The Brentford Triangle (16 page)

“Same again,” said Professor Slocombe. Neville did the honours. “All is well with you, I trust, barman?” the old gentleman asked. “You wear something of a hunted look.”

“I am sorely tried, Professor,” said Neville. “I can smell disaster, and this very night. The scent is souring my nostrils even now as we speak. It smells like creosote, but I know it to be disaster. If we survive this night I am going to take a very long holiday.”

“You might try Penge, then,” said the old man brightly, “I understand that it is very nice, although…” His words were suddenly swallowed up by a battery of
Bitows
from the nearby games machine.

Neville scowled through the crowd at the hunched back of the paperboy. “Perhaps I will simply slay him now and take my holiday in Dartmoor, they say the air is very healthy thereabouts.”

“Never fear,” said Professor Slocombe, but his eyes too had become fixed upon the green-haired youth. Speaking rapidly into Nick’s ear was a man of average height, slightly tanned and with high cheek-bones. The Professor couldn’t help thinking that he put him in mind of a young Jack Palance. The youth, however, appeared so engrossed in his play as to be oblivious to the urgent chatter of the darkly-clad stranger.

Neville chalked the bill on to the Professor’s private account, and the old gentleman freighted his tray back to his table. “How goes the state of play?” he asked Omally.

“Squires Trelawny is disputing Young Jack’s score,” said John, unloading the tray on to the table. “He is obviously not altogether
au fait
with Jack’s technique.”

“Oh dear,” said Pooley pointing towards the dispute. “Young Jack is not going to like that.”

Trelawny, a temperamental fellow of the limp-wristed brotherhood, frustrated by the apparent wall of indifference his objections ran up against, had poked one of the Horsemen’s leading players in the eye with his finger.

“Trelawny is disqualified,” said the adjudicator.

“You what?” Squires turned upon the man in the rented tuxedo and stamped his feet in rage.

“Out, finished,” said the other. “We brook no violence here.”

“You are all bloody mad,” screamed the disgruntled player, in a high piping voice. The crowd made hooting noises and somebody pinched his bum.

“Out of my way then!” Flinging down his set of Asprey’s darts (the expensive ones with the roc-feather flights), he thrust his way through the guffawing crowd and departed the Swan. Young Jack, who numbered among his personal loathings a very special hatred for poofs, made an unnoticeable gesture beneath table level, and as he blustered into the street Trelawny slipped upon an imaginary banana skin and fell heavily to the pavement. As he did so, the front two tyres of his Morris Minor went simultaneously flat.

“This has all the makings of a most eventful evening,” said Jim Pooley. “The first eliminator not yet over and blood already drawn.”

The adjudicator wiped away the New Inn’s name from the board. With their best player disqualified, morale had suffered a devastating and irrevocable blow, and the New Inn had retired from the competition.

Next up were the North Star and the Princess Royal. The North Star’s team never failed to raise eyebrows no matter where they travelled, being five stout brothers of almost identical appearance. They ranged from the youngest, Wee Tarn, at five feet five, to the eldest, Big Bob, at six foot two, and had more the look of a set of Russian dolls about them than a darts team. Their presence in public always had a most sobering effect upon the more drunken clientele.

Their opponents, upon the other hand, could not have looked less alike had they set out to do so. They numbered among their incongruous ranks, two garage mechanic ne’er-do-wells, a bearded ex-vicar, a tall lift engineer with small ears, and a clerk of works with large ones. They also boasted the only Chinese player in Brentford. Tommy Lee was the grand master to the Brentford Temple of Dimac and was most highly danned, even amongst very danned people indeed. Few folk in the Borough ever chose to dispute with him over a doubtful throw.

However, Tommy, who had taken the Dimac oath which bound him never to use any of the horrendous, maiming, tearing, crippling and disfiguring techniques unless his back was really up against the wall, was a fair and honest man and very popular locally. He was also the only player known to throw underarm. He fared reasonably well, and as usual it took two strong lads to withdraw his hand-carved ivory darts from the board.

