The Brentford Triangle

16

Neville sat alone at a side table in his favourite darkened corner of the empty saloon-bar. He heard the library clock faintly chiming the hour over towards the Butts Estate and sighed a deep and heartfelt sigh.

This was one of the part-time barman’s favourite times, when, the optics replenished, the pumps checked, and the glasses polished, he could sit alone for the short half-hour before opening and reflect upon days gone by and days possibly yet to come.

This afternoon, however, the barman felt oddly ill at ease. Something was going on in the borough, something sinister, and he could smell it. Although whatever it was lurked just out of earshot and beyond his range of vision, Neville knew he could smell it. And what he could smell, he most definitely did not like. It was musty and tomb-like and had the sulphurous odour of the pit to it, and it made him feel awkward and uneasy.

The part-time barman’s long thin hand snaked out from the darkness and drew away a tumbler of scotch from the table top. There came a sipping sound, a slight smacking of lips, and another great dismal sigh. Neville leant forward to replace the glass and his nose cleaved through the veil of shadow, a stark white triangle.

He shook his head vigorously in an attempt to free himself of the gloomy feeling which oppressed him. The feeling would not be so easily dislodged, however. Neville took a deep, deep breath, as a drunken man will do under the mistaken belief that it will clear his head. The effort was wasted of course, and the part-time barman slumped away into the darkness taking his scotch with him.

Something was very wrong in Brentford, he just knew it. Some dirty big sword of Damocles was hanging over the place, waiting to drop at any minute. His nose told him so and his nose was never wrong. Certainly the Swan’s patrons scoffed and sneered at his extra-nasal perception, but he knew what was what when it came to a good sniff. It was a family gift, his mad Uncle Jimmy had told him when he was but a scrawny sprog. The entire clan possessed it in varying degrees, and had done so since some half-forgotten time, in the pagan past, at the very dawn of mankind. Down through the centuries it came, father to son, turning up again and again and again. A great and wonderful gift it was, a blessing from the elder gods, which should never be used for personal gain or profit. “But what exactly is it?” the young Neville had asked his musty-looking relative. “Search me,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I’m on your mother’s side.”

Neville had total recall when it came to his childhood. He could remember every dismal dreary moment of it, with soul-destroying clarity. He, the gangling lad, always head and shoulders above his classmates and always sniffing. Such children do not have any easy time of it. And with the coming of his teens it got no better. Although highly sexed and eager to make the acquaintance of nubile young ladies, Neville’s gaunt, stooping figure, with its slightly effeminate affectations, had attracted the attention of quite the wrong sort of person. Big fat girls, some sporting cropped heads and tattoos, had sought to smother him with their unsavoury affections. Young fellow-me-lads of the limp-wristed persuasion were forever asking him around for coffee to listen to their Miles Davis records with the lights out. Neville shuddered, grim times.

He had given up all thoughts of being a young buck and a bit of a ladies’ man at an early age, and had fallen naturally enough into the role of aesthete. He had dutifully nurtured a six-hair goatee and frayed the bottom of his jeans. He had done the whole bit: the Aldermaston marches, which he joined for the last half mile to arrive in Trafalgar Square amidst cheering crowds; the long nights in coffee bars discussing Jack Kerouac and René Magritte over cold cups of espresso; the dufflecoats and Jesus boots, the night-school fine arts courses. But he never got his end away.

He had met many a big-breasted girl in a floppy sweater, smelling of joss sticks, who spoke to him of love being free and every experience being sacred. But they always ended up at the art teacher’s pad and he back at home with his mum.

He’d never been one of them, and he couldn’t blame it all on his nose. He was simply an outsider. That he was an individualist and an original meant little to a lad with stirrings in the groin department.

Neville rose from his seat and padded across the threadbare carpet to the whisky optic. Surely things hadn’t been all that bad, had they? Certainly his childhood and years of puberty had not exactly been the stuff of dreams, but there had been moments of joy, moments of pleasure, hadn’t there?

Neville’s total recall could not totally recall any. Still, things weren’t all that bad now. He was the Swan’s full-time part-time barman, and it was an office which made him as happy as any he could imagine.

If he had known when he was fifteen that this lay in store for him, he would never have suffered such agonies of self-doubt when he realized that he could not understand a single bit of Bob Dylan’s “Gates of Eden”.

