Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

The Memorial Library clock struck ten as John Omally entered the Flying Swan. Saturday evening here was, as ever, a loud and raucous affair, but tonight more colour had been added by the addition of strings of bunting and large photographs of Daley Thompson and Sebastian Coe pinned up behind the bar. Neville greeted him without enthusiasm and John ordered a pint of the very best, declining the “Olympic Toasty” which Neville recommended as an ideal complement to his porter.

“This is all very jolly,” said John. “If it is a taste of things to come then we are in for merry months ahead.”

“As long as the brewery keep their hands to themselves,” said Neville, “then there might be the prospect of a few pennies to be had.”

“The javelin.” Norman’s voice arose amidst the general hubbub to catch Omally’s ear. John received his pint, paid for same and sought out the shopkeeper. “Oh yes, John,” said Norman, “the javelin.” He made the appropriate movements. Omally sipped delicately at his ale, draining the pint glass by a third. Norman’s skills with the feathered flight were legend hereabouts. He was captain of the Swan’s team, a team unbeaten these ten long years. The thought of the paunchy shopman taking on the world’s finest athletes, however, did not seem to gel.

“You are in training, then?” John asked.

Norman grinned wolfishly. “It’s all on paper,” said he.

“Ah!” Omally joined Norman in an enlightened smile. “You are designing your own javelin then?” A look passed between the two men which was of that rare sort that can only pass between old and trusted friends, or at least between those who know what each other are up to. “Then bravo,” said John. “I will have Jim put a pound or two on the home team.”

“Best I do it,” said Norman. “The jungle drums tell me that Pooley’s face does not exactly fit in Bob’s establishment at the present time.”

“Good man.” Omally called out for two refills. “Has Jim been in?” he asked Neville.

“Haven’t seen him tonight. Did you want anything to eat with those?”

“No,” said Omally, “I do not, I wonder what might have happened to Jim.”

“Surely he is still enjoying his free meal on the council,” said the barman, taking up a glass to polish. “No doubt you have just done the same.”

“I have not.”

“Then you must be famished, have an Olympic Toasty.”

“Neville,” said John, “the events of this lunchtime were not of my doing.”

“Events?”

“I am thinking of your sudden loss of clientèle which resulted in the surfeit of salmon sandwiches you are now attempting to pass off as Olympic Toasties.”

Neville took himself off in a huff to serve an impatient customer. “Bar snacks, anyone?” he was heard to enquire.

“Tell me, Norman,” said Omally as he passed the shopkeeper his pint. “As a man of science, what do you make of this stadium business?”

“In what way, John?”

“Well, is it feasible? You know, solar panels? Gravitite, all that stuff?”

“It is feasible,” said Norman, a trace of bitterness entering his voice, “although I cannot as yet say how it is to be done.”

Omally nodded thoughtfully. “It is all a bit sudden though.”

“Sudden is not the word. The news hits us today and construction appears scheduled to begin come Monday. That is speed beyond human capability. No, Gravitite alone must have taken years to develop. There is a good deal more to all this than meets the eye.”

“So what do you think?”

“Computers,” said Norman. “Computers and a single brain. And one more fearsome than that of the legendary Albert E. himself.”

“So who is your man?”

“The Lord alone knows. A scientific genius and one of considerable wealth. The paper says, ‘an anonymous philanthropist who desires anonymity’, and if that is his desire then no doubt such a man is quite capable of realizing same. But why do you ask, John? We shall all make something out of this. The stadium will come, the stadium will go. Life will continue. Let us enjoy it as we will.”

Omally finished his latest pint. “You are no doubt right,” he agreed. “So whose round is it?”

Jim Pooley lazed in the Le Corbusier. Dom Perignon lazed in Jim Pooley. It is a curious thing how the simple transfer of a body of liquid from one location to another can alter so many things. Or at least appear to. The furtive, worried Pooley of the hour past had now vanished, to be replaced by a mellow, crisis-what-crisis?-God-is-in-His-Heaven-and-all’s-right-with-the-world kind of body.

Jim tinkered with the remote controller and the twenty-five inch screen of a “re-routed” television set filled with Sergio Leone’s classic western, For a Few Dollars More . Jim greatly preferred the video (which he had viewed on many previous occasions) with the sound on, but he had never achieved full mastery of the controller and did not feel up to making the stroll over for a manual turn-up.

“It’s not a bad old life.” Jim shifted his roll-up to the corner of his mouth. “I really cannot see what all the fuss is about,” he informed the silent set, as the “Man With No Name” drew upon Red “Baby” Kavanagh and sent the outlaw to a two-thousand-dollar grave.

Old Pete rose unsteadily to address the assembled company. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, most honoured guests, friends, Romans and countrymen.” His cronies enjoined in hearty hand-claps. Jennifer Naylor chewed upon her lower lip. The Mayor said nothing. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking-” beneath the table Young Chips gnawed upon a chicken-leg and broke wind meaningfully- “I should just like to offer a word of thanks to all those who have made this evening possible. And to say that, on behalf of myself and the senior citizens of Brentford, how very much we have enjoyed the splendid repast and how very much we look forward to the brandy and cigars which must now bring it to a successful conclusion.” Old Pete reseated himself amidst tumultuous geriatric applause, a line or two of “Tipperary” and a further barrage of flatulence from his dog. “I thank you.”

Jennifer Naylor stood up, this single action playing havoc with two dozen formerly defunct libidos, and putting as many pace-makers under considerable strain. A whistle of feedback, as the ancients turned their deaf-aids up full volume, piped her aboard.

“My Lord Mayor, Government Ministers, ladies and gentlemen-” she paused and nodded towards the old contemptibles “-members of the Olympic committee.” A score of turtle necks inclined in response to this unexpected elevation in status. “Today is a day that shall be writ big in the annals of Brentford. For today, official confirmation has been made that we are indeed to host the coming Olympiad.” She put up her hand to subdue the applause that wasn’t coming anyway. “It is my great pleasure to hand you over to our honoured guest, his worship the Mayor, to give the speech of acceptance.” She primly reseated herself.

The honoured guest rose to the occasion, arranged a sheaf of papers before him on the table and his reading glasses upon his nose. He smiled down the expanse of table towards the rows of ancient faces which regarded him with but a single expression. It was not one of solicitude.

“Dear friends,” he began, “my dear, dear friends.”

John Omally finished his pint and looked up towards the battered Guinness clock. Nearly eleven o’clock, Neville was calling last orders and Pooley was nowhere to be seen. This was not how he had planned things at all. In a perfect world Pooley would have been there an hour ago; leaving their drinks unfinished, the two of them would have slipped away from the Swan, picked up the explosives from the allotment, set the charges on the barge and been back in time to finish their pints and comment upon the possible causes of the loud explosion coming from the direction of the river. Surrounded by friends, they might even have taken a stroll down to see what all the hullaballoo was about. But this was not a perfect world and Jim Pooley was nowhere to be seen. Omally slid his empty glass across the bar counter. What was the lad up to? What had become of him? A sudden grim expression forced its way across John’s normally cheerful countenance. Jim had done a runner!