“He’s a man of some influence, can’t he swing it with the organizers?”

“I don’t think they would approve, this is something of a secret operation.”

“Ooh.” Norman placed a finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word, eh? Well, I might be prevailed upon to …” He made thoughtful faces.

“To what, Norman?”

“To drive him up.”

“What?”

“A little top secret project of my own.” Norman spoke in the conspiratorial whisper much favoured by conspiratorial whisperers. “I have done a bit of a conversion job on the old Morris Minor. The Hartnell Harrier is now the Hartnell Air Car.” Pooley shook his head, the man was a genius. “A revolution in personal transportation with almost limitless potential in the fields of haulage, commuter-carriage, inter-city travel, et cetera, et cetera. Another first for Hartnell International.”

“Does it work?”

“Does it work? How dare you? It’s a bit spartan at present, only a prototype, but when they start rolling off the production line. I’ve come up with some great little modifications,” Norman rattled on with boundless enthusiasm, “a single tiny switch which cuts out those annoying red dashboard lights that always come on when you’re half-way up a motorway. Rear headlights to revenge yourself on those blighters who come up behind you at night with their main beams on. A sweety dispenser, in-car commode, automatic pilot, self-contained …”

“You don’t waste any time once you’ve an idea in your head,” Pooley put in hastily, to staunch the verbal flow which showed no immediate signs of abating.

“There’s no time like the present, Jim. A lot of it is still in the ideas stage, but the car does work, I’m telling you.”

“And would you be prepared to take the Professor up to the stadium?”

“Why not? I’d like a sneak preview myself. There are also one or two matters I’d like his advice on. Tit for tat, eh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t!”

“When does he want to go?” Norman asked.

“Tomorrow night, how does that sound?”

“The night before the games start.”

“What?” said Jim. “They’ve brought them forward?”

“Yes, it was announced this morning, didn’t you know?”

“No, I did not, oh dear.” Jim chewed upon his knuckles.

“There’s no sweat, the car will be ready, sounds like a bit of an adventure. Yes, I shall look forward to it.” Norman raised his glass. It was empty. “Want another, Jim?”

“I’ll get them,” said Pooley. “Another pint?”

“No. Just a light ale, don’t want people thinking I’m a heavy drinker, light, heavy, get it, eh?” Norman tapped at his weighted belt and giggled foolishly. “Can’t keep a good man down, eh? Good man down? There I go again.” He creased up with mirth.

“Norman, you are a caution,” said Pooley, taking the glasses up to the bar. As he stood waiting to be served he pondered upon the rare coincidence that Norman had conceived and constructed the very means by which he and the Professor could enter the stadium, exactly when it was required, and that he should just happen to bump into him at the very moment. Many would argue that such a chance was one in a million, improbable to the point of near impossibility and they would no doubt be absolutely right.

42

By “towels up”, Pooley was what the English magician Crowley referred to as “nice drunk”. He wandered off down the Ealing Road, hands in pockets, roll-up between his teeth. Jim paused a moment outside Bob the Bookie’s, considering what form his retribution should take. It would have to keep for the present, Bob’s security was of the Fort Knox persuasion and Jim did not possess the necessary military hardware to storm the premises. “You will get yours,” he told the iron-bound doorway. Out of sheer badness, Jim ran his pocket-knife down the length of Bob’s parked Rolls-Royce and signed his handiwork with a flourished JP.

Half-way down the Albany Road, he wondered if he should pop into the Police Station and report the shabby man’s attempt on his life. Attempted murder was a punishable offence after all. But Jim’s recent encounters with the law, particularly that personified by Inspectre Hovis, led him to consider this action pure folly. And of course the Professor had said that he preferred no police intervention in his schemes.

Jim steered his shabby shoe in the direction of the allotments. He hadn’t been down that way for weeks and his own plot was in a sorry state. The rhubarb was running to seed, sending out its hideous tendrils towards the potato patch, and the runner beans were ripe for harvesting.

He unpadlocked the door of his hut, savouring that special aroma which is unique to the interiors of allotment sheds. He sought out a bottle of private stock from its secret hideaway and a folding garden-chair of uncertain security. Labouring bravely at its rusted springs, he set the thing up before his hut doorway, settled into it and uncorked the bottle. A sip or two told him that it was cabbage wine, one of Norman’s specials, not a great vintage, but acceptable to his present condition. He picked a bit of stalk from his teeth and took another slug.

His thoughts turned almost at once to the comforts of the old barge which had been, until so recently, the headquarters of the P & O Line. That all seemed so long ago now. Another world. Jim became reflective in the way that only a drunken man can. He had not yet come to terms with the prospect of life without John. The future seemed an empty affair. Even if he got out of all this business with his life and copped the ten million smackers, the future looked far from rosy.

There was an ache in him that would not go away. It was the ache that he had felt when his father died. But then Omally had been there to comfort him in his time of loss. They had gone down to the undertakers together to say their farewells to the old man. Jim had placed a packet of fags in his pocket to send him on his way, John had shaken the dead man’s hand and then the two of them had gone off on a week-long drunk. They had raised their glasses together, made many toasts and drunk away the sorrow. The ache had been soothed away, leaving nothing but the warmth of happy memories. But now Jim was truly alone and he sighed mournfully. He didn’t even have a body to weep over or a grave to place flowers upon. He can’t be dead, Jim told himself. He just can’t be, I won’t let him.

“You must let him go,” the Professor had said. “A soul cannot be truly free until it is released by the bereaved. You must let him go.”

“Never.” Jim swigged greatly from the dusty bottle. “Not until I know, not until I am really sure. But whatever …” He rose to his feet and shook his clenched fist towards the stadium. “You will pay for this, you will pay and pay. Whoever you are, whatever you are, you will pay.” Jim sank once more into his knackered chair. “But I just wish I knew how,” he muttered to himself.

“They’re at it again,” Mrs Butcher informed her hen-pecked spouse. “They’re up to their old tricks again.” Mr Butcher cowered in the Parker Knoll and took shelter behind his Angling Times. “Go out there, do something.”

Mr Butcher ventured a hopeful. “They’re not doing any harm, dear,” but his good lady wife knew it was coming and slapped away his paper with her polishing cloth. “Get out there,” she cried.

“A fellow caught a twenty-seven pound pike down at the cut last week on a number nine hook, just fancy that.”

“I’ll fancy something in a minute,” said his wife, in the way some wives are renowned for. “Get out there, Reg, you tell them.”

“Tell them what, dear? They’re only dancing, there’s no harm in that.”

“No harm in that? It’s heathen.” His wife crossed herself before the plastic Virgin on the mantelshelf. “They are godless savages.”