“And when does it go on the market?”
“End of the week. Interested, are you?” he asked sarcastically. “You look like you could run to a sleeping-bag and a quart of cider.”
“There are no witnesses,” said Jim to Neville, “shall I kill him now?”
Neville hung his drowning head. “You know my feelings about murder in the bar.”
“This is a somewhat exceptional circumstance, we might waive the rule on this occasion.”
“You pair of no-marks, go screw yourselves.” With this parting shot, the Young Master stepped around the bar counter and drew himself a large Scotch. Grinning like a dead moggy, he took his drink off to a distant table.
Jim looked at the lost barman. “Golly,” said he.
“The game would appear to be up,” the other replied. “Have a pint on the house.” He took down a glass, stared through it wistfully and placed it beneath the beer spout.
“Seventy-five thousand,” said Jim. “Not an unreasonable sum, all things considered.”
“Well beyond my means.” Neville pulled upon the pump handle and presented Jim with his pint. “And yours also.”
Pooley smiled. “Not necessarily. Have a little look at this, and take a large Scotch for yourself.” Jim dug out the now legendary betting slip and spread it before the barman.
Neville looked at the slip, he looked at Pooley, at the slip, at the Scotch optic, at Young Master Robert, at Pooley. Neville did a whole lot of looking. “So it’s true,” he said in a whisper, appropriate to the occasion. “This is the genuine article. I heard talk, of course.”
Jim nodded. “The real McCoy, as they say.”
“Congratulations.” Neville was unable to muster a lot of conviction. “I mean, well done, I am happy for you.”
“Come on, Neville,” said Jim, “it would be a great shame to see the Swan change hands or ever, God forbid, close down. It’s kind of my past, I’d hate to see it go.”
“Then you …”
“Not me, Neville, you “Me?”
“Of course.” Pooley grinned, a warm flush of pure pleasure crept all over his body. “This is your pub, you should own it, it is your right.”
“My right?”
“I give it to you as a present,” said Jim, “on the promise that you never change a thing, not a hair of the carpet, not a tatty old bar-stool, not a nothing. That you keep it as it always has been, for ever.”
“I promise.” Neville crossed his heart. “You really mean it?”
Jim dug a leaky biro from his pocket and wrote upon a beer-mat, NEVILLE, IOU £75,000, signed Jim Pooley. “I’ll be around twelve tomorrow with the money, God willing.”
“God willing?”
“There are a few matters that the Professor and I have to sort out. Oh and Neville, you will take down that silly sign, won’t you? I always liked The Flying Swan, just as it was.”
“Oh yes, Jim, oh yes indeed!” Neville clutched the beermat to his chest. “Tell me once again that this is really true!”
“It is really true, and why shouldn’t it be. Every man should be entitled to his ‘happy ever after’, it’s only fair.”
“Oh yes, Jim, yes, yes, yes!” Neville pulled the plug from the television set. “Time, gentlemen, please,” he called. “Come on now, gents, have you no homes to go to?”
The Young Master leapt up from his seat and stormed across the bar. “Time, gentlemen, please? What’s your game? Have you gone bloody mad?”
Neville took up the soda syphon and levelled it at the Young Tormentor. “Should I, Jim? What do you think?”
“Oh. you should,” said Jim Pooley. “You really should.”
The Brentford sun moved across the sky, became a projected image for the balance of the day, dipped towards the horizon and made off towards foreign parts. Night fell upon Brentford.
Neville sniffed at the air. It ponged like crazy, but a broad smile was on the face of the part-time barman as he tapped the top pocket which contained a certain signed beer-mat. “We will ceremonially burn that,” he said, glancing at the ridiculous sign hanging outside the pub. “Ye Flying Swan Inn, indeed!”
“I don’t think I can go through with this,” said Neville’s erstwhile saviour, “I don’t think my bottle is up to it.”
Professor Slocombe smiled. “You will manage, Jim. My faith is in you.”
“But what exactly are you intending to do?”
“Well, I must confess that Kaleton has very much placed the cat amongst the pigeons by putting forward the start of the games. I am not as well prepared as I might like.”
“We are doomed,” said Jim.
“Nothing of the kind. The fact that he has done this suggests that he has doubts, fears that he will not succeed in his insane scheme.”
“But what of it all? You can’t be certain he isn’t telling the truth.”
“No, I cannot be certain, but the threat is palpable and we must make all efforts to confound his plans.”
“The Soul of the World,” said Pooley. “Some adversary.”
“No, Jim, I will not have it. We now have the wherewithal to enter the stadium, we shall see what we shall see.”
“Professor,” said Jim seriously, “you have held your ceremonies here, upon home territory. I am not a fool, I know that here you are at your strongest, your most powerful. But up there, out in the open, on Kaleton’s home pitch, we might not fare too well.”
“Jim, do you understand what is meant by the ‘balance of equipoise’?”
“Like Newton’s third Law of Motion — every force has an equal and opposing force, that kind of thing?”
The Professor scratched at his chin. “You are coming into your own, Jim.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” said Jim, although he knew that he did.
“Terrible forces rage and thrust, the universe is not a peaceful place, but the balance remains, one thing cancels out another. There is harmony. A universal plan exists.”
“God,” said Pooley, “you are talking about God.”
“If you put it in those terms, then yes I am. Universal Spirit, call it what you will, for every yes there is a no, two sides to every question. Without an over-lying logic there would be just chaos.”
“I dare not think about the stars,” said Jim.
“That is one of the most profound statements I have ever heard.”
“It is?” Jim asked. “I have others if you wish to compile a list.”
“Now is not the appropriate time, perhaps tomorrow.”
“If there is a tomorrow.”
“Aha!” said Professor Slocombe. “Perk up, Jim, here comes Biggles.”
“What ho, chaps,” said Norman Hartnell, thrusting his head through the french windows.
“Watchamate, Norman, oh dear me.” Jim made a painful face as the scientific shopkeeper stepped into the study. He was clad in a leather helmet, replete with goggles. Little woolly explosions broke from his ancient RAF flying-jacket, a silk scarf hung about his neck.
“Wizard prang,” said Norman Hartnell.
Professor Slocombe glanced at Pooley. Jim made a brave face. In his left trouser pocket a nubbin of fluff resembled the ear-lobe of the legendary Jack Palance. “Bear with him,” said Jim. “He says it will work.”
“And so it will and does,” said Norman. “Who’s going up for a spin then?”
The Professor placed instruments of his enigmatic trade into a Gladstone bag and snapped it shut. “If we are all ready,” said he.
Pooley took a deep breath. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”
The three men walked out into the night streets of Brentford. It seemed a clear night, peaceful, just like any other. But Jim and the Professor knew to the contrary. Something lurked, a big bad goblin, waiting to gobble them all up. Norman marched ahead with a jaunty step. He just doesn’t know, thought Pooley, but what if he did? What if everyone knew? If things went badly tonight and all was as Kaleton had said, the world of men would soon be in for a dire shock. A rude awakening. All that was normal, all that was expected to be, all those plans and futures, gone up in a puff of smoke, or a bloody big bang. Or something. Jim had no idea what, but whatever it was was no laughing matter.