Knees Up Mother Earth (34 page)

“It doesn’t,” said Norman, “because after the match tomorrow there won’t be any patents any more, nor will there be any money.”

“He’s lying,” said Yola. “He just told me a pack of lies and now he’s telling more.”

“I’m not,” said Norman. “Well, perhaps I was a bit before, but I’m not now. I did a very bad thing. Those weren’t really my patents – I discovered the technology on an antique computer system. This friend of mine thought they’d been destroyed when he destroyed my computer, but they hadn’t because I’d already patented them in my own name and sold the rights – to a very, very bad man, it seems, who will do terrible things if he has them.”

“Mr William Starling,” said Mr Richard Gray. And the whites of his eyes turned horribly black and these black eyes gazed upon Norman.

“But it’s all going to be sorted,” said Norman, “after my friend and I have been to the match at Wembley tomorrow. Apparently he’s booked seats in the executive box. At my expense, apparently, but that doesn’t matter. But what does matter is that after the match he is going to go, er,
back
and sort out all the business with the patents. Everything is going to work out fine.”

“Mad,” said Yola. “He’s as mad as a drawerful of jewellery.”

“A drawerful of jewellery?” said Norman. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

Mr Richard Gray pulled an envelope from the pocket of his long, dark coat with the astrakhan collar and pushed it across the table towards Norman.

“What’s this?” Norman asked.

“Open it,” said Mr Richard Gray.

Norman opened the envelope and read its contents. “It’s a Last Will and Testament,” said Norman. “It’s a Last Will and Testament made out in my name.”

“Read it aloud,” said Mr Richard Gray.

Norman read it aloud. “‘This is to testify that I, Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath my worldly goods as follows:

‘To Yola Sarah Hopkins Bennett of Thirteen Willow Cottages, Kew, the sum of £12,500,000. And to Mr Richard Gray of Eighty-two The Butts Estate, Brentford, the sum of £12,500,000 and all further income deriving from the rights upon any patents that exist in my name.

‘Signed …’”

Norman looked up at Mr Richard Gray.

“You want me to sign
this
?” he said.

Mr Richard Gray took out his fountain pen and handed it to Norman. “Now, if you will,” said he.

“But I’ve told you,” said Norman, “there won’t
be
any money.”

“Then where’s the harm in signing it?”

Norman looked into the eyes of Mr Richard Gray and saw there only darkness.

“I don’t feel comfortable with this,” said Norman. “And wills have to be witnessed.”

“The landlord will witness it,” said Mr Gray.

“I’ll have to think about it,” said Norman.

“But I insist that you sign it now.”

“I’m leaving,” said Norman, and he made to rise, but to his horror found that he could not.

“I’m incapacitated,” said Norman. “My knees won’t work at all.”

“Sign the will,” said Mr Richard Gray.

“It will soon lift,” said Pooley, sheltering still beneath the porch. “It’s a goodly storm, but it
will
lift.”

“Lift the pen and sign your name,” said Mr Richard Gray.

“But there won’t
be
any money,” repeated Norman, “I told you. What have you done to my legs? You’ve done something terrible to them.”

“They’ll lift you up once you’ve signed.”

“All right,” said Norman. “I’ll sign.” And he did so without a flourish. “Happy now? And can I please go home?”

“Home?” said Mr Richard Gray. “Home?”

“Home,” said Norman. “I do have a home to go to. Home is where the heart is and there’s no place like home.”

Mr Richard Gray laughed hideously and, to Norman’s further horror as he looked upon the solicitor’s teeth, he saw that they were now as dead dark black as Mr Gray’s coal-like peepers.

“There’s no going home for you,” said Mr Richard Gray. “A will is nothing more than a piece of paper until the man who signed it is dead. And tonight, Mr Hartnel, you are going to die.”

“Yola.” Norman turned to the woman beside him. “Yola, do something – this man is a monster. Yola, you can’t let this happen.”

