The Sprouts of Wrath

7

“Lunacy! Madness!” Major McFadeyen struck the council table with two tightly knotted fists. A surprising tangle of veins arrayed themselves upon his neck, lending it the appearance of one of those nasty anatomical models surgeons like to frighten patients with. Something resembling a blue slug pulsed away upon the major’s left temple.

“Madness!” Momentarily exhausted by the ferocity of his out-cries, he slumped back into his chair. “And I’ll tell you this …” He rose again, supporting himself upon his palms. “It’s … it’s …” A button flew from the top of his waistcoat, tinkled to the table and rolled in a curious geomantic circle before rattling to a standstill. “It’s … lunacy!” He sat down, puffing and blowing.

Councillor Ffog examined his fingernails and made little embarrassed tutting noises with his mouth.

Philip Cameron chewed his lower lip and rattled coins in his trouser pocket. Sensing his anxiety, Mavis Peake slipped a calming hand on to his thigh and smiled encouragingly.

For their part the brothers Geronimo stared into the middle distance, arms folded, knees together, minds upon the Little Big Horn. Ms Naylor regarded the Major with a mild expression.

“Lunacy, I say.” McFadeyen, now a shade of purple that interior decorators describe as crimson magenta, arose for another blast.

Ms Naylor smiled the sweetest of smiles towards the fuming fogey. “And might I enquire as to why?”

“Well … well …” The Major reclenched his fists. “Dammit, woman!”

“Yes?” Ms Naylor leant forward as if attentive to the Major’s every word. As she did so, her breasts, constrained within her silken blouse, gently caressed the table top. The calculated eroticism of the act was not lost upon Philip Cameron, who found his loins responding appropriately. The fingernails of Mavis Peake dug in deeply.

“I’m speechless.” Major McFadeyen sank away into his seat, fanning himself with last week’s minutes.

“It is all perfectly straightforward.” Ms Naylor rose upon the four-inch heels she had considered suitable for the occasion, and tossed her auburn hair back in delicious waves across her perfect shoulders. “As you are all no doubt aware, the disastrous fire at Birmingham this week has, on the face of it, ruled out Great Britain’s chances of hosting the Olympic games.” Heads nodded, Ms Naylor continued. “It is my proposal that Brentford rise to the call of its country and host the games. This is the motion that I am forwarding.” She stared deeply into Philip Cameron’s eyes. “Will someone second me?”

Wilting visibly beneath the emerald stare, Councillor Cameron bobbed his head up and down after the fashion of a nodding dog in a Cortina rear window. Mavis Peake gave his left testicle a terrifying tweak which doubled him up in a paroxysm of pain. As his forehead struck the council table with a sickening thump the brothers Geronimo considered his scalp, their hands straying towards the Bowie knives in their trouser pockets.

“Why, thank you, Philip,” said Jennifer Naylor.

The Major, now Ribena-hued and apoplectic, gathered what wits remained to him and prepared to come up fighting. He hadn’t blasted buffalo in the Ngora Gora basin, topped tigers in Tibet and walloped the Watusi in God knows where, to be put down by a damned woman. “Where?” he spluttered. “Where?”

“Right here,” Ms Naylor indicated the immediate vicinity.

Councillor Ffog put up his hand. “If you will pardon me for asking, who would be expected to foot the bill for this … uh … venture?”

“I have all the figures to hand. What particular costs were you interested in?”

Councillor Ffog wiggled his fingers foolishly. “I mean the expense, how much would it cost?”

Ms Naylor snapped open her Filofax. “To build an Olympic stadium, complete with all facilities, Olympic village, public access roads, etc., etc., etc.”

“Yes?” said Councillor Ffog.

“Around one hundred million pounds.”

Now, there are silences, and there are silences. Some are such that a pin hitting the old fitted Axminster is capable of breaking them. This one, however, was of such a nature that within it the distinctive futt futt of brain cells dying within Major McFadeyen’s head were clearly discernible.

“We have fifty-one pounds, thirty-four pence in the kitty,” said Mavis Peake, a woman to whom silences were simply moments that people used to draw breath between statements. “If you can come up with ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight pounds sixty-six pence we shall be home and dry. Here,” she continued, with what she considered to be crushing irony, “I’ll throw in my box of matches to light the Olympic flame.”

