Joe did ponder, for all of five seconds, before bundling up the day and all its events and dumping them out of sight at the back of his mind. And in another five seconds he had plunged effortlessly into his customary deep sleep which Beryl claimed was indistinguishable from catalepsy.
15
Twitch
Except with regard to Luton winning the Premiership title, the FA Cup and the European Championship all in the same season, Joe was not a dreamer.
Tonight, however, he can't have plunged to his usual depths of sleep because he found himself dreaming.
It was a really weird dream in which a pair of mighty hands seized him by the ankles, bore him through the air and hung him upside down over the railing of his balcony. The early July dawn was already painting the dreaming spires of Luton and its surrounding landscape in a beauteous light. He was facing outward, and even upside down, the view looked really good. Blasphemously he thought, Maybe I'm being tempted like Jesus. A voice was calling his name in the kind of smoky rasp you would expect from the devil's throat and it wouldn't have surprised Joe to hear his assailant proclaiming, "All these things I will give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me."
Instead the voice cried, "Sixsmith, what you playing at? You are dead meat, man! Dead meat!" And at the same time his body was pendulumed so violently that his head struck the underside of the balcony.
The first collision roused both pain and suspicion. A lesser detective might have leaped at once to the conclusion that he wasn't dreaming, but Joe had learned a long time ago that it was better never to leap to conclusions but let them come to you in their own sweet time.
The second collision brought the conclusion a lot closer and the third confirmed its arrival.
This was no dream. He really was being dangled over his seventh-floor balcony by a homicidal maniac.
As if to reward this admission of reality, the swinging began to slow down. Which was nice, until it occurred to him this could mean either the swinger was tiring or maybe was thinking of letting go.
One result of the deceleration was that Joe was once more able to take in the view, but like one of his favorite songs almost said, What a difference a couple of seconds makes!
Now the soft beauty of the morning had completely evaporated and the gentle sun was a spotlight, picking out the little square of pavement far below against which his head was about to splatter.
He bent his neck so he could look up. Even if he hadn't been able to recognize the rage-twisted features peering down at him, he would have made a good guess at the huge hands bolted tight around his ankles. Last time he'd seen those fists they'd been remodeling the face of Ernie Jagger, the Battersea Bruiser.
He was literally in the hands of Eloise's ex, Jurassic George.
Knowing how to say the right thing at the right time is truly a gift from heaven, which was why on the whole Joe usually opted for silence or a neutral "U-huh." But neither of these options seemed suited to his present circumstances. So Joe let his mind go blank and said the first thing that came into it.
Which was, "Hey, George, man, how're you doing? That was a great job you did on Jagger. Those left hooks! Just beautiful."
It was an inspired social gambit. Boxers are simple men, a condition refined by frequent blows about the head, and though they are generally indifferent to appeals to their better nature or the higher aesthetic, the one way of catching their interest is to make complimentary remarks about their ring technique.
Above him there was a change of atmosphere, or not so much a change as the kind of hiatus you sometimes get when a big black thundercloud seems uncertain whether to launch its floods and lightnings here and now or postpone them a bit till there and then. The swinging from side to side stopped altogether and the voice modulated from threatening rasp to modest roar.
"Yeah, well, I just saw a gap, know what I mean, and I threw that first left and the gap got bigger, yeah, so I chucked in another couple and set him up to finish the job."
Joe would have preferred it if George hadn't felt the need to relax his grip with his left hand in order to illustrate the hooks. True, the man's right hand seemed to have strength enough to hold his weight indefinitely but if George should feel moved to demonstrate the combination with which he dispatched the unfortunate Bruiser, this diversionary tactic could prove counterproductive.
Time to change the focal point of the flattery.
"Nearly took his head off!" said Joe. "But it wasn't just strength, though, no way, George. Your footwork, man, you've really been working on your footwork. Float like a butterfly, sting like a Centurion tank, eh?"
To his disappointment, all the fulsome compliment earned Joe was a mandatory shake of the ankles.
"Sting like a bee, I think it is," growled George. "Ain't that right, Twitch? Sting like a bee."
Keep it simple, Joe admonished himself. Real simple!
Another head appeared over the balcony rail. This was a smaller head and it only came up to George's shoulder. The features were indistinguishable, but the way it jerked to the side from time to time as if dislodging a troublesome insect was a giveaway.
This was the watcher outside Ram Ray's and the Hole.
Twitch. What else would he be called?
"Yeah, like a bee, George," agreed Twitch. "Listen, George, mebbe you should pull him up. He slips, we're all in shit, you dig?"
Joe fell in love with Twitch. Here was a real gem, a man of sense and sensibility who appreciated that while the odd body plummeting from the seventh floor might be regarded as a natural hazard in neighboring Hermsprong, here in well-regulated Rasselas it could provoke complaint and investigation.
George seemed unconcerned.
"He ain't gonna slip," he declared reassuringly. Then spoiled it by adding, "He hits that pavement, it's 'cos I let the motherfucker drop."
By now Joe had woken enough to be getting his head around what was happening here.
It was Eloise. Distracted by their break-up, George had set his minion Twitch on to watch Eloise. And what had he seen?
Oh shoot! thought Joe.
He'd seen Eloise, the girl of George's dreams, with her scantily clad body pressed close against Joe Six- smith's, her mouth feasting on his, and he'd seen it twice in one day. Not only that, Twitch had probably been using that phone he was playing with to take photos.
He felt he could put things right if only he could talk to George face to face instead of face to foot.