But how had he come to get the job in the first place? It had been a strange enough business by any accounts.

Neville remembered the advert in the Brentford Mercury: “Part-time barman required, hours and salary negotiable, apply in person. Flying Swan.”

Now in his late twenties and making a career out of unemployment, Neville had jettisoned the camphor bags and forced himself into his one suit, given his brothel creepers a coat of Kiwi, and wandered down to the Swan to present himself. The acting part-time barman, who shortly afterwards absconded with a month’s takings and several cases of scotch, had given him the summary once-over. He asked if he thought he could pull a pint, then hired him on the spot.

As to who the actual tenant of the Flying Swan was, Neville had not the slightest idea. The paint had flaked off the licensee plate outside, and those who swore they knew the man like a brother gave conflicting accounts as to his appearance. Neville had been handed the keys, told to take his wages from the disabled cash register, and left to get on with it. It had been a rare challenge but he had risen to it. He had no knowledge of running a pub but he had learned fast, and the ever-alert locals had only ever caught him the once on any particular dodge. He had single-handedly turned the Swan from a down-at-heel spit and gob saloon to a down-at-heel success. He had organized the trophy-winning darts team, who had now held the local shield for a record five consecutive years. He had supervised the numerous raffles and alehouse events, acted as oracle and confessor to local drunks, and strangely and happily had evolved into an accepted part of the Brentford landscape.

He was at home and he was happy.

Neville’s smile broadened slightly, but a grim thought took off its edges. The brewery. Although they had no objection whatsoever to his residency, him being basically honest and the pub now running at a handsome profit, the brewery gave him no rest. They were forever suggesting special events, talking of modernization, and installing things… His eyes strayed involuntarily towards the bulky contours of the humming monster which he had now covered with a dust sheet tightly secured with baling wire.

Neville tossed back his scotch and looked up at the Guinness clock; nearly five-thirty, nearly opening time. He squared up his scholar’s stoop and took another deep breath. He would just have to pull himself together. Embark upon a course of positive activism. Be polite to his patrons, tolerant of their foibles, and indulgent towards their eccentricities. He would smile and think good thoughts, peace on earth, good will towards men. That kind of thing. He was certain that if he tried very very hard the horrid odour would waft itself away, to be replaced by the honeysuckle fragrance of spring.

From not far away the library clock struck the half-hour, and Neville the part-time barman flicked on the lights, took himself over to the door, and opened up. On the doorstep stood two bearded men.

“Good evening, barlord,” said Jim Pooley.

“God save all here,” said John Omally.

Neville ushered them into the bar without a word. Now was the present and what was to happen happened now and hereafter and it surely couldn’t be all bad, could it? The two men, however, seemed to be accompanied by a most extraordinary smell. Neville pinched at his nostrils and managed a somewhat sickly grin. “Your pleasure, gentlemen?” he asked when he had installed himself behind the jump, and his two patrons had resumed residency of the two barstools which had known not the pleasure of their backsides for more than a week. “What will it be?”

Pooley carefully withdrew from his pocket the five-pound note, which had not left his clammy grip since it had been handed to him, and placed it upon the bar counter.

Neville’s eyebrows soared into a Gothic arch. He had hoped that if he thought positively things might turn out OK, but this? This transcended even his wildest expectations. Jim Pooley with a five-pound note?

And it got worse. “Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Pooley, smiling almost as hideously as the barman, “and have one yourself!”

Neville could feel a prickling sensation rising at the back of his neck. Have one yourself? He had read in paperback novels of the phrase being used by patrons of saloon-bars, but he had never actually encountered it in real life. “Pardon,” said the part-time barman, “might I have that last bit again.”

“Have one yourself,” Pooley reiterated.

Neville felt at his pulse. Could this really be? Or had he perhaps died and gone to some kind of barman’s Valhalla or happy drinking ground? The nervous tic went into overdrive.

Omally, who was growing somewhat thirsty, made the suggestion that if Neville wanted to take advantage of Jim’s generosity it would be better if he dropped the amateur theatricals and did so at once. Neville hastened to oblige. “Thank you Jim,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me then. Your kindness is well received, I thank you.”