Councillor Ffog chuckled horribly. Major McFadeyen munched upon a phenobarbitone. The brothers Geronimo made grave faces and nodded towards one another.

Paul said, “One hundred million heap big wampam, squaw gott’m screw loose in wigwam attic.”

Barry nodded. “Me agree, noble brother, squaw been bunging too much loco weed down cakehole.”

Ms Naylor drew back her shoulders and smoothed down her blouse. “I am well aware that Brentford Borough Council cannot be expected to raise such a sum. The money must come from a private backer.”

Councillor Ffog, who considered himself to be, as the French have it, “somewhat of a garçon”, enquired as to whether anybody had Bob Geldof’s telephone number.

Rising from his seat he said, “Although one hundred million is a mere dip into Paul McCartney’s petty cash box, it might not be readily accessible to the average punter.” Satisfied that he had wrought crushing defeat upon his adversary, Ffog grinned smugly and resumed his seat. Before his bum had hit the cushion, however, he was aware that Ms Naylor was continuing her discourse as if he had never spoken.

“And what if such a backer could be brought forward at this very moment? What then, gentlemen?” Ms Naylor glanced pointedly towards Mavis. “And lady, of course.”

“Do so!” roared the Major. “Do so, madam!”

“Macca’s petty cash box, eh?” whispered Ffog, winking lewdly and nudging a Geronimo twin about the buckskin ribs. Mavis Peake leant forward in her chair. Any attempt upon her part to indulge in any erotic breast-brushing, however, would have required her to place her chin firmly upon the table. “If you can find a philanthropist willing to finance a Brentford Olympiad to the tune of one hundred million pounds,” she sneered, “then we shall all second the motion and declare it carried.”

“Hear, hear,” mumbled a muddy brown Major, drifting into a pharmaceutical haze. A further chorus of hear hears filled the unhealthy atmosphere of the council chamber. Philip Cameron clutched at his testicles and maintained a bitter, clench-toothed silence.

Ms Naylor smiled and nodded her head gently as if in time to some secret melody. “So be it then,” she said dramatically. “Consider it done.” She clapped her hands and at the signal the doors of the council chamber opened to reveal a pair of Covent Garden design-studio-executive-types sporting designer sunglasses, clipped beards and Paul Smith suits. They flanked what appeared to be a hospital trolley, its upper regions shrouded beneath folds of white linen.

“Oooh!” said Clyde Ffog, straightening his tie. “Nice.”

“May we enter?” enquired the taller of the two.

Clyde Ffog nodded enthusiastically. “Please do,” said he.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the smaller of the pair, “I am Julian Membrane and this is my associate, Lucas Mucus.” Lucas bowed slightly from the waist, anticipating the looks of disbelief which generally greeted his name. “Of the Membrane, Mucus, Willoby, Turncoat and Gladbetook Partnership, specialists in the conceptualizing of new marketing trends through increased consumer product awareness. Design Consultants. Our card.”

Paul Geronimo eyed the thing suspiciously, “White brother speak with forked tongue,” he observed. “Talk load of old buffalo chips,” his brother agreed.

“We should very much like to make for you our presentation,” Membrane continued. “We are acting upon the part of our client, a great philanthropist who wishes to finance the games here. He is a scientist and something of a recluse and he wishes for us to make this presentation upon his behalf. He chooses anonymity; we honour his wishes.”

“Words spill from white brother’s mouth like wheat from chafing dish of careless squaw,” said Paul Geronimo. Barry eyed his brother proudly. He could never think of things like that to say. He went along with Paul’s conviction that they were a dual reincarnation of the great Apache chief mostly because he liked dressing up.

“Thus,” said Julian Membrane, “we offer our conceptual representation for the proposed Brentford Olympiad.” With a flourish, he drew aside the linen cover from the trolley to expose a scale model of Brentford. With a chorus of “oohs” and “ahs”, those councillors that were able rose from their seats to view the wonder. For wonder it indeed was.

The model’s realism was uncanny — the entire borough reduced, as if by magic, to doll’s house proportions. The councillors gathered about it, cooing and pointing, anxious to examine their own houses, as well as those of their fellows. Mavis Peake let out a little excited cry. “Even my bedroom curtains are the right colour!”

