‘That’s very nice of you, chief.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? God will probably make you chief breeding sprout. Do sprouts have sex, by the way?’
‘SPROUTS DO IT IN THEIR BEDS. I read that once on the back of a tractor. I never exactly knew what it meant, though.’
‘Well never mind. I’ve had a dream. A thirty-year dream, squeezed in amongst the nightmare. And I will make it come true, because, after all, I am the Chosen One. Didn’t I rise from the dead?’
‘Well, you did, chief, but it took you thirty years. It only took the other bloke three days. And you know who I’m talking about.’
‘He had help.’
‘Chief, I really don’t think it’s right.’
‘But you suggested it, Barry. You said that if you’d been able to pull it off, you would have earned big kudos with God and got to stay off his dinner plate.’
‘Yeah, chief, but I’m just worried about—’
‘What?’ I tore the head from a doll clutched in the arms of a passing child and bit its eye out.
‘Your attitude problem, chief.’
‘I don’t have an attitude problem! It’s this lot!’ I gestured at the passing folk, who were regarding me with cold-fish eyes, as folk will when confronted by someone ranting to himself. ‘It’s this lot that have the attitude problem. People. All crooks and cheats and swindlers, the lot of them.’
‘Now hang about, young man,’ said a lady with a straw hat.
‘Hear that, chief, young man, you still carry your age well.’
‘Shut up, Barry!’
‘Don’t tell me to shut up, young man. And my name’s not Barry. And I’m not a crook and a cheat.’
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t mean you specifically.’
‘All right, so I may be a swindler, but swindling’s different. That’s not a real crime. Not, say, like murder.’
‘Murder’s not so bad,’ said an old bloke who had been shuffling by.
‘Murder is a serious issue,’ said a stumpy woman with short hair and badges on her anorak, as a crowd began to gather. ‘Murder is a heinous crime.’
‘Murder’s not that heinous,’ said a young-fellow-me-lad, slinging in his two-ha’penny worth. ‘There’s more heinous crimes than murder.’
‘Name one,’ said another young-fellow-me-lad, the first young fellow’s chum.
‘They can’t,’ said stumpy of the anorak. ‘because they are both murderers trying to justify themselves. I should know, I live in their street. The old bloke’s murdered all the people who live in the odd-numbered houses.’
‘Not all,’ said the old bloke. ‘ And don’t call me old. I’m only forty-five.’
‘Hear that, chief? Makes you look good.’
‘Shut up, Barry.’
‘Don’t call me Barry,’ said the old bloke, shaking his fist. ‘I’ll cut your throat and drink your blood. And I once won University Challenge.’
‘You never did,’ said the lady with the straw hat. ‘There was only one bloke who ever won University Challenge and he was a taxi driver called Fred. Everyone remembers him.’
‘Fred Trueman,’ said a cricket fan who was on his way to the sports shop.
‘Freddie Mercury,’ said the stumpy woman.
‘Freddy Kruger,’ said one of the fellow-me-lads.
‘Fred Flintstone,’ said another.
‘Yeah, well I was on it,’ said the old bloke. ‘And I did win. And my name’s Fred. And I’m not having my next victim here calling me a BARRY.’
‘I wasn’t calling you a Barry,’ I told him, as the crowd began jostling and pushing. ‘I was talking to another Barry.’
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ said the first young-fellow-me-lad. ‘I ain’t no stinking Barry.’
‘Nor me,’ agreed his mates in unison. There were three of them.
‘So what’s a BARRY, then?’ asked stumpy the anorak wearer. ‘Is a BARRY a challenge to your manhood, or something?’
‘Nothing challenges my manhood, darling,’ said the first young fellow.
‘Well I do, darling!’ said stumpy.
‘I’m not the darling, darling, I’m straight.’
‘Implying that I’m not, I suppose?’
‘Maybe. So what are you anyway?’
‘I happen to be a radical feminist.’
‘You mean lesbian.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Of course you do, all feminists are closet lesbians.’
‘And all heterosexual men are closet bum-bandits.’
