The Brentford Triangle

9

Pooley and Omally sat at a secluded corner-table in the Flying Swan.

“I can’t understand the Professor,” said Jim. “Didn’t seem to be himself at all.”

Omally shook his head, “I don’t know,” he replied. “Appeared to me a clear case of keep-the-golfers-guessing. I suspect that he knows a good deal more than he was letting on to.”

“Not much ever gets by him. He certainly made short work of the cabbage leaf.”

Omally leant back in his seat and cast his arms wide. “But where are we?” he asked. “Nowhere at all! We have council men doing the impossible at their every opportunity, we have runic ideograms appearing magically upon the ground and camels working their way through the season’s produce. I don’t like any of it, it smacks to me of some great conspiracy to confound honest golfers and put them off their game.”

“I suspect that it goes a little deeper than that,” said Jim, “but I agree that it does nothing to enhance the play. Perhaps we should quit the allotment now. Move on to pastures new. There are several large bombsites down near the docks surrounded by high walls. I know of a secret entrance or two.”

“Never,” said Omally boldly. “I have had enough of running. If we do not make our stand now, the bastards will eventually drive us into the sea and I care little for the prospect of underwater golf.”

“Cork balls,” said Pooley.

“I beg your pardon?”

Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Whap… “What?” Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone turned a full circle upon his heel and drove his reddening fists down on to the console of the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine. “You bastard!” he said earnestly. “You bloody sneaked an extra saucer in there.” He turned towards the bar where Neville stood, his ears protected by cotton-wool balls and his hands feverishly at work with the polishing cloth. “Have you altered this machine?” he cried.

“Get stuffed,” said Neville.

“I know the sequences,” Nick continued unabashed, “thirty shots, then a big saucer, thirty-eight, then a mother ship. Somebody has tampered with this machine.”

Neville laid down his polishing cloth, plucked the ineffective cotton plugs from his ears and glowered across the bar. “No-one has touched it,” he said, his words forming between two rows of teeth which were showing some signs of wear. “No-one has touched, tampered or tinkered with it. No official brewery representative has ever called to service it. No engineers came to polish its paintwork, change its bulbs or fondle its inner workings, nor even to empty it of the king’s ransom it must by now contain. It seemingly never breaks down, nor needs any maintenance, it runs from its own power supply and is a law unto itself. If you have any complaints I suggest that you address them directly to the machine. With any luck it will take exception to your manner and electrocute you!”

“Someone’s been tampering,” said Nick, delving into his pockets for more two-bob bits, “I know the sequences.”

The part-time barman turned away in disgust. “Jim,” he said, beckoning across the counter towards Pooley, “might I have a word or two in your ear?”

Pooley hastened from his chair, favouring the possibility of a free drink. “Your servant, bar lord,” said he.

“Jim,” said Neville, gesturing towards the hunched back of the green-haired youth, “Jim, has Omally come up with anything yet regarding this abomination? I am at my wits’ end. My letter of resignation is folded into the envelope and the stamp is on.”

Jim chewed upon his lip. It was obvious that Neville was speaking with great sincerity. It would be a tragedy indeed if Brentford lost the best part-time barman it ever had. Especially over so trivial a thing as a gambling machine.

“In truth,” lied Jim with great conviction, “Omally and I have spent the entirety of the afternoon discussing this very matter. We were doing so even when you called me across. We are, I think, nearing a solution.”

“Ah,” said Neville, brightening, “it is good to know that there are still friends in the camp. Have this one on the house.”

Pooley sank it at a single draught and strolled back to his seated companion.

“I saw that,” said Omally. “What have you just talked me into?”

“Nothing much,” said Jim nonchalantly. “It is just that Neville would prefer it if you would break the space machine now rather than later.”

Omally controlled himself quite remarkably. “But I was of the impression that the thing is indestructible. Do you not feel that this small point might put me at a slight disadvantage?”

Pooley nudged his companion jovially in the rib area. “Come now,” he said, “this should provide a little light relief. Take your mind off your worries. What is it that you lads from the old country say? Do it for the crack, that’s it, isn’t it. The crack, eh?”

