Leviathan mulled that one over. “I’d like to meet your uncle,” he said.
“He moved to Milton Keynes,” said Soap. “Opened a nasal floss shop. But, as I was saying … Just you see here! I don’t have time to waste! I want action and I want it now!”
“And you’d like a contract and a six-figure advance on the strength of these photographs?” The voice was Leo’s. The tone was unbelieving.
“Certainly,” said Soap. “And on the tale I have to tell and the skill with which I’ll tell it. So to speak.”
Leo laughed and Leviathan laughed and Balberith laughed. And so did Gressil. Laugh, laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh.
“Are you laughing?” Soap was heard to ask.
“We are,” said Leo. “Which is to say I am. Kindly sling your hooky-hook, Mr Distant.”
“How about five figures, then?”
“No, you misunderstand. This is not a matter for negotiation.”
“Four,” said Soap. “As long as the first one’s a nine.”
“No,” said Leo, laughing once again.
“Three, then. As long as the first one’s a ten.”
“No.”
“No?” said Soap. “You’re saying no?”
“I would like to say yes,” said Leo. “Truly I would. But I regret that for the moment I cannot. You see, yesterday I sold the newspaper. I am no longer in a position to commission features.”
“Sold the paper? What?” Soap was aghast. Agape and a-goggle and a-gasp. “You’ve sold the Brentford Mercury. To who?”
“It’s to whom, actually. To a major news group, as it happens. The major news group. Virgin News International.”
Soap’s mouth became a perfect O. His bum an asterisk. “You have sold the Brentford Mercury to Virgin? You have prostituted the borough’s organ?”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Leviathan.
“Have at you, sir!” Soap raised his fists.
“Calm your jolly self,” said Leo. “What is all this fuss?”
“You’re part of it!” Soap shook a fist. “You’re part of this evil conspiracy, this changing of history!” He shook another one. “I was going to close my eyes to it and let Inspectre Hovis sort it out. But now—” Having no more fists to shake, Soap shook his feet instead.
“That’s impressive,” said Leviathan. “St Joseph of Cupertino used to do that. Mind you, he was in league with the Devil.”
“Out, demons, out!” shouted Soap, who was nearer the mark than he knew.
“I could still offer you a job,” said Leo. “A vacancy has just come up for a wire-worrier.”
Soap’s leap onto the desk had a definite Dougie Fairbanks Jnr feel. Which certainly lived up to Soap’s self-appraisal on his CV. The trip and plunge forward, however, owed more to the work of the immortal Buster Keaton.
“Ooooooooooooooh!” went Soap, as he fell upon Leo.
“Oooooooooooooooh!” went Leo, as he fell beneath Soap.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Leviathan, who objected to falling under anyone other than a paid lady wrestler with a hairlip and a dandruff problem.
And there’s fewer of them about than you might think.
Soap punched Leo on the nose.
And Leo went for the throat.
Back in the more sedate and chat-things-out-in-a-pub-kind-of-world where most of the rest of us live, John Omally emptied another pint of Large down his throat.
“All right,” said John. “That’s enough for me now. I’m off to tune up his lordship. What of you, Jim?”
“I’m taking the Gandhis on a shopping expedition. But first I intend to open a bank account in my name and stick most of this money into it.”
“You’d better give me some petty cash before you do, then,” said John. “A couple of thousand will do the trick.”
“No,” said Jim, shaking his head.
“No?” said John, dropping his jaw.
“No,” said Jim once more. “All monies must be accounted for. You must present me with receipts for everything. Legitimate outgoings will be covered.”
Omally bridled, as bridle he might. “Have you lost all reason?” he demanded to be told. “This is me speaking to you. John Omally, your bestest friend.”
“There are no friends in business,” said Jim. “I read that in a book somewhere. It’s always best to keep your business and your social life apart.”
“Jim, we’re in this together. Everything shared fifty-fifty.”
“Yes,” said Jim. “And I learned all about that yesterday. When I found myself owing Norman.”
“That was mere tomfoolery,” said John. “Fork out the money, if you will.”
Pooley shook his head once more. “That would be unprofessional. It’s more than my job’s worth.”
John made fists, as Soap had so recently done. “Now just you see here!” he said also.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Jim. “I’ll give you an advance on your wages.”
“Ah,” said John. “Yes. We haven’t discussed wages, have we?”
“No, but I’m prepared to discuss them now.”
“Right,” said John. “Let’s discuss.”
“Well,” said Jim. “I thought a thousand each would be fair.”
Omally made a doubtful face. “A thousand a week?” said he.
“A week?” Jim made the face of shock and surprise. “I wasn’t thinking of a thousand pounds a week.”
John now made a similar face. “Then what were you thinking? Not a thousand pounds a month?”
“Not that either,” said Jim.
John Omally’s jaw began to flap, after the fashion of Jim’s hands in a panic. “Not a year?” he cried. “Not a thousand pounds a year!”
Neville raised his eyes from his bar-end glass-polishing.
“Imagine wages like that,” he said. “A man could live like a prince.”
John Omally lowered his voice and spoke in a strangled whisper.
“Are you telling me,” he whispered strangledly, “that we should work for a thousand pounds a year?”
Jim shrugged.
“You’re shrugging,” said John. “Why are you shrugging?”
“I’m savouring, too,” said Jim.
“Savouring? What are you savouring?”
“The look on your face, of course. And that strangled whispering.”
“Then savour this,” said John, raising his fist.
“You hit me and I’ll stop your wages. And a thousand pounds is a lot of money.”
“Not for a bloody year’s work it’s not.”
“No,” said Jim, “it isn’t, which is why I was thinking of a thousand pounds a day. Would a week’s advance be enough to keep you going?”
The man without the six-figure advance and the man who had prostituted the borough’s organ were going at it hammer and tongue. Soap hammered away upon Leo and Leo in turn gave tongue.
It was a long black horrible tongue and it kept getting into Soap’s ear.
Standing in a corner and pointedly ignoring the conflict, Balberith and Gressil talked of snuff.
“I hear it’s making a comeback,” said Gressil, “The Magnificent.”
“Only when you blow your nose,” said Balberith, “The Lord.”
“Now I’m definitely off to Lord Crawford’s,” said John, stuffing the last of his pounds in his pockets. “I’ll meet you back in here later, okay?”
“Okay,” said Jim.
“And, Jim.”
“Yes, John?”
“When you take the Gandhis out shopping, do be sure to get that Honda seat for Pigarse’s dad.”
“It’s right at the top of my shopping list. I’ll see you later.”
“Farewell.”
John left the Swan and Pooley stood finishing his pint.