The Sprouts of Wrath (6 page)

Those soothsayers, weather-watchers, old-wife-taletellers and local shepherds who, having taken delight in the red sky of the previous night, felt confident to predict a great day on the morrow, awoke upon a Saturday morning that was to be a turning point, nay a veritable watershed in the borough’s history. For today, the eyes of the world would turn upon Brentford.

Some, of course, knew it was coming. Bob the Bookie, for instance, who had watched the dawn rise and who even now sat alone in his betting shop weeping bitterly into his gin glass.

And Jennifer Naylor, who enjoyed a most pleasant evening at the “Comfy Canard”, dining upon oysters in Armagnac and fricasséed quail with pâté de foie gras. All at the expense of Inspectre Hovis. Much to Jennifer’s surprise, the detective had turned out not only to be a witty and skilful conversationalist, but a gourmet of the first magnitude.

And then there were the brothers Geronimo who had been despatched upon a sacred mission. One which, as Hovis had put it, required the cunning of the native coyote, the eye of the mountain eagle, the heart of the black bear, the ears of the pampas jack rabbit and the sagacity of the ring-tailed possum.

But for most, the unexpected arrival of the
Brentford Mercury
’s Special Olympic Souvenir Edition came more as a terminal shock than as a pleasant surprise. Jaws descended, eyes popped, pyjama tops were biblically “rent asunder” and phonelines jammed as the first murmurs of what is euphemistically referred to as Public Unrest rumbled ominously across the borough.

Some, like internationally famed journalist Gary Jenkins, smelt griffin and returned to their sleeping partners. Others, and this must certainly include the likes of John Omally within their avaricious ranks, could only smell the green and folding stuff.

By ten o’clock the
Mercury
’s office was under seige. The crowd spilled from the pavement and blocked both sides of the high street. Traffic ground to a halt. Horns were honked, hooters hooted, blasphemies exchanged and invective given its full head. From his open window on high the editor, already in a state of high delirium, raved at the crowd who answered his words with cat-calls, hoots of derision and the waving of improvised banners. For the most part his words were lost amidst the ferment below and lovers of mime were similarly lost in admiration for the dramatic, although often enigmatic, nature of his gestures.

The
Mercury
office, being less than one hundred yards from Brentford Police Station, the arrival of the boys in blue seemed very much on the cards. And so it was that — their official coffee-break completed — the gallant lads climbed into their squad cars, set the sirens a-wailing and the beacons a-flashing and sat eagerly in the car-park waiting for the traffic to clear.

At a little after ten-thirty Inspectre Hovis appeared on the scene. He entered the
Mercury
’s office by the rear door, thrust the gibbering editor away from the window and addressed the crowd through an amplified loud-hailer.

His speech was brief and to the point. He informed the crowd that a model of the Olympic stadium complete with full plans and specifications could be seen that very afternoon at the town hall from two o’clock onwards. He made some mention of riot shields and extendible truncheons, tear-gas canisters, rubber bullets and policemen on horseback. And went on to offer his own feelings about the severity of sentences currently being meted out to rioters and those engaged in unlawful assembly. Finally, for good measure, he read the riot act.

All in all it proved quite successful upon this particular occasion. The plucky Brentonians, who were strangers to such matters, hung on his every word, digested the intelligence to be found therein, perused the lines of SPG officers who had lately materialized on every side and finally drifted away with talk of pressing engagements at Tesco’s and Safeway’s.

Inspectre Hovis joined the editor in a glass of Fleet Street Comfort. “I am going to be keeping a watchful eye on you in the future,” he told the gibbering wreck. “And I shall take a very poor view of it if I see any headlines such as TRIGGER HAPPY COPS SAVAGE SATURDAY SHOPPERS.”

The editor tossed a triple down his throat. “I was thinking more along the line of GALLANT INSPECTOR QUELLS MOB.”

“Inspect
re
,” said Hovis. “It is so much more enigmatic, don’t you think. You’ll want a photograph of me for the front page. I’ll have an officer drop you round a couple of ten by eight glossies.”

“Thanks very much,” said the editor of the
Brentford Mercury
.

Jim Pooley sat upon his favourite bench before the Memorial Library. Hands clasped behind his head, legs outstretched, Special Olympic Souvenir Edition aproning his knees. Jim appeared to be whistling, “Money Makes the World Go Round” — that or an ancient Abba hit, but the air was constantly disjointed by contented sighs and deep chuckles. Once in a while Jim would stretch out his arms and punch at the sky, much after the fashion of a Wembley Cup tie striker who had just hammered the winning goal into the back of the net. The sun was certainly in Jim’s heaven and all seemed very much all right with the world.

