Knees Up Mother Earth (32 page)

“A team called Arsenal,” said Jim. “Ever heard of them?”

Omally shook his head. “They’re not Up North, I hope.”

“London team,” said Jim. “Quite popular, it seems. They’re amongst the favourites to take the cup. Top-division side.” Jim grinned foolishly at John. “Apparently,” he said, “Arsenal have a manager whose name is Arse.”

“I’ll give them a call on my mobile,” said John. “Perhaps after we’ve given the team a sound thrashing they might care to purchase space on our kaftans to advertise for a new manager.”

“I can manage,” said Neville as the brewery drayman rolled an eighty-eight-pint cask of Large down the chute between the open pavement doors and into The Flying Swan’s cellar.

Neville caught the weighty cask, lifted it with ease and stacked it on top of the rest.

The drayman peered down from the sun-bright street above into the shadowy regions below. “Are you all right down there?” he called.

“Fine,” called Neville. “You can drop them in two at a time, if you want.”

The sweating drayman shook his head. He was wearing an Arsenal T-shirt. “I don’t know what you’re on, mate, but if it’s on the National Health, I want some, too.”

Neville did not reply, but awaited further incomings of ale.

He
was
on something and he knew it. Something that added a string to his bow, put lead in his pencil and even hairs on his chest. And he was loving every minute of it. He’d never felt so alive before, so full of vim and vigour. He was fit as a fiddle and bright as a butcher’s bull terrier.

But his stocks of Mandragora were running dangerously low and Old Pete’s prices were now running dangerously high. That old villain had Neville by the short and curlies (which were now rather
long
and curly) and Neville knew it.

But
he
was
having the time of his life and he really didn’t want it to stop.

“Neville,” a voice called down to him, but not from the pavement doors. “Neville, Pippa and I are getting lonely up here in the bar.”

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Neville called back. And to the drayman, “
Three
at a time now, if you will, I’ve business upstairs that will not wait.”

“Down to the business at hand,” said Professor Slocombe. “You know why I have summoned you here, gentlemen.”

Three men sat in the professor’s sunlit study, tasting whisky. One of these men was not a man, but something else entirely. His name was Mahatma Campbell and what he was was well known to the professor.

The other two were men indeed, young men and as full, in their ways, of vigour as was Neville.

“We are
your men
,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers, raising his glass.

“Your acolytes,” said the Second Sponge Boy, raising his in a likewise fashion.

Professor Slocombe toasted his guests. “I hope that I have taught you well,” said he.

“You have, Master.” Terrence drained his glass. “You have schooled us in astral projection and the reading of men’s auras through the opening of our third eyes.”

“Positively Rampa,” said the Second Sponge Boy.

“And you will need all these skills when we meet our adversary.” Professor Slocombe lowered his fragile frame into the chair behind his desk. “The time grows closer. We must be well prepared.”

“Can we not just smash them now?” asked the Campbell. “Put a torch to the Consortium building and burn the blighters out?”

“I have tested their defences.” The scholar moved a pencil about. Without the aid of his hands. “They will not be caught off-guard again.”

“Then when, sir?” The Campbell took possession of the Scotch decanter and poured himself another.

“The day of the Cup Final, that is when.”

“But that is
the
day,” the Campbell said. “The Day of the Apocalypse – if we do not succeed.”

“We
will
succeed.” The professor’s pencil rose into the air and spelled out the word “SUCCEED”.

“Regarding the
business at hand
,” said Terrence, wrestling, with difficulty, the Scotch decanter from the Campbell’s fingers. “What
exactly
would this business be?”

“It is my understanding,” said Professor Slocombe, “that the tentacles of the Dread Cthulhu and the influence of the being that has raised him from R’leah, our enemy William Starling, are spreading slowly and inexorably across the borough of Brentford. You must be vigilant and watchful – there is no telling who might become consumed and overtaken by the evil.”

“And
that
is the business in hand?” asked Terrence.

“It is part of it.”

“And the other part?”

“Have you ever heard of a team called Arsenal?” Professor Slocombe enquired.

