Knees Up Mother Earth (13 page)

Professor Slocombe knocked upon a section of corrugated iron. It was a “certain” knock. There was a certain pattern to it. The section swung aside, a hand beckoned greeting and Professor Slocombe entered the Campbell’s dwelling. The Campbell closed and secured his secret door.

“Seat yourself,” said he.

The dwelling was spacious within. Remarkably so. And remarkable, too. Many candles lit a single gallery. The undersides of the stand seating above gabled its ceiling. Flagstones paved its floor. And then there was the Gothic. There were tapestries and hunting trophies, shields and claymores and antlered heads. The look of all and sundry of it was one of a Scottish laird’s hunting lodge. Or something to do with
Highlander
.

A great fire blazed in the rough stone fireplace, but where the smoke went was anyone’s guess.

Professor Slocombe lowered his fragile frame into a crofter’s chair before the fire. Mahatma Campbell decanted a measure of Scotch into a goatskin goblet and placed it in the scholar’s hand.

“If I might say so,” said he, “you took your time.”

Professor Slocombe smiled. The Campbell seated himself in a great chair opposite, took up a poker and gave the fire a stabbing with it.

“You remain most loyal,” said Professor Slocombe. “How many years is it now?”

“Too many.” The Campbell spat into the fire. “But I keep the watch. And if this Pooley is your man, then I’ll keep a watch on him, too.”

“I would appreciate that.” Professor Slocombe tasted the Scotch. It tasted mighty fine. “Jim is a good man. I would not want any harm to come to him.”

“Does he know what he’s dealing with?”

“No.” Professor Slocombe shook his head.

“Then you’re sending him to his death.”

“Not with you here to protect him.”

Mahatma Campbell took up Scotch of his own and threw it down his throat. “One of them was here tonight,” he said, “in this very stadium.”

“No.” The face of Professor Slocombe became grave. “Whilst I was here? I felt nothing.”

“They’re cunning. And new, these – a different breed. Even blacker than the ones before.”

“Even blacker.” Professor Slocombe’s fingers tightened around his goatskin goblet. “I shall have to be more vigilant.”

“You’re vulnerable away from your manse. But wherever you are, I’ll not be far from your side.”

“Protect Jim,” said the professor. “Perhaps you should go to him now.”

“The danger has passed. But they’re watching. You shouldn’t have left it so long. If they take the football ground, then it’s the end for us all.”

“They’ll never take the football ground,” said the professor.

“But you could have stopped all this months ago, paid off the club’s debts. You’ve enough in your coffers.”

“I had to wait. There are certain predestined events that have yet to occur. It is all part of my plan.”

“And this clown Pooley, he is part of your plan?”

“We will only have one chance at this.” Professor Slocombe turned his goblet between his slender fingers and considered the flames of the raucous fire. “You and I both know the date.”

“It’s written into my very soul,” said the Campbell. “To know in advance the date of the Apocalypse is a sombre enough matter by any reckoning.”

Professor Slocombe put a finger to his lips. “Hush,” said he. “Not even here.”

“I can speak here well enough, Professor, there’s none that can hear me but yourself.”

“I would prefer that our conversation remained, how shall I put this, cryptic and enigmatic”

The Campbell spat once more into the fire. “Perhaps in some Hollywood thriller or mystery novel, but I am a plain man and I speak plain words.”

“You may look like man,” said Professor Slocombe, “but you and I both know that you are not one.”

“Be that as it may. But I, like you, am sworn to serve and protect this borough. The forces that seek to destroy it are beyond the ken of the normal Brentonian, who goes about his business in ignorance of their very existence.”

“And that is how it will remain. As it always has been and as it always will be.”

“Secrets, secrets, secrets. It’s always secrets.”

“Magic must always remain secret, the preserve of the few – for good or evil.”

“You should tell the world, Professor, all that you know.”

“And the world would not believe me, but in telling all, my powers would be dissipated. But not so those of our mutual enemy. The King of Darkness thrives upon disbelief. You know that, Campbell.”

“You could at least warn the people somehow.”

“No.” Professor Slocombe arose from his chair, his ancient limbs click-clacking. “The football ground and what lies beneath it must remain untouched. I will play my part in seeing that this remains so. And you will play your part also.”

“As I always have,” said the Campbell. “I am sworn to serve you.”

