The Wilt Alternative

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘Henry Wilt, you’ll leave my family out of this. I want to know what you think we should do about Miss Mueller.’

  ‘Why ask me? You invited her to come and live here. You didn’t consult me. And I certainly didn’t want the damned woman. Now that she’s turned out to be some sort of international sex fiend, according to you, who’s likely to infect the children with premature nymphomania, I get dragged in …’

  ‘All I want is your advice,’ said Eva.

  ‘Then here it is,’ said Wilt. ‘Tell her to get the hell out.’

  ‘But that’s the difficulty. She’s given a month’s rent in advance. I haven’t put it in the bank yet, but still …’

  ‘Well, give it back to her for Christ’s sake. If you don’t want the bag give her the boot.’

  ‘It seems so inhospitable really,’ said Eva. ‘I mean she’s foreign and far from home.’

  ‘Not far enough from my home,’ said Wilt, ‘and all her boyfriends seem to be Croesus Juniors. She can shack up with them or stay at Claridges. My advice is to give her money back and bung her out.’ And Wilt went through to the living-room and sat in front of the television until supper was ready.

  In the kitchen Eva made up her mind. Mavis Mottram had been wrong again. Henry wasn’t in the least interested in Miss Mueller and she could give the money to PAPP. So there was no need to ask the lodger to leave. Perhaps if she just suggested that things could be heard through the ceiling or … Anyway it was nice to know Henry hadn’t been up to anything nasty. Which only went to show that she shouldn’t listen to what Mavis had to say. Henry was a good husband in spite of his funny ways. It was a happy Eva who called Wilt to his supper that evening.

  10

  It was a surprisingly happy Wilt who left Dr Scally’s surgery the following Wednesday. After an initial bout of jocularity about Wilt’s injuries the removal of the bandages and the pipeline had proceeded comparatively painlessly.

  ‘Absolutely no need for all this in my opinion,’ said the doctor, ‘but those young fellows up at the hospital like to make a thorough job of things while they’re about it.’

  A remark that almost persuaded Wilt to lodge an official complaint with the Health Ombudsman. Dr Scally was against.

  ‘Think of the scandal, my dear fellow, and strictly speaking they were within their rights. If you will go round saying you’ve been poisoned …’

  It was a persuasive argument and with the doctor’s promise that he’d soon be as right as rain again provided he didn’t overdo things with his missus, Wilt emerged into the street feeling, if not on top of the world, at least half-way up it. The sun was shining on autumnal leaves, small boys were collecting conkers underneath the chestnuts in the park, and Dr Scally had given him a doctor’s certificate keeping him away from the Tech for another week. Wilt strolled into town, spent an hour browsing in the second-hand bookshop, and was about to go home when he remembered he had to deposit Miss Mueller’s advance in the bank. Wilt turned bankwards and felt even better. His brief infatuation for her had evaporated. Irmgard was just another silly foreign student with more money than sense, a taste for expensive cars and young men of every nationality.

  And so he walked up the bank steps airily and went to the counter where he wrote out a deposit slip and handed it to the cashier. ‘My wife has a special account,’ he explained. ‘It’s a deposit account in the name of Wilt. Mrs H. Wilt. I’ve forgotten the number but it’s for an African tribe and I think it’s called …’ But the cashier was clearly not listening. He was busy counting the notes and while Wilt watched he stopped several times. Finally with a brief ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he opened the hatch at the back of his cubicle and disappeared through it. Several customers behind Wilt moved to the next cashier, leaving him with that vague sense of unease he always felt when he had cashed a cheque and the clerk before stamping the back glanced at a list of customers who were presumably grossly overdrawn. But this time he was paying money in, not taking it out, and it wasn’t possible for notes to bounce.

  It was. Wilt was just beginning to work up some resentment at being kept waiting when a bank messenger approached him.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping into the manager’s office, sir,’ he said with a slightly threatening politeness. Wilt followed him across the foyer and into the manager’s office.

  ‘Mr Wilt?’ said the manager. Wilt nodded. ‘Do take a seat.’ Wilt sat and glared at the cashier who was standing beside the manager’s desk. The notes and the deposit slip lay on the blotting pad in front of him.