But Yola’s eyes were now also black. And so, too, were her breasts.

“Time, gentlemen, please,” called Jack Lane. “And Pooley, I can still see your shadow on the glass of my door. Get off into the rain and offer your friend your moral support.”

“Time, gentlemen, please,” called Mr Gwynplaine Dhark and, approaching Norman’s table, he added, “Where would you like me to put my signature, Mr Gray?”

“Time, gentlemen, please.” Omally heard the words called out by the barman of The Shrunken Head. Jim wasn’t in there either, and John set out once more into the storm.

“Let me go,” begged Norman. “I’ve signed the will. You never know, I might die a natural death in my sleep tonight. It could happen. Death keeps no calendar, you know.”

“Up,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Your knees will work for you now. Up, we have places to go.”

“What places?” Norman asked.

“The canal,” said Mr Richard Gray. “We’ll take a walk to the canal. You’re going to have a tragic accident.”

“No,” begged Norman. “No. Won’t somebody help me, please?” And he shouted out “Help!” at the top of his voice. But The Beelzepub was now empty.

Empty, that is, but for Norman, Yola, Richard Gray and Gwynplaine Dhark, the landlord.

“Take him out,” said Gwynplaine Dhark, “and do what must be done.”

“No,” begged Norman. “No!”

But Yola dragged him from his seat with a most unnatural strength and propelled Norman in the direction of the door.

“Help me!” wailed Norman. “Won’t somebody help me? Somebody help me, please!”

“There’s no help for you,” said Gwynplaine Dhark, pulling open the door and holding it so.

Rain lashed down beyond, exploding all over the street. Thunder groaned above in a sky that the lightning tore apart.

Jim Pooley’s face peered in from the maelstrom. “Is Norman still here?” he asked.

Gwynplaine Dhark tried to slam shut the door, but Jim put his shoulder to it. There was something of a struggle, but presently Pooley prevailed.

The landlord stood back, breathing heavily. Jim stood in the doorway, viewing the tableau before him. Norman stood trembling, held in the grip, it seemed, of a woman who had surely stepped out from the glossy pages of one of the racier publications that filled Norman’s uppermost shop shelves. And to the other side of Norman stood a man in a long, dark coat whose face was all over black.

Jim Pooley blinked at this tableau. The word “outnumbered” entered his thoughts.

“Norman,” said Jim. “Norman, are you all right?”

“I’m not,” said Norman, struggling to no avail. “These lunatics are going to drown me in the canal.”

“That’s not very nice,” said Jim. “I think you’d better come with me.”

“I think
not
.” Gwynplaine Dhark did gesturings.

The door of The Beelzepub slammed shut behind Jim with a death-cell finality.

“Now, let’s not do anything silly,” said Jim.

“Luck indeed.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark rubbed his clammy palms together. “Two birds with one stone, as it were – the moneyman and the manager of Brentford United. My master was forced to take a magical oath not to harm you.”

“
Your
master?” said Jim.

“William Starling,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I have been his man from the start. If your friend Neville had not put his spoke in at the council meeting, the football ground and what lies beneath it would already be in the hands of my master.”

“This is new,” said Norman. “What is this all about?”

“Unfinished business,” said Mr Dhark, “but it will be finished tonight.”

“Your master took the oath,” said Jim. “You cannot harm me.”

“But this man is your friend,” said Mr Dhark, pointing a pale finger towards Norman. “What would you do to protect your friend from certain death?”

“Whatever I could,” said Jim. “And whatever I can.”

“Even if it were to cost you your own life?”

“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that.”

Rain lashed in once more through the once-more-open doorway. An open doorway in which now stood John Omally.

“You!” said Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Me,” said John Omally. “I came back. I knew Jim would not let down a friend, even though he might be a bit late. Jim is a good man, you see, although you’d know nothing of that.”

“Pleased to see you, John,” said Jim. “Norman and I were just leaving.”

