“OK,” said Pooley, “one swing then, but for God’s sake, be careful.”
The parcel was placed upon the bar counter and the spectators withdrew to what they considered to be a safe distance. Neville squared up to the parcel, placed his feet firmly apart and wiggled his behind in a manner much practised by top pro golfers before applying their wedges to a bunker-bound ball. Spitting on to his palms he raised the cleaver high above his head and brought it down with a reckless force which would truly have done credit to the Wolf of Kabul wielding the legendary Clicki-Ba.
The patrons let out a collective gasp as the cleaver struck the parcel amidships and rebounded from the part-time barman’s grip to go hurtling over their ducking heads like a crossbow bolt and lodge itself up to the hilt in the dart board.
“Double top,” said Old Pete, “give that man a pint.”
Neville stood pale-faced and trembling, regarding the package with horrified eyes. “Not even bloody dented,” he said in a quivering voice, “not even bloody scratched.”
Leo Felix, who was making one of his rare appearances at the Swan, thrust his way through the crowd. “I an’ I got me an oxyacetylene cutter back at me work,” said the newly converted Rastafarian.
“Come on now,” said Pooley, “this has all got out of hand. Omally, take that package around to the Professor at once!”
The crowd would have none of it. “Fetch your blowtorch, Leo,” said somebody. Leo left the bar.
Omally picked up the package from the bar counter and made to move in the direction of the door. The mob surrounded him. “Put that down, mister,” said someone. “Leave it be till Leo gets back.”
“Come now lads,” said Omally, “this is madness, mob law in Brentford? Come now.”
“This is going too far,” said Jim, stepping into the fray.
“You do what you want mate,” said a burly navvy, “but the parcel stays here.”
“This man knows Dimac,” said Pooley, indicating his Irish companion, “deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, and can…”
“Instantly disable, mutilate and kill, his hands and feet being deadly weapons,” chimed the crowd in unison. “We’ve heard it.”
“Strike them down, John,” said Pooley, “give them iron hand.”
“My iron hands are a little rusty at present,” said Omally. “Archroy is your man for that sort of thing.”
“Did somebody call me?” The voice came from the saloon bar door, and the crowd, turning as one man, were stunned into absolute silence by what they saw. Framed dramatically by the Swan’s doorway, which had always been so excellent for that sort of thing, stood an imposing figure which the startled throng recognized with some difficulty as none other than Archroy.
He had discarded his usual ill-fitting wig for an ornate dark coiffure of oriental inspiration which was secured by elaborately carved ivory pins tipped with jet. He wore a full-length black kimono emblazoned with Chinese characters embroidered richly in gold thread, and walked upon the high wooden shoes much favoured by Samurai warlords of the fourteenth Dynasty.
“Blimey,” said Old Pete, “it’s bloody Hirohito.”
Archroy strode forward, scattering the crowd before him. “Show me the package,” he demanded.
Pooley was amazed to note that Archroy had even adopted a pseudo-Japanese accent. And there was something indefinably different about him, not just the eastern trappings. He had physically changed, that much was certain, broader about the shoulders and narrower at the hip. Through the folds of his silken sleeves muscles seemed to bulge powerfully.
Omally handed him the parcel with an extraordinary display of politeness. “If you please,” said he, smiling sweetly.
“And it cannot be opened?” The crowd took to shaking its collective head. “Impregnable,” said somebody.
“Huh!” said Archroy without moving his lips, “two men hold it up, one either side.”
Omally shrugged. “What can happen? Might as well do what he says.” He and Pooley stood several feet apart in the centre of the bar, holding the parcel between them in outstretched hands.
“Better get some assistance,” said Archroy, taking up a stance before the parcel. Several he men stepped forward and assisted with the gripping and supporting. They made quite an impressive-looking little group really, not unlike one of William Blake’s visionary tableaux of struggling heroic figures pressing on one upon another in endless titanic conflict. The subtler points of that particular similarity were however lost to most of those present, who merely cleared a path for the lunatic in the kimono.
“When I cry out, hold on as tight as you can,” commanded Archroy.
The grippers, holders and supporters nodded assent. Archroy took a step back and performed a series of ludicrous sweeping motions with his arms. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes; slowly he drew back his right arm, knotting the fingers of his hand into a fist with a sickening crackle of bones and gristle.
“Woosah!” he screamed.
Those who watched him throw the punch say to this day that they never saw his hand move; one moment it was suspended motionless at shoulder height behind him, the next it was similarly motionless but outstretched, fist clenched, at the spot where the parcel had just been.
The two clusters of grippers, holders and supporters collapsed in opposite directions like two tug-of-war teams suddenly bereft of their rope. There was an almost instantaneous crash, followed by two more. The awestruck spectators swung in the direction of the crashes. The parcel had travelled across the bar and straight through the outside wall, leaving a perfectly shaped rectangular hole to mark the point of its departure.
Through this the sun threw a crisp shaft of sunlight which fell in a pleasant golden diamond on to a section of the carpet which had never previously known the joys of solar illumination. Neville looked at the hole, then at Archroy, back to the hole and back once more to the destroyer of his wall. “You’re barred!” he screamed, searching for his knobkerry. “You’re bloody barred! Vandal! Vandal!”
Archroy was examining his knuckles. “What’s in that parcel?” was all that he could say.
The crowd was making moves towards the door, eager to see what the other two crashes might have been. “Maybe he’s demolished the flatblocks,” said somebody.
Pooley and Omally, intent only upon retrieving the Professor’s book, elbowed their way through the push and found themselves the first to emerge into the very daylight which was now beaming so nicely through the neat hole in the Swan’s front wall.
“My oh my,” said Omally.
Before them was a vehicle parked at the kerb, a pickup truck of a type much favoured by used-car dealers. It was one of this doubtful breed of men who sat in the front seat, white-faced and staring. That he should be white-faced was reasonable enough, for sliced through each side of the truck’s bodywork was a sharp-edged hole corresponding exactly in shape and size to that of the Professor’s parcel. Regarding further this whiteness of face, its sole unusual quality was that the driver of the see-through pickup was none other than that well-known local Rastaman Leo Felix. The hurtling missile had escaped striking, only by the briefest of inches, the oxygen canister strapped inside his vehicle. Had it struck home there is not much doubt that very little would have remained of Haile Selassie’s latest follower.
Pooley and Omally peered through the holes in the hope of lining up on the Professor’s parcel. “It’s over there,” said Jim, “in Mrs Fazackerley’s front garden.”
The two men skipped across the carriageway, dodging the traffic which had mercifully escaped the bazooka attack a moment before, and retrieved the parcel.
“Not even a scratch,” said Pooley, examining it. “Nothing.”
The crowd was now in the street thronged about Leo’s ventilated pickup pointing and speculating. Someone was waving a handkerchief before Leo’s wildly staring eyes. Neville danced in the doorway of the Swan, ranting and raving, and Archroy stood calmly regarding his demolition work and wearing a satisfied expression upon his face.
Omally nudged Pooley in the rib area. “Best make a break for it, eh?”
