by Nick Louth
“No tryborg,” Harry insisted. “Half human, half tram.”
He whispered conspiratorially to Valeri. “Listen, you’d better let your mate know. There’s more metal in Chantelle than in the Trans-Siberian railway. Her how’s-your-father’s made out of a tin-opener.”
Despite my protestations, this wall of spiteful propaganda was taking its toll on Valeri’s mood. When Yevgeny and Chantelle came back, breathless and arm-in-arm, Valeri pointed to his watch. There followed a brief but animated conversation in Russian, and he and Yevgeny stood up to go.
“Where are you two off to?” wailed Chantelle.
“Bye-bye, lovely Chantelle” Yevgeny said. “Late. Sleep now.”
When Chantelle turned to Harry, I had never seen her so angry. “What have you been saying about us?”
“Nothing,” Harry responded.
“Bernard, has he been horrible?” she asked.
One look at my face showed her the truth. Chantelle burst into tears and stormed off, cursing Harry for spoiling her holiday, and the only chance for romance she’d had in several years.
“Well done, Harry,” I said. “Do you always have to be vile?”
“Well, what does she want with a Russian anyway. He’ll only treat her like dirt. If the Russians can shaft a canny operator like BP, they can certainly do it to her.”
“Yes, but I think she actually might have wanted it to happen,” I said.
Saturday 22nd March: Two A.M.
By the time Stef returned from the toilet, Harry had already stalked off, Russell had disappeared, and I was left with a sleeping Martin Gale. Chantelle had apparently sobbed her heart out to Stef in the ladies, and gone home.
“So it’s just you and me then?” Stef said.
“Well, and him,” I said pointing to Martin’s recumbent form. “Two’s company, three’s a debt-ridden corporation.”
“Fancy a last dance?” she asked.
“I can’t dance. Not to anything written after 1905 anyway.”
“Anyone can dance,” she said, pulling me to my feet. Almost immediately the music changed to a slow number, and I tentatively put my arms around her. With her heels, we were exactly the same height. Her piercing blue eyes were quite bewitching, while the slow rotation of her hips against mine and my drunken state gave me ideas, indeed sensations, that I really shouldn’t have had.
“So were you upset that Valeri went off?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said. “I was just making up the foursome for Chantelle’s sake. “They were obviously married and desperate for a roll in the hay.” She paused and gave me a direct look. “Not that I’m always averse to that.”
Staggered by the magnitude of the possibilities just opening up for me, I stumbled onto Stef’s foot. She tottered sideways, and I realised that the heel of one shoe had fractured.
“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry,” I said. “Here let me help you.”
I brought her back to the table where she found a use for the broken shoe, tapping Martin Gale on the head. “Wakey-wakey. Time to go home.”
Somehow all three of us staggered out and found a taxi. At the hotel, we dragged Martin up two flights of stairs to his room and plonked him on his bed, waking up both Russell and Mike Delaney in the process. One more flight and we were back outside our own room, within which Chantelle could be heard moving around. I fumbled for the key, but Stef stayed my hand.
“Not yet,” she said.
In one quick movement, she pulled me close to her and sank her mouth onto mine. The kiss was so hot, wet and potent that I had to grasp the door jamb for support.
“I’m very, very drunk,” Stef said. “But I do really like you. I’ve always liked older men. Even through this mist of vodka I can see that you are the one male on this trip that has behaved with complete decency.”
“That’s very nice of you to say,” I replied.
“You know, I’m so drunk, that if Chantelle wasn’t already in there, I would probably drag you in and rip all your clothes off. I think we can both agree, though, that it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Well, I’m not sure...” I said, desperately wondering how Chantelle could be removed from the room, by persuasion, force or teleportation. My thought was extinguished by another kiss, even more passionate than the last.
“I mean you are married,” she whispered, between nibbling my neck. “And you’ve probably been very faithful...to your devoted wife...who I don’t even know...and I don’t really know you.”
