a guideline to their invasion?’
‘You can never tell with aliens.’
‘Indeed.’ Pooley watched the Irishman making crosses along a nearby side-road. ‘Might I venture to ask what you are plotting now?’
‘Morris Minors,’ said Omally.
Jim stroked his beard reflectively. ‘John,’ he said, ‘I think that you are going about this in the wrong way. The Professor suggested that we look for some kind of landmarks, surely?’
‘All right then.’ Omally handed Jim his cherished pen. ‘You are obviously in tune with the Professor’s reasoning, you find it.’
Pooley pushed out his lip once more but rose to the challenge. ‘Right then,’ he said, ‘landmarks it is. What do we have?’
‘The War Memorial.’ Pooley marked a cross. ‘The Public Library.’ Pooley marked another.
Twenty minutes later the map had the appearance of a spot the ball contest form that had been filled in by a millionaire.
‘I’ve run out,’ said Omally.
‘So has your pen,’ said Jim, handing his friend the now ruined instrument. The two peered over the devastated map. ‘One bloody big mess,’ said Jim. ‘I cannot make out a thing.’
‘Certainly the crosses appear a little random.’
‘I almost thought we had it with the subscribers to The Fortean Times though.’
‘I could do with another drink.’
‘We haven’t done those yet.’
Omally pressed his hands to his temples. ‘There is not enough ink in the country to plot every drinker in Brentford.’
‘Go and get them in then.’ Pooley handed John one of the Professor’s pound notes. ‘I’ll keep at it.’
Omally was a goodly time at the bar. Croughton the potbellied potman, finding himself under the sudden overwhelming strain of handling the bar single-handed while Neville sought divine guidance, had begun to crack and was panicking over the drinks. The Swan now swelled with customers and arguments were breaking out over cloudy beer and short change. Omally, seizing the kind of opportunity which comes only once in a lifetime, argued furiously that he had paid with a fiver; the flustered potman, being in no fit state to argue back, duly doled out the change without a whimper.
Omally pocketed the four well-won oncers, reasoning that the news of such an event might well unbalance the sensitive Pooley’s mind and put him at a disadvantage over the map plotting. When he returned to the table bearing the drinks he was somewhat surprised to find that the expression Jim Pooley now wore upon his face mirrored exactly that of Neville the part-time barman. ‘Jim?’ asked John. ‘Jim, are you all right?’
Pooley nodded gently. ‘I’ve found it,’ he said in a distant voice. Omally peered over the map. There being no ink left in the pen, Pooley had pierced the points of his speculation through with defunct matchsticks. A pattern stood out clearly and perfectly defined. It was immediately recognizable as the heavenly constellation of Ursa Major, better known to friend and foe alike as The Plough.
‘What are they?’ Omally asked, squinting at the crucified map.
‘It’s the pubs,’ said Pooley in a quavering voice. ‘Every house owned by this brewery.’
Omally marked them off. It was true. All seven of the brewery pubs lay in the positions of the septentriones: the New Inn, the Princess Royal, The Four Horsemen, and the rest. And yes, sure as sure, there it was, there could be no mistake: at the point which marked Polaris, the North Star in Ursa Minor - the Flying Swan. ‘God’s teeth,’ said
John Omally.
‘Let the buggers land then,’ said Jim. ‘I am not for destroying every decent drinking-house in Brentford.’
‘I am behind you there, friend,’ said John, ‘but what can it mean? The Swan at the very hub, what can it mean?’
‘I shudder to think.’
‘Fold the map up,’ said John, ‘we must tell the Professor at once.’
Pooley, who still had upon his person the price of several more pints, was reticent and suggested that perhaps there was no immediate rush. The Professor could hardly have expected them to solve the thing so swiftly. Perhaps a celebration pint or two was called for.
‘A sound idea,’ said Omally heartily. ‘In fact, as you have done so well, I suggest that we dispense with pints and go immediately on to shorts!’
‘A fine idea,’ said Jim, ‘I will get a couple of gold ones in.’ Thus saying he rose from his seat and made for the bar. Quite a crush had now developed, and even Pooley’s practised elbows were hard put to it to gain him a favourable position. As he stood, waggling his pound note and trying to make himself heard, Jim suddenly felt a most unpleasant chill running up his spine. Pooley, taking this to be some after-effect of his discovery, shuddered briefly and tried to make himself heard. He found to his horror that his voice had suddenly deserted him. And it was then that he noticed for the first time that there was a strong smell of creosote in the air.
Pooley clutched at his throat and gagged violently. As he did so a firm and unyielding hand caught his elbow, and held it in a vicelike grip.
Jim turned towards his tormentor and found himself staring into a face which only a mother could love. There was more than a touch of the Orient about it, slightly tanned, the cheekbones high and prominent, and the eyes slightly luminescent. It was a face in fact which bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance. The figure was dressed in an immaculate black suit and had about him the feeling of impossible cleanliness.
The Brentford Triangle (The Brentford Trilogy Book 2) Page 12