“The crack?” Omally shook his head in wonder. As if things weren’t bad enough. He scratched at the stubble of his chin, which through the day had grown into what the Navy refer to as a full set, and cast a thoughtful eye towards the video machine. “I have an idea,” he said, rising from his seat. “Perhaps a success here might turn the tide of our fortunes. Give me a florin.” Pooley began to pat his pockets. “Give me the florin,” Omally reiterated. Pooley paid up.

“Now, come Jim,” said the Irishman, “and we will test the substance of this rogue apparatus.”

Neville the part-time barman watched the silver coin change hands and offered up a silent prayer to the dark and pagan deity of his personal preference.

Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone had a pile of not dissimilar coins of the realm stacked upon the chromium roof of the games machine. He was set in for the night.

“Stand aside, laddy,” said Omally in an authoritative tone. “My friend here wishes to match wits with these extra-terrestrial laddos.”

“No way,” said Nick, turning not a verdant hair, “I’m halfway through a game here.”

Omally leant down towards the youth and spoke a few words into a pointed, tattooed ear. The scourge of the cosmic commandos stepped aside. “Be my guest,” he said politely. “I will explain how it works.”

“That will not be necessary, thank you, off you go then, Jim.”

Pooley shook his head vigorously. “Not me,” he said, “these things give out dangerous X-rays. I’m not having my hair fall out and my fingernails drop off. No thank you.”

Omally patted his companion on the shoulder. “Jim,” said he, “who was it who set fire to my pop-up toaster?”

Pooley could not see the connection, but he nodded guiltily. “It was me,” he said.

“And who overwound my alarm clock?”

“Also me.”

“And who fiddled with the tuner on the wireless set which had given me good and trouble-free listening for twenty years?”

Pooley looked away. “Also me,” he said in a whisper.

“And who borrowed my electric razor and…”

“I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to use soap when shaving electric,” Pooley complained.

“Who was it?”

“Also me.”

“Then you will understand my reasoning that if there is one man capable of ruining, whether through chance, method or design, any piece of electrical apparatus with only the minimum of tampering then that person is you, James Pooley.”

Jim pushed in the florin and the video screen burst into colour. “Lift off,” he said.

“You have to use the thrust booster to get optimum lift,” said Raffles Rathbone, prancing on his toes and pointing variously at the throbbing machine. “Gauge the inclination of the saucers, if you count to three and fire just in front of them you can bring them down. Every third one is worth an extra hundred points, keep to the right and they can’t…” His voice trailed off as Omally dealt him a severe blow to the skull.

“Silence,” he said, “Jim knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t,” wailed Jim, wildly pressing buttons and joggling the joy stick.

“You’re not here to win, Jim, only to break it.”

“Break it?” Raffles Rathbone renewed his frenzied dance. “Break the machine? Oh, barman, barman, there is sabotage going on here, do something, do something.”

Neville smiled benevolently at the dancing youth. “There is nothing I can do,” he said. “All the patrons have a right to play the machine. Don’t be so selfish.”

“Selfish? This is a conspiracy, I shall phone the brewery.”

John Omally, a man to whom the word tolerance meant about as much as the rules of backgammon, snatched up the squirming malcontent by his badge-covered lapels and held him high at arms’ length. “We don’t want to go threatening the management now do we?” he asked.

“Ooh, I got one,” said Pooley suddenly. “Blew him right out of the sky. And there goes another, Bitow. There’s a knack to it you see.”

Omally let the dangling lad fall from his grasp. “Any sign of damage yet?” he asked.

“I’m damaging their invasion fleet, look that’s a hundred points, got the mother ship, you score double for that.”

Omally looked on in wonder. “Come now, Jim,” he implored, “try harder, apply a little more force.”

“I am, I am, there, took one straight out, you duck away to the side then, they can’t get you there.”

“That’s it,” said the fallen Raffles Rathbone. “Count five from the last saucer across and the scout ship comes straight, down, you can get five hundred for him.”

A look of dire perplexity appeared upon Omally’s ruddy face. “Jim,” he said earnestly, “what is happening here, Jim?”

“Nice one,” said Raffles Rathbone, “When you get up to one thousand points you get an extra man. There, you got it.”