Still mumbling the phrase “Have one yourself” under his breath, Neville pulled two pints of the Swan’s finest. As he did so he took the opportunity to study the two men, whose eyes were now fastened by invisible chains to the rising liquid. The beards were odd enough in themselves, but that Pooley’s shirt appeared to have shrunk by at least two sizes and that the colour of Omally’s regimental tie had run on to his neck were things of exceeding strangeness. Caught in a sudden downpour perhaps? Neville could not remember any rain. The ducking-stool then? Some lynch mob of cuckolded husbands exacting a medieval revenge? That seemed feasible.

The barman passed the two exquisitely drawn pints across the counter and took possession of the magical blue note, which he held to the light as a matter of course. Having waited respectfully whilst Pooley and Omally took the first step towards quenching their long thirst he said at length, “Well now, gentlemen, we have not had the pleasure of your company for more than a week. You have not been taken with the sickness I hope, nor struck by tragic circumstances.”

Pooley shook his head. “We have been in Penge,” he said.

“Penge,” said Omally, nodding vigorously.

“Ah,” said Neville thoughtfully. “I haven’t actually been there myself, but I understand that it’s very nice.”

“Splendid,” said Pooley.

“Very nice indeed,” his colleague agreed. “You’d love it.”

Neville shrugged and turned away to cash up the traditional “No Sale” and extract for himself the price of a large scotch. As he did so Pooley remembered the Professor’s request.

“Could I have a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it?” he asked politely.

Neville froze in his tracks. A pound’s worth of change? So that was it, eh? The old “have one yourself, barman” was nothing more than the Judas kiss. Pooley planned to play the video machine. “You bastard!” screamed Neville, turning upon the drinker.

“Pardon me?” said Jim.

“Pound’s worth of change is it? Pound’s worth of change? You treacherous dog.”

“Come now,” said Jim, “steady on.”

“Steady on? Steady on? Have one yourself barman and a pound’s worth of change while you’re at it! What do you take me for?”

“Seemed a reasonable request to me.” Pooley looked towards Omally, who was covering his drink. “What is going on, John?” he asked.

Omally, who was certainly never one to be slow on the uptake, explained the situation. “I think that our good barman here believes that you want the money to play the video machine.”

Pooley, whose mind had been focused upon matters quite removed from video games, suddenly clicked. “Oh,” he said, “good idea, make it thirty-bobs’ worth, Neville.”

“AAAAAAGH!” went the part-time barman, reaching for his knobkerry.

Pooley saw the hand vanishing below counter level and knew it to be a very bad sign. “Come now,” he implored, backing away from the bar, “be reasonable. I haven’t played it in a week, I was just getting the hang of it. Look, let’s just say the quid’s-worth and call it quits.”

Neville brought the cudgel into prominence. “I’ve had enough,” he shouted, hefting it in a quivering fist. “You traitor. Touch the thing and you are barred, barred for life. Already today have I barred one regular, another will do no harm.”

“Who is the unhappy fellow?” asked Omally who, feeling himself to have no part in the present altercation, had not shifted from his seat.

“Norman,” growled Neville. “Out, barred for life, finished, gone!”

Omally did his best to remain calm. “Norman?”

“Norman.”

“Norman Hartnell of the corner shop?”

“That Norman, yes.”

“Norman Hartnell, the finest darts player this side of the Thames? Norman the captain of the Swan’s darts team? The five times trophy-winning darts team? The very darts team that plays at home for the championship on the twenty-ninth? That Norman you have barred for life?”

What colour had not already drained from Neville’s naturally anaemic face took this opportunity to make an exit via his carpet-slipper soles.

“I… I…” The barman rocked to and fro upon his heels; his good eye slowly ceased its ticking and became glazed, focused apparently upon some point far beyond the walls of the Swan. He had quite forgotten the darts tournament. The most important local sporting event of the entire calendar. Without Norman the team stood little hope of retaining the shield for a sixth year. What had he done? The locals would kill him. They would tar and feather him and ride him out of the town on a rail for this. Darts wasn’t just a game in Brentford, it was a religion, and the Flying Swan its high temple. A bead of perspiration appeared in the very centre of Neville’s forehead and clung to it in an appropriately religious fashion like some crystal caste mark. “I… I… I…” he continued.

Old Pete entered the Swan, Chips as ever upon his heels. Being naturally alert, he spied out the barman’s unnatural behaviour almost at once. “Evening to you, Omally,” he said, nudging the Irishman’s arm. “Haven’t missed anything, have I?”