“No,” said Gwynplaine Dhark. “Nobody leaves. Alive, that is.”

“Remember your magical oath,” said John. “It must not be broken.”

“I just mentioned that,” said Jim.

Lightning struck home near to The Beelzepub and the bar’s windows rattled in their mullions and the brightness cast shadows that were blacker than the walls.

“A dilemma,” said Mr Dhark. “But you all must surely die.”

“We’re leaving,” said Jim. “Come, Norman.”

“You will find,” said Mr Dhark, “that the door will not open. In fact, you will find that there’s no door there at all.”

Norman looked and John looked and Jim Pooley, he looked, too. And where the door to the street had just been, there was now but an empty wall.

“It all ends here,” said Gwynplaine Dhark.

“The oath,” said Jim. “The oath.”

“The oath,” said Mr Dhark. “And the threefold law of return, wherein a magical calling misdirected returns against the sender with thrice the power to destroy him.”

“Such is the power of the oath,” said Omally. “The professor explained it to me. Your master dare not break it, or threefold will the power return to destroy him.”

“Under normal conditions, yes,” said Mr Dhark.

“
Normal
conditions?” said John. “Nothing is particularly Norman about magic”

“Did you mean to say ‘Norman’?” said Norman. “No,
I’m
confused now.”

“What night is this?” asked Mr Dhark.

“Friday night,” said Omally. “Friday the thirteenth of May.”

“The night before the FA Cup Final, and the very Eve of the Apocalypse. And a significant night in the magical calendar. It is the feast of
Corpus Negrum
, the night of the Black Sabbat, second only to Walpurgis night, but more powerful in that it is the night of the magical reversal, when those normal conditions I mentioned earlier no longer apply.”

“What?” said John.

“I don’t like this,” said Jim.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Gray, “but I regret to inform you that you have walked into a trap. A carefully laid trap, one that relied upon friendship. That Norman here would turn to a friend – you, Mr Pooley – and that you in turn would have a friend who cared deeply for you and would follow you into this trap. Tonight the three of you die and the winner, my master, takes all.”

Beyond the walls, the storm seemed infernal.

Within the walls, matters seemed none too hopeful.

“Kill them all,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And leave me only their skulls for my counter.”

“No!” cried Norman. “Have mercy, don’t kill us.”

John Omally raised his fists.

Jim Pooley flapped his hands about and began to turn in small circles.

And then the red lights dimmed to black and horrible slaughter began.

Professor Slocombe clapped his hands. “Let there be light!” he commanded.

Light flooded The Beelzepub, dazzling radiant light. The would-be murderers of John, Jim and Norman fell back before it.

The professor stood in the doorway. The Campbell stood at his side.

“Slay them,” said Professor Slocombe. “The two men and the woman also.”

“The woman also?” said the Campbell.

“The evil inhabits her now. There is nothing I can do.”

The Campbell raised his claymore high.

More horrible slaughter began.

Jim Pooley awoke from a nightmare that involved horrible slaughter. Jim yawned and stretched and did easings into consciousness. And then Jim felt knottings in his stomach regions and lay, staring up at his bedroom ceiling.

He had just dreamed all that, hadn’t he?

All that hideous stuff?

Jim issued forth from beneath his duvet
[49]
, swung his legs down to the floor and cradled his face in his hands.

What
had
happened last night? His memory failed him.

How much
had
he drunk?

Memories came drifting back to Jim. Well, not so much drifting as elbowing brutishly in. Jim shook his head fiercely, torn between trying to remember and hoping that he never would.

“John,” said Jim, and, “Norman.”

But he recalled that his two friends had also survived unhurt. “I’m really fed up with all this,” grumbled Jim. “I wish it was all over.”

In the not-too-far distance, the bells of St Joan’s Church clock struck nine and Jim took deep and steadying breaths and sought to prepare himself mentally for the big day that lay ahead.

The big FA Cup Final day when Brentford would meet Manchester United upon the hallowed turf of Wembley.

