Read Online The Sprouts of Wrath by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online Page B

bar top, began to twist his copy of the
Mercury
into a clumsy sausage which might possibly have put the wind up a poodle.
    The furtive figure crept closer and hovered a few yards from Pooley’s bench. Jim, nerves taut as fiddle strings and sagacity possibly rivalling that of the ring-tailed possum, turned upon him. “Good morning to you,” said Jim. “Can I be of some help or what?” Taking full stock of the stranger, Pooley was not all that taken with what he saw. From shiny suede chukka boots to frayed corduroys, the observer’s eye led over an expanse of shabby raincoat to a grizzled face, unshaven of chin, dark of eye and topped by a greasy fedora. Here, thought Jim, is a man whose flirtation with hygiene never led to a lasting relationship.
    “Jim Pooley?”
    Jim nervously rolled his newspaper. This man was definitely not Eamonn Andrews proffering the big red book, neither was he Chalkie White or one of the Page Three lovelies offering to exchange a five spot for the answer to a simple question. “You just missed him,” said Pooley. “He teaches unarmed combat down at the church hall on Saturday mornings. I expect you’ll find him there.”
    “This is it,” said the shabby man, withdrawing from his pocket something that looked for all the world to be none other than the legendary “Judge Colt”. “Your luck just ran out.”
    Jim’s brain struggled to encompass this sudden shift in fortunes, a no-mark, a potential millionaire and a coffin case all within the same twenty-four hours. It took some getting used to. “I don’t think I quite understand,” said Jim, staring into what looked like the muzzle of a howitzer.
    “It is perfectly straightforward,” explained the shabby man. “I am going to kill you, do you want it here or elsewhere?”
    “Oh, definitely elsewhere, name the place, I’ll meet you there.”
    “Get moving.” The shabby man returned his peacemaker to his pocket and gestured with the bulge of the hidden barrel.
    I wonder where all the nice policemen are, wondered Jim. It’s funny how there’s never one around when you need him.
    “This way.”
    Jim found himself being prodded down a side alley, which he knew led to a break in the allotment fence. “You’ll kick yourself when you read tomorrow’s paper,” said Jim, “you’ve got the wrong man, you know.”
    “Get moving.”
    “I am but a poor man but you can have all that I own.”
    “I shall anyway.”
    “What have I done to deserve this?” wailed Jim. “I haven’t harmed no-one.”
    “Over here.”
    Pooley hung his head and moved on over. The two threaded their way through the shanty town of corrugated iron huts, between well-tended plots and pastures wild. There was not a tenant to be seen.
    “Stop.”
    “Must I?”
    The shabby man drew out his pistol and pressed the cold steel against the nape of Pooley’s neck. “Recommend yourself to your deity.”
    Jim spun round. His terror was absolute but his nerve had not absolutely deserted him. “Now see here,” he said, “a dying man is entitled to a last request. Everybody knows that.”
    “So what is it?”
    Jim fell to his knees. “Don’t kill me,” he begged.
    “Request denied.” The pistol rose and levelled at a point midway between Pooley’s eyes.
    “Look out! Behind you!” cried Jim. It had always worked in the movies, well, a couple of times anyway.
    “Do me a favour.” Jim could see the black crescent of finger-nail as it drew back upon the trigger. There was a very loud bang and then things went very black indeed.
     
    John Omally stood above the fallen twosome, spade in hand.
    “Wake up, Jim,” he called. “It’s opening time.”
    Pooley stirred from his nightmare and found himself still staring into his would-be assassin’s face: stubble, spots, halitosis and all. “Aaagh!” went Jim, rolling smartly in a swift sideways direction, “and help!”
    “You’re lucky I saw you coming past my hut,” said John, reaching down to take up