“Fair enough. No, wait just a minute.”
“I can’t,” said Jim, making haste to his feet. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“But this poundnote. Is it all right? Who’s this bearded bloke on the front?”
Jim took to flapping his hands as he ran to the bog. Generally in moments of acute agitation he flapped his hands and turned around in small circles. But this time he had to flap on the hoof.
“I hope it wasn’t something I said.” Geraldo took his empty glass to the counter.
Within the bog of the Flying Swan, Jim made for cubicle three. And here he emptied the contents of his stomach into the white china bowl.
“Oh my God,” went Pooley. “Oh my God.” And he reached for the chain to flush away the horrors.
“Don’t pull that,” said a voice from above.
“Oh my …” and Jim’s hand hovered.
“God,” said the voice. “This is God.”
“God?” said a pale and trembling Jim, glancing all round and about.
The bog was empty but for himself. But for himself and—
“God?”
“Don’t pull that chain,” said God once more. Jim’s hands began to flap.
“And don’t flap your hands,” said God.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jim, who was now on the point of collapse.
“And down on your knees when you’re talking to me.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I’m sorry.” Jim knelt down in the cubicle, his nose too near to the horrors. This was all he needed! A telling-off from God!
“Pooley,” said God.
Jim shuddered at his name.
“Pooley, I am displeased with you,”
“But it isn’t my fault,” said Jim to God. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“What, never?” God asked.
“Well, sometimes,” said Jim. “But you’d know all about those.”
“You’re a bad man, Pooley,” said God.
“But I don’t mean to be. I’d never knowingly do harm to anyone. I can’t be held responsible for things that happen in the future.”
“What are you on about?” God asked.
“The future, sir, what happens in the future.”
“So you want to know what happens in the future, do you?”
Pooley nodded dismally.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a yes, sir,” said Jim.
“It’ll cost you,” said God.
“What?”
“The information will cost you.”
“Do you want me to put money in the poor box at St Joan’s?”
“No, you can leave it here on the floor. I’ll see that they get it.”
“Eh?” said Jim.
“Are you querying God?”
“Oh, no, sir, I’m not.”
“Then I will give you a name and an address and you will give me a fiver.”
“I don’t think I have a fiver left,” said Jim. “It’s been a very expensive evening.”
“What about the fiver you keep in your left boot for emergencies?”
“You know about that fiver?”
“Everybody knows about that fiver.”
“Oh,” said Jim.
“Well, whip it out.”
Still in the kneeling position, Jim fought to remove his boot.
“You want to wash your socks a bit more often,” said God.
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.” Pooley placed the crumpled fiver on the floor.
“Right,” said God, “So this is what you do.”
And God spake unto Pooley and did tell him of a woman who dwelt in a terrace called Moby Dick. That she was possessed of great powers concerning the foretelling of the future, for she was a Penist and could read the willies of men. And God named this woman and gave Jim the number of the house and also the telephone number, which could, if he forgot it, be also found in any one of the local telephone boxes upon certain coloured cards affixed to the walls with blu-tack. And then God instructed Pooley that he should bugger off at the hurry up and be grateful that he hadn’t got a thunderbolt up the bum for being such a bad fellow and also that he should, in future, give money to people smaller and less fortunate than himself, if asked for it.
“And so, on your bike,” said God. “And sin no more, you bastard.”
And Pooley, having heard the word of God, did hasten from the bog.
And God, having heard the door slam behind him, did hasten from his hiding place in the cistern of cubicle three. And did shin down the chain and snatch up Pooley’s fiver.
“Thank you very much, Jim,” said Small Dave, tucking it into his pocket.
It was a pale and shaking Jim that returned to the saloon bar. A Jim that had had enough for one night and many nights yet to come.
A Jim that—
“Whoa!” went Jim. “Where are they?”
An equally pale-faced Neville was loading empties onto a tray. “Who?” he asked, without enthusiasm.
“The chaps I came in with. The chaps in the black T-shirts and shorts.”
“The shorts!” growled Neville. “The shorts!”
“But where are they? Where’ve they gone?”
“Buggered off,” said Neville, “and good riddance, too. Shorts in my bar. You’re a bad man, Pooley.”
“No,” mumbled Jim at the terrible phrase. “I’m not a bad man, I’m not. But I have to speak to Geraldo. Why did he go? Did he say where he was going?”
“No, he didn’t, and I didn’t ask. He came up to the bar just after you’d rushed off to the bog, and if you’ve been sick on my tiles you’re in bigger trouble. He came up to the bar and I said, ‘What’s the matter with Pooley?’ and he looked at me and said ‘Pooley?’ in that silly little voice of his and then all his friends started saying ‘Pooley?’ and looking at each other and then they all rushed out of the door.”
“Oh no!” Jim’s hands were flapping once again.
“And don’t do that in here,” said Neville. “It fair gives me the willies.”
“The willies,” said Jim. “The willies, that’s it.”
“Go home and sleep it off, Pooley.”
“I’m not drunk. I only wish I was.”
“Well, you’re not drinking any more in here tonight.”
“No,” said Jim. “All right, I’m going.”
“Good,” said Neville. “Goodnight.”
Jim wandered, lonely, through the night-time streets of Brentford. He was all in a daze and a dither and he didn’t know quite what to do. Although Norman admired Jim for living his life in little movies, the truth of the matter was that this was the only way Jim could live his life. One thing at a time was all the lad could ever deal with. Two or more and it was goodnight, Jim.
The rain was falling once again and Pooley turned his collar up. “I am sorry, God,” he said to the sky. “You don’t have to rain on my head.”
A rumble of thunder came down from above and Jim put more spring in his step.
He would greatly have preferred to have gone round to Omally’s. The Irishman was his bestest friend and Jim felt that he would have known what to do. But, as he hadn’t seen John since before the Gandhis’ remarkable performance, and had no idea whether he would even be home, and, as he really didn’t want to get on the wrong side of God, Jim pressed on towards Moby Dick Terrace.
It was growing late now, after eleven, and Jim had no way of knowing whether the reader of willies would still be open for business. Nor was he exactly certain why God had sent him to seek out this woman anyway. Surely God knew all about the future, didn’t he? He could have just told Jim about it there and then.
But, then, God knew his own job best, of course.
And who was Jim to argue?
And he had paid out five quid for the information.
And he was really desperate to get this thing sorted.
And it was getting late.
And he was in a state.
And that was a tiny little horse that just ran across the road up ahead.
“No, it wasn’t,” said Jim, to no one but himself. “I’m sure it really wasn’t.”