Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

Neville did not rise like a lark, more like a turkey on Christmas Eve. He had a bad feeling that he could not put a name to. Something was very wrong in the borough, his nose told him so. But exactly what, that was anyone’s guess. “Probably nothing,” said the part-time barman as he lay in wait for Norman’s paper-boy, pointed stick in hand.

Jim lay long in bed, nursing a hangover of extreme proportions. When the cabbage wine had gone he had done the unthinkable and broken into Omally’s hut wherein lay a half-crate of five-year-old Scotch. “If he is dead,” Pooley reasoned, “he will forgive me, if alive then I can always apologize.” Such reasoning had got Pooley where he was today, wherever that might have been.

The Professor looked in at his door. “Sleep on, sweet prince,” he said softly. “You are going to need all the strength you have.”

Inspectre Hovis had had a rough night. It had all been in newspaper headlines again. Each announcing in big black letters the sacking in great disgrace of the great detective. His commander had given him twenty-four hours to wind up his investigations, arrest the master criminals and recover the gold. Hovis awoke in a cold sweat to the sound of his telephone ringing.

“It must be tonight,” said the voice of Hugo Rune. “Be ready.”

Hovis replaced the receiver; his number was unlisted, he had not given it to Rune. “Tonight,” said Inspectre Hovis, “tonight.”

“And this is the London Olympics,” said the television set.

“And off you go,” said Neville, pulling the plug.

Young Master Robert danced before him in a youthful delirium. “That is for the benefit of the punters,” he cried, “switch it back on this minute.”

Neville gazed round at the deserted bar. “Why don’t you get stuffed?” he enquired under his breath.

“Your job’s on the line here, pal,” bawled the bouncing boy. “Get it back on, that’s an order!”

“As you please.” Neville inserted the plug in its socket. He could have found a far better place to stick it. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.

“You useless skinny bastard,” said the Young Master. “You and your paddy mate thought you’d got the better of me, didn’t you? Thought you could wind me up, eh?”

“No offence meant,” said Neville, “none taken, I hope.”

“Do you see this?” The boy waggled an official-looking document beneath the barman’s nose. Neville did not like the smell of it. “See it, do you?”

“I think I can just make it out.”

“Well, take a good long look.” He spread the paper out upon the bar-top. “Peruse and inwardly digest.”

Neville cocked his good eye over it, firstly with disinterest, then with amazement, latterly with horror.

“You are selling the Swan?” he whispered in a creaking, breathless voice.

“Yes indeedy. This dump never made a decent profit, most likely because your hand was always in the till.” Neville took the greatest exception to that remark, but he was dumb-struck. “Well, now you can do the other thing. We’re selling it off. The brewery is diversifying, expanding into other areas, leisure complexes, recreational facilities, the growth market of tomorrow. These old spit and sawdust pubs are a thing of the past. The Swan is finished, you are finished.”

Neville’s brain swam in soup. “I… you … what…”

“Watchamate, Neville,” said Jim Pooley who, upon rising from his pit, knew exactly where he should take his breakfast.

“Jim,” said Neville, “Jim.”

Jim spied the barman’s grave demeanour. “Something up?” he asked, astute as ever.

“He’s just about to get his coat on and go down to the Job Centre,” said Young Master Robert.

“He is what?” Jim looked at Neville. “What is all this?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” said the boy, “but this scrawny excuse for a barman is getting the elbow.”

“You are sacking Neville?” Pooley shook his head in order to wake up his brain. He surely hadn’t had that much to drink last night. But perhaps he had, perhaps he was having the DTs. “Sacking Neville?”

“He’s out. The brewery is selling the Swan.”

“Selling it, for how much?”

The Young Master turned the property details, for such they were, about on the bar-top. “Seventy-five-thousand pounds, more than it’s worth.”

“And when does it go on the market?”

“End of the week. Interested, are you?” he asked sarcastically. “You look like you could run to a sleeping-bag and a quart of cider.”

“There are no witnesses,” said Jim to Neville, “shall I kill him now?”

Neville hung his drowning head. “You know my feelings about murder in the bar.”

“This is a somewhat exceptional circumstance, we might waive the rule on this occasion.”

“You pair of no-marks, go screw yourselves.” With this parting shot, the Young Master stepped around the bar counter and drew himself a large Scotch. Grinning like a dead moggy, he took his drink off to a distant table.

Jim looked at the lost barman. “Golly,” said he.

“The game would appear to be up,” the other replied. “Have a pint on the house.” He took down a glass, stared through it wistfully and placed it beneath the beer spout.

“Seventy-five thousand,” said Jim. “Not an unreasonable sum, all things considered.”

“Well beyond my means.” Neville pulled upon the pump handle and presented Jim with his pint. “And yours also.”

Pooley smiled. “Not necessarily. Have a little look at this, and take a large Scotch for yourself.” Jim dug out the now legendary betting slip and spread it before the barman.

Neville looked at the slip, he looked at Pooley, at the slip, at the Scotch optic, at Young Master Robert, at Pooley. Neville did a whole lot of looking. “So it’s true,” he said in a whisper, appropriate to the occasion. “This is the genuine article. I heard talk, of course.”

Jim nodded. “The real McCoy, as they say.”

“Congratulations.” Neville was unable to muster a lot of conviction. “I mean, well done, I am happy for you.”

“Come on, Neville,” said Jim, “it would be a great shame to see the Swan change hands or ever, God forbid, close down. It’s kind of my past, I’d hate to see it go.”

“Then you …”

“Not me, Neville, you “Me?”

“Of course.” Pooley grinned, a warm flush of pure pleasure crept all over his body. “This is your pub, you should own it, it is your right.”

“My right?”

“I give it to you as a present,” said Jim, “on the promise that you never change a thing, not a hair of the carpet, not a tatty old bar-stool, not a nothing. That you keep it as it always has been, for ever.”

“I promise.” Neville crossed his heart. “You really mean it?”

Jim dug a leaky biro from his pocket and wrote upon a beer-mat, NEVILLE, IOU £75,000, signed Jim Pooley. “I’ll be around twelve tomorrow with the money, God willing.”

“God willing?”

“There are a few matters that the Professor and I have to sort out. Oh and Neville, you will take down that silly sign, won’t you? I always liked The Flying Swan, just as it was.”

“Oh yes , Jim, oh yes indeed!” Neville clutched the beermat to his chest. “Tell me once again that this is really true!”

“It is really true, and why shouldn’t it be. Every man should be entitled to his ‘happy ever after’, it’s only fair.”

“Oh yes , Jim, yes, yes, yes! ” Neville pulled the plug from the television set. “Time, gentlemen, please,” he called. “Come on now, gents, have you no homes to go to?”

The Young Master leapt up from his seat and stormed across the bar. “Time, gentlemen, please? What’s your game? Have you gone bloody mad?”