Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

15

“You are a God-damn hero,” said John Omally, raising a pint of good cheer.

It was Thursday lunchtime and he and Jim were once more in the Flying Swan.

“But there is one thing I have to say,” the Irishman continued, “and it is best that I say it now.”

“Go on, then,” said Jim, a-sipping at his pint.

“If you don’t get that smug-looking smile off your face, I’ll punch your lights out.”

“Sorry,” said Jim. “I can’t help it.”

Omally shook his head. “Just what did she do to you in that bedroom?” he asked, for the umpteenth time.

“She sang to me. I told you.”

“And that’s all she did? Sing?”

Jim Pooley sighed in a wistful way. “Yes,” he said. “It was wonderful.”

John placed his pint upon the counter and rubbed his hands together. “Well, whatever,” he said. “But you did it, Jim. You raised the money. Less than two days as a businessman and we’re already up by one hundred thousand pounds. It’s beyond belief. I should have gone into business with you years ago. We’d be millionaires by now.”

“I thought I’d pop into Norman’s and pay him what we owe.”

“No need to be hasty.” John took up his pint once more. “Norman can wait until his week is up. We must decide just how we’re going to spend all this wealth. The first thing I should do is open a bank account.”

“Oh no, it’s not,” said Jim.

“It’s not?” said John.

“It’s not,” said Jim. “The first thing you should do is think about how you are going to organize the Gandhis’ tour,”

Omally made the face of thought. “I’ve been considering this matter,” he said, “and I do predict a problem or two.”

“Go on,” said Jim.

“Well, it would have been an easy enough matter to phone up music venues and play the tape to them. But as we don’t have the tapes any more—”

“Norman still has one,” said Jim.

“Ah yes, so he does.”

“But I don’t think we’d better use it. Litany seemed very upset, didn’t she?”

“You’re not kidding, my friend. The way she crunched up those cassettes. I’m glad that wasn’t my old chap she had in her hand.”

“Don’t be so crude, John.”

“I’m sorry. But you’re right. The show must go on. And, do you know what, I have a bit of an idea.”

“Which you might perhaps like to share with me?”

“I would. Do you remember back in the sixties? There was a rock festival held on the allotments.”

“Brentstock,” said Jim. “I didn’t go to it. I think I was in San Francisco at the time.”

“I think you were in Bognor at the time. With your mum.”

“In the San Francisco Guesthouse, that’s right.”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

“What?” said Jim.

“Nothing,” said John. “But think about this. We could organize a big rock festival of our own. Right here, somewhere in the borough.”

“Not on the allotments, though. I seem to recall that the council were most upset about the last one.”

“No, not on the allotments. I know a better place. In fact I know the ideal place.”

“Not in my back yard,” said Jim.

“Buffoon. What about Gunnersbury Park?”

“Lord Crawford’s place? He’d never go for that.”

“Wouldn’t he, though? Lord Crawford is a member of the aristocracy. And how do members of the aristocracy spend their spare time?”

“In debauchery, of course. It’s a tradition, or an—”

“Old charter or something. I know. So how do you think Lord Crawford would take to Litany singing him a little song?”

“The same way I did, probably. I …”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Enjoyed it very much,” said Pooley.

“Right, that’s settled, then. We’ll concentrate our efforts on a big rock concert in the park. And if it all goes with a big kerpow, we’ll then deal with the matter of a recording studio.”

“I agree,” said Jim. “But just one thing. This concert has to be big. Really big. Enormous. Stupendous. And things of that nature generally. It has to be the legendary gig. The one that no Gandhis fan would want to miss. Everything depends on that. Believe me, everything.”

“You’re keeping secrets, Jim. I don’t like it at all.”

“Just trust me,” said Jim. “It’ll all work out. I know it will.”

“As you are clearly a business genius, as well as my bestest friend, my trust goes without saying. So, you leave his lordship for me to tune up. He owes me a favour anyway.”

“Lord Crawford, Brentford’s Aristo in Residence, owes you a favour?”

“That’s why I suggested Gunnersbury Park. You know all those vids I sold to Norman?”

“You bought them from Lord Crawford?”

“Indirectly. You know how these things are.”

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t. But what a very small world it is. We need a venue for a big rock concert and Lord Crawford just happens to live in a big park around the corner and just happens to indirectly owe you a favour. Some people might consider all this somewhat hard to believe.”

