Jim brushed away the barmaid from the New Inn, whose arm had snaked about his waist. “If you really want to know, it was down to you and your talk of numerology. Find the pattern, you said. Break everything down to its numerological equivalent, you said, and the answer is yours.”
Professor Slocombe nodded enthusiastically, a light shone in his old face. “Yes, yes,” he cried, “then you have solved it, you have found the key. Tell me Jim, I must know.”
“It wasn’t all that,” Jim replied. “Get off there woman, those are private places. I simply followed the lines.”
“The lines? What lines?”
Pooley pushed his racing paper towards the Professor, “Those boys there,” he said. “Madam, put those hands away.”
Professor Slocombe drew a quivering finger across the row of computer lines, eighteen in all, three groups of six. “Oh my Lord,” he said slowly. “Jim, do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Pulled off The Big One.”
“Very much more than that.” Professor Slocombe thumbed the paper back to its front page. “I knew it. This is not your paper.”
“I borrowed it,” said Jim guiltily.
“Jim, tear up the slip. I am not joking. You don’t understand what you’ve got yourself into. Tear it up now, I implore you.”
“Leave it out,” Jim Pooley replied.
“I will write you a cheque.” The Professor brought out his cheque-book. “Name the sum.”
“Is the man jesting?” Pooley turned to Old Pete who was banging his deaf aid on to the bar counter.
“I’ve gone deaf here,” the other replied.
“Jim,” the Professor implored, “listen, please.”
“Pete,” said Pooley, “you old fool, give me that thing.”
Three o’clock was fast approaching upon the Guinness clock.
“Switch her on then,” said somebody, nudging Old Pete upon the arm.
Now, it must be fairly stated that Pete’s hearing aid was not one of those microchipped miracle appliances one reads so much of in the popular press. Such articles, one is so informed, although no bigger than a garden pea, can broadcast the sound of a moth breaking wind to the massed appreciation of an entire Wembley cup-tie crowd. No, old Pete’s contraption was not one of these. Here instead, you had the valve, the pink Bakelite case, and the now totally expended tungsten carbide battery.
“It’s broke,” said Old Pete. “Caput.”
“It’s what?”
“Pardon?” the elder replied. “You’ll have to speak up, my deaf aid’s gone.”
“Deaf aid’s gone. Deaf aid’s gone.” The word spread like marge on a muffin. The panic spread with it.
“Tear up the slip,” the Professor commanded, his words lost in the growing din. Pooley clutched it to his bosom as the threatened firstborn it was. Omally sought Neville’s knobkerry as the crowd turned into a mob and sought a beam to throw a rope over. It was lynching time in Brentford. Having seen active service in many a foreign field, Old Pete was well-prepared to go down fighting. He swung his stick with Ninja fury at the first likely skull that loomed towards him. Friend or foe wasn’t in it. Fists began to fly. Omally, knobkerry in hand, launched himself from the counter into the middle of the crowd. “On to the bookie’s, Jim,” he shouted as he brought down a dozen rioters.
Sheltering his privy parts and clinging for dear life to his betting-slip, Pooley, in the wake of Professor Slocombe, whom no man present would have dared to strike no matter how dire the circumstances, edged through the mêlée.
“He’s getting away,” yelled someone, struggling up from beneath the mad Irishman. “After him, lads.”
The crowd swung in a blurry mass towards the saloon-bar door through which Pooley was now passing with remarkable speed. The tumbling mass burst out after him into the street. Professor Slocombe stepped nimbly aside and took himself off to business elsewhere.
Leo Felix, who had been labouring away with welder’s blow-torch in a vain attempt to salvage anything of his defunct tow-truck, stared up, white-faced and dread, as Pooley blundered into him. “I and I,” squealed the rattled Rastaman, vanishing away beneath a small Mount Zion of bowling bodies. Jim was snatched up by a dozen flailing hands and raised shoulder-high. The stampede turned to a thundering phalanx which lurched forward, bound for Bob the bookie’s, bearing at their vanguard their multi-million dollar standard. Jim prepared to make a deal with God for the second time in as many days. When the sixth horse floundered, as surely it must, Mr Popular he was not going to be. “Father forgive them,” he said.
Antoine turned Bob’s Roller into the Ealing Road with an expensive shriek of burning rubber. Ahead, the advancing phalanx filled the street. Antoine yanked hard upon the wheel, but the car appeared to have ideas of its own. It tore forward into the crowd, scattering bodies to left and right. Jim cartwheeled forward and came to rest upon the gleaming bonnet, his nose jammed up against the windscreen. The Roller mounted the pavement, bringing down a lamppost and mercifully dislodging Jim, who slid into the gutter, a gibbering wreck, bereft of yet another jacket sleeve, which now swung to and fro upon a gold-plated windscreen wiper like some captured tribal war trophy.
Antoine leapt from the cab as Pooley’s sixth horse kicked betting history into a cocked hat and Bob’s Roller plunged onward, bound for the rear of Leo’s tow-truck and the paw paw negro blow-torch which was even now blazing away at the unattended oxy-acetylene gas-bottle beneath it.
“It’s been a funny old kind of day,” said Bob the bookie.
13
The Brentford sun arose the next morning upon a parish which seemed strangely reticent about rising from its collective bed to face the challenge of the day ahead. The Swan in all of its long and colourful history had never known a night like it. Jim had loaded the disabled cash register with more pennies than it could ever hope to hold and announced to all that the drinks were most definitely on him. The parish had not been slow to respond to this selfless gesture, and the word burned like wildfire up the side-streets and back alleys as it generally did when fanned by the wind of a free drink.
Brentford put up the “Closed for the Night” sign and severed all links with the outside world. The Swan’s rival publicans chewed upon their lips for only a short while before leaving their cigars to smoulder in the ashtrays and join in the festivities. The borough council awarded the swaying Jim their highest commendation, the Argentinum Astrum, before drinking itself to collective extinction. With the charred automotive wreckage of Bob’s Roller and Leo’s tow-truck removed, there had been dancing in the street that night.
For Neville, upon his bed of pain, news never reached him. The Sisters of Mercy who tended to his bed-pan and blanket-baths, hiked up their skirts and joined in the revelry, leaving the metaphysical fat boy to sleep on under his heavy sedation.
For John Omally it was a night he would long remember. As Christ had feasted the five thousand upon half a score of Jewish baps and as many kippers, thus did Omally quench the thirsts of the Brentford multitude. Like the barman of myth, his hand was always there to take up the empty glass and refill it.
For Jim Pooley, morning suddenly appeared out of drunken oblivion beating a loud tattoo of drums upon the inside of his skull. Jim shook his head. An ill-considered move. The tattoo grew louder and more urgent. Jim reopened a pair of blood-red eyes. He found himself staring into the snoring face of Miss Naylor, Brentford’s licentious librarian. “Gawd,” muttered Jim to himself, “I did strike it lucky last night.”
The pounding was coming from below, from his front door. It was the relief postman. Jim rose giddily and lurched towards the bedroom door. The words “never again” could not make it to his lips. “Shut up,” he whispered as the hammering continued. Jim stumbled down the uncarpeted stairs and caught his bare toe for the umpteenth time upon the tack protruding from the sixth tread. Howling beneath his breath, he toppled into the hall to find himself suddenly swimming in a sea of paper.