Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (16 page)

“No,” said Jim. “He wasn’t there. But I played him the bootleg tape.”

There followed then a silence. It was a heavy kind of silence. An unearthly kind of silence. It was the heavy unearthly kind of silence that you normally only associate with that terrible moment just before the trap door opens and the hangman’s rope draws tight.

“Bootleg tape,” said Pigarse, breaking this silence to bits. “Shall I kill them for you, mistress?”

“No,” said Litany, holding up her hand. “No, not here. Not now.”

“Hang about,” said Omally. “What is going on?”

“Silence!” shouted Pigarse.

And John became silent.

“Who made this bootleg?” asked Litany.

“Sandy,” said John. “He bootlegs all the gigs. But I nicked the tape from him before he could make copies.”

“And you made copies?”

“I did,” said John.

“Give me all the tapes you have, at once.”

John dug into his pocket. Pooley put the briefcase down and did likewise. “I’m sorry,” said Jim. “Here you are.”

Litany took the tapes in her hand. And crushed them. Just crushed them to splinters. As if they were nothing at all.

“You do not understand,” she said, in a voice so cold that it raised the hairs on Jim Pooley’s neck. “There must never be bootlegs. Never. Our music must only be recorded upon encrypted CDs that cannot be copied. Bootleg tapes would ruin us. They would be copied by the thousand. By the million. We would not make a penny.”

“Well, yes,” said Jim in a quavery tone. “I suppose they would. I’m really sorry. We had the tape and we just didn’t think. But I do have the money now and you can do the tour and end up doing a really huge gig at Wembley or something.”

“All right,” said Litany. “You did what you thought was for the best.”

“I did,” said Jim. “I truly did. I just want the band to succeed. I want the world to hear your music”

Litany smiled upon Jim. “You are a good man,” she said. “You are everything I hoped you’d be. So I think you are deserving of a treat. A special reward for your labours.” Litany reached out her hand towards Jim. “Would you like to come into my bedroom?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Oh yes, please.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Soap Distant. “Oh yes, indeed!”

Soap was in Boots the Chemist. He had drawn money from his bank account and now had his photographs back.

“Stag do, was it?” asked the assistant from behind the counter. “Fat birds with their kit off? Let’s have a butcher’s.”

“Certainly not,” said Mr Distant. “These photographs prove my claims. These photographs will make me famous.”

“No titties, then?” asked the assistant.

“None whatsoever.” Soap flicked through the photographs. “Well, a few, actually. Temple dancers in the sunken city of Atlantis. Oh yes, and that princess with the long golden hair, whose father rules the subterranean land of Shambhala. And a couple of goblin nymphs from the Middle Earth. And Hitler’s daughter, I’d forgotten about her.”

“Hitler’s daughter?” The assistant leaned across the counter.

“Met her beneath the South Pole,” said Soap. “There’s a secret Nazi base under there. It’s where all the flying saucers come from. Nazi technology. Not a lot of people know that.”

“I did,” said the assistant. “But then I
am
the reincarnation of St Joseph of Cupertino. Would you like to see me levitate?”

“No, thanks,” said Soap, pocketing his photographs.

“Oh, go on. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Perhaps some other time. I have an appointment with destiny at the offices of the
Brentford Mercury
.”

“Look, I’m doing it now. My feet are off the floor.”

“Goodbye,” said Soap and he took his leave.

“Good morning,” said Norman. “And how may I help you?”

“Just a packet of peppermints, please,” said Soap. “I have an appointment with destiny and I feel that fragrant breath is called for and …” Soap’s voice trailed off. “What has happened to your shop?” his voice trailed on again.

The interior of Norman’s shop was gone to ruination. Smashed, it seemed, by the hand of a jealous god. The shelves were down and splintered. Broken sweetie jars lay all about the place. There were great holes in the plasterwork and in the ceiling also. The counter had been shattered to oblivion.

“I’m redecorating,” said Norman. “Thought it was time for a change.”

“Change,” said Soap in a toneless tone. “Everywhere, change.”

“I’ll just get the peppermints.”

Soap watched the shopkeeper sifting through wreckage. “Why are you moving in that funny manner?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Norman.

“All bandy-legged,” said Soap. “Have you hurt your bottom?”

“No, I’m just—” But Norman’s words were swallowed up by a mighty bellow that issued from his kitchen.

“And what was
that
?” asked Soap.

“What?” asked Norman. “I didn’t hear anything.”

There came next a violent crash that brought down plaster from the walls.

“What about that?” Soap asked. “Did you hear that?”

“That would be the workmen.” Norman unearthed a packet of peppermints and, straightening painfully, offered them to Soap.

“They’re rather flat,” said Soap. “Is this a hoof mark on them?”

“Hoof mark?” said Norman. “Hoof mark?”

