“What is that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But it seemed to work.”
“Work.” Jim made a gloomy face. “Work.”
“It’s not like real work.” John unfolded a piece of paper and spread it over his knees. They were sitting on the concrete bench before the library. It was no more comfortable than before. Autumn now, and cold it was, the nights were drawing in. “Here’s the roster,” said John. “Ah, there, you see. A little dig and dab.”
“Dig and dab?”
“Yes. You have to dig over Old Pete’s allotment then redecorate his house.”
“What?”
“A piece of cake. Good exercise for you, restore you to full vigour.”
“I’m supposed to be convalescing. And what’s on the roster for you?”
“Hard graft, I’m afraid.”
“Give me that piece of paper.” Jim snatched it away. “Dog walking!” he shouted. “You got dog walking?”
“It’s Old Pete’s dog. A regular hound of the Baskervilles.”
“It’s a half-terrier.”
“And half-wolf”
“It’s all too much. It’s all too very much.”
“I blame you,” said John. “You took your eye off the ball.”
“Oh yes, and what ball was this?”
“The ball that would have scored the winning goal. The Millennium Fund money, you remember.”
“That’s all history. Look around you, John. What do you see?”
“The noble town of Brentford.”
“A sleeping suburb. Do you see any banners and balloons? Any bunting? Any written proclamations announcing the forthcoming festivities nailed to the lamp posts? Does this look to you like a town bursting with excitement at the prospect of celebrating the millennium two years early?”
“No,” said John. “But then it wouldn’t. It was all as the Professor predicted. Fred made great congratulatory displays, then inundated the mayor with so much paperwork that he couldn’t get into his own office. The story was quietly gagged in the press, turning up only on the occasional quirky TV show as a comical aside that made us all look like a pack of twats.”
“That’s real life for you,” said Jim.
“Listen,” said John. “I have raised a small amount of capital. I’ve gone into partnership with Norman and we’ve rented a building down near the old docks. The Millennial Brewery is still a goer.”
“The John Omally Millennial Brewery.”
“Actually it’s the Norman Hartnell Millennial Brewery. But you can come in on that with us. There’s money to be made. There’s always big money in beer.”
Jim shrugged. “I suppose to be a director of a brewery would have a certain cachet.”
“Ah,” said John. “Well, we don’t actually have any vacancies for directors.”
“What then?”
“Porters we need. You could work your way up.”
“I’m going home.” Jim rose to do so. And then he sat down again.
“Are you OK?” John asked.
“I think so. I just got this odd shivery sensation.”
“You probably do need a bit more convalescence.”
“No, it’s them.” Jim pointed.
Across the road were two boys. They looked to be about ten years of age. One had a golden look to him, the other was all over dark. They stood together silently and stared at John and Jim.
“Oh, them,” said John. “Damien and the Midwich Cuckoo.”
“Who?”
“Nobody seems to know who they are. They wander about the borough staring at people. It fair puts the wind up you, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t they go to school?”
“Why don’t you go over and ask them?”
“OK.” Jim rose to do so. “Oh, they’ve gone. I never saw them go.”
“No one ever does.”
“Well, you can watch me go. Because that is exactly what I’m going to do.”
“How about coming for a beer instead?”
“What, at the Road to Calvary? I don’t think so.”
John gave his head a scratch. “That is something that I’ll have to deal with. Neville is not a happy man.”
“I’ll bet he’s not.”
“He has to wear a costume now, robes and a false beard.”
“That’s something I’d like to see.”
“Oh no you wouldn’t.”
“Tell you what,” said Jim. “Let’s go round there now. I’m meeting Suzy at eight, we’re going for an Indian. But in the meantime why don’t you and I apply ourselves to a really worthy cause? To restore the Swan to its former glory and re-establish ourselves on the drinking side of the bar.”
“Put it there,” said John, extending his hand.
And Jim put it there.
“So,” said Old Pete. “There are these two sperms swimming along and one says, ‘Are we at the fallopian tubes yet?’ and the other says, ‘No, we’re hardly past the tonsils.’” Old Pete raised his glass, but no one laughed.
“Fair enough,” said Old Pete. “So who’s going to say it, then?”
“Say what?” asked Celia Penn.
“Say surely that is a somewhat misogynist joke, or something.”
“Not me,” said Celia Penn. “It’s just that I’ve heard it before.”
“Oh,” said Old Pete.
“A one-legged Lesbian shot-putter told it to me last week.”
“Oh.”
“I heard it from an Irishman,” said Norman.
“An Eskimo told me it,” said a lady in a straw hat.
“A rabbi,” said Paul the medical student.
“I heard it through the grapevine,” said Marvin Gaye.
“God told me,” said David Icke.
John and Jim now entered the Road to Calvary.
“Aaaaaagh!” cried the assembled multitude, catching sight of them. “Out Demons out! Out Demons out!”
Neville rose from behind the bar counter. And yes, he was wearing the robes, and yes he did have the false beard. And, my oh my, didn’t he look like Moses, and, my oh my, didn’t he look mad.
“Judas!” cried Neville. “The Judas twins, no less. Slay the evildoers who have brought woe unto the house of Neville.”
“Hold it, hold it.” John put up his hands. “We are here to help. Jim and I have come to save the situation. To restore the Swan to…”
“And there shall be a weeping and a wailing and a gnashing of teeth.” Neville reached for his knobkerrie. “And fire shall rain down from the heavens and smite the tribes of Pooley and Omally and even their children and their children’s children. For they that fuck with the house of Neville, verily they shall all get the red-hot poker up the bum.”
“Now I know you’re upset,” said John.
“Spawn of the pit!” Neville raised his knobkerrie. “Foul issue of the Antichrist!”
“Very upset,” said Jim.
“Burn the heretics,” shouted Old Pete.
“Now you keep out of this,” John warned him.
Neville climbed onto the bar counter. With the robes and the beard and the knobkerrie and everything, he looked mightily impressive. “This day shall be known as the Day of Retribution,” he roared.
“Just calm down.” John made calming gestures. “Things are never as bad as they seem.”
“Never as bad?” Neville flung wide his arms. “Look at my pub. Just look at my pub.”
John cast a wary eye about the place. The Swan had been converted. Where once had stood the Britannia pub tables and the comfy chairs, now there was a row of pews. The dominoes table too was gone, replaced by a font with a little fountain rising from it. The walls, so long the haunt of mellowed sporting prints, were presently festooned with portraits of saints, garish plastic Virgin Marys that lit up from the inside, fake icons with holographic images, and neon crosses flashing on and off.
And from the ceiling hung plaster cherubim and seraphim, fat-bummed and grinning, holding little bows and arrows, fluttering their tiny wings.
And here and there and all around stood statues, garishly painted theatrical prop statues, of Tobias and the Angel, St Francis of Assisi, Matthew, Mark and Eric Cantona. Eric Cantona?
John Omally crossed himself.
“You piss-taking bastard.” Neville made to leap from the counter.
“No,” said John. “No really, this is dire. We’ll get it fixed, we really will.”