“Out, finished,” said the other. “We brook no violence here.”
“You are all bloody mad,” screamed the disgruntled player, in a high piping voice. The crowd made hooting noises and somebody pinched his bum.
“Out of my way then!” Flinging down his set of Asprey’s darts (the expensive ones with the roc-feather flights), he thrust his way through the guffawing crowd and departed the Swan. Young Jack, who numbered among his personal loathings a very special hatred for poofs, made an unnoticeable gesture beneath table level, and as he blustered into the street Trelawny slipped upon an imaginary banana skin and fell heavily to the pavement. As he did so, the front two tyres of his Morris Minor went simultaneously flat.
“This has all the makings of a most eventful evening,” said Jim Pooley. “The first eliminator not yet over and blood already drawn.”
The adjudicator wiped away the New Inn’s name from the board. With their best player disqualified, morale had suffered a devastating and irrevocable blow, and the New Inn had retired from the competition.
Next up were the North Star and the Princess Royal. The North Star’s team never failed to raise eyebrows no matter where they travelled, being five stout brothers of almost identical appearance. They ranged from the youngest, Wee Tarn, at five feet five, to the eldest, Big Bob, at six foot two, and had more the look of a set of Russian dolls about them than a darts team. Their presence in public always had a most sobering effect upon the more drunken clientele.
Their opponents, upon the other hand, could not have looked less alike had they set out to do so. They numbered among their incongruous ranks, two garage mechanic ne’er-do-wells, a bearded ex-vicar, a tall lift engineer with small ears, and a clerk of works with large ones. They also boasted the only Chinese player in Brentford. Tommy Lee was the grand master to the Brentford Temple of Dimac and was most highly danned, even amongst very danned people indeed. Few folk in the Borough ever chose to dispute with him over a doubtful throw.
However, Tommy, who had taken the Dimac oath which bound him never to use any of the horrendous, maiming, tearing, crippling and disfiguring techniques unless his back was really up against the wall, was a fair and honest man and very popular locally. He was also the only player known to throw underarm. He fared reasonably well, and as usual it took two strong lads to withdraw his hand-carved ivory darts from the board.
“I’ll bet that took the remaining plaster off Archie’s back parlour wall,” said Omally. “By the way, Professor, I hope the man from Bombay is being well-catered for. We wouldn’t want him popping next door to grill up a popadum, would we?”
Professor Slocombe tapped his sinuous nose. One or other of the North Star’s men was throwing, but it was hard to tell which when they were detached from the set and you couldn’t judge them by height.
“One hundred,” bawled the adjudicator.
“What odds are you offering at present upon the North Star?” the Professor asked. Out of professional etiquette John answered him tic-tac fashion. “I will take your pony on that, then.”
“From your account?”
“Omally, you know I never carry money.”
“The Princess Royal need one hundred and fifty-six,” boomed the adjudicator, taking up the chalks.
The lift engineer, making much of his every movement, stepped on to the oché. There was a ripple amongst the crowd as his first dart entered the treble twenty. A whistle as his second joined it and a great cry of horror as his third skimmed the double eighteen by a hairbreadth. Crimson to the tips of his small and shell-likes, the lift engineer returned to his chair, and the obscurity from which he had momentarily emerged.
“Unfortunate,” said Professor Slocombe, rubbing his hands together, “I have noticed in matches past that the lift engineer has a tendency to buckle under pressure.”
Omally made a sour face, he had noticed it also, but in the heat of the betting had neglected to note the running order of the players. “The North Star needs eighty-seven.”
Amidst much cheering, this figure was easily accomplished, with a single nineteen, a double nineteen and a double fifteen.
“I am up already,” said Professor Slocombe to the scowling Irishman.
“And I,” said Pooley.
Now began the usual debate which always marred championship matches. A member of the Princess Royal’s team accused the men from the Star of playing out of order. The adjudicator, who had not taken the obvious course of forcing them to sport name tags, found himself at a disadvantage.
Omally, who had spotted the omission early in the game, shook his head towards Professor Slocombe. “I can see all betting on this one being null and void,” said he.
“I might possibly intervene.”
“That would hardly be sporting now, would it, Professor?”
“You are suggesting that I might have a bias?”
“Perish the thought. It is your round is it not, Jim?”
Pooley, who had been meaning to broach the subject of a loan, set against his potential winnings, began to pat at his pockets. “You find me financially embarrassed at present,” he said.
“I think not,” said Professor Slocombe. “I recall asking you for a pound’s-worth of change from the Swan’s cash register.”
“You did sir, yes.” Pooley shook his head at the Professor’s foresight and fought his way towards the bar.
Neville faced his customer with a cold good eye. “Come to kick me in the cobblers again, Pooley?” he asked. “You are here on sufferance you know, as a guest of Omally and the Professor.”
Jim nodded humbly. “What can I say?”
“Very little,” said Neville. “Can you smell creosote?”
Pooley’s moustachios shot towards the floor like a dowser’s rod. “Where?” he asked in a tremulous voice.
“Somewhere close,” said Neville. “Take my word, it bodes no good.”
“Be assured of that.” Pooley loaded the tray and cast a handful of coins on the counter.
“Keep the change,” he called, retreating fearfully to his table.
“We’re up next,” said Omally, upon the shaky Jim’s return. “Will you wager a pound or two upon the home team?”
“Neville smells creosote,” said Jim.
“Take it easy.” Professor Slocombe patted the distraught Pooley’s arm. “I have no doubt that they must suspect something. Be assured that they are being watched.”
The Captain Laser Alien Attack machine rattled out another series of electronic explosions.
Norman stepped on to the mat amidst tumultuous applause. He licked the tips of his darts and nodded towards the adjudicator.
“Swan to throw,” said that man.
Norman’s mastery of the game, his style and finesse, were legend in Brentford. Certain supporters who had moved away from the area travelled miles to witness his yearly display of skill. One pink-eyed man, who kept forever to the shadows, had actually travelled from as far afield as Penge.
“One hundred and eighty,” shouted the adjudicator, although his words were lost in the Wembley roar of the crowd.
“It is poetry,” said Omally.
“Perfect mastery,” said Pooley.
“I think it has something to do with the darts,” said Professor Slocombe, “and possibly the board, which I understand he donated to the Swan.”
“You are not implying some sort of electronic duplicity upon the part of our captain, are you?” Omally asked.
“Would I dare? But you will notice that each time he throws, the Guinness clock stops. This might be nothing more than coincidence.”
“The whole world holds its breath when Norman throws,” said Omally, further shortening the already impossibly foreshortened odds upon the home team. “Whose round is it?”
“I will go on to sherry now, if you please,” said the Professor. “I have no wish to use the Swan’s convenience tonight.”
“Quite so,” said John. “We would all do well to stay in the crowd. Shorts all round then.” Rising from the table, he took up his book, and departed into the crowd.