“I do, yes.”
“Then tell us,” said Jim.
Professor Slocombe smiled that smile of his, and spoke some more. “When you came to me the night before last, asked me about the scrolls and told me of your plan to have Brentford celebrate the millennium two years before the rest of the world, you will recall that I laughed. I did not laugh because the idea was preposterous, I laughed because, whether through luck (perhaps) or judgement (perhaps not) or fate, you had it right. Right upon the nose and the button. The correct date is December the thirty-first. The correct year, this very one.”
It was teatime, or thereabouts, when John and Jim left the Professor’s house. Martial law had been lifted and but for the occasional burned-out car or shattered shop window there was nothing to suggest that things were not as they always had been in Brentford.
But they were not.
And John and Jim knew that they were not.
John and Jim knew that something very big was about to happen, something very big indeed. And it scared them not a little, though it thrilled them also.
They spoke few words as they strolled along, hands in pockets, heads down, kicking the shell of a CS gas canister, whistling discordantly. Outside the Flying Swan they stood a while in silence.
And then John took a breath. “And so,” said he. “We have heard all that the Professor had to say. We have dwelt upon it. We are mystified, we are bewildered, we are fearful, we are rapt in wonder. But, are we not men?”
“We are Devo,” said Jim.
“We are John and Jim,” said John. “Occasionally daunted but never done for.”
“I assume all this bravado is leading somewhere.”
“It is leading to this. The Professor may be correct in all that he said. On the other hand, it might turn out to be a load of old blarney. But whatever the case, we found the scrolls. And the scrolls are authentic. And in celebration of this, I suggest we up our salaries as directors of the Brentford Millennium Committee.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Jim. “Let’s double the blighters.”
“Let’s do that very thing.”
And so they did.
“What did St Patrick say when he drove all the snakes out of Ireland?” asked Old Pete.
The patrons at the bar shook their heads. Corner-shopkeeper Norman Hartnell said, “I don’t know.”
“He said, ‘Are you all all right in the back there?’…”
Old Pete awaited the hilarity.
None, however, came.
“Surely,” said Norman, “that’s a somewhat surrealist joke.”
“The elephant’s cloakroom ticket,” said Old Pete.
“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said John Omally. “Jim’s paying.”
“Am I?”
“The least you can do. Considering your inflated salary.”
“And two whisky chasers, Neville,” said Jim.
“What’s all this?” asked Old Pete. “Got yourself a job, Pooley? I thought you were registered at the Job Centre as a snow-shifter’s mate.”
“Such days are behind me, Pete. John and I are to be men of substance. There are great times ahead for Brentford, and we are the men you will be thanking for them.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Old Pete. “Very kind of you.”
Neville did the business. “So, John,” said he, with a grin upon his face. “I assume this means you found the Brentford Scrolls.”
The patrons erupted into laughter. Norman Hartnell slapped his knees and croaked and coughed.
“Easy, Norman,” said Old Pete.
Norman straightened up. “Sorry,” he said. “But ‘Are you all all right in the back there?’ Brilliant.”
Neville wiped a tear of mirth from his good eye. “Come on, John,” he said. “Only joking.”
Omally shrugged. “No problem at all. But I have not found the Brentford Scrolls.”
“Tough luck,” said Neville.
“Jim has found them.”
Further hilarity. “Very good,” said Neville. “Very droll.”
“They’re with Professor Slocombe,” said John.
“Well, they would be, wouldn’t they?”
“No,” said John. “They really are with Professor Slocombe. Jim did find them.”
“Were they lost, then?” asked Norman. “Only when you said about me getting a directorship on the Brentford Millennium Committee, you led me to understand…”
Omally whispered figures into Norman’s ear.
Norman whistled. “That’s a most substantial salary. I will be able to buy that particle accelerator I wanted now.”
“Hold on. Hold on.” Neville put up his hands. “A joke is a joke, John. But Jim has not found the Brentford Scrolls.”
“Have too,” said Jim.
“Has too,” said John.
“As if,” said Neville, sauntering off to polish glasses.
“What do you want a particle accelerator for?” Jim asked Norman.
“To accelerate particles, of course. What did you think?”
Jim shrugged. “Are you currently in inventor mode, then?”
“I am building a de-entropizer.”
“Ah,” said John. “One of those lads, eh?”
“It’s for the sweeties,” said Norman informatively.
“I give up,” said Jim. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Well.” Norman sipped ale. “You know what entropy is, don’t you?”
Jim made a thoughtful face and then he unmade it.
“Exactly,” said Norman. “Well mimed. Entropy is how everything falls apart into chaos rather than order. Eventually culminating in the heat death of the universe when everything that can be burned up will have been burned up and there’s nothing left. I am working on a device to de-entropize. Reverse the process. It’s for the sweeties, as I said. My shop is full of jars of old sweeties. They’re quite inedible but I can’t bring myself to part with them. Old folks come in and wistfully look at them and remember the good times.”
Old Pete made a wistful face that was quite out of character. Then, in keeping with the law of entropy, he said, “Bollocks.”
“My device,” Norman continued, “will de-entropize my sweeties. Reconstitute them. Break them down to their atomic substructure then rebuild from the nucleus up. I hope to have it on-line by the end of the week. Then I shall produce sweeties the way sweeties used to taste, because they will be those very sweeties.”
John Omally grinned. “Perfect,” he said. “Ideal for the millennium. Sweeties the way sweeties used to be.”
“Any chance of doing it with beer?” Jim asked.
“I heard that,” said Neville.
“No offence meant,” said Jim.
“Once the process has been perfected, then I suppose I could do it with anything.” Norman sipped further ale. “Beer, wines, spirits.”
