by Mark Gatiss
‘How’s business?’ I enquired as she sloshed cognac into a none-too-clean tumbler and slid it over the tarnished veneer towards me.
‘Same as ever,’ she growled. ‘I gotta read the riot act three times a week just to keep the buggers in order but they’re not a bad lot. And they know not to fight too ’ard or they’ll get a taste of this.’ She bared her meaty fist from which sprouted wiry grey hairs. ‘Mind you,’ she continued, ‘some might say as we’ve gawn up in the world.’
‘How so?’
She nodded towards the fluffy-haired Pickwick-like fellow I’d noticed earlier. The coloured youth was now sitting with him and they seemed to be having a fairly lively conversation. The older man was looking nervously about and nibbling at his fingernails. The boy was shaking his head, ever so slightly, and the dead straight hair shifted like a curtain over his smooth forehead. ‘Know who that is?’ asked Delilah, with a wink.
I frowned. ‘The boy?’
‘Nah, nah, nah. Dunno about him. The old geezer.’
‘I feel I should,’ I admitted. ‘He’s certainly familiar. But I’m not as good with faces as once I was.’
‘Sir Vyvyan Hooplah,’ breathed Delilah, rubbing a soiled tea-towel around a gin glass. ‘Remember him?’
‘I do!’ I whispered. ‘Yes, of course. Used to be…Secretary of State for–no–he was Head of the Board of Health, wasn’t he? Under Asquith!’
Delilah shrugged hugely. ‘I just remember him from the picture papers. Nearly got the top job, didn’t he?’
I nodded, intrigued. ‘Yes. He did.’ And indeed, it was Hooplah. Pinched and mean-spirited by reputation, he was a pillar, supporting wall and front porch of the Establishment. And yet there he was, sat at one of Delilah’s chipped tables–apparently in search of oblivion, like me.
It was hard to make out details as the packed club’s clientele swirled around in my line of sight but I saw the Negroid youth gesticulating and Hooplah angrily pushing him away. Then the scene disappeared as the room was plunged into darkness. A spotlight hit the tiny bandstand and couples staggered into drunken dancing.
‘And what you been up to, sir?’ asked Delilah, a mischievous twinkle in her bloodshot orbits. ‘Helping some kiddies across the road? Opening a new ’ospital ward? Or have you been going to the park to chuck Hovis at the ducks?’
‘Now, now, Delilah,’ I said, sipping gingerly at the brandy. ‘You’re sounding petulant again.’
‘Well,’ she drawled, ‘not like the bloody old days, is it? Stuck behind a desk fiddling with paper-clips. I bet you’d give a year of your life just for a nice juicy hassassination!’
I shook my head. ‘Time to bring down the curtain, Delilah,’ I said. ‘The party’s over.’
But scarcely had the words left my lips when I felt a sudden heat on my cheek, and my smeary glass exploded as a 9mm bullet slammed into the bar.
.6.
GOODBYE, PICCADILLY
I flung myself to the floorboards. Grit and dust choked me and the air was full of cordite. There was a shocked pause and then one of the stringy queens started screaming like a castrato.
In a ring of suddenly empty tables stood Sir Vyvyan Hooplah, brandishing a Luger. His ruddy face was suffused with a wicked grin and the clouds of hair behind his ears seemed to stand on end. He fired again, further fracturing the mirrored walls. The exotic-looking young man shielded his head with long, slim fingers.
Delilah reacted with the speed of a panther. A long-in-the-tooth panther, mind you, but still fairly nippy. As I scrambled to my feet, she rolled up her sleeves and prepared to give Hooplah what for.
‘Look out! Look out!’ cackled Sir Vyvyan delightedly, loosing off another shot. ‘I’ll take on the lot of you, d’you hear? Haha!’ His face was now almost violet above the white scarf. ‘Never fired a weapon, d’you see? Sat out the war on my silly old rump. Both wars, in point of fact, but now…Now!’
‘All right, mate,’ warned Delilah, approaching stealthily. ‘Time you turned in.’
‘Not likely!’ yelled the berserk former politician.
He fired another bullet and then proceeded to propel himself head-first through the crowd. The Negroid boy reached out and got him by the ankles but the old buffer slid from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Then Hooplah righted himself, galloped towards the lift, dragged back the grille and turned to face the room, a manic glitter in his eyes. ‘See? See!’ he roared. ‘I’m a match for you!’