“What are those things in your back garden then?” Philip Cameron asked Clyde Ffog. “They look like instruments of torture.”

“Rubbish,” spluttered the reddening Ffog. “They’re … er … bean-frames.”

Philip Cameron was unconvinced. Paul Geronimo whispered loudly to the effect that “brown-hatted brother heap big bondage fan”.

“This is an invasion of privacy!” cried Ffog. “So where is the bloody stadium then, under the ground?”

Lucas Mucus shook his cropped head. “On the contrary, very much over the ground, as it happens.”

“Oh, yes!” crowed Ffog. “And where do you propose to put it?”

Mucus took up a pointer. “Here, here, here, here and here,” he dipped variously about the borough.

Clyde Ffog looked baffled. Ms Naylor said, “I think you’d better demonstrate, Lucas.”

“Certainly, madam. If you would be so kind, Julian.”

Julian smiled, nodded and, stooping, withdrew from a compartment in the trolley a glittering object approximately a third of the size of the model village. It had much the look of a flat star which contained at its centre a dancehall mirror-globe. Julian held it out proudly before the assembly. “The Star Stadium,” he said. If he had been hoping for a round of applause then he was to be sorely disappointed.

“And where would you like to stick that?” asked Ffog pointedly.

“Lucas, if you would be so kind.”

Lucas nodded with politeness and pressed a small button at the side of the model. There was a hiss of hydraulics, and from each of the five locations previously appointed arose a telescopic column. When these had risen to their full extent, Julian stepped forward and placed the “star” gently upon them, tip upon tip. “Wallah,” he said.

Lucas made free with his pointer. “The columns will be five hundred feet high,” he said proudly. “Traffic will flow into the North and East legs directly from the Great West Road, to rise upon a continuous belt lift to parking bays beneath the stadium. Each area between star tip and sphere houses an Olympic village, the central sphere a stadium seating five hundred thousand, swimming pools, full games complexes, etc., etc., etc.”

“Hold on, hold on,” blustered Clyde Ffog. “You are seriously proposing to hang this thing above Brentford? Apart from the obvious dangers, it will plunge half the town into permanent darkness.”

“Do you think so?” Julian asked. “Look closely at the model.”

Clyde Ffog gave the thing a good squinting. To his amazement he realized that the stadium cast no shadow. “There is no shadow!” he exclaimed.

“That heap big medicine by any reckoning,” declared Barry.

“A scientific breakthrough,” said Lucas. “The top of the stadium is covered in solar cells, these absorb light and project it through similar cells on the underside. In fact, when the real stadium is completed it will appear literally invisible from below, there will simply be the appearance of a clear sky.”

“If not talking out back of loincloth then that technological miracle of first magnitude,” Barry said, nodding respectfully. “Nobel prize in that for inventor.”

“That is only one small miracle,” said Lucas. “You mentioned obvious danger did you not?”

Clyde nodded fiercely, “What if the whole shebang falls down on Brentford? Don’t tell me you can put up a thing like that without something getting dropped, or falling off!”

“Julian,” said Lucas. Julian reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a flat black disc about the size of an old penny. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is ‘Gravitite’. A self-buoyant polysilicate which has rather special qualities.” He held the disc between thumb and forefinger and then released it. To general amazement and gasps of disbelief it did not fall to the floor, as one might reasonably expect. Instead it remained where it was, suspended in the air in defiance of all the laws of nature, or some of them at least.

“That not heap big medicine,” said Barry Geronimo. “That fucking impossible!”

“Not really,” said Julian Membrane. “You see, it is not actually defying gravity. The disc is falling, but it is falling so slowly that its movement is scarcely perceptible. So you see the stadium is really only moored to the five columns. During the two months or so it is in use it will fall possibly two inches or so.”

Even though he felt sure it would get him nowhere, Clyde Ffog persisted, “What if someone drops something during the actual assembling? Hammer? Rivets? Someone in Brentford is sure to get killed!”

