Pooley’s face fell. “How did you know I called it that?” he asked.
“Because you talk in your sleep. Remember that night on the allotment when we were too drunk to walk home and we slept in my hut?”
“Not in any great detail,” said Jim.
“Well, you talked in your sleep and kept on and on and on about The Pooley.”
“Hmm,” said Jim, running his finger over the tabletop. “But that’s what I’ve done, John. Given it up for good. I have to do it, although I won’t explain why, because you’d never believe it.”
“I don’t believe it now, Jim. Betting’s in your blood. You could never give it up.”
“I can and I have,” said Jim.
“Nonsense,” said John. “You won’t last till the end of the day.”
“I bet you I will,” said Jim.
Omally shook his head. “If you’re absolutely serious,” he said, “I’ll stick by you …”
“Thank you, John, I appreciate that.”
“But you won’t tell me why you’re doing it?”
“Maybe some time. If everything sets itself aright.”
“That’s fine by me,” said Omally.
“So tell me, John. How did things go for you last night?”
“Not so well as they might have done. Did you see the Gandhis play?”
“Yes, I did.” Pooley’s finger was now glued to tabletop goo. “It was incredible, wasn’t it? Like some religious revival meeting or something. People getting cured of the clap and having their hair grow back.”
“It was that good, was it, eh?”
“It was amazing. But didn’t you watch them yourself?” Pooley struggled to release his gummed-down finger.
“I didn’t get to see or hear them.” John made a very bad face. “I followed one of the big-haired bastards into the downstairs bog and tried to tune him up about management. Do you know what he did?”
“No,” said Jim. “I don’t.”
“He chinned me,” said John. “He knocked me unconscious.”
“You have to be kidding,” said Jim. “Could you give me a hand here? I seem to be glued to your table.”
John took to tugging with Jim. “That’s what happened,” he said as he tugged. “I missed the entire gig. But I’ll have my revenge. As soon as I’m managing that band. I’ll sack the big-haired bastard.”
“What, even if he’s the Stratster?”
“It wasn’t the Stratster. Stratsters don’t punch people. It was the drummer, I’m sure.”
“Sack him,” said Jim. “Get in Ringo. If things go the way I hope they will, Ringo might well be out of a job quite soon.”
“Ringo it is, then,” said John.
“But what makes you think they’ll let you manage them?”
“I have this,” said Omally, rooting in the pocket of his old green tweeds.
“And what is that, might I ask?”
Omally displayed a cassette tape. “A bootleg of the gig is what it is.”
“But how—”
“Sandy always bootlegs the gigs. He makes copies and sells them.”
“I told you I disliked him.”
“Yes, well, I availed myself of the master copy, out of his deck when he wasn’t looking.”
“You stole it.”
“I’d like to say relocated. Shall we call it a long-term loan?”
“If that pleases you. Am I going to be glued to this table for the rest of my life, do you think?”
“I’ll get some paint-stripper,” said John.
“You bloody won’t,” said Jim. “But listen, John. Geraldo said last night that the Gandhis were going to be very big and I believe him. If you could get to manage them, I think your fortune might be made.”
“I’m not entirely certain I should base my future on the word of a fat bloke with sweaty armpits.”
“Make an exception for me, then. Apocalypso music will be the next big thing.”
“What is Apocalypso music?”
“It’s what the Gandhis do, apparently. It’s something about the way Litany sings. Something in her voice. That’s what did the healing and stuff. This is big, John. This is very big.”
“You suddenly seem most enthusiastic”
“Yes, well, I would.” Pooley wrenched his finger free. “I heard her sing and as I’m no longer a betting man I’m looking for a job.”
“A job?” said John doubtfully. “You are looking for a job?”
“I am,” said Jim. “I am.”
“And what sort of job did you have in mind?”
“Oh,” said Jim. “I thought perhaps something in the music industry. You see, I met this woman in a pub. She’s the lead singer of a band and she said that I was everything she hoped I’d be. I thought I might go into management.”
“What?!” roared John, appalled.
“Joint management,” said Jim. “After all, you have the tape and I have the inside connection.”
John gave this a moment’s thought. “All right,” he said slowly. “Joint management it is. The music industry is a tricky old business and it would be good to work with someone you know you can trust.”
“Yes,” said Jim. “I do suppose it would.”
“So, we’ll shake on it. Fifty-fifty down the line, all profits, all expenses.”
“I can’t see how I can lose on that.” And Jim shook John by the hand.
“And so to business,” said Omally. “The first thing we have to do is get some copies made of this tape.”
“I don’t have a deck,” said Pooley.
“And nor do I,” said John. “But all is not lost by any means, for I know a man who does.”
The man who does and the man who did went by the name of Norman.
Norman had been up since five, when the day began for him with the numbering up of the papers. Having done all this and sent young Zorro[8] out on his rounds, Norman was left with a few hours to think before he opened his shop.
Norman, this day, had done some heavy thinking. He’d had a very rough evening, had Norman, and one he would sooner forget.
The policemen had finally set him free, having confiscated all his tapes and fined him the clothes that he would have stood up in, if he’d been given them back. Norman had been forced to jog home in his underwear, which had been, to say the least, a trifle wet and chilly.
The sight that had met his weary eyes upon his return to his kitchen, however, had given him quite a thrill. It hadn’t been quite what he’d hoped for. But it was something pretty damn special.
Norman had looked on in awe, as the tiny horses raced before him, round and round and round.
Round and round the horses went. And round and round and round.
Norman had watched them, thrilled by their beauty. Their grace and their form and their wonder.
Round and round they continued to go and then out through the door he’d left open.
And that had been the last Norman saw of his tiny horses. He’d tried to run after them, but a neighbour, looking out of her bedroom window, had screamed and Norman had been forced to retreat to his shop. And that had been it for his night and Norman had slept very badly indeed.
It was now ten o’clock in the morning. The shop bell tinged and Norman looked up from his dusting.
In walked Jim and in walked John, and Norman viewed them with a bitter eye. Here were two men he’d rather not have seen. For each of them had got him into one kind of shit or another. Although only one was truly to blame and that one had to pay.
“Get out of my shop, Omally!” Norman shouted. “And never darken my counter again.”
“Hi-de-ho,” said John merrily. “So what ails you, my friend?”
“And don’t you ‘my friend’ me, you bastard. Take to your heels at once.”
John picked up a Snickers bar and fiddled with the wrapping.
“And put that back,” said Norman.
Omally put it back.
“And now get out.”
“Hold on there.” John raised calming palms. “Something is wrong. I can sense it.”
“Look at my shelves,” Norman gestured to his shelves. “Empty. You see that?”
“I see that,” said John. “Have you been robbed?”
8
As a matter of interest, it would be one of Zorro's descendants who, as a paper boy himself, would one day punch Tripper number one upon the nose.