“I like the Swan,” said Jim. “It’s peaceful in the Swan.”
“It wouldn’t be, except for me.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, who do you think sees to it that the brewery’s jukebox remains forever out of service?”
“True enough,” said Jim. “But if you love music so much, why do you do it?”
“Because the Swan is not the place for music. The Swan is a dignified establishment run by a dignified barlord. You go there to relax and enjoy the sparkling repartee and well-versed conversation of its patrons. Not listen to music. If you want music you want live music. And if you want live music you want it in a sleazy overcrowded stinking sweathole of a place. Hellhole of a place. Getting it right is everything, Jim. A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“Let’s go to the Swan.”
“No,” said Omally.
Jim made a sulky face.
“Don’t be a baby,” said John.
They arrived at the Shrunken Head at a little before six. The band was scheduled to play at nine, which in rock ’n’ roll time meant ten. So why were they there so early?
“So why are we here so early?” asked Jim.
“Because we need to be. We need to grab a table near the door and hang on to it. I intend to make myself known to the band when they arrive and buy them a couple of drinks.”
Pooley whistled. “Now that is something I would like to see. You buying drinks for complete strangers.”
“It’s an image thing. And bands play better when they think there’s a talent scout in the audience.”
“And if they turn out to be a load of old pants?”
“Then you will enjoy much laughter at my expense, telling the tale in the Swan.”
Pooley shrugged. “It has that going for it, I suppose. You go on in, then, and I’ll come back at around half past nine.”
“No, Jim. This job requires two. One to hang on to the table and the other to be up at the bar. Now, let’s get inside before anyone else does.”
John pushed open the door to the bar and pushed Jim through the opening.
It was dim and grim in the Shrunken Head.
And it smelt like a wino’s armpit.
The floor was of fag-scarred lino in a colour that has no name.
The evening sunlight drew up short at the windows where the grime held court.
The furnishings were dark and dank.
The curtains rotten and ragged and rank.
At the sight of it all Jim’s heart sank.
For this pub knew no shame.
“Sheer poetry,” said John. “Although of a difficult metre.”
Pale-faced in the gloom, Pooley shook his head and made the sign of the cross, Spectacles-testicles-wallet-and-watch. “This is truly the Pub from Hell,” he whispered. “When we die and go to the bad place this is where we will drink out eternity.”
“Enough of that, Jim,” said John. “You’re making me all of a shiver. Now you go up to the bar and get us in a couple of pints while I choose us the table.”
“Me?” went Jim. “But I—”
“Cut along now. Before the place fills up.”
“But,” Jim glanced all about the evil den, “it’s half full already.”
“Yes indeed, you’re right.”
There were at least a dozen young men in the bar. Young men wearing black T-shirts and shorts. They had been rabbiting away as the two friends entered, but now they had grown silent and were nudging one another and pointing somewhat too.
“They’re looking at us,” whispered Jim. “Why are they looking at us?”
“Ignore them,” said John. “They’re fanboys. A good sign, that. Means the band has already got a cult following.”
“Cult?” said Jim. “I don’t like that word at all.”
“Go to the bar,” John ordered. “Go to the bar at once.”
Jim went up to the bar, doing the old “Excuse me, please” as he passed between the fanboys. But the fanboys weren’t giving Jim a second glance. They were all watching Omally.
Jim reached the bar counter and almost leaned his elbows upon it.
Almost.
He surveyed the unpolished surface. The butt ends and the beer pools. A slight shiver ran through him. This was not his kind of place at all.
Sandy the sandy-haired barlord looked up from a nudie book and grinned a grin at him.
“If it isn’t my old friend Pooley,” he said.
“You’re quite right there,” said Jim.
“Your Irish mate winkled you out of the Swan, then, has he?”
“Something like that, yes. Two pints of whatever you have that passes for beer, please.”
Sandy lined up a couple of grubby-looking plastic tumblers and drew from beneath the bar a brace of those multi-pack cans of supermarket lager that’re not supposed to be sold separately. “Five quid,” he said.
Jim clutched at his heart.
“Wish I could do it cheaper,” said Sandy. “But, as the music’s free, I have to make a little on the beer.”
“Yes, I quite understand.” Jim’s hand had found his wallet but seemed unable to drag it from his pocket.
“Come on, Pooley, tug a little harder. There’s thirty-five quid in there.”
“Thirty-five …” and Jim’s jaw fell.
“You just missed Bob the Bookie. He told me he’d given you a loan.”
“It’s not a loan. I won it this afternoon on the horses.”
“Bob looks upon it as a loan. After all, he knows he’ll get it back tomorrow.”
“He bloody won’t,” said Jim.
“Quite right,” said Sandy. “You spend it here. That’ll show him.”
“I will.”
Having parted company with a five-pound note, Jim sought out Omally, who now sat at the table of his choosing.
John was not alone. Sitting across from him in the seat that should surely have been Jim’s, was a fat man in a black T-shirt and shorts. He and John were chatting like buddies of old.
Jim placed a can and a tumbler on the table and sat down next to the fat man.
“Cheers, Jim,” said John, “this is Geraldo.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said Jim, raising his cup of warm cheer.
“Geraldo is a big fan of the Gandhis.”
“The biggest,” said Geraldo.
“Nice,” said Jim, sipping his drink and making a face.
“Geraldo thinks that the Gandhis will be the biggest band of all time.”
“That I doubt,” said Jim.
“Oh, they will,” said Geraldo, in a voice that made Jim turn his head. For such a big fat man he had a very tiny voice. It seemed to come from way down deep inside him, as if he was calling up through a drainpipe. Or something. “They’ll be the biggest ever, you just wait and see.”
“They won’t be bigger than the Beatles,” said Jim. “No band could ever be bigger than the Beatles.”
“The Beatles have had their day,” said John.
“Oh, excuse me,” said Jim. “And how many number-one hits have the Beatles had?”
“A couple of dozen, I suppose.”
“Fifty-seven,” said Jim. “And the last one only a few months ago. To celebrate John Lennon’s sixtieth birthday.”
“Exactly.” Omally pushed his tumbler aside and drank straight out of his can. “And look at Lennon. Bald and fat. He should have turned it in years ago.”
“Stop a moment there,” squeaked Geraldo. “John Lennon was sixty, did you say?”
“I bought the single,” said Jim. “It had a holographic picture sleeve.”
Geraldo’s jowls were all awobble. “But John Lennon was shot in nineteen eighty,” he said faintly.
“Yes,” said Jim. “But he was only wounded and if it hadn’t been for the shooting, the Beatles would never have re-formed.”
“He should have died,” said John. “He’d have become a rock icon if he’d died.”