“All enquiries must be put through the switchboard,” said Ms Yola Bennett, “which is currently engaged. Please call back tomorrow.” She slammed the telephone receiver down and returned to doing her nails.

“Ms Bennett.” The voice of Mr Richard Gray came through the intercom. Ms Yola Bennett ignored it.

She was in a bad mood, was Yola Bennett. She hadn’t seen Norman for ages. He didn’t e-mail and he didn’t phone. And she was certain that he had recently ducked into a doorway when he’d seen her coming down the Ealing Road. Things were not going quite the way that she had planned.

“Ms
Bennett
!” The voice was somewhat louder now. Yola Bennett flipped the switch with an undone nail and said, “What do you want?”

“And don’t adopt that tone of voice with me, young lady.”

“What do you want,
sir
?” said Ms Bennett.

“A moment of your time in my office, if you please.”

Yola Bennett slouched from her seat and slouched into the office of Mr Gray. “Yes?” she said, a-lounging at the doorpost.

“Come in, please, and close the door.”

Yola Bennett did so.

“And sit down.”

She did that also.

“I will not beat about the bush,” said Mr Gray, viewing Ms Bennett across the expanse of his expansive desk and noting well the shortness of her skirt. “I feel a change of attitude is called for from yourself.”

“Oh yes?” Yola blew upon those nails that were mostly done.

“Your attitude will not do, young lady. You have been ignoring telephone calls, leaving correspondence unanswered and taking overlong lunch hours. Not to mention your record of attendance.”

“My record of attendance?”

“I told you not to mention that.
[46]
I feel that I may be forced to let you go.”

“Let me go?” Yola made a sudden face of horror. And outrage, also. And effrontery. It was a complex face. It quite bewildered Mr Richard Gray.

“Let you go,” said he. “If you don’t buck up your ideas, you’re out.”

“Stuff your job,” said Yola Bennett. “And stuff you, too, as it happens. All men are quite the same. And all of you are bastards.”

Mr Gray smiled, thinly. “Things not going too well for you with Mr Hartnel, then?” he said.

“What?” said Yola.

“Please don’t mess around with me. I know what you’ve been up to.”

“You know nothing and whatever you know is none of your business anyway.”

“I know what I know. And I know what you want. I want these things, too.”

“Pervert,” said Ms Yola Bennett.

“I don’t mean
those things
. I mean the money he has coming to him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mr Gray sighed. “Oh, well,” said he, “then I must be mistaken. It is a pity, because I think you’d make the perfect couple. And I feel absolutely certain that when Mr Hartnel receives the
many millions
that he will so shortly be receiving, you would be capable of enjoying your share of this wealth. Assuming, of course, that you were actually able to marry Mr Hartnel.”

“Piss off,” said Yola.

“Oh well, then.” Mr Gray leaned back in his overstuffed chair. “Forget it. Join the dole queue if that is your wish. There are plenty of other fish in the sea, as they say. Or in the fridge, as Mr Hartnel would probably say. I will take on another secretary and put my proposition to her.”

“Proposition?” said Yola.

“Proposition,” said Mr Gray. “I have been thinking long and hard about this ever since Mr Hartnel callously spurned my offer to act on his behalf.”

“That would be when you threw yourself out of the window and into the dustbins.” Yola tittered.

“You are dismissed,” said Mr Gray. “Please go and clear your desk.”

“About this proposition?” said Yola.

Mr Gray leaned forward once more. “Together,” said he, “we are going to take that wig-wearing schmuck for every penny he has.”

“Does this involve Arsenal?” asked Ms Yola Bennett.

“No,” said Mr Gray. “Why did you ask me that?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Yola. “So tell me all about this proposition.”

Mr Richard Gray smiled upon Ms Yola Bennett and he swung slowly about in his chair and gazed out through the window. And the eyes of him turned blacker than night. And the skin of him did also. And a voice murmured low in the throat of Mr Gray, in a language that was of no human tongue.

But Yola Bennett did not see or hear this fearful transformation. “Tell me what you have in mind,” she said, raising her skirt a little higher and giving her legs a cross.

Arsenal?

Schmarsenal!