“Well, Stef, this really is a wonderful surprise.” I said, watching her large breasts crushed against the front of my shirt.
“The other thing,” she said, “is that in the morning I can blame all this on drink. But right now I think I have to rush to the bathroom because I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, opening the door, “that is the effect I have on most women. Even when they are sober.”
Sunday 23rd March: The Morning After
Another grisly hangover, but the sweetest sensation as I pieced together the night’s happenings from drink-addled memories. I took an al fresco breakfast alone, walking the streets of Riga on a warm and spring-like day. I didn’t really see Stef until mid-morning when I returned to the hotel. She gave me a rather sheepish smile, and took me aside.
“I’m so sorry about my behaviour last night,” she said. “I’m a bit wicked when I’m drunk. I do hope you’re not shocked.”
“I have no complaints. None at all. I will treasure the memory.”
“Discreetly, I hope? That’s very important.”
“Absolutely. Mum’s the word.”
Sunday Afternoon: Taxing Conversations
I found the group sitting and chatting on the sun lounge of the hotel, looking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Chantelle was looking her usual bubbly self, and very much appreciated the bunch of pink and yellow roses from the market that I gave her to cheer her up.
“What a gentleman,” she said.
“They were actually very cheap,” I said, feeling a slight blush.
“It’s the thought, ain’t it?” she said, staring at Harry. “And not even an apology from the bloke who really caused the trouble.”
Eventually, she did get a grudging apology from Harry, who seemed to be quite excited about something else.
“I ran into your Russian fellas again today, you know? Valerie and the hairy one. Did a bit of business.”
“Oh yes?” said Chantelle. “Trying to find their secret to charming the other sex. Something you have never, ever had.”
“Funnily enough, yes.” Harry held out his hand across the table. In it was a handful of blue diamond-shaped pills.
“That looks like Viagra to me,” said Martin Gale.
“Well it’s not Bob Martin’s is it, sonny boy,” said Harry. “I’m going to buy some regular supplies. They’re offering them at about a fiver for 20. In Britain, if you can get it at all, it’s a fiver a pill.”
“How do you know they’re the real thing?” said Mike Delaney, taking a deep drag on a cigarette. “They could be forgeries.”
“Well, I’m not stupid,” Harry said, with a smile on his face. “I already planned for that...”
“No I am bloody well not available, and neither is Stef,” Chantelle said. “Just in case that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Relax, darling. I already tested one last night. Solo.”
“So you were doing business last night?” Chantelle said.
“Of course. I latched onto that comment they made about the pill, which you thought was a contraceptive. When Yevgeny was at the bar, I talked to him about it, and he let me have a free sample.”
“So now you’ve done the deal, what are you going to do?” Stef asked.
“Well, it’s a nice little business isn’t it? They’ll post me the goods, I’ll get a website set up, hosted out here but all in English. No tax problems, legit-sounding import-export. You know,” he tapped t
he side of his nose.
Chantelle explained to Stef that Harry always had these amazing business ideas. “Tell her about the motorbikes,” she said. So Harry proudly told the story about rushing down to Devon in January 2007 when a freighter ran aground, and salvaging a crate containing two undamaged BMW motorcycles which he sold for a fat profit. He then ran on with another anecdote about how he helped Martin Gale set up his Bulgarian wine re-labelling business in which empty Bordeaux bottles were stolen from the recycling bins of posh restaurants, refilled with cheap red, re-corked and sold for laying down for a minimum of ten years.
“That certainly helped bring in a few pounds to meet the debt repayments,” Martin added. “And no stealth taxes on that lot.”
Harry stretched his arms, re-set his sunglasses and adjusted his chair to soak up the last of the afternoon rays. “Yes, I really can’t complain. My little sidelines have done pretty well, except the shares of course. They’re a disaster.”
“That’s a pretty impressive income, Harry,” Stef said.
“Yeah, well. Not bad,” he said.
For some reason, Chantelle was absolutely beaming like she’d won the pools. “You know, Harry. I’m so glad you’re not the shy, modest and retiring type. You love to talk about yourself, but you don’t ask any questions. Do you have any idea what Stef does for a living?”