“Sorry?” Omally, although a man rarely rattled, had been severely shaken by the barman’s frightful disclosure.

“The mime,” said Old Pete. “I’m very good at these. Spied out Norman’s Quasimodo some days back and won an ounce of tobacco. This one looks quite easy, what’s the prize?”

Omally scratched his whiskers. “What are you talking about?”

The old loon put his head upon one side and stroked his chin. “Is it a film or a television programme?” he asked. “Do I get any clues?”

“It’s a book,” said Pooley, taking the opportunity to retrieve his pint before retreating to a safe distance.

“I… I… I…” went Neville.

“Must be the Bible then,” said Old Pete. “Not that I’ve ever read it. Should say by the look of the stick and everything that it’s either Moses parting the Red Sea or Samson slaying all those Philippinos with the jawbone of an ass.”

Young Chips, who was of a more metaphysical bent, suspected that it was more likely Lobsang Rampa’s The Third Eye, with the caste mark and the glassy stare and what was quite obviously some kind of mantra based upon the concept of self-realization; the I.

Neville slowly replaced his knobkerry, and turned to the cash register where he drew out Pooley’s change, including amongst it thirty shillings’-worth of florins. Preventing patrons from playing Captain Laser machines did not seem to be of much importance any more. “Enjoy your game,” he said, handing the still flinching Jim the money.

Old Pete shook his head. “Can’t abide a poor sport,” he said. “Guessed it in one, did I? Told you I was good. What about the prize then?” Neville, however, had wandered away to the end of the bar where he now stood polishing an imaginary glass with an invisible bar cloth. “What about a drink then?” The ancient turned imploringly towards Pooley and Omally, but the two had taken themselves off to a side table where they now sat muttering over an outspread map. “I won it fair and square,” said Old Pete to his dog. Chips shrugged, he had a bad feeling about all this and wished as usual to remain non-committal.

Jim Pooley ran his finger up and down the cartographical representation of Brentford and made a wash-handbasin out of his bottom lip. “This really is all getting rather dire,” he said. “Spacemen on the allotment, starships on the attack, and the Flying Swan without a darts captain. Are we dreaming all this or can it really be true?”

Omally fingered his beard and examined the tide marks about his cuff. “It’s true enough,” said he, “and I think we might do no better than to apply ourselves to the problem in the hope that a solution might be forthcoming.”

“We’ll have to do something about Neville.” Pooley peered over his shoulder towards the dejected figure. “I can’t stand seeing him like that.”

“All in good time,” said Omally, giving his nose a tap. “I am sure I shall be able to effect some compromise which will satisfy both parties and get us one or two freemans into the bargain. For now though the map must be the thing.”

Jim had his doubts but applied himself once more. “What are we looking for?” he asked very shortly.

Omally took out his Asprey’s fountain pen, which by virtue of its quality had withstood its ordeal by water with remarkable aplomb, or la plume, as the French would have it. “If a pattern exists here I shall have it,” he said boldly. “When it comes to solving a conundrum, the Omallys take over from where the fellow with the calabash and the deerstalker left off. Kindly turn the map in my direction.”

“Whilst you are solving the Enigmatic Case of the Cerean Cipher,” said Pooley sarcastically, “I shall be off to the bar for another brace of Large. I am at least getting pleasure from my newly acquired wealth.”

The ordnance survey map had received more than a little attention on his return. “Looks very nice,” he said. “I didn’t know that there was a streak of William Morris in you, John. Taken to designing wallpaper, is it?”

“Silence,” said Omally. “If it is here, I will have it.”

Jim sucked at his pint. “What are all those?” he asked, pointing to a network of squiggles.

“The drainage system of the borough.”

“Very good, and those?”

“All the houses that to my knowledge have recently fitted loft insulation.”

“You are nothing if not thorough. And the curlicues?”

“That is a personal matter, I have left nothing to chance.”

Pooley stifled a snigger. “You surely don’t believe that an alien strikeforce has plotted out the homes of your female conquests as a guideline to their invasion?”

“You can never tell with aliens.”

“Indeed.” Pooley watched the Irishman making crosses along a nearby side-road. “Might I venture to ask what you are plotting now?”