Chelsea?

Schmelsea!
[47]

Jim Pooley sat in the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

It was a Friday lunchtime in May.

Jim had a certain face on.

Neville passed a pint of Large across the highly polished bar counter and accepted Jim’s small change.

“Two questions,” Neville said, as he rang up “no sale” on the publican’s piano. “Firstly, why are you here? And secondly, why do you have that certain face on?”

Jim swallowed ale and Jim shrugged his shoulders. “In answer to your first question, Neville,” said he, “why are any of us here? And in answer to your second question, it’s the speed.”

“The speed?” said Neville, addressing himself to the latter of Jim’s answers. “What do you mean by ‘the speed’?”

“The speed of all
this
.” Jim made an expansive gesture with his pint-free hand. “Bang, bang, bang, Brentford United, four, Arsenal, nil. Bang, bang, bang, Brentford United, three, Chelsea, one.”

Neville managed a chuckle at this. “The Chelsea striker hammered that one right past the circus giant you now have as a goalie,” said he.

“But the speed of it all,” Jim said with a sigh. “It’s all just happened so fast. One minute it’s November and now it’s May.”

“And the FA Cup Final is tomorrow,” Neville said. “And the team is up against Man U. Should I venture a fiver on them, do you think?”

Jim did a bit more sighing. “Is it real to you?” he asked. “For it certainly is not to me.”

“Hm.” Neville took up a dazzling pint pot and took to the polishing of same. “I don’t really know what’s real any more.” And he rolled his good eye towards Pippa and Loz, who stood, topless as ever, chatting away at the other end of the bar.

“But
you’re
doing all right for yourself,” said Jim, as he followed the direction of Neville’s eye-rolling. “You’re having the time of your life.”

“And you too, surely,” said Neville. “You could never have dreamed that it would come to this.”

“I never volunteered for this job, Neville, and in truth I don’t enjoy it. The responsibility is too much for me. I wish things were just as they used to be.”

“Well, it will all be over tomorrow – one way or the other.”

“Your words offer little comfort to me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Neville, “but what can I say?”

“Nothing,” said Jim Pooley. “Nothing.”

Norman Hartnel now entered the bar. And if Pooley had a face on him, so, too, did Mr Hartnel.

The shopkeeper slouched up to the bar counter and slumped himself on to a stool.

“Norman,” said Jim.

“Jim,” said Norman.

“Drink?” Neville asked.

“Large whisky,” said Norman.

“Large whisky?” Jim asked, as Neville did the business. “Isn’t that a little strong for this time of day?”

“I am a man sorely vexed,” said Norman. “I am a man consumed with sorrow.”

Neville proffered Scotch and the shopkeeper drained it away in one.

“But surely,” said Neville, “your ship comes in tomorrow. Don’t I recall you telling me that tomorrow you will receive the many millions for your patents?”

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “I’d quite forgotten about that.”

“It’s true,” said Norman with gloom in his voice. “But money can’t buy you happiness.”

“To quote Jon Bon Jovi,” said Neville, “‘anyone who says that money can’t buy you happiness is shopping in the wrong store.’”

“Jon Bon who?” said Norman.

“Jovi,” said Neville. “Pippa is a fan of his music. She likes to have it playing when we …” Neville’s voice trailed away and his good eye glazed over.

“Well, I’m not happy,” said Norman. “It never rains but it damn well buckets down.”

“Would you care to share it with me?” Jim asked. “A trouble shared being a trouble halved, as they say. As
you
say, actually.”

“Another Scotch, please,” said Norman to Neville.

“On me,” said Jim, fishing out further small change.

“The fruit machine at The Stripes Bar still raking it in?” asked Neville.

“Perk of the job,” said Jim, and to Norman he said, “Go on.”

Norman accepted his second Scotch and turned the glass between fingers that were in need of a wash. “I have done a bad thing,” he said. “I didn’t really know that it was a bad thing when I did it. Well, I knew it was a
bit
bad, but not as bad as it may well prove to be.”

“Go on,” said Jim once more.

“But I don’t want to talk about
that
,” said Norman. “It’s women that are causing me grief.”

