Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (10 page)

And the pair of surgical gloves.

“Good evening,” said Jim nervously. “Are you Madame Crowley?”

“I am she. Now just hold still for a mo, if you will, dear.”

Jim held still for a mo and Madame Crowley gazed thoughtfully towards his trouser fly.

If it’s X-ray eyes, I suppose I don’t mind, thought Jim.

“Well,” said the elderly mystic. “I can tell that you’re not a bad man.”

“You can?” said Jim. “You can?”

“I can,” and the old one nodded her head. “You ‘dress’ on the left, that’s always a good sign.”

“Is it?” asked Jim. “I mean, what?”

“The side you dress. The side your penis hangs.”

Jim shivered. Somehow the word penis always sounded ruder than any of its slang counterparts.

“The left side is the right side. Which is odd when you think about it, because the left-hand course is the wrong course, of course.”

“Of course,” said Jim. Do what? he thought.

“Never mind, my dear. Never mind. Would you care to take a seat?”

“Thank you,” said Jim. “I suppose you want me to take off my trousers first.”

“I sense that you’re not very keen.”

“I’m not very keen at all, as it happens. Do you think we could do it some other way?”

The mystic cocked her head on one side. “I am versed in many forms of divination,” she said. “I can read all parts of the body. The penis, of course, is the easiest to read. Men think with their penises, you know.”

“I’ve heard that said,” said Jim. “But only by women, if I recall.”

“Women are the more intelligent sex.”

“I’ve heard them say that too.”

“Well, as you please, dear. I can see that you’re deeply troubled. Let us take a little look at your palm and see what might be done.”

“Splendid.” Jim sought out the nearest chair. It was constructed from the bones of sheep, but the cushion looked quite soft.

He drew up the chair to the table and placed his soggy bum upon it. “Which hand would you like to see?” he asked.

“The left one, dear. The left one is the right one. Which is curious when you come to think about it, because—”

“The left one it is, then.” Jim stretched his paw across the table.

Madame Crowley took up her lens and peered at Pooley’s palm. She peered at it once and she peered at it again and then she shook her ancient head and peered at it once more.

And then she turned it over and took to peering up Jim’s sleeve. “Could you draw back your shirt cuff?” she asked.

Jim drew back his shirt cuff.

“Up to the elbow.”

Jim drew his shirt cuff up to the elbow.

“Utterly remarkable,” said Madame Crowley, sinking back into her chair. “I have never seen anything quite like that before.”

“Is it bad?” Jim asked, examining his palm.

“I really don’t know if it is,” Madame Crowley beckoned back the palm of the peering Pooley. “You see,” she continued, pointing at it with her thumb, “you have two lifelines.”

“Two?” Jim leaned forward for a squint.

“Two. Here and here. This one,” and she pointed once again, “comes to a rather sudden halt.”

“Oh dear,” said Jim.

“But this one, this one runs right round to the back of your hand and vanishes up your sleeve.”

“Oh,” said Pooley, without the “dear” this time.

“Remarkable,” said Madame C. “Remarkable indeed.”

“But what does it mean?” Jim asked.

“It means—”

But now a knock came at the door.

“Mrs Crowley,” came a young man’s voice. “Can I come in, please?”

“No, sorry, dear, I’m with a client. What was it you wanted?”

“A clean towel, is all.”

“There’s new ones in the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs. Please take as many as you like.”

“Thank you, Mrs Crowley,” said the young man’s voice.

The mystic listened to the young man’s footsteps on the stairs. “I’m sorry about that,” she said to Jim. “It’s just the young gentleman who’s lodging with me for a couple of days.”

“Tourist?” Jim asked.

“I don’t think so. He says he’s here on family business, trying to locate an ancestor. Trace records, I suppose. He says he has a loose end he needs to tie up. I offered him a reading – I do the past as well as the future – but he said no. He said he had to deal with it himself.

