“All wrong,” said Jim. “This is so wrong.”
“I put it into the computer,” said Cain. “In Penge, which is a very nice place, I might add.”
“You did it?” Jim shook his head. “And nobody saw you do it?”
“I don’t have to be seen if I don’t want to be.”
“Buy the child a lemonade,” said Jim. “And a packet of crisps.”
“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Cain.
“Cup of tea?” asked Clive.
“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Derek.
“That’s hardly a macho drink, Derek.”
“James Bond used to drink Martini. And he was pretty macho.”
“Martini is a tart’s drink.”
“Babycham is a tart’s drink.”
“No, a Bacardi and coke is a tart’s drink.”
“Posh tart’s drink.”
“I’ve never met a posh tart.”
“Is a tart the same as a slapper?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”
“It wasn’t an unreasonable question.”
“It wasn’t me going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!’…”
“Who was it then?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”
“Fred,” said Derek. “It was Fred.”
Clive and Derek raced along the Corridor of Power. They reached the Chamber of Power. Derek won by a short head. Clive pushed open the mighty door.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Fred again. He was standing behind his desk. The desk was still covered by the dust sheet. Not too much more had been done to the ceiling. Fred held a computer print-out in his hand. It was one of those financial jobbies. A bank statement affair. Fred went “Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” once again.
27
Now Small Dave was a postman.
A postman, Small Dave was.
At one time he had the reputation for being a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard. But after a very nasty experience involving the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe, a zero-gravity camel named Simon and a mothership from the lost planet Ceres, he had mellowed somewhat and was now, for the most part, quite easy-going.
For the most part.
But not this morning.
This morning Small Dave was all in a lather. All in a lather and a regular foam. He’d arrived at the Brentford Sorting Office with the not-unreasonable expectation of finding the usual two sacks of mail awaiting him.
But not this morning.
This morning there were twenty-three sacks.
“Aaaaaagh!” went Small Dave, all in a lather and a regular foam. “Twenty-three sacks! Aaaaagh!”
Mrs Elronhubbard the postmistress looked Small Dave up and down. Though mostly down, due to his lack of inches.
“I’m terribly sorry, Small Dave,” said she. “But all these printed pamphlets arrived last night and one is to go into every single letterbox in Brentford.”
“Outrage!” Small Dave knotted a dolly-sized fist and shook it. “Outrage! Outrage! Outrage!”
“I’m sorry, but there it is.”
Small Dave kicked the nearest sack, spilling out its contents. He stooped (though not very far) and plucked up a pamphlet. And at this he glared, fiercely.
FREE MONEY ran the headline, in a manner calculated to gain the reader’s attention.
“Eh?” went Small Dave.
THE BRENTFORD MILLENNIUM FUND IS OFFERING YOU A CHANCE TO SHARE IN THE BOROUGH’S GOOD FORTUNE.
“Oh,” went Small Dave.
ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS COME UP WITH A PROJECT FOR THE NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATIONS AND THE FUND WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE CASH YOU NEED.
“It’s a wind-up,” said Small Dave.
THIS IS NOT A WIND-UP.
“Blimey,” said Small Dave.
SO FILL IN THE ATTACHED APPLICATION FORM. STICK IT IN THE ATTACHED PRE-PAID ENVELOPE AND POP THAT INTO AN UNATTACHED POST BOX. AND LOTS OF MONEY WILL BE YOURS!
“Incredible,” said Small Dave.
YES, ISN’T IT!
“Paragliding,” said Mrs Elronhubbard.
“What?” went Small Dave.
“Synchronized paragliding, like synchronized swimming only up in the sky. I’m going to put in for a grant.”
“But you’re nearly eighty.”
“You’re only as old as the men you feel.”
Small Dave sighed. “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,” said he. “But of course there’s a law against that kind of thing.”
“Quite,” said Mrs Elronhubbard. “And there should be another about recycling old gags. So, Small Dave, up and at it.”
“I am up.”
“Oh, so you are. Well then, get at it.”
Small Dave made grumbling noises. “It’s no bloody use,” he complained. “It takes me nearly a day to deliver two sacks. It would take me a month to deliver this lot.”
“Then God bless the Brentford Millennium Committee.”
“What?”
“They’ve supplied you with ten part-time workers, who are out in the car park even now, awaiting your orders.”
“My orders?”
“Yours. You have been awarded the title Millennial Postman First Class and your salary’s been doubled.”
“Oh.” Small Dave puffed out his pigeon chest. “Right then, let’s get to it.”
“Well,” said Professor Slocombe, reading through the pamphlet. “When you get to it, John, you certainly get to it.”
“Thank you.” John Omally buttered toast and grinned across the ancient’s breakfast table. “I think it should provoke a positive response.”
“Guggy.” Jim dipped a bread soldier into his boiled egg. “It will all turn guggy, like this yolk.”
“Why so?” asked the Professor.
“Because every conman and nutcase in the borough will apply.”
“That is the general idea.”
“But they’ll only be doing it to grab the cash. There won’t actually be any projects.”
“He might have a point there, John.”
“No, Professor.” John Omally shook his head. “I know who’s who in Brentford. Trust me to weed out the wide boys and the moondancers.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said Jim.
“I resent that.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Let’s look on the bright side, shall we?”
“Jim, I think at long last we’re actually on the bright side.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. So would now be a good time to raise the matter of our salaries?”
“Now would be a good time to raise our salaries.”
“Jolly good.”
Fred’s voice rose. It rose and rose. It rattled the crystals of the new chandelier, it made the window panes vibrate, it caused the nose to drop off a toby jug on the mantelpiece, and if chaos theory is to be believed it buggered up the sprout crop in Upper Sumatra.
“Bring me their heads!” screamed Fred. “Bring me their frigging heads.”
Clive had his hands firmly clasped over his ears. But his nose was beginning to bleed. “I really don’t think that heads are the solution,” he shouted.
“I do,” shouted Derek. “I think we should cull the entire population of Brentford.”
Fred’s hands were all of a quiver. They clutched in their fingers one of Omally’s pamphlets. They ripped this pamphlet into tiny little pieces and flung these pieces into the air. “I want this sabotaged!” screamed Fred in an even higher register. “And I want my money back.”
But he didn’t get it.
Early the next morning John and Jim sat in the Brentford Sorting Office viewing the twenty-three sacks of application forms which had all arrived by return of post.
“I think we can chalk this up as a one hundred per cent positive response,” said John. “Shall we dig in?”
“Is this what we’re being paid for?” Jim asked.
“Of course. Whatever did you think?”
“Well, it was always my opinion that company directors spent their days swanning about in limousines, eating at expensive restaurants, smoking large cigars and taking the afternoons off with their secretaries.”
“Ah.” John made thoughtful noddings. “I take your point. You feel that a task such as this should be left to underlings.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m getting above myself. But I do have pressing business of my own that I should be attending to.”
“Millennial business?”
“Precisely.”
“And what business would this be?”
“The building of the Jim Pooley.”