The Sprouts of Wrath

37

It was to be a day to remember and one to be inscribed in the very bestest copperplate lettering upon a nice clean page of the annals of Brentford. The arrival of the athletes from the globe’s four corners, the official ribbon-cut and stadium opening. Brass bands were to play, morris dancers to dance, the biggest parade in the borough’s checkered history. Streamers and spangles, balloons and bangles, flowers and fripperies. An unparalleled extravaganza.

Minions of the town council, all hearts of oak and double time, had been at work half the night, festooning the lamp posts with bunting and flower garlands. The Boy Scouts and Girl Guides had been rehearsing their marching for weeks. The hot-dog hucksters, souvenir programme-sellers, ice-cream vendors, Union Jack wallahs and general wide-boys were already on their pitches. The good people of Brentford had declared the day an unofficial bank holiday and were preparing to line the streets. The mayoral limousine stood polished and waiting before the town hall, upon its gleaming bonnet, the borough flag fluttering in the gentle breeze. The Brentford Olympic squad were bending their knees in the Memorial Park to the rallying cries of Father Moity, and the sun was shining bravely in a sky that was rich and blue and cloudless. This was the big one, the biggest one that ever was.

Jim Pooley sat up in bed supported by several comfy pillows, perusing the latest batch of holiday brochures which had arrived with the morning post. Gammon cleared away the few sparse remnants of Jim’s morning fry-up.

“Will sir be requiring any coffee?” he asked.

“Certainly,” said Jim, “cream and sugar.”

“Then sir knows where the kettle is and can make his own,” said the Professor’s retainer, taking up the tray. “And before sir says anything, the Professor suggests that sir gets on with weeding the west lawn.”

“But,” said Jim, “but… but…”

“The Professor says that sir is swinging the lead,” Gammon continued. “He says that he values my time at ten pounds a minute and begs to enquire whether sir will be requiring my services any further this day.”

“Come on, Gammon, old buddy,” crooned Jim, “I’m not up to any work just yet, I’m still in shock.”

Gammon took out his pocket watch and watched the second hand sweeping the face. “Will there be anything else, sir? Time is money, you know.”

“Certainly not, Gammon, you are dismissed, depart in haste now, I should not want to keep you from your work.”

“Very good, sir.” Gammon left without bothering to close the bedroom door, his undisguised chuckles echoing down the hallway.

“Weed the west lawn,” moaned Jim, “what a carve-up.” He tossed aside the holiday brochures and climbed gingerly from his cosy bed. Here he was just days away from millionairedom and he was expected to weed lawns, it seemed hardly fair. The Professor was definitely having a pop at him. No doubt because Omally had legged it. Jim sought his shirt amongst the untidy pile of clothing which lay at the bedside. It was just typical of Omally to leave him holding the baby. The Irishman would come swanning back all smiles and excuses once Jim picked up his winnings, that was for sure.

But that, Jim considered, was the lot of the millionaire. There was always some “Johnny-come-lately” out to get a share of the booty. The world was full of avarice. Sad times, everybody wanted to cop the pot of gold. This cosmic truth set the lad a-thinking. Now, the Professor was actually paying him to do the gardening, so perhaps a deal could be struck. A thousand or two out of the winnings wasn’t going to hurt the bank balance very much. He could write out an IOU and put his feet up for a couple of weeks. A bit of “tax free” for the old boy and an easy life for himself. Gammon’s services came a mite expensive, he would engage his own servant, an au pair girl perhaps, or one of those Filipino beauties one reads about, or even two.

Smiling and whistling at the same time, Jim unearthed his trousers and a jumper and slipped them on over his pyjamas. “No sense in going the whole hog,” he told himself. “If the Professor agrees, I can be back in bed in ten minutes.”

Professor Slocombe worked at his study desk. He did not look up as Jim entered the room. “Nice to see you up and about,” he said, as Jim dithered in the doorway. “You’ll be a bit hot working with your pyjamas still on, I would have thought.”

Jim chewed at his bottom lip. “I’ve been thinking,” said he.

“Good, then your time has not been altogether wasted. I trust that the conclusions reached during this period of cogitation will be put to practical use in the garden?”

“Might I have a cup of coffee?” Jim asked, spying the turkish pot bubbling at the fireside.

“But of course, Jim. Kindly pour one for me if you will.”

Pooley did so. “About this lawn weeding business,” he said as he placed the Professor’s cup upon his desk, “under the circumstances, I think we might dispense with it.”