“To tell the truth,” Madame Crowley whispered, “I didn’t much like the way he said it. But he keeps himself to himself, and I
do
need the money.”

Pooley shrugged an “it takes all sorts” sort of shrug.

“But let us address ourselves to your magical palm.”

“Just tell me what it means,” said Jim.

“It means the impossible,” said Madame Crowley. “It means that you will die very soon. But also that you’ll live for ever.”

Jim shook his sodden head. “That isn’t helping much,” he said. “But can you tell me this? Is it possible for a man to cheat his own fate?”

“Could you be a little more specific, dear?”

“Well,” said Jim, “I have it on very sound authority that I will do something in the future that will affect a great many lives. And not in a good way. Can I avoid doing this?”

“Indeed,” said the mystical lady. “If you have been granted the knowledge of what the thing is, the power is yours to avoid it. Is it something that
can
be avoided, dear?”

“It can,” said Jim. “But it would mean me giving up my life’s ambition. My chance to be rich.”

“Then if that is the price you must pay, you must pay it. To cheat one’s fate one must pay a heavy price.”

“So I must throw away my dreams,” Jim gave out with a sorry sigh.

“The choice would seem to be yours. The two lines are there upon your palm. The choice of which you choose is yours.”

“But which line is which?” Jim asked.

“I think that will all become clear, dear. I think that will all become clear.”

“All right, then,” said Jim. “If the choice
is
mine, I will make it.”

“Splendid, dear, then that will be five pounds.”

Pooley left the house of Madame Crowley five pounds lighter, but with head held high. He would make the right choice, he knew that he would. He would give up betting on the horses. It was the only way and Jim knew it. If he gave up betting, he could never win The Pooley. And if he never won The Pooley, then generations of Pooleys yet to come would have no name to live down and one of them would not come back into the past and bugger it all about.

“Dealt with,” said Jim. “And sorted too.”

And off he marched into the night.

Madame Crowley padded up her stairs and knocked upon her guestroom door. “I’m off to bed now, dear,” she called. “Was there anything further you wanted?”

“No thanks,” called back the young man’s voice. “I’m off to sleep myself now. I have to be up early in the morning.”

“Tracing that ancestor of yours?”

“Precisely,” said the voice.

Madame Crowley, her ear to the door, thought she heard a clicking from within. To her it was just a clicking sound and nothing more at all.

To a munitions expert, however, one trained to recognize the distinctive sounds of weapons being cocked, it would have been quite another matter.

Had such an expert heard that click, he (or she) would have recognized it at once as the sound of an AK47 being cocked.

“As long as everything’s all right, then, dear,” called Madame Crowley.

“It will be soon,” the voice called back. “Goodnight, Mrs C.”

“Goodnight, Wingarde dear,” said Mrs C.

The green tweeds of spring, with the first cuckoo’s note.

That calls through his beak, having come up his throat.

And it’s out with the rod and the line and the boat.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

The green tweeds of summer are calling me back.

The green tweeds I share with my brother called Jack.

Who lives in a box and peers out through a crack.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

The green tweeds of autumn, the nights drawing in.

The green tweeds are putrid and make the nose ring.

So it’s down the dry-cleaner’s and Elvis is King.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

The green tweeds of winter and Yuletide and that.

With old Father Christmas, all merry and fat.

And firesides and puddings and cheerful and chat.

The green tweeds.

The bonny green tweeds.

Let us drink and make merry

And raise up a glass.

And laugh and shout “Good-oh” and “Yippee”.

For I’ll wear those green tweeds

As my father before me,

Cos no bugger calls
me
a hippy!

Mad, yes.

“Green tweeds,” said Jim to John. “You’re back to your old green tweeds, I see.”

“They mocked the zoot,” said John to Jim. “So it’s back to the old green tweeds for me.”

It was the morning of the following day and they were in Omally’s kitchen. The kitchen looked much as it had done before. Though possibly just a tad worse.

“I’d offer you coffee,” said Omally, “but, as you know, I have just the one mug and it’s grown a mite furry of late.”

