Incompetence

by Rob Grant

  INTERVIEWER:

  But the autobahn had been cleared.

  KOHL:

  I mean, I know the road had been cleared, but who knows who those bullets could've hit? Tiny little innocent babies, or something.

  CUT TO:

  HELICOPTER SHOT

  The Fiat Affordable still trundling along the autobahn, with police cars in pursuit. A police vehicle, presumably Kohl's, draws level with the Fiat and we see a puff of smoke from the police car's passenger window, and hear the crack of a gunshot. A reporter in the helicopter is providing live commentary.

  REPORTER:

  (OVER) And the police car now seems to -- Oh my God! What was that? Was that a gunshot? That was a gunshot! I think we have gunfire. Oh my Lord -- the police are shooting! The police are shooting... with guns! Bullets are quite literally being shot! Get the hell out of here, Sergio. I'm a God-damned sports reporter! Those crazy mothers're firing down there. It's a war zone! Get the God-damned chopper out of here!

  There are five more puffs of smoke from Kohl's vehicle, followed by five more cracks, then it drops back. Two other police vehicles accelerate and draw level either side of the Fiat.

  The police open fire with machine-guns, in a double broadside attack. Sustained bursts.

  The helicopter reporter's voice gains an octave.

  REPORTER:

  (OVER) Now they're shooting with automatic weapons! The police are firing with tommy-guns! The police are quite literally unleashing a hail of what I can only describe as 'deadly bullets', and for some mysterious f*beep*ing reason, we're still flying over them like sitting ducks'. Get us out of here! I'm a sports reporter for Christ's sake! I'm supposed to be covering the Bayer-Munchengladbach game! Those crazy f*beep*ers could kill us all!

  CUT TO:

  POLICE CAR VIDEO CAMERA

  Filming through the windscreen of one of the pursuing vehicles. The Fiat is seriously holed. At least two of the tyres are burst and the wheels are wobbling erratically. The driver's airbag is inflated. Smoke is billowing out of the bonnet.

  NEWSREADER'S VOICE:

  (OVER) Though almost certainly riddled with dozens of bullets, Plumier, the former French Minister of the Interior, managed to carry on manoeuvring his vehicle away from the police pursuit.

  CUT TO:

  INTERVIEWER WITH SENIOR POLICE OFFICER

  CAPTION: SUPERINTENDENT GUNTHER GROSSE

  GROSSE:

  Yes, it was my decision to deploy the rocket launcher. We had to stop him before somebody got hurt.

  INTERVIEWER:

  Yet there was no suggestion that, at that time, Plumier was capable of returning fire.

  GROSSE:

  Is that a question?

  INTERVIEWER:

  Plumier's car had been comprehensively strafed by dozens of rounds of machine-gun fire, and the minister himself was almost certainly mortally wounded, if not already dead. Did you still consider him a threat?

  GROSSE:

  Is that a question?

  INTERVIEWER: Yes.

  GROSSE:

  We already had reports that the man had fired shots at police officers expediting their duty. We couldn't afford to take chances with public safety.

  INTERVIEWER:

  And you don't think firing a heat-seeking missile on the main motorway to Munich was in any way compromising public safety?

  GROSSE:

  (PAUSE) Is that a question?

  INTERVIEWER: (PAUSE) Yes.

  GROSSE: No.

  INTERVIEWER:

  So, it isn't true, as some commentators have suggested, you deployed the missile simply because it had reached its legal use-by date, and you were worried that for budgetary reasons, that if you didn't use it, it wouldn't be replaced?

  GROSSE:

  I don't concern myself with budgetary issues. I made the judgement call to deploy the rocket. And, indeed, my judgement was thoroughly vindicated when, subsequently, a number of very dangerous weapons were recovered from the vehicle.

  INTERVIEWER:

  And you deny those weapons were planted by police officers?

  GROSSE:

  Of course I deny that.

