From not far away the library clock struck the half-hour, and Neville the part-time barman flicked on the lights, took himself over to the door, and opened up. On the doorstep stood two bearded men.
“Good evening, barlord,” said Jim Pooley.
“God save all here,” said John Omally.
Neville ushered them into the bar without a word. Now was the present and what was to happen happened now and hereafter and it surely couldn’t be all bad, could it? The two men, however, seemed to be accompanied by a most extraordinary smell. Neville pinched at his nostrils and managed a somewhat sickly grin. “Your pleasure, gentlemen?” he asked when he had installed himself behind the jump, and his two patrons had resumed residency of the two barstools which had known not the pleasure of their backsides for more than a week. “What will it be?”
Pooley carefully withdrew from his pocket the five-pound note, which had not left his clammy grip since it had been handed to him, and placed it upon the bar counter.
Neville’s eyebrows soared into a Gothic arch. He had hoped that if he thought positively things might turn out OK, but this? This transcended even his wildest expectations. Jim Pooley with a five-pound note?
And it got worse. “Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Pooley, smiling almost as hideously as the barman, “and have one yourself!”
Neville could feel a prickling sensation rising at the back of his neck. Have one yourself? He had read in paperback novels of the phrase being used by patrons of saloon-bars, but he had never actually encountered it in real life. “Pardon,” said the part-time barman, “might I have that last bit again.”
“Have one yourself,” Pooley reiterated.
Neville felt at his pulse. Could this really be? Or had he perhaps died and gone to some kind of barman’s Valhalla or happy drinking ground? The nervous tic went into overdrive.
Omally, who was growing somewhat thirsty, made the suggestion that if Neville wanted to take advantage of Jim’s generosity it would be better if he dropped the amateur theatricals and did so at once. Neville hastened to oblige. “Thank you Jim,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me then. Your kindness is well received, I thank you.”
Still mumbling the phrase “Have one yourself” under his breath, Neville pulled two pints of the Swan’s finest. As he did so he took the opportunity to study the two men, whose eyes were now fastened by invisible chains to the rising liquid. The beards were odd enough in themselves, but that Pooley’s shirt appeared to have shrunk by at least two sizes and that the colour of Omally’s regimental tie had run on to his neck were things of exceeding strangeness. Caught in a sudden downpour perhaps? Neville could not remember any rain. The ducking-stool then? Some lynch mob of cuckolded husbands exacting a medieval revenge? That seemed feasible.
The barman passed the two exquisitely drawn pints across the counter and took possession of the magical blue note, which he held to the light as a matter of course. Having waited respectfully whilst Pooley and Omally took the first step towards quenching their long thirst he said at length, “Well now, gentlemen, we have not had the pleasure of your company for more than a week. You have not been taken with the sickness I hope, nor struck by tragic circumstances.”
Pooley shook his head. “We have been in Penge,” he said.
“Penge,” said Omally, nodding vigorously.
“Ah,” said Neville thoughtfully. “I haven’t actually been there myself, but I understand that it’s very nice.”
“Splendid,” said Pooley.
“Very nice indeed,” his colleague agreed. “You’d love it.”
Neville shrugged and turned away to cash up the traditional “No Sale” and extract for himself the price of a large scotch. As he did so Pooley remembered the Professor’s request.
“Could I have a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it?” he asked politely.
Neville froze in his tracks. A pound’s worth of change? So that was it, eh? The old “have one yourself, barman” was nothing more than the Judas kiss. Pooley planned to play the video machine. “You bastard!” screamed Neville, turning upon the drinker.
“Pardon me?” said Jim.
“Pound’s worth of change is it? Pound’s worth of change? You treacherous dog.”
“Come now,” said Jim, “steady on.”
“Steady on? Steady on? Have one yourself barman and a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it! What do you take me for?”
“Seemed a reasonable request to me.” Pooley looked towards Omally, who was covering his drink. “What is going on, John?” he asked.
Omally, who was certainly never one to be slow on the uptake, explained the situation. “I think that our good barman here believes that you want the money to play the video machine.”
Pooley, whose mind had been focused upon matters quite removed from video games, suddenly clicked. “Oh,” he said, “good idea, make it thirty-bobs’ worth, Neville.”
“AAAAAAGH!” went the part-time barman, reaching for his knobkerry.
Pooley saw the hand vanishing below counter level and knew it to be a very bad sign. “Come now,” he implored, backing away from the bar, “be reasonable. I haven’t played it in a week, I was just getting the hang of it. Look, let’s just say the quid’s-worth and call it quits.”
Neville brought the cudgel into prominence. “I’ve had enough,” he shouted, hefting it in a quivering fist. “You traitor. Touch the thing and you are barred, barred for life. Already today have I barred one regular, another will do no harm.”
“Who is the unhappy fellow?” asked Omally who, feeling himself to have no part in the present altercation, had not shifted from his seat.
“Norman,” growled Neville. “Out, barred for life, finished, gone!”
Omally did his best to remain calm. “Norman?”
“Norman.”
“Norman Hartnell of the corner shop?”
“That Norman, yes.”
“Norman Hartnell, the finest darts player this side of the Thames? Norman the captain of the Swan’s darts team? The five times trophy-winning darts team? The very darts team that plays at home for the championship on the twenty-ninth? That Norman you have barred for life?”
What colour had not already drained from Neville’s naturally anaemic face took this opportunity to make an exit via his carpet-slipper soles.
“I… I…” The barman rocked to and fro upon his heels; his good eye slowly ceased its ticking and became glazed, focused apparently upon some point far beyond the walls of the Swan. He had quite forgotten the darts tournament. The most important local sporting event of the entire calendar. Without Norman the team stood little hope of retaining the shield for a sixth year. What had he done? The locals would kill him. They would tar and feather him and ride him out of the town on a rail for this. Darts wasn’t just a game in Brentford, it was a religion, and the Flying Swan its high temple. A bead of perspiration appeared in the very centre of Neville’s forehead and clung to it in an appropriately religious fashion like some crystal caste mark. “I… I… I…” he continued.
Old Pete entered the Swan, Chips as ever upon his heels. Being naturally alert, he spied out the barman’s unnatural behaviour almost at once. “Evening to you, Omally,” he said, nudging the Irishman’s arm. “Haven’t missed anything, have I?”
“Sorry?” Omally, although a man rarely rattled, had been severely shaken by the barman’s frightful disclosure.
“The mime,” said Old Pete. “I’m very good at these. Spied out Norman’s Quasimodo some days back and won an ounce of tobacco. This one looks quite easy, what’s the prize?”
Omally scratched his whiskers. “What are you talking about?”