“No matter,” said Jim brightly. “I had a little water from my tap and it’s only an hour until opening.”

John looked his companion up and down. “You seem very chipper this morning,” said he. “Very chipper indeed.”

“I am chipper,” said Jim. “I have made a momentous decision and I want you to be the first to hear about it.”

“I am honoured,” said John. “So what is it?”

“I’ve given up betting on horses,” said Jim.

“Well, that’s highly commendable.” John nodded thoughtfully. “Hang on there, what did you say?”

“I’ve given up betting on the horses.”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked back at John.

“Oh, very funny,” said Omally. “You really had me going there.”

“No, John, I’m deadly serious. I’ve really given up.”

“You’ve given up on The Pooley?”

Pooley’s face fell. “How did you know I called it that?” he asked.

“Because you talk in your sleep. Remember that night on the allotment when we were too drunk to walk home and we slept in my hut?”

“Not in any great detail,” said Jim.

“Well, you talked in your sleep and kept on and on and on about The Pooley.”

“Hmm,” said Jim, running his finger over the tabletop. “But that’s what I’ve done, John. Given it up for good. I have to do it, although I won’t explain why, because you’d never believe it.”

“I don’t believe it now, Jim. Betting’s in your blood. You could never give it up.”

“I can and I have,” said Jim.

“Nonsense,” said John. “You won’t last till the end of the day.”

“I bet you I will,” said Jim.

Omally shook his head. “If you’re absolutely serious,” he said, “I’ll stick by you …”

“Thank you, John, I appreciate that.”

“But you won’t tell me why you’re doing it?”

“Maybe some time. If everything sets itself aright.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Omally.

“So tell me, John. How did things go for you last night?”

“Not so well as they might have done. Did you see the Gandhis play?”

“Yes, I did.” Pooley’s finger was now glued to tabletop goo. “It was incredible, wasn’t it? Like some religious revival meeting or something. People getting cured of the clap and having their hair grow back.”

“It was that good, was it, eh?”

“It was amazing. But didn’t you watch them yourself?” Pooley struggled to release his gummed-down finger.

“I didn’t get to see or hear them.” John made a very bad face. “I followed one of the big-haired bastards into the downstairs bog and tried to tune him up about management. Do you know what he did?”

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t.”

“He chinned me,” said John. “He knocked me unconscious.”

“You have to be kidding,” said Jim. “Could you give me a hand here? I seem to be glued to your table.”

John took to tugging with Jim. “That’s what happened,” he said as he tugged. “I missed the entire gig. But I’ll have my revenge. As soon as I’m managing that band. I’ll sack the big-haired bastard.”

“What, even if he’s the Stratster?”

“It wasn’t the Stratster. Stratsters don’t punch people. It was the drummer, I’m sure.”

“Sack him,” said Jim. “Get in Ringo. If things go the way I hope they will, Ringo might well be out of a job quite soon.”

“Ringo it is, then,” said John.

“But what makes you think they’ll let you manage them?”

“I have this,” said Omally, rooting in the pocket of his old green tweeds.

“And what is that, might I ask?”

Omally displayed a cassette tape. “A bootleg of the gig is what it is.”

“But how—”

“Sandy always bootlegs the gigs. He makes copies and sells them.”

“I told you I disliked him.”

“Yes, well, I availed myself of the master copy, out of his deck when he wasn’t looking.”

“You stole it.”

“I’d like to say relocated. Shall we call it a long-term loan?”

“If that pleases you. Am I going to be glued to this table for the rest of my life, do you think?”

“I’ll get some paint-stripper,” said John.

“You bloody won’t,” said Jim. “But listen, John. Geraldo said last night that the Gandhis were going to be very big and I believe him. If you could get to manage them, I think your fortune might be made.”

“I’m not entirely certain I should base my future on the word of a fat bloke with sweaty armpits.”

“Make an exception for me, then. Apocalypso music will be the next big thing.”

