Quiet, that’s how it had been.
But with the arrival of that pistol …
It got very quiet indeed.
Dead hushed. Like.
“Dave,” said John, when he had done with quietness. “Dave, where did you get that gun?”
“I dug it up,” said Small Dave. “From under your hut. It’s your gun.”
“Dave, it’s not my gun.”
“Like they weren’t your nudie books?”
“All right. They might have been my nudie books. But that isn’t my gun.”
“So whose gun is it?”
“It was my grand-daddy’s gun. Michael Collins gave him that gun.”
“It’s mine now,” said Small Dave. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Be afraid,” said John. “Be very afraid.”
“Oh yes, and why?”
“Because it doesn’t have a firing pin.”
“Yeah, well they won’t know that, will they?”
“No,” said John. “Which is why they will shoot you dead.”
“He has a point there,” said Soap. “One that might be worth considering.”
“I’ll hold you hostage, then,” said the small fellow. “I’ll demand a helicopter and one hundred thousand pounds in cash and a takeaway Chinese with all the trimmings and a cat named Lofty and a pair of pink pyjamas and some chocolate cake and—”
“Have to stop you there,” said Omally.
“Why?” asked Small Dave. “I was just getting into my stride.”
“Out of your tree, more like,” said Soap.
“What did you say?” Small Dave brandished the gun.
“Nothing,” said Soap. “I just sneezed. Out-a-ya-tree. Like that, see?”
“Yeah, well you be careful. Or I’ll shoot you.”
“Eh?” said Soap.
“We know you’re in there” came that old loudhailer voice. “Come out with your hands held high.”
Neville looked up from his polishing. “Did someone order a minicab?” he asked.
“It’s the police,” said John. “They’ve come for Dave.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then.” Neville buffed a pint pot on his apron. “Does he want another drink before they cart him off?”
“Same again?” asked Omally.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Small Dave. “Let me get these, though. Here, hold the gun while I find my purse.”
Omally took the gun. “If this could only speak,” he said, turning it upon his palm.
“What do you think it would say?” asked Soap.
“I think it would say, ‘I’m sorry I had to do that. But you’ll thank me for it later.’”
“Why would it say that?”
Omally raised the gun and brought it down upon the head of Small Dave. The midget collapsed unconscious on the floor.
“Ah, right,” said Soap. “I got you now.”
Neville gave Omally a hand. Together they managed to stuff Small Dave up the back of Soap’s big black coat. Soap wasn’t keen and he put up a lot of protest. But he did agree with Omally that Dave was a very bad man to cross. What with him being such a vindictive, grudge-bearing wee bastard and everything and how it would probably be in everyone’s best interests simply to smuggle him out of the Swan and set him free on the allotments.
Because he would thank them for it later.
And everything.
Which he didn’t. Of course.
Small Dave seemed anything but grateful. He awoke all spluttering and demanded to be told why he was being ducked in a water butt. He fussed and he bothered and he cursed and he swore and then he asked about the trowels.
“Trowels?” said Omally. “What trowels?”
“Those trowels.” Small Dave pointed. “Those trowels you’re both wearing, strung round your waists and hanging down your fronts like sporrans.”
“Oh, these trowels, they’re just—”
“A wise precaution,” said Soap. “In case—”
“A fashion thing,” said Omally. “They’re all the rage up West. The Kensington Set are rarely to be seen nowadays without a trowel about their persons.”
“Especially at the Chelsea Flower Show,” said Soap.
“Especially there,” said Omally.
“You’re bloody mad, the pair of you,” said Small Dave. “And what happened to my gun?”
“Got lost,” said Omally.
“The fairies took it,” said Soap.
“The fairies?”
“No, not the fairies. Did I say fairies? What I must have meant was—”
“I’m leaving now,” said Small Dave.
“Oh, must you?” said Soap.
“Yes, I must.”
The sound of police car sirens swelled in the distance.
“Yes, I definitely must.”
And with that said, he definitely did. Without a by-your-leave, or kiss-my-elbow. No thank yous, no fond farewells.
Just off.
As fast as his little legs could carry him.
The two men watched him until he was gone. Then Soap raised a cup of Omally’s spud gin.
“Do you think he’s galloping to glory?” Soap asked.
“No,” said Omally. “I don’t.”
“Do you know what I like about Brentford?” Soap asked.
“No,” said Omally. “I don’t.”
“What I like about Brentford,” said Soap. “Is that nothing ever changes here. I’ve been away on my travels beneath for nearly ten years and now I’m back and it’s just as if I’d never been away.”
“Cheers to that,” said Omally.
“Cheers to that,” said Soap.
It was plain he’d come out for a stroll,
The Lord of the Old Button Hole.
The fêted celebrity dead in the wreck.
The keys to the boathouse at rest in his neck.
The vandals who did it are far off by now,
And I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin.
Some kind of a chump in the goal,
Said the Lord of the Old Button Hole.
Hunting the hedgerows for samples and stuff.
The house is deserted, the ball’s in the rough.
The vandals are rattling locks at the back,
And I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin.
A little more cheese in the roll,
Cried the Lord of the Old Button Hole.
Since I came back from Burma, I’ll frankly admit,
I’ve had scorpions crawling all over my kit,
And if that’s in the contract, then I’m bowing out,
Cos I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin.
2
Soap Distant strode up Brentford High Street.
There was the vaguest hint of stagger to his stride, but this was the inevitable consequence of two hours spent in Omally’s company. Not that Soap was unacquainted with the grape and grain. Like most of Brentford’s manly men he took his sup, but rarely to excess.
However, on this particular occasion Soap had felt the need for a drop of that courage which hails from the Low Countries. And why not? For hadn’t Soap lately returned from some very low countries himself? Had he not planted the nation’s flag at the Earth’s core and claimed the realm for England? And was he not, even now, on his way to keep a three o’clock appointment with the editor of the Brentford Mercury to negotiate the serialization rights for the account of his epic adventure?
In short, he had, and he had, and he was.
Soap paused before the window of Mr Beefheart the butcher to peruse his reflection. He wanted to look his very bestest. Create a favourable and lasting impression. Exude a certain air. Make a presence. Be the business. And things of that nature, generally.
Soap adjusted the filters on his solar goggles. His eyes, still sensitive to sunlight, would sort themselves out in time. But what about the rest of him? He removed his broad-brimmed black hat and reviewed his facial featurings.
A gaunt and deathly face peered back at him. It was a white’n and that was a fact. Turning his head a little to the right, Soap noticed that the sunlight shone clear through his hooter. His hair had become similarly transparent, lending the crown of his head the appearance of a fibre-optic lamp.