“No sweat,” said Jim Pooley.

Omally turned away from the machine and stalked over to the bar. Neville met his approach with a face like thunder. “What is all this?” the part-time barman demanded. “Treachery, is it?”

Omally shook his head ferociously, his honour was at stake here. “Psychology,” he informed Neville.

“Oh, psychology is it, well silly old me, I could have sworn that he was enjoying himself.”

Omally smiled a sickly smile and tapped his nose. “Leave it to Jim,” he counselled. “He knows what he’s doing. Wins over the machine’s confidence, probes its defences, finds the weak spot and Bitow”

“Bitow,” said Neville giving the Irishman what is universally known as the old fisheye. “Bitow it had better be.”

Omally grinned unconvincingly and ordered another pint.

Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Whap… “What?”

“Aha,” yelled Raffles Rathbone, “forgot to tell you about their strike ships. They got you that time. Care for a game of doubles?”

“Certainly,” said Jim, “last to ten thousand gets the beer in.”

“You’re on,” said the lad.

Omally hid his head in his hands and groaned.

At ten-thirty Neville called time, just to see what might happen. As ever the response was minimal. A few lingering tourists, up to enjoy the tours around the derelict gasworks, upped and had it away in search of their coaches, which had left an hour before. But by the local colour the cry was unheeded as ever. John Omally, whose face was now contorted into an expression which would have put the wind up Rondo Hatton, sat upon his barstool sipping at the fourth pint of Large he had been forced into buying himself during the course of the evening. Jim Pooley had spent the last four solid hours locked in mortal combat with the ever-alert invaders from the outer limits of the cosmic infinite.

For his part, young Nick had never been happier. He had borne the old slings and arrows of outrageous fortune regarding his involvement with the videotic projection of the alien strike force for a goodly while. To be teamed up now with Jim Pooley, a man he had for long admired, gave him a definite feeling of invincibility. Together they would score maximum high points and get the mystery bonus. “Get that man,” he yelled, dancing like a demented dervish. “Give that lad some stick… nice one.”

Pooley paused at long last to take breath. His neutron bomb release finger had the cramp and he was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms from his self-imposed spell of drinklessness.

“I must rest now,” he told Rathbone. “I heard our good barman calling for the towels up and the habits of a lifetime cannot be set aside in a single evening. I am called to the bar.”

“You are a mean player,” said the boy admiringly. “It has been a pleasure to do battle with you.”

“You have the edge by virtue of practice,” replied Jim, “but I’ll give you a run for your money tomorrow lunchtime.”

“You’re on,” said Raffles Rathbone.

When Jim found his way to the bar counter he was somewhat astonished by the full extent of Omally’s hostility.

“What in the name of all the saints, including even those who have recently been given the big ‘E’ by the present papacy, do you think you are up to?” the Irishman asked.

Pooley was unrepentant. “Psychology?” he suggested.

“Psychology?”

“Yes, you know, win over the machine’s confidence, probe its defences, find the weak spot then Bitow! Whose round is it?”

“Yours,” said Omally, “Irrefutably yours.”

“I got fifteen thousand two hundred and one,” said Jim proudly, “personal high score, take a bit of beating that.”

“Your head likewise.”

“It’s in the wrist action,” Pooley continued informatively, “and you have to know the sequences, once you know the sequences you can go for the high-scoring ships and simply dodge the lower ones. It’s simple enough once you’ve sussed it out.”

“You’re mad,” said Omally. “You were right about the X-rays, they’ve burned out your brain.”

“Wrist action,” said Pooley, drumming his killing finger on to the bar. “One, two, three, Bitow, move to the left, Bitow, Bitow, Bitow.”

“I will kill you.”

“Tell you what,” said Jim, “I’ll give you a game of doubles tomorrow. Nick will be here and he can give you a few pointers, you’ll soon pick it up. Last one to two thousand points gets the drinks in, what do you say?”

Omally buried his face in his hands and began to sob plaintively. Pooley finished the Irishman’s pint for him. “You couldn’t spare a couple of two-bobs, could you, John?” he asked. “I just thought I’d get in another game before we go.”