Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

From the corner of his eye, Pooley noticed a scruffy-looking individual approaching. Normally he would not have given a stranger a second glance, but there was something furtive and suspicious in the way that he moved which set Jim almost instantly upon the alert. A small red warning light flashed on the dashboard of his brain. In the light of future events, those of a mystical nature might incline to the belief that our old friend, the sixth sense was at work again. Those of a more cynical disposition might well suggest that it was nothing more than a cliched literary device aimed at holding the reader’s wandering attention. Whatever the case, Jim, recalling a night at the Flying Swan when he’d watched a drunk who claimed to be ex-SAS roll an ordinary newspaper into a sharpened point and, to Neville’s horror, drive it a full inch into the bar top, began to twist his copy of the Mercury into a clumsy sausage which might possibly have put the wind up a poodle.

The furtive figure crept closer and hovered a few yards from Pooley’s bench. Jim, nerves taut as fiddle strings and sagacity possibly rivalling that of the ring-tailed possum, turned upon him. “Good morning to you,” said Jim. “Can I be of some help or what?” Taking full stock of the stranger, Pooley was not all that taken with what he saw. From shiny suede chukka boots to frayed corduroys, the observer’s eye led over an expanse of shabby raincoat to a grizzled face, unshaven of chin, dark of eye and topped by a greasy fedora. Here, thought Jim, is a man whose flirtation with hygiene never led to a lasting relationship.

“Jim Pooley?”

Jim nervously rolled his newspaper. This man was definitely not Eamonn Andrews proffering the big red book, neither was he Chalkie White or one of the Page Three lovelies offering to exchange a five spot for the answer to a simple question. “You just missed him,” said Pooley. “He teaches unarmed combat down at the church hall on Saturday mornings. I expect you’ll find him there.”

“This is it,” said the shabby man, withdrawing from his pocket something that looked for all the world to be none other than the legendary “Judge Colt”. “Your luck just ran out.”

Jim’s brain struggled to encompass this sudden shift in fortunes, a no-mark, a potential millionaire and a coffin case all within the same twenty-four hours. It took some getting used to. “I don’t think I quite understand,” said Jim, staring into what looked like the muzzle of a howitzer.

“It is perfectly straightforward,” explained the shabby man. “I am going to kill you, do you want it here or elsewhere?”

“Oh, definitely elsewhere, name the place, I’ll meet you there.”

“Get moving.” The shabby man returned his peacemaker to his pocket and gestured with the bulge of the hidden barrel.

I wonder where all the nice policemen are, wondered Jim. It’s funny how there’s never one around when you need him.

“This way.”

Jim found himself being prodded down a side alley, which he knew led to a break in the allotment fence. “You’ll kick yourself when you read tomorrow’s paper,” said Jim, “you’ve got the wrong man, you know.”

“Get moving.”

“I am but a poor man but you can have all that I own.”

“I shall anyway.”

“What have I done to deserve this?” wailed Jim. “I haven’t harmed no-one.”

“Over here.”

Pooley hung his head and moved on over. The two threaded their way through the shanty town of corrugated iron huts, between well-tended plots and pastures wild. There was not a tenant to be seen.

“Stop.”

“Must I?”

The shabby man drew out his pistol and pressed the cold steel against the nape of Pooley’s neck. “Recommend yourself to your deity.”

Jim spun round. His terror was absolute but his nerve had not absolutely deserted him. “Now see here,” he said, “a dying man is entitled to a last request. Everybody knows that.”

“So what is it?”

Jim fell to his knees. “Don’t kill me,” he begged.

“Request denied.” The pistol rose and levelled at a point midway between Pooley’s eyes.

“Look out! Behind you!” cried Jim. It had always worked in the movies, well, a couple of times anyway.

“Do me a favour.” Jim could see the black crescent of finger-nail as it drew back upon the trigger. There was a very loud bang and then things went very black indeed.

John Omally stood above the fallen twosome, spade in hand.

“Wake up, Jim,” he called. “It’s opening time.”

Pooley stirred from his nightmare and found himself still staring into his would-be assassin’s face: stubble, spots, halitosis and all. “Aaagh!” went Jim, rolling smartly in a swift sideways direction, “and help!”

“You’re lucky I saw you coming past my hut,” said John, reaching down to take up the fallen revolver. “This bugger would have done for you.”

Pooley climbed shakily to his feet. “What’s all this about?” he mumbled, feeling himself all over for bullet holes. “I didn’t do anything to anybody.”

“I don’t think Bob would agree with you.”

“You what?” Pooley was swamped by sudden realization. “So that’s why you let me place the bet! You knew he’d try something like this.”

“Come, come, Jim, you cannot blame me for your lack of foresight. You are the victim of your own avarice. I saved your life, did I not?”

“You put it in jeopardy first.”

“I would not have let any harm come to you.”

“I’ve got a weak heart.” Pooley indicated the wrong side of his chest. “Such a shock could have done for me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Give me that gun. I will deal with Bob directly.”

“As you please.” Omally handed the weapon to his companion. “But it will do you no good.”

Pooley spun the gun upon his finger, anger and a lust for vengeance leant him an unexpected dexterity. He sought out a short cigar from his top pocket and wondered how he might appropriate a poncho and a cowboy hat at short notice. “And why will it do me no good?” he asked.

“Because,” said John, “the gun is a replica, it’s not real.”

“What?”

“It was meant to frighten you, to make you give up the betting slip. Bob hasn’t got the bottle to hire a hit-man, this is Brentford, not Chicago in the roaring twenties.”

“I’m not so sure. Bob, as we all know, is a very sore loser.”

“Where am I?” groaned a shabby fallen figure.

“He’s not quite dead,” said Jim. “At least I might give him a slight kicking to aid him upon his way.”

“If you feel it necessary,” said John, “although I do not believe it to be in your nature.”

Pooley tossed the gun into a nearby waterbutt. As an afterthought he pulled off the shabby man’s chukka boots and did likewise with them. “It’s not,” said Jim.

“Lets get down to the Swan,” said John Omally, “I’ll buy you a pint.”

“Now that,” said Jim, “is an excellent idea.”

The Flying Swan was unusually crowded for the time of day. John and Jim elbowed their way towards the bar and cried out for attention. Neville detached himself from a noisy throng at the counter and came over to do the honours.

“It’s busy,” John observed.

Neville tapped at his slender nose. “Whitehall,” he whispered hoarsely, “there’s all sorts in from Westminster, and on a Saturday too. It seems you can’t just say you’re hosting the Olympic games without getting some kind of official say-so. All seems a little fussy to me. Something to do with red tape.”

“So you mean that there might be some doubt,” Pooley clutched at his breast pocket, wherein rested his key to the potential millions.