“Neville,” said Omally, elbowing his way through the crush.
“At last,” said Neville. “How might I help you, sir? We have eight hand-drawn ales upon tap – two more than at Jack Lane’s and five more than at The Stripes Bar. If I might recommend—”
“Has Jim been in?” Omally asked.
“A pint of Large, would it be?”
“I have to find Jim, it’s very important.”
“A half then, although you won’t feel the benefit.”
“Neville, have you seen Jim?”
“Oh,” said Neville, raising himself as if from a trance. “Jim, you say?”
“Have you seen him? Has he been in here?”
“He was in earlier, but now he’s gone.”
“Do you know where he might be now?”
Neville shrugged. Omally turned to take his leave.
“Hold on there, Omally.” Old Pete laid a wrinkled palm upon the Irishman’s shoulder. “You’re looking for Jim,” said Old Pete.
“I am,” said John. “Do you know where he’d be?”
“He’s with Norman.”
“At his shop?”
“No,” said Old Pete, “at another pub. Norman’s meeting his lady friend there and he wanted Jim to go along.”
“For a threesome?” said Omally.
“No, for moral support. Although Pooley couldn’t offer support to a pair of trousers if he had both belt and braces.”
“Which pub have they gone to?” John Omally asked.
“The Beelzepub,” said Old Pete.
John made haste through the gathering storm. The night had a horrible feel to it now. Omally’s ears popped as if from pressure and his footsteps echoed hollowly, as if he marched upon the skin of a drum. Brentford seemed suddenly alien and Omally felt most ill at ease.
Lights glowed a hideous red from the mullioned gothic windows of the deconsecrated Spiritualist church that was now Brentford’s satanic theme bar, The Beelzepub.
Omally paused, breathing heavily, before the portal.
Upon the arched brickwork above the door, words were printed in gothic script:
ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE THAT ENTER HERE.
Omally shuddered. “Get a grip on yourself, John,” said he.
Taking a deep yet unsteadying breath, he pushed upon the heavy door and entered The Beelzepub, to face the indecorous decor.
The walls and vaulted ceiling were painted the blackest of black. So black, it appeared that they were hardly surfaces at all, more dark voids of space. Many of the chapel’s original fixtures and fittings remained. The pews had been drawn about to flank long medieval tables and the altar now housed the obligatory inverted cross and a naked woman, who sat darning socks.[48] From the rafters hung realistic facsimiles of human corpses in various degrees of decomposition. Deicide’s greatest hits blared from an unseen jukebox. The air was rank with the smell of brimstone and redly bulbed iron torchères lit each and everything to imperfection.
Omally squinted about the bar. In a far corner he spied Norman. Omally made off in Norman’s direction.
“Oi, you,” a harsh voice called out to him. “If you’re not buying, then you’re out.”
Omally turned to the source of this voice and recognised it to be that of Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, the landlord. Gwynplaine stood behind a bar counter distastefully composed of human skulls. He wore a black undertaker’s suit that highlighted the paleness of his gaunt facial features. Omally approached the bar counter.
“What will it be?” asked Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.
“Anything,” said John. “It doesn’t matter.”
“As you please.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark drew off a pint of Ssenniug – a pint of white ale with a jet-black head. He presented this to John, who viewed it with suspicion.
“Ssenniug,” explained Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “is satanically back-masked Guinness.”
“Most amusing,” said Omally, parting with a pound note and receiving from it no change.
“You’re Mr Omally, aren’t you?” said Mr Dhark as Omally was about to make off towards Norman. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
The landlord extended his hand for a shake and Omally grudgingly shook it. The landlord’s hand was cold and cadaverous. Omally shook the thing with haste. “I must be on my way.”
“Oh, please stay a while and talk. We don’t get many celebrities such as yourself in here, as you can see.”
Omally cast an eye across what clientele there was, which wasn’t much, mostly underage youths in black T-shirts and Gothy girls with nose studs.
“I have an appointment,” said John Omally. “My friend is waiting over there.”
“Waiting for his girlfriend,” said Mr Dhark, “and for your employer, I understand.”
“You do?” said John.
“Such is what he told me. He was very talkative. Said he’d got something really big off his chest this afternoon and was now prepared to take on the world and all it had to throw at him.”
“Really?” said John, peering once more in Norman’s direction. “And my employer, that would be Mr Pooley you’re talking about?”
“Such I believe to be his name – the manager of Brentford United. Do you think you could get me his autograph? I’d ask myself, but I’d be embarrassed – you know how it is.”
Omally, a man who was not wholly averse to employing the occasional untruth should the situation so require, could almost smell the lies that issued from the landlord’s mouth.
“I must warn you,” said John, “that if you have done anything to harm Mr Pooley, you will have me to reckon with.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. How’s your Ssenniug, by the way?”
Omally took a sip. “Foul,” said he, replacing his glass upon the counter.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “If it tastes like shit and smells like a rotten corpse, then it’s all right with us.”
“Don’t forget what I said,” said John. And he stalked across the black-tiled floor to where Norman was sitting in a corner.
“Where is Jim?” John asked.
Norman looked up at John. “Hello, John,” said he.
“Jim,” said John, “have you seen him, Norman?”
Norman shook his head. Norman looked rather drunk.
“Have you been drinking?” John asked.
“Silly question, John. I’m sitting in a pub. Wine wears no britches and where there’s life there’s hope. And if it’s a ‘Road’ film, there’ll probably be Crosby, too.” Norman tittered foolishly.
“Where is Jim?”
Norman shrugged. “He hasn’t turned up. He was going to give me some moral support, but I don’t think I really need it now.”
“So you haven’t seen him?”
“I haven’t.” Norman shook his head. “And I’ll have to ask you to leave me now, John – Yola is coming over. I have to speak to her in private.”
Omally turned to watch the approach of Yola Bennett. She looked particularly stunning tonight, with heels of the highest persuasion on her thigh-high patent-leather boots. Her leather skirt was scarcely a waistband and her bodice, a black latex corset, gave her the breasts of a Manga babe. Her long blonde hair flowed every which way and she walked with a wiggle and a wowser!
Her handbag was by Vivienne Westwood.
Shampoo by L’Oreal.
Because she was worth it.
John Omally caught his breath. Now that was a sight to be seen. Especially the handbag.
“Good evening, John,” said Yola, rolling her tongue about her full red lips. “We must get together sometime soon.”
“We must,” Omally agreed.
“But for now, piss off, why don’t you? I need to speak to Norman.”
48
Possibly something to do with that movie