“But notice this. Every year the cars that roll off that production line look a bit different. It’s the same model of car, but it’s not quite the same. It’s evolved.”
“But how could that be?” asked Jim.
“Don’t ask me. I’m not God. But it can be and it is. The production line itself evolves. In Germany some production lines have evolved so much that they don’t need humans to run them any more. They’re all robotic”
“Incredible,” said Jim.
“And it’s not just cars. It’s everything. Radios and televisions and telephones. And what about records? They used to be big black things made out of plastic. Look at them now.”
“And you think they’re all evolving by themselves, without people to help them?”
“It’s all part of the big conspiracy. All these so-called new developments. It works by natural selection. But it’s the men at the top who do the selecting and they do it for their own gain. That’s why you won’t see the everlasting lightbulb and that’s why you won’t hear the Gandhi’s Hairdryer CD.”
“I see,” said Jim. “Well, when you explain it all to me like that, it all makes perfect sense.”
“Evolution,” said Ricky. “And natural selection, and it will all go on and on like that for ever.”
“Oh no, it won’t,” said Jim.
“Oh yes, it will.”
“It won’t,” said Jim. “And I will tell you why.”
And Jim told Ricky why. He told Ricky everything that Geraldo had told him. All about how natural selection in human beings would come to an end and mankind would not evolve any further and how this would eventually lead to THE END in a world that was run by scientists. He didn’t go into all the details and he didn’t do any of the voices or do the descriptions in rhyme, and he didn’t mention the time travelling. But he laid it all out for Ricky and when he was finished the Stratster sat down and stared and stared at Jim.
When Ricky finally found his voice, all he could say was, “Wow.”
“So there you go,” said Pooley.
“Wow,” said Ricky once again. “It all makes sense to me now.”
“It does?” said Jim.
“Oh yes, it does. You see, there was just one thing I could never get my head around.”
“Just the one?” said Jim.
“Just the one. About the Stratocaster. You see, it evolved from the Telecaster, but its evolution stopped in the nineteen fifties and I never could understand why. I thought it should go on and on. That it would keep on evolving. But it can’t, can it? It has evolved as far as it can. Because it’s perfect. It has reached THE END as far as guitars are concerned.”
“I suppose it must have done,” said Jim.
“You’re a fucking genius, mate.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“You are,” said Ricky, and he reached a curious hand across and patted Jim on the shoulder. “You and me, we think the same way. We’ve both got different parts of the big puzzle. But they fit together. We could do things, think things.”
“Work together?” said Jim. “As in music?”
“As in Apocalypso music, yes. You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Not all,” said Jim.
“But you really think that the Gandhis could be the next big thing?”
“I know that for a fact,” said Jim.
“Then I trust you, mate. Put it there.”
And Ricky put out his curious hand and Pooley gave it a shaking.
Omally’s hand was shaking too. Both of his hands were shaking, in fact, and most of the rest of him also. Omally sat hunched at the bar counter of the Flying Swan. The time was but a little past five-thirty opening, but John had already put three pints of Large inside himself, and looked in the mood to put down several more.
Neville watched John as he pulled him the pint. And Neville did not like what he saw. He had known Omally to have the occasional off day, but he had never seen him look as grim as this. Neville passed the pint across and took himself off for some polishing.
And then the door to the bar swung wide and in breezed Pooley. Omally looked up and let out a groan and sank once more to his pint.
“Evening, John, evening, Neville,” said Jim. “Two more of those, please, I think.”
Neville hastened back to the pumps and John sank a little bit lower.
“So, then, John,” said Jim. “How did the day go for you?”
“Ooooooooooooooooh,” went Omally.
“Not too well by the sound of it.”
Omally shook a dismal head. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t.”
“No luck with the record companies?”
“Madness,” said John. “Absolute madness. Norman copied the tape and we played it together. It’s incredible, just like you said. You know that horrible wart thing Norman had on his neck?”
“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Very nasty, that.”
“Cured,” said John. “It vanished away. And his bald spot’s thatched over.”
“The music does that. It’s in her voice.”
“I know, I heard it, and I’ve spent half the day playing the tape down the telephone to record company executives.”
“And they weren’t keen?”
“They said that they’d heard stuff like it before. That every so often a singer turns up who can do this sort of thing.”
“But they weren’t interested.”
“No. None of them. It doesn’t make any sense. Here we have something that’s worth millions of pounds and no record company will touch it.”
“Well, never mind,” said Jim.
“Never mind? Have you gone mad?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Jim.
“Doesn’t matter? But we could have made a fortune.”
“We still can,” said Jim. “Because I have this.” And he whipped out a grubby sheet of paper.
“And what is that?” Omally asked.
“Contract,” said Jim proudly. “Signed by each of the Gandhis and giving us exclusive rights to their music”
Omally took the contract from Jim and examined it. “You got them all to sign,” he said. “You worked so hard. I’m so sorry, Jim.”
“You don’t have to worry, John. It’ll be better this way.”
Neville passed the pints across.
“I’ll get these,” said Omally. “I owe you that at least.”
“No, I’ll get them,” said Jim. “I’ve got plenty of money.” And with that he pulled out a roll of twenties that had Omally gasping.
“How?” went John. “Where?”
“Investment capital,” said Jim. “The Gandhis all wanted to buy in.”
“You got money from the band?”
“Money up front to pay for recording time.”
“But none of the record labels will touch them.”
“Brentford Records will.”
“Brentford Records? There is no Brentford Records.”
“There is now,” said Jim. “And we are they. As it were. None of the big companies will touch the band, John. So Ricky and I came up with an idea. We’ll set up our own independent record company and market the music ourselves. Beat the big boys, eh?”
Omally’s mouth fell hugely wide. “You are a genius, Jim,” he said. “A fu—”
“I’ll settle for just a genius. But that’s what we’re going to do. Have a pint on me, Neville.”
Have a pint on me? Neville’s face folded in horror. If last night hadn’t been bad enough, have a pint on me!
As Neville fought to find some words, Ornally had plenty to say.
“You’ve done it, Jim,” he cried. “You’ve pulled off the big one.”
“Pretty smart, eh?” said Jim. “And I never went near the bookies. I just set my mind to the task in hand and I came up with a solution.”