  INTERVIEWER:

  Yet we do have news footage suggesting that those weapons were not in the car prior to the police inspection of the vehicle.

  GROSSE:

  (LONG PAUSE) Says you.

  CUT TO:

  POLICE CAR VIDEO CAMERA

  Speeding behind the badly wounded Fiat. Over the radio, we hear:

  GROSSE'S VOICE:

  (DISTORTED) Pursuing vehicles, drop back. All pursuing vehicles drop back. We are about to deploy surface-to-surface weapons. All vehicles drop back to safe positions.

  The car retreats. Rapidly. As it does, an armoured vehicle comes into the camera's field of vision. A special forces officer is standing in the vehicle's turret with a tubular weapon hoisted on his shoulder, drawing a bead on the Fiat.

  NEWSREADER'S VOICE:

  (OVER) The German police's decision to deploy the missile

  later came under heavy criticism from many MEPs...

  The officer gives the thumbs up sign, presumably to indicate he has locked on to the Affordable. He fires the weapon. A large projectile screeches out of the barrel and screams at astonishing speed towards the Fiat, leaving a thick vapour trail behind it.

  NEWSREADER'S VOICE:

  (OVER)... especially since the missile missed its intended target...

  Just before the missile reaches the Fiat, it veers away. It loops high, almost out of camera shot, then plunges rapidly down, disappearing behind the tree line. There is a short, trembling pause, followed by a rapidly rising cloud of smoke and then a large, muffled explosion, which causes the camera in the police car to judder violently. Debris is lofted high in the air. Some of it actually reaches the road and rains down on the police vehicles. The debris appears to include at least one set of udders and a cow's head.

  NEWSREADER'S VOICE:

  (OVER)... and instead obliterated a small tanning factory, killing several cows.

  CUT TO:

  INTERVIEWER WITH SUPERINTENDENT GROSSE

  GROSSE:

  The cattle were all scheduled for slaughter, anyway.

  INTERVIEWER:

  So that's all right then, is it?

  GROSSE: What?

  INTERVIEWER:

  They were all going to be slaughtered anyway, so it's all right for the police to blow them to chunks of stewing meat with a heat-seeking missile?

  GROSSE:

  (LONG PAUSE) Yes.

  CUT TO:

  ON-THE-SPOT NEWS CAMERA

  The Fiat has now given up the ghost and stopped. Heavily armoured police marksmen are encircling the stricken, smoking vehicle. One of them tries to push the camera away.

  NEWSREADER'S VOICE:

  (OVER) Finally, the stolen vehicle was rendered inoperable by superior police manoeuvring, and officers restrained and arrested Plumier without further violence.

  One officer kicks open the car door and fires an entire clip into the motionless driver, then swiftly moves aside. Plumier's body slumps out of the car. He is pocked with bullet holes.

  NEWSREADER:

  (OVER) The minister was rushed to hospital, but unfortunately, he was declared dead in the ambulance.

  CUT TO:

  INTERVIEWER WITH SUPERINTENDENT GROSSE

  INTERVIEWER:

  How do you explain the fact that there was almost no blood in Plumier's car, on his body, or indeed, in his body?

  GROSSE:

  Our forensic experts are looking into that now. It could well be that he suffered from a medical condition, which we don't yet know the name of, which causes blood to coagulate more quickly than normal. Or he could have been on drugs.

  INTERVIEWER: What kind of drugs?

  GROSSE:

  I don't know. The kind of drugs that make you steal cars and shoot at police officers. What are you, stupid?

  INTERVIEWER
:

  What do you say to allegations that Plumier was already dead? That he was, in fact, dead long before the shooting began?

  GROSSE:

  That's a pile of s*beep*t.

  INTERVIEWER: I'm sorry?

  GROSSE:

  That's a pile of stinking s*beep*t. What is wrong with you? Why can't you ask nice questions, eh?

  INTERVIEWER: Nice questions?

  GROSSE:

  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to speak to Carole Villbanger from CNN. There's a girl who knows how to interview a guy professionally.

