“Right,” said John. And he turned back to Norman. “You really don’t know where Jim is?” he asked.
Norman turned up the palms of his hands. “I haven’t seen Jim,” he said.
Omally felt his stomach knotting. “Where are you, Jim?” said he.
Jim Pooley sat before the bar counter at The Four Horsemen.
Jim was well within his cups and feeling all right with the world.
“I don’t know what I’ve been worrying about,” he told Jack Lane, the octogenarian landlord. “Everything will be all right, I just know it will”
“You’ll have to speak up,” said the ancient. “I’ve misplaced my hearing aid.”
Jim spoke up. “What was it like?” he asked.
“A pink thing made out of Bakelite.”
“Not your hearing aid. I mean what was it like for you when you captained the Brentford team and led them to victory in nineteen twenty-eight?”
“Ah,” said Jack Lane, “that. That was real man’s soccer back in those days. None of those leaping nancy boys you have now, with their girlie haircuts and earrings. You went out on the pitch and you fought, hammer and tongs. Kicked the bejesus from their shin pads and whacked the bastard ball into the net.”
“You reckon your lot could have taken on a present-day side, then?”
“We’d have made mincemeat of them.”
Pooley chuckled.
“But what about your lot?” said Jack Lane. “It’s bloody Billy Smart’s now, your lot.”
“We’ll succeed,” said Jim. “And when we bring the FA Cup back to Brentford, you can put it up on the shelf behind your bar.”
“Do you promise?” asked Jack.
“You have my word,” said Jim.
“Then the next drink is on the house. A half of shandy, wasn’t it?”
“It was a pint,” said Jim, “of Large.”
Old Jack Lane squinted up at his clock. “I thought you told me, when you came in here four hours ago for a quick one, that you had a pressing engagement, offering some chum of yours a bit of moral support.”
Jim now squinted up at the clock. “Norman,” he said. “Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten about Norman.”
“Norman,” said Yola, seating herself beside Norman on his pew and crossing her legs in a manner so provocative that words are insufficient to describe the erotic effect. “Norman, aren’t you going to buy me a drink?”
“A drink?” said Norman. “Not in your condition, surely?”
“My condition?”
“Our baby,” said Norman. “Does it move yet, can I feel it?”
“What?” said Yola.
“It’s wonderful news,” said Norman. “Peg and I are really thrilled.”
“Peg?” said Yola. “You’ve told Peg?”
“Of course,” said Norman. “I tell her everything.”
Yola narrowed her eyes towards Norman. “Everything?” said she.
“Absolutely,” said Norman. “A boy’s best friend is his mother, but a wife can do things a mother cannot. She’s very thrilled. You see, she and I could never have any kiddies. She’s got something amiss with her internal workings caused by an overintake of pies, possibly. But she’s keen to adopt. And if you’re not keen on that, then you’re welcome to come and live with us at the shop. You’ll enjoy working there, it will be a bit like working for Mr Gray, except you won’t have your own desk.”
Yola made a disgruntled face. “Work in your shop?” said she. “Are you mad?”
“Mad?” said Norman. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you have twenty-three million pounds coming to you tomorrow. You surely weren’t thinking of keeping your shop. Or, indeed, your wife.”
“It’s really Peg’s shop,” said Norman. “She made me sign one of those prenuptial agreements.”
“But the twenty-three million is yours?”
“Seemingly not,” said Norman. “What’s mine is hers and what’s hers is her own, apparently.”
Yola looked deeply into the eyes of Norman. “Ah,” she said. “Nice try, Norman, you almost had me believing you.”
“Excuse me?” said Norman.
“I said ‘nice try’. Who put you up to this? Was it John Omally?” Yola glanced about the bar, but John Omally had gone.
“No one put me up to anything,” said Norman.
“You’re a very sad little man.”
“Excuse me once more,” said Norman.
Outside thunder crashed and lightning flashed and the rain fell down in torrents. Jim Pooley peered out from the porch of Jack Lane’s pub. “It will lift in a minute,” said Jim to himself, “and then I’ll be on my way to offer my moral support to Norman.”
“Norman,” said Yola, “there’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?” said Norman. “I don’t understand.”
Mr Richard Gray smiled down upon Norman. “Good evening to you,” he said.
“Oh,” said Norman, looking up to take stock of the man in the long, dark coat with the astrakhan collar. “Mr Gray, I didn’t see you coming.”
“Really?” said Mr Gray, seating himself opposite Norman and placing a pint of Ssenniug before him on the table. “Mr Omally left this at the bar upon his departure. A shame to let it go to waste.”
“What is going on here?” Norman asked.
“Business,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Strictly business. You should have taken the deal I offered you when you came into my office and showed me the contract for your patents.”
“Oh that,” said Norman. “Well, that doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Believe you me, it matters.”
“It doesn’t,” said Norman, “because after the match tomorrow there won’t be any patents any more, nor will there be any money.”
“He’s lying,” said Yola. “He just told me a pack of lies and now he’s telling more.”
“I’m not,” said Norman. “Well, perhaps I was a bit before, but I’m not now. I did a very bad thing. Those weren’t really my patents – I discovered the technology on an antique computer system. This friend of mine thought they’d been destroyed when he destroyed my computer, but they hadn’t because I’d already patented them in my own name and sold the rights – to a very, very bad man, it seems, who will do terrible things if he has them.”
“Mr William Starling,” said Mr Richard Gray. And the whites of his eyes turned horribly black and these black eyes gazed upon Norman.
“But it’s all going to be sorted,” said Norman, “after my friend and I have been to the match at Wembley tomorrow. Apparently he’s booked seats in the executive box. At my expense, apparently, but that doesn’t matter. But what does matter is that after the match he is going to go, er, back and sort out all the business with the patents. Everything is going to work out fine.”
“Mad,” said Yola. “He’s as mad as a drawerful of jewellery.”
“A drawerful of jewellery?” said Norman. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
Mr Richard Gray pulled an envelope from the pocket of his long, dark coat with the astrakhan collar and pushed it across the table towards Norman.
“What’s this?” Norman asked.
“Open it,” said Mr Richard Gray.
Norman opened the envelope and read its contents. “It’s a Last Will and Testament,” said Norman. “It’s a Last Will and Testament made out in my name.”
“Read it aloud,” said Mr Richard Gray.
Norman read it aloud. “‘This is to testify that I, Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath my worldly goods as follows:
‘To Yola Sarah Hopkins Bennett of Thirteen Willow Cottages, Kew, the sum of £12,500,000. And to Mr Richard Gray of Eighty-two The Butts Estate, Brentford, the sum of £12,500,000 and all further income deriving from the rights upon any patents that exist in my name.