“It does look rather like a hoof mark.”

“Just have them for nothing.”

“That’s very kind.”

There came another bellow and another crash.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Soap. “But do you know what?”

“Some of the time,” said Norman.

“That bellowing,” said Soap. “I’ve heard that sound before. Belooooooow, on my travels. In Narnia, I think it was. It sounds just like a unico—”

“Have to hurry you now,” said Norman, hustling Soap to the door.

Outside, in the Ealing Road, the sun beamed blessings on the borough. Birdies sang from treetop bowers and a rook returning to its nest was shooed away by Small Dave, who had taken up residence there. A street surveillance camera clocked the image of the library clerk who marched off towards his appointment with destiny, but failed to register that of the young man in the black T-shirt and shorts, who crept across the roof of a nearby flat block, cradling an AK47 with a sniper’s sight.

Dick was a God-damn hero.

Dick had done it all.

He’d walked and talked with Nero.

He’d seen the empire fall.

He’d held the court in rapture.

With tales of darkest Burma,

And all the things he’d seen and done

Across old terra firma.

Dick was a God-damn hero.

But the nights were drawing in.

He’d sung with Johnny Zero

And also Tiny Tim.

He’d practised acupuncture

On ladies of renown,

And met with ghosts in graveyards

And other parts of town.

Dick was a God-damn hero.

But nobody cared for Dick.

He shouted loud and clearo.

It really made you sick.

I’ve seen it all,

I’ve been there, too.

I know them and

They know it’s true.

It can hurt to be a hero,

And I’m glad I’m not like Dick.

“You are a God-damn hero,” said John Omally, raising a pint of good cheer.

It was Thursday lunchtime and he and Jim were once more in the Flying Swan.

“But there is one thing I have to say,” the Irishman continued, “and it is best that I say it now.”

“Go on, then,” said Jim, a-sipping at his pint.

“If you don’t get that smug-looking smile off your face, I’ll punch your lights out.”

“Sorry,” said Jim. “I can’t help it.”

Omally shook his head. “Just what
did
she do to you in that bedroom?” he asked, for the umpteenth time.

“She sang to me. I told you.”

“And that’s all she did? Sing?”

Jim Pooley sighed in a wistful way. “Yes,” he said. “It was wonderful.”

John placed his pint upon the counter and rubbed his hands together. “Well, whatever,” he said. “But you did it, Jim. You raised the money. Less than two days as a businessman and we’re already up by one hundred thousand pounds. It’s beyond belief. I should have gone into business with you years ago. We’d be millionaires by now.”

“I thought I’d pop into Norman’s and pay him what we owe.”

“No need to be hasty.” John took up his pint once more. “Norman can wait until his week is up. We must decide just how we’re going to spend all this wealth. The first thing I should do is open a bank account.”

“Oh no, it’s not,” said Jim.

“It’s not?” said John.

“It’s not,” said Jim. “The first thing
you
should do is think about how
you
are going to organize the Gandhis’ tour,”

Omally made the face of thought. “I’ve been considering this matter,” he said, “and I do predict a problem or two.”

“Go on,” said Jim.

“Well, it would have been an easy enough matter to phone up music venues and play the tape to them. But as we don’t have the tapes any more—”

“Norman still has one,” said Jim.

“Ah yes, so he does.”

“But I don’t think we’d better use it. Litany seemed very upset, didn’t she?”

“You’re not kidding, my friend. The way she crunched up those cassettes. I’m glad that wasn’t my old chap she had in her hand.”

“Don’t be so crude, John.”

“I’m sorry. But you’re right. The show must go on. And, do you know what, I have a bit of an idea.”

“Which you might perhaps like to share with me?”

“I would. Do you remember back in the sixties? There was a rock festival held on the allotments.”

“Brentstock,” said Jim. “I didn’t go to it. I think I was in San Francisco at the time.”

“I think you were in Bognor at the time. With your mum.”

“In the San Francisco Guesthouse, that’s right.”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

“What?” said Jim.

“Nothing,” said John. “But think about this. We could organize a big rock festival of our own. Right here, somewhere in the borough.”

“Not on the allotments, though. I seem to recall that the council were most upset about the last one.”

“No, not on the allotments. I know a better place. In fact I know the ideal place.”

“Not in my back yard,” said Jim.

“Buffoon. What about Gunnersbury Park?”

“Lord Crawford’s place? He’d never go for that.”

“Wouldn’t he, though? Lord Crawford is a member of the aristocracy. And how do members of the aristocracy spend their spare time?”

“In debauchery, of course. It’s a tradition, or an—”

“Old charter or something. I know. So how do you think Lord Crawford would take to Litany singing him a little song?”

“The same way I did, probably. I …”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Enjoyed it very much,” said Pooley.