The Luger spat fire into the smoky air and the great central chandelier splintered, smashing crystal droplets to the floor like frozen tears.
The lift chugged into life and Hooplah was gone.
‘Stairs!’ I cried. ‘Get to the stairs!’
Delilah and I tore from the room and onto the Blood Orange’s ill-lit stairwell. We clattered down two flights, flung open the front door and dashed outside, only to be greeted by the roar of an engine and a great screech of tyres. Two sharp reports, a blur of scarlet and Hooplah was off, careering wildly around parked motors, accelerating south towards Oxford Street.
I gaped at Delilah. ‘He’s stolen my ruddy car!’
Delilah heaved a huge sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat. ‘Come on then. I’ll call the rozzers.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I bristled. ‘I want my Bentley back!’
‘Yeah, but—’
I looked round swiftly and my heart leaped as I caught sight of the ugly young moped driver who’d earlier offered me stimulants. ‘I thought you wanted to recapture the halcyon days, you old fossil,’ I cried to Delilah. ‘Come on!’
We dashed the few yards to the moped, our hips clicking like knitting needles. The youth, now chatting up a girl in bright yellow pedal-pushers, looked at me, his black brows contracting as I placed a hand on his machine. ‘Awfully sorry,’ I smiled disarmingly, ‘but that old bugger’s pinched my car. Hope you don’t mind but I’ve got to get it back.’
A strand of his Brylcreemed hair flopped forward, almost poking him in the eye. ‘So?’ he drawled, winking at the girl. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Not a lot,’ I admitted calmly and, stepping to one side, allowed Delilah’s chunky fist to connect with his chin.
‘’Ere!’ piped up the girl in the pedal-pushers. With a mildly surprised grunt, her beau slid from the moped’s seat. Delilah caught him deftly, then, with only a little difficulty, dragged him onto the pavement. A groan of effort, and I swung my leg across the broad back of the moped. Behind me, Delilah did likewise and the poor vehicle sagged under the weight. I chugged the engine into life and, belching fumes, we screeched off into the traffic in pursuit of my Bentley.
‘What the hell can have got into the old fool?’ I yelled as we gathered speed.
‘I ain’t never seen him in the club before,’ cried Delilah. In one of the huge mirrors clamped to each handlebar, I saw her wiping sweat from her brick-like forehead. ‘He just wandered in looking a bit nervy-like.’
I peered ahead at the silvery car bumpers as we shot across Oxford Street and back into Soho. ‘Maybe he’s cracked,’ continued Delilah. ‘Pressure of work.’
I shook my head. ‘No, no. He’s been retired for years. In any case—’
A fugitive memory began to intrude on me, like a trapped bee knocking against a window casement. ‘Do you know, Delilah, this is—Look out!’
I swerved, careering past a leggy girl in lethal heels. Poland Street shot past like a dimly lit canyon. The warm air whipped at my face and my hair streamed back off my forehead in snowy fronds. Ahead, manoeuvring through the traffic with terrifying disregard, was the Bentley. I winced as Hooplah pranged a black cab, eliciting an explosion of horn parping, and a stream of oaths from its cloth-capped driver, as he scraped against the chassis. A youth in corduroys yelped in terror as the Bentley mounted the kerb and, scattering pedestrians like skittles, skidded off.
‘The lunatic,’ I muttered. ‘He’ll top someone.’ I swung us right in hot pursuit. ‘And Christ kno
ws what he’s doing to my suspension!’
‘What was you gonna say?’ cried Delilah.
I crouched low over the handlebars. ‘Tell you later!’
Ahead tail-lights blurred, speckled with the amber signs of black cabs. There was a fanfare of protesting horns as Hooplah smashed into Berwick Street. A mass of gabardined punters fled as the car screamed past them. Then, suddenly, dozens of covered market stalls blocked his way.
Hooplah slammed on the Bentley’s brakes. I could see the top of his bald head shining in the electric light as he considered his next move. In an instant he had revved the engine and the car leapfrogged forward, ploughing into the stalls and sending shattered planks, fruit and vegetables spuming into the air. As we gave chase, a fat cauliflower smacked Delilah on the side of the head and, without warning, she bounced off the back of the moped. It bucked upwards at once and I struggled to keep control.
