“Let the buggers land then,” said Jim. “I am not for destroying every decent drinking-house in Brentford.”
“I am behind you there, friend,” said John, “but what can it mean? The Swan at the very hub, what can it mean?”
“I shudder to think.”
“Roll the map up,” said John, “we must tell the Professor at once.”
Pooley, who still had upon his person the price of several more pints, was reticent and suggested that perhaps there was no immediate rush. The Professor could hardly have expected them to solve the thing so swiftly. Perhaps a celebration pint or two was called for.
“A sound idea,” said Omally heartily. “In fact, as you have done so well, I suggest that we dispense with pints and go immediately on to shorts!”
“A fine idea,” said Jim, “I will get a couple of gold ones in.” Thus saying he rose from his seat and made for the bar. Quite a crush had now developed, and even Pooley’s practised elbows were hard put to it to gain him a favourable position. As he stood, waggling his pound note and trying to make himself heard, Jim suddenly felt a most unpleasant chill running up his spine. Pooley, taking this to be some after-effect of his discovery, shuddered briefly and tried to make himself heard. He found to his horror that his voice had suddenly deserted him. And it was then that he noticed for the first time that there was a strong smell of creosote in the air. Pooley clutched at his throat and gagged violently. As he did so a firm and unyielding hand caught his elbow, and held it in a vicelike grip.
Jim turned towards his tormentor and found himself staring into a face which only a mother could love. There was more than a touch of the Orient about it, slightly tanned, the cheekbones high and prominent, and the eyes slightly luminescent. It was a face in fact which bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance. The figure was dressed in an immaculate black suit and had about him the feeling of impossible cleanliness.
These details Pooley’s brain took in, but it was somewhat later before he was actually able to relate them verbally. For the present the awful clone of the legendary Hollywood star was steering the muted Jim through the crowd and towards the Swan’s door.
Pooley, realizing that the fate which lay in store for him, if not actually worse than death itself, was probably none other than the very same thing, began to struggle for all he was worth. He swung around upon his kidnapper and with deadly accuracy kneed him in the groin. Had he known anything whatever about Cerean anatomy, however, he would have gone immediately for the left armpit. As it was, his blow did little other than damage one of the Cerean’s sinuses.
Pooley was nearing the end of the bar counter by now and the Swan’s doorway was perilously close. His mouth opened and closed, paying silent tribute to Edvard Munch’s most famous painting. The patrons of the Swan, it appeared, cared little for Pooley’s plight and paid him not the slightest heed.
At the end of the bar stood Neville, staring into space. Pooley made one single-handed and desperate grab towards his bar apron. Even in a blind panic he knew better than to go for the tie. That being the first thing a drunk ever goes for, and Neville being the professional he was, the part-time barman always wore a clip-on. Pooley caught the apron and the outcome was not a pleasant thing to behold.
Neville’s genitalia, which were correctly placed for a man of Earth, were suddenly drawn into violent and painful contact with the tap spout of one of the Swan’s finest traditional hand-drawn ales.
“AAAAAAAAAGH!” went Neville the part-time barman, the searing agony suddenly reviving him from his vertical catalepsy.
The sound reverberated about the bar, silencing every conversation and turning every head. Omally, startled by the cry, leapt from his seat, and glimpsed Pooley’s dire predicament.
The Cerean tugged once again upon Pooley’s elbow, and Jim, who would not have released his grip for all the Lapsang Souchong south of the Yellow River, dragged the barman forward for a second time.
“AAAAAAAAAGH!” the part-time barman reiterated, as his cobblers smote the beer engine anew. All thoughts of darts teams and barred captains were suddenly driven from his head and he howled in pain and did his utmost to free himself of Pooley’s maniacal hold.
The Swan’s patrons, momentarily stunned by the first cry, were emboldened by the second. Tempers had been growing more and more frayed during the evening and this altercation offered a fine opportunity for giving vent to pent-up emotions. The crowd began to advance upon the threesome, and Omally was in the vanguard. With a Gaelic cry which would surely have put the wind up King Billy himself, Omally made a grab at the Cerean.
The darkly-clad figure shook him off as if he were but a speck of dandruff upon his finely-tailored shoulder. Omally tumbled to the deck, cursing and spitting. Several members of the Swan’s drinking elite laid powerful hold upon Pooley, with the result that Neville, who was rapidly giving up all thoughts of potential parenthood, found his good eye crossing once more.
The ensuing mêlée was notable for many things, not least the extraordinary display of divided loyalties. One faction was definitely pro-Neville, being firmly of the belief that Pooley had attacked the barman, and that the man in black was attempting to restrain him. Another took it that Neville, whose behaviour that evening had not exactly been exemplary, had gone for Pooley, and that the man in black was one of the brewery’s dark forces, assisting in that loyal patron’s expulsion from the Swan. A third, which counted but one in its number, and this a son of Eire, was of an entirely different opinion altogether.
It must be stated that other factions existed also. These were formed either from fellows who felt that now was as good a time as any to end some personal vendetta, or from those who by their very natures necessarily misinterpret any given situation. Their participation was notable mainly for its enthusiastic and seemingly indiscriminate violence.
Young Chips, who could smell a nigger in a woodpile even with his nose bandaged, set immediately to work upon the Cerean’s ankles.
Pooley had by now, under the welter of blows, lost hold upon Neville’s apron, and, as the part-time barman lapsed from consciousness and sank gracefully behind the bar, found himself being borne once more towards the doorway. Towards the very doorway, in fact, where John Omally now stood, brandishing a beer bottle.
“Leave hold,” roared the Irishman. Pooley’s mouth opened and closed and a lip reader would have covered his eyes at the obscenity.
The Cerean squared up to the obstacle in his path and raised his left hand to strike. Omally swung his bottle and, it must be reasoned, more from luck than judgement, struck the villain a devastating blow to the left armpit.
As he lost his grip upon Pooley, several of the pro-Neville brigade fell upon the barman’s attacker with relish.
The Cerean staggered towards Omally, who, having the advantage of fighting upon home territory, stepped nimbly aside and tripped him through the Swan’s open doorway and into the street.
Outside, parked close to the kerb, stood an automobile that was a collector’s dream. It was ink-black and gleaming, a showroom piece. The handbook had it down as a nineteen-fifty-eight Cadillac Sedan, the deluxe model. In the driving seat sat a man of average height, wearing an immaculate black suit. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance and favoured a creosote aftershave. It took him but a moment to leave the car and gain the pavement, but by then the chaos of flailing fists which now filled the Swan was spilling into the street.
The pro-Pooley faction, who knew a brewery henchman when they saw one, and who were currently occupied in assaulting the one who was rolling about clutching at his armpit, saw another quarry and wasted little time in taking the opportunity to vent their spleen.