Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (12 page)

Neville watched John as he pulled him the pint. And Neville did not like what he saw. He had known Omally to have the occasional off day, but he had never seen him look as grim as this. Neville passed the pint across and took himself off for some polishing.

And then the door to the bar swung wide and in breezed Pooley. Omally looked up and let out a groan and sank once more to his pint.

“Evening, John, evening, Neville,” said Jim. “Two more of those, please, I think.”

Neville hastened back to the pumps and John sank a little bit lower.

“So, then, John,” said Jim. “How did the day go for you?”

“Ooooooooooooooooh,” went Omally.

“Not too well by the sound of it.”

Omally shook a dismal head. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t.”

“No luck with the record companies?”

“Madness,” said John. “Absolute madness. Norman copied the tape and we played it together. It’s incredible, just like you said. You know that horrible wart thing Norman had on his neck?”

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Very nasty, that.”

“Cured,” said John. “It vanished away. And his bald spot’s thatched over.”

“The music does that. It’s in her voice.”

“I know, I heard it, and I’ve spent half the day playing the tape down the telephone to record company executives.”

“And they weren’t keen?”

“They said that they’d heard stuff like it before. That every so often a singer turns up who can do this sort of thing.”

“But they weren’t interested.”

“No. None of them. It doesn’t make any sense. Here we have something that’s worth millions of pounds and no record company will touch it.”

“Well, never mind,” said Jim.

“Never mind? Have you gone mad?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jim.

“Doesn’t matter? But we could have made a fortune.”

“We still can,” said Jim. “Because I have this.” And he whipped out a grubby sheet of paper.

“And what is that?” Omally asked.

“Contract,” said Jim proudly. “Signed by each of the Gandhis and giving us exclusive rights to their music”

Omally took the contract from Jim and examined it. “You got them all to sign,” he said. “You worked so hard. I’m so sorry, Jim.”

“You don’t have to worry, John. It’ll be better this way.”

Neville passed the pints across.

“I’ll get these,” said Omally. “I owe you that at least.”

“No, I’ll get them,” said Jim. “I’ve got plenty of money.” And with that he pulled out a roll of twenties that had Omally gasping.

“How?” went John. “Where?”

“Investment capital,” said Jim. “The Gandhis all wanted to buy in.”

“You got money
from
the band?”

“Money up front to pay for recording time.”

“But none of the record labels will touch them.”

“Brentford Records will.”

“Brentford Records? There is no Brentford Records.”

“There is now,” said Jim. “And we are they. As it were. None of the big companies will touch the band, John. So Ricky and I came up with an idea. We’ll set up our own independent record company and market the music ourselves. Beat the big boys, eh?”

Omally’s mouth fell hugely wide. “You are a genius, Jim,” he said. “A fu—”

“I’ll settle for just a genius. But that’s what we’re going to do. Have a pint on me, Neville.”

Have a pint on me?
Neville’s face folded in horror. If last night hadn’t been bad enough,
have a pint on me!

As Neville fought to find some words, Ornally had plenty to say.

“You’ve done it, Jim,” he cried. “You’ve pulled off the big one.”

“Pretty smart, eh?” said Jim. “And I never went near the bookies. I just set my mind to the task in hand and I came up with a solution.”

“We must drink to this,” said Omally. “Drink to this historic moment. At some future time, when Brentford Records is the biggest record company in the world, we’ll look back upon this hour and say that this was the turning point in our fortunes. This was the moment when everything fell into place.”

“Let’s not get too carried away,” said Jim.

“Nonsense,” said John. “You did it and you’ll take the credit. History will record this day as the day you pulled off The Pooley.”

Neville finally found some words. “Why has Jim fainted?” he asked.

Cab-Arthur Roper

Loved cantilever bridges.

And the sound that the wind made

When it blew down chimneys.

Cab-Arthur Roper

Could call up spirits.

Ask them questions

And write down their answers in a small black book.

Cab-Arthur Roper,

Some called him mad.

Some called him master.

Some even said he was not of this world.

Duck-Barry Martin

Had twenty-three pistols,

And a cellar full of mushrooms

That no one was allowed in.

Duck-Barry Martin

Lived with two women,

And breathed into their nostrils

Which made them obey him.

