Jammed into an obscure corner and huddled over his pint, Jim Pooley watched with loathing the fat backside of an alien pressman which filled his favourite bar stool. Omally edged through the crush with two pints of Large. “It was only after I got home that I remembered where I’d seen those crests before,” he explained as he wedged himself in beside Pooley. “They were the coat of arms of the Grand Junction Water Works, those doors must have been part of the floodgate system from old Brentford dock.” Pooley sucked upon his pint, his face a sullen mask of displeasure. “Then what of old Soap?”
A devilish smile crossed Omally’s face. “Gone, washed away.” His fingers made the appropriate motions. “So much for old Rigdenjyepo and the burrowers beneath, eh?”
Pooley hunched closer to his pint. “A pox on it all,” said he. “The Swan packed full of these idiots, old Soap flushed away round the proverbial S-bend and Cowboy Night looming up before us with about as much promise as the coming of Ragnorok!”
Omally grinned anew. “There are many pennies to be made from an event such as this; I myself have organized several tours of the vicinity for this afternoon at a pound a throw.”
Pooley shook his head in wonder. “You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?”
“Mustn’t let the grass grow under the old size nines.”
“Tell me, John,” said Jim, “how is it now that a man such as yourself who possesses such an amazing gift for the making of the well known ‘fast buck’ has not set himself up in business long ago and since retired upon the proceeds?”
“I fear,” said John, “that it is the regularity of ‘the work’ which depresses me, the daily routine which saps the vital fluids and destroys a man’s brain. I prefer greatly to live upon wits I have and should they ever desert me then, maybe then, I shall take to ‘the work’ as a full-time occupation.” Omally took from his pocket a “Book Here for Canal Tours” sign and began a “roll up, roll up” routine.
Pooley rose from the table and excused himself. He had no wish to become involved in Omally’s venture. He wished only to forget all about subterranean caverns and vanishing canal water, his only thoughts on that matter were as to what might happen should they attempt to refill the stretch of canal. Was Sprite Street lower geographically than the canal? If it was, would the attempt flood the entire neighbourhood? It really didn’t bear thinking about. Pooley slouched over to the bar and ordered another pint.
“Looking forward to Thursday night I’ll bet, Jim,” said Neville.
Pooley did not answer. Silently he sipped at his ale and let the snippets of barside conversation wash disjointedly about him. “And my old grandad is sitting by the dartboard when he threw,” came a voice, “and the dart went straight through the lobe of his right ear.” Pooley sipped at his ale. “And as they went to pull it out,” the voice continued, “the old man said ‘No don’t, it’s completely cured the rheumatism in my left knee.’”
Pooley yawned. Along the bar from him huddled in their usual conspiratorial poses were Brentford’s two resident jobbing builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John, so named for their remarkably profuse outcroppings of cerebral hair. The twin brothers were discussing what seemed to be a most complex set of plans which they had laid out before them on the bar top.
“I don’t think I can quite understand all this,” said Dave.
“It’s a poser for certain,” his brother replied.
“I can’t see why he wants the altar to be so large.”
“I can’t see why there aren’t to be any pews.”
“Nor an organ.”
“Seems a funny kind of a chapel to me.”
Pooley listened with interest; surely no-one in the neighbourhood could be insane enough to commission those two notorious cowboys to build a chapel?
Hairy Dave said, “I can’t see why the plans should be written in Latin.”
“Oh,” said his brother, “it’s Latin is it? I thought it was trigonometry.”
Pooley could contain his curiosity no longer, and turned to the two master builders. “Hello lads, how’s business?”
John snatched the plan from the bar top and crumpled it into his jacket. “Ah, oh…” said his brother, “good day Jim and how is yourself?”
“For truth,” Pooley replied, “I am not a well man. Recently I have been party to events which have seriously damaged my health. But let us not talk of me, how is business? I hear that you are on the up and up, won a large contract I heard.”
The two brothers stared at each other and then at Pooley. “Not us,” said one. “Haven’t had a bite in weeks,” said the other.
“My, my,” said Jim, “my informant was certain that you had a big one up your sleeve, something of an ecclesiastical nature I think.”
John clutched the plan to his bosom. “Haven’t had a bite in weeks,” his brother reiterated. “Been very quiet of late.” Hairy Dave shook his head, showering Pooley with dandruff. Jungle John did the same.
Neville stormed up the bar. “Less of that you two,” said the part-time barman, “I’ve warned you before about contaminating my cheese rolls.”
“Sorry Neville,” said the brothers in unison, and rising from their seats they left the bar, leaving their drinks untouched.
“Most strange,” said Pooley. “Most astonishing.”
“Those two seem very thick together lately,” said Neville. “It seems that almost everybody in this damn pub is plotting something.”
“Tell me Neville,” said Jim, “did you ever see any more of our mystery tramp?”
“Thankfully no,” said the part-time barman, “and with this canal business taking up everybody’s attention, let’s hope that no more will ever be said about him.”
Pooley shook his head. “I wouldn’t be too certain of that,” he said doubtfully.
Captain Carson stood upon the canal bridge staring down into the mud and idly casting his eyes along the bank to where an official-looking Mr Omally, dressed in a crested cap and jaunty blazer, led a group of Swedish students along the rutted track towards the woodyard. The Captain’s loathing for tourists almost overshadowed that which he felt for the figure standing calmly at his side, hands in pockets and smoking seaman’s shag in one of the Captain’s favourite pipes. The figure was no longer distinguishable as the wretched and ill-clad monstrosity which had cast an evil shadow across his porch but two short weeks ago. Cleanly-shaven and smelling of Brylcreem, the figure was dressed in a blue rollneck sweater and a pair of the Captain’s best khaki trousers, a yachting cap and a pair of sailing shoes.
The tramp had become a kind of witches’ familiar to the Captain, haunting his dreams and filling his waking hours with dread. Somehow, and the Captain was at a loss to explain how, the tramp had now permanently installed himself at the Mission. During meals he sat in the Captain’s chair whilst the Captain was obliged to eat in the kitchen. No matter which way the Captain turned the tramp was always there, reclining upon the porch, smoking his cigarettes, lounging in the cosiest fireside chair, sipping rum. He had tricked the Captain, again by means that the Captain was at a loss to understand, out of his chair, his tobacco, his food, drink and finally out of his bed.
The tramp sucked deeply upon the Captain’s briar and blew out a stream of multicoloured smoke. “There would seem to be unusual forces at work in this neighbourhood,” he observed.
The Captain surveyed his unwelcome guest with ill-concealed hatred. “There would indeed,” he replied. Somehow deep down in the lowest depths of his loathing for the tramp a strange and grudging respect was beginning to stir. The Captain could, again, not fully account for these feelings, but now, clean-shaven and well dressed as he was, the tramp seemed to exude a definite air of authority. Possibly of nobility. It was inexplicable. The aura of evil which surrounded him was almost palpable and the Captain seemed to sense his approach at all times; a kind of darkness travelled with the red-eyed man, a funereal coldness. The Captain shuddered.