“Then some people would be miserable buggers, wouldn’t they? We’re on a roll here, Jim. Nothing can stop us. Nothing.”

High upon the flat block opposite the Swan, Wingarde Pooley squinted through the telescopic sight of his AK47. He was set upon a single course. That of destroying the ancestor who had besmirched the family name. The obvious flaw in this – that in so doing he would surely cancel out his own existence – seemed not to have occurred to him at all.

But, then, perhaps it had. And, then, perhaps he had found a way around this dire eventuality. Because Wingarde hadn’t just travelled back through time to save rock stars from their early deaths. He had made one or two other major alterations to history during his travels. Such as assassinating the Queen and arranging for Richard Branson to sit upon the throne of England.

Deeds which in themselves were deserving not only of our unmitigated praise and undying gratitude but also our unquestioning trust that here was a young man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Indeed, here was a young man whose deeds, fulfilling as they did the sincere if unspoken wish-dreams of us all, could be said to be little less than divinely inspired.

Which in fact, they were.

For, you see, Wingarde was not acting, as Geraldo had supposed, from desperation to free his family from the curse of The Pooley. Wingarde was acting under the guidance of a higher force.

The higher force.

Wingarde heard The Voice.

For The Voice did speak unto Wingarde. Speak unto him whilst he did lie in his bed, or dwell upon the toilet bowl, or eat thereof his cornflakes, or sit, or stand, or walk, or run, or have a quiet one off the wrist. The Voice did speak unto Wingarde and Wingarde did do all the doings that The Voice did order him to do.

Knowing that The Voice he heard was heard by no one but himself.

Knowing that it was The Voice of God.

And not, as in the case of his many times great ancestor, the voice of Small Dave in a cistern.

Wingarde squinted through the telescopic sight, the cross-hairs focused on the Swan’s saloon bar door.

Go for a head shot, whispered The Voice in his head. Make me proud of you, my son.

Brentford’s other Lord, The Lord of the Old Button Hole, was a proud and pretty fellow who had voices of his own. And while few could doubt that Wingarde’s inner voice was indeed The Voice of God, as evidenced by the charitable deeds it urged him to perform, the voices that shrieked in the head of Leo Justice were a different kettle of Kobbolds altogether.

And Leo not only heard these voices, he could sometimes see their owners too. Three demonic entities possessed him. They took turns, one running the show whilst the other two vacated the cerebral premises and hung around outside, waiting for their goes to come around again.

They were visible to Leo alone and, although he had considered the possibility of exorcism, the truth of the matter was that Leo rather enjoyed their company and revelled in the wickedness and depravity which he was oft times encouraged to inflict upon others.

But then, of course, he was a newspaper editor.[14]

On this particular Thursday lunchtime Leo sat at his desk, in his now less box-crowded office, munching upon a bread roll containing lettuce, celery, tomato, cheese, little boy’s bottom parts and Thousand Island dressing, no salt or pepper, when a knock-knock-knock came at his door and a man called Soap came striding in.

“Good day to you,” cried Soap, a-waving his photographs. “I have them here, so let’s get into action.”

Leo Justice looked up from his eating. To the left and right of him, although unseen by Soap, the arch demons Balberith and Gressil, who played the roles of “The Lord” and “The Magnificent” respectively, when in residence, also looked up. And Leviathan, Prince of the First Hierarchy of Hell and currently at the controls, as it were, peered out through Leo’s eyeballs and moved his mouth about.

“Your mother darns socks in hell,” said the voice of Leviathan.

“Pardon me?” said Soap, who hadn’t seen The Exorcist and so didn’t fall about in hysterical mirth.

Leo coughed and regained control of his vocal chords. “Who are you?” he wanted to know.

“I am Soap. Soap Distant. Traveller belooooow. The man who placed the flag of the realm in the planet’s beating heart.”

“Then why are you dressed as a library clerk? And is that make-up you’re wearing?”

“I wish to remain incognito for the present. And it’s just a bit of blusher to add a spot of flesh-tone. And the eyeliner rather highlights the pinkness of my pupils, don’t you think? Your woman outside gave me a quick makeover. She was still worrying at those wires. I advised her to give them a miss. The Information Superhighway is just a road to nowhere, I told her. She seemed to agree, because she said I was to tell you that you could stuff your job and she was off to join the raggle-taggle gypsies for a life of romance and rheumatism.”