  ‘I’d be glad if you would tell me what this is all about,’ said Wilt with growing alarm. Behind him the bank messenger had taken up a position by the door.

  ‘I think we’ll reserve any comment until the police arrive,’ said the manager.

  ‘What do you mean “the police arrive”?’

  The manager said nothing. He stared at Wilt with a look that managed to combine sorrow and suspicion.

  ‘Now look here,’ said Wilt. ‘I don’t know what’s going on but I demand …’

  Wilt’s protest died away as the manager eyed the pile of notes on the desk.

  ‘Good Lord, you’re not suggesting they’re forged?’

  ‘Not forged, Mr Wilt, but as I said before, when the police arrive you’ll have a chance to explain matters. I’m sure there’s some perfectly reasonable explanation. Nobody for one moment suspects you …’

  ‘Of what?’ said Wilt.

  But again the bank manager said nothing. Apart from the noise of traffic outside there was silence and the day which only a few minutes before had seemed full of good cheer and hope suddenly became grey and horrid. Wilt searched his mind frantically for an explanation but could think of nothing, and he was about to protest that they had no right to keep him there when there was a knock on the door and the bank messenger opened it cautiously. Inspector Flint, Sergeant Yates and two sinister plainclothes men entered.

  ‘At last,’ said the manager. ‘This is really very awkward. Mr Wilt here is an old and respected customer …’

  His defence died out. Flint was staring at Wilt.

  ‘I didn’t think there could be two Wilts in the same town,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Now then –’

  But he was interrupted by the older of the two plainclothes men. ‘If you don’t mind, Inspector, we’ll handle this,’ he said with a brisk authority and almost a charm of manner that was even more alarming than the bank manager’s previous coolness. He moved to the desk, picked up some of the notes and studied them. Wilt watched him with increasing concern.

  ‘Would you mind telling us how you came by these five-pound notes, sir?’ said the man. ‘By the way, my name is Misterson.’

  ‘They’re a month’s rent in advance from our lodger,’ said Wilt. ‘I came here to deposit them in my wife’s PAPP account …’

  ‘Pap, sir? Pap account?’ said the smooth Mr Misterson.

  ‘It stands for Personal Assistance for Primitive People,’ said Wilt. ‘My wife is the treasurer of the local branch. She’s adopted a tribe in Africa and …’

  ‘I understand, Mr Wilt,’ said Misterson, casting a cold eye on Inspector Flint who had just muttered ‘Typical’. He sat down and hitched his chair closer to Wilt. ‘You were saying that this money came from the lodger and was destined for your wife’s deposit account. What sort of lodger is this?’

  ‘Female,’ said Wilt, slipping into cross-examination brevity.

  ‘And her name, sir?’

  ‘Irmgard Mueller.’

  The two plainclothes men exchanged a look. Wilt followed it and said hastily, ‘She’s German.’

  ‘Yes sir. And would you be able to identify her?’

  ‘Identify her?’ said Wilt. ‘I’d be hard put not to. She’s been living in the attic for the last month.’

  ‘In which case if you’ll kindly come to the station we’d be glad if you would look at some photographs,’ said Misterson pushing back his chair.

  ‘Now wait
a moment. I want to know what this is all about,’ said Wilt. ‘I’ve been to that police station and frankly I don’t want to go there again.’ He stayed resolutely in his chair.

  Mr Misterson reached in his pocket and took out a plastic licence which he opened.

  ‘If you’ll take a good look at this.’

  Wilt did and felt sick. It stated that Superintendent Misterson of the Anti-Terrorist Branch was empowered … Wilt got up unsteadily and moved towards the door. Behind him the Superintendent was giving Inspector Flint, Sergeant Yates and the bank manager their orders. No one was to leave the office, there were to be no outgoing phone calls, maximum security and business as usual. Even the bank messenger was to remain where he was.

  ‘And now Mr Wilt if you’ll just walk out quite normally and follow me. We don’t want to attract attention.’