“Morris Minors,” said Omally.

Jim stroked his beard reflectively. “John,” he said, “I think that you are going about this in the wrong way. The Professor suggested that we look for some kind of landmarks, surely?”

“All right then.” Omally handed Jim his cherished pen. “You are obviously in tune with the Professor’s reasoning, you find it.”

Pooley pushed out his lip once more but rose to the challenge. “Right then,” he said, “landmarks it is. What do we have?”

“The War Memorial.” Pooley marked a cross. “The Public Library.” Pooley marked another.

Twenty minutes later the map had the appearance of a spot the ball contest form that had been filled in by a millionaire.

“I’ve run out,” said Omally.

“So has your pen,” said Jim, handing his friend the now ruined instrument. The two peered over the devastated map. “One bloody big mess,” said Jim. “I cannot make out a thing.”

“Certainly the crosses appear a little random.”

“I almost thought we had it with the subscribers to Angling Times though.”

“I could do with another drink.”

“We haven’t done those yet.”

Omally pressed his hands to his temples. “There is not enough ink in the country to plot every drinker in Brentford.”

“Go and get them in then.” Pooley handed John one of the Professor’s pound notes. “I’ll keep at it.”

Omally was a goodly time at the bar. Croughton the potbellied potman, finding himself under the sudden overwhelming strain of handling the bar single-handed while Neville sought divine guidance, had begun to crack and was panicking over the drinks. The Swan now swelled with customers and arguments were breaking out over cloudy beer and short change. Omally, seizing the kind of opportunity which comes only once in a lifetime, argued furiously that he had paid with a fiver; the flustered potman, being in no fit state to argue back, duly doled out the change without a whimper.

Omally pocketed the four well-won oncers, reasoning that the news of such an event might well unbalance the sensitive Pooley’s mind and put him at a disadvantage over the map plotting. When he returned to the table bearing the drinks he was somewhat surprised to find that the expression Jim Pooley now wore upon his face mirrored exactly that of Neville the part-time barman. “Jim?” asked John. “Jim, are you all right?”

Pooley nodded gently. “I’ve found it,” he said in a distant voice. Omally peered over the map. There being no ink left in the pen, Pooley had pierced the points of his speculation through with defunct matchsticks. A pattern stood out clearly and perfectly defined. It was immediately recognizable as the heavenly constellation of Ursa Major, better known to friend and foe alike as The Plough.

“What are they?” Omally asked, squinting at the crucified map.

“It’s the pubs,” said Pooley in a quavering voice. “Every house owned by this brewery.”

Omally marked them off. It was true. All seven of the brewery pubs lay in the positions of the septentriones: the New Inn, the Princess Royal, The Four Horsemen, and the rest. And yes, sure as sure, there it was, there could be no mistake: at the point which marked Polaris, the North Star in Ursa Minor – the Flying Swan. “God’s teeth,” said John Omally.

“Let the buggers land then,” said Jim. “I am not for destroying every decent drinking-house in Brentford.”

“I am behind you there, friend,” said John, “but what can it mean? The Swan at the very hub, what can it mean?”

“I shudder to think.”

“Roll the map up,” said John, “we must tell the Professor at once.”

Pooley, who still had upon his person the price of several more pints, was reticent and suggested that perhaps there was no immediate rush. The Professor could hardly have expected them to solve the thing so swiftly. Perhaps a celebration pint or two was called for.

“A sound idea,” said Omally heartily. “In fact, as you have done so well, I suggest that we dispense with pints and go immediately on to shorts!”

“A fine idea,” said Jim, “I will get a couple of gold ones in.” Thus saying he rose from his seat and made for the bar. Quite a crush had now developed, and even Pooley’s practised elbows were hard put to it to gain him a favourable position. As he stood, waggling his pound note and trying to make himself heard, Jim suddenly felt a most unpleasant chill running up his spine. Pooley, taking this to be some after-effect of his discovery, shuddered briefly and tried to make himself heard. He found to his horror that his voice had suddenly deserted him. And it was then that he noticed for the first time that there was a strong smell of creosote in the air. Pooley clutched at his throat and gagged violently. As he did so a firm and unyielding hand caught his elbow, and held it in a vicelike grip.

