Incompetence

by Rob Grant

  Who designs those seats? Do they ever try sitting anybody in them? Do the designers ever try sitting in them themselves? Is there a correct position to sit in a train seat? Is there a specific shape you're supposed to be so your arm can relax on the armrest and your head can loll back on the headrest, simultaneously? If so, it's not a human shape. Why are they designing seats to accommodate alien species? Aliens with incredibly long, thin arms and giraffe necks and a little bump high at the back of their skulls, who get vertigo if they lean back more than seven degrees from upright. They'd love train seats, those aliens. I don't know why they don't use the railways more.

  And even if you do manage to override the manifold discomforts of the seats, and against all odds you somehow manage to drop off, there's the announcements system to jerk you back awake.

  The staff constantly make redundant announcements, in dull monotonous voices, on speakers that are deliberately set just a little too loud, timed with clinical perfection to wake you up the absolute instant you fall into alpha-rhythm sleep.

  Why bother telling you what the next station is thirty minutes before you get there? Who is that information supposed to be for? Even if it's your stop, you're not going to stand up, gather your luggage and wait patiently by the door for the next half-hour. You know damned well they'll announce it again ten minutes before you actually arrive. Maybe it's to warn errant passengers who are accidentally riding the line in the wrong direction. Even so, what are they supposed to do about it? They're not going to leap from the speeding train and start running back where they came from. Not unless they're me, they're not. No. All the announcement's going to do is make them spend an extra half-hour panicking pointlessly. And they announce all the stations the train's going to call at. Every single stop on the line. Who needs to know that eleven stations from now, we're going to be calling at Grenoble? What am I supposed to do with that information? Start counting down? Ooh, after this stop there's only nine stations until Grenoble. I can hardly wait. But I don't need to do that, do I? Because the announcer's going to give me a vital upcoming-stations update as soon as I try to close my eyes.

  And I know the buffet car's open. I know it's open because they told me it was open exactly fifteen minutes ago. And the fifteen minutes before that, too. And I know it serves a selection of hot and cold snacks and beverages, savouries, cakes and confectionery and a range of wines, beers and spirits, because that's exactly what it was serving the last time they told me, and the time before that, and the time before that. It would make some kind of sense if they were to suddenly announce that the buffet car had started serving erotic lingerie, or a range of flat-pack build-it-yourself greenhouses. That would be a surprising and interesting announcement to make. If it suddenly started selling toasters or motor cars, or assault rifles and ammunition, yes, I would like to know that information. But other than that, leave me in peace.

  Incredibly, despite Railouest's cunning attempts to thwart me, I did manage to get some sleep. I don't know how much, but not a lot, I can assure you. Nobody ever got more than twenty minutes' shut-eye on a train, unless they were dead drunk, or just plain dead.

  My head must have been lolling in the aisle, having given up on the whole headrest business, because I was slapped back to the land of the living by a hefty blow on the back of my defenceless cranium. I sat up immediately because, and I don't know why, my first instinct was to pretend I hadn't been sleeping at all. Putting a hand to the back of my head was only my second instinct, which was curious, I thought. I'd have to have a word with my instincts about reprioritising things.

  A waiter was leering over me. He was sporting one of those fashionable topiary Afro cuts, trimmed in the shape of the Roadrunner. He apologised for accidentally almost clubbing me to death, and asked if I intended to dine. I reached over for the menu he was offering me, and found myself eye-to-eye with his enormous erection.

  It was a whopper, let me tell you. His trousers were bulging like a marquee at a Boy Scout jamboree. Really. It looked like a rolling pin jabbed through a parachute. It looked like a sausage dog with rigor mortis wrapped too tightly in a shroud.

  I grabbed the menu and turned away as quickly as I could to study it in intense detail, but not quickly enough: the image was burnt into my brain, and it would remain there for all time.

  He stayed there while I scoured the menu. He seemed bizarrely unembarrassed by his tumescence and stood with his hands behind his back in time-honoured waiterly pose, waving the bloody thing only centimetres from my face. It was not an appetite enhancer.