  CUT TO:

  NEWS STUDIO, NEWSREADER AT DESK

  NEWSREADER:

  Friends and colleagues of Sidney Plumier have disputed the German police's account of the incident. The French First Minister himself released the following statement.

  CUT TO:

  PHOTOGRAPH OF FRENCH FIRST MINISTER

  In the top right corner of the screen. His speech scrolls up the left-hand side:

  FIRST MINISTER:

  Sidney Plumier was a trusted and valued member of my cabinet. He abhorred violence, and always threw his weight behind anti-gun laws. It is unthinkable that he would have committed the acts the German authorities have attributed to him. I have ordered an inquiry into the incident at the highest level. Sidney was a bright and dedicated politician, and not only the people of France, but the whole of Europe is poorer for his passing. Unless, of course, he was taking drugs, in which case, let's face it: the degenerate bastard got what was coming to him.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The report went on, charting Plunder's illustrious career, and hinting strongly that he had been planning to stand for the European Parliament. He was known as an outspoken supporter of the Russian application for entry into Europe. This was a very controversial issue: a lot of Europeans still had a lot to hate the Russians for, but the addition of Russia to the Union would add some serious heft to the USE's international bargaining power. Me? I thought it was inevitable and we should just get on with it. But then, I didn't have any relatives who were minced in the Cold War.

  Then I got my fifteen seconds of fame. They were focusing on the Fiat. They showed a cop from the forensics team actually numbering the bullet holes made by the machine-guns. He'd got up to number 135. I don't know if he was trying to number them in the order they were fired or not. Either way, his work would clearly be of immense help to the investigation. They'd traced the car back to Paris, and back to a man named Harry Tequila. They threw up a police identikit picture, but, as I'd expected, it didn't look much like me. It didn't look much like a human. It looked like Dr Zeus out of Planet of the Apes, if you want my opinion.

  And I was missing, presumed dead. A victim, no doubt, of Plumier's insane rampage.

  Well, that was no bad thing. It could have panned out a lot worse for me. Being dead gave me a lot of operating leeway. It was hard to see how even the German police could sustain their lunatic spin on the story indefinitely, and I hoped, for Plumier's sake, that the truth would eventually work its way through the system, but it left me in the clear for now, which was where I needed to be.

  Well, I wasn't completely in the clear, of course, I was still a bail-jumping fugitive, which was, in itself, a federal rap. But at least I wouldn't have to change my face, and I was thankful for that. It's painful stuff, that bee venom, and when you jab it into your forehead and jaw, your face swells up in a none too handsome way. However you start out, you always wind up looking like...

  Oh God.

  You always wind up looking like Benito Mussolini.

  Just like the Parisian garage mechanic.

  That's when Plumier had found his way into the trunk. The whole fascia thing, the whole clamping business, that had been a distraction, first to get me away from the vehicle, and then to stop me inspecting it too hard before I drove away.

  I'd been face-to-face with Johnny Appleseed. Twice. I'd had long conversations with him. I'd been within bubble wrap throttling distance of the son of a bitch, and I hadn't even known it.

  But there was something even more important. Johnny had disguised himself. Painfully, too. And he'd added the hat and the mirror shades to make extra sure I didn't recognise him.

  Which almost certainly meant that Johnny Appleseed was someone I knew.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The train pulled into Vienna. At least there was that. I'd envisioned having to take a cab from Salzburg, or Minsk, or maybe being forced to jump an alpine cable car from some distant ski resort, high above where Julie Andrews used to sing, which would have really screwed up my schedule, but no, the train arrived where it was supposed to arrive, and what's more it arrived on time. It didn't even plough through the buffers at the end of the track and deposit us all in the main station news store. It stopped where it was supposed to stop, and I got out.

  I freshened myself up in the station superloo. The family of Kurdistani refugees camped in there didn't bother me, and I didn't bother them.