“I’ll bet that took the remaining plaster off Archie’s back parlour wall,” said Omally. “By the way, Professor, I hope the man from Bombay is being well-catered for. We wouldn’t want him popping next door to grill up a popadum, would we?”

Professor Slocombe tapped his sinuous nose. One or other of the North Star’s men was throwing, but it was hard to tell which when they were detached from the set and you couldn’t judge them by height.

“One hundred,” bawled the adjudicator.

“What odds are you offering at present upon the North Star?” the Professor asked. Out of professional etiquette John answered him tic-tac fashion. “I will take your pony on that, then.”

“From your account?”

“Omally, you know I never carry money.”

“The Princess Royal need one hundred and fifty-six,” boomed the adjudicator, taking up the chalks.

The lift engineer, making much of his every movement, stepped on to the oché. There was a ripple amongst the crowd as his first dart entered the treble twenty. A whistle as his second joined it and a great cry of horror as his third skimmed the double eighteen by a hairbreadth. Crimson to the tips of his small and shell-likes, the lift engineer returned to his chair, and the obscurity from which he had momentarily emerged.

“Unfortunate,” said Professor Slocombe, rubbing his hands together, “I have noticed in matches past that the lift engineer has a tendency to buckle under pressure.”

Omally made a sour face, he had noticed it also, but in the heat of the betting had neglected to note the running order of the players. “The North Star needs eighty-seven.”

Amidst much cheering, this figure was easily accomplished, with a single nineteen, a double nineteen and a double fifteen.

“I am up already,” said Professor Slocombe to the scowling Irishman.

“And I,” said Pooley.

Now began the usual debate which always marred championship matches. A member of the Princess Royal’s team accused the men from the Star of playing out of order. The adjudicator, who had not taken the obvious course of forcing them to sport name tags, found himself at a disadvantage.

Omally, who had spotted the omission early in the game, shook his head towards Professor Slocombe. “I can see all betting on this one being null and void,” said he.

“I might possibly intervene.”

“That would hardly be sporting now, would it, Professor?”

“You are suggesting that I might have a bias?”

“Perish the thought. It is your round is it not, Jim?”

Pooley, who had been meaning to broach the subject of a loan, set against his potential winnings, began to pat at his pockets. “You find me financially embarrassed at present,” he said.

“I think not,” said Professor Slocombe. “I recall asking you for a pound’s-worth of change from the Swan’s cash register.”

“You did sir, yes.” Pooley shook his head at the Professor’s foresight and fought his way towards the bar.

Neville faced his customer with a cold good eye. “Come to kick me in the cobblers again, Pooley?” he asked. “You are here on sufferance you know, as a guest of Omally and the Professor.”

Jim nodded humbly. “What can I say?”

“Very little,” said Neville. “Can you smell creosote?”

Pooley’s moustachios shot towards the floor like a dowser’s rod. “Where?” he asked in a tremulous voice.

“Somewhere close,” said Neville. “Take my word, it bodes no good.”

“Be assured of that.” Pooley loaded the tray and cast a handful of coins on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he called, retreating fearfully to his table.

“We’re up next,” said Omally, upon the shaky Jim’s return. “Will you wager a pound or two upon the home team?”

“Neville smells creosote,” said Jim.

“Take it easy.” Professor Slocombe patted the distraught Pooley’s arm. “I have no doubt that they must suspect something. Be assured that they are being watched.”

The Captain Laser Alien Attack machine rattled out another series of electronic explosions.

Norman stepped on to the mat amidst tumultuous applause. He licked the tips of his darts and nodded towards the adjudicator.

“Swan to throw,” said that man.

Norman’s mastery of the game, his style and finesse, were legend in Brentford. Certain supporters who had moved away from the area travelled miles to witness his yearly display of skill. One pink-eyed man, who kept forever to the shadows, had actually travelled from as far afield as Penge.

“One hundred and eighty,” shouted the adjudicator, although his words were lost in the Wembley roar of the crowd.

“It is poetry,” said Omally.

“Perfect mastery,” said Pooley.

“I think it has something to do with the darts,” said Professor Slocombe, “and possibly the board, which I understand he donated to the Swan.”

“You are not implying some sort of electronic duplicity upon the part of our captain, are you?” Omally asked.