Jim turned towards his tormentor and found himself staring into a face which only a mother could love. There was more than a touch of the Orient about it, slightly tanned, the cheekbones high and prominent, and the eyes slightly luminescent. It was a face in fact which bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance. The figure was dressed in an immaculate black suit and had about him the feeling of impossible cleanliness.

These details Pooley’s brain took in, but it was somewhat later before he was actually able to relate them verbally. For the present the awful clone of the legendary Hollywood star was steering the muted Jim through the crowd and towards the Swan’s door.

Pooley, realizing that the fate which lay in store for him, if not actually worse than death itself, was probably none other than the very same thing, began to struggle for all he was worth. He swung around upon his kidnapper and with deadly accuracy kneed him in the groin. Had he known anything whatever about Cerean anatomy, however, he would have gone immediately for the left armpit. As it was, his blow did little other than damage one of the Cerean’s sinuses.

Pooley was nearing the end of the bar counter by now and the Swan’s doorway was perilously close. His mouth opened and closed, paying silent tribute to Edvard Munch’s most famous painting. The patrons of the Swan, it appeared, cared little for Pooley’s plight and paid him not the slightest heed.

At the end of the bar stood Neville, staring into space. Pooley made one single-handed and desperate grab towards his bar apron. Even in a blind panic he knew better than to go for the tie. That being the first thing a drunk ever goes for, and Neville being the professional he was, the part-time barman always wore a clip-on. Pooley caught the apron and the outcome was not a pleasant thing to behold.

Neville’s genitalia, which were correctly placed for a man of Earth, were suddenly drawn into violent and painful contact with the tap spout of one of the Swan’s finest traditional hand-drawn ales.

“AAAAAAAAAGH!” went Neville the part-time barman, the searing agony suddenly reviving him from his vertical catalepsy.

The sound reverberated about the bar, silencing every conversation and turning every head. Omally, startled by the cry, leapt from his seat, and glimpsed Pooley’s dire predicament.

The Cerean tugged once again upon Pooley’s elbow, and Jim, who would not have released his grip for all the Lapsang Souchong south of the Yellow River, dragged the barman forward for a second time.

“AAAAAAAAAGH!” the part-time barman reiterated, as his cobblers smote the beer engine anew. All thoughts of darts teams and barred captains were suddenly driven from his head and he howled in pain and did his utmost to free himself of Pooley’s maniacal hold.

The Swan’s patrons, momentarily stunned by the first cry, were emboldened by the second. Tempers had been growing more and more frayed during the evening and this altercation offered a fine opportunity for giving vent to pent-up emotions. The crowd began to advance upon the threesome, and Omally was in the vanguard. With a Gaelic cry which would surely have put the wind up King Billy himself, Omally made a grab at the Cerean.

The darkly-clad figure shook him off as if he were but a speck of dandruff upon his finely-tailored shoulder. Omally tumbled to the deck, cursing and spitting. Several members of the Swan’s drinking elite laid powerful hold upon Pooley, with the result that Neville, who was rapidly giving up all thoughts of potential parenthood, found his good eye crossing once more.

The ensuing mêlée was notable for many things, not least the extraordinary display of divided loyalties. One faction was definitely pro-Neville, being firmly of the belief that Pooley had attacked the barman, and that the man in black was attempting to restrain him. Another took it that Neville, whose behaviour that evening had not exactly been exemplary, had gone for Pooley, and that the man in black was one of the brewery’s dark forces, assisting in that loyal patron’s expulsion from the Swan. A third, which counted but one in its number, and this a son of Eire, was of an entirely different opinion altogether.

It must be stated that other factions existed also. These were formed either from fellows who felt that now was as good a time as any to end some personal vendetta, or from those who by their very natures necessarily misinterpret any given situation. Their participation was notable mainly for its enthusiastic and seemingly indiscriminate violence.

Young Chips, who could smell a nigger in a woodpile even with his nose bandaged, set immediately to work upon the Cerean’s ankles.

Pooley had by now, under the welter of blows, lost hold upon Neville’s apron, and, as the part-time barman lapsed from consciousness and sank gracefully behind the bar, found himself being borne once more towards the doorway. Towards the very doorway, in fact, where John Omally now stood, brandishing a beer bottle.

“Leave hold,” roared the Irishman. Pooley’s mouth opened and closed and a lip reader would have covered his eyes at the obscenity.

