“They’ll be around, on the roof or around the back.”
“Then should we make a break for it?”
“That I would not advise.”
The two men slumped on the potato sack in the semi-darkness. It was cramped and with the sun beating down upon the roof it was also extremely hot.
“We’ll die in here for certain,” said Pooley, “suffocate we will, like rats in a trap.”
“Don’t start all that again,” said Omally, raising his fist in the darkness.
Long minutes passed; in the distance the Memorial Library clock struck ten. Several yards away from the shed Omally’s bicycle Marchant lay in its twisted wreckage, musing upon man’s inhumanity to bike and bird’s inhumanity to man. Jim struggled out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Have you any more of that potato gin?” he asked. “Only if I am going to die, I should prefer to die as I have lived, drunkenly.”
“Nobody is going to die,” Omally assured him (although to Pooley his voice had a somewhat hollow quality), “but I would appreciate it if you could be persauded to channel your enormous intellect towards some means by which we might facilitate our escape.” He pulled another bottle from the potato sack and handed it to his companion.
“You have a lovely turn of phrase, John,” said Jim, drawing the cork from the bottle and taking a large swig. He passed it back to Omally, who took a sip and returned the bottle. “How does one drive off birds, such a thing is surely not impossible?”
“A shotgun is the thing,” said Pooley, “both barrels, small shot.”
“I fear that we will have a long time to wait for a passing gamekeeper,” said John.
“We might tunnel our way out then, possibly dig down, we might even break into one of Soap’s underground workings.”
Omally tapped the concrete floor with his hobnails. “We can forget that I am thinking.”
“A scarecrow then.”
Omally stroked his chin, “I can’t really imagine a scarecrow putting the fear of God into these lads, but if you will give me a few moments I think I have an idea.”
The Memorial Library clock struck the half hour and within the small hut upon the allotment Jim Pooley stood wearing nothing but his vest and underpants. “Don’t you ever change your socks?” Omally asked, holding his nose.
Jim regarded him bitterly in the half darkness. “Are you sure this is going to work?” he asked.
“Trust me,” said Omally, “the plan is simplicity itself.”
Pooley chewed upon his lip. “It doesn’t look very much like me,” he said, “I am hardly that fat.” His remarks were addressed to the life-sized dummy Omally was fashioning from Pooley’s garments. He had knotted the sleeves and trouser bottoms and stuffed the thing with potatoes.
“We’ve got to give it a little weight,” said John. “How is the head coming?”
“Splendidly, as it happens,” said Jim. “I like to pride myself that given a turnip, which I am disgusted to find that you had secreted from me for your own personal consumption, and a penknife, I am able to model a head of such magnificence as to put the legendary Auguste Rodin to shame.” Pooley passed across his sculptured masterpiece and Omally wedged it firmly between the dummy’s shoulders. “Very nice,” he said.
“Very nice if it fools the birds.”
“It will,” said Omally. “Have some faith in me will you?”
“But what of me?” Pooley complained. “I shall be forced to run through the streets in my underwear.”
“I have thought of all that, leave it to me. Are the bottles ready?”
Pooley held up two bottles of the potato gin. They had been uncorked and gin-dampened strips of cloth torn from Jim’s shirt-tail thrust into the necks, Molotov cocktail-style.
“Better douse our good friend here,” said Omally, “we want this to work to maximum effect.” Pooley took up the last bottle and poured it over the dummy. “Right.” Omally held the dummy with one arm and made the sign of the cross with the other.
“That is very comforting,” said Jim.
“We only get one chance at this, Pooley, don’t mess it up, will you?”
Pooley shook his head. “Not I, but it seems a tragic end to a good suit.”
“I will buy you another,” said Omally.
“What with? You have no money, you are wearing my other suit.”
“You may have my Fair Isle jumper and cricket whites.”
“Bless you,” said Jim Pooley.
Omally edged open the hut door. All was still upon the allotment, the relentless sun beat down upon the parched earth and in the distance, a train rolled over the viaduct.
“Now as ever,” said Omally firmly; gripping the dummy he flung it forward with as much strength as he could muster.
There was a great ripple in the sky above the hut and down upon the dummy in a squawking, screaming cascade the birds fell in full feathered fury. Pooley struck his lighter and set flame to the strips of shirt tail.
“Throw them,” screamed Omally.
Pooley threw them.
There was a double crash, a flash and a great flaring sheet of flame engulfed the feathered hoard. Without looking back Pooley and Omally took once more to their heels and fled.
22
Brentford’s Olympic hope and his Irish trainer jogged around the corner into Mafeking Avenue, up the street a short way, down a back alley and through the gate into the rear yard of Jim Pooley’s house. Mrs King next door peered over the washing line at them. “People been round here asking for you Jim Pooley,” she said. “Why are you running about in your underpants?”
“He’s in training,” said Omally. “Who’s been round here asking then?”
“You mind your own business, I was talking to Mr Pooley.”
Omally smiled his winning smile. She was a fine-looking woman, he thought, how had he previously failed to make her acquaintance?
“Who has been calling,” asked Jim, “friends or what?”
“The police were here,” said Mrs King smugly, “D. I. Barker, he left his card.” She delved about in her apron pocket and pulled out a damp and crumpled card which had obviously been doing the local rounds.
“What did he want?” Jim asked innocently, accepting the card.
“Didn’t say, just said you were to notify them of your return as soon as what you did, if you see what I mean. Mind you, I’m not surprised, you’ve had this coming for years, Jim Pooley. In and out at all hours, rolling home drunk, making all that noise.”
Pooley ignored her ramblings. “Anybody else call?”
“An old man with white hair and a black coat.”
“The Professor,” said Omally.
“I wasn’t talking to you. Here, what do you think you’re looking at?”
Omally’s eyes had been wandering up and down Mrs King’s tightly fitting apron. “I was undressing you with my eyes.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes, and that safety pin which is holding up your knickers is getting a bit rusty.”
Mrs King snarled furiously at Omally, flung down her washing and stalked off into her house, slamming the back door behind her.
“Was that wise?” Jim asked. “She’ll probably phone the police now.”