“I know that. And if we achieve our ends without anyone else being aware of our genuine motives, so much the better. Brentford retains its football ground and a team that might go on to further success. And the Powers of Darkness are forestalled until another day.”

“And the Apocalypse?” the Campbell asked.

“Postponed,” said Professor Slocombe. “Indefinitely.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

“I enjoin with your hopes.”

John Omally zipped up his trousers. As the bog in The Stripes Bar had been flooded – something to do with Billy Bustard, apparently – John had slipped out to make his ablutions elsewhere.

And he had been doing so against this old pile of corrugated iron and debris beneath the south stand when he’d heard these muffled voices.

And so, whilst peeing, he had pressed his ear to the corrugated iron and overheard a certain private conversation.

And now he heard the words, “Goodnight to you, Campbell.”

And John Omally made it away.

Lightly and upon his toes.

John Omally for once didn’t sleep at all well. He slept alone, in the bed that was his own, which at least made a change for him. But he slept most uncomfortably. John Omally had much on his mind.

He was puzzled and disturbed by the conversation he had overheard between Professor Slocombe and Mahatma Campbell. What had that all been about? The Apocalypse? The King of Darkness? Things that were blacker than black? Something beneath the football ground that had to remain undisturbed? And what had he, Omally, got Jim into? Mahatma Campbell was to protect Jim – from what? The blacker-than-blackers?

Omally had considered having it out with the professor, but that would have taken more nerve than even he possessed. Omally revered the ancient scholar, and trusted him also. But if Jim was being used as some kind of pawn in some cosmic good-versus-evil game, then John could not be a party to that. Jim was his bestest friend.

John Omally just didn’t know what to do.

And when folk just don’t know what to do, they always do one of two things: the wrong thing, or nothing at all.

John decided on doing the latter.

Because John, like Jim, now had responsibilities. And to John, these were probably even more irksome than they were for Jim, for while Jim was at least responsible for himself, John was totally irresponsible. Although basically a good man, John Omally did do a lot of things that were not entirely good. They weren’t terribly bad, but they certainly weren’t good, either.

“I’ll try harder,” said John, as he fought to get some sleep. “And I’ll work hard, I really will.”

And then the thought of all the work that lay ahead of him kept him even wider awake.

He’d taken on a lot here. Certainly he hadn’t taken it on out of a spirit of altruism. Rather, he had to admit – at least to himself, where no one else could hear him – that he had done it from greed, for the many potential pennies that might be made if the unlikely event of Brentford winning the FA Cup was to occur. There was Jim’s bet with Bob the Bookie, for one thing. And even if the team didn’t succeed, there would be the profits from the Omally-improved Stripes Bar, and the Omally-improved gift shop, and countless other nice little earners that were sure to present themselves to the aspiring entrepreneur who had a hand in running a football club.

But now …

But now it was a case of right here – right now.

John had to organise a Benefit Night for the following evening and fill The Stripes Bar up with folk who were prepared to dig deeply into their pockets for a worthy cause that all considered lost. John took some comfort in the fact that he had made a single telephone call that evening, from The Stripes Bar, and it might just be that this telephone call would prove its worth upon the following morning.

But it was all rather scary, this responsibility lark.

And so John Omally did not sleep comfortably in his bed and did not greet the morning with a smile.

Norman did.

He was up with that lark that always gets up early, because Norman had a phone call of his own to make – to the Patent Office. Norman had all these plans that he’d painstakingly copied from those that had appeared on his computer screen, and Norman meant to find out whether any of the marvellous Victorian inventions pictured in these plans had ever received a patent.

Because if they hadn’t …!

Norman hoisted the bundle of newly delivered
Brentford Mercury
s on to his counter, took out his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife, cut away the twine bindings, pressed apart the waxed brown paper and exposed the day’s front-page news.

“A hard rain’s gonna fall!” exclaimed the shopkeeper, in no small surprise, as he read the headline: BRENTFORD DESTINED TO WIN FA CUP.

An hour later, Neville read this selfsame headline and the text that was printed beneath it. And Neville the part-time barman ground his teeth and loosened an expensive filling.

And at approximately the same time, Bob the Bookie viewed the front page of the
Brentford Mercury
and did grindings of
his
teeth, loosening an even more expensive filling.