“My feelings exactly,” said Professor Slocombe, much to Jim’s surprise and momentary relief. “Under the circumstances.”

“Oh good, that is pleasing to my ears.”

“Yes, we must place lawn weeding as one of the least of our priorities.”

“That’s the stuff,” said Jim.

“Yes, we must channel every ounce of our energy and resources into a matter of a far more pressing and urgent nature.”

“We must?” Already Jim didn’t like the sound of it.

“Sit down, Jim. You will not like what I have to tell you.”

Taking the Professor, as ever, at his word, Pooley settled into a fireside chair. “What do you see here, Jim?” Professor Slocombe rose from his desk and displayed his map of Brentford. Jim perused it with less than passing interest.

“Am I looking for anything in particular?” he asked.

“This.” The sage tapped at the outline of the Star Stadium.

“The stadium?”

“Yes, but what do you see?”

Jim was as ever puzzled. “I see a big star, what else should I see?”

“A five-pointed star.”

“Well, of course I see that.”

The Professor took up his quill and joined the five star points. “Now what do you see?”

“A thingamegig, pentathing.”

“Pentagram, Jim, an inverted pentagram.”

“Ah!” said Pooley. He didn’t know much about the occult, but anybody knew this much. “That’s not good, is it?”

“No, it is anything but. The inverted pentagram is the symbol of diabolism, the symbol of negative energy, negative force, all that is evil.”

Jim was unconvinced. “You see an inverted pentagram, Professor, the world sees an Olympic stadium.”

“I think there is a great deal more to it than that.”

“No,” said Jim, “put such dark thoughts from your mind. The thing is the proverbial work of genius. Eighth wonder of the world. Today the athletes are coming — in fact I thought I’d take a stroll down to join in the festivities myself, why don’t you come too?”

“Does nothing about this stadium strike you as mysterious, Jim?”

Pooley blew out his cheeks. “Well, of course it does, but the world is full of mysteries, what is one more or less to me? We do live in quite extraordinary times, by any account.”

Professor Slocombe rolled the map and flung it down on his desk. “The Birmingham stadium meets with disaster after disaster, culminating in a fire which destroys it completely. Within a single day — a single day — mark you, a substitute is proposed here. It is instantly accepted and construction begins almost at once. A few short weeks later it is completed and the athletes arrive. What does this say to you?”

“Fast thinking?” Pooley suggested. “That is the way of the world today.”

“It is impossibly fast, Jim. It is frankly impossible from beginning to bitter end. If this stadium was preconstructed by any normal means, it would be the work of years. But it springs up here in days. Where was it constructed? How could it be ready for erection precisely when it was required? How did the land on which the legs rest come to be available at exactly the right time? Where did the money come from? How could such a vast project be conducted in utter secrecy? How was it all done, Jim?”

“You’ve got me, but it certainly was, you can trust the evidence of your own eyes.”

“I have learned, through bitter experience, never to trust that alone.”

“Oh, be fair, Professor, you are a man of the old school, your knowledge is this here.” Pooley indicated the antique library and for the first time realized that the Professor’s study had been completely restored as if the destruction wrought upon it had never occurred. “This, er, old stuff,” Jim continued. “But the world is changing. It’s all computer whizz-kids and micro-technology, silicon chips, things like that. Who can say how it’s all done? Not me for one. You read mysticism into everything.”

“And that is your considered opinion?”

“Well, sort of. I admit that I only know what I read in the newspapers or see on the television. But that is the only information most of us have to go on. If it is incorrect or biased or even downright lies, how can we be expected to know? We can only believe what we are told. We have to believe in something.”

“Why, why believe what you are told?”

“Well. Well, you kind of learn it from childhood. Someone tells you that two and two make four and you believe it. It does make four, doesn’t it?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“Well then.”

“Well then, and you have already made most of my arguments for me, I am telling you that something totally at odds with all you have been told is occurring, so where does that leave you?”

“It doesn’t leave me anywhere, you have told me nothing, you have only asked me questions I cannot answer.”

“Then I will tell you this. The stadium is not simply a stadium. It was built by a man who is not simply a man, if he is even a man at all, which I doubt. And this man who is not a man has …” The Professor halted in his words and stared at Pooley with a look of deepest compassion.

“Yes,” said Jim slowly, “has what?”

“Has murdered your dearest friend.”

Jim’s jaw dropped. “Has what?” he said in a voice hardly audible. “Murdered John? What are you saying?”

“I regret to say it, I would have given anything in my world not to say it, but yes, Jim. John Omally is dead.”