“Would I dare? But you will notice that each time he throws, the Guinness clock stops. This might be nothing more than coincidence.”

“The whole world holds its breath when Norman throws,” said Omally, further shortening the already impossibly foreshortened odds upon the home team. “Whose round is it?”

“I will go on to sherry now, if you please,” said the Professor. “I have no wish to use the Swan’s convenience tonight.”

“Quite so,” said John. “We would all do well to stay in the crowd. Shorts all round then.” Rising from the table, he took up his book, and departed into the crowd.

Old Pete approached Professor Slocombe and greeted the scholar with much hand-wringing. “My dog Chips tells me that we have a bogey in our midst,” said he.

“And a distinguished one of the literary persuasion,” the elder ancient replied. “Tell your dog that he has nothing to fear, he is on our side.”

Old Pete nodded and turned the conversation towards the sad decline in the nation’s morals and Professor Slocombe’s opinion of the post office computer.

Omally found the boy Nick at the bar, ordering a half of light and lime. “Have this one on me,” he said, handing the boy two florins. “You are doing a grand job.”

Raffles Rathbone raised a manicured eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you now approve?” he asked.

“Each to his own. I have never been one to deny the pleasures of the flesh. Here, have a couple of games on me and don’t miss now, will you?” He dropped several more coins into the boy’s outstretched palm.

“I never miss,” Nick replied. “I have the game mastered.”

“Good boy. Two gold watches and a small sweet sherry please, Neville.”

The part-time barman glared at Omally. “You are paying for these,” he snarled. “I still have my suspicions.”

“You can owe me later,” Omally replied, delving into his pockets. “I am a man of my word.”

“And I mine, eighteen and six please.”

“Do you know something I don’t?” Nick asked the Irishman.

“A good many things. Did you have anything specific in mind?”

“About the machine?”

“Nothing. Is something troubling you?”

Nick shook his limey head and turned his prodigious nose once more towards the unoccupied machine. “I must be going now,” he said, “the Captain awaits.”

“Buffoon,” said Omally beneath his breath. By the time he returned to the table, the Swan’s team had disposed of their adversaries in no uncertain fashion.

“I am sure that I am up by at least two bob on that game,” said Pooley.

“Two and fourpence,” said Professor Slocombe. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

The final eliminating match lay between the Four Horsemen and the Albany Arms, whose team of old stalwarts, each a veteran of Gallipoli, had been faring remarkably well against spirited opposition.

“Albany Arms to throw,” boomed himself.

“Leave me out of this one,” said Pooley. “Unless God chooses to intervene upon this occasion and despatch Young Jack into the bottomless pit, I feel it to be a foregone conclusion.”

“I will admit that you would have a wager at least one hundred pounds to win yourself another two and four-pence.”

“Don’t you feel that one thousand to one against the Albany is a little cruel?”

“But nevertheless tempting to the outside better.”

“Taking money from children,” said Professor Slocombe. “How can you live with yourself, John?”

Omally grinned beneath his beard. “Please do not deny me my livelihood,” said he.

From their first dart onwards, the Albany began to experience inexplicable difficulties with their game. Several of the normally robust geriatrics became suddenly subject to unexpected bouts of incontinence at their moments of throwing. Others mislaid their darts or spilled their beer, one even locked himself in the gents’ and refused to come out until the great grinning black goat was removed from in front of the dartboard.

It was remarkable the effect that Young Jack could have upon his team’s opponents. The crowd, however, was not impressed. Being responsive only to the finer points of the game and ever alert to such blatant skulduggery, they viewed this degrading spectacle with outrage and turned their backs upon the board.

Young Jack could not have cared less. The Four Horsemen needed but a double thirteen to take the match and the Albany had yet to get away. The present-day Faust smirked over towards the Professor and made an obscene gesture.

Professor Slocombe shook his head and made clicking noises with his tongue. “Most unsporting,” said he. “I shall see to it that none of this occurs in the final.”

Without waiting to watch the inevitable outcome of the game, he rose from his chair and took himself off to where the Swan’s team stood in a noisy scrum, ignoring the play.