Jim Pooley’s hands began to shake. He couldn’t do this, he really couldn’t. The responsibility was all too much. Best to do a runner now, slip away, come back when it was all over with a tale about losing his memory. That would be for the best. No one would hate him for that.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said John Omally, “so please stop thinking it right now.”

Jim turned in considerable surprise. “John,” he said, “what are
you
doing here?”

“I slept the night upon that instrument of torture which passes for a sofa in your sitting room cum dining room cum why-do-you-never-dust-it!”

“Oh,” said Jim. “I don’t remember. My thoughts are all confused.”

“Well,” said John, flexing and clicking his shoulders and doing stretchings of the neck. “On with your lucky suit, Bertie, we have a match to win.”

Jim surveyed the lucky suit that hung from the mantelshelf on its hanger. “I really don’t want to do this,” he said.

“I know you don’t, and who can blame you? But it’s all going to come to an end today, one way or the other. And if it goes our way, which I have every confidence that it will, you and I will be wealthy men. You still have the betting slip, I trust?”

Jim’s hand slipped under his pillow and found the betting slip. “He’ll never pay up,” he said.

“He’ll pay,” said John. “The professor will see to that.”

“And if any harm comes to the professor?”

“No harm will come to him. Now pack it in, Jim, tog up in your tweeds and I’ll treat you to breakfast at The Plume.”

Norman took breakfast at Madame Loretta Rune’s in the company of Mr H.G. Wells and an ill-washed youth named Winston.

Crockery tinkled with the tune of the knife and the fork. Polite conversation was to be heard between Japanese tourists come to view the wonders of Brentford, a salesman travelling in tobaccos and ready-rolled cigarettes, a heavy-metal rock band, Stub’n, whose tour bus had broken down on the flyover, and a pair of teenage runaways who were making their way to Gretna Green. All in all, your usual group of b. & b. clients, with the possible exception of those at Norman’s table.

“So they nearly topped ya, gov’nor,” said young Winston, tucking into bacon, eggs, fried bread and tomatoes, all at the very same time. “The Dark One’s ’enchmen. Nearly ’ad your liver and lights.”

“It was close,” said Norman, “and very scary indeed.”

Mr Wells made
tut-tut-tuttings
. “You have no one to blame but yourself,” said he.

“I know,” said Norman. “I know. But you will be able to sort it all out, won’t you?”

Mr Wells did noddings of the head.

“And you will stay to watch the match before you travel off through time? We can drive there in my van, take the Time Machine with us in the back. I have seats in the executive box – bought them from Omally, cost me a fortune – but I’d love you to be there. My treat. My way of saying thanks for everything.”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Mr Wells. “I’ve become quite a – what is the word? – fan of Brentford United over the last few months. Do you really think they are going to win?”

“I’m quietly confident,” said Norman. “Fate leads the willing, but drives the stubborn.”

“You’re a rare ’n, gov’nor,” said Winston. “Gawd pulp me pud if you ain’t.”

“It ain’t rocket science,” said Pippa, fluttering her eyelashes and trying to pay attention.

“It’s very important,” Neville told her. “Changing a barrel correctly, it’s an art.”

Neville stood with Pippa and Loz in the cellar of The Flying Swan. “I don’t want anything to go wrong, it’s very important to me,” said the part-time barman.

“Nothing will go wrong, Nevvy.” Loz stroked Neville’s cheek. “And you’ll only be away for a few hours and most of Brentford will be at the match with you. There won’t be much custom anyway.”

“But I’ve never done anything like this before,” said Neville.

“What, been to a football match?”

“Actually, no. But I mean I’ve never missed a lunchtime session.”

“You go and enjoy yourself,” said Loz. “Cheer the team on.”

“It’s something I just don’t want to miss,” said Neville. “Brentford haven’t played at Wembley since nineteen twenty-eight, when Jack Lane, who now runs The Four Horsemen, led them to victory. I doubt it will ever happen again.”

