Knees Up Mother Earth (39 page)

Pooley looked down in icy horror at the body of his bestest friend.

“No,” cried Jim. “No.” But the bullet hole in Omally’s forehead left no room whatever for doubt.

“Murdering bastard.” Jim Pooley’s gaze rose. “You will die for this.”

Pooley took a step forward, but Starling raised his hand and Pooley could no longer move. “You are
my
man,” said Starling. “You were mine from the moment that you first put a Dadarillo cigarette into your mouth and sucked upon it. The darkness is inside you. You will do as
I
command you now.”

Pooley fought to move, but strange things seemed to be happening. He wanted to kill Starling, he wanted that more than anything else in the world, but somehow he seemed detached from himself, as if he was looking down from above.

“Kill the professor,” ordered Starling. “Kill him now!”

Jim turned upon wooden legs, arms outstretched, fingers crooked into claws.

“Jim,” cried the professor. “Jim, try to concentrate. This isn’t you.”

The whites of Jim’s eyes were black now. Jim’s hands closed about the professor’s throat.

“What now?” crowed Starling, waving his pistol. “Will you employ your magic, Professor, kill your good friend before
he
kills
you
? And back, you two!” Starling’s gun swung towards Terrence and Sponge Boy.

From somewhere above, Jim looked down upon himself, at the puppet that was himself being pulled by strings that were not of his pulling. The puppet that was draining the life from Professor Slocombe.

And a hand seemed to touch Jim Pooley and he saw a face. It was the face of a ginger-haired boy.

Jim stared into this face. “I know you,” he said.

“We met long ago,” said the ginger-haired boy. “You left your body – astral projection. We met on top of the floodlights at the football ground.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Jim. “You said you’d fly with me to Tibet. But I could never do the astral projection thing again.”

“Such a very long time ago,” said the boy. “I thought I’d never see you again. But you shouldn’t be doing that, you know – what you are doing to that old man. You’re killing him and he is your friend. It is the other one you should be killing, the one who murdered your dearest friend. Go back now, return to your body, and do what must be done.”

Professor Slocombe’s face was a deathly white. Fire roared on all sides now. Starling stood, crowing with laughter. Pooley’s eyes, glazed and black, began to focus, fading slowly to white. Pooley turned to confront William Starling.

“You two,” shouted Jim to Terrence and Sponge Boy, “help the professor. Take him outside. And also the body of John.”

“What is this?” Starling’s pistol swung towards Jim. Jim lunged forward and swept it aside. “Now you die,” said he.

And, high above, the Semtex exploded, ripping the top from the Consortium building, bursting upwards, outwards, downwards, pulverising, smashing, evaporating the Dark Lord Cthulhu, raining fire and devastation.

A ball of flame roared down the stairwell.

“Out!” Professor Slocombe coughed and gagged. “Everybody get out.”

“Not me!” Pooley was upon Starling now, the murderer of his bestest friend. As Terrence and Sponge Boy and the professor dragged John’s lifeless body from the holocaust, Jim Pooley’s fingers found the throat of William Starling.

And the darkness formed, spreading all around and about Pooley, engulfing and choking him. But driven by terrible revenge and with no care whatsoever for the loss of his own life, Jim kept his hold upon the slender throat and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

And fire rained down, and falling masonry and black glass. And floors subsided and collapsed and flames roared up and the Consortium building fell in upon itself and collapsed into ruination.

And Professor Slocombe and Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy looked on.

“Positively Apocalyptic,” said Sponge Boy.

“And good God, he’s survived somehow,” said Terrence.

“Starling?” Professor Slocombe turned fearfully, prepared to hurl magic.

But from the devastation, dust and chaos, it was Jim Pooley who stepped.

Stepped and walked and staggered and fell beside the body of John.

And Jim Pooley wept bitter tears and Professor Slocombe put his ancient hand upon Jim’s shoulder.

“Why?” Jim’s tear-streaked face looked up at the ancient.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” said the professor. “He was a good man. A brave man.”

