The giant was speaking, issuing instructions: the bodies were to be stripped of all identification, this was to be destroyed by fire, the table was to be cleared, the decanters to be drained and thoroughly washed out. The bodies were to be placed in weighted sacks… the voice rolled over the Captain, a dark ocean of words engulfing and drowning him. He rose to his feet, his hands cupped about his ears that he might hear no more. The words swept into his brain, the black tide washed over him, dragging him down. The Captain fought to breathe, fought to raise his head above the black waters. This was the Mission, his life, the evil must be driven out while any strength remained in his old body. His hands sought to grasp these thoughts, cling to them for dear life.
But the hands were old and the tide strong. Presently the Captain could grip no more and the poison waters swept over him, covering him without trace.
13
The ambulance roared away from the Flying Swan, its bell ringing cheerfully. Most of the smoke had been fanned away through the Swan’s doors and windows, but an insistent smell of electrical burning still hung heavily in the air. After the excitement was over and the ambulance had departed, the cowboys stood about, thumbs in gunbelts, wondering whether that was the night over and they should, out of respect to Norman, saddle up and make for the sunset.
Young Master Robert, however, had other ideas. He climbed on to a chair and addressed the crowd. As nobody felt much like talking at that particular moment he was able to make himself heard. “Partners,” he began, “partners, a sorry incident has occurred but let us be grateful that the party concerned has not been badly injured. I am assured by the ambulance man that he will be up and about within a couple of days.” There were some halfhearted attempts at a cheer. “To show the brewery’s appreciation of a brave attempt, we are awarding, sadly in his absence, the Best Dressed Cowboy award, which includes an evening out for two with one of our delightful young ladies here at one of the brewery’s eating houses, a bottle of champagne and twenty small cigars, to our good friend Norman, the Spirit of the Old West!”
There was some slightly more enthusiastic cheering at this point, which rose in a deafening crescendo as Young Master Robert continued, “The next three drinks are on the house!”
Suddenly Norman’s unfortunate accident was forgotten, Old Pete set about the ancient piano once more and the Swan emerged again, a phoenix from the ashes of the Old West. Young Master Robert approached Neville behind the bar. “I am going out to stoke up the barbeque now. I’ll get the sausages on and then give you the nod to start leading them in.”
“Leave it to me,” said Neville, “and I’ll see to it that the free drinks are only singles.”
Omally, who had been revived by the aid of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation administered by each of the Page Three girls, overheard this remark and hastily ordered three doubles from Mandy before the part-time barman was able to communicate his instructions. “Same for me,” said Jim Pooley.
Invigorated by their free drinks the cowboy patrons began to grow ever more rowdy. Old Snakebelly’s qualities obviously combined those of Irish potheen, wool alcohol and methylated spirits. Old Pete had already attempted to blow out a lighted match only to find himself breathing fire and smoke. Small rings from glass bottoms had taken most of the polish from the bar top.
Omally leant across the bar and spoke to Neville. “You have put on a fine show and no mistake,” said he. “I had my misgivings about tonight but” – and here he took an enormous swig of Old Snakebelly, draining his glass – “it promises to be a most memorable occasion.”
The part-time barman smiled lopsidedly and polished away at a dazzling pint pot. “The night is far from over,” he said ominously, “and are you feeling yourself again, John?”
“Never better,” said Dublin’s finest, “never better.”
“’Ere,” said Mandy suddenly, “that Lone Ranger what stinks of fish keeps pinching my bum.” Neville went over to have words with the unruly lawman. “Omally,” the Page Three girl said when Neville was out of earshot.
“The same,” said himself.
“Listen.” Mandy made a secretive gesture and the man from the Emerald Isle leant further across the bar, just far enough in fact for a good view down the young lady’s cleavage. “You wanna buy a couple of dozen bottles of this Old Snake whatsit on the cheap?”
Omally grinned. He had not misjudged Mandy from the first moment he’d seen her pocket his pennies. “What exactly is on the cheap?”
“How does a ten spot sound?”
“It sounds most reasonable, and where are these bottles at present?”
“In the boot of the white M.G. out the front.”
Omally delved into his money belt, and a ten-pound note and a set of car keys changed hands. Winking lewdly, Omally left the bar.
A strange smell of the kind one generally associates with crematorium chimneys had began to weave its way about the bar. Some thought it was the last relics of the taint left by the Spirit of the Old West, others sensed its subtle difference and began to fan their drinks and cough into their stetsons. Suddenly there was a mighty crash as Neville brought his knobkerry down on the bar top. “The barbeque is served,” said the part-time barman.
Knowing the rush that would ensue at the announcement of free food, and still wishing to shield his carpet slippers from critical onlookers, Neville remained behind the bar to watch with some interest the way that one hundred or so cowboys might fit into a six-foot-square patio. Young Master Robert, clad in lurid vinyl apron and tall chefs hat, was going great guns behind the barbeque. Mountains of sizzling sausages, and steakettes and bubbling cauldrons of beans simmered away on the grill and Sandra stood near at hand proffering paper plates and serviettes printed with the legend, “A Souvenir of Cowboy Night.”
The first half-dozen lucky would-be-diners squeezed their way through the Swan’s rear door and found themselves jammed up against the blazing barbeque. “One at a bloody time,” bawled a scorched Ranger, patting at the knees of his trousers. “Don’t push there,” screamed another as his elbow dipped into a vat of boiling beans.
Order was finally maintained by the skilful wielding of a red-hot toasting fork in the hands of the young master. A human chain was eventually set up and paper plates bearing dollops of beans, a steakette, a sausage and a roll were passed back along the queue of drunken cowboys.
“More charcoal,” the Young Master cried as a helpful Jim Pooley heaped stack after stack on the flames of the blazing barbeque. “More sausages, more beans.” Jim dutifully set about the top of a five-gallon drum with a handy garden fork.
Rammed into the corner of the patio and watching the barbeque with expressions of dire suspicion were two Rangers whose abundance of cranial covering identified them to be none other than Hairy Dave and Jungle John, well known if largely (and wisely) distrusted members of the local building profession.
Jim had watched these two surly individuals from the corner of his eye for the better part of the last half hour and had wondered at their doubtful expressions and occasional bouts of elbow nudging. A sudden sharp report from the base of the brick-built barbeque which slightly preceded their hasty departure from the patio caused Pooley to halt in his can-opening and take stock of the situation.
The barbeque was roaring away like a furnace and the grill had grown red hot and was slightly sagging in the middle. Young Master Robert was perspiring freely and calling for more charcoal. Jim noticed that his vinyl apron was beginning to run and that the paint on the Swan’s rear door was blistering alarmingly. The heat had grown to such an extent that the remaining cowboys were pressed back against the wall and were shielding their faces and privy parts with paper plates.