Pooley was, however, finding some difficulty in coming to terms with his good fortune. Within the span of twenty-four short hours he had risen from the ranks of “no-mark” to those of potential millionaire. In a strange way he had almost come to resent it. Basically because it was not of his own doing. He’d been betting away for years, with scheme after scheme and system after system. Then along comes Omally who, to Jim’s knowledge, had never laid a bet in his life and the next thing you know —
Eureka! Shazam! Bingo!
— things of that nature. And it wasn’t just that. There was also Omally’s remarkable and uncharacteristic altruism in allowing him to place the bet in his own name, even though he knew it was a sure thing. That was most puzzling.

And so there sat Jim, torn between moments of rare joy and others of brooding bafflement, although it must be fairly stated that the rare joy was winning the uneven struggle.

From the corner of his eye, Pooley noticed a scruffy-looking individual approaching. Normally he would not have given a stranger a second glance, but there was something furtive and suspicious in the way that he moved which set Jim almost instantly upon the alert. A small red warning light flashed on the dashboard of his brain. In the light of future events, those of a mystical nature might incline to the belief that our old friend, the sixth sense was at work again. Those of a more cynical disposition might well suggest that it was nothing more than a cliched literary device aimed at holding the reader’s wandering attention. Whatever the case, Jim, recalling a night at the Flying Swan when he’d watched a drunk who claimed to be ex-SAS roll an ordinary newspaper into a sharpened point and, to Neville’s horror, drive it a full inch into the bar top, began to twist his copy of the
Mercury
into a clumsy sausage which might possibly have put the wind up a poodle.

The furtive figure crept closer and hovered a few yards from Pooley’s bench. Jim, nerves taut as fiddle strings and sagacity possibly rivalling that of the ring-tailed possum, turned upon him. “Good morning to you,” said Jim. “Can I be of some help or what?” Taking full stock of the stranger, Pooley was not all that taken with what he saw. From shiny suede chukka boots to frayed corduroys, the observer’s eye led over an expanse of shabby raincoat to a grizzled face, unshaven of chin, dark of eye and topped by a greasy fedora. Here, thought Jim, is a man whose flirtation with hygiene never led to a lasting relationship.

“Jim Pooley?”

Jim nervously rolled his newspaper. This man was definitely not Eamonn Andrews proffering the big red book, neither was he Chalkie White or one of the Page Three lovelies offering to exchange a five spot for the answer to a simple question. “You just missed him,” said Pooley. “He teaches unarmed combat down at the church hall on Saturday mornings. I expect you’ll find him there.”

“This is it,” said the shabby man, withdrawing from his pocket something that looked for all the world to be none other than the legendary “Judge Colt”. “Your luck just ran out.”

Jim’s brain struggled to encompass this sudden shift in fortunes, a no-mark, a potential millionaire and a coffin case all within the same twenty-four hours. It took some getting used to. “I don’t think I quite understand,” said Jim, staring into what looked like the muzzle of a howitzer.

“It is perfectly straightforward,” explained the shabby man. “I am going to kill you, do you want it here or elsewhere?”

“Oh, definitely elsewhere, name the place, I’ll meet you there.”

“Get moving.” The shabby man returned his peacemaker to his pocket and gestured with the bulge of the hidden barrel.

I wonder where all the nice policemen are, wondered Jim. It’s funny how there’s never one around when you need him.

“This way.”

Jim found himself being prodded down a side alley, which he knew led to a break in the allotment fence. “You’ll kick yourself when you read tomorrow’s paper,” said Jim, “you’ve got the wrong man, you know.”

“Get moving.”

“I am but a poor man but you can have all that I own.”

“I shall anyway.”

“What have I done to deserve this?” wailed Jim. “I haven’t harmed no-one.”

“Over here.”

Pooley hung his head and moved on over. The two threaded their way through the shanty town of corrugated iron huts, between well-tended plots and pastures wild. There was not a tenant to be seen.

“Stop.”

“Must I?”

The shabby man drew out his pistol and pressed the cold steel against the nape of Pooley’s neck. “Recommend yourself to your deity.”

Jim spun round. His terror was absolute but his nerve had not absolutely deserted him. “Now see here,” he said, “a dying man is entitled to a last request. Everybody knows that.”

“So what is it?”

Jim fell to his knees. “Don’t kill me,” he begged.

“Request denied.” The pistol rose and levelled at a point midway between Pooley’s eyes.

“Look out! Behind you!” cried Jim. It had always worked in the movies, well, a couple of times anyway.

“Do me a favour.” Jim could see the black crescent of finger-nail as it drew back upon the trigger. There was a very loud bang and then things went very black indeed.

John Omally stood above the fallen twosome, spade in hand.

“Wake up, Jim,” he called. “It’s opening time.”

Pooley stirred from his nightmare and found himself still staring into his would-be assassin’s face: stubble, spots, halitosis and all. “Aaagh!” went Jim, rolling smartly in a swift sideways direction, “and help!”