“He was my friend,” said Jim. “And now he’s dead.”

“I am so very sorry. If there was anything I could have done … could do.”

“Work your magic, Professor. Do something.”

“
I
cannot.”

Pooley pressed his face against John’s and wept.

“Starling is dead,” said Jim. “All this is ended. But the price has been too high, Professor.”

“I think I might be able to help you, old chap.” The rear doors of Norman’s van opened and the mysterious figure stepped into the car park.

Pooley looked up.

“Archroy,” he said.

“Archroy,” said Professor Slocombe. “For one terrible moment, I thought that you had not survived the crash.”

Pooley looked towards the professor. “What is going on?” he asked.

Archroy stepped forward, took from his carrier bag the Golden Fleece and placed it carefully across the body of John.

The Fleece glowed. Rainbow patterns ran over and about it.

Pooley looked on in awe as the bullet hole in John Omally’s forehead healed over and was gone.

And John Omally stirred.

And looked up.

“Jim,” said he. “What happened? Why are you crying? Don’t tell me the team lost.”

But the team didn’t lose.

The team won.

Five-four.

It was tight.

But they won.

Which just goes to prove …

Well, whatever you like.

But the team won, all the same.

And yes it was tight, that drive back to Wembley.

Omally had to shout very loudly at Norman’s van.

It was rather crowded, what with Terrence and Sponge Boy also crammed into it.

But they did arrive there in time …

To see that final winning goal …

With but one minute of time left to go.

And Jim was there to applaud Jack Lane as, for the third time, he lifted the FA Cup aloft to the deafening cheers of the Brentford fans.

And puffed upon his Wild Woodbine.

To say there was celebrating in the streets of Brentford would be to underegg the pudding of proverb. The borough had never known such celebrations.

Well, at least not since the last time that Brentford had won the FA Cup, way back in 1928.

Big Bob Charker, having listened to the second half of the match upon his cab radio, returned to Wembley with haste after dropping off the desolate circus performers. And now he proudly drove his big bus through the bunting-hung and all-gone-mad streets of Brentford, with Brentford’s winning team waving from the open top deck.

And Jim Pooley clinging to the cup.

“They did it,” called Jim to John. “They did it. Without magic and with little help from me.”

“You played your part, Jim. You did your bit.”

“But Brentford won the cup, John. Brentford won the cup.”

The Flying Swan was packed beyond capacity, but Neville served each and all with speed and professional pride. Omally elbowed his way to the counter.

“Where are your lovely ladies tonight?” John asked.

“Gone,” said Neville, smiling hugely. “Happily gone.”

“Happily gone?” said Omally.

“Young Master Robert came by an hour ago and took them away. Apparently he found out that they and I were, well,
you know
.”

“And you’re not sorry to see them go?”

“Somewhat relieved,” said Neville. “It wasn’t really me, that kind of behaviour. It was all the work of Old Pete’s Mandragora. I’m done with that. I liked things the way they were, as they were and as they should be now and hopefully will be ever to come – do you know what I mean, John?”

“I do,” said Omally. “You’re a good man, Neville. Three pints of Large, if you will.”

Norman was squeezed into a corner with Mr H.G. Wells. “Thank you very much for the loan of your Time Machine,” said Norman. “And it is still in working condition. Do you want me to take the nineteen twenty-eight team back to their own year now, before you depart yourself?”

“I think they should be allowed to enjoy their latest victory,” said Mr Wells. “Tomorrow will do. There’s always plenty of
time
.”

“Ho, Norman,” said Jim Pooley, detaching himself from the loving arms of young and female fans. “I owe you a very big thank you. We all do. All of Brentford. All the world. You have no idea what you have done.”

“I think I do,” said Norman.

“And your millions?” Pooley asked. “The professor told me you won’t be getting them now. I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Norman. “There’s always tomorrow. I’ll come up with something. All’s well that ends well and tomorrow is another day, you know.”

“I do indeed,” said Jim.