Duck-Barry Martin,

Some called him Baz.

Some called him Duck Boy.

Some even said he was Jesus come back.

Wild-Norman Peacock

Opened safes for robbers.

Let free pigeons from their lofts

And spoiled babies’ Christenings.

Wild-Norman Peacock

Never worked for a living.

Was registered as a charity.

Received a grant from the Arts Council.

Wild-Norman Peacock.

Some call him clever.

I, for one!

Now, although Jim’s day had been hot on success, it hadn’t been big on adventure.

Jim was not an adventurous type. He was more your chit-chat-in-a-bar-and-get-things-sorted kind of body. As opposed to, say, your macho-manly-man-gung-ho-abseil-into-the-embassy-shoot-all-the-terrorists-rescue-all-the-hostages-and-shag-six-chicks-before-tea-time blokish sort of bloke.

Not that Jim wasn’t a manly man. He was. He lacked not one jot for manly mannishness. He just wasn’t big on adventure.

But, then, who is?

Life, as we have seen from this small slice in Brentford, is mostly composed of conversation. Few people ever actually
do
very much. And if they do
do
anything, it is rarely of an adventurous nature.

There are exceptions, of course. There are always exceptions. There will always be one or two folk in every community who positively thrive on action and adventure. But you will rarely, if ever, get to meet these people. Because they will be off somewhere else, getting into action and having adventures.

In fact, the only time you will get to meet them is when they are home for a while between adventures and you have a conversation with them in a bar. And if it’s past the ten o’clock watershed, you probably won’t believe anything they tell you anyway.

But they do exist and every community, no matter how small, can usually boast at least one.

Brentford could. And Brentford did.

If you were looking for an action man in Brentford, for a man who combined the courage and adventurousness of Indiana Jones, the true grit of John “The Duke” Wayne, the chandelier-swinging skills of Dougie Fairbanks Jnr, the “I-ain’t-got-time-to-bleed” toughness of Jesse “The Body” Ventura and the big-cock action of Long Johnnie Holmes, that man would be—

Soap Distant.

At least in
his
opinion it would.

Although those who knew Soap well might have questioned certain aspects of this character assessment, they would have agreed that any man who had journeyed to the centre of the Earth was deserving of certain respect. And if he chose to spice up his CV somewhat, he should be forgiven.

And when he told people about things he had actually done and things he had actually seen and how he himself knew that things that shouldn’t have changed
had
changed, he should be believed.

But he wasn’t. The Lord of the Old Button Hole had pegged him as a loony and his conversation at the Brentford nick with Inspectre Hovis had only complicated matters further and made him more confused than ever he had been.

So what was Soap to do?

He certainly didn’t want to sit about in bars and chit-chat. He wanted action and he wanted it at once.

What did he want?

Action!

When did he want it?

Now!

And so it came to pass, upon that evening previous, that Soap Distant had taken his leave of Inspectre Hovis in a suitably action-packed fashion.

“I’m leaving now,” said Soap.

“You’re not,” said the Inspectre.

“I am,” said Soap. “There is much I need to know and, interesting as this conversation has been, I feel it is now time for action.”

Inspectre Hovis leaned across his photo-crowded desk. “I’m arresting you, sunshine,” he said.

“Arresting
me
!” said Soap.

“For harbouring a wanted criminal and aiding and abetting him in the course of his escape from justice. Such crimes incur considerable fines and if you do not have the wherewithal to pay, you may well find yourself in one of the Virgin workcamps, manufacturing the rattly bits that are put in Ford Escort doors.”

“What?” cried Soap. “What?”

“David Carson, the cannibal chef.”

“Small Dave?” said Soap. “But how—”

“The thing about police surveillance cameras,” said Inspectre Hovis, gesturing variously round and about, “is that they are simply everywhere. Everywhere. A few years ago people were outraged by them. They complained that they violated human rights. That it was Big Brother. But people don’t complain any more, do they? Not since the police force put a little spin on them with the aid of television crime shows. Now people watch their TVs and see the crims caught on camera and have a chance to phone in and grass them up. People just love surveillance cameras now. They make the man in the street feel that someone is watching over them. And that’s always a comfort, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it is,” said Soap. “But I’m innocent of all charges and I’m off. Goodbye.”