  I had no idea what had caused it, his monstrous tumefaction. I was praying it wasn't my doing. It's hard to imagine that a bruised and battered man snoring and drooling could arouse such a powerful expression of desire, but it takes all sorts.

  Then a terrible and almost unrepeatable thought struck me: was that what had woken me up? Had I been roused from sleep by a blow to the head from his gigantic didgeridoo?

  I wanted him to go away as quickly as possible. I really was no longer hungry, but I figured it would be quicker to order than to try sending him away and risk him hanging around trying to talk me into ordering. I picked a couple of dishes at random and handed back the menu. I held it high, very high, to make absolutely certain I didn't accidentally brush it against his straining love pole and encourage him in any way.

  He thanked me, bowed slightly, took the menu and turned to head back up the aisle. In doing so, he clouted me across the ear with his sex truncheon.

  I tried not to let on, but he'd felt it, obviously he'd felt it, and he turned back again to apologise. I waved away the apology with a benign, tight grin and an even tighter nod. He moved away again, and I couldn't help ducking, but he'd sensibly decided to back away this time. He went first, and his erection followed behind.

  Halfway along the aisle he backed into the ticket inspector. I don't know how railway staff rank in relation to one another, but I imagined the ticket inspector would be the waiter's superior. I imagined he would spot the erection -- how could he not? -- and fire the horny bastard on the spot. But no, that isn't even close to what happened.

  They had some high jinks trying to pass each other in the narrow aisle, as you might imagine, but it was all conducted in an amicable, even jokey way. Leaning in and out of seats; after you, no, after you. Clearly, the inspector was not only aware of the erection, he even remarked on it. He made jokes about it. He pointed at it and made fun of it. Baffling.

  Eventually, they negotiated the passage, and the ticket inspector inspected my ticket and asked me for the upgrade fee. I supplied it, cash again, naturally. While he was filling out the receipt, I plucked up the courage to mention the waiter.

  'That waiter...' I nodded down the aisle.

  'You mean Lupo?'

  'Is that his name? The one with the, erm...'

  'The Roadrunner haircut?'

  'That's the guy! The Roadrunner haircut.'

  'That's Lupo.'

  'Lupo. Yeah. He seems... He's a very happy person, isn't he?'

  'Lupo? Yeah. He's funny. He's a funny guy.'

  'What I'm trying to say: he seems... excited.'

  'Excited?'

  'Overly excited. Downstairs.' I flicked my eyes towards my flies, briefly. 'In the trouser department.'

  'Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, sir. He is very excited downstairs in the trouser department. Very.'

  'Yeah. I mean, he's carrying a very fully charged love pump down there. It looks like it might go off any second.'

  'He's priapic.'

  'I'll say.'

  'No, I mean he's got priapism.'

  'Priapism. Right'

  'His penis is permanently erect.'

  'I know what priapism is.'

  'Apparently, it can be pretty painful.'

  'It certainly can. Especially when it coshes you on the head.'

  The inspector laughed, tore off the receipt and handed it to me. 'Next time, remember to duck.'

  'I will. Believ
e me, I will.'

  The inspector moved off down the train. I suddenly realised that ordering food had been a big mistake. Because, now, Lupo would be coming back to serve me.

  Now, I don't want you thinking old Harry's going all homophobic on you, here. I really have no problem with what consenting adults choose to do with their willies in private. I just have a problem if they're going to start slapping me round the ears with them while they're serving me bread rolls.

  One good thing: my desire for sleep had gone completely. I got up and flapped down the aisle towards the washroom. Two points to this plan: I could clean up before dinner, and I didn't run the risk of any sexually over-primed serving staff sneaking up on me unawares.

  The first class washroom was pretty swanky, as train facilities go. By which I mean the toilet wasn't jammed to overflowing with caramel-streaked paper or brimming over with various breeds of faeces. I don't know what kind of people take a dump in a blatantly blocked lavatory on top of other people's floaters, but they do. People do.

