Omally gave his chin another scratch. Perhaps Jim was right. Perhaps the whole thing was stupid. The scrolls were probably lost for ever anyway. And even if they were to be found, would the Millennium Committee really hand over the dosh to a pair of Brentford louts who had come across a bit of old parchment?
“I am not a lout,” said Omally, startling a solitary cyclist.
“And I am not a transvestite,” the other called back. “So I like to cross-dress once in a while, but who doesn’t, eh?”
Omally let that pass. And then he looked down at his wrist to the place where, had he worn a watch, he would have worn it. “Half past eight,” said John Omally. “So, what shall I do? Knock up old Jim and try to change his mind? Take a walk over to Professor Slocombe and ask him what he knows about the Brentford Scrolls? Go back to the Swan for another pint? Go home to bed?”
A wry smile appeared upon the face of John Omally. He might perhaps go to someone else’s home and go to bed. And half past eight just happened to be the time when Jack Bryant began his night shift. And Old Pete, that observer of the incubus, was ensconced in the Swan.
Omally rose from the bench, stretched, tucked in his shirt, ran his fingers through his curly hair and set off to the bus stop with a whistle.
Jim Pooley’s kettle didn’t whistle. It was an electric one and those lads never whistle, they just sort of switch themselves off. Well, most of them do. Jim’s didn’t, because it was Jim’s and it was electric and Jim and electric appliances didn’t get on. And even if Jim’s kettle had been meant to whistle, it wouldn’t have been able to now, because it was full of baked beans. Jim lifted the lid and peered in at the bubbling brew. “Nearly done,” said he. The slice of bread that was destined to become toast rested perilously upon the protective grill of the two-bar electric fire. Both bars were on, because the switch that isolated one of them just happened to be broken. Jim turned the bread over, scorching his fingers as he did so. “Ouch,” said Jim, the way you do.
But Jim had a whistle left in him. All right it had been a pretty bum day, but there was always tomorrow. It was beans on toast for now and then an early night. Perhaps he might even be able to break the dreaded cycle of up-and-out-the-bookies-then-the-pub-the-pub-then-the-bench-the-bench-then-home-for-tea.
Well, he might.
“I shall start anew tomorrow,” said Jim. “I might even go down to the Job Centre and see what’s doing.” He froze and glanced around. And then he shook his head. “No one heard me say that, did they? No,” he concluded. “Now, let’s get stuck into these beans.”
Knock, knock, knock, came a knocking at Pooley’s front door.
Knock, knock, knock, went John Omally at Mrs Bryant’s kitchen door. The light flicked on and through the frosted glass John could see the lady of the house approaching. That silhouette, back-lit by the reproduction coach lamps on the kitchen wall, never failed to stir something in John Omally.
“Who is it?” called Mrs Bryant.
“The man of your dreams,” whispered John.
“Jim, I told you only to come on Thursday nights.”
Jim? Omally’s jaw dropped open. Thursdays? Didn’t Pooley always leave the Swan early on a Thursday night with talk about some gardening programme he had to watch on TV? But, Pooley? Surely not.
“It’s John” called John.
“Oh, John. Oh, ha, ha, ha.” (the sound of hollow laughter). “Just my little joke. Come in.”
Mrs Bryant opened the door and Omally grinned in at her.
“Your husband’s not about, is he?”
“No, he hasn’t come home this evening. I’m getting rather worried.”
“Should I go away and come back another night?”
“Are you kidding?” Mrs Bryant took John by the jacket lapels and hauled him into the kitchen.
Knock, knock, knock, knock, went the knocking again at Pooley’s front door. Jim dithered about, trying to hook his toast off the bar fire and pull the plug from the kettle at the same time. “Hold on,” he called. “I’m coming.”
Knock, knock, KNOCK.
Pooley tossed the toast from hand to hand, blowing onto each in turn and performing a rather foolish dance as he did so.
Knock, knock, KNOCK!
“Oh, stuff it.” Pooley flung the toast over his shoulder and stalked along the passage to the front door. Dragging it open he shouted, “What do you want?”
“I know what you want,” purred Mrs Bryant, blowing into John Omally’s ear.
And of course she did. But John paused for a moment, taking stock. Certainly he wanted a shag. But then he always wanted a shag. Most men want a shag most of the time. Most men would drop whatever they happened to be doing at a moment’s notice in the cause of a shag. But did he, John Omally, really want this? Sneaking into a married woman’s house for a cheap thrill? It was pretty tacky stuff when you came right down to it. Not that he felt any guilt about old Jack Bryant. Jack was an amiable buffoon. But then, what did this make him’? A lout?
“I am not a lout,” said John Omally.
“I never said you were. Shall I get out the ice cubes?”
“Oh yes please,” said John. “And…”
WHACK! went Pooley’s front door as it burst open and whacked against the passage wall.
“Hey, hang about,” went Jim, as hands were laid upon him. “Stop this,” he continued, as the hands thrust him back along the passage.
And WHACK! went the front door one more time as other hands slammed it shut.
Mrs Bryant left the fridge door open.
Although this may sound incredible to the reader, there are still some folk left in the world who do not recognize the fridge for the sexual treasure house it is. You may scoff, but it’s true. These tragic, unenlightened beings open up their fridges and see food. Food and drink and nothing more.
Certainly they may have a comprehensive range of marital aids stored away in the bedside cupboard, for after all, who doesn’t? But when it comes to the fridge, they just see food and drink.
The connoisseur of kitchen copulation, however, sees the contents of the fridge in all its naked splendour.
The erotic possibilities of the fruit and vegetable section are of course well known. Who in their right mind could fail to be moved to arousal by sight of all those corn cobs and parsnips, bananas and cucumbers? But the connoisseur disdains the obvious and passes on to savour the exquisite pleasures of the half-squeezed lemon and the fiendish red-hot chilli pepper, here a pinch and there a dab. Moving upwards, he views the shelf of lubricants and creams and lotions: the butter and the margarine, the tub of lard, the mayonnaise, the extra virgin olive oil, the salad dressings and the HP Sauce.
And then to the preserves. Did you know that if you take ten small pickled onions and thread them onto a string, you can gently push them…
“Don’t push me about,” cried Jim. “What’s going on here? Let me go.”
“Mr Pooley? Mr James Arbuthnot Pooley?” A large hand held Jim firmly by the throat and pushed his head against the passage wall.
Pooley glared into the face of his tormentor. It was an impressive face. A face that had seen a bit of service. A face with a flattened nose and a beetling brow, its mouth bound by tightly corded muscle, its chin unshaven. It was a face that said, “Don’t mess about with me,” without actually having to speak.
“Who are you?” Pooley asked. “And what do you want?”
“Police,” said the mouth on the impressive face.
Jim viewed the head and body that went with it. Equally impressive. Big and burly. Two more such big and burly men lurked in Jim’s passage.