“Best I do it,” said Norman. “The jungle drums tell me that Pooley’s face does not exactly fit in Bob’s establishment at the present time.”
“Good man.” Omally called out for two refills. “Has Jim been in?” he asked Neville.
“Haven’t seen him tonight. Did you want anything to eat with those?”
“No,” said Omally, “I do not, I wonder what might have happened to Jim.”
“Surely he is still enjoying his free meal on the council,” said the barman, taking up a glass to polish. “No doubt you have just done the same.”
“I have not.”
“Then you must be famished, have an Olympic Toasty.”
“Neville,” said John, “the events of this lunchtime were not of my doing.”
“Events?”
“I am thinking of your sudden loss of clientèle which resulted in the surfeit of salmon sandwiches you are now attempting to pass off as Olympic Toasties.”
Neville took himself off in a huff to serve an impatient customer. “Bar snacks, anyone?” he was heard to enquire.
“Tell me, Norman,” said Omally as he passed the shopkeeper his pint. “As a man of science, what do you make of this stadium business?”
“In what way, John?”
“Well, is it feasible? You know, solar panels? Gravitite, all that stuff?”
“It is feasible,” said Norman, a trace of bitterness entering his voice, “although I cannot as yet say how it is to be done.”
Omally nodded thoughtfully. “It is all a bit sudden though.”
“Sudden is not the word. The news hits us today and construction appears scheduled to begin come Monday. That is speed beyond human capability. No, Gravitite alone must have taken years to develop. There is a good deal more to all this than meets the eye.”
“So what do you think?”
“Computers,” said Norman. “Computers and a single brain. And one more fearsome than that of the legendary Albert E. himself.”
“So who is your man?”
“The Lord alone knows. A scientific genius and one of considerable wealth. The paper says, ‘an anonymous philanthropist who desires anonymity’, and if that is his desire then no doubt such a man is quite capable of realizing same. But why do you ask, John? We shall all make something out of this. The stadium will come, the stadium will go. Life will continue. Let us enjoy it as we will.”
Omally finished his latest pint. “You are no doubt right,” he agreed. “So whose round is it?”
18
Jim Pooley lazed in the Le Corbusier. Dom Perignon lazed in Jim Pooley. It is a curious thing how the simple transfer of a body of liquid from one location to another can alter so many things. Or at least appear to. The furtive, worried Pooley of the hour past had now vanished, to be replaced by a mellow, crisis-what-crisis?-God-is-in-His-Heaven-and-all’s-right-with-the-world kind of body.
Jim tinkered with the remote controller and the twenty-five inch screen of a “re-routed” television set filled with Sergio Leone’s classic western, For a Few Dollars More. Jim greatly preferred the video (which he had viewed on many previous occasions) with the sound on, but he had never achieved full mastery of the controller and did not feel up to making the stroll over for a manual turn-up.
“It’s not a bad old life.” Jim shifted his roll-up to the corner of his mouth. “I really cannot see what all the fuss is about,” he informed the silent set, as the “Man With No Name” drew upon Red “Baby” Kavanagh and sent the outlaw to a two-thousand-dollar grave.
Old Pete rose unsteadily to address the assembled company. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, most honoured guests, friends, Romans and countrymen.” His cronies enjoined in hearty hand-claps. Jennifer Naylor chewed upon her lower lip. The Mayor said nothing. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking-” beneath the table Young Chips gnawed upon a chicken-leg and broke wind meaningfully- “I should just like to offer a word of thanks to all those who have made this evening possible. And to say that, on behalf of myself and the senior citizens of Brentford, how very much we have enjoyed the splendid repast and how very much we look forward to the brandy and cigars which must now bring it to a successful conclusion.” Old Pete reseated himself amidst tumultuous geriatric applause, a line or two of “Tipperary” and a further barrage of flatulence from his dog. “I thank you.”
Jennifer Naylor stood up, this single action playing havoc with two dozen formerly defunct libidos, and putting as many pace-makers under considerable strain. A whistle of feedback, as the ancients turned their deaf-aids up full volume, piped her aboard.
“My Lord Mayor, Government Ministers, ladies and gentlemen-” she paused and nodded towards the old contemptibles “-members of the Olympic committee.” A score of turtle necks inclined in response to this unexpected elevation in status. “Today is a day that shall be writ big in the annals of Brentford. For today, official confirmation has been made that we are indeed to host the coming Olympiad.” She put up her hand to subdue the applause that wasn’t coming anyway. “It is my great pleasure to hand you over to our honoured guest, his worship the Mayor, to give the speech of acceptance.” She primly reseated herself.
The honoured guest rose to the occasion, arranged a sheaf of papers before him on the table and his reading glasses upon his nose. He smiled down the expanse of table towards the rows of ancient faces which regarded him with but a single expression. It was not one of solicitude.
“Dear friends,” he began, “my dear, dear friends.”
John Omally finished his pint and looked up towards the battered Guinness clock. Nearly eleven o’clock, Neville was calling last orders and Pooley was nowhere to be seen. This was not how he had planned things at all. In a perfect world Pooley would have been there an hour ago; leaving their drinks unfinished, the two of them would have slipped away from the Swan, picked up the explosives from the allotment, set the charges on the barge and been back in time to finish their pints and comment upon the possible causes of the loud explosion coming from the direction of the river. Surrounded by friends, they might even have taken a stroll down to see what all the hullaballoo was about. But this was not a perfect world and Jim Pooley was nowhere to be seen. Omally slid his empty glass across the bar counter. What was the lad up to? What had become of him? A sudden grim expression forced its way across John’s normally cheerful countenance. Jim had done a runner!
Pooley ran the video forward to the chiming watch gun-fight sequence at the end, his favourite bit. Without the sound, however, the tension lost much of its impact. Jim rose unsteadily and rooted about amongst the rack of video tapes. He had some crackers here and no mistake: They Saved Hitler’s Brain, Plan Nine from Outer Space, Mars Needs Women. Every one a classic, you couldn’t blow these up. There had to be another way.
Pooley almost scratched at his head, it was a close thing. “Perhaps we can refloat the barge,” he said drunkenly. “Drift downstream for a bit, that would be the business.” He rattled the neck of the champagne bottle into a Georgian rummer. Empty. “Time for a top-up,” said the lad, swaying over to the cocktail cabinet. “Now, eenie, meenie, my knee …” There was a wide range of drinks on offer, but most were of the “brought-home-from-holiday-because-we-liked-the-colour” variety, which seemed a good idea at the time when drunk, but inevitably led to severe brain damage the next morning.
“Banana Liquor,” said Jim. “That seems like a good idea.” Twisting away a plastic stopper the shape of Carmen Miranda’s hat, he decanted a large slug of the yellow liquid into his glass. “Anchors away,” said Jim.
There was a loud thump upon the hull of the barge. Pooley stiffened. John, already. He hiccupped foolishly. “You’ll have to hang on a minute,” he giggled. “I’ve not quite got everything.” There was another thump and the sound of something metallic being drawn down the side of the barge. “Now what’s he up to?” queried Jim. “Setting the charges, you buffoon,” he answered himself. “So get a move on.” Pooley took a hasty look around. Most of it was out of focus and none of it really seemed to matter much. He took a deep unsteady breath. He’d be a millionaire soon, who cared about a barge load of booty? This was a new beginning. A new honest beginning. He stumbled over to a nearby porthole and drew aside the blinds.