“What is Apocalypso music?”

“It’s what the Gandhis do, apparently. It’s something about the way Litany sings. Something in her voice. That’s what did the healing and stuff. This is big, John. This is very big.”

“You suddenly seem most enthusiastic”

“Yes, well, I would.” Pooley wrenched his finger free. “I heard her sing and as I’m no longer a betting man I’m looking for a job.”

“A job?” said John doubtfully. “
You
are looking for a job?”

“I am,” said Jim. “I am.”

“And what sort of job did you have in mind?”

“Oh,” said Jim. “I thought perhaps something in the music industry. You see, I met this woman in a pub. She’s the lead singer of a band and she said that I was everything she hoped I’d be. I thought I might go into management.”

“What?!” roared John, appalled.

“
Joint
management,” said Jim. “After all, you have the tape and I have the inside connection.”

John gave this a moment’s thought. “All right,” he said slowly. “Joint management it is. The music industry is a tricky old business and it would be good to work with someone you know you can trust.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “I do suppose it would.”

“So, we’ll shake on it. Fifty-fifty down the line, all profits, all expenses.”

“I can’t see how I can lose on that.” And Jim shook John by the hand.

“And so to business,” said Omally. “The first thing we have to do is get some copies made of this tape.”

“I don’t have a deck,” said Pooley.

“And nor do I,” said John. “But all is not lost by any means, for I know a man who does.”

The man who does and the man who did went by the name of Norman.

Norman had been up since five, when the day began for him with the numbering up of the papers. Having done all this and sent young Zorro
[8]
out on his rounds, Norman was left with a few hours to think before he opened his shop.

Norman, this day, had done some heavy thinking. He’d had a very rough evening, had Norman, and one he would sooner forget.

The policemen had finally set him free, having confiscated all his tapes and fined him the clothes that he would have stood up in, if he’d been given them back. Norman had been forced to jog home in his underwear, which had been, to say the least, a trifle wet and chilly.

The sight that had met his weary eyes upon his return to his kitchen, however, had given him quite a thrill. It hadn’t been quite what he’d hoped for. But it was something pretty damn special.

Norman had looked on in awe, as the tiny horses raced before him, round and round and round.

Round and round the horses went. And round and round and round.

Norman had watched them, thrilled by their beauty. Their grace and their form and their wonder.

Round and round they continued to go and then out through the door he’d left open.

And that had been the last Norman saw of his tiny horses. He’d tried to run after them, but a neighbour, looking out of her bedroom window, had screamed and Norman had been forced to retreat to his shop. And that had been it for his night and Norman had slept very badly indeed.

It was now ten o’clock in the morning. The shop bell tinged and Norman looked up from his dusting.

In walked Jim and in walked John, and Norman viewed them with a bitter eye. Here were two men he’d rather not have seen. For each of them had got him into one kind of shit or another. Although only one was truly to blame and that one had to pay.

“Get out of my shop, Omally!” Norman shouted. “And never darken my counter again.”

“Hi-de-ho,” said John merrily. “So what ails you, my friend?”

“And don’t you ‘my friend’ me, you bastard. Take to your heels at once.”

John picked up a Snickers bar and fiddled with the wrapping.

“And put that back,” said Norman.

Omally put it back.

“And now get out.”

“Hold on there.” John raised calming palms. “Something is wrong. I can sense it.”

“Look at my shelves,” Norman gestured to his shelves. “Empty. You see that?”

“I see that,” said John. “Have you been robbed?”

“The police. They confiscated all the tapes and you owe me five hundred pounds.”

“They took your tapes?” said John. “Why did they take your tapes?”

“Because they were illegal. Snuff movies, they called them. You’ve ruined my standing in the borough. I will never be able to hold my head up at the next Lodge meeting. The brothers will make mock of me.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said John. “But I had no idea that the tapes were illegal. As I told you myself, I hadn’t played them.”