“You’re lucky I saw you coming past my hut,” said John, reaching down to take up the fallen revolver. “This bugger would have done for you.”

Pooley climbed shakily to his feet. “What’s all this about?” he mumbled, feeling himself all over for bullet holes. “I didn’t do anything to anybody.”

“I don’t think Bob would agree with you.”

“You what?” Pooley was swamped by sudden realization. “So that’s why you let
me
place the bet! You knew he’d try something like this.”

“Come, come, Jim, you cannot blame me for your lack of foresight. You are the victim of your own avarice. I saved your life, did I not?”

“You put it in jeopardy first.”

“I would not have let any harm come to you.”

“I’ve got a weak heart.” Pooley indicated the wrong side of his chest. “Such a shock could have done for me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Give me that gun. I will deal with Bob directly.”

“As you please.” Omally handed the weapon to his companion. “But it will do you no good.”

Pooley spun the gun upon his finger, anger and a lust for vengeance leant him an unexpected dexterity. He sought out a short cigar from his top pocket and wondered how he might appropriate a poncho and a cowboy hat at short notice. “And why will it do me no good?” he asked.

“Because,” said John, “the gun is a replica, it’s not real.”

“What?”

“It was meant to frighten you, to make you give up the betting slip. Bob hasn’t got the bottle to hire a hit-man, this is Brentford, not Chicago in the roaring twenties.”

“I’m not so sure. Bob, as we all know, is a very sore loser.”

“Where am I?” groaned a shabby fallen figure.

“He’s not quite dead,” said Jim. “At least I might give him a slight kicking to aid him upon his way.”

“If you feel it necessary,” said John, “although I do not believe it to be in your nature.”

Pooley tossed the gun into a nearby waterbutt. As an afterthought he pulled off the shabby man’s chukka boots and did likewise with them. “It’s not,” said Jim.

“Lets get down to the Swan,” said John Omally, “I’ll buy you a pint.”

“Now that,” said Jim, “is an excellent idea.”

The Flying Swan was unusually crowded for the time of day. John and Jim elbowed their way towards the bar and cried out for attention. Neville detached himself from a noisy throng at the counter and came over to do the honours.

“It’s busy,” John observed.

Neville tapped at his slender nose. “Whitehall,” he whispered hoarsely, “there’s all sorts in from Westminster, and on a Saturday too. It seems you can’t just say you’re hosting the Olympic games without getting some kind of official say-so. All seems a little fussy to me. Something to do with red tape.”

“So you mean that there might be some doubt,” Pooley clutched at his breast pocket, wherein rested his key to the potential millions.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Neville, presenting the pints. “Still, it’s all good for business isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” said Jim, “yes indeed,” He had paid for the drinks before he recalled that they were Omally’s treat.

“Cheers,” said John.

“I don’t like the sound of this coloured tape,” said Jim. “This could cost us.”

“I suggest we listen in,” Omally nodded towards a nearby conclave and Pooley followed him in the direction of the nod.

The Whitehall types were clustered about one “Badger” Beaumont, the
Mercury
’s inebriate theatre critic. In the absence of Scoop Molloy, who was recovering from the effects of a night without shame, he was acting as official Olympic correspondent.

John and Jim pondered long upon the Whitehallinesians.

They were of a species new to the borough. Omally’s eye for a well-tailored suit recognized that rare variety that is measured for in inches without laughter and paid for in guineas without complaint. Their faces had that scrubbed and plucked quality only found elsewhere upon Madame Tussaud’s dummies and oven-ready chickens. Noses inked in by suffused veins found favour and weak chins were all the rage. There was an even half dozen of them, and from right to left, in terms of position rather than political persuasion, they were: ministers for Sport and Recreation, Development, Housing, Trade and Industry, Foreign Affairs and Finance. There were also under-ministers, under-secretaries, press secretaries, advisers, chauffeurs, masseurs, minders and minions. Omally also spied out several of those young ladies that are trained in the arts which amuse men.

All were arrayed about the Swan in their social groupings, clucking and chatting, laughing and nodding. And doing it all very loudly.

Pooley and Omally listened carefully to the ministers as they conversed.

“I am perplexed,” said Jim.

“You and me both,” said John.

Neville swept by with a platter of salmon sandwiches. “Everything to your liking, gentlemen?” he asked, his good eye all awink. He appeared to be sporting his bestest suit, the weddings, funerals and special lodge meetings number. “Quality punters, eh?”

Omally watched in dumb disbelief as Neville fawned over a group of pin-striped “Hoorays” and their females, who were nonchalantly sipping halves of bitter and flicking cigarette ash into the jardinieres. “Who would have thought it,” said John, “Neville sucking up to these cretins.”

“It will end in tears,” said Jim philosophically. “But see, here comes Bob. Will you hold him whilst I do the hitting or likeways about?”

“Let us hear his story first, there might well be free drinks in it.”