And shortly after that, Jim Pooley, a man for whom sleep was becoming little more than a precious memory, also read this headline and the text that was printed beneath it. Jim read it whilst sitting in his office and wondering what he should be doing with himself for the day. And Pooley smiled hugely unto himself and said, “Nice one, John, you’re certainly doing your job.”

“Your job,” said Lily Marlene as she turned up her well-lashed eyes from the newspaper towards the customer who now stood before her counter in The Plume Café, “is apparently personal assistant to Brentford’s new manager, ‘a gentleman’ – and I quote from the
Mercury
– ‘who is employing a revolutionary approach to the beautiful game, honing the team to perfect fitness and investing them with a will to win that will make them unbeatable this season’.”

“This is apparently the case,” said John Omally, smiling his winning smile.

“All rather sudden, isn’t it?”

“Grasp the nettle,” said John, miming the grasping thereof. “Seize the moment and things of that nature, generally.”

“And yet the last time we met, you were buying dodgy fags off a dodgy salesman.”

“All above board,” said John. “Would you care for a few packs to put behind the counter?”

Lil shook her peroxide head, showering John with pheromones. “And I quote,” she continued, “‘Mr Omally is organising a fund-raising
Night of the Stars
, a charity auction with A-list celebrities and live music from “name bands”. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.’”

“Stripes Bar tonight,” said John. “It will be my honour to act as your escort, if you would deign to grace this auspicious occasion with your divine presence.”

“John,” said Lily Marlene, “this is one bash I wouldn’t miss for the world.”

“Splendid,” said John. “I’ll be round here at seven-thirty to drive you there myself.”

“I didn’t know you had a car.”

“I don’t,” said John, “but I’ve got a big whip.”
[13]

“A whip-round?” said Mr Kay of Kay’s Electrical Stores in the High Street. “Naturally I’m aware of the concept. It’s just that I’ve never actually …”

“For the club,” said John Omally, who now stood before Mr Kay’s counter. “Every tradesman, and woman, is putting in. I’ve just come from The Plume – Lily is offering her support.”

“Oh,” said Mr Kay, and he sighed. “Lily,” he said, in a sighing voice.

“It’s called sponsorship,” John continued. “You get to have your establishment advertised upon the team’s shirts. That’s the kind of advertising that money just can’t buy.”

“But I thought you said—”

“I don’t want your money,” said John.

“You don’t?” said Mr Kay.

“No,” said John. “Perish the thought. All I want is
that
.”

“What is
that
?” asked Jim Pooley of the man who now stood before his desk.

“It’s a mobile phone,” said John Omally. “I acquired it from Mr Kay in the High Street.”

“A mobile phone?” Pooley drew back in horror. “I’ve heard about those lads,” he said. “They fry your brain with microwaves. Otherwise normal individuals turn into burbling fools the moment they put one of those things to their ear. They feel compelled to call people simply to inform them of their whereabouts. They will be the death of us all. Throw the thing away, John, while you still have the power to do so.”

“Enough of your nonsense, Jim. This little baby is all charged up and ready to bring fortune to the both of us.”

“I am afeared,” said Jim. “Use it out in the open, lest the death rays penetrate my groin.”

“No,” said John. “I’ve read that an independent committee formed from employees of the mobile phone companies has declared these contraptions to be absolutely harmless.”

“Well, don’t blame me if you end up speaking in a high voice and feeling the urge to ride Marchant side-saddle.”

“I’ll use it outside, if it bothers you so much.”

“It does, and who do you intend to call on it anyway?”

“A-list celebrities. Name bands. All manner of folk.”

“May God go with you, then.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Now, there are friends who have friends, who have other friends of their own (some of whom, no doubt, live by a river) and John Omally had cultivated many friendships in his time – mostly, it is true, with the female of his species. John had an awful lot of numbers in his little black book and the battery of his new mobile phone
was
all charged up.

Lunchtime found John still making phone calls. He sat now in The Stripes Bar, in the corner he had marked out as his office, in a chair he had acquired from Goddard’s Home-Furnishing Stores in the area of the High Street known as the Brentford Half-Acre. Mr Goddard had loaned the comfy recliner (the 3000 series Royal Damask model) in return for having his company logo printed upon the team’s shirts. The chair was a plug-in jobbie with a footrest that went up and down to offer support for the varicosely inclined and a vibrating doodad built into the seat for those who were otherwise inclined. John had the remote control in his phone-free hand and John’s feet were going up and down.

