“It certainly will,” Neville agreed. “Serve the buggers right, all the inconvenience. A Brentford team whopping the world’s finest, what a hoot. It is an inspired plan and one which I feel deserves yet another on the house.”
“Thanks,” said Norman, “I haven’t finished this one yet.”
Old Pete considered the empty bottom of his own glass. “Be all right as long as no one gets wind of it in advance,” he said meaningfully.
“Another for yourself?” Neville asked. “As an old Brentonian, you will no doubt wish to toast Norman’s bid to gain glory for the borough.”
“Indeed,” said Old Pete. “Nothing less than a double would be sufficient, don’t you agree?”
“It is all you will get.”
“My lips are sealed,” said Old Pete. “To the honour of the borough.”
“The honour of the borough.”
“Sssssh!” went the patrons.
“Oh, bugger off,” said Neville the part-time barman.
36
In the teepee at the bottom of the garden Paul and Barry Geronimo sat cross-legged sharing a long pipe.
“The time draws near,” said Paul solemnly. “As the great spirit moves upon the face of the waters, the sky darkens, the birds fly upside-down and the crickets call with the tongues of men.”
Barry sucked at the pipe stem. He considered the dope-taking one of the finer aspects of Red Indian day-to-day life. Grudgingly, he passed the pipe back to his brother. “This a good toke in here,” he said, grinning lopsidedly, “dealer not stitch you up on this occasion.”
“To become one with the Manitou,” said his brother, “to understand the ways of the elk, to soar with the eagle, to feel the pulse, the universal note of which all things, all matter, all men, are each but component parts. Each but single elements, yet one and the same. To do this, one has to get a little high once in a while. If you get my meaning.”
“Not exactly,” said Barry, “but I get the drift.”
“Barry,” said Paul, “Brother Barry, as a ‘human being’, you are a bit of a failure.”
“Oh, thanks very much, you haven’t exactly excelled yourself, have you?”
“That is not what I mean.”
“Well, it’s what I mean.”
“Barry, when first, in many moons past, I told you of my great revelation, your heart was troubled. You had no belief. Have I not schooled you in the ways of our fathers, taught you the skills of bow and tomahawk, made you knowledgeable with the wisdom of the people and now … .”
“And now we’re both on the dole,” said his brother, snatching back the pipe. “A fine lot of use it’s all been.”
“You are not a ‘human being’, Barry, you are a white man.”
“We are both white men, for crying out loud!”
“No, Barry, I divine the great purpose, the infinite meaning. Our trials have not been in vain. The scorn and ridicule we have suffered mean nothing to me. I am above all that, I see the golden light.”
“You are stoned, I’m keeping this pipe.”
“Barry, now is the time of the great awakening. The earth moves and shudders. It has grown weary of the ways of men. Those few who understand may yet survive the reckoning, by becoming at one with nature, as it was in the times of the elder ones. Those who lack wisdom will be lost amidst the tongues of leaping flame. Such it is so written and such it will be.”
Barry sucked ruefully upon the long pipe. “You really believe all this, don’t you?”
His brother nodded sagely. “I have numerous A-levels and an honours degree. Do you think I would act as I do if I did not have the conviction that I am right?”
“You just might be bonkers.”
“Barry, the soul of the great chief now dwells within me, and you also. This makes us aloof to the jibes of lesser men. I shun them all, I am led by a guiding star and by the glorious golden light.”
“So what do you propose we do, oh learned brother?”
“We will act as the spirit dictates, open our minds to its instruction, we will smoke many pipes and speak of many things.” He opened a bag of Peyote buttons. “Here,” he said, “chew upon these awhile and I will tell you of the dreams I have dreamed. Then we will act together, as one.”
“In for a penny then,” said Barry. “Bung them over.”
“There is a big evil abroad amongst the fields of the white man. It overshadows us, darkens the sky, I sense it, we must combat it.”
“All right,” said Barry, “but I’ll hang on to the pipe for now, in case these magic mushrooms turn out to be the ten-bob-a-pound variety from Tesco’s.”
Inspectre Hovis paced the floor of the briefing room. He was not alone. The seated ranks of the Brentford constabulary watched without comment. Presently, the great detective halted and turned to face them. “One hundred million pounds in gold bullion,” his voice echoed about the room, “and it is all right here.”
The beat-plodding bobbies jerked upright in their seats. Their crime-consciousness extended little beyond the bounds of the occasional collar-feel for petty pilfering. There was mass murmuring in the ranks.
“One hundred million,” Hovis reiterated. “Right here and I want it back,” He peered about the sea of faces, seeking a little island of intelligence. “Not keen, gentlemen? A little out of our league, is it?”
Constable Meek raised a tremulous hand. “Sir?”
“Meek?”
“Is this the proceeds from the Heathrow robbery, sir?”
“Oh, very good, Meek, been watching Police Five, have we? Good lad,” Meek grinned foolishly. “Of course it is the Heathrow robbery!” thundered Hovis. “How many more hundreds of millions in gold are knocking about?” Meek’s mouth opened. “The question was rhetorical,” said Hovis, “if you have an answer I do not wish to know it.”
“But the gold is really in Brentford, sir?”
“Right here.”
“Gosh, sir.”
“Officer,” Inspectre Hovis gestured towards a constable who stood to his rear before a large draped easel. The constable drew away the drape with a flourish and a chorus of oohs and ahhhs filled the metropolitan air.
Exposed to the mass gaze was none other than old TQ 17 NE, the Ordnance Survey map of the borough. As on the Professor’s copy, this had Brentford’s triangular boundaries blued in, the great Star Stadium superimposed in red, but unlike the Professor’s version, this had a thick black ring in the lower right hand section. A ring drawn about the location of the great gasometer.
“Now for all you lovers of geometry,” said Hovis, “this will prove a disappointment. This is not the square on the hypotenuse, nor any other Pythagorean tongue-twister. Here,” he tapped with his cane, “the Brentford Triangle, here,” another tap, “the Star Stadium and here,” multiple tapping and a firm face towards the troops, “here, the Brentford gasometer containing, unless I am very much mistaken, one hundred million in gold bullion.”
There was a moment of silence during which many glances, which meant many things, were exchanged.
“Inside the gasometer, sir?” Whatever tones of sarcasm existed in Meek’s voice they were concealed with considerable skill.
“As cunning a concealment as any I have yet experienced.”
“Who’s in there then, Doctor No or Goldfinger?”
“Who said that?” Silence reigned supreme. Hovis cast his eagle eye over the congregation. “It is the headquarters of an international crime syndicate and we, gentlemen, that is all of us, are going to nick the blighters. All leave is cancelled, all other investigations shelved, I am about to outline to you our plan of campaign and by God I want no balls-up this time. Do I make myself understood?” A roomful of heads bobbed up and down in unison. “This, gentlemen, is the big one.”
“Fuck me,” said Constable Meek.
Gammon brought the Professor a tray of light lunch, consisting of exotic tropical fruits, a few nuts and raisins and a glass of water. “As you ordered, sir.”