“No chance of that whatsoever.” Julian’s smugness was becoming roundly intolerable. “Gravitite possesses other qualities. Its molecular structure is such that two pieces need only be touched together for them to weld unbreakably as one. Therefore no rivets, no visible joins, no hammers. The stadium will be constructed elsewhere in sections, towed into place by dirigibles and manoeuvred together at night.”

Councillor Ffog knew when he was licked. (He also enjoyed it very much at times.) The whole thing was utterly fantastic. Pure science fiction.

Philip Cameron’s eyes suddenly shone with a strange light. It was the light of realization. Realization that The Moment that only comes to a man once in his lifetime had just arrived. Before him, hanging motionless in the air was an apparently endless row of pound note signs.

“This Gravitite stuff,” he said casually, “obviously it can be produced pretty cheaply if you intend to build an entire stadium out it.” Julian nodded. “Then I’m sure you won’t object if I have this piece as a souvenir.”

Julian plucked the disc from the air. It turned weightlessly in his hand. “I’m afraid not,” he said, thrusting it back into his pocket.

“How rude of me,” said Philip, praying despairingly that the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead would remain unnoticed. “Let me write you out a cheque for your time and trouble.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Come now,” crooned Cameron, “you’ll take Barclaycard surely, American Express?”

“I’m afraid not,” Julian patted his pocket.

“Oh, come on, please, it’s only a tiny piece, you can spare it!” Cameron’s voice was cracking and he knew it. So did everyone else.

A suddenly enlightened Barry Geronimo broke in with, “I’ll go cash on it, John, how does a century sound?”

“One hundred and fifty,” said Councillor Ffog, “no, make it two hundred.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Julian raised his hand to bring the feverish bidding to a halt. There were knighthoods in this project and he knew it. Also his partnership had been promised the Gravitite account when it went public after the games. “It is not the money, I assure you,” he lied. “I cannot sell what is not mine to sell. We have been honoured with the trust of our client. M.M.W.T. and G. never betray the trust of a client.”

Philip Cameron sank away into a chair. He had missed his Moment and would live out the rest of his days a broken man. Mavis Peake put her arm about his shoulder and offered her hanky. “Have a good blow,” she said.

“Gentlemen, please,” Julian Membrane raised an admonitory palm towards the Geronimo brothers, whose conversation had turned towards the taking of paleface scalps and who were delving into their medicine bags for suitable war-paint. “Lucas here is a master of Dimac, deadliest form of martial art known to mankind.”

Paul peered suspiciously over his make-up mirror. “Sitting Bullshit,” he said, smearing Mary Quant across his right cheek.

“If there are no further questions,” said Lucas, “we shall not take up any more of your valuable time.”

“I have a couple,” said Clyde Ffog.

“And they are?” The unveiled condescension in Julian’s voice grated upon Ffog’s soul. She’s a prize bitch, this one, he thought to himself.

“Just a couple of small matters I’d like you to put me straight on.”

Julian glanced at the Geronimos. They were momentarily preoccupied with their make-up. “Yes then?”

“Firstly, who owns the sites on which you plan to erect the leg columns?”

“Ah,” said Julian. “That is the beauty of the concept. Our client owns all five sites; he purchased them all most recently. From you, the Brentford Council.”

“I see,” said Ffog. “You seem to have been very thorough indeed.”

Julian smiled broadly and bowed slightly. “Anything else, was there?”

“Just one thing.” Clyde Ffog stroked at his chin. By a bizarre twist of fate his One Moment was just about to occur and he wanted to savour it. “I was just wondering,” he said slowly, “whether you’d got planning permission?”

Julian and Lucas looked at one another. They had not got planning permission. “Ah,” said Julian. “Ah,” said Lucas. “Ah,” said the councillors, although theirs was an entirely different kind of ah. “Ah, indeed,” said Clyde Ffog, smiling broadly.

If The Guinness Book of Records was ever to include a section for “The Largest Backhander Ever Taken By a District Surveyor” it would appear above the name of Clyde Merridew Ffog, formerly of Brentford and now domiciled in the Seychelles. “Would you gentlemen care to step into my office?” asked this most exalted amongst men.

Amidst gasps of horror, murmurs of disbelief and the sound of tomahawks being drawn, Clyde Ffog ushered the two young oiks hurriedly from the chamber.