The interior of Norman’s shop was gone to ruination. Smashed, it seemed, by the hand of a jealous god. The shelves were down and splintered. Broken sweetie jars lay all about the place. There were great holes in the plasterwork and in the ceiling also. The counter had been shattered to oblivion.
“I’m redecorating,” said Norman. “Thought it was time for a change.”
“Change,” said Soap in a toneless tone. “Everywhere, change.”
“I’ll just get the peppermints.”
Soap watched the shopkeeper sifting through wreckage. “Why are you moving in that funny manner?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Norman.
“All bandy-legged,” said Soap. “Have you hurt your bottom?”
“No, I’m just—” But Norman’s words were swallowed up by a mighty bellow that issued from his kitchen.
“And what was that?” asked Soap.
“What?” asked Norman. “I didn’t hear anything.”
There came next a violent crash that brought down plaster from the walls.
“What about that?” Soap asked. “Did you hear that?”
“That would be the workmen.” Norman unearthed a packet of peppermints and, straightening painfully, offered them to Soap.
“They’re rather flat,” said Soap. “Is this a hoof mark on them?”
“Hoof mark?” said Norman. “Hoof mark?”
“It does look rather like a hoof mark.”
“Just have them for nothing.”
“That’s very kind.”
There came another bellow and another crash.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Soap. “But do you know what?”
“Some of the time,” said Norman.
“That bellowing,” said Soap. “I’ve heard that sound before. Belooooooow, on my travels. In Narnia, I think it was. It sounds just like a unico—”
“Have to hurry you now,” said Norman, hustling Soap to the door.
Outside, in the Ealing Road, the sun beamed blessings on the borough. Birdies sang from treetop bowers and a rook returning to its nest was shooed away by Small Dave, who had taken up residence there. A street surveillance camera clocked the image of the library clerk who marched off towards his appointment with destiny, but failed to register that of the young man in the black T-shirt and shorts, who crept across the roof of a nearby flat block, cradling an AK47 with a sniper’s sight.
Dick was a God-damn hero.
Dick had done it all.
He’d walked and talked with Nero.
He’d seen the empire fall.
He’d held the court in rapture.
With tales of darkest Burma,
And all the things he’d seen and done
Across old terra firma.
Dick was a God-damn hero.
But the nights were drawing in.
He’d sung with Johnny Zero
And also Tiny Tim.
He’d practised acupuncture
On ladies of renown,
And met with ghosts in graveyards
And other parts of town.
Dick was a God-damn hero.
But nobody cared for Dick.
He shouted loud and clearo.
It really made you sick.
I’ve seen it all,
I’ve been there, too.
I know them and
They know it’s true.
It can hurt to be a hero,
And I’m glad I’m not like Dick.
15
“You are a God-damn hero,” said John Omally, raising a pint of good cheer.
It was Thursday lunchtime and he and Jim were once more in the Flying Swan.
“But there is one thing I have to say,” the Irishman continued, “and it is best that I say it now.”
“Go on, then,” said Jim, a-sipping at his pint.
“If you don’t get that smug-looking smile off your face, I’ll punch your lights out.”
“Sorry,” said Jim. “I can’t help it.”
Omally shook his head. “Just what did she do to you in that bedroom?” he asked, for the umpteenth time.
“She sang to me. I told you.”
“And that’s all she did? Sing?”
Jim Pooley sighed in a wistful way. “Yes,” he said. “It was wonderful.”
John placed his pint upon the counter and rubbed his hands together. “Well, whatever,” he said. “But you did it, Jim. You raised the money. Less than two days as a businessman and we’re already up by one hundred thousand pounds. It’s beyond belief. I should have gone into business with you years ago. We’d be millionaires by now.”
“I thought I’d pop into Norman’s and pay him what we owe.”
“No need to be hasty.” John took up his pint once more. “Norman can wait until his week is up. We must decide just how we’re going to spend all this wealth. The first thing I should do is open a bank account.”
“Oh no, it’s not,” said Jim.
“It’s not?” said John.
“It’s not,” said Jim. “The first thing you should do is think about how you are going to organize the Gandhis’ tour,”
Omally made the face of thought. “I’ve been considering this matter,” he said, “and I do predict a problem or two.”
“Go on,” said Jim.
“Well, it would have been an easy enough matter to phone up music venues and play the tape to them. But as we don’t have the tapes any more—”
“Norman still has one,” said Jim.
“Ah yes, so he does.”
“But I don’t think we’d better use it. Litany seemed very upset, didn’t she?”
“You’re not kidding, my friend. The way she crunched up those cassettes. I’m glad that wasn’t my old chap she had in her hand.”
“Don’t be so crude, John.”
“I’m sorry. But you’re right. The show must go on. And, do you know what, I have a bit of an idea.”
“Which you might perhaps like to share with me?”
“I would. Do you remember back in the sixties? There was a rock festival held on the allotments.”
“Brentstock,” said Jim. “I didn’t go to it. I think I was in San Francisco at the time.”
“I think you were in Bognor at the time. With your mum.”
“In the San Francisco Guesthouse, that’s right.”
John looked at Jim.
And Jim looked at John.
“What?” said Jim.
“Nothing,” said John. “But think about this. We could organize a big rock festival of our own. Right here, somewhere in the borough.”
“Not on the allotments, though. I seem to recall that the council were most upset about the last one.”
“No, not on the allotments. I know a better place. In fact I know the ideal place.”
“Not in my back yard,” said Jim.
“Buffoon. What about Gunnersbury Park?”
“Lord Crawford’s place? He’d never go for that.”
“Wouldn’t he, though? Lord Crawford is a member of the aristocracy. And how do members of the aristocracy spend their spare time?”
“In debauchery, of course. It’s a tradition, or an—”
“Old charter or something. I know. So how do you think Lord Crawford would take to Litany singing him a little song?”
“The same way I did, probably. I …”
“Yes, Jim?”
“Enjoyed it very much,” said Pooley.
“Right, that’s settled, then. We’ll concentrate our efforts on a big rock concert in the park. And if it all goes with a big kerpow, we’ll then deal with the matter of a recording studio.”
“I agree,” said Jim. “But just one thing. This concert has to be big. Really big. Enormous. Stupendous. And things of that nature generally. It has to be the legendary gig. The one that no Gandhis fan would want to miss. Everything depends on that. Believe me, everything.”
“You’re keeping secrets, Jim. I don’t like it at all.”
“Just trust me,” said Jim. “It’ll all work out. I know it will.”
“As you are clearly a business genius, as well as my bestest friend, my trust goes without saying. So, you leave his lordship for me to tune up. He owes me a favour anyway.”