‘Are you asking for a smack in the mouth?’
‘Hit a lady, would you?’
‘No, but I’d hit you.’
‘Hey. Cool it, cool it,’ said the young fellow’s fellow young fellow, young fellow number two. ‘Let’s all be friends. Respect each other’s sexual preferences.’
‘Yeah, well–’ said the radical feminist.
‘Everybody has a right to be what they want to be,’ continued young fellow number two. ‘Now let’s all smile and make up. Listen, I’ll tell you a joke. Why did the lesbian cross the road? Answer. To suck my coc—’
The radical feminist lesbian swung her shoulder-bag. It evidently contained an Aga.
And she caught me right in the face with it.
I went down as the fists began to fly and I mouthed words to the effect of ‘why do women always hit me?’
It was the lady in the straw hat who helped me up again. I raised my hands. ‘Stop fighting,’ I shouted, ‘or someone’s bound to get hurt. Behave yourselves, all of you.’
Now why did I say that?
‘You started this, moosh,’ said the old bloke, who had a young fellow by the throat. ‘Calling perfect strangers BARRYS. What you need is a dose of the army with a sergeant major up your back passage.’
‘Up my what?’
‘Did I say, back passage? I meant, rear guard action, no, that sounds as bad, doesn’t it?’
‘There you go,’ said the radical feminist lesbian. ‘All closet bum-boys. What did I tell you?’
‘Well, you didn’t tell me anything,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘And I’m your mother. And here you are “outing” yourself in the High Street with everyone looking on. What will the neighbours say?’
‘They’ll say,’ said the radical feminist lesbian daughter, ‘what they always say, “don’t be late on Thursday, it’s wife-swapping night.” ’
‘They never do, do they?’ asked the fellow-me-lad whose throat was being held.
‘They do,’ said the old bloke, releasing his grip. ‘I’m always round there on Thursdays with my missus. Swapped her for a lawn mower once.’
‘You hetero-fascist murdering son of a–’ shouted you-know-who, bringing her shoulder-bag once more into play and hitting me once more in the face. And then the fight got well and truly started.
‘Just break it up!’ I shouted, staggering about in the mayhem. ‘Break it up, everyone, please!’
‘Calm down, chief, it’s not your business.’
‘SHUT UP, BARRY!’
It must either have been twenty-past-something, or twenty-to-something, because as I shouted that out there was this one brief moment of absolute silence.
And then, in total unison, the entire crowd shouted, ‘DON’T CALL ME A—’ and fell upon me.
I couldn’t pick out what the last word was, they kicked me to unconsciousness. I think it might have been BARRY.
17
THE LITTLE HOSPITAL CHAPTER
‘Look on the bright side,’ said my Holy Guardian Sprout. ‘The swellings will soon go down. The fractures will mend. Your hip joints will be reset and they’ve almost finished the reconstruction of your rib cage. Once the heart-lung implants go in on Friday you’ll be as right as rain.’
I groaned. Inwardly.
‘You’ll come up smiling like the trooper you are, chief. Listen, have you thought about what kind of job you might apply for once you leave hospital? Perhaps something in the entertainment indust
ry. You liked being on the stage, didn’t you? Chief, are you listening to me?’
‘No I’m not. Leave me alone.’
‘Now you thought that, chief, didn’t you? You didn’t actually say it.’
‘Well, I can’t say it, can I? Not with my jaws wired together. Oh no, I need the bedpan again.’
‘I wish I could help you out, chief, I really do.’
‘Well that’s nice of you, at least.’
‘Oh I wasn’t trying to be nice, it’s just that we share the same nose.’
‘Will you please leave me alone!’
‘Sorry, chief, sorry. Oh look, here come the doctors again.’
‘And so how are we feeling today?’ asked one of the doctors, taking up the regulation clipboard from the bottom of the bed and giving it that once-over look that pretends to be a real once-over look. ‘Everything hunky-dory?’
If I’d had any teeth left I would have ground them.
‘We’ll soon have you up and about, old fellow.’
