“Boo!” went the people of Brentford. “Boo and hiss!”
“These barricades and crossing points have been erected for your own welfare, to protect you from an influx of undesirables.”
Beyond the barricades, undesirables in the shape of news crews buffed up their lenses and went “one two” into their microphones.
In Professor Slocombe’s study the ancient scholar bolted his French windows. “They will certainly come for the scrolls,” he said. “You must take them to a place of safety.”
“He means you, John,” said Jim.
“I mean both of you,” said Professor Slocombe.
Jim’s hands began to tremble as they always did prior to a flap.
“Easy, Jim,” said John. “Where shall we take them, Professor?”
“To Buckingham Palace, perhaps. Or Ten Downing Street.”
“There’s a priest hole at the Flying Swan,” said Jim. “We could take them there.”
“Perhaps the British Museum,” said Professor Slocombe, “or the Bank of England.”
“I rather like the sound of the priest hole,” said John.
“Or perhaps they should be taken directly to Rome and delivered to my friend the Pope.”
“The priest hole has it then,” said Jim.
“My good friends,” said the Professor, “without the scrolls we have nothing. They must be authenticated by a panel of experts. And a panel that has not been compromised. I must confess that sending you both on a pilgrimage to Rome does have a certain charm. The possibilities for picaresque adventures are endless. But I doubt whether either one of you even possesses a passport.”
“I had one once,” said Jim. “But I lost it on my travels.”
“You’ve never been on any travels.” John Omally laughed. “You get airsick travelling on the top deck of a bus.”
“I never do.”
“You do. And you get a nosebleed.”
“It’s the altitude. And I have travelled. I’ve been to Margate.”
“Gentlemen, please. Take the scrolls to a place of your own choosing. I hate to say protect them with your lives…”
“Then don’t,” said Jim.
“But we will,” said John. “But what of you, Professor, and Ms Penn? They will come here looking for the scrolls, and will not treat you kindly.”
“I am well aware of that. I will make my own arrangements and contact you at the earliest opportunity.”
“Hold on,” said Jim.
“What is it, Jim?”
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, came a knocking at Professor Slocombe’s front door.
“It’s that,” said Jim. “I’m beginning to develop a sixth sense when it comes to that.”
“Out of the kitchen door then and away.”
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” asked John.
Professor Slocombe made a mystic pass and vanished in a puff of smoke.
“I think he’ll be just fine,” said Jim.
They arrived at the Flying Swan just in time to see Old Pete being stretchered into a waiting ambulance.
John hurried over to the fogey. “What happened to you?” he asked.
Pete looked up with a dazed expression on his face. “What would you reckon the chances were of there being a one-legged lesbian shot-putter in the pub when I happen to be telling a joke?” he asked.
“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Jim, rooting in his pockets for the last of his small change. “And would you mind sticking this casket in your priest hole?”
“Not at all,” said Neville. “That would be the now legendary Brentford Scrolls we’ve been hearing so much about, I suppose.”
“It certainly would,” said Jim.
“Get out of my pub,” said Neville. “You’re barred.”
“What?”
“See who that is over there?” Neville pointed.
“A one-legged lesbian shot-putter?”
“No, next to her.”
“Oh my God.” Jim fell back in alarm. “It’s Young Master Robert.”
“Correct, damnable issue of the Master Brewer’s loins. Blight of my life. Bane of my existence. Would-be despoiler of my…”
“So what’s he doing here?”
“What does he always do here?”
“He tries to renovate the pub,” said Jim in a doomed tone. “Turn it into a theme bar or something equally hideous.”
“Exactly, and thanks to you he’s back on the case.”
“So what is it this time? No, let me guess, the Millennial Eatery, snacks in a space-age styrofoam bucket.”
“Nothing so tasteful. Here, peruse this before you take your leave.” Neville pushed a scribbled plan across the bar counter.
“Afternoon, Neville,” said Omally, breezing up. “Jim getting them in, is he?”
“Jim is just leaving,” said Neville. “And you with him.”
“What?”
“Peruse.” Neville pointed to the plan and John perused.
“By all the holy saints,” said John. “Where is he?”
“Over there,” and Neville pointed once again. “Next to the one-legged…”
“We can’t have this.” Omally plucked up the plan and stalked across the bar. “Good afternoon, my friend,” he said, extending a hand for a shaking.
Young Master Robert looked up from his light and lime. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “I remember you.”
“And I you.” Omally thrust his unshaken hand into his trouser pocket. With the other he waved the scribbled plan about. “I see you’ve been busy again. Brilliant stuff. I take my hat off to you.”
“You don’t wear a hat and even if you did I wouldn’t want you to take it off.”
“Is this bloke bothering you, Bobby?” asked the Young Master’s burly monopedal companion.
“No, Sandra. The gentleman is just leaving.”
“Sandra?” said Omally. “Sandra, it’s you.”
“Omally, it’s you!” Sandra hopped to her foot and gave Omally a bone-crunching hug. “After all these years and you haven’t changed a bit. Apart from looking so much older.”
“Nor you,” said John, “apart from…”
“The leg?” grinned Sandra. “I got fed up with it. So I had it amputated. Did it myself with a chainsaw.”
“It suits you,” said John.
“Thanks. It’s a great bird-puller. You should have one of yours done.”
“I’ll give that some thought.”
Young Master Robert made agitated finger flutterings. “I hate to break up this happy reunion, but will you please bugger off, Omally.”
“But I want to talk to you about your plan for the Swan’s renovation. The Road to Calvary, England’s first religious theme pub. Well, I say first, but there’s the one along the road of course, and two in Ealing, and…”