“Not so fast,” said Hovis. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

The Inspectre rootled around amidst the photos on his desk and unearthed a video cassette. This he slotted beneath a small portable television type of a jobbie, the screen of which he turned in Soap’s direction. “Tell me what you think of this,” he said.

Soap watched as the screen lit up, and stared at the image displayed. It was a view of the Flying Swan’s front doorway, evidently filmed from one of the flat blocks opposite.

Soap watched as the onscreen pub door opened and he and Omally came out and walked away.

“That is a violation of human rights,” Soap complained.

“Those who are innocent have nothing to fear from the law,” said Inspectre Hovis.

Soap looked at Hovis.

And Hovis looked at Soap.

“Sorry,” said Hovis. “It just slipped out.”

“And I should think so too.”

“However,” said the Detective in Residence, “this particular doodad has more than one trick up its sleeve. The footage you have just seen was taken this very lunchtime, when the forces of the law were surrounding the Flying Swan in the hope of arresting the cannibal chef. But he somehow sneaked past us. Now how might that have been?”

“How should I know that?” asked Soap, making the face of all innocence.

“Let’s see what the doodad has to show us.” Hovis tinkered at the television jobbie. Soap’s image reversed and froze and expanded to fill up the screen. And then it went all multi-coloured.

“Oh,” said Soap. “Whatever is that?”

“Thermal imaging,” said the Inspectre. “Clever, isn’t it? We use it to track criminals from helicopters. That makes good television, too. The crims try to hide in dustbins, but their heat signatures give them away. Lots of laughs all round.”

“I’m not trying to hide in a dustbin,” said Soap.

“No, and at least you’ll know better than to do so in future. But tell me,” Inspectre Hovis pointed to the colourful Soap on the screen. “What would you take
that
to be?”

“What?” Soap asked.

“This area here. Up the back of your coat. Surely that is the heat signature of a tiny man, all crouched up, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Soap. I’m nicked, he thought.

“You’re nicked,” said Hovis. “I have you bang to rights.”

“Now look,” said Soap. “I can see that this doesn’t look too good for me at the present and I can see that on the evidence it would seem that you have a case. But, as dearly as I love justice, and I do love it dearly, don’t get me wrong, I’m afraid I can’t stay around here any longer. I have important things to be doing and I—”

“Have to stop you there,” said Inspectre Hovis. “Have to give you the necessary caution. Must keep things all legal and above board.”

“Would you take a bribe?” Soap asked.

“Certainly not,” said Hovis.

“Well, could you pass my case on to an officer who would take a bribe?”

“Nice try,” said Hovis. “Novel suggestion. But I think I’ll just bang you up in the cells until the accounts department can work out just how much you owe us in fines. Now, do you want to go quietly, or will I be forced to summon in a couple of constables to rough you up a little?”

“I am a Buddhist,” said Soap, “and I abhor violence. So—”

And here at last Soap got his chance for some action.

He gathered up his hat and goggles, thrust them on and with no thought for anything but the said action, rushed the Inspectre’s office and flung himself through the plate-glass window.

If this courageous deed had been captured on camera it would have been well worth a play on
Crime Watch
. Viewers would no doubt have taped it for their private collections and played it in slow motion, and freeze-framed on the good bits and even run it in reverse, which is always good for a laugh, if you’re suitably sad and lonely.

But it wasn’t, so they couldn’t, so to speak.

For there were no surveillance cameras trained on the Inspectre’s window. Not that there weren’t any trained on the building. There were, loads of the buggers. But these were all aimed at the ground floor.

And Inspectre Hovis’s office was not on the ground floor.

Inspectre Hovis’s office was on the twenty-third floor.

A bit too high up to merit surveillance.

Now it came as some surprise to Soap that, having smashed through the plate-glass window, he did not land immediately upon the ground. He had assumed, incorrectly as it proved, that he
was
on the ground floor and the spectacular rooftop view of Brentford
[11]
that met his eyes for a mere split second was pleasing to behold. But the pleasure was fleeting and tempered by a feeling of alarm and, as he began the rapid rush downwards, alarm in turn became terror.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Soap Distant, the way that you do when falling to your death. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” and, “Look out, below.”