‘You hear that, Barry? He thinks I’m old.’
‘It’s just a figure of speech, chief. You look like a million bucks.’
‘I do?’
‘Yeah, green and wrinkly.’
‘What was that, Barry?’
‘Nothing, chief.’
‘Well, just keep your pecker up,’ said the doctor. ‘What you have left of it anyway. Nurse, are we thinking of sewing his nose back on?’
‘Sorry, doctor, there’s been so many other bits to do.’
‘Quite so, nurse.
‘Here, chief, that reminds me of a joke.’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Of course you do, chief, it will cheer you up.
‘I don’t want to be cheered up.’
‘Of course you do. Now just listen. There was this bloke, see, and he was in hospital, just like you, all bandaged up from head to foot, and the doctor comes in, and the doctor says, “Ah, I see you’ve regained consciousness, now you probably won’t remember but you were in this pile-up on the motorway. Now you’re going to be OK, you’ll walk again, everything, but something happened, I’m trying to break this gently, but your penis was chopped off in the wreck and we were unable to find it.” ’
‘Turn it in, Barry.’
‘No, listen, chief, so the bloke groans, a bit like you just did, but the doctor says, “But it’s going to be all right, we have the technology now to build you a new one that will work as well as your old one did, better in fact. But the thing is, it doesn’t come cheap. It’s a thousand pounds an inch.” And the bloke perks up a bit at this, even though it’s a thousand pounds an inch. “So the thing is,” the doctor says, “it’s for you to decide how many inches you want. But it’s something you’d probably better discuss with your wife. I mean if you had a five-inch one before and you decide to go for a nine-incher, she might be a bit put out. But if you had a nine-inch one before and decide to only invest in a five-incher this time, she might be disappointed. So it’s important that she plays a vital role in helping you make the decision.”
‘So the bloke agrees to talk with his wife and the doctor comes back the next day. “So,” says the doctor, “have you spoken with your wife?”
‘ “I have,” says the fellow.
‘ “And has she helped you in making the decision?”
‘ “She has,” says the bloke.
‘ “And what is it?” asks the doctor.
‘The bloke looks up and says, “We’re having a new kitchen.” ’
‘That is a very sick joke, Barry.’
‘Yeah, and an old one too, but a classic, chief, a classic. Very, very funny.’
‘But not too funny if you were the bloke.’
‘Oh no, chief, not too funny at all. Hey look, the doctor’s leaving, good riddance, eh?’
The doctor turned as he reached the door, ‘Nurse,’ he said, ‘about the other bits you still have to sew on. Did you come across his penis?’
The nurse shook her head. ‘They never found it,’ she said. ‘And you know what a new one costs. I hope this chap has an understanding wife.’
18
SIX MONTHS AND TEN THOUSAND POUNDS LATER
‘I feel like a million bucks,’ I told Barry, as I stood outside the hospital, the sunlight dancing upon my new cheek-bones and twinkling in my glass eye. My prosthetic limbs were all a-quiver and I felt mighty fine. ‘I feel mighty fine,’ I said. ‘And have you noticed something else, Barry?’
‘What’s that, chief?’
‘The poetry’s gone from the beginning of the chapters.’
‘Don’t knock it, chief.’
‘No, I wasn’t. But I know why. Since my “accident”, I don’t have to compensate for anything any more. I don’t need the poetry in my head. I’m totally recharged and I’m totally charged up.’
‘That’s nice, chief, that’s really nice. So what are you going to do now, hit the job centre?’
‘No, Barry, I think I’ll do something else instead.’
‘Hit the beach then, a bit of a holiday?’
‘No, something else.’
‘Go to the café for a cup of tea?’
‘No.’
‘Care to give me a clue, chief, it wouldn’t be—’
‘Change the world, Barry. Rebuild it from the ground up.’
‘Ah, it would be that. I thought it might just be that. Look, chief, we’ve been through all this.’
‘You’ve been through it, Barry. I haven’t started yet.’
‘But your – dare I say it? – attitude problem.’