“Come sit upon my knee, dear boy,” crooned the voice of Leviathan, who, as “Leo Baby”, swung both ways.

Soap arched an eyebrow, bridged his nose and did an underpass job with his mouth. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

“State your business,” said Leo.

“I have the photographs. The proof of my travels belooooow. Taken with the old box Brownie. And in colour, not black and white.”

“Thrill me with them,” said Leo, raising a languid hand and sweeping the clutter of his desktop to the floor. Bottom-part sandwiches and all.

Soap strode over to the desk and dealt a hand of photos.

“That’s the west pier, Atlantis. And that’s one of me with a monk at the Temple of Agharti in Shambhala. Eating bat.”

“Eating bat?” said the voice of Leviathan. “Isn’t that a euphemism for—”

“No,” said Soap. “It’s just bat. The wings were a bit stringy. But when in Rome—”

“Bugger the senate?” said Leviathan.

“Possibly,” said Soap. “I’ve never understood the Italian football league.”

“What’s this one?” asked Leo.

“That’s me in the cave of the Gibberlins. See all that gold? Makes Fort Knox look like a boot-sale, doesn’t it?”

“Do you have any of Hell?” asked Leviathan.

“They didn’t come out,” said Soap.

“They never do.” And Leviathan laughed, spraying Soap with a projectile vomit composed of black frogs, safety pins, fish hooks and threepenny bits.

“Pardon me,” said Leo, wiping his chin. “Got a bit carried away there.”

“Well,” said Soap, picking frogs from his lapels. “I think you’ll agree that these photographs prove my claims to be true. Shall we discuss contracts and a six-figure advance?”

“How about a six-fingered advance?” said Leviathan. “Without the rear-guard action.”

Soap folded his arms, creased his brow and put a tuck in his top lip. “Now just you see here!” he said, in the way that you do when you do. So to speak.

“What, here?” asked Leviathan, revolving Leo’s left eye. “Or here?” He made the right one roll into his head.

“That’s an impressive trick,” said Soap, who was never above the awarding of praise. “I had an uncle once who could poke the end of a contraceptive up his nose and then cough it out of his mouth, and then he would pull on each end in turn, like using dental floss. Said it kept his sinuses clear. It used to get him chucked out of a lot of restaurants, though.”

Leviathan mulled that one over. “I’d like to meet your uncle,” he said.

“He moved to Milton Keynes,” said Soap. “Opened a nasal floss shop. But, as I was saying … Just you see here! I don’t have time to waste! I want action and I want it now!”

“And you’d like a contract and a six-figure advance on the strength of these photographs?” The voice was Leo’s. The tone was unbelieving.

“Certainly,” said Soap. “And on the tale I have to tell and the skill with which I’ll tell it. So to speak.”

Leo laughed and Leviathan laughed and Balberith laughed. And so did Gressil. Laugh, laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh.

“Are you laughing?” Soap was heard to ask.

“We are,” said Leo. “Which is to say I am. Kindly sling your hooky-hook, Mr Distant.”

“How about five figures, then?”

“No, you misunderstand. This is not a matter for negotiation.”

“Four,” said Soap. “As long as the first one’s a nine.”

“No,” said Leo, laughing once again.

“Three, then. As long as the first one’s a ten.”

“No.”

“No?” said Soap. “You’re saying no?”

“I would like to say yes,” said Leo. “Truly I would. But I regret that for the moment I cannot. You see, yesterday I sold the newspaper. I am no longer in a position to commission features.”

“Sold the paper? What?” Soap was aghast. Agape and a-goggle and a-gasp. “You’ve sold the Brentford Mercury. To who?”

“It’s to whom, actually. To a major news group, as it happens. The major news group. Virgin News International.”

Soap’s mouth became a perfect O. His bum an asterisk. “You have sold the Brentford Mercury to Virgin? You have prostituted the borough’s organ?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Leviathan.

“Have at you, sir!” Soap raised his fists.

“Calm your jolly self,” said Leo. “What is all this fuss?”

“You’re part of it!” Soap shook a fist. “You’re part of this evil conspiracy, this changing of history!” He shook another one. “I was going to close my eyes to it and let Inspectre Hovis sort it out. But now—” Having no more fists to shake, Soap shook his feet instead.

