Free The Sprouts of Wrath by Robert Rankin Page A

Noses inked in by suffused veins found favour and weak chins were all the rage. There was an even half dozen of them, and from right to left, in terms of position rather than political persuasion, they were: ministers for Sport and Recreation, Development, Housing, Trade and Industry, Foreign Affairs and Finance. There were also under-ministers, under-secretaries, press secretaries, advisers, chauffeurs, masseurs, minders and minions. Omally also spied out several of those young ladies that are trained in the arts which amuse men.
    All were arrayed about the Swan in their social groupings, clucking and chatting, laughing and nodding. And doing it all very loudly.
    Pooley and Omally listened carefully to the ministers as they conversed.
    “I am perplexed,” said Jim.
    “You and me both,” said John.
    Neville swept by with a platter of salmon sandwiches. “Everything to your liking, gentlemen?” he asked, his good eye all awink. He appeared to be sporting his bestest suit, the weddings, funerals and special lodge meetings number. “Quality punters, eh?”
    Omally watched in dumb disbelief as Neville fawned over a group of pin-striped “Hoorays” and their females, who were nonchalantly sipping halves of bitter and flicking cigarette ash into the jardinieres. “Who would have thought it,” said John, “Neville sucking up to these cretins.”
    “It will end in tears,” said Jim philosophically. “But see, here comes Bob. Will you hold him whilst I do the hitting or likeways about?”
    “Let us hear his story first, there might well be free drinks in it.”
    Bob waded bravely through the crowd, fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of dental crowns beaming from his face. “Hello, lads,” he said, “hoped I’d find you here, how’s tricks?”
    “Never better,” said Jim. “And yourself?”
    “Oh, fine, fine.”
    “That is good to hear,” said Pooley, “that is very good.”
    “It is good,” Omally agreed.
    “Listen,” said Bob. “No hard feelings, eh?”
    “Hard feelings?” Jim looked mystified. “About what?”
    “You know.” Bob made a gun from his right hand and clicked it towards Pooley’s head. “All a misunderstanding, no offence meant.”
    “Oh, that.” Pooley put his forefinger to his temple and cocked his thumb. “No offence meant? None taken, I assure you.”
    “Oh, good, good, it’s just, well, joke over, eh, Jim?”
    “Joke?”
    “The bet.”
    “The bet?”
    “Come on now, Jim, the one million to one.”
    “One million!” Omally’s eyebrows rose towards his curly crown. He could not restrain his hands from rubbing together.
    “Good joke,” said Bob, “but let’s call it off now, eh? Tell you what, I’ll buy back the betting slip, what shall we say, twenty-five pounds?” Pooley looked at Omally. “Fifty then?” Omally looked at Pooley. “All right,” said Bob. “Never let it be said that I am not a good sport. Seventy-five pounds and that’s my final offer.”
    “I’ll hold,” said John. “You hit.”
    “Good morning, gentlemen.” The voice belonged to Jennifer Naylor.
    “Let me buy you a drink,” said Bob, grinning up at his angel of deliverance and detaching himself from John’s grip.
    “Later, I’m rather tied up at the moment.” Jennifer indicated Philip Cameron and Mavis Peake who had entered in her wake, freighting large bundles of xeroxed paper. “This way!”
    Pooley flinched. “This way” would forever now hold only bitter memories for him.
    Jennifer approached the Hoorays’ table, considering it suitable to her needs, then ushered the entire bunch away with a simple, “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here, thank you.”
    John watched in admiration. “Jim,” said he, “now that is a woman. If ever I was to marry.”
    Jim turned to his friend in surprise. “Marry?” said he. “Whatever do you mean?”
    “It comes to all men, or at least to most.”
    “But not to you, John.” Pooley straightened an imaginary tie. “A man would