“We must drink to this,” said Omally. “Drink to this historic moment. At some future time, when Brentford Records is the biggest record company in the world, we’ll look back upon this hour and say that this was the turning point in our fortunes. This was the moment when everything fell into place.”
“Let’s not get too carried away,” said Jim.
“Nonsense,” said John. “You did it and you’ll take the credit. History will record this day as the day you pulled off The Pooley.”
Neville finally found some words. “Why has Jim fainted?” he asked.
Cab-Arthur Roper
Loved cantilever bridges.
And the sound that the wind made
When it blew down chimneys.
Cab-Arthur Roper
Could call up spirits.
Ask them questions
And write down their answers in a small black book.
Cab-Arthur Roper,
Some called him mad.
Some called him master.
Some even said he was not of this world.
Duck-Barry Martin
Had twenty-three pistols,
And a cellar full of mushrooms
That no one was allowed in.
Duck-Barry Martin
Lived with two women,
And breathed into their nostrils
Which made them obey him.
Duck-Barry Martin,
Some called him Baz.
Some called him Duck Boy.
Some even said he was Jesus come back.
Wild-Norman Peacock
Opened safes for robbers.
Let free pigeons from their lofts
And spoiled babies’ Christenings.
Wild-Norman Peacock
Never worked for a living.
Was registered as a charity.
Received a grant from the Arts Council.
Wild-Norman Peacock.
Some call him clever.
I, for one!
12
Now, although Jim’s day had been hot on success, it hadn’t been big on adventure.
Jim was not an adventurous type. He was more your chit-chat-in-a-bar-and-get-things-sorted kind of body. As opposed to, say, your macho-manly-man-gung-ho-abseil-into-the-embassy-shoot-all-the-terrorists-rescue-all-the-hostages-and-shag-six-chicks-before-tea-time blokish sort of bloke.
Not that Jim wasn’t a manly man. He was. He lacked not one jot for manly mannishness. He just wasn’t big on adventure.
But, then, who is?
Life, as we have seen from this small slice in Brentford, is mostly composed of conversation. Few people ever actually do very much. And if they do do anything, it is rarely of an adventurous nature.
There are exceptions, of course. There are always exceptions. There will always be one or two folk in every community who positively thrive on action and adventure. But you will rarely, if ever, get to meet these people. Because they will be off somewhere else, getting into action and having adventures.
In fact, the only time you will get to meet them is when they are home for a while between adventures and you have a conversation with them in a bar. And if it’s past the ten o’clock watershed, you probably won’t believe anything they tell you anyway.
But they do exist and every community, no matter how small, can usually boast at least one.
Brentford could. And Brentford did.
If you were looking for an action man in Brentford, for a man who combined the courage and adventurousness of Indiana Jones, the true grit of John “The Duke” Wayne, the chandelier-swinging skills of Dougie Fairbanks Jnr, the “I-ain’t-got-time-to-bleed” toughness of Jesse “The Body” Ventura and the big-cock action of Long Johnnie Holmes, that man would be—
Soap Distant.
At least in his opinion it would.
Although those who knew Soap well might have questioned certain aspects of this character assessment, they would have agreed that any man who had journeyed to the centre of the Earth was deserving of certain respect. And if he chose to spice up his CV somewhat, he should be forgiven.
And when he told people about things he had actually done and things he had actually seen and how he himself knew that things that shouldn’t have changed had changed, he should be believed.
But he wasn’t. The Lord of the Old Button Hole had pegged him as a loony and his conversation at the Brentford nick with Inspectre Hovis had only complicated matters further and made him more confused than ever he had been.
So what was Soap to do?
He certainly didn’t want to sit about in bars and chit-chat. He wanted action and he wanted it at once.
What did he want?
Action!
When did he want it?
Now!
And so it came to pass, upon that evening previous, that Soap Distant had taken his leave of Inspectre Hovis in a suitably action-packed fashion.
“I’m leaving now,” said Soap.
“You’re not,” said the Inspectre.
“I am,” said Soap. “There is much I need to know and, interesting as this conversation has been, I feel it is now time for action.”
Inspectre Hovis leaned across his photo-crowded desk. “I’m arresting you, sunshine,” he said.
“Arresting me!” said Soap.
“For harbouring a wanted criminal and aiding and abetting him in the course of his escape from justice. Such crimes incur considerable fines and if you do not have the wherewithal to pay, you may well find yourself in one of the Virgin workcamps, manufacturing the rattly bits that are put in Ford Escort doors.”
“What?” cried Soap. “What?”
“David Carson, the cannibal chef.”
“Small Dave?” said Soap. “But how—”
“The thing about police surveillance cameras,” said Inspectre Hovis, gesturing variously round and about, “is that they are simply everywhere. Everywhere. A few years ago people were outraged by them. They complained that they violated human rights. That it was Big Brother. But people don’t complain any more, do they? Not since the police force put a little spin on them with the aid of television crime shows. Now people watch their TVs and see the crims caught on camera and have a chance to phone in and grass them up. People just love surveillance cameras now. They make the man in the street feel that someone is watching over them. And that’s always a comfort, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure it is,” said Soap. “But I’m innocent of all charges and I’m off. Goodbye.”
“Not so fast,” said Hovis. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”
The Inspectre rootled around amidst the photos on his desk and unearthed a video cassette. This he slotted beneath a small portable television type of a jobbie, the screen of which he turned in Soap’s direction. “Tell me what you think of this,” he said.
Soap watched as the screen lit up, and stared at the image displayed. It was a view of the Flying Swan’s front doorway, evidently filmed from one of the flat blocks opposite.
Soap watched as the onscreen pub door opened and he and Omally came out and walked away.
“That is a violation of human rights,” Soap complained.
“Those who are innocent have nothing to fear from the law,” said Inspectre Hovis.
Soap looked at Hovis.
And Hovis looked at Soap.
“Sorry,” said Hovis. “It just slipped out.”
“And I should think so too.”
“However,” said the Detective in Residence, “this particular doodad has more than one trick up its sleeve. The footage you have just seen was taken this very lunchtime, when the forces of the law were surrounding the Flying Swan in the hope of arresting the cannibal chef. But he somehow sneaked past us. Now how might that have been?”
“How should I know that?” asked Soap, making the face of all innocence.
“Let’s see what the doodad has to show us.” Hovis tinkered at the television jobbie. Soap’s image reversed and froze and expanded to fill up the screen. And then it went all multi-coloured.
“Oh,” said Soap. “Whatever is that?”