“That’s impressive,” said Leviathan. “St Joseph of Cupertino used to do that. Mind you, he was in league with the Devil.”

“Out, demons, out!” shouted Soap, who was nearer the mark than he knew.

“I could still offer you a job,” said Leo. “A vacancy has just come up for a wire-worrier.”

Soap’s leap onto the desk had a definite Dougie Fairbanks Jnr feel. Which certainly lived up to Soap’s self-appraisal on his CV. The trip and plunge forward, however, owed more to the work of the immortal Buster Keaton.

“Ooooooooooooooh!” went Soap, as he fell upon Leo.

“Oooooooooooooooh!” went Leo, as he fell beneath Soap.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Leviathan, who objected to falling under anyone other than a paid lady wrestler with a hairlip and a dandruff problem.

And there’s fewer of them about than you might think.

Soap punched Leo on the nose.

And Leo went for the throat.

Back in the more sedate and chat-things-out-in-a-pub-kind-of-world where most of the rest of us live, John Omally emptied another pint of Large down his throat.

“All right,” said John. “That’s enough for me now. I’m off to tune up his lordship. What of you, Jim?”

“I’m taking the Gandhis on a shopping expedition. But first I intend to open a bank account in my name and stick most of this money into it.”

“You’d better give me some petty cash before you do, then,” said John. “A couple of thousand will do the trick.”

“No,” said Jim, shaking his head.

“No?” said John, dropping his jaw.

“No,” said Jim once more. “All monies must be accounted for. You must present me with receipts for everything. Legitimate outgoings will be covered.”

Omally bridled, as bridle he might. “Have you lost all reason?” he demanded to be told. “This is me speaking to you. John Omally, your bestest friend.”

“There are no friends in business,” said Jim. “I read that in a book somewhere. It’s always best to keep your business and your social life apart.”

“Jim, we’re in this together. Everything shared fifty-fifty.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “And I learned all about that yesterday. When I found myself owing Norman.”

“That was mere tomfoolery,” said John. “Fork out the money, if you will.”

Pooley shook his head once more. “That would be unprofessional. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

John made fists, as Soap had so recently done. “Now just you see here!” he said also.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Jim. “I’ll give you an advance on your wages.”

“Ah,” said John. “Yes. We haven’t discussed wages, have we?”

“No, but I’m prepared to discuss them now.”

“Right,” said John. “Let’s discuss.”

“Well,” said Jim. “I thought a thousand each would be fair.”

Omally made a doubtful face. “A thousand a week?” said he.

“A week?” Jim made the face of shock and surprise. “I wasn’t thinking of a thousand pounds a week.”

John now made a similar face. “Then what were you thinking? Not a thousand pounds a month?”

“Not that either,” said Jim.

John Omally’s jaw began to flap, after the fashion of Jim’s hands in a panic. “Not a year?” he cried. “Not a thousand pounds a year!”

Neville raised his eyes from his bar-end glass-polishing.

“Imagine wages like that,” he said. “A man could live like a prince.”

John Omally lowered his voice and spoke in a strangled whisper.

“Are you telling me,” he whispered strangledly, “that we should work for a thousand pounds a year?”

Jim shrugged.

“You’re shrugging,” said John. “Why are you shrugging?”

“I’m savouring, too,” said Jim.

“Savouring? What are you savouring?”

“The look on your face, of course. And that strangled whispering.”

“Then savour this,” said John, raising his fist.

“You hit me and I’ll stop your wages. And a thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

“Not for a bloody year’s work it’s not.”

“No,” said Jim, “it isn’t, which is why I was thinking of a thousand pounds a day. Would a week’s advance be enough to keep you going?”

The man without the six-figure advance and the man who had prostituted the borough’s organ were going at it hammer and tongue. Soap hammered away upon Leo and Leo in turn gave tongue.

It was a long black horrible tongue and it kept getting into Soap’s ear.

Standing in a corner and pointedly ignoring the conflict, Balberith and Gressil talked of snuff.

“I hear it’s making a comeback,” said Gressil, “The Magnificent.”

“Only when you blow your nose,” said Balberith, “The Lord.”

“Now I’m definitely off to Lord Crawford’s,” said John, stuffing the last of his pounds in his pockets. “I’ll meet you back in here later, okay?”