There was a sickening crunch as Hooplah sliced my beloved Bentley through the last of the stalls and, in a plume of exhaust smoke, zig-zagged towards Shaftesbury Avenue.
Righting myself, I threw a glance over my shoulder to see Delilah struggling to her feet. Relieved, I pressed on, accelerating past the arched naughtiness of the Revue Bar–furtive tarts diving for their lives–then weaving down Rupert Street before bucking onto Shaftesbury Avenue in hot pursuit.
As I stuttered through the traffic, I peered ahead, desperate to catch a glimpse of the Bentley’s red livery. And yes–at last–there it was! Hemmed in and unable to proceed. To my horror, Hooplah was relentlessly ramming the back bumper of the car in front. Still perched atop the stolen moped, I zipped past an overheating sports car until I was just behind the crazed former Cabinet Minister. ‘Hooplah!’ I hollered. ‘Stop the damned car! What the hell—’
He turned and the look on his ancient face fairly made my blood run cold. There was an intensity, a sort of mania in the eyes, which utterly transformed him.
‘Oh hello!’ he cackled, spittle dribbling onto his chin. ‘Haha! Hello, old man! Old man! Haha! That’s good!’
I tried to inch the moped forward but a determined old family tourer was blocking my way.
‘Hooplah!’ I cried desperately. ‘Sir Vyvyan! Get out of the car before you kill someone!’
‘Get out? Get out?’ The response came as a choked whisper. ‘Are you quite mad?’ Suddenly the gun was in his hand again and he loosed off a couple of shots into the air. I ducked down.
‘I must get on!’ whooped Hooplah. ‘No time to lose! Can’t you see? Can’t you see what’s happened? It’s a bloody miracle!’
At last, the other car crawled out of the way and I was able to pull level with the Bentley. Hooplah aimed the Luger right at me but I managed to knock it away and reach out to grab his collar. Then I almost toppled over as the light switched from red to amber, the traffic ahead suddenly moved and the old lunatic slammed the car into gear, rocketing off once again.
I swore under my breath, righted myself and squeezed the handle of the moped. It chugged forward but then the bloody thing stalled. Precious moments were wasted as I kick-kick-kicked at the starting pedal. Then I was once more giving chase.
Still, that nagging memory persisted. There was something about Hooplah’s behaviour. Something familiar…
Suddenly, a stretch of clear road opened, leading, with dreadful inevitability, to the statue of Eros. Hooplah took immediate advantage and opened up the Bentley’s throttle, weaving across the road and tattooing the asphalt with streaks of burned rubber. Cursing the sluggish moped, I urged it on, leaning forward heavily against the handlebars, batting aside the insects that zipped into my eyes and mouth.
I could hear the Bentley’s outraged engine even above the din of the night-time traffic, and glimpsed Hooplah’s head twisting round, the glint of his teeth as he giggled insanely. Then the Bentley was powering past everything in sight, zooming down the very centre of the road. Hooplah attempted a right turn and suddenly the car was on two wheels, smacking onto the pavement and heading for the famous statue. In a blur, the motor flipped over and slammed sidelong into Eros with a devastating percussion. The Bentley’s windscreen erupted outwards, and Hooplah was hurled onto the steps beneath the aluminium statue. As though in sympathy, Eros sagged as the masonry crumbled beneath him, arrow now aimed downwards, as if to pierce the old man’s heart.
I screeched to a halt, swung my legs over the moped and stumbled towards the scene of the accident. A gawping crowd had already gathered around Hooplah and the Bentley. I fought my way through the mass of sequins, duffel coats and crumpled uniforms towards the politician. The Bentley lay in a heaped pile, steam hissing from the ruined chassis, oil pooling from her mortal wound.
A thin trickle of blood was dribbling from Hooplah’s lips onto the starched ends of his wing-collar.
‘Sir Vyvyan?’ I whispered urgently. ‘Sir Vyvyan, can you hear me?’
His eyes fluttered open, startlingly bright amidst the gore that smeared his features.
‘Wonderful!’ he murmured. ‘Wonderful!’
I pressed my face closer to his. ‘What happened to you?’
His eyes began to close.
‘Hooplah!’ I cried. ‘For God’s sake, what happened?’
The old fellow began to chuckle gently and, struggling to get his breath, whispered, ‘Le…le papillon noir…’
I frowned. ‘What?’