  I even had some time to kill before the Plaything Club was open, so I found an old-time shoe repairer and asked him if he could fix my poor boots. He shook his head sadly, and told me they were way beyond resuscitation. I left them with him anyway, and asked him to do what he could. Maybe, at least, they'd get a decent Christian burial.

  That aside, things were starting to look up for good old Harry Salt, though. I actually found a menswear shop that stocked my size, and I picked up some clean threads that truly fitted me. I left my old suit, and therefore a lot of my DNA material, in the changing rooms.

  I couldn't track down any leather shoes, of course, but I did manage to hunt out a comfy pair in melon hide, which seemed sturdier than the vegetable crap I'd been getting used to.

  I even had time to put in a call to the Ambassadeur, but Gina was with a guest and I didn't want to interrupt her while she was wearing someone else's shirt. I left another message.

  By the time the Plaything was up and swinging, I was ready for anything. I checked myself in a shop window and kidded myself I looked pretty good. True, I had so many lumps on my head they probably spelled out the first line of the twenty-third Psalm in large print Braille, but most of the damage was hidden under the hairline, and I could live with that.

  The Plaything Club was hard to get into. Harder than it should have been, given that I passed all the entrance requirements with flying colours: I was male, I was dressed and I was prepared to spend stupid amounts of money in a ridiculously frivolous way.

  Trying to establish the impeccability of these credentials with the overzealous blind bouncer was another thing. He was, I have to say, built for the job: big, that is. Ugly, too. His face was tramlined with those nasty bar brawl beer mug and glass ashtray scars you try not to stare at, but can't help yourself. Unfortunately, he seemed to think that his job entailed preventing customers of any description from entering the establishment.

  It was the first time I'd ever been subjected to a body search that included my face. What was the crazy mother looking for? Exploding spectacles? Edged weapons concealed up my nasal passage? Some kind of tiny ear pistol? Or maybe the bumps on my head really did spell out 'The Lord is my shepherd' and the bouncer was deriving spiritual succour from reading it. Who knows?

  I took the mauling for ten minutes, then slipped past him. He was still interrogating thin air while I paid my entrance fee and checked my coat.

  The main room was dark, but individual spotlights picked out pockets of table dancers going about their business. A nice bunny girl with breasts that could have dominated the Macy's Christmas parade showed me to a table by the stage. She recommended the house champagne. Since I don't have 'sap' tattooed on my forehead, I ordered a beer, and tried not to wither under the contempt of her smile. She spun round and wiggled her white fluffy derriere over to the bar.

  My eyes adjusted to the light. I wished they hadn't. Lap dancing establishments don't bring out the finest qualities in the male of the species. Lust looks great on
a woman, but men just can't wear it. Their eyes bulge. Their palms sweat. They salivate. Their tongues dangle out. They look like village idiots catching flies. They look like someone's stuck a straw in their ear and started sucking out their brains. Tell me now: do women find that dribbling gawping look attractive, or do they just put up with it?

  It certainly makes me feel uncomfortable, so I didn't want to look at the customers, and I didn't want to watch the dancers, in case I went all frogified and brain-dead-looking myself, so I read the tapas menu on the table a couple of hundred times while I waited for my beer.

  The bunny's breasts arrived at my table and the rest of her sashayed over just a couple of minutes later. She set down a glass of beer-coloured sarsaparilla, and a bill which was presumably intended to send the sarsaparilla through college and put down a deposit on its first home. She asked me if I'd like her to be my bunny for the evening. Reluctantly, I declined, and asked her if there was a bunny around called Twinkle or Twonkle.

  She pulled a pretty stunned expression. It looked like her eyebrows swapped places acrobatically. 'Twinkle?' she agogged. 'You're sure you'd prefer Twinkle to me?'

  I assured her I would. She swapped her eyebrows back and shook her head. Her bosom left the table and pretty soon her shoulders turned round and followed it.

  I wondered what kind of roadkill Twinkle would turn out to be.

  I didn't have to wait too long.