Bob nodded and tinkered with his watch. “Video roulette,” he said. “The latest thing from Lateinos and Romiith.”
“A pox on those two lads,” said Pooley. “And good-day.”
Jim folded his betting-slip into his breast-pocket, left the fog-bound bookie, and strolled off along the Ealing Road. He had not gone but fifty yards when he found himself confronted by a most extraordinary little scene. A group of onlookers was gathered in a tight knot about the pavement doors of the Swan’s cellar. Pooley craned his head above the assembled throng and was more than a little surprised at what he saw.
Somehow, inexplicably jammed into the four-foot opening, was Neville the part-time barman.
“Someone get me out,” wailed this man, his voice soaring in pitch and volume above that of the rumbling spectators. “By the gods somebody, please!”
Pooley rubbed at his eyes. This was an impossibility surely? Thin man trapped in fat opening; such things could not be reasonably expected to occur. But strange as strange, here they were doing that very thing. Neville spied out Pooley’s face bobbing amongst the sea of others. “Jim,” he shouted. “Help me out will you?”
Pooley hastened to oblige. “Stand back now, ladies and gents,” he said. “Give the man some air now, please.”
“On your bike, Pooley,” said Old Pete, who had a particularly good place near the front. “We’re not going to miss any of this.”
“Be fair,” Jim pleaded. “You can see he’s in a bad way, give the lad a break.”
“How do you suppose it’s done, then?” said Old Pete. “Mirrors, do you think?”
Pooley shook his head. “I’ve really no idea, might it be what they call a shared vision? I’ve read of such things.”
“Possibly that. When I was in the East, a lad in the regiment took us to see the Indian rope trick. We saw the whole thing. Magician throws up a rope, it hangs in the air, he climbs up then vanishes, then he climbs down, the whole thing.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, well a bloke with us took pictures and when we got them back, what did they show?”
“Tell me.”
“They showed a mendicant standing beside a coil of rope. Every picture the same. Now what lied, the camera’s eye, or our own?”
Neville, whose face had deepened in colour by several shades during the course of this fascinating conversation, let out a great and terrible scream.
“Keep it down, Neville,” said Old Pete. “Can’t you see we are trying to apply ourselves to the situation.”
“Oh, so sorry,” said the bunged-up barman.
“We are doing our best,” Pooley assured him. “It is just, well, the situation has some rather unique qualities, too hasty a decision could result in disaster. ”
“Tell you what,” said Old Pete, “I’ll go through the bar and into the cellar; I’ll pull and you push.” Pete scuttled away through the saloon-bar door.
“There,” said Pooley. “Help is at hand, do not worry.”
“I’m running out of breath,” mumbled the barman. “I’ll die here in full public gaze. The humiliation, the shame. What a way to go.”
“Come on now,” said Jim, doing his best to usher away the crowd which now spilled out into the Ealing Road. “Be off about your business, please.” He shouted down towards the cellar, “Pete, are you there?” But there was no reply. “Now what is he playing at?” asked Pooley. “I’ll slip inside and see if he’s all right.” Jim slipped into the bar, leaving the mob to close in about the howling barman. He joined Old Pete up at the bar.
“Took your time, didn’t you?” the elder enquired. “Losing your grip then, is it? Here, have one on the house.” He poured Jim a large whisky from the barman’s reserve stock. “Cheers,” he said.
“Down the hatch,” Pooley replied. “No offence meant, Neville.”
“So,” Old Pete continued, “what do you take it to be, publicity stunt do you think?”
Jim shrugged hugely. “You’ve got me. I can’t see how it works, but he does appear to be wedged in solid.”
“Nah, he’s probably up on blocks. No doubt the brewery are planning a Billy Bunter night or some such abomination.”
“Perish the thought.” Jim Pooley crossed himself and tossed back his scotch. “Any more left in that bottle?” he asked.
Outside, exciting things were about to happen. Leo Felix, Brentford’s Rastafarian used-car dealer, had been passing by in his tow-truck; seeing the crowd gathered outside the Swan, the free-ale sign had flashed up in his colourful head. Now, he decided, might be a good time to make his peace with Neville, who had but recently barred him, once more, for life. Even as Pete and Pooley chit-chatted in the bar, Leo, dreadlocks a-dangle, was busily engaged in hooking Neville up to the winch on the back of his truck. “I and I soon have you back on your feet,” he assured Neville. The part-time barman seemed strangely reticent about accepting this particular offer of help, and while the crowd applauded and offered encouragement, he shrieked and wriggled and invoked the aid of his pagan gods. The way things were going he felt that he would soon be getting the opportunity to address them face to face.
Leo was by now up in his cab. “Jah, Jah Willing,” he said as he revved the engine and ram-jammed his thumb down on the hoist button. The cheering crowd parted as the hoist took up the slack.
“Oooooooooh,” went Neville as the improvised harness tightened beneath his armpits.
“Quite mild for the time of year,” said Jim as he poured two more drinks.
“Fair,” said Pete. “I’ve seen better.”
Young Chips pricked up his ears as outside the barman’s scream rose to a frequency beyond human register. Sickening, bone-crunching sounds were emanating from the barman’s middle regions and the cement about the cellar door’s metal frame was splitting and shivering. The crowd drew back in sudden alarm; this was no laughing matter. “Switch your winch off, Leo,” shouted somebody. “You’ll pull him in half.” Leo thumbed the button. He had been meaning to have it fixed for some time. The thing popped out from the dashboard and fell into his upturned palm. “Haile Selassie!” said Leo Felix.
“,” went Neville the part-time barman.
“Back your truck up then for God’s sake,” shouted another somebody, “we’ll try and get the cable off him.”
Leo hastened into the driving seat and stuck the customized Bedford into reverse. Gear cogs ground together adding further screams of distress to those already being loudly voiced.
He had been meaning to get the reverse fixed for some time.
With an almighty clunk the gear found its housing, and lodged into it as firmly as a barman in a beer cellar. Leo clawed at the gear-stick but it would not shift by an inch. His knackered tow-truck, sick to the worn treads with its constant bad treatment, had chosen this of all times to exact revenge upon its Caribbean tormentor. Tearing his keys from the dash, Leo Felix leapt pale-faced from the cab. The malevolent tow-truck rolled relentlessly backwards, bound for the crowd and the struggling barman.