But Hooplah’s eyes had closed. A broad smile spread over his blood-soaked face–and he was gone.
From close by I heard the clang of a police bell and looked up. To my surprise, in amongst the ogling crowd was the coloured boy from the Blood Orange. Girl-slim, fingers bright with rings, he gazed at me from behind the geometrically straight fall of his black hair. Then he was gone, melting into the crowd.
My instincts told me that he was involved in all this. Hooplah had seemed perfectly normal until he started talking to that young man. I moved swiftly after him and was almost knocked down by a wheezing Delilah who had finally caught up.
‘Christ,’ she gasped, ‘I should be careful what I wish for. I ain’t got the strength for this lark any more. What ’appened?’
‘Dead,’ I muttered.
Delilah shook her massive head. ‘Bloody odd. Never seen anyone act like that before.’
I clambered onto the moped and kick-started it into life once more. ‘I have.’
.7.
TICK-TOCK
Travel, though it broadens the mind, narrows life expectancy. The positive benefits of each lovely foreign vista, every restful felucca sail down the blue Nile, are offset by the hateful tyranny of actually getting there. The cramped train, the soulless airport, the dreadful people and, perhaps worst of all, carrying one’s own luggage. Whatever became of bearers?
Athens Airport wore the familiar, bleary look of a late night arrival, stale with sweat and tobacco. A handful of uniformed officials shuffled about the shoddy buildings, staring sullenly at us newcomers. A shoe-shine man in a too-heavy topcoat waited expectantly by the exit, grinning like a simpleton. I was keeping the Negroid youth in sight. He was some way behind me, head buried in a well-thumbed paperback. I angled my hat low over my eyes, hoping to blend in. He’d leaped into a cab at Piccadilly, which I’d followed all the way to London Airport. Abandoning the moped, I’d quickly ascertained that the boy was taking a plane to Athens and promptly booked myself onto the same flight. I’d been lucky and had studiously managed to avoid him as we boarded, and then, much later, disembarked.
All at once, I was being ushered to the passport booth, its glass façade smudged with fingermarks. I handed over the comfortingly solid navy book, the Britannia emblem shining like iron pyrite in the ghastly neon glare.
A scowling official looked me up and down, scratching at his scarcely shaven chin. ‘How long you here?’
‘Fortnight,’ I lied.
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Oh, pleasure. Always pleasure. And, for the record, I think you sho
uld have your marbles back.’
He grunted, licked the rubber stamp and thumped it heavily onto a virgin page of the passport. Waving me through, he turned his attention to a skinny Welsh couple shivering in shorts and wind-cheaters. The boy was some way behind them and still hadn’t looked my way.
I quickly exited. Outside, the air was sharp, the darkening sky cobalt as a ceramic tile and crammed with stars. I lit a cigarette, hailed a cab and then sat in the back, ignoring the jabbering driver as I waited for the mysterious youth to emerge.
At last he did so, shouldering his bag and getting into a cab of his own. We followed him through cramped, dingy streets overhung with sagging cables, like stitches on burst wounds, until he reached the dimly lit railway station. A big, elderly-looking train was already at the platform, huffing as though impatient. I checked the departures board. The train was heading for Istanbul. In five minutes.
The slender youth swung open a door, took a swift look around, and then disappeared inside the train. I paid off my driver and then raced to the telegraph office. I just had time to rattle off a wire. I knew of someone in Istanbul who might prove very useful…
With moments to spare, I pulled myself up onto the train, feeling a little thrill of anticipation as I settled down into a private cabin. The engine lurched, the giant wheels squealed and the journey east began.
The cabin was small but well ordered, the woodwork a pleasant amber-brown. When the conductor came, I paid for my ticket in sterling and ordered up a bottle of schnapps before stripping off my wilted linen suit. I’d have to buy myself a whole new wardrobe once we reached Turkey. What a happy thought!
The booze was harsh but acceptable. I got into bed–the cotton sheets wonderfully cool–and let the thoughts that were buzzing inside my head settle into some kind of order.
As I’d remarked to Delilah, the crazed behaviour of Sir Vyvyan Hooplah was not entirely unfamiliar to me. Bells had rung. Distant ones, but they’d rung all the same. Recently, I’d noticed other incidents bearing marked similarities.