“You go,” said Pippa. “Have a good time. Bring us back some candyfloss or something.”

“Thank you,” said Neville, and he put his arms about the shoulders of Pippa and Loz and kissed each one in turn upon the cheek. “Keep the champagne on ice,” he said. “I think this is going to be a day that all of us will remember.”

“Now remember, Jim,” said Omally as he and Pooley munched their breakfast in The Plume Café, “you must show no sign of your nerves to the team. They’ll be nervous enough as it is. You must display supreme confidence, spur them on to victory.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Jim, forking a sausage into his gob.

“Oh, and this is for you. I picked it up from your doormat when we left your place.” Omally delved into his pocket and brought out an envelope, which he handed to Jim.

Jim looked the envelope over. “The professor’s handwriting,” he said. “‘For the attention of James Pooley. Not to be opened until five minutes before the match.’ It will be the tactics for the game. Should I open it now, do you think?”

“Go on, then,” said John. “Let’s have a look.”

Pooley dug his thumbs into the corner of the envelope’s flap and sought to tear it open, but the envelope remained intact. “That’s odd,” said Jim, applying further force. Jim wrestled with the envelope, but only succeeded in nearly taking a thumbnail off.

“Use your knife,” said John.

“But it’s all eggy.”

“Use your knife.”

Jim now dug at the envelope with his eggy knife and attempted to slit it, but the knife merely skidded away and nearly took off his other thumbnail.

“Give it here,” said Omally. “You’re like an old woman, you.”

Jim sucked upon his wounded thumbs. “It won’t be opened,” said he.

“Of course it will.” John took the envelope between both hands, put it across his knee and tried to tear it in half, after the manner of those fellows who do the trick with telephone directories (although not so much these days, as the practice seems to have gone out of fashion. Like the Yo-Yo, or the Scooby Doo. Not to mention the Rubic’s Cube.)

Nobody mentioned the Rubic’s Cube.

“It’s giving,” said John. But it wasn’t.

“I almost have it,” said John, the veins on his neck standing out.

But he didn’t.

John Omally took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and made an all-out assault on the envelope. He bit at it and ripped at it, he went down on his knees and he wrestled with it. But the envelope remained adamant. The envelope wouldn’t open.

Lil leaned over her counter top. “Is he having an epileptic fit?” she asked.

“Trying to open the mail,” said Jim.

“Shrink-wrapped, is it?” said Lil. “I have certain lady’s things that arrive in the post, shrink-wrapped. I generally give them a little toasting over the hob to soften them up. Not that I want them soft, if you know what I mean.”

Jim didn’t.

Omally was now jumping up and down on the envelope.

Jim Pooley watched him at it and Jim began to laugh.

“It’s no laughing matter,” said John. “I won’t be defeated by a damned envelope.”

“You will,” said Jim. “You will, don’t you see?”

John turned a sweaty face towards Jim. “See what?” he asked.

“The professor,” said Jim. “He knew we’d try to open it, and he knew what frame of mind
I’d
be in. It’s his magic, John. It won’t be possible to open the envelope until five minutes before the match. He did this to show us his power, John, and, in turn, to boost our confidence.”

“And you came to this conclusion all on your own?”

“I suppose I did,” said Jim. “I suggest that we finish our breakfasts and head off to Griffin Park.”

John picked up the envelope from the floor. For all of his stompings, it wasn’t even besmutted.

John handed the envelope to Jim. “Ready for the challenge, then?” he asked.

“Brentford for the Cup,” said Jim. “Brentford for the Cup.”

And Brentford looked festive upon this May morn. Bunting hung between lampposts all the way up the high street, union flags fluttered from upper storeys and colour photographs of Jim’s grinning face, taken from the centrefold of the day’s
Brentford Mercury Special FA Cup Final Edition
, were displayed in many shop windows. The sun beamed its blessings down upon the borough and it was as if the storm and the horrible doings of the night before had never occurred at all. A crowd had already gathered outside Griffin Park, and this crowd, which seemed for the most part composed of fellows wearing reproduction team kaftans and young girlies wearing fetching versions of Jim’s lucky suit, cheered loudly as John and Jim approached.