“Right, that’s settled, then. We’ll concentrate our efforts on a big rock concert in the park. And if it all goes with a big kerpow, we’ll then deal with the matter of a recording studio.”

“I agree,” said Jim. “But just one thing. This concert has to be big. Really big. Enormous. Stupendous. And things of that nature generally. It has to be
the
legendary gig. The one that no Gandhis fan would want to miss. Everything depends on that. Believe me, everything.”

“You’re keeping secrets, Jim. I don’t like it at all.”

“Just trust me,” said Jim. “It’ll all work out. I know it will.”

“As you are clearly a business genius, as well as my bestest friend, my trust goes without saying. So, you leave his lordship for me to tune up. He owes me a favour anyway.”

“Lord Crawford, Brentford’s Aristo in Residence, owes
you
a favour?”

“That’s why I suggested Gunnersbury Park. You know all those vids I sold to Norman?”

“You bought them from Lord Crawford?”

“Indirectly. You know how these things are.”

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t. But what a very small world it is. We need a venue for a big rock concert and Lord Crawford just happens to live in a big park around the corner and just happens to indirectly owe you a favour. Some people might consider all this somewhat hard to believe.”

“Then some people would be miserable buggers, wouldn’t they? We’re on a roll here, Jim. Nothing can stop us. Nothing.”

High upon the flat block opposite the Swan, Wingarde Pooley squinted through the telescopic sight of his AK47. He was set upon a single course. That of destroying the ancestor who had besmirched the family name. The obvious flaw in this – that in so doing he would surely cancel out his own existence – seemed not to have occurred to him at all.

But, then, perhaps it had. And, then, perhaps he had found a way around this dire eventuality. Because Wingarde hadn’t just travelled back through time to save rock stars from their early deaths. He had made one or two other major alterations to history during his travels. Such as assassinating the Queen and arranging for Richard Branson to sit upon the throne of England.

Deeds which in themselves were deserving not only of our unmitigated praise and undying gratitude but also our unquestioning trust that here was a young man who knew
exactly
what he was doing.

Indeed, here was a young man whose deeds, fulfilling as they did the sincere if unspoken wish-dreams of us all, could be said to be little less than divinely inspired.

Which in fact, they were.

For, you see, Wingarde was not acting, as Geraldo had supposed, from desperation to free his family from the curse of The Pooley. Wingarde was acting under the guidance of a higher force.

The
higher force.

Wingarde heard The Voice.

For The Voice did speak unto Wingarde. Speak unto him whilst he did lie in his bed, or dwell upon the toilet bowl, or eat thereof his cornflakes, or sit, or stand, or walk, or run, or have a quiet one off the wrist. The Voice did speak unto Wingarde and Wingarde did do all the doings that The Voice did order him to do.

Knowing that The Voice he heard was heard by no one but himself.

Knowing that it was The Voice of God.

And not, as in the case of his many times great ancestor, the voice of Small Dave in a cistern.

Wingarde squinted through the telescopic sight, the cross-hairs focused on the Swan’s saloon bar door.

Go for a head shot
, whispered The Voice in his head.
Make me proud of you, my son
.

Brentford’s other Lord, The Lord of the Old Button Hole, was a proud and pretty fellow who had voices of his own. And while few could doubt that Wingarde’s inner voice was indeed The Voice of God, as evidenced by the charitable deeds it urged him to perform, the voices that shrieked in the head of Leo Justice were a different kettle of Kobbolds altogether.

And Leo not only heard these voices, he could sometimes see their owners too. Three demonic entities possessed him. They took turns, one running the show whilst the other two vacated the cerebral premises and hung around outside, waiting for their goes to come around again.

They were visible to Leo alone and, although he had considered the possibility of exorcism, the truth of the matter was that Leo rather enjoyed their company and revelled in the wickedness and depravity which he was oft times encouraged to inflict upon others.

But then, of course, he was a newspaper editor.
[14]

On this particular Thursday lunchtime Leo sat at his desk, in his now less box-crowded office, munching upon a bread roll containing lettuce, celery, tomato, cheese, little boy’s bottom parts and Thousand Island dressing, no salt or pepper, when a knock-knock-knock came at his door and a man called Soap came striding in.

“Good day to you,” cried Soap, a-waving his photographs. “I have them here, so let’s get into action.”

Leo Justice looked up from his eating. To the left and right of him, although unseen by Soap, the arch demons Balberith and Gressil, who played the roles of “The Lord” and “The Magnificent” respectively, when in residence, also looked up. And Leviathan, Prince of the First Hierarchy of Hell and currently at the controls, as it were, peered out through Leo’s eyeballs and moved his mouth about.

“Your mother darns socks in hell,” said the voice of Leviathan.

