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ith his mum。
He'd never been one of them； and he couldn't blame it all on his nose。 He was simply an outsider。 That he was an individualist and an original meant little to a lad with stirrings in the groin department。
Neville rose from his seat and padded across the threadbare carpet to the whisky optic。 Surely things hadn't been all that bad； had they？ Certainly his childhood and years of puberty had not exactly been the stuff of dreams； but there had been moments of joy； moments of pleasure； hadn't there？
Neville's total recall could not totally recall any。 Still； things weren't all that bad now。 He was the Swan's full…time part…time barman； and it was an office which made him as happy as any he could imagine。
If he had known when he was fifteen that this lay in store for him； he would never have suffered such agonies of self…doubt when he realized that he could not understand a single bit of Bob Dylan's 'Gates of Eden'。
But how had he e to get the job in the first place？ It had been a strange enough business by any accounts。
Neville remembered the advert in the Brentford Mercury： Tart…time barman required； hours and salary negotiable； apply in person。 Flying Swan。'
Now in his late twenties and making a career out of unemployment； Neville had jettisoned the camphor bags and forced himself into his one suit； given his brothel creepers a coat of Kiwi； and wandered down to the Swan to present himself。 The acting part…time barman； who shortly afterwards absconded with a month's takings and several cases of scotch； had given him the summary once…over。 He asked if he thought he could pull a pint； then hired him on the spot。
As to who the actual tenant of the Flying Swan was； Neville had not the slightest idea。 The paint had flaked off the licensee plate outside； and those who swore they knew the man like a brother gave conflicting accounts as to his appearance。 Neville had been handed the keys； told to take his wages from the disabled cash register； and left to get on with it。 It had been a rare challenge but he had risen to it。 He had no knowledge of running a pub but he had learned fast； and the ever…alert locals had only ever caught him the once on any particular dodge。 He had single…handedly turned the Swan from a down…at…heel spit and gob saloon to a down…at…heel success。 He had organized the trophy…winning darts team； who had now held the local shield for a record five consecutive years。 He had supervised the numerous raffles and alehouse events； acted as oracle and confessor to local drunks； and strangely and happily had evolved into an accepted part of the Brentford landscape。
He was at home and he was happy。
Neville's smile broadened slightly； but a grim thought took off its edges。 The brewery。 Although they had no objection whatsoever to his residency； him being basically honest and the pub now running at a handsome profit； the brewery gave him no rest。 They were forever suggesting special events； talking of modernization； and installing things。。。 His eyes strayed involuntarily towards the bulky contours of the humming monster which he had now covered with a dust sheet tightly secured with baling wire。
Neville tossed back his scotch and looked up at the Guinness clock； nearly five…thirty； nearly opening time。 He squared up his scholar's stoop and took another deep breath。 He would just have to pull himself together。 Embark upon a course of positive activism。 Be polite to his patrons； tolerant of their foibles； and indulgent towards their eccentricities。 He would smile and think good thoughts； peace on earth； good will towards men。 That kind of thing。 He was certain that if he tried very very hard the horrid odour would waft itself away； to be replaced by the honeysuckle fragrance of spring。
From not far away the library clock struck the half…hour； and Neville the part…time barman flicked on the lights； took himself over to the door； and opened up。 On the doorstep stood two bearded men。
'Good evening； barlord；' said Jim Pooley。
'God save all here；' said John Omally。
Neville ushered them into the bar without a word。 Now was the present and what was to happen happened now and hereafter and it surely couldn't be all bad； could it？ The two men； however； seemed to be acpanied by a most extraordinary smell。 Neville pinched at his nostrils and managed a somewhat sickly grin。 'Your pleasure； gentlemen？' he asked when he had installed himself behind the jump； and his two patrons had resumed residency of the two barstools which had known not the pleasure of their backsides for more than a week。 'What will it be？'
Pooley carefully withdrew from his pocket the five…pound note； which had not left his clammy grip since it had been handed to him； and placed it upon the bar counter。
Neville's eyebrows soared into a Gothic arch。 He had hoped that if he thought positively things might turn out OK； but this？ This transcended even his wildest expectations。 Jim Pooley with a five…pound note？
And it got worse。 'Two pints of Large please； Neville；' said Pooley； smiling almost as hideously as the barman； 'and have one yourself！'
Neville could feel a prickling sensation rising at the back of his neck。 Have one yourself？ He had read in paperback novels of the phrase being used by patrons of saloon…bars； but he had never actually encountered it in real life。 'Pardon；' said the part…time barman； 'might I have that last bit again。'
'Have one yourself；' Pooley reiterated。
Neville felt at his pulse。 Could this really be？ Or had he perhaps died and gone to some kind of barman's Valhalla or happy drinking ground？ The nervous tic went into overdrive。
Omally； who was growing somewhat thirsty； made the suggestion that if Neville wanted to take advantage of Jim's generosity it would be better if he dropped the amateur theatricals and did so at once。 Neville hastened to oblige。 'Thank you Jim；' he said。 'I don't know what got into me then。 Your kindness is well received； I thank you。'
