“Close,” said Omally, feeling at his jaw, which had developed a most alarming click. “Corner- shopkeeper, actually.”
Pooley hastily secreted the pickaxe head behind his back, turned over a handy bucket, and sat upon it. “Not Norman? You jest, surely?”
“Look at my shirt-collar.” Omally waggled the frayed relic which now hung over his shoulder, college scarf fashion.
“Aren’t they supposed to be sewn on all the way round?”
“I will punish him severely for this.”
“You fancy your chances at a rematch then?”
Omally shook his head painfully and whistled. “Not I. Certainly the man has been personally schooled in the brutal, maiming, disfiguring art of Dimac by none other than that very Grand Master of the craft to whom you formerly alluded.”
“Gosh,” said Jim.
“I will have him down from a distance when he comes out to take in his milk tomorrow.”
“The half-brick?”
“Nothing less. I feel that we can forget all about ever-spinning wheels for the time being. Still all is not yet lost. How did you fare with the bed?” Omally peered over Jim’s shoulder. “Got it locked away somewhere safe then?”
Pooley scraped his heels in the dust.
“What have you done with the bed, Jim, and where are the sleeves of your jacket?”
“Ah,” said Jim, “ah now.”
7
Norman sat in his kitchenette, dismally regarding the slim brass wheel spinning once more upon its table-top mountings. Over in the corner alcove his other self sat lifeless and staring, a gaping hole in its chest. Norman swung his leg over the kitchen chair and leaned his arms upon its worm-eaten back. The first run had not been altogether a roaring success. If Omally’s bike had not chosen to intervene and trip the robot into the street, there seemed little doubt that it would have killed Omally there and then, merely to retrieve the tobacco from his pocket.
Norman chewed upon his lip. It was a regular Frankenstein’s monster, that one. Not what he’d had in mind at all. Placid pseudo-shopkeeper he wanted, not psychotic android on the rampage. He would have to disconnect all the Dimac circuits and pep up the old goodwill-to-mankind modules. Possibly it was simply the case that the robot had been a little over-enthusiastic. After all, it had had his interests at heart. Norman shuddered. Omally had got away with the tobacco, and Hairy Dave had charged him fifty quid to shore up the front of the shop and screw a temporary door into the splintered frame. The robot had not been in service more than a couple of hours and it was already bankrupting him. Fifty quid for a half-ounce of Golden. And what if Omally decided to sue or, more likely, to exact revenge. It didn’t bear thinking of. He would have to go round to the Swan later and apologize, stand Omally a few pints of consolation. More expense. The harassed shopkeeper climbed from his chair and sought out a quart of home-made sprout wine from the bottle-rack beneath the sink.
At length the Memorial Library clock chimed five-thirty p.m. in the distance, and upon the Swan’s doorstep stood two bedraggled figures who, like Norman, had the drowning of their sorrows very much to the forefronts of their respective minds. Neville the part-time barman drew the polished bolts and swung open the famous door.
“By Magog!” said the pagan barkeep. “Whatever has happened to you two? Should I call an ambulance?”
Pooley shook his head. “Merely draw the ales.”
With many a backwards glance, Neville lumbered heavily away to the pumps. “But what has happened to you both? Your eye, John? And Jim, your sleeves?” Neville pushed two brimming pints across the counter towards the straining hands of his two patrons.
“We were mugged,” said Omally, who was finding it hard to come to terms with the concept of defeat at the hands of a humble shopkeeper.
“Ten of them,” Pooley added. He had once read of a mugger’s victim being carried into a pub and revived with free ale.
Neville had also read of it and took up a glass to polish. “We live in troubled times,” he said profoundly. “Ten and six please.”
Omally drew his boot away from his bruised ankle and pulled out several pound notes. Neville, who had never before seen the Irishman handling paper money in public, was anxious to see if they were the real McCoy. The wrinkled relic John handed him smelt a bit pony, but it did have a watermark. Neville rang up “No Sale” and obligingly short-changed his customer. Omally slung the pennies into his trouser pocket without even checking them.
“Mugged then is it?” Neville almost felt guilty. “Did you best the villains?”
“Did we?” Pooley raised his scorched palm and made chopping movements. “The blackguards will think twice about molesting the folk of Brentford again I can tell you.”
“I see Norman is having his shopfront done up,” said Old Pete, who had sneaked in hard upon the heels of the two warriors.
Omally spluttered into his beer. “Is that a fact?” said he.
“Had his shopfront mugged so I hear.”
“Give that gentleman a large dark rum,” said Omally.
The ancient accepted his prize and slunk away to a side-table with much malicious chuckling. Omally grudgingly paid up and joined Pooley, who had taken to hiding in a suitably darkened corner.
“I shan’t be able to live with this,” said John, seating himself. “That old one knows already; it will be all over the parish by morning.”
“But Norman?” said Pooley. “I still can’t quite believe it. Norman wouldn’t hurt a spider, and by God his shop gives lodging to enough.”
“A lover of the insect kingdom he may be, but let humankind beware. The shopkeeper has finally lost his marbles. He took it out on me as though violence was going out of fashion.”
Jim sighed. “This is a day I should certainly choose to forget. We have both paid dearly for our greed.”
John nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose there are lessons to be learned from it. We have certainly learned ours the hard way.”
“Talking of lessons, I think your homework has just arrived.” Jim pointed over Omally’s shoulder to where Norman now stood squinting about the bar.
John sank low in his high-backed chair. “Has he seen me?” he whispered.
Pooley nodded. “I’m afraid so, he’s coming over.”
“When you hit him go for his beak, ignore the groin.”
“I’m not going to hit him, this is nothing to do with me.”
“Nothing to do with you? You started it, you and your money-making wheel…”
“Evening gents,” said Norman.
“Evening to you, old friend,” said Pooley, smiling sweetly.
Omally rummaged in his pockets and brought out a crumpled packet of cigarette papers and a somewhat banjoed half-ounce of tobacco. “I never smoked it,” he said. “You can have it back if you still want it.”
Norman held up his hand, which made Omally flinch painfully. “No, no, I have come to apologize. I really don’t know what came over me, to lose my temper like that. I have been working too hard lately, I have a lot of worries. There is no permanent damage done, I trust?”