Bob waded bravely through the crowd, fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of dental crowns beaming from his face. “Hello, lads,” he said, “hoped I’d find you here, how’s tricks?”

“Never better,” said Jim. “And yourself?”

“Oh, fine, fine.”

“That is good to hear,” said Pooley, “that is very good.”

“It is good,” Omally agreed.

“Listen,” said Bob. “No hard feelings, eh?”

“Hard feelings?” Jim looked mystified. “About what?”

“You know.” Bob made a gun from his right hand and clicked it towards Pooley’s head. “All a misunderstanding, no offence meant.”

“Oh, that.” Pooley put his forefinger to his temple and cocked his thumb. “No offence meant? None taken, I assure you.”

“Oh, good, good, it’s just, well, joke over, eh, Jim?”

“Joke?”

“The bet.”

“The bet?”

“Come on now, Jim, the one million to one.”

“One million!” Omally’s eyebrows rose towards his curly crown. He could not restrain his hands from rubbing together.

“Good joke,” said Bob, “but let’s call it off now, eh? Tell you what, I’ll buy back the betting slip, what shall we say, twenty-five pounds?” Pooley looked at Omally. “Fifty then?” Omally looked at Pooley. “All right,” said Bob. “Never let it be said that I am not a good sport. Seventy-five pounds and that’s my final offer.”

“I’ll hold,” said John. “You hit.”

“Good morning, gentlemen.” The voice belonged to Jennifer Naylor.

“Let me buy you a drink,” said Bob, grinning up at his angel of deliverance and detaching himself from John’s grip.

“Later, I’m rather tied up at the moment.” Jennifer indicated Philip Cameron and Mavis Peake who had entered in her wake, freighting large bundles of xeroxed paper. “This way!”

Pooley flinched. “This way” would forever now hold only bitter memories for him.

Jennifer approached the Hoorays’ table, considering it suitable to her needs, then ushered the entire bunch away with a simple, “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here, thank you.”

John watched in admiration. “Jim,” said he, “now that is a woman. If ever I was to marry.”

Jim turned to his friend in surprise. “Marry?” said he. “Whatever do you mean?”

“It comes to all men, or at least to most.”

“But not to you, John.” Pooley straightened an imaginary tie. “A man would have to be worth a lot of scratch to get a woman like that for a wife. A veritable millionaire at the very least.”

“My glass is empty,” said John. “Whose round is it?”

“Yours, John, without a shadow of a doubt.”

“Itineraries, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jennifer Naylor as Mavis and Philip moved amongst the throng, distributing the xeroxed sheets. “You will see that everything has been laid on for your convenience. If there are any problems, I will be happy to help out wherever I can.”

Neville, returning to the bar, found an itinerary pushed into his hand. Somewhat flattered, he thrust out his chest, grinned broadly and examined the thing with keen interest.

“A coach will pick us up from here at twelve noon,” Jennifer continued.

“Twelve noon?” The grin fell from Neville’s face. He gazed up in horror towards the Guinness clock. It was already eleven forty-five. “Hang on,” he cried. “What’s the hurry?”

“There will be a reception at the town hall,” said Jennifer, ignoring the barman’s protests. “Full buffet, choice of wines, etc., etc.”

Neville found a large platter of salmon sandwiches being thrust back into his hands. “Sorry, old chap,” said one of the Hoorays, “and could you cancel those bottles of vino.”

“Then there will be a private viewing of the Olympic model at one o’clock where you will have the opportunity to pose questions to Messrs Membrane and Mucus, the design consultants. A tour of the local brewery and a later wine tasting at Punter’s Wine Bar will lead us through nicely to the Mayoral banquet at seven-thirty. Do please keep your itineraries with you as they will serve as security passes to the various functions.”

John Omally hastily availed himself of two copies. “This sounds like our kind of day out,” he told Jim, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Same again?” Neville asked, spying out Pooley’s empty glass.

“Ah, no thanks, Neville, I think we’ve had enough for now.”

The barman turned away in fury to view more plates of salmon sandwiches being pushed back across the bar counter. “Bastards!” was all he had to say.

Pooley and Omally were the first to board the coach. Although Jim wanted to sit next to the driver, Omally counselled subtlety and the keeping of the now legendary low profile and thrust him towards a rear seat.

“Not over the wheel,” said Jim. “It makes me travel sick.”

Omally shook his head. “You’re so childish,” he said.

The ministers and team climbed on board, talking loudly, all white collars, blue ties and red faces. After a brief kerfuffle over who got to sit next to the driver, a pecking order was established and they lowered their Gieves and Hawkes and prepared for the off.

Jennifer Naylor climbed aboard, with the unnecessary assistance of Philip Cameron, and took up the microphone. “If you are all sitting comfortably,” she said, “then off we go.” And off they jolly well went.