“Pardon me?” said Soap, who hadn’t seen
The Exorcist
and so didn’t fall about in hysterical mirth.

Leo coughed and regained control of his vocal chords. “Who are you?” he wanted to know.

“I am Soap. Soap Distant. Traveller belooooow. The man who placed the flag of the realm in the planet’s beating heart.”

“Then why are you dressed as a library clerk? And is that make-up you’re wearing?”

“I wish to remain incognito for the present. And it’s just a bit of blusher to add a spot of flesh-tone. And the eyeliner rather highlights the pinkness of my pupils, don’t you think? Your woman outside gave me a quick makeover. She was still worrying at those wires. I advised her to give them a miss. The Information Superhighway is just a road to nowhere, I told her. She seemed to agree, because she said I was to tell you that you could stuff your job and she was off to join the raggle-taggle gypsies for a life of romance and rheumatism.”

“Come sit upon my knee, dear boy,” crooned the voice of Leviathan, who, as “Leo Baby”, swung both ways.

Soap arched an eyebrow, bridged his nose and did an underpass job with his mouth. “Have
you
been drinking?” he asked.

“State your business,” said Leo.

“I have the photographs. The proof of my travels belooooow. Taken with the old box Brownie. And in colour, not black and white.”

“Thrill me with them,” said Leo, raising a languid hand and sweeping the clutter of his desktop to the floor. Bottom-part sandwiches and all.

Soap strode over to the desk and dealt a hand of photos.

“That’s the west pier, Atlantis. And that’s one of me with a monk at the Temple of Agharti in Shambhala. Eating bat.”

“Eating bat?” said the voice of Leviathan. “Isn’t that a euphemism for—”

“No,” said Soap. “It’s just bat. The wings were a bit stringy. But when in Rome—”

“Bugger the senate?” said Leviathan.

“Possibly,” said Soap. “I’ve never understood the Italian football league.”

“What’s this one?” asked Leo.

“That’s me in the cave of the Gibberlins. See all that gold? Makes Fort Knox look like a boot-sale, doesn’t it?”

“Do you have any of Hell?” asked Leviathan.

“They didn’t come out,” said Soap.

“They never do.” And Leviathan laughed, spraying Soap with a projectile vomit composed of black frogs, safety pins, fish hooks and threepenny bits.

“Pardon me,” said Leo, wiping his chin. “Got a bit carried away there.”

“Well,” said Soap, picking frogs from his lapels. “I think you’ll agree that these photographs prove my claims to be true. Shall we discuss contracts and a six-figure advance?”

“How about a six-fingered advance?” said Leviathan. “Without the rear-guard action.”

Soap folded his arms, creased his brow and put a tuck in his top lip. “Now just you see here!” he said, in the way that you do when you do. So to speak.

“What, here?” asked Leviathan, revolving Leo’s left eye. “Or here?” He made the right one roll into his head.

“That’s an impressive trick,” said Soap, who was never above the awarding of praise. “I had an uncle once who could poke the end of a contraceptive up his nose and then cough it out of his mouth, and then he would pull on each end in turn, like using dental floss. Said it kept his sinuses clear. It used to get him chucked out of a lot of restaurants, though.”

Leviathan mulled that one over. “I’d like to meet your uncle,” he said.

“He moved to Milton Keynes,” said Soap. “Opened a nasal floss shop. But, as I was saying … Just you see here! I don’t have time to waste! I want action and I want it now!”

“And you’d like a contract and a six-figure advance on the strength of these photographs?” The voice was Leo’s. The tone was unbelieving.

“Certainly,” said Soap. “And on the tale I have to tell and the skill with which I’ll tell it. So to speak.”

Leo laughed and Leviathan laughed and Balberith laughed. And so did Gressil. Laugh, laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh.

“Are you laughing?” Soap was heard to ask.

“We are,” said Leo. “Which is to say
I
am. Kindly sling your hooky-hook, Mr Distant.”

“How about five figures, then?”

“No, you misunderstand. This is not a matter for negotiation.”

“Four,” said Soap. “As long as the first one’s a nine.”

“No,” said Leo, laughing once again.

“Three, then. As long as the first one’s a ten.”

“No.”

“No?” said Soap. “You’re saying no?”

“I would like to say yes,” said Leo. “Truly I would. But I regret that for the moment I cannot. You see, yesterday I sold the newspaper. I am no longer in a position to commission features.”

“Sold the paper? What?” Soap was aghast. Agape and a-goggle and a-gasp. “You’ve sold the
Brentford Mercury
. To who?”

“It’s to
whom
, actually. To a major news group, as it happens.
The
major news group. Virgin News International.”

Soap’s mouth became a perfect O. His bum an asterisk. “You have sold the
Brentford Mercury
to Virgin? You have prostituted the borough’s organ?”