“Yeah, but you must have known what they were.”

“Hardly,” said John. “I am as much an innocent victim of circumstance as you. I bought them in good faith from a bloke I met in a bar.”

“The police now have a tape of me saying that. Strapped to a chair with electrodes on my nipples.”

“Nasty,” said Jim.

“Handy,” said John. “Surely you’d own the copyright. You could rent out copies of that.”

“Wait there,” said Norman, “while I find a stout stick to beat you with.”

“No, just hold on.” And John’s palms went aloft again. “Good friends like us should not fall out over such a matter. Happily I am now in the position to make full recompense. If you will perform a simple service for me, all will be put to rights.”

“Eh?” said Norman.

John pulled out his cassette. “I just need a couple of copies of this.”

“More tapes!” Norman sought his stick.

“He seems most upset,” said Pooley. “Perhaps we’d better go.”

“He’ll be fine,” said John. “He’s all talk, Norman is.”

Norman returned with a gun. He pointed this at John.

“All talk?” Pooley said.

“Out!” shouted Norman. “Or I shoot you dead.”

“Where did you find that gun?” Omally asked.

“Someone hid it under my dustbin yesterday.” Norman worried at the trigger.

“It doesn’t work,” said John. “The firing pin is missing.”

“Give me half an hour and then come back. I’ll have it fixed.”

“There is really no need for any of this,” said Omally.

“Lean your head forward,” said Norman. “I’ll club you to death with the thing.”

“No,” said John. “Now stop stop stop. I will pay you back the five hundred pounds and give you another one thousand besides. All you have to do for me is make two copies of this cassette.”

“Strange as it may seem,” said Norman, “I don’t believe what you say.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Omally asked.

Norman thought. “No,” he said slowly, “you haven’t. You have merely neglected to tell me the truth.”

“Just make two copies of this tape. Give me one back with the original and keep the other for yourself. It will soon be worth an awful lot of money.”

“Why?” Norman asked.

“Because it is a rare collector’s item. The first recording of a band that is soon to be famous.”

“What about my fifteen hundred quid?”

“I’ll give you that within the week.”

“Within the week?” said Norman.

“Within the week?” said Jim.

“Within the week, I promise.” Omally crossed his heart.

“You saw that, Jim,” said Norman. “You saw that with your own two eyes. He swore and crossed his heart and everything.”

“And I’ll shake on it too,” said John, sticking out his hand.

Norman shook Omally’s hand and Norman’s mouth was open.

“Within the week,” said John. “Now take the tape and make the copies. I’ll be back within the hour.”

John and Jim walked up the Ealing Road.

“You promised him fifteen hundred pounds,” said Pooley. “You promised it to him and you shook his hand.”

Omally shrugged. “It sounds a lot,” said he.

“It
is
a lot,” said Jim.

“Not when you split it in half, it’s not.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be,” said Jim.

“I’ll tell you what,” said John. “The best thing for you to do would be to pay my half as well. I can owe you the difference.”

Jim drew up rather short in his stride. “What are you saying?” he asked.

“Oh, come on now, Jim. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already. We shook on it, didn’t we? Half the profits, half the expenses, we agreed. I hope you don’t intend to renege on our deal.”

“What?” went Jim. “What?”

“Look upon it as a kind of negative investment. We’ll be making millions soon. What’s a mere fifteen hundred to you?”

Jim Pooley shook his disbelieving head. “I have only been in the music business half an hour,” said he, “and already I’ve been done up like a kipper.”

“The day is yet young,” said John to Jim. “We haven’t got started yet”

Of all the noble men at arms

And Casanova’s love-nest charms.

And knights of old with painted spears.

Or pirates on the chandeliers
[9]
.

No fellow that did e’er draw breath

Could aught compare to the griddle chef.

No long-dead earl of Arran’s Isle,

Who might have won some maiden’s smile,

By striking down that dragon bad.

Nor even Tom the farmer’s lad.

Could ever, though, in noble death