‘All sorted, I’m a new man.
‘Well, a lot of you is. Especially the—’
‘I am going to do the right thing this time, use my gift for the good of all mankind.’
‘But you tried that last time, chief, and it wasn’t a raging success. I don’t like to mention it, but you must recall the matter of the bass-playing rock star.’
‘I have paid my debt to him, Barry. Thirty years’ cold turkey.’
‘I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, chief, am I?’
‘No, Barry, you’re not. We are now going to a hotel where I am going to set up shop. I have formulated a plan for world-wide renewal. I will assemble all the foolish bits and bobs I require and then I will begin. I will build a glorious world. A utopia where all men will be free and happy. And honest. A world in which mankind will reach its true potential. A fine world. A happy world. A world of love.’
‘I don’t mean to rain on your parade, chief, but a speech like that is generally preceded by the words “They thought me mad, the fools, I who have created life” and generally ends with the line, “We belong dead.” That one spoken by Boris Karloff, of course, before he pulls the big switch.’
‘Quite finished?’
‘Well, there’s the villagers with the flaming torches.’
‘There will be no villagers with flaming torches, only people with bright smiling faces.’
‘Don’t trust those, chief. I’ve seen those at Philip Glass concerts.’
‘What’s with all the Philip Glass references?’ I asked. ‘What have we got against Philip Glass?’
‘Perhaps it’s a running gag, chief. We’ve been quite short of those.’
‘Well it’s not very funny.’
‘Perhaps the humour lay in you drawing attention to it. But let’s not improvise here. Smiling faces, you say?’
‘A veritable carpet of smiling faces.’
‘Carpets are made to be walked on, chief.’
‘A host, then. An exuberance.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘Perk up, Barry. Today we check into a hotel. Tomorrow we make the whole world smile.’
‘I’m really not keen, chief.’
‘Listen, Barry, I’m going to make everything right this time. Every decision I make is going to be the right one. And my first right decision is that we’re going to check into that hotel over there.’
‘Which one is that, chief?’
‘That one. Hotel Jericho.’
19
SUSPICIONS REGARDING WHAM, POW AND ZAP
And so you came here. That you then, that is the me now. The me who sits alone in this room at Hotel Jericho. Recording the events as they happened. Writing in my red exercise books, thirty lines to the page, twenty pages to the book. Alone here, the walls and windows painted black, water dripping from the tap, the smell of old stale cabbage always in the air.
But don’t let me spoil the mood, your mood. Your mood was optimistic then. You really knew you couldn’t fail.
And perhaps you didn’t. Really.
‘All right, chief, I give up. How did you do it?’
‘Do what, Barry?’
‘Arrange all this. We turn up at a hotel, picked seemingly at random, to discover a suite already booked in your name. And what do we find when we come up to it? Your favourite beer in the fridge, a full computer set-up on the desk, a row of televisions and a young woman of negotiable affections waiting to try out your ten-inch todger.’
‘There’s nothing magic about it, Barry. It’s all very straight-forward.’
‘But none the less, I’d like to know.’
‘Fair enough, I’m sure you recall that during my convalescence at the hospital, there was a certain bed-pan over-spill incident, which led to a sheet-besmirchment and nose-hold situation.’
‘Recall it all too well, chief. I popped out of your head for half an hour to have a little drift about outside.’
‘That’s right. And while you were gone I made a telephone call. Called in a favour or two.’
‘Go on.’
‘I called the present bass guitarist of Sonic Energy Authority. The ex-waiter. He covered all my hospital expenses and agreed to find my set up here. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Well, it’s always nice when something so simple can tie up such ENORMOUS loose ends, chief. So, you’ve had a beer and a woman and a bit of a kip, what say we hit the beach?’
‘No.’ I took up the remote controller and switched on a TV. ‘I have to catch up on thirty years of world news, find out what’s gone on in my absence, decide exactly where I should start with the from-the-ground-up reconstruction.’
Sprout Mask Replica (Completely Barking Mad Trilogy Book 1) Page 19
