“You certainly think fast, John,” said Jim, as they sat once more upon the concrete bench before the library. “A ten-thousand-pound advance. Incredible.”
“Not bad, is it?” John waved the cheque in the air. “I’ll have to open a bank account.”
“And on condition that he restore the Swan to its former glory by the end of the week. Genius.”
“We function best under pressure, Jim. I’ve always found that.”
“Making him cough up the fiver you supposedly lost to me in the bet was rubbing it in a bit.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t complain.”
“So hand it over, then.”
“What?”
“The fiver. I won it fair and square.”
“You never did. We never went to the rival brewer.”
“But he doesn’t know that.”
John handed over the fiver. “Petty,” said he.
Jim pocketed the fiver. “I hope Norman will be happy with the advance. Did you agree the figure with him?”
“Ah,” said John.
“I like not ‘Ah’,” said Jim. “What does ‘Ah’ mean?”
“It means I haven’t actually got round to talking to Norman about this yet.”
“What?”
“There wasn’t time. The idea came to me over breakfast. So I just went for it.”
“Same old story.” Jim shook his head. “Omally rushes in where angels fear to tread.”
“Just leave Norman to me,” said John. “Norman will be fine.”
Norman didn’t look fine. He had a worried expression on his face. As Omally breezed into his shop, he offered him a grunt.
“Thanks,” said Omally. “I’ll smoke it later.”
“Look at my sweeties,” said Norman.
Omally looked. The jars were bright with sweeties. All the Fifties favourites. Humbugs and jujubes. Liquorice pipes and sherbet lemons, Bright Devils and Waverley’s Assorteds. Space Rockets and Google’s Gob Gums.
Omally tapped the nearest jar. “They look a bit, well, guggy,” he said.
“Very guggy.” Norman took up the jar and turned it upside down. A kind of blobby mass oozed towards the lid. “Entropy,” he said.
“What’s this?”
“They don’t last,” said Norman. “It’s been like this for months. But I didn’t like to mention it to you. I thought I could iron out the problem.”
“The sweeties don’t last?”
“A couple of weeks,” said Norman. “Then I have to throw them away, clean out the jars and make another batch.”
“Rotten luck,” said John. “It’s a good job it isn’t like this with the ale.”
Norman glanced up from the sweetie jar. “It’s far worse with the ale,” said he.
“What?” Jim glanced up from his pint of Large. “He said what?”
“Highly volatile,” said John. “Like nitroglycerine, the slightest tap and it explodes.”
“What?” Jim huffed and puffed. “I had a bottle in each of my trouser pockets. I could have blown my…”
“It was a fresh batch; you weren’t in any danger. It has to be two weeks old before it…”
“Nitro-bloody-glycerine!”
“Not so loud.” Omally ssshed him into silence. “We don’t want Neville to hear.”
“No we don’t,” said Jim. “But I can’t believe it. Everything was sorted. And all so quickly too.”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. And I’ve come to the conclusion that every time we sort something quickly, it ends up like Norman’s sweeties.”
“It’s probably some cosmic law,” said Jim. “But look on the bright side.”
“What bright side is this?”
“Well, at least you didn’t pop in here and tell Neville you’d sorted everything out before you popped into Norman’s and discovered that you hadn’t.”
A new blonde waitress appeared at the table with a tray. On it were two pints of Large. “Courtesy of the management,” she said.
John Omally looked at Jim.
And Jim looked back at John.
“You stupid twat,” said Jim.
“There has to be a solution.” John drummed his fingers on the pew end. “There just has to be.”
They were several pints in credit now and Neville kept on smiling and giving them the old thumbs-up.
“The solution is as plain as a parson’s nose,” said Jim. “You’ll have to return the cheque, tell Neville the truth and emigrate to Tierra del Fuego.”
“I don’t call that much of a solution.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“Look,” said Omally. “I have a cheque for ten thousand pounds in my pocket. Ten thousand, Jim. We must be able to do something with that.”
“You got it under false pretences. Do you prefer prison to Tierra del Fuego?”
“You would hate Tierra del Fuego, Jim.”
“I’m not coming with you.”
“We’re in this together, we shook hands on it.”
“There has to be a solution,” said Jim, drumming his fingers on the other end of the pew.
“Progress report,” said Fred, drumming his fingers on Clive’s head. “What, if any, progress do you have to report?”
“Happily none, sir.” Clive edged out of drumming range. “We did a pretty thorough job on the media. No one’s taking Brentford’s claims seriously. You’ve effectively stymied the mayor with all the paperwork and the louts are just blundering about.”
“Tell me about the lout who found the scrolls.”
“He spent nearly two months in the Cottage Hospital and while he was there we put an implant into his head. Just to keep track of him. He’s no threat, he wants nothing more to do with the celebrations.”
“And the Irish lout?”
“No threat, sir. He’s a wanker.”
“And what of the Professor?”
“He’s preparing himself for the ceremony. He has gone on a magical retirement. Put himself into solitude. But he’s wasting his time. Unless thousands join in the celebrations, he won’t be able to raise sufficient power to succeed in the ceremony.”
“Looks like they’re all in the shit then, doesn’t it?”
“Seems so, sir.”
Fred leaned back in his chair. His desk had a dust sheet over it. Scaffolding surrounded the desk, men upon that scaffolding worked to restore Fred’s ceiling. These things take a great deal of time.
“Well, just keep me informed,” said Fred. “In case something unexpected occurs.”
“Unexpected?” said Clive. “Whatever could possibly occur that’s unexpected?”
“A gentleman said that I was to give this to you,” said the blonde barmaid, handing Jim an envelope.
