‘Signed …’”
Norman looked up at Mr Richard Gray.
“You want me to sign this?” he said.
Mr Richard Gray took out his fountain pen and handed it to Norman. “Now, if you will,” said he.
“But I’ve told you,” said Norman, “there won’t be any money.”
“Then where’s the harm in signing it?”
Norman looked into the eyes of Mr Richard Gray and saw there only darkness.
“I don’t feel comfortable with this,” said Norman. “And wills have to be witnessed.”
“The landlord will witness it,” said Mr Gray.
“I’ll have to think about it,” said Norman.
“But I insist that you sign it now.”
“I’m leaving,” said Norman, and he made to rise, but to his horror found that he could not.
“I’m incapacitated,” said Norman. “My knees won’t work at all.”
“Sign the will,” said Mr Richard Gray.
“It will soon lift,” said Pooley, sheltering still beneath the porch. “It’s a goodly storm, but it will lift.”
“Lift the pen and sign your name,” said Mr Richard Gray.
“But there won’t be any money,” repeated Norman, “I told you. What have you done to my legs? You’ve done something terrible to them.”
“They’ll lift you up once you’ve signed.”
“All right,” said Norman. “I’ll sign.” And he did so without a flourish. “Happy now? And can I please go home?”
“Home?” said Mr Richard Gray. “Home?”
“Home,” said Norman. “I do have a home to go to. Home is where the heart is and there’s no place like home.”
Mr Richard Gray laughed hideously and, to Norman’s further horror as he looked upon the solicitor’s teeth, he saw that they were now as dead dark black as Mr Gray’s coal-like peepers.
“There’s no going home for you,” said Mr Richard Gray. “A will is nothing more than a piece of paper until the man who signed it is dead. And tonight, Mr Hartnel, you are going to die.”
“Yola.” Norman turned to the woman beside him. “Yola, do something – this man is a monster. Yola, you can’t let this happen.”
But Yola’s eyes were now also black. And so, too, were her breasts.
“Time, gentlemen, please,” called Jack Lane. “And Pooley, I can still see your shadow on the glass of my door. Get off into the rain and offer your friend your moral support.”
“Time, gentlemen, please,” called Mr Gwynplaine Dhark and, approaching Norman’s table, he added, “Where would you like me to put my signature, Mr Gray?”
“Time, gentlemen, please.” Omally heard the words called out by the barman of The Shrunken Head. Jim wasn’t in there either, and John set out once more into the storm.
“Let me go,” begged Norman. “I’ve signed the will. You never know, I might die a natural death in my sleep tonight. It could happen. Death keeps no calendar, you know.”
“Up,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Your knees will work for you now. Up, we have places to go.”
“What places?” Norman asked.
“The canal,” said Mr Richard Gray. “We’ll take a walk to the canal. You’re going to have a tragic accident.”
“No,” begged Norman. “No. Won’t somebody help me, please?” And he shouted out “Help!” at the top of his voice. But The Beelzepub was now empty.
Empty, that is, but for Norman, Yola, Richard Gray and Gwynplaine Dhark, the landlord.
“Take him out,” said Gwynplaine Dhark, “and do what must be done.”
“No,” begged Norman. “No!”
But Yola dragged him from his seat with a most unnatural strength and propelled Norman in the direction of the door.
“Help me!” wailed Norman. “Won’t somebody help me? Somebody help me, please!”
“There’s no help for you,” said Gwynplaine Dhark, pulling open the door and holding it so.
Rain lashed down beyond, exploding all over the street. Thunder groaned above in a sky that the lightning tore apart.
Jim Pooley’s face peered in from the maelstrom. “Is Norman still here?” he asked.
39
Gwynplaine Dhark tried to slam shut the door, but Jim put his shoulder to it. There was something of a struggle, but presently Pooley prevailed.
The landlord stood back, breathing heavily. Jim stood in the doorway, viewing the tableau before him. Norman stood trembling, held in the grip, it seemed, of a woman who had surely stepped out from the glossy pages of one of the racier publications that filled Norman’s uppermost shop shelves. And to the other side of Norman stood a man in a long, dark coat whose face was all over black.
Jim Pooley blinked at this tableau. The word “outnumbered” entered his thoughts.
“Norman,” said Jim. “Norman, are you all right?”
“I’m not,” said Norman, struggling to no avail. “These lunatics are going to drown me in the canal.”
“That’s not very nice,” said Jim. “I think you’d better come with me.”
“I think not.” Gwynplaine Dhark did gesturings.
The door of The Beelzepub slammed shut behind Jim with a death-cell finality.
“Now, let’s not do anything silly,” said Jim.
“Luck indeed.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark rubbed his clammy palms together. “Two birds with one stone, as it were – the moneyman and the manager of Brentford United. My master was forced to take a magical oath not to harm you.”
“Your master?” said Jim.
“William Starling,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I have been his man from the start. If your friend Neville had not put his spoke in at the council meeting, the football ground and what lies beneath it would already be in the hands of my master.”
“This is new,” said Norman. “What is this all about?”
“Unfinished business,” said Mr Dhark, “but it will be finished tonight.”
“Your master took the oath,” said Jim. “You cannot harm me.”
“But this man is your friend,” said Mr Dhark, pointing a pale finger towards Norman. “What would you do to protect your friend from certain death?”
“Whatever I could,” said Jim. “And whatever I can.”
“Even if it were to cost you your own life?”
“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that.”
Rain lashed in once more through the once-more-open doorway. An open doorway in which now stood John Omally.
“You!” said Gwynplaine Dhark.
“Me,” said John Omally. “I came back. I knew Jim would not let down a friend, even though he might be a bit late. Jim is a good man, you see, although you’d know nothing of that.”
“Pleased to see you, John,” said Jim. “Norman and I were just leaving.”
“No,” said Gwynplaine Dhark. “Nobody leaves. Alive, that is.”
“Remember your magical oath,” said John. “It must not be broken.”
“I just mentioned that,” said Jim.
Lightning struck home near to The Beelzepub and the bar’s windows rattled in their mullions and the brightness cast shadows that were blacker than the walls.
“A dilemma,” said Mr Dhark. “But you all must surely die.”
“We’re leaving,” said Jim. “Come, Norman.”
“You will find,” said Mr Dhark, “that the door will not open. In fact, you will find that there’s no door there at all.”
Norman looked and John looked and Jim Pooley, he looked, too. And where the door to the street had just been, there was now but an empty wall.