fits of laughter. Sandra was giggling behind her hand but she leant over to the part-time barman and whispered hoarsely, “You wanna watch that little bastard, he can put the poison in for you.”
“Thank you,” said Neville, and the two of them collapsed into further convulsions. Suddenly there was a sound at the bar door. The smiles froze on their lips for it was at this exact moment that the Lone Ranger chose to make his appearance.
He was quite a short Ranger as it happened, and somewhat stout. Neville immediately recognized the man in the mask to be none other than Wally Woods, Brentford’s pre-eminent purveyor of wet fish. Wally stood a moment, magnificently framed in the doorway, considering the empty bar with a cold cod-eye of suspicion. For one terrible second Neville thought he was about to change his mind and make off into the sunset in the manner much practised in the Old West. “What’ll it be, stranger?” he said hurriedly.
Wally squared his rounded shoulders and swaggered to the bar, accompanied by the distinctive smell of halibut oil which never left his person come rain, hail or high water. “Give me two fingers of Old Snakebelly,” he said manfully.
During the half hour that followed, the Flying Swan began slowly to fill. In dribs and drabs they came, some looking sheepish and muffled in heavy overcoats, despite the mildness of the season, others strutting through the doorway as if they had been cowboys all their lives. Three Mavericks had begun an illegal-looking game of poker at a corner table, and no less than six gunfights had already broken out.
Neville loaded another case of old Snakebelly on to the counter. Young Master Robert returned from the Ladies, a satisfied expression upon his face, which was a battleground of sticking plaster. Mandy was wearing her bustle on back to front. Two more Rangers arrived, swelling their ranks to eight. “What is this, a bloody convention?” asked one. Old Pete arrived wearing a Superman costume. “They were right out of Lone Rangers,” he explained.
A few stalwart professionals were sticking to their regular beverages, but most were taking advantage of the cut-price liquor and tossing back large measures of Old Snakebelly, which was proving to have the effect generally expected of white man’s firewater.
The last of the Lone Rangers rounded the corners at either end of the Ealing Road and strode towards the Flying Swan. One was of Irish descent, the other a well-known local personality who had but several hours before come within one horse of winning ?250,000. The two caught sight of one another when they were but twenty yards apiece from the saloon bar door. Both stopped. The Lone Pooley blinked in surprise. The Lone Omally’s face took on a look of perplexity. Surely, he thought, this is some trick of the light, some temperature inversion or mirror image. Possibly by the merest of chances he had stepped through a warp in the time-space continuum and was confronting his own doppleganger. A similar thought had entered the Lone Pooley’s mind.
They strode forward, each in perfect synchronization with his twin. The Lone Pooley made a motion towards his gunbelt, his double did likewise. But for these two lone figures, the street was deserted. The sun was setting behind the gasometers and the long and similar shadows of the two masked gunmen stretched out across the pavement and up the side walls of the tiny terraced houses.
It was a sight to make Zane Grey reach for his ballpoint, or Sergio Leone send out for another fifty foot of standard eight. Closer and closer stalked the Rangers, their jaws set into attitudes of determination and their thumbs wedged into the silver buckles of their respective gunbelts.
They stopped once more.
The street was silent but for the sounds of western jollity issuing from the saloon bar. A flock of pigeons rippled up from their perch atop one of the flatblocks and came to rest upon the roof of the church hall. A solitary dog loped across the street and vanished into an alleyway.
The Rangers stared at one another unblinking. “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us,” said the Lone Omally.
“Slap leather, hombre,” said the Lone Pooley, reaching for his sixguns. It would be a long reach, for they were back in his rooms upon the kitchen table where he had been polishing them. “Oh bugger it,” said the Lone Pooley. Guffawing, the Ranger twins entered the Flying Swan.
“Cor look,” said Mandy, “there’s two more of ’em.”
“My god,” cried Pooley, “ten Lone Rangers and not a Tonto between the lot of us.”
“Two shots of good Old Snakebelly please, Miss,” said Omally, ogling the extra barstaff. Mandy did the honours, and on accepting Omally’s exact coinage pocketed it away in some impossible place in her scanty costume. “A woman after my own heart,” smiled the man from the Emerald Isle.
Things were beginning to hot up at the Flying Swan. Old Pete was at the piano, rattling out “I Wish I Was in Dixie” upon the moribund instrument. Young Chips was howling off-key as usual. A fight had broken out among the Mavericks and Neville was flourishing his knobkerry, yet seeming strangely reluctant to make a move from behind the bar.
Young Master Robert raised his hands to make an announcement. Being ill-acquainted with the manners and customs of Brentford he was ignored to a man.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bawled, the visible areas of his face turning purple, “if I might have your attention.”
Neville brought the knobkerry down on to the polished bar counter with a resounding crash. There was a brief silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” roared the Young Master, his high voice echoing grotesquely about the silent bar, “ladies and gentlemen I…” but it was no good, the temporary silence was over as swiftly as it had begun and the rumblings of half-drunken converse, the jingling chords of the complaining piano and the general rowdiness resumed with a vengeance.
“Time gentlemen PLEASE,” cried Neville, which silenced them once and for all.
Young Master Robert made his announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, as I was saying, as a representative of the brewery” – at this point young Chips made a rude noise which was received with general applause – “as a representative of the brewery, may I say how impressed I am by this turnout, enthusiasm- wise.”
“Enthusiasm-wise?” queried Omally.
“As you may know, this evening has been arranged at the brewery’s expense to launch a new concept in drinking pleasure.” He held up a bottle of Old Snakebelly. “Which I am glad to see you are all enjoying. There will shortly be held a barbeque where delicacies of a western nature will be served, also at the brewery’s expense. There will be a free raffle, prizes for the best dressed cowboy…” As he spoke, Young Master Robert became slowly aware that the assembled company of cowboys was no longer listening; heads were beginning to turn, whispers were breaking out, elbows were nudging. The Spirit of the Old West had entered the bar.
Norman stood in the Swan’s portal, his suit glittering about him. The sequins and rhinestones gleamed and twinkled. He had added four more sets of fairy lights to the arms and legs of the costume and these flashed on and off in a pulsating rhythm.
Norman came forward, his hands raised as in papal benediction. Spellbound, like the Red Sea to the wave of Moses’s staff, the crowd parted before him. Turning slowly for maximum effect, Norman flicked a switch upon his belt buckle and sent the lights dancing in a frenzied whirl. To and fro about the golden motto the lights danced, weaving pattern upon pattern, altering the contours of the suit and highlighting hitherto unnoticed embellishments.
Here they brought into prominence the woven headdress of an Indian chieftain, here the rhinestoned wheel of a covered wagon, here a sequined cowboy crouched in the posture of one ready to shoot it out. To say that it was wondrous would be to say that the universe is quite a big place. As the coloured lights danced and Norman turned upon his insulated brass conductor heels the assembled company began to applaud. In ones and twos they clapped their hands together, then as the sound grew, gaining rhythm and pace, Old Pete struck up a thunderous “Oh Them Golden Slippers” upon the piano.
The cowboys cheered and flung their hats into the air, Lone Rangers of every colour linked arms like a chorus line and High-Ho-Silvered till they were all uniformly blue in the face. Pooley and Omally threw themselves into an improvised and high-stepping barn dance and the Spirit of the Old West capered about in the midst of it all like an animated lighthouse. Then a most extraordinary thing happened.
The sawdust began to rise from the floor towards Norman’s suit. First it thickened about his feet, smothering his polished boots, then crept upwards like some evil parasitic fungus, gathering about his legs and
