The hallway was jam-packed with letters, literally thousands of them, of every way, shape, colour, and form. Telegrams, buff-coloured circulars, and picture postcards.
Pooley rubbed at his eyes as he lay half-submerged in the papery cushion. He was certain that they hadn’t been there the night before, but as the later moments of the previous night’s revels were blank to his recollection, as attested to by the snoring female above, Jim’s certainties were purely subjective in nature.
The banging continued beyond the barricade of the king’s mail.
“All right, all right.” Pooley clutched at his temples and fought his way towards the front door. Pushing envelopes to left and right with great difficulty, he opened it.
“Mail,” said a sweating postman, thumbing over his shoulder towards a dozen or so bulging sacks which lay in an unruly line along the pavement. “Your bloody birthday is it then, pal?”
Pooley shrugged, dislodging an avalanche of letters which momentarily buried him.
“I’ve been sticking these bastards through your letter-box for the better part of an hour and I can’t get any more through. Do pardon this departure from the norm, but I must insist that you post the rest yourself. I am here on relief from Chiswick as the local bloke hasn’t turned in. What is this, some kind of bleeding joke? Candid Camera, is it, or that Game for a Laugh crap?”
Pooley hunched his shoulders beneath the pressing load. “What are they?” he asked. “Who has sent them?”
“From those which unaccountably fell open in my hands, they would seem to be begging letters to a man. What did you do then, come up on the bleeding pools?”
“Something like that.” Jim made an attempt to close the door.
The postman’s contorted face suddenly sweetened. “Is that a fact?” he said thoughtfully. “Then let me be the first to congratulate you.”
“You are not the first,” Jim replied, “but thanks all the same. Now if you will excuse me.” He fought with the front door but Posty’s foot was now firmly in it. Pooley relaxed his grip. “Your foot is caught,” he observed.
“It must be a wonderful thing to have money,” said the postman, edging forward. “I have always been a poor man myself, not that I have ever resented the rich their wealth, you understand, but I have often had cause to wonder why fate chose to deal with me and mine in so shabby a way.”
“Really?” said Jim without interest.
“Oh yes. Not that I complain, soldiering on in all weathers, crippled to the fingertips with arthritis, simply so the mail should get through.”
“Very noble.” Jim applied more pressure to the door but it was getting him nowhere.
“And my wife,” the postman continued, “a holy martyr that woman. If I only had the money to pay for the operation I am certain that she could be relieved of her daily misery.”
“Let us hope so.”
“And my poor blind son, Kevin!”
“Get your bloody foot out of my door.”
Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, the postman withdrew his boot and swung it at the nearest sack. The contents spilled out to flutter away upon the breeze. “Privileged bastard,” he called after the retreating Pooley. “Come the revolution, you and your kind will be first up against the wall. Capitalist Pig!”
Pooley slammed fast the door and stood engulfed in the flood tide of mail. He had sent out a few begging letters himself in the past, but now he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end. Jim Pooley did not like it one little bit. His mail unread and his bedmate unwoken, Jim left the house that morning by the rear entrance.
Now he sat alone upon the Library bench. The sun had long arisen and all the makings of a great day ahead looked in the offing. Jim sighed mournfully and at intervals studied the palm of his right hand. He was not a happy man. He was a gentleman of substance now and it pained him greatly. The terrible feeling of responsibility, one he had never before experienced, gnawed away at his innards. It was all just too much. The total sum of his wealth was too large even to contemplate and with the passing of the night and the current bank rate it had already grown alarmingly.
Jim made a dismal groaning sound and buried his face in his hands. It was all just too much. He had never owned before what one might actually call “money” and certainly not what the “swells” refer to as the current account. He had had an overdraft once but that hadn’t proved to be up to much. And the manner in which he had acquired the fortune, also drastically wrong. No betting shop could ever have had that amount of readies waiting under the counter. And even if it had, it would be hardly likely to simply push them across the counter without a life or death struggle at the very least. Guns would have been toted and knee-caps an endangered species. He and Omally had transferred no fewer than twenty-six wheelbarrow loads from there to the bank. It was simply ridiculous.
And the bank? Pooley moaned pitifully. They had taken the entire thing for granted, as if he had been merely bunging in a couple of quid out of his wages. It was almost as if they had been expecting him. Through the bullet-proof glass of the office Pooley had seen the manager sitting at his desk, a pair of minuscule headphones clasped about his ears, nodding his head and popping his fingers.
And as for this, Pooley held up his right hand and examined the palm. The bank had refused to give him either a receipt or a cheque-book. With unveiled condescension they had explained that such methods of personal finance were now obsolete and that for security’s sake they must insist upon the new personalized identification system. They had then stamped his right palm with a pattern of eighteen little computer lines in three rows of six. Six six six. Pooley spat on to his palm and rubbed away at the marking; it would not budge. He eased up on the moaning and groaning and took to a bit of soulful sighing. He had become involved in something which was very much bigger than he was. He really should have listened to Professor Slocombe and torn up the slip.
A sudden screeching of white-walled tyres upon tarmac announced the arrival of Antoine with Pooley’s new car. Jim distantly recalled a deal he had struck the night before.
“Your carriage awaits,” said the chauffeur of fortune, springing from the automobile and holding open the door.
Jim was entranced. The car, a silver-grey Morris Minor, although of a model some fifteen years out of date, had all the makings of one fresh from the showroom. “Where did you get it?” he asked, rising from his gloom and strolling over to the automotive gem.
“Purchased with the money you advanced, sir,” Antoine replied politely. “Has a few tricks under the hood.”
Pooley circled the car approvingly and ran his unsoiled hand along the spanking paintwork. “Big Boda,” said he. “It’s a corker.”
“And what about the number plates?” Antoine indicated the same, JP 1.
“Double Boda,” said Jim Pooley.
“Would sir care to be taken for a spin?”
“Absolutely.” Jim clapped his hands together and chuckled. Maybe this being wealthy did have its compensations after all. Antoine swung forward the driver’s seat and Jim clambered aboard. The chauffeur sat himself down before the wheel and closed the door. “What is all that?” Pooley asked, spying out the Morris’ dashboard; it was far from conventional.
“Customized,” said Antoine. “By Lateinos and Romiith, who bought out the old Morris patent. This car will do nought to sixty in three point four seconds. It has weather-eye air-conditioning, fuel consumption down to near zero by merit of its improved plasma-drive system. Are you acquainted with quantum mechanics?”