And the evil secret of the Web is this, my friends.
That all you can ever learn
from The Web is what the
people who put the stuff onto
it want you to learn.
“Right,” said Soap. “Well, that’s quite enough of that. Time for a bit of action, I think.”
And right on cue (for there is no other way) came that good old police loudhailer voice.
“John Omally,” it called. “John Omally, this is the Virgin Police Service. We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands held high.”
“Oh,” said Soap, to no one but himself. “John Omally, what?”
“You have been positively identified from a frame of surveillance footage as the man aiding Soap Distant to assist a wanted criminal in his escape from justice. To whit, one David Carson, also known as the Cannibal Chef and Brentford’s Most Wanted Man.”
“Oh,” said Soap once again to himself. “But how?”
“In case you’re wondering how we know you’re in there, our police crime computer is linked into every other national computer and it has just registered your library ticket being fed into the Memorial Library system for renewal.”
“Some of a gun,” mumbled Soap. “That’s clever.”
“Well, actually,” the loudhailer voice continued, “in case you were thinking how clever that was, I have to own up that it’s not how we tracked you down. You see, the clerk at the library desk just telephoned us to say that you have a library book outstanding on your card. How to Play the Stratocaster. And you should have returned it fifteen years ago. There’s a two-thousand-pound fine to pay.”
“It never rains but it pours,” said Soap in a philosophical tone.
“So come on out now, or we’ll come in and get you.”
“Very tricky,” said Soap.
“And get a move on,” called the voice. “We want to have our lunch.”
“Righty-right.” The man from belooow considered his options. He could try and bluff his way out. Say that he wasn’t John Omally but had just popped into the library to renew John’s ticket for him. Soap shook his head at that. It lacked the action he sorely craved. Some other way out, then.
Soap looked up and all round and about. There was only the one door into the reference section and this led from the vestibule and the front entrance. Outside which, the police were no doubt waiting.
But there was also the window. And he was on the ground floor this time. Soap considered the window. It was a most splendid window. A stained-glass window, bequeathed to the borough by its most famous son, the author P.P. Penrose. It featured scenes from the adventures of Lazlo Woodbine, the most popular fictional detective of the twentieth century, the creation of P.P. Penrose.
Soap considered the window some more. How would Lazlo have got out of this? He would have pulled off some ingenious stunt. But a stunt that had plenty of action.
Soap squared up before the window. “Time for action,” he said.
The police gave Soap five minutes and then they rushed the building. They burst into the vestibule with big guns drawn, visors down and tear gas at the ready.
The clerk at the desk looked up at them. “He’s in the reference section,” said the clerk. “Lying face down on the floor, unconscious.”
“Unconscious?” said a constable, a-cocking his big gun.
“He tried to jump through the window. But it’s made of vandal-proof Plexiglas. He knocked himself unconscious.”
The constables chuckled as constables do and went in to pick up the body.
“Not that door,” said the clerk. “It’s the other one.”
The police went in through the other one and the clerk went off for lunch.
The clerk was several streets away before he stopped walking and started to laugh.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” said Soap Distant, for the clerk was he. “But if I hadn’t bopped you on the head and changed clothes, I might really have had to jump through that stained-glass window.”
And Soap Distant went off on his way, secure at least in the knowledge that P.P. Penrose was not turning in his grave for the loss of his window. The great writer would surely also have admired Soap’s cunning escape. For although it lacked for action, it certainly was ingenious.
Ooooooooooooooooooh …
The two by one, the two by one,
That’s the stuff for you, old son.
It makes your DIY such fun,
You can’t go wrong with the two by one.
I would not lie, I kid you not,
It’s the greatest of them all.
The four by two is much too large,
And the one by one’s too small.
Ooooooooooooooooooh …
I’ve sawn this and I’ve sawn that,
I’ve reeved and grieved and sworn and spat.
I’ve dug my bradawl to the hilt,
I’ve chiselled ’til I could have kilt.
I’ve planed away for hours on end
Through knotholes and through planks that bend.
But finer work I’ve never done
Than working with the two by one.
Ooooooooooooooooooh …
The two by one, the two by one,
That’s the stuff for me, old son.
The war and battle, both are won,
When working with the two by one.
I would not lie, I could not lie,
It’s the greatest of them all.
The four by two is much too large,
And the one by one’s too small.
Ooooooooooooooooooh …
I’ve banged nails, what times I’ve had
With a two-inch cut and an oval Brad.
A size-ten clout, a three-inch wire,
Whacking at the obo ’til we all perspire.
And screws, by God, I’ve known each twist,
Damaging the muscles on my right wrist.
But I’ll keep on ’til I am done,
As long as I can do it with the two by one.
Ooooooooooooooooooh …
The two by one, the two by one,
The finest wood on Earth, my son.
I’d raise my trusty elephant gun
To him who’ll say a word against the two by one.
I would not lie, no faker I,
This stuff is on the ball.
The four by two is much too large,
And the one by one’s too small.
Ooooooooooooooooooh …
It’s clean and white and dry and cut, and you buy it by the grain.
In a curious manner, so to speak, it’s not unlike cocaine.
It comes in many handy lengths, just ask at your supplier,
And you can use the odds and ends left over for the fire.
So when I get to heaven, when my time on Earth is done,
And Saint Peter asks me what I’d like, I’ll tell him …
All together now …
The two by one, the two by one,
etc, etc, etc …
Dances from stage to monstrous applause …
Thank you and goodnight.
13
“Wake up, Jim. Wake up there.”
Smack.
“Wake up, Jim. Wake up.”
Shake, shake.
“Loosen his collar,” said Neville.
“I’ll loosen his wallet instead,” said John. “I think the weight has pulled him over.”
Smack, smack, shake and loosen.