“I thought she said she was a public sector office worker.”
“I am, in HM Revenue & Customs,” she said. For a good minute everyone’s jaws hung open.
Harry looked mortified. “I didn’t know they had such quality crumpet working for ‘em. Well, Stef, don’t snitch to anyone senior will ya. We don’t want the tax inspectors breathing down me neck, do we, eh?” he tapped the side of his nose.
“Harry, I am a tax inspector. In special investigations,” Stef said. “I recovered £14 million of black market money last year, third highest in the country, from an undercover operation.”
“Chantelle, you little cow. You did this deliberately, didn’t you?” Harry said. “You set me up!”
“Look,” laughed Stef. “I’m on holiday, right? I can’t be doing with this now. It’s not really my department. But, for the record, here’s the deal. If you want to import Viagra into the U.K. do it through official channels. As for the other little businesses, when you get back, send a letter of full disclosure of all your undeclared earnings to your tax local office. If it’s volunteered, they’ll take a charitable view, probably.”
Harry looked very sullen, arms folded.
“Cheer up Harry,” Stef said. “We are human you know. Flesh and blood. And we do need a little love from time to time.”
And at that moment she gave me a sly little wink.
Monday 24th March: Happy Landings
Back at Stansted, and sober for the first time in four days, we waited at the luggage carousel with mixed feelings. Russell was feeling down because Harry had forced him to pay up for luggage fees and the upgraded hotel, which meant he had no longer made a profit on the arrangements. Martin Gale was nursing a giant hangover and the unexplained loss of his wallet and his remaining £60 during the evening at the nightclub. Mike Delaney, loaded with cheap cigarettes, looked the happiest of us all. He’d even managed to both experience all the Latvian culture and remember it. Chantelle had finally forgiven Harry for his rumour mongering, and had to agree that in the cold light of day Yevgeny wasn’t much of a catch. After her exposure as a tax inspector Stef had been treated as radioactive by Harry and Martin.
“That’s why I don’t tell anyone about what I do,” she admitted to me. “Prejudice against tax staff is about the only one that is still rampant in our politically-correct world. I do a good job keeping our schools and hospitals funded, but you’d think I was stealing from people they way I get treated.”
“Well, I’ll never think of HM Revenue & Customs in the same way,” I said. “If you ever feel like doing a detailed investigation into my affairs, I’m happy to comply.”
Our goodbyes were interrupted by the sound of cursing. Harry Staines was wrestling from the carousel a broken, wet crate from which liquid and fragments of glass were falling. So much for the cheap vodka he’d hoped to be able to sell to friends and relatives. All in all, we’d spent far more money in Latvia than we thought, drank even more than we expected, but had more fun. As for me, I’ll have to keep to myself the most special memory: the hot lips of a tax inspector.
Chapter Twelve: Grain Of Truth
Tuesday 25th March: Not Helping With Inquiries
Peter Edgington rang to say that the police weren’t interested in following-up Digby’s use of his computer, and the downloading of the virus ‘key-logger’ which emptied his bank account. The off-the-record advice from the local chief inspector was not to tell the bank that anyone outside the family had used the PC, even though it was with permission. Contacting the fraud squad, the officer said, was “a complete waste of time for this kind of crime.” However, Peter admitted that he had already told his bank, and sure enough its policy is to reimburse only when the PC was used by a family member and, moreover, to insist that failing to supervise Digby would count as ‘lack of reasonable care’.
Elevenses: Eunice, back early from Waitrose, almost caught me in flagrante with a Cadbury’s Flake Easter egg. However, she was so excited by the gossip she’d heard that she barely paid attention to my furtive swallowing. She had run into Daphne Hanson-Hart in the Fairtrade coffee aisle who had heard, via Geraldine, that Peter’s bank account losses were over £48,000. Good grief! That is far more than I feared.