“Big warm welcome,” whispered John. “Smiles all round and lots of confidence.”

Jim Pooley beamed smiles all around, had his picture taken and signed autographs.

“Can you tell us anything about the tactics you mean to employ?” asked Scoop Molloy.

“No,” said Jim. “Strictly confidential, but I’ll tell you this.” And Jim whispered words into Scoop’s small-and-shell-like: “Stay away from Norman’s wife,” whispered Jim, “or I’ll have the whole team come around to your house and use you for a practice ball.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Pooley,” said Scoop. “And very good luck today.”

The crowd cheered on. Jim signed more autographs and then he and John entered the ground. The Campbell locked the gates behind them.

“Are the both of ye well?” he asked.

“We are,” said Omally.

Jim Pooley nodded. “About last night,” said he.

“Speak no more about it,” said the Campbell. “Press on with what must be done.”

“Are the players all here?” Omally asked.

“Players?” said the Campbell. “I suppose so, if you care to call them that.”

John and Jim entered The Stripes Bar and beheld the players, who were starting the day with a swift pint to get themselves going.

“Now, now,” said Jim, “you shouldn’t be drinking. Remember The Slaughtered Lamb?” Those who had been there remembered, those who hadn’t did not. “Just the one, then,” said Jim. “And plenty of crisps for protein. Where is Ernest Muffler?”

Barry Bustard puffed in Jim’s direction. “He’s not here and nor is Dave Quimsby.”

“So where are they?”

“No one knows. Big Bob called to pick them up, but they’d gone.”

“Bottle job,” said Omally. “Just like the rest of them.”

Jim Pooley made the face of alarm. “We don’t have a full team, then,” said Jim.

“We do,” said Barry. “Meet Bobo and Zippy.”

Bobo and Zippy presented themselves.

Jim shook hands with Bobo and Zippy. “A clown,” said Jim, “and a pinhead. We’re d—”

“
Delighted
,” said John. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. Thank you for stepping into the breach at the last moment.”

Jim took John aside. “This is a disaster,” he said. “We now have a team composed entirely of circus performers. Not a single member of the original team remains. We have a clown as centre forward. This is a mockery of the beautiful game.”

“It’s unorthodox, I agree,” said John. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“I seem to recall going on and on at you over the last few months about buying in new players.”

“With what? We’re broke. And with all those damages claims against us and—”

“What damages claims?”

“Nothing,” said John. “Shall we have a pint before we set off?”

“Ludicrous,” said Jim, throwing up his hands. “This is all totally ludicrous. A team of circus performers taking on the most famous football club in the world. I can’t see how even the professor’s magic is going to get us through this.”

“Jim,” said John. “Jim, you are my bestest friend and I love you dearly, but if I hear one more pessimistic word come out of your mouth, I swear that I will remodel your beak with my fist.”

“I’m quietly confident,” said Jim.

“Boss,” said Jon Bon Julie, the half-man, half-woman and centre mid-fielder to boot since Alf Snatcher had gone missing before the Arsenal game. “Sorry to interrupt you, but Bobo wanted me to ask – is it okay if he sits upstairs on the bus above the driver and stomps his big boots until the driver comes up and threatens to chuck him off?”

Big Bob Charker sat in his driving seat,
brrming
the engine of the great big bus. The great big bus looked splendid. It had been resprayed in the team’s colours at Big Bob’s own expense. Bunting hung along its sides and Big Bob himself had put aside his normal cap in favour of a woolly bobble hat knitted in the team colours by the mother who loved him. As Jim led the team towards the big bus, the crowd beyond the gates cheered wildly. Big Bob smiled to himself.