Lucas and Julian looked painfully at one another. “It has now.”
“Do you think you could run through the locations of the sites just once more for the record?”
“Certainly. Now as I have said, these were unwanted parcels of land sold off by the council to our client. When the games finish they will be returned to the borough. Such is the nature of our client’s philanthropy.”
“And the sites are …?”
Julian outlined the proposed sites: “West Point: Area of wasteland beside car park in Butts Estate. North-West Point: Disused works car park in Brook Lane North. North-East Point: Area of wasteland in corner of park, Clayponds Lane. East Point: Foreshore area to east of Griffin Island. South Point: Abandoned boatyard next to undeveloped area known as Cider Island.”
Abandoned boatyard next to undeveloped area known as Cider Island. The words took a moment or two to sink in before Pooley and Omally started in simultaneous horror. Thrusting their way through the crowd they gaped at the model town. There, sure as sure, the southern leg of the great stadium reached down and pierced a half-sunken barge in the abandoned boatyard. The half sunken barge which was the headquarters of the “P & O Line”.
“Excavations will begin on Monday,” said Lucas Mucus. “The legs will be up by the following weekend.”
16
If there is one thing that can be said in favour of council buildings, it is that they inevitably possess a wealth of corridors which seem to have been expressly designed so that the distraught and despairing might pace back and forwards along them swearing and muttering, yet secure in the knowledge that no-one will ever pay them the slightest attention.
Within moments of Lucas’s terrible disclosure, John and Jim had found one of these aforementioned corridors that was ideal for their present needs. John did the pacing whilst Jim leant upon a wall smoking a cigarette. But the more John paced and worried, the more did Pooley become calmly philosophical about the whole thing. Presently, he said, “John, we may be losing a headquarters, but we will be gaining ten million pounds.”
Omally gazed at him, the boy was clearly a fool. “Jim,” said he, “Jim, we will not simply be losing a headquarters, we will be gaining a prolonged period of incarceration at the pleasure of her Majesty the Queen. God bless her.”
Jim raised his glass, “You what?”
“Prison, Jim. When the local garda get aboard that barge, as they are certain to do once the site foreman or somesuch gets a look inside, then we are marked men. It may just be a video recorder here and a bit of potheen there to us, but to the boys in blue it will be a chance to clean up every outstanding case they’ve got on their books.”
“We shall deny it all of course,” said Jim defiantly.
“Jim, the barge is full of stolen property, it is covered in our fingerprints, personal possessions, articles of clothing, why, you’ve even got your holiday snaps up on the salon wall.”
“I thought they made the place more homely.”
“We’ll get five years at the very least.”
Jim’s hands began to quiver. At times of great stress it had always been his habit to flap his hands wildly and spin about in small circles. Exactly where this had its genesis is hard to say, though no doubt Neville might have offered a suggestion or two. “Hang on,” said Jim in mid-flap. “We could always do a runner.”
“Do a runner?”
“Certainly, off to Rio de Janeiro! We could get Bob to post our winnings when the games start.”
“And perhaps he’ll advance us the air fare if we ask him nicely.” Omally’s voice had what they call an “edge” to it.
“Do you think so?”
“No, Jim, I do not think so. Nor do I think that doing a runner would be of the slightest use. Unless you happen to have the necessary fake passports, know the underworld safe houses, and hold sway with bribable officials. And as to the matter of Bob bunging ten million pounds in an airmail envelope and posting it on, Jim, you are a double buffoon!”
Pooley flapped his hands wildly and spun about in small circles. “All is lost,” he wailed, “o doom and gloom!”
“Get a grip of yourself, man.”
“The ball and chains,” moaned Pooley, “the manacles, that tent of blue the prisoner calls the sky.”
“Very prosaic, Jim, now do hush, will you?”
“I’ll go stir crazy, a Pooley in the pokey, the shame, the terrible shame.”
“Pooley, cease this foolishness or I will give you a smack!”
“We’ll have to clear it all out,” said Jim, “all the evidence, get it away, round into your house for instance.”
“Oh no,” said John, “not my house, absolutely not!”
“Then think of something else then.”
“I am trying.”
“Slammed up in the slammer,” mumbled Jim, “bunged in chokey, banged up in the nick.”
“That’s it!” said Omally, plunging his right fist into his left palm.
“What, give ourselves up?”
“No, banged up. That’s it, Jim. Bang. Up.”
“Strangely,” said Jim, “I fail to understand.”
“Bang,” said Omally, “as in bombs go bang. We shall blow up the barge.”
“Blow up the barge.” Jim took in this intelligence and mulled it over in his mind. “Be seeing you,” said Jim Pooley in a manner not altogether unknown to The Prisoner of the now legendary television series.
The unmarked coach bearing the well-breeched, well-fed, well-pissed and well-and-truly-out-of-it workers of Whitehall on the next leg of the Brentford day-trip, left discreetly from the rear car-park at two o’clock as the front doors of the town hall opened to admit the hoi polloi.
The crowd flooded the exhibition hall with murmurs of dissension and disapproval turning slowly to gasps of wonder and disbelief at the miracles upon display. For miracles are fearsome and fear provokes a grudging respect. It was therefore a somewhat hushed and attentive audience that watched and listened as Membrane and Mucus went through yet another polished presentation.
But this one differed, containing many subtle nuances designed to provoke thought alone. Adolf Hitler, of evil memory, believed that a crowd was only capable of grasping a single idea at any one time and this had to be drummed into it again and again. Here Membrane and Mucus amalgamated two simple concepts, honour for the borough and prosperity for its denizens, into a winning combination. This simple device afforded the avaricious an opportunity to disguise their deadly sin beneath a display of fealty to their town.
Great emphasis was placed upon the safety aspects of Gravitite and the temporary nature of the stadium. But the final line of Membrane’s speech sold it completely. “Of course,” said he, “every Brentonian will receive a free pass valid for the entire games.”
An ever so tiny silence preceded the tumultuous applause that even the audio-soluble polysilicate floor-tiles were hard pressed to swallow. Choruses of “For Whoever-he-is Is a Jolly Good Fellow” were chorused and hats cast willy-nilly towards the newly painted ceiling. Messrs Membrane and Mucus wrung each other’s hands and flashed expensive smiles. Their minders grinned lop-sidedly and feigned comprehension.
As the crowds conga-lined away to celebrate their good fortune in the nearby taverns and spread the word to those who might have missed it, the great hall returned once more to stillness and silence. The VDUs hummed softly and the giant images upon the wall video continued their endless rote. No-one noticed the elderly gentleman whose slim frail hands rested upon the ivory handle of his black Malacca cane, as he peered down at the model town and its glittering star-shaped companion. His ice-blue eyes glowed with a fierce vitality beneath their snow-lashed lids and his mane of pure white hair flowed over the astrakhan collar of the long black coat he wore, despite the clemency of the season. The tip of his cane traced the outlines of the stadium before tapping out a brisk yet muffled tattoo upon the tiled floor.