Jim held his counsel and Norman continued, “I think Peg’s putting it about.” And Jim and Neville raised eyebrows to this. “She is,” said Norman. “I followed her in my van. She’s having it away with Scoop Molloy from the
Brentford Mercury
.”

“The cad,” said Neville. “I’ll bar him the next time he comes in.”

“I don’t really blame her,” said Norman, “because I’ve been—”

“Banging the bird from the solicitor’s,” said Old Pete, who’d been listening in.

“And that’s the real problem,” said Norman. “Apparently she’s pregnant.”

“Unfortunate,” said Neville.

“And she wants me to meet her tonight. I think she’s going to blackmail me, or something.”

“
Is
that really a problem?” Jim asked. “If you’re really going to become so rich and everything.”

“I don’t want the money,” said Norman. “I wish I’d never got involved in that patents business in the first place, but I just don’t know what to do.”

“Are you sure it’s your baby?” Jim asked.

“No,” said Norman. “Of course I’m not.”

“Call her bluff,” said Old Pete. “If she’s thinking to blackmail you, hold your nerve.”

Norman’s shoulders slumped some more. “I don’t know what to do for the best,” said he.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to blackmail you,” Pooley said. “Maybe she just wants to talk – she’s probably very upset, too. Perhaps everything can be done in a civilised manner, no matter what it is.”

“Do you really think so, Jim?” said Norman.

“Certainly,” said Jim, in the most convincing tone that he could muster.

“Jim,” said Norman, “would you come with me? Tonight, when I meet her. I’d feel a lot happier if I had a friend with me.”

“I can’t do
that
,” said Jim. “It’s between you and her. She wouldn’t appreciate my presence.”

“You wouldn’t have to sit
with
us, just be nearby, for moral support, as it were. I’d feel a lot happier.”

“I’d like to help you, Norman, but I’m rather busy at present. The team I manage
is
playing for the FA Cup tomorrow afternoon.”

Norman sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “You have troubles of your own. And I have to leave. I have a pressing appointment, a loose end that must now be firmly tied up once and for all.” Norman drained his Scotch and rose from his stool to take his leave.

“Hold on,” said Jim. “Where and when are you meeting her?”

“In The Beelzepub,” said Norman. “At ten this evening.”

“I’ll do my best to be there,” said Jim, “but I won’t make any promises.”

Norman shook Jim by the hand. “I’ll be forever in your debt,” said he.

“Debts?” said John Omally. “What debts are these?”

John had been sitting at Jim Pooley’s office desk when the man with the suit had entered without knocking. He was a very large man, broad at the shoulders and at the hips also. He carried a metal executive case and this he placed upon the desk, having first swept papers to right and left to make a spot of room.

“Steady on,” said John.

“Many debts,” said the big, broad man, flipping the catches on the case. “Many court costs and damages.”

“Many
what
?” John asked.

The big, broad man lifted the lid of his case and brought out many papers. “You are John Vincent Omally,” he said.

“Well—” said John.

“It wasn’t a question,” said the man. “You
are
John Vincent Omally, personal assistant to James Arbuthnot Pooley, manager of Brentford United Football Club.”

John made a face not dissimilar to that which Jim had recently been making.

“The court summonses were all addressed to you,” said the man, “but you failed to attend any of the proceedings.”

“I’m a very busy man,” said John, who vaguely recalled a lot of official-looking correspondence arriving for him, all of which he had consigned to the bin without opening it.

“Perhaps you believe yourself to be above the law,” said the big, broad man.

John made a so-so face towards this.

The big, broad man affected a smirk. “The court found in favour of the following,” said he, and he read out a list of names.

Omally did groanings. These were the names of the town councillors who had fallen through the floor of the executive box during the Brentford-Orton Goldhay game.

“They all sued, and they all won, as their cases went undefended. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the
Brentford Mercury
more than a month ago.”

“I only ever read the sports page,” said John, “and the front page when it’s about one of the Brentford team’s wins.”

“This was on the
court
page. But no matter, I have all the information here. Perhaps you’d care to write me out a cheque – assuming that you have a lot of ink in your Biro.”