  I freshened up as best I could in a microscopic metal sink that was designed for aliens with tiny, tiny hands, and presumably only existed in two dimensions so they could actually turn to the towel once they'd finished and dry their tiny, tiny hands in the space provided. Still, it was better than nothing. And at least there was soap. It wasn't nice soap. It smelled of cheap institutions. It was asylum-scented soap. But it was soap. It got me clean.

  I had to crush myself against the sink and bend backwards over the lavatory to open the door, but even then, it only opened halfway and I had to squidge round painfully before I popped clear.

  I could see there was a cloth on my table now, and cutlery laid out. Good. I'd managed to avoid at least one, if not two of Lupo's visits. I spotted a rack of computer tablets for hire just by the washrooms; a nice first class touch. You plug them into a socket by your table, and bingo, you're online. You can web-surf, play games, download movies. You can also pick up the latest news reports. I could have used one pretty badly. It had been, what, five hours or more since I left the French Minister of the Interior at the wheel of my car. Almost certainly, he'd been found by now. It would have been nice to know if I was in the top five of the Europol Most Wanted list or not, but it meant I'd have to swipe a credit card, and I didn't want to leave a plastic trail to Harry Salt, in case anyone was interested in following it.

  Then I remembered I had Cardew's card. I was pretty sure Pappa wouldn't mind my taking his name in vain.

  I ran the card through the slot. It only took about a hundred and five attempts for the suspicious machine to recognise it as a legitimate credit card and not, say, a pickled herring or a bowl of exotic fruit some chancer was cunningly trying to pass off as a legitimate credit card, and the bolt holding the computer finally slid back, releasing the device into my temporary care.

  I glanced back up the aisle and saw Lupo approaching my table again, carrying a steaming soup bowl. I pretended to study the tablet intensely, back and front, finding something fascinating to examine with every twist and turn. But when I looked up again, Lupo was still there, still with the soup in his hands, waiting patiently for me to return to my table, so there was nothing for it but to meet the challenge.

  I flapped back up the aisle. Lupo was standing just a little too close to my seat -- not most of him, just that one significant bit of him -- so rather than squeeze past, I sat on the seat opposite mine, and I did it in a way that, I think, suggested I'd intended to do so all the time.

  Lupo looked a little puzzled, but he didn't let it throw him. He took a couple of steps forward and placed the bowl down on the table in front of me, then he turned to collect the cutlery he'd set out to accommodate my original position, and, in turning, swept the salt and pepper pots to the floor with his German soldier.

  I tried not to have noticed. I fiddled about with the computer, making it look tricky to plug the thing into the wall socket, while Lupo bent to his knees, not an easy manoeuvre in his condition, and replaced the cruet set on the table.

  He collected my cutlery. In order to place it correctly, he had to lean over me, but the train rocked quite violently and his Mini Me couldn't help but nudge my soup bowl. Some of the steaming liquid splashed over the rim and landed on his proboscis. It was hot soup. Stupidly hot. It had probably been blasted in a microwave. Lupo screamed and leapt back, catching the lip of the bowl with his injured wang, and sending it spinning into the air. Fortunately for me, he'd flipped the bowl in the opposite direction, so I avoided a scalding soup bath, but a lot of it hit Lupo, and the table was a hell of a mess.

  He fell to the floor, drew up his knees to the foetal position, and started moaning softly, cradling his favourite friend.

  I got up and crouched by him. I offered to help him up, but he waved me away. I wanted to help him, but what could I do? Offer to inspect the damage? Loosen the zip? That could do more harm than good. Rub some burn cream on his injury for him? Give it mouth-to-mouth? I decided, on reflection, it would be best if I went to look for help.

  When I came back with the ticket inspector, Lupo had gone. I don't know where. I doubt he could have manouevred himself into that cramped lavatory. And if he had, there was no way on earth he'd ever get out again. Not without a hacksaw.

  I sat me down at a clean table and left the whole Lupo problem to the inspector. I plugged in the computer tablet and logged on to Euronews.