“But surely you’re a rich man yourself now, Jim. Your bet with Bob the Bookie, it’s no secret. Bob’s been whinging about it for months.”

Jim proffered a bundle of money notes. “He emptied his cash register for me,” he said. “Said he would owe me the rest. I shall be calling by at his establishment as regularly as ever I did. However, I shall be making withdrawals rather than investments in the future.”

“Here’s to you, then,” said Norman, raising his glass.

“And to you,” said Jim, raising his. “And to you, sir, Mr Wells.”

The Victorian scientist raised his glass. “I really enjoyed the match,” said he. “And I’ll know who to bet on in nineteen twenty-seven and twenty-eight.”

Jim turned away to find Professor Slocombe smiling at him. “Cheers, Jim,” said the professor.

“Cheers to you,” said Jim.

“Are you feeling all right, in yourself?” asked the professor.

“Never better. This has been a remarkable adventure. Very scary, but remarkable. And everything worked out in the end, although it’s terrible what happened to the Campbell.”

“He is free,” said Professor Slocombe. “He played his part and he is free now. But what of you, Jim? What does the future hold?”

“I am a man of means now,” said Jim. “Well, for a while. I don’t know how much more money I can squeeze out of Bob the Bookie, but it will be fun trying for as long as it lasts.”

“You don’t think you will continue as Brentford United’s manager, then?”

“Brentford United no longer has a team,” said Jim. “Exactly what will happen next season is anyone’s guess. We’d need a millionaire to step in and put up the money. You’re not friends with that Liberace chap by any chance, are you?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “You might think of having a word or two with Old Pete,” he suggested. “He’s just received a telegram. It seems that certain investments that he made in the past, in the Ford Motor Company and land in Florida, investments that he had somehow forgotten that he’d made, have been building up in his bank account. He’s a very wealthy man now. Very wealthy.”

“Good for Old Pete,” said Jim. “But I am done with football now.”

“What a pity, Jim. I would truly have liked to have seen …”

“Seen what, Professor?”

“Well, Jim, do you remember me telling you about the research that I have been doing for my book
The Complete and Absolute History of Brentford
?”

“Vaguely,” said Jim. “But that seems a long time ago now.”

“Something about the possibility that Brentford was indeed an independent state – indeed, an independent country.”

“Ah yes,” said Jim. “I remember that.”

“Well, it is, Jim. Brentford is an independent country.”

“Good old Brentford,” said Jim.

“Good old Brentford,” said Professor Slocombe. “Which makes it such a shame that you no longer wish to be the team’s manager.”

“Why?”

“Because the World Cup Qualifiers will be coming up this year. Don’t you think it might be a challenge to lead Brentford on to win not only the FA Cup, but the World Cup also?”

Jim Pooley looked warily towards the professor. “Would there be monsters involved?” Jim asked.

“No monsters,” said the old man. “Merely sport. With a team put together and paid for by Old Pete’s many millions. I am certain that if I spoke nicely with him he would be eager to oblige.”

“Only sport?” said Jim.

“Only sport,” said the professor. “A challenge for an entrepreneur and a man who likes a bet.”

Jim Pooley smiled at Professor Slocombe and called across the overcrowded bar to his best friend, John Omally.

“John,” called Jim, “come over here. I’ve something that might just interest you.”

And the May moon shone down upon Brentford.

And the celebrations lasted long into the night.

It was a regular knees-up, Mother Earth!

 Not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel.

 And his dictionary, of course. And his bags, although not so much nowadays. As they’ve gone out of fashion.

In fact, in Chapter Four.

Dyed by her own hand (humour).

Which was actually more of a half-terrier.

It was at the Bull Fair in the year of 1760 that Dr Johnson viewed a live griffin in a showman’s booth. See Boswell’s biography, Vol. 14 Chap. 3.

As Brentford
is
upon Thames, Neville eschewed the hackneyed Ploughman’s in favour of a waterborne alternative. At least as far as the title went.