The big man laughed. The humour was lost upon John.

“So,” said the big man, suddenly grave, “cheque, is it, or repossession?”

“Repossession?” John asked.

“I represent a firm of bailiffs,” said the big man, now proffering his card. “We have taken over the debts. I must demand payment at once or I will be forced to take possession of the premises and all property within them – which would include the team’s strip, boots, oranges for half-time, et cetera.”

“Oh no,” said John, “you can’t do that. We’re playing for the FA Cup tomorrow.”

The big, broad man replaced his papers and closed his executive case. And then he lunged forward over the desk, snatched John up by his lapels and hoisted him into the air.

“I trust,” said he, as he did so, “that you are not intending to obstruct a bailiff in the course of his duties.”

“I …” gurgled John, lining up to swing a punch that would in all probability prove to be his last. “I …”

“Put Mr Omally down, if you will.”

John peeped over the big, broad shoulder. The Campbell stood in the doorway. “Put him down, says I.”

The big, broad man let John slip from his fingers. He turned upon the figure in the doorway. “And who might you be?” he asked.

“Mahatma Campbell,” said the Campbell. “Take your leave now, if you will.”

The big, broad man stared at the Campbell. “On your way,” said he.

“I’ll stand my ground,” said the Campbell. “And I’ll stand this ground. Take your case and begone.”

The big, broad man lifted his metal case from the desk and then, before John’s horrified eyes, he flung it with terrific force straight at the Campbell’s head.

And John looked on as, with unthinkable speed, the Campbell drew his claymore and swung it at the oncoming case. There was a crash and a flurry of sparks as the claymore cleaved the case into two neat halves, which crashed to the floor amidst a flutter of neatly sliced court summonses.

The Campbell tucked away his claymore. “Away upon your toes,” said he.

The big man glared at the Campbell, and the big man’s eyes darkened, darkened to black. And a blackness fell all about the office and John Omally took to the ducking of his head.

“There’s no ducking out of this one,” said Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of Manchester United Football Club. “Tomorrow is the big match and we are going to win it.”

His team sat before him in the well-posh executive boardroom of the world’s most successful football club.

“I don’t want to have to be chucking any more football boots at players’ heads, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

His team shifted upon their well-posh executive boardroom chairs. The chairs were Bauhaus classics; the bums that sat upon them were separated from them by Armani suit trousers and Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

“This is a game that we
must
win,” continued Sir Alex. “A game that we are
going
to win.”

Team heads nodded enthusiastically.

“We’ll win, Boss,” said a player whose name had a trademark stamp upon it.

“We will,” said another whose face adorned a million bedroom walls.

“You will,” said Sir Alex. “But that is not why I have assembled you all here. I have done so because I want to introduce you to someone. You will not be aware of this, but the club has recently become involved in certain financial negotiations. In fact, the club has changed hands for a more than lucrative sum – one that will assure that when you
win
tomorrow, and you
will win
, you will each receive a cash bonus to the tune of half a million pounds.”

The team did
oohings
and
aahings
. Even with all the money they made every week, half a million smackers in cash was not something to be sneezed at.

“Allow me to introduce to you the new owner of Manchester United.” The big well-posh executive boardroom doors swung open to reveal a tall, slim man with a dark suit and a head of blondy hair.

“Mr William Starling,” said Sir Alex Ferguson.

“Mr Omally,” said the Campbell, “you can come out now.”

John raised his head from the devastation that had so recently been Jim Pooley’s office.

“Has he gone?” John asked.

“For ever,” said the Campbell, wiping something black from his claymore on to the hem of his kilt.

“He was one of—”

“Lord Cthulhu’s dark and scaly minions, aye. I’m thinking that you should accompany Mr Pooley to a place of safety for the night. I would advise the professor’s.”

John rose to his feet and did dustings down of himself. “Starling took a magical oath not to harm Jim or me.”

“Best to be safe,” said the Campbell. “Unless you think otherwise.”

“No,” said John. “And thank you.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming here once again,” said Professor Slocombe. Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy grinned at him from the fireside chairs in the professor’s study.