“On the house,” said the Professor. “You have certainly earned it.” He rang a small brass bell and Gammon appeared almost upon the instant, tray in hand. “You know what this means?” the Professor asked as Pooley set about the morning’s fry-up.
“Go on,” said Pooley, between munchings.
“It means that we must enter the stadium, the heart of it all lies right up there.”
“It will be a long hard climb.”
“An impossible climb, defended at every inch, I shouldn’t wonder, but you’ll find a way.”
“Me?” Pooley choked upon his toast.
“Oh yes,” said the Professor. “I am confident that you will come up with something.” Then you are a fool to yourself, thought Jim. “Oh no I’m not,” said Professor Slocombe.
41
At a little after eleven, Pooley stood in the Professor’s garden, breathing fresh air and pointedly ignoring the weeds which sprouted on the west lawn. The invisible barrier was down, which seemed a hopeful sign, and the sky was blue. At least Jim assumed it to be blue, for looking up, he remembered that what he was actually seeing was the image projected by the underside of the great stadium. The black star which rose above them. Jim shrugged away the chill which crept up his back, put his best foot forward and strode down to the Swan. “The condemned man enjoyed a hearty pint” being the order of the day.
To Jim’s amazement, the bar was already quite crowded, the piano was playing and Neville was going hell for leather behind the pump. The part-time barman spied Pooley’s approach as did a shabby-looking man in a greasy brown trilby, who cowered behind his newspaper.
“Well, well,” said Neville, “the wanderer returns.”
“Watchamate, Neville,” said the dejected Jim, “and a pint of Large, please.”
“And where’s your mate then?” Neville did the honours at the pump handle.
Pooley perused his unpolished toecaps. “I have no idea,” he said softly. “Hasn’t he been in then?”
“No,” said Neville, “he’s done a bunk.” He placed the perfect pint before his patron. “Jim, is everything all right?”
Pooley shook his head. “Anything but. I don’t know what’s happened to John, the Professor says …”
“Three more pints over here.” The voice belonged to Norman.
“Excuse me, Jim, I’ll be back in a minute.” Neville scooped up the pennies Pooley had placed on the bar and went off to serve the shopkeeper.
“He’s bunging money about like there’s no tomorrow,” said Old Pete at Pooley’s elbow. “I’d dive in now if I was you.”
“Oh yes, and what’s the celebration?” Jim asked, out of no particular interest.
“This Gravitite business. You know, that wondercrap that holds the stadium up. Norman’s knocked up his own version and you’ll never guess what?”
“He’s won the Nobel prize.”
“Not yet. But he took his formula down to the patent’s office and it turns out that there’s no patent on it. The other geezer never got around to having his registered. Norman is sitting on a gold mine.”
“My old brown dog,” said Jim. “Bravo the shopkeeper.”
“My thoughts entirely.”
“Watchamate, Norman,” called Jim along the bar. “How’s tricks then?”
“Never better,” crooned the half-drunken shopkeeper. “One for my good friend Jim, please, Neville.”
“Cheers, Norman,” said Old Pete, “nice one, old mate.”
“And another down that end for the fogey.”
“I’ve never cared for him, you know,” Old Pete confided in Pooley, “gets right up my nose he does.”
Jim sipped thoughfully at his pint. “He’s all right, he’s an individual.”
“He’s a bloody nutcase! So where’s your mate then? Work-shy as ever, it seems.”
“I don’t know, I’m not sure.”
“Thought he’d be getting some mileage out of these.” Old Pete drew out his silver envelope. “Did you get yours?”
“What are they?”
“Free tickets for the big match, everybody’s got one.”
Pooley raised his eyebrows and his glass. “Everyone in Brentford?”
“That’s the size of it. A bit of good has come out of this fiasco.”
“I wouldn’t go if I were you,” Jim advised. “In fact, I’d give the whole thing a very wide berth.”
“My thoughts entirely, yet again. I’m advertising mine in The Times, there’s a bungalow in Eastbourne in this for me. I’ll give you a fiver for yours if you want.”
Pooley hunched low over his pint, which was shortly joined by Norman’s freeman. “Mine seems to have been delayed in the post. If you want to give me the five spot now, I’ll drop it round when it arrives.”
“Do I look like a cabbage?” Old Pete asked. “On your bike, Pooley. Good luck, Norman.” He raised his glass towards the inebriate shopkeeper. “Here’s health!”
“So, Jim,” said Neville, when he had done with his servings, “what’s to do then?”
Pooley shook his head. How could he possibly explain what was going on to Neville? In the cold light of day it all seemed so much nonsense. He was still not certain that he had actually seen what he thought he had seen. It was too grotesque. The more he thought about it the more convinced he became that it was some drug-induced fantasy, brought on by incense and whisky. But John, however, remained quite as dead. “I’m not well,” Jim told Neville. “Something I ate or something. As for John, I just don’t know, truly.”
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling up to much, Jim. You said something about the Professor before we were interrupted.”
“It was nothing.” Without Omally, Jim felt pitifully alone, somehow incomplete. “Nothing at all, it doesn’t matter.”
“As you please,” replied the barman. “But listen, if John does show up, you can tell him he can have his job back here. He played straight with me. I owe him a lot.”
“We all do.” Pooley raised his glass. “You are a good man, Neville. There’s nothing the matter with mankind when there’s blokes like you around.”
“Well, thank you, Jim, I appreciate that.”
“You’re in a bloody wet mood,” said Old Pete. “Seen the light, have you?”
“Something like that — belt up, you old bastard.”
“Thanks very much,” said Old Pete.
There was a sudden disruption in the middle of the bar. “Watch this,” said Norman, clearing space in the crowd. “Now just watch this.”
The onlookers and good-time-charlies, who had been accepting his free drinks, drew back to a respectful distance and egged him on. “Watchagonnado?” they asked.
“A demonstration of the Norman Hartnell Mark One Flying Jacket, Wallah!” Norman opened his coat. Around his waist was a broad belt loaded with lead weights and general junk of the heavy variety. “The miracle of Normanite,” Norman unbuckled the belt and it fell to the floor with a loud crash. “Up and away,” To massed amazement, he rose from his feet and drifted towards the ceiling. “He leaps tall buildings at a single bound!” the shopman called down to his speechless spectators.
“Bloody idiot,” muttered Old Pete. “My glass is empty yet again.”
“Give the man his due,” said Neville. “That is not the kind of thing one sees every day.”
Norman bobbed about on the ceiling, giggling foolishly. To Pooley’s rear the shabby-looking man in the greasy brown trilby rolled his newspaper into a tight tube, inserted something dubious into the end and placed it to his lips.
“For he’s a jolly good fellow,” sang the crowd, “and so say all of us.”
“If he throws up on my carpet, he’ll pay for the cleaning,” said Neville. “Pooley, look out!” Jim ducked instinctively. Something whistled past his left ear and thudded into the haunches of a souvenir Spanish bull upon the bar shelf. “Stop that man!” cried Neville, but the crowd was too entranced with Norman’s antics. The shabby-looking man fled the Swan. “It’s a blowpipe dart,” said the part-time barman, examining the bull’s punctured rump. “By the gods!”