Jim rose to his feet, there were tears in his eyes. “No,” he said, “John is not dead. If he was dead, somehow I would know it. It cannot be true, why are you saying this?”

“Jim, there is a dark power behind this stadium, a malevolent power which must be destroyed. I have stared it face to face right here. You have seen its work at the barge and on Griffin Island, it froze you into your bath, it killed your closest friend.”

“John,” said Pooley, his voice toneless and numb. “God, I love that man as I love myself, we have been friends since … we have always been friends. No, it cannot be.”

“It can and it is and that is why you must fight with me.”

“I understand nothing of this, Professor. Up there is just a bloody stadium. Who killed John, and why? Why?”

“Because you had seen things that you should not have. You were a threat, hence the parcels.”

“Bombs. It was Bob, that. Bob has killed John.”

“No, no, Jim, you must pull yourself together. The world as we know it may shortly be coming to an end, if something is not done fast.”

“Then let it. If John is dead, then I no longer care, I will collect my money and take my grief elsewhere and I will enjoy it for John and his memory, bugger Brentford, bugger the stadium and bugger you.”

“Then leave,” said Professor Slocombe, “leave if you can.” He took the tobacco tin containing Pooley’s betting slip from his pocket and tossed it into the mourner’s hand. “Make your getaway, collect your winnings, if you get the chance, desert the sinking ship. When this comes you will have nowhere to run to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean leave if you can.”

“Then I shall.” Jim strode to the french windows. “I don’t know what all this is about,” he said, turning, “I never have. If you know about all this then maybe you should have saved John. I’m done here, I’m away.” He turned once more towards the outside world and flattened himself upon an invisible barrier which sealed the Professor’s study from escape. “Let me go!” howled Pooley, rising from the carpet and nursing his bruised nose. “Let me out!”

“I cannot,” said Professor Slocombe. “That is why the lawn weeding has had to be postponed.”

Outside, the crowds were gathering. The Swan had opened somewhat earlier than is prescribed by law and the patrons jostled on the pavement. Croughton, the potbellied potman, fresh from Strangeways where he had learned the error of his ways, had been re-employed by Neville in desperation, after he had failed to track down Omally. Now he was dispensing drinks and failing to fill his pockets in the process.

“Where are they then?” asked Old Pete, as the bands played, the Boy Scouts drilled, the morris dancers danced and the accordians and penny whistles did their bit to add to the general confusion.

“Here comes the Mayor!” shouted someone and the crowd parted to admit the arrival of a big shining car. The Mayor, clad in full regalia of office, clambered out. “Where are they?” he asked Old Pete.

“Buggered if I know, your Lordship,” said the ancient as his dog took a well-aimed pee at a mayoral mudguard.

“Hot-dogs! Get your Olympic hot-dogs while they’re hot!” Shouts rang out amongst the joyful throng, watches were being perused and doubts expressed. Perhaps they’re not coming. Perhaps it’s the wrong day. Perhaps, perhaps.

Young Master Robert entered the Flying Swan and approached the bar counter. “Where’s that Irish barman?” he demanded.

Neville did some pretty nifty thinking. “I sacked him,” he said, “a spy from the rival brewery he was, saw through him in no time. Why do you ask?”

“Quick,” came a chorus of voices, “they’re coming!”

Neville put the towels up. “I’ll speak to you later,” he said to the fuming brewery boy.

A dull hum filled the air above Brentford, the flapping of copter blades, the whirr of drazy hoops. From the direction of Heathrow a fleet of helicopters and dirigibles was approaching. A cheer went up from the assembled multitude beneath, a cheer which faded almost as quickly as it had begun. The crowds watched in silence as the flying machines drew nearer, passed overhead and vanished into nothingness as they came in to land at the stadium far above. “They came in by air,” said someone, and the carnival world that had been Brentford suddenly came apart at the seams. There was to be no golden jubilee, no big march past, no big welcome, no jamboree, no bloody nothing. They came in by air. The borough had been betrayed.

The crowds stood in embarrassed silence and then melted away as if they had never been. The drinking men took themselves off to the pubs, the womenfolk to their unenlightened kitchens, the children, who had at least got a day off school, to joyful street corners. The Mayor climbed back into his car and waved the chauffeur homeward.

The copperplate letterist, poised over the Brentford annals, stuck his pen back in his pocket, drew up his invoice for waiting-time in ball-point pen and buggered off back home. The bunting hung limp and meaningless, the hot-dog sellers and all their dire ilk slunk away and that, for all it was worth, was very much that.