“Unfortunate,” said Neville.
“And she wants me to meet her tonight. I think she’s going to blackmail me, or something.”
“Is that really a problem?” Jim asked. “If you’re really going to become so rich and everything.”
“I don’t want the money,” said Norman. “I wish I’d never got involved in that patents business in the first place, but I just don’t know what to do.”
“Are you sure it’s your baby?” Jim asked.
“No,” said Norman. “Of course I’m not.”
“Call her bluff,” said Old Pete. “If she’s thinking to blackmail you, hold your nerve.”
Norman’s shoulders slumped some more. “I don’t know what to do for the best,” said he.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to blackmail you,” Pooley said. “Maybe she just wants to talk – she’s probably very upset, too. Perhaps everything can be done in a civilised manner, no matter what it is.”
“Do you really think so, Jim?” said Norman.
“Certainly,” said Jim, in the most convincing tone that he could muster.
“Jim,” said Norman, “would you come with me? Tonight, when I meet her. I’d feel a lot happier if I had a friend with me.”
“I can’t do that,” said Jim. “It’s between you and her. She wouldn’t appreciate my presence.”
“You wouldn’t have to sit with us, just be nearby, for moral support, as it were. I’d feel a lot happier.”
“I’d like to help you, Norman, but I’m rather busy at present. The team I manage is playing for the FA Cup tomorrow afternoon.”
Norman sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “You have troubles of your own. And I have to leave. I have a pressing appointment, a loose end that must now be firmly tied up once and for all.” Norman drained his Scotch and rose from his stool to take his leave.
“Hold on,” said Jim. “Where and when are you meeting her?”
“In The Beelzepub,” said Norman. “At ten this evening.”
“I’ll do my best to be there,” said Jim, “but I won’t make any promises.”
Norman shook Jim by the hand. “I’ll be forever in your debt,” said he.
“Debts?” said John Omally. “What debts are these?”
John had been sitting at Jim Pooley’s office desk when the man with the suit had entered without knocking. He was a very large man, broad at the shoulders and at the hips also. He carried a metal executive case and this he placed upon the desk, having first swept papers to right and left to make a spot of room.
“Steady on,” said John.
“Many debts,” said the big, broad man, flipping the catches on the case. “Many court costs and damages.”
“Many what?” John asked.
The big, broad man lifted the lid of his case and brought out many papers. “You are John Vincent Omally,” he said.
“Well—” said John.
“It wasn’t a question,” said the man. “You are John Vincent Omally, personal assistant to James Arbuthnot Pooley, manager of Brentford United Football Club.”
John made a face not dissimilar to that which Jim had recently been making.
“The court summonses were all addressed to you,” said the man, “but you failed to attend any of the proceedings.”
“I’m a very busy man,” said John, who vaguely recalled a lot of official-looking correspondence arriving for him, all of which he had consigned to the bin without opening it.
“Perhaps you believe yourself to be above the law,” said the big, broad man.
John made a so-so face towards this.
The big, broad man affected a smirk. “The court found in favour of the following,” said he, and he read out a list of names.
Omally did groanings. These were the names of the town councillors who had fallen through the floor of the executive box during the Brentford-Orton Goldhay game.
“They all sued, and they all won, as their cases went undefended. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the Brentford Mercury more than a month ago.”
“I only ever read the sports page,” said John, “and the front page when it’s about one of the Brentford team’s wins.”
“This was on the court page. But no matter, I have all the information here. Perhaps you’d care to write me out a cheque – assuming that you have a lot of ink in your Biro.”
The big man laughed. The humour was lost upon John.
“So,” said the big man, suddenly grave, “cheque, is it, or repossession?”
“Repossession?” John asked.
“I represent a firm of bailiffs,” said the big man, now proffering his card. “We have taken over the debts. I must demand payment at once or I will be forced to take possession of the premises and all property within them – which would include the team’s strip, boots, oranges for half-time, et cetera.”
“Oh no,” said John, “you can’t do that. We’re playing for the FA Cup tomorrow.”
The big, broad man replaced his papers and closed his executive case. And then he lunged forward over the desk, snatched John up by his lapels and hoisted him into the air.
“I trust,” said he, as he did so, “that you are not intending to obstruct a bailiff in the course of his duties.”
“I …” gurgled John, lining up to swing a punch that would in all probability prove to be his last. “I …”
“Put Mr Omally down, if you will.”
John peeped over the big, broad shoulder. The Campbell stood in the doorway. “Put him down, says I.”
The big, broad man let John slip from his fingers. He turned upon the figure in the doorway. “And who might you be?” he asked.
“Mahatma Campbell,” said the Campbell. “Take your leave now, if you will.”
The big, broad man stared at the Campbell. “On your way,” said he.
“I’ll stand my ground,” said the Campbell. “And I’ll stand this ground. Take your case and begone.”
The big, broad man lifted his metal case from the desk and then, before John’s horrified eyes, he flung it with terrific force straight at the Campbell’s head.
And John looked on as, with unthinkable speed, the Campbell drew his claymore and swung it at the oncoming case. There was a crash and a flurry of sparks as the claymore cleaved the case into two neat halves, which crashed to the floor amidst a flutter of neatly sliced court summonses.
The Campbell tucked away his claymore. “Away upon your toes,” said he.
The big man glared at the Campbell, and the big man’s eyes darkened, darkened to black. And a blackness fell all about the office and John Omally took to the ducking of his head.
“There’s no ducking out of this one,” said Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of Manchester United Football Club. “Tomorrow is the big match and we are going to win it.”
His team sat before him in the well-posh executive boardroom of the world’s most successful football club.
“I don’t want to have to be chucking any more football boots at players’ heads, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”
His team shifted upon their well-posh executive boardroom chairs. The chairs were Bauhaus classics; the bums that sat upon them were separated from them by Armani suit trousers and Calvin Klein boxer shorts.
“This is a game that we must win,” continued Sir Alex. “A game that we are going to win.”
Team heads nodded enthusiastically.
“We’ll win, Boss,” said a player whose name had a trademark stamp upon it.
“We will,” said another whose face adorned a million bedroom walls.
“You will,” said Sir Alex. “But that is not why I have assembled you all here. I have done so because I want to introduce you to someone. You will not be aware of this, but the club has recently become involved in certain financial negotiations. In fact, the club has changed hands for a more than lucrative sum – one that will assure that when you win tomorrow, and you will win, you will each receive a cash bonus to the tune of half a million pounds.”