“And a whole new wardrobe of stage clothes,” said Pigarse. “And designer stuff, not rubbish. And I need a new set of skins for my drums.”
“And I need a new mic,” said Litany. “And our van’s knackered too.”
“A proper tour bus is what we need,” said Matchbox Finial. “Mercedes do a great one. I’ve got a catalogue here.”
“Right,” said John and, “Yes, indeed.”
Litany smiled once more upon John. “I know that we’re going to work really well together,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll grow very close. It’s such a relief to be signed up with professionals. You wouldn’t believe the idiots who’ve offered to manage us in the past.”
“You’re right there,” said Pigarse. “Remember that moron who thought he’d get away with recording us live on a mixing desk and knocking tapes out in his mate’s back kitchen?”
Litany laughed and Ricky laughed and Dead Boy laughed as well.
“Whatever happened to that bloke?” Matchbox Finial asked.
“I took him for a little drive into the country,” said Pigarse. “They haven’t found all of him yet.”
Gandhi members laughed some more.
“Most amusing,” said John Omally.
“Glad you think so,” said Pigarse.
Gladness was the rage in Norman’s bathroom. Kit was off, the tub was full, the bubbles overflowed. Norman had his own personal brand of bubble bath. He had created it himself.
The bubbles smelled great and they really got the dirt off, though it didn’t do to soak in them too long. Norman had once forgotten to pull the plug out after bathing and the next morning he had discovered that the bubbles had eaten through the enamel of the bath and right down to the iron.
But, with the bubbles gnawing him clean and the music belting up the stairs and filling the room with good vibrations, Norman sank into the scented water and felt most glad all over.
Down in the kitchen workshop the brew made bubbles of its own. Great big bubbles heaved and popped in time to the Gandhis’ music. Really beautiful bubbles, they were. Really really beautiful.
“Really beautiful strings,” said Ricky, back in the Swan. “I saw them in Minn’s Music Mine the other day, but I couldn’t afford to buy them then. I think you should get me three sets, John. Just to be on the safe side.”
“And I need to get my roots dyed,” said Pigarse. “And my dad needs a new seat for his Honda. Perhaps we could make that tax deductible.”
Jim looked at John.
And John looked back at Jim.
“I have to go to the toilet,” said John.
“And so do I,” said Jim.
Once out of the bar and in the bog, Jim Pooley closed the door.
“Window,” said John.
“Window?” said Jim.
“We can climb out of the window and then I suggest we just run for it.”
“You are for doing a runner, then, are you?”
“What other choice do we have? We’re in this over our heads, Jim. We’ve made ourselves liable and we signed in our blood.”
“Perhaps we could just ask for the contracts back,” said Jim. “Explain that we’ve had a think about it and we’ve changed our minds.”
“I can’t see that going down too well. That Pigarse is a psychopath. I don’t want the police search teams only finding bits of me.”
“I wonder what he did with the parts they couldn’t find. Do you think his dad used them for art?”
“Window,” said Omally. “Much as I fancy that Litany and much as I’d love to—” He paused. “But it can’t be done. Let’s run while we still have legs.”
“No.” And Pooley shook his head. “We can’t just run away. All right, we’ve got ourselves in big trouble here. But I’m sure we can find a way round it.”
“Well, you have a go, Jim. I’m off.”
“Oh, perfect,” said Jim. “That’s your answer to the problem. Run away. Listen, John. We have a chance to make something of ourselves here. A chance to do something wonderful. We could manage this band if we worked hard at it. We could do it. We really could. You’ve heard Litany sing. You’ve felt what happens. You’ve experienced it. The major record companies won’t touch the Gandhis, but we could bring their music to the world. Bring their magic to the world, John.”
“All right,” said John. “I hear what you’re saying. But we don’t have the money.”
“Then we’ll have to find it.”
“But where, Jim? Where could we possibly find it?”
“I don’t know,” and Pooley shrugged. “But I don’t think I’ll win it on the horses.”
Now, a winning horse, as Norman knew, is made from many parts. But what only a very few people know is, there’s more to a winner than that. It is not enough just to be a beautiful model or a talented filmstar or a brilliant musician. It is a lot, but it isn’t enough. You need that little bit more than that. You need the extra magic.
Some might call this charisma. But what does this word really mean?
Magic is what this word means. A special kind of magic.
Litany had it in her voice. A very special kind of magic. And, as the tape went round and round on Norman’s deck, the magic filled up Norman’s kitchen. It entered into the brew upon the stove and infused and enthused it. Assembled and improved it.
Did many magical things to it.
Things that were full of wonder.
Pooley returned to the Swan’s saloon bar, leaving Omally to wonder. His hand was on the window catch, his mind was all over the place.
“Shit,” said John. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t let Jim take all the responsibility. It was me who really got him into all this. But there’s no way we can raise the money. What am I going to do?”
“Omally,” came a voice from above. “This is the voice of God.”
“Sod off, Dave,” said Omally. “I’m trying to have a think here.”
Pooley sat back down between a pair of Gandhis.
“All right, Jim?” asked Pigarse. “You look a bit pale in the face.”
“I’m fine,” said Jim. “All the better for a good piddle.”
“Are you coming on the tour with us, Jim?” asked Ricky.
“Tour?” said Jim. “What tour?”
“The tour you’ll be lining up, of course. You are a joker, Jim. What kind of venues will we be playing?”
“Well …” said Jim, and, “Ooooooooh.”
“Big ones, I hope,” said Pigarse.
“Huge, I should think.” And Pooley hastily folded his arms. His hands were beginning to flap.
“This bloke is boss,” said Ricky. “We were just talking about your theory of the future, Jim. About THE END.”
“THE END,” said Jim, in an ominous tone.
“It’s a blinding theory,” said Ricky. “A theory like that should be taught to kids in schools. You should give it a name, Jim. The Pooley Theory. Or the Pooley Principle, that’s better. Or even just The Poole—”
“No!” shrieked Jim. “Not that!”
Neville raised an eyebrow at the bar.
Pigarse said, “Don’t shout like that. I nearly did art in my pants.”
“Are you feeling okay, Jim?” asked Litany. “You really do look rather ill. Would you like me to sing you better?”
Pooley sighed. “I’d love that,” he said. “But I’ve something I have to say. There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding and I feel we should all be honest with each other. No secrets.”
“Go on,” said Litany.
“It’s about the money.” Pooley took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. “About the money you need for the equipment and the stage clothes and the strings and the mic and, well, everything, really.”
“Yes?” said Litany.
“Well,” said Jim. “You see …”
“Go on,” said Pigarse. “What is it?”
Pooley paused and glanced around the table. All eyes were upon him. Expectant eyes, they were. Eyes that seemed to look into his very soul.
“I …” said Pooley. “I …” And then his face lit up. It shone. It glowed. It veritably radiated. Glow and shine and glisten, went Jim’s face.