  Wilt followed him out and across the bank to the door and was hesitating there wondering what to do when a car drew up. The Superintendent opened the door and Wilt got in. Five minutes later he was sitting at a table being handed photographs of young women. It was twenty past twelve when he finally picked Miss Irmgard Mueller out.

  ‘Are you absolutely certain?’ asked the Superintendent.

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Wilt irritably. ‘Now I don’t know who she is or what the wretched woman has done but I’d be glad if you would go and arrest her or something. I want to get home to my lunch.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. And is your wife in the house?’

  Wilt looked at his watch. ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. As a matter of fact she will now be on her way back from playschool with the children and …’

  The Superintendent sighed. It was a long ominous sigh. ‘In that case I’m afraid there won’t be any question of an arrest just yet,’ he said. ‘I take it that Miss … er … Mueller is in the house.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Wilt, ‘she was when I left this morning, and today being Wednesday she doesn’t have any lectures, so she probably is. Why don’t you go round and find out?’

  ‘Because, sir, your lodger just happens to be one of the most dangerous woman terrorists in the world. I think that is self-explanatory.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Wilt, suddenly feeling very weak.

  Superintendent Misterson leant across the desk. ‘She has at least eight killings to her credit and she’s suspected of being the mastermind … I’m sorry to use such melodramatic terms but in the event they happen to fit. As I was saying she has organized several bombings and we now know she’s been involved in the hijacking of a security van in Gantrey last Tuesday. A man died in the attack. You may have read about the case.’

  Wilt had. In the waiting-room at the Accident Centre. It had seemed then one of those remote and disgusting acts of gratuitous violence which made the morning paper such depressing reading. And yet because he read about it the murder of a security guard had been invested with a reality which it lacked in the present circumstances. Mastermind, terrorist, killings – words spoken casually in an office by a bland man with a Paisley tie and a brown tweed suit. Like some country solicitor, Superintendent Misterson was the last person he would have expected to use such words, and it was this incongruity which was so alarming. Wilt stared at the man and shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ said the Superintendent.

  ‘But the money …’

  ‘Marked sir. Marked and numbered. Bait in a trap.’

  Wilt shook his head again. The truth was unbearable.

  ‘What are you going to do? My wife and children are at home by now and if she’s there … and there are all those other foreigners in the house too.’

  ‘Would you mind telling us how many other … er … foreigners are there, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Wilt, ‘it varies from day to day. There’s a stream of them coming and going. Jesus wept.’

  ‘Now, sir,’ said the Superintendent briskly, ‘what’s your usual routine? Do you normally go home for lunch?’

  ‘No. I usually have it at the Tech but just at the moment I’m off work and yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘So your wife will be surprised if you don’t come home?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Wilt. ‘Sometimes I drop into a pub for sandwiches.’

  ‘And you don’t telephone first?’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘What I am trying to ascertain, sir, is whether your wife will evince any alarm were you not to come home now or contact her.’

  ‘She won’t,’ said Wilt. ‘The only time she’ll be alarmed is when she knows we’ve been providing accommodation for … What is the name of this bloody woman anyway?’

  ‘Gudrun Schautz. And now, sir, I’ll have some lunch sent up from the canteen and we’ll make preparations.’

  ‘What preparations?’ asked Wilt but the Superintendent had left the room and the other plainclothes man seemed disinclined to talk. Wilt regarded the slight bulge under the man’s right armpit and tried to stifle his growing feeling of insanity.

  *

  In the kitchen at Willington Road Eva was busy giving the quads their lunch.

  ‘We won’t wait for Daddy,’ she said, ‘he’ll probably be back a little later.’

  ‘Will he bring his bagpipe home?’ asked Josephine.

  ‘Bagpipe, dear? Daddy doesn’t have a bagpipe.’

  ‘He’s been wearing one,’ said Penelope.

  ‘Yes, but not the sort you play.’

  ‘I saw some men in dresses playing bagpipes at the show,’ said Emmeline.

  ‘Kilts, dear.’

  ‘I saw Daddy playing with his pipe in the summerhouse,’ said Penelope, ‘and he was wearing Mummy’s dress too.’