“Okay,” said Jim.

“And, Jim.”

“Yes, John?”

“When you take the Gandhis out shopping, do be sure to get that Honda seat for Pigarse’s dad.”

“It’s right at the top of my shopping list. I’ll see you later.”

“Farewell.”

John left the Swan and Pooley stood finishing his pint.

“I don’t know what you two are up to,” said Neville, drawing near, “but just take care, will you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Jim.

Neville tapped his slender nose. “This tells me there’s trouble blowing your way.”

Jim put down his glass and picked up his bulging briefcase. “Thanks, Neville,” he said. “You’ve always been a good friend to John and me, no matter what.”

“There are no friends in business,” said Neville, with a wink of his good eye. “But just mind how you go.”

“I will,” said Jim. “Be lucky.”

“And you.”

There is always an element of luck involved in every fight. Unless, of course, it’s managed by Don King[15]. Soap evidently had a great deal of luck credited to his worldly account, because it seemed that he was actually getting the better of Leo.

Soap had the editor’s arm up his back and was holding him down with a knee.

“You spill the beans!” shouted Soap, applying a Chinese burn. “Who are the men in the black T-shirts? Where do they come from and what do they want?”

They came, as we know, from the future, and the one on the flat block roof wanted Jim Pooley dead.

Wingarde wiped sweat from his brow and squinted once more through his telescopic sight. Within the magnified cross-haired circle the Swan’s saloon bar door swung open and Jim emerged and stood taking the sun.

Wingarde’s finger tightened on the trigger, but a look of indecision spread across his squinting face.

“Are you sure I’m doing the right thing?” he asked The Voice. “I know you keep saying it’s all right, but if he dies surely I’ll die too? I won’t even get to be born.”

You must have faith in me, my son. You have done great things while in my service. All that is required of you now is that you pull the trigger.

“That is a somewhat ambiguous answer,” said Wingarde.

Don’t talk back to God, you little fuck!

On the Swan’s doorstep Jim breathed in the healthy Brentford air. He felt good, did Jim. Up for it. On top. Ready to take on the world. And things of that nature. Generally.

And he would not only take on the world. He would bring the Gandhis’ music to it.

He would Heal the World.

That was a good expression, thought Jim. He could live with that.

Wingarde’s finger was tight upon the trigger, although most of the rest of him was shaking.

“I’m not sure,” whimpered Wingarde. “I’m just not sure.”

You dare to doubt the Lord thy God? You dare to question His almighty wisdom?

“No, it’s not that, exactly. Well, it is, sort of.”

I will cast you down! cried The Voice in Wingarde’s head, rattling his dental work and popping both his ears. I will cast you down from this high place and into the fires of the pit.

“No. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

Wingarde’s finger tightened, sweat dripped down his nose, and, dead in the sight although not yet in the flesh, Jim took another deep breath and grinned a little grin.

“You grinning bastard,” whispered Wingarde. “You’ll get yours.”

The cross hairs quartered Jim Pooley’s forehead.

Wingarde squeezed the trigger.

According to the coroner’s report that was placed upon the desk of Inspectre Hovis, whose job it was to head up the murder inquiry, the bullet was a high-velocity, hollow-tipped titanium round, fired from an AK47. It entered the victim’s head at a downward angle of thirty-three degrees, indicating that it was probably fired from either a high window or the roof of the flat block opposite the Flying Swan.

It passed through the right frontal lobe just above the right orbit and made its exit through the back of the victim’s neck, carrying with it much of the victim’s brain.

The coroner stated that death would have been instantaneous.

As he said to Inspectre Hovis: “One second he was a man with a briefcase, the next one he was a corpse.”

The ice cream cart was sold out.

The last batsman was bowled out.

And foolishly I strolled out

Into the light of day.

The umpire, some say, passed out.

The moment that the last out

Had sworn and cursed or cast out

That final hip hooray.

The only way to find out

Is when you’re told to mind out.

Just stick your big behind out,

Bend at the knee and pray.

And when you know you’re wiped out,

And chivvied up and striped out

And rolled

And bowled

And passed

At last

And stood like Nelson at the mast.

Then you can say it’s in the past

That bastard’s ice cream’s sold out!

You’ll know it when you drop out.

The ending is a cop-out.