Still mumbling the phrase 'Have one yourself under his breath； Neville pulled two pints of the Swan's finest。 As he did so he took the opportunity to study the two men； whose eyes were now fastened by invisible chains to the rising liquid。 The beards were odd enough in themselves； but that Pooley's shirt appeared to have shrunk by at least two sizes and that the colour of Omally's regimental tie had run on to his neck were things of exceeding strangeness。 Caught in a sudden downpour perhaps？ Neville could not remember any rain。 The ducking…stool then？ Some lynch mob of cuckolded husbands exacting a medieval revenge？ That seemed feasible。
The barman passed the two exquisitely drawn pints across the counter and took possession of the magical blue note； which he held to the light as a matter of course。 Having waited respectfully whilst Pooley and Omally took the first step towards quenching their long thirst he said at length； 'Well now； gentlemen； we have not had the pleasure of your pany for more than a week。 You have not been taken with the sickness I hope； nor struck by tragic circumstances。'
Pooley shook his head。 'We have been in Penge；' he said。
'Penge；' said Omally； nodding vigorously。
'Ah；' said Neville thoughtfully。 'I haven't actually been there myself； but I understand that it's very nice。'
'Splendid；' said Pooley。
'Very nice indeed；' his colleague agreed。 'You'd love it。'
Neville shrugged and turned away to cash up the traditional 'No Sale' and extract for himself the price of a large scotch。 As he did so Pooley remembered the Professor's request。
'Could I have a pound's worth of change while you're at it？' he asked politely。
Neville froze in his tracks。 A pound's worth of change？ So that was it； eh？ The old 'have one yourself； barman' was nothing more than the Judas kiss。 Pooley planned to play the video machine。 'You bastard！' screamed Neville； turning upon the drinker。
'Pardon me？' said Jim。
'Pound's worth of change is it？ Pound's worth of change？ You treacherous dog。'
'e now；' said Jim； 'steady on。'
'Steady on？ Steady on？ Have one yourself barman and a pound's worth of change while you're at it！ What do you take me for？'
'Seemed a reasonable request to me。' Pooley looked towards Omally； who was covering his drink。 'What is going on； John？' he asked。
Omally； who was certainly never one to be slow on the uptake； explained the situation。 'I think that our good barman here believes that you want the money to play the video machine。'
Pooley； whose mind had been focused upon matters quite removed from video games； suddenly clicked。 'Oh；' he said； 'good idea； make it thirty…bobs' worth； Neville。'
'Aaaaaagh！' went the part…time barman； reaching for his knobkerry。
Pooley saw the hand vanishing below counter level and knew it to be a very bad sign。 'e now；' he implored； backing away from the bar； 'be reasonable。 I haven't played it in a week； I was just getting the hang of it。 Look； let's just say the quid's…worth and call it quits。'
Neville brought the cudgel into prominence。 'I've had enough；' he shouted； hefting it hi a quivering fist。 'You traitor。 Touch the thing and you are barred； barred for life。 Already today have I barred one regular； another will do no harm。'
'Who is the unhappy fellow？' asked Omally who； feeling himself to have no part in the present altercation； had not shifted from his seat。
'Norman；' growled Neville。 'Out； barred for life； finished； gone！'
Omally did his best to remain calm。 'Norman？'
'Norman。'
'Norman Hartnell of the corner shop？'
'That Norman； yes。'
'Norman Hartnell； the finest darts player this side of the Thames？ Norman the captain of the Swan's darts team？ The five times trophy…winning darts team？ The very darts team that plays at home for the championship on the twenty…ninth？ That Norman you have barred for life？'
What colour had not already drained from Neville's naturally anaemic face took this opportunity to make an exit via his carpet…slipper soles。
'！。。。！。。。' The barman rocked to and fro upon his heels； his good eye slowly ceased its ticking and became glazed； focused apparently upon some point far beyond the walls of the Swan。 He had quite forgotten the darts tournament。 The most important local sporting event of the entire calendar。 Without Norman the team stood little hope of retaining the shield for a sixth year。 What had he done？ The locals would kill him。 They would tar and feather him and ride him out of the town on a rail for this。 Darts wasn't just a game in Brentford； it was a religion； and the Flying Swan its high temple。 A bead of perspiration appeared in the very centre of Neville's forehead and clung to it in an appropriately religious fashion like some crystal caste mark。 'I。。。 I。。。 I。。。' he continued。
Old Pete entered the Swan； Chips as ever upon his heels。 Being naturally alert； he spied out the barman's unnatural behaviour almost at once。 'Evening to you； Omally；' he said； nudging the Irishman's arm。 'Haven't missed anything； have I？'
'Sorry？' Omally； although a man rarely rattled； had been severely shaken by the barman's frightful disclosure。
'The mime；' said Old Pete。 'I'm very good at these。 Spied out Norman's Quasimodo some days back and won an ounce of tobacco。 This one looks quite easy； what's the prize？'
Omally scratched his whiskers。 'What are you talking about？'
The old loon put his head upon one side and stroked his chin。 'Is it a film or a television programme？' he asked。 'Do I get any clues？'
'It's a book；' said Pooley； taking the opportunity to retrieve his pint before retreating to a safe distance。
'I。。。 I。。。 I 。 。 。' went Neville。
'Must be the Bible then；' said Old Pete。 'Not that I've ever read it。 Should say by the look of the stick and everything that it's either Moses parting the Red Sea or Samson slaying all those Philippinos with the jawbone of an ass。'
Young Chips； who was of a more metaphysical bent； suspected that it was more likely Lobsang Rampa's The Third Eye； with the caste mark and the glassy stare and what was quite obviously some kind of mantra based upon the concept of self…realization； the I。
Neville slowly replaced his knobkerry； and turned to the cash register where he drew out Pooley's change； including amongst it thirty sh