Wednesday 26th March: Share Club
Share prices are recovering, and the debate on what to buy is heating up. Chantelle wants more mineral companies, K.P. Sharma is after banks, while Martin Gale wants to buy commercial property. I suggest food and drink companies. Still, the share club has only £1750 and that includes Harry’s £100, taken from his wife’s housekeeping.
Thursday 27th March: Mother And Child
Dreadful day. Crawled round a rain-swept M25 to Isleworth to see my mother, who has summoned me for an expedition to the Morrison’s hypermarket. I’ve got the blue badge on the dashboard, but all the disabled parking bays are occupied by tattooed youths in Vauxhall Astras, buying cigarettes and lager. Fuming, I park in the last mother and child bay, saving a five minute walk from the next available space. As I help Dot out of the car, a people carrier pulls up behind. Inside are about a dozen rioting children, mouths rimmed with melted chocolate, kicking, fighting and screaming. A fat and florid woman emerges, and she’s furious.
“Oi! That space is for muvvers with kids,” she bellows, over the ululation of her urchins.
“That’s right. This IS my mother. I am her child.”
“It’s for mum’s wiv toddlers,” she says, waddling out of the vehicle. “And you’re not a f***ing toddler. You’re a f***ing adult.”
“Good lady, my mother is a toddler. She toddles more slowly and with greater need than any of your jungle troupe of ill-disciplined gibbons and baboons, who I daresay could swing straight into the supermarket without touching the ground.”
Without further ado the woman kicked me hard on the kneecap. “Now you can effing toddle,” she muttered, as I crumpled to the ground in agony. She then calmly climbed back in her vehicle, casually walloped three of her offspring, and drove off.
Too shocked to respond, I staggered with Dot to the in-store café where a cup of tea and a danish pastry calmed me down. Fifteen minutes later, still limping badly, I was ready to tackle the supermarket. My assailant (easily tracked by the noise of her kids) was in the frozen food section, so Dot and I started elsewhere. While I kept an eye on my enemy, Dot seemed to be on a slow-motion trolley dash. Already aboard were ten two-pound bags of flour, five of sugar, three dozen eggs, 20 tins of condensed milk, four giant bags of toilet rolls and ten sliced white loaves.
“Mum, are you planning a surprise party for the Royal Anglian Regiment or something?”
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“What’s that Bernard?” she said, struggling with a catering-sized sack of basmati rice.
“Why are you buying all this food? You don’t eat normally enough to keep a gnat on life-support.”
“There’s a famine, Bernard. The Daily Express says so. Flour, bread, everything. It’s all going up in price, so I thought I get plenty in. I expect that we’ll be back on ration books by Christmas.”
“But rice, Mum? You’ve never eaten anything but tinned Ambrosia. Are you planning to open a curry house?”
“No. But by next week you won’t be able to get it.”
“But if you don’t eat it, what’s the point?”
“For swapping. I mean, look at Rhodesia, with money worth nothing. If I run out of something, I can swap my rice, or a toilet roll for a tin of chunks or some pilchards. Rice will keep its value better than my savings now, won’t it?”
Suddenly I realised that my mother wasn’t so daft after all. In her own make-do-and-mend way, she’s preparing for a barter economy. That gives me an idea to finally get her to part with some of that inheritance.
Saturday 29th March: Biofuel Innovation
Arrive at my mother’s house full of ideas of how I can prise some money out of her share portfolio and into mine. However, as soon as I’ve sat down with a cup of tea and a brace of chocolate Penguins, Dot hauls a heavy carrier bag out of the kitchen. Inside I see at least 20 tins of Morrison’s own-brand sweetcorn.
“There you are, Bernard. It’s part of your birthday present.”
“Well, that’s very kind,” I say, thinking that she’s having one of her more dotty days. “I’m actually not a huge sweetcorn fan, but Eunice is certainly very partial to her five-a-day.”
“Oh, it’s not actually to eat. It’s for the car. I know petrol’s very expensive, and you could save yourself some money by running the car on this.”