The Cerean squared up to the obstacle in his path and raised his left hand to strike. Omally swung his bottle and, it must be reasoned, more from luck than judgement, struck the villain a devastating blow to the left armpit.

As he lost his grip upon Pooley, several of the pro-Neville brigade fell upon the barman’s attacker with relish.

The Cerean staggered towards Omally, who, having the advantage of fighting upon home territory, stepped nimbly aside and tripped him through the Swan’s open doorway and into the street.

Outside, parked close to the kerb, stood an automobile that was a collector’s dream. It was ink-black and gleaming, a showroom piece. The handbook had it down as a nineteen-fifty-eight Cadillac Sedan, the deluxe model. In the driving seat sat a man of average height, wearing an immaculate black suit. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance and favoured a creosote aftershave. It took him but a moment to leave the car and gain the pavement, but by then the chaos of flailing fists which now filled the Swan was spilling into the street.

The pro-Pooley faction, who knew a brewery henchman when they saw one, and who were currently occupied in assaulting the one who was rolling about clutching at his armpit, saw another quarry and wasted little time in taking the opportunity to vent their spleen.

Archie Karachi, who ran the Star of Bombay Curry Garden next door to the Swan, was a man who knew a race riot when he saw one. Thrusting a vindaloo-stained digit into his telephone dial, he rang out a rapid nine, nine, nine. Being also a man of few words, and most of those Hindi, his message was succinct and to the point. “Bloody big riot in Swan,” he bawled above the ever increasing din, “many men injured, many dead.”

The blue serge lads of the Brentford nick were not long in responding to this alarm call. With the station grossly over-manned, as befits a district with a low crime rate, what they craved was a bit of real police action. A bit of truncheon-wielding, collarbone-breaking, down to the cells for a bit of summary justice, real police action. Within minutes, several squad cars and a meat wagon were haring along the wrong side of Brentford High Street, through the red lights, and up the down lane of the one-way system, bound for the Flying Swan. Within the wheel-screeching vehicles constables were belting on flak jackets, tinkering with the fittings of their riot shields, and drumming CS gas canisters into their open left palms with increasing vigour.

What had started out as a localized punch-up, had now developed into wholesale slaughter. The numbers involved in the mêlée had been swelled significantly by the arrival of a gang of yobbos from the flatblocks opposite. Those crop-headed aficionados of the steely toecap had been met head on by the students of the Brentford Temple of Dimac Martial Arts Society, who had been limbering up for their evening’s training schedule with a fifteen-mile run. Neither of these warrior bands having the slightest idea what all the fuss was about, or which was the favourable side to support, had contented themselves with exercising their respective martial skills upon one another. Although this did nothing to ease the situation, to the crowds of onlookers who now lined the opposite pavements and crammed into every available upstairs window, it added that little extra something which makes a really decent riot worthwhile.

With sirens blaring and amber lights flashing, the squad cars slewed to a halt at the rear of a war-torn Cadillac. This development was wildly applauded by the onlookers, many of whom had thought to bring out stools and kitchen chairs, that they might better enjoy the event. As hot-dog men and ice-cream sellers, who have an almost magical knack of appearing at such moments, moved amongst the spectators, the Brentford bobbies went about their business with a will, striking down friend and foe alike. With every concussion inflicted the crowd hoorahed anew and, like the season-ticket holders at the Circus Maximus in days gone by, turned their thumbs towards the pavement.

To the very rear of this scene of massacre, pressed close to the wall of the Flying Swan, two bearded golfing types watched the carnage with expressions of dire perplexity. “Gather up the map,” said John Omally. “I feel that we have pressing business elsewhere.”

Easing their way with as little fuss as possible through the Swan’s doorway, they passed into the now deserted saloon-bar. Deserted that is, but for a certain part-time barman who now lay painlessly unconscious in the foetal position behind the jump, and an old gentleman and his dog, who were playing dominoes at a side-table.

“Goodnight to you Pooley and Omally,” said Old Pete. “You will be taking your leave via the rear wall I have no doubt.”

Pooley scooped up the map and stuffed it into an inside pocket. “Offer my condolences to Neville,” he said. “I expect that it is too much to hope that he will awake with amnesia.”

“You never can tell,” said the ancient, returning to his game. “Give my regards to Professor Slocombe.”