“So let me get this straight,” John was saying, “you said to Val Parnell that if your name didn’t go above the jugglers, you would not appear.”

John listened as further words poured into his ear.

“And do you think you can get all three Beverley Sisters?” he enquired.

Jim Pooley drank at the bar counter. He had no wish to interrupt John in the course of his business.

“He’s certainly doing his stuff, isn’t he?” Jim said to Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

“He’s switched breweries also,” said the barman. “We’ll have Large here on the hand pump by this evening.”

“Bliss,” said Jim.

“You reckon?” The barman shrugged. “He’s ordered enough beer for tonight to slake the thirst of the Queen’s Own Regiment of Foot, Fowl and Four-by-Two, and it’s not on sale or return.”

“Beer never is,” said Jim.

“The sort I always ordered was.”

Jim shrugged also.

“And crisps,” said the barman. “I never trouble with crisps. Too messy, crisps. They get in the carpet. I can’t be doing with crisps.”

Jim cast a shufty around and about the dire establishment. There was nothing that crisps could do to make it any worse than it already was.

“And peanuts,” said the barman mournfully. “And he’s hiring in extra bar staff. Women, I’m told.”

“Stop now,” said Jim. “You’ll spoil the surprise.”

“And bunting.”

“Stop, please.”

“I don’t know where
you
are going to find all the money.”

“Definitely stop,” Jim told him. “All will be well.”

“I’m thinking of running away with the circus,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin.

“Am I speaking to
the
Tom Jones?” Jim heard John Omally say.

“And who exactly am
I
speaking to?” Norman asked.

He was in his kitchenette and his telephone wasn’t working properly. He’d had to wire it back into the box into which he’d wired the Internet cable of his computer and there had been some more scorching of the fingertips involved.

“Ah yes,” said Norman. “The Patent Office, Mr Parker … Pardon? Oh yes, I see, Percy Parker the patents person – rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? I said, ‘It rolls off the tongue.’ Yes. Listen, I have to talk to you about a number of inventions. I want to know whether patents have ever been taken out on them. Pardon? Oh yes, I see, you’re the man to ask. Right then. Sorry, what? Ask you then? Yes, I will.”

“Will I
what
?” Neville stared across the saloon bar counter of The Flying Swan at Old Pete, who stood smiling before him. “I thought I told you that you were barred for a week.”

“You did,” said Old Pete, who today actually smelt of old peat, for he had been turning his allotment beds.

“And you want me to do
what
?” Neville asked.

“Just put one of these up in your window and a bundle of these on your counter.” Old Pete proffered papers.

“Are they pamphlets?” asked Councillor Doveston, who had just popped in for a swift half-dozen before settling in for his afternoon snooze.

“Flyers,” said Old Pete, thrusting one in the councillor’s direction.

“About bees, by any chance?”

“The Brentford Bees,” said Old Pete. “There’s a benefit fund-raising night this evening at The Stripes Bar. John Omally had these pamphlets run up on the library photocopier. I’m giving them out in return for free entrance to the event. Cheap beer and A-list celebrities.”

“Out of my bar!” cried Neville.

“Excuse me?” said Old Pete.

“You heard me.” Neville reached for his knobkerrie. “Traitorous knave!”

“Now, let me get this straight,” said Old Pete. “Are you refusing to display the poster and hand out some flyers?”

Neville’s face was a sight to be seen. And not a very pretty one. “Out!” he roared.

“You are saying,” said Old Pete, unflinchingly, “that you do not wish to offer your support to an enterprise that might save Brentford football ground?”

“I …” said Neville. “I … never—”

“You wish to number yourself amongst the vile would-be despoilers of our borough who seek to destroy our glorious heritage?”

“I never said that.” Neville shook from Brylcreemed head to carpet-slippered toe.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Old Pete. “I dread to think of how dire the consequences might be for you if you had.” He mimed once more the throwing of a rope over a high beam.

“Give them here,” snarled Neville, “and then depart.”

“Are you not going to offer me one for the road?”

“Get out.”

Old Pete chuckled as he shuffled away. “Don’t forget to put up the poster,” he called upon his departure.

“I know it’s a bit of a departure from the norm,” John Omally was saying into his mobile phone, “but please bear with me on this, there is a good reason for it.”