There is, apparently, a mathematical calculation that can be worked out, regarding the speed of a falling object. Soap did not know this calculation, and even if he had known, and indeed known that it would take him precisely 3.4256 seconds to make contact with the ground below, it is doubtful whether he would have shown a lot of interest.

But a lot can happen in 3.4256 seconds, as anyone who knows such things will tell you.

But you have to know, of course, precisely which 3.4256 seconds to choose.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” continued Soap, using up 1.3849 seconds.

“Aaaaaaaaagh!” went he a little more, which was part of the very same “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

And then he stopped aaaaaaaaaaghing, because he ceased falling, which must have meant that he’d made impact.

As indeed he had. Though not with the ground.

Soap suddenly found himself hanging in the air. Just hanging there, suspended, so to speak. Some three good yards above the pavement and perched on a cushion of air.

And looking up from directly below him was a lad. A lad in a black T-shirt and shorts. A lad who looked strangely familiar.

“What’s your bloody game?” asked the lad. “You could have killed me falling down like that.”

Soap took to floundering up upon high. Boggle-eyed behind his goggles, open-mouthed beneath. Hovering on nothingness, defying gravity’s law.

“It’s a good job I’m wearing this,” said the lad, pointing to a complicated wristwatch affair. “Personal lifespan chronometer, incorporating personal defence mechanism. Activated by a wide-band polarizing field that detects rapidly approaching objects. Do you have any idea of the speed you were travelling?”

Soap managed a “No” and shook his head a little.

“Well, I can work it out on my chronometer. Look, here comes your hat.”

Soap’s black hat came fluttering down and landed on his head.

“Well caught, that man,” said the lad.

“What?” went Soap. “How?”

“How does it work? Simple. The wide-band polarizing field detects the approaching object, calculates its mass and causes a cohesion to occur in the surrounding air, effectively joining the oxygen molecules to create a spherical barrier that is virtually impenetrable. Go on, poke it with your finger if you don’t believe me.”

Soap didn’t bother. He did believe him.

“Trouble is,” said the lad. “It takes it out of the batteries. So if you don’t mind I’ll just step aside and switch it off.”

This he did, and Soap crashed to the pavement.

“Are you all right?” the lad asked.

Soap sat up and felt at his limbs. He seemed to be all in one piece.

“Well, if you’re not, it will just serve you right for falling on people. If you must jump out of high windows, try to do it when no one’s around. And look at all this glass, someone could cut themselves on that.”

Soap nodded numbly.

“Goodbye,” the lad said.

“No, wait, please.” Soap climbed painfully to his feet.

“What is it?” said the lad.

“You saved my life. I want to thank you.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. In fact
I
didn’t do it at all.”

“Well, thank you anyway. My name is Soap Distant. Might I ask you yours?”

“Soap Distant?” the lad thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “That name doesn’t ring any bells.”

“But it will,” said Soap. “I will soon be very famous.”

“No,” said the lad. “If you were to be, I’d know.”

“Eh?” said Soap.

“Goodbye,” said the lad.

“No, hold on, please. At least tell me your name.”

“My name is Wingarde,” said the lad. “My surname I’d rather not mention.”

And with that he walked away, leaving Soap to wonder.

But he didn’t stand and wonder very long. Because all at once alarms began to clang out from the police station.

Which proved, at least, that Soap did ring
some
bells.

Soap fled the scene of his falling and saving and spent the evening and the night stalking around and about. He rarely, if ever, slept nowadays. Ten years beneath had altered him in many ways.

Soap stalked along the streets of his youth, passing the houses of friends he’d once known. Cab-Arthur Roper, Duck-Barry Martin, Wild-Norman Peacock and all of the rest. Soap paused at times to lurk in alleyways, where, with the rain beating down on his hat, he viewed people’s various doings.

He saw Norman Hartnell in his underwear returning to his shop. He saw Pooley
[12]
enter the Penist’s house and he made a mental note of the address. And he saw other things that were strange and mysterious. Things that you only see late in the night.

By the coming of the new dawn, Soap had formed a plan of action. Determined as he was to discover exactly what was going on and how history could have changed while he’d been belooooow, he was equally determined to remain at liberty and out of the clutches of the Virgin police.