  They'd found my car all right. And they'd found the French Minister of the Interior, too. But it wasn't the headline I was expecting. The headline I was expecting ran something along these lines: 'Minister Found Dead Behind Wheel Of Mystery Man's Car'. Or: 'Assassin Plants Minister's Body In Moving Vehicle'. Or even just plain: 'Harry Salt Sought For Murder', with a nice, accurate identikit photo of me splashed all over the lead page.

  No. The actual headline was: 'Mad Minister Dies In Police Shootout'. And it was accompanied by a photo of the French Interior Minister, presumably taken when he was alive, together with a dramatic picture of the Fiat Affordable with the minister's body hanging out, the both of them riddled with bullet holes. There goes my no-claims bonus.

  Well, when I left the minister, he was in very poor condition to take part in any kind of gun battle with the police, or even a mild argument, and as far as I recall, he had no discernible holes in him, from bullets or anything else. I was about to click on the video report, when I spotted Lupo coming down the aisle towards me. He was carrying a clean tablecloth and some fresh cutlery. He'd changed his jacket, but there were still soup stains on the front of his shirt. He had patches of pink ointment on his face, but he was still wearing his professional smile.

  Far from being discouraged by its experience, his bulge appeared to have actually grown in bulk. It took me a couple of seconds to realise it must have been bandaged. I don't know who did the bandaging. Lupo apologised for the incident. I told him not to worry about it, and lifted the computer from the table while he laid the cloth. He set down the cutlery, but I told him to forget about the soup. He looked crestfallen, but I really didn't want to take the risk. He apologised again and backed away.

  I clicked on the video link.

  THIRTY-SIX

  EURONEWS LOGO

  Exciting, urgent music. Animated graphics with spinning globes and everything.

  ANNOUNCER'S VOICE:

  (OVER) Euronews! Europe's number-one round-the-clock news channel, bringing you the happening news... while it happens. Twenty-four seven, three sixty-five. Or six.

  CUT TO:

  NEWS STUDIO, NEWSREADER AT DESK

  CAPTION BEHIND HER EMBLAZONED OVER A PHOTO OF THE FRENCH MINISTER: MINISTER MADNESS

  NEWSREADER:

  The missing French politician, Sidney Plumier, was finally tracked down early this afternoon by German police, in a dangerous motorway chase that ended in tragedy.

  CUT TO: HELICOPTER SHOT

  The Fiat Affordable trundling along the autobahn, with police cars in pursuit. The polic
e vehicles keep trying to draw level with the Fiat to coax it off the road, then giving up and dropping back.

  NEWSREADER'S VOICE:

  (OVER) Despite repeated requests by police officers, Plumier refused to pull over the stolen Fiat, or slow down in any way. After a thrilling motorway chase, broadcast live and exclusively by Euronews, one police officer claimed he saw Plumier produce an automatic weapon and wave it out of the window.

  CUT TO:

  INTERVIEWER WITH POLICEMAN CAPTION: POLICE OFFICER WILLI KOHL Kohl seems very excited. Wide-eyed, he is grinning inappropriately and seems to find it hard to keep still.

  KOHL:

  The guy had definitely lost it, man. Definitely. He kept shouting 'F*beep*k the police!' and 'Death to German pigs!' I mean, he was loco. No question. Dangerous. He was ready to kill, man.

  INTERVIEWER:

  You claim that a number of shots were fired from the vehicle.

  KOHL:

  Claim nothing. He was shooting all over the place. Bam! Bam! 'F*beep*k the police!' Bam! Bam! He thought he was Wild Bill Hickock. He thought he was Dirty f*beeeep*g Harry, man. He was wiiiild.

  INTERVIEWER:

  And how do you respond to statements that no other eyewitnesses saw or heard any shooting from the Fiat, at any time?

  KOHL:

  A lot of cops saw the shooting, man. They all saw it. Ask them.

  INTERVIEWER:

  And there was no evidence of gunfire from the Fiat on the news helicopter video footage.

  KOHL:

  Ask the other cops. They saw plenty of shots.

  INTERVIEWER:

  And that's when you decided to return fire?

  KOHL:

  The dude wasn't giving me any choice, man. He was wiiiild. Those bullets could've hit innocent children or sleeping babies, man, or something.