  ‘Well he wasn’t playing with it in the same way, Penny,’ argued Eva, wondering privately what way Wilt had been playing with it.

  ‘Bagpipes make a horrid noise anyway,’ maintained Emmeline.

  ‘And Daddy made a horrid noise when you got into bed …’

  ‘Yes, dear, he was having a bad dream.’

  ‘He called it a wet dream, Mummy. I heard him.’

  ‘Well that’s a bad dream too,’ said Eva. ‘Now then, what did you do at school today?’

  But the quads were not to be diverted from the absorbing topic of their father’s recent misfortune. ‘Roger’s mummy told him Daddy must have something wrong with his bladder to have a pipe,’ said Penelope. ‘What’s a bladder, Mummy?’

  ‘I know,’ shouted Emmeline, ‘it’s a pig’s tummy and that’s what they make bagpipes out of because Sally told me.’

  ‘Daddy’s not a pig …’

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ said Eva firmly, ‘we won’t talk about Daddy any more. Now eat your cod’s roe.’

  ‘Roger says cod’s roe is baby fishes,’ said Penelope. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Well it’s not. Fishes don’t have babies. They lay eggs.’

  ‘Do sausages lay eggs, Mummy?’ asked Josephine.

  ‘Of course they don’t, darling. Sausages aren’t alive.’

  ‘Roger says his daddy’s sausage lays eggs and his mummy wears something …’

  ‘I don’t care to hear what Roger says any more,’ said Eva, torn between curiosity about the Rawstons and revulsion at her offspring’s encyclopedic knowledge. ‘It’s not nice to talk about such things.’

  ‘Why not, Mummy?’

  ‘Because it isn’t,’ said Eva, unable to think of a suitably progressive argument to silence them. Caught between her own indoctrinated sense of niceness and her opinion that children’s innate curiosity should never be thwarted, Eva struggled through lunch wishing that Henry were there to put a stop to their questions with a taciturn growl. But Henry still wasn’t there at two o’clock when Mavis phoned to remind her that she had promised to pick her up on the way to the Symposium on Alternative Painting in Thailand.

  ‘I’m sorry but Henry isn’t back,’ said Eva. ‘He went to the doctor’s this morning and I expected him ho
me for lunch. I can’t leave the children.’

  ‘Patrick’s got the car today,’ said Mavis; ‘his own is in for a service and I was relying on you.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll go and ask Mrs de Frackas to baby-sit for half an hour,’ said Eva, ‘she’s always volunteering to sit and Henry’s bound to be back shortly.’

  She went next door and presently old Mrs de Frackas was sitting in the summerhouse surrounded by the quads reading them the story of Rikki Tikki Tavi. The widow of Major-General de Frackas, at eighty-two her memories of girlhood days in India were rather better than on topics of more recent occurrence. Eva drove off happily to pick up Mavis.

  *

  By the time Wilt had finished his lunch he had picked out two more terrorists from the mug shots as being frequent visitors to the house, and the police station had seen the arrival of several large vans containing a large number of surprisingly agile men in a motley of plain clothes. The canteen had been turned into a briefing centre and Superintendent Misterson’s authority had been superseded by a Major (name undisclosed) of Special Ground Services.

  ‘The Superintendent here will explain the initial stages of the operation,’ said the Major condescendingly, ‘but before he does I want to stress that we are dealing with some of the most ruthless killers in Europe. They must on no account escape. At the same time we naturally want to avoid bloodshed if at all possible. However, it has to be said that in the circumstances we are entitled to shoot first and ask questions afterwards if the target is able to answer. I have that authority from the Minister.’ He smiled bleakly and sat down.

  ‘After the house has been surrounded,’ said the Superintendent, ‘Mr Wilt will enter and hopefully effect the exit of his family. I want nothing done to prevent that first essential requirement. The second factor to take into account is that we have a unique opportunity to arrest at least three leading terrorists and possibly more, and again, hopefully, Mr Wilt will enable us to know how many members of the group are in the house at the moment of time of his exit. I’ll go ahead with my side and leave the rest to the Major.’