The one good thing about being upside down was that all that blood draining into his brain seemed to be speeding up his intellectual processes. For instance it was clear to him now that the young woman must also have spotted Twitch lurking, and far from being overcome by a desire to explore his manly body, the two close embraces had just been her way of winding up George in absentia.
All he had to do was share this insight.
He called, "George, I can explain about Eloise…"
It was a mistake. The sound of the girl's name from the unhallowed lips of her molester clearly brought the Jurassic mists rising once more and Joe felt himself swung so violently that if he'd been released at either extremity of the arc, he would have landed twenty or thirty feet from the target point he'd focused on before.
Eventually, perhaps because of the increasingly twitchy Twitch's protests, the swinging ceased once more and Joe's enhanced but jangling brain could get to grips with the pressing problem of how to deny there was anything going on between him and the girl without actually mentioning her name. He let himself go limp, which wasn't difficult, and called up in a broken voice, "George, after I die, man, do me one promise. You owe me that, man. Promise you'll go and see Beryl and tell her I love her." That hiatus again. For a moment he feared that George's cauliflowered ears might have misheard Beryl for Eloise and he closed his eyes in anticipation of being let go. Then the voice rasped, "Beryl? Who's this Beryl?" "Beryl Boddington. My fiancee," croaked Joe. "Your fiancee? You two-timing my Eloise?" This sideways
bound of logic impressed Joe, himself no mean leaper on the dance-floor of debate, but this was no time for abstract analysis. Keep it simple. "No… Beryl my one and only love… She's a scary woman, George… no way I'd dare two-time her… You tell her I was always true…" There was a moment of complete stillness which, thought Joe, was perhaps really death. Then he felt himself swung high once more, this time the grip on his ankles was released, and now he was flying through the air. He had time to think, "I'm going to die," before he hit the ground a bit earlier than he'd expected. There was surprisingly little pain, which meant he must have been killed instantly. If Aunt Mirabelle had got it right the next voice he'd hear would be the voice of St. Peter. But oddly St. Peter sounded a lot like George. "You saying you're not screwing my girl, Eloise?" Joe opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of the balcony. Way above him loomed Jurassic, who now prodded him with a booted foot and repeated the question.
"You saying you're not screwing my girl, Eloise?"
Joe tried to think of someone who in a similar situation might have replied, "Well yes, I am, actually. Screwing her, I mean. As often as I can."
James Bond maybe? Had to be someone in a movie. No one in real life would even dream of it!
"Yeah, that's what I'm saying, George. I love my fiancee, Beryl."
"What about them photos? You telling me you're not feeling her up on them photos?"
I was right, thought Joe. That bastard Twitch (he'd fallen out of love with Twitch) had been taking pictures and sending them back to George.
"No!" he declared. "She was just pretending to mess with me to make you jealous."
"Why'd she do that?"
" 'Cos she's still got feelings for you, man! She knew your boy was there, spying. Hard to miss him, all that twitching."
George glowered at the now spasmodic Twitch, who said defensively, "Looked like he was really feeling her up to me, George," confirming Joe's disenchantment.
It was decision time. Joe could actually see the thoughts making their slow progress across the boxer's face. If he fought like this, how did he ever manage to win? Then Joe's gaze fell to those huge fists which looked like they'd been carved by that Greek guy Mickey Angel out of solid granite for some gigantic statue.
He urged, "She loves you true, George. You gotta see that. How could she settle for a guy like me when she could have a hunk like you?"
He could see how this logic made its mark, but in George's primitive mind a photo was still worth a thousand words. He needed supportive evidence.
"This fiancee, Beryl, where does she live?" he demanded.
"Next block, number 23," gabbled Joe, thinking, I've got him!
"I need to talk to her."
"Yeah, sure. Er, why is that?"
"She tells me she's your fiancee, then maybe I don't smash you to a pulp," said George.
Joe's mind was racing. Beryl was sharp. A couple of quick winks as he explained the situation and she'd be well up to confirming their engagement and convincing George there was no way her man would have strayed. Beryl could be really scary when she chose. OK, he would have to pay for it later, but it would be worth it whatever the price.
"Let me get some clothes on and I'll take you round there," he said, scrambling to his feet, which George immediately swept from beneath him, sending him crashing back to the ground.
"No, you stay there. I'll talk with this woman without you winking and nodding and fast signing in the corner."
Shoot! The monster wasn't so simple after all.
But there was always the phone…
Not if you're locked naked on your balcony seven floors up, there wasn't, he thought disconsolately as the boxer slammed the balcony door shut and turned the key in the lock.
Through the locked door he watched his unwelcome visitors make their exit from the flat. He could see the so-called security chain dangling loose. Presumably a single push from George's bull-like shoulder had ripped it from its staple on the wall. He thought of trying to smash the glass panel in the balcony door, but it wasn't worth the bother. After some early fraternal visits from a few of the brothers in Hermsprong, the Rasselas inhabitants had demanded and got shatterproof glass put in all their windows. Height was no disincentive to agile thieves who had a Whitey-like ability to scale the sheer side of the tower block from one balcony to the next. Joe peered down and shuddered at the thought of even making the attempt to descend. He might at a pinch be able to drop down on to the balcony below, but by the time he had persuaded the flat-owners that they shouldn't take the dramatic entry of a stark-naked man into their premises personally, George would almost certainly have arrived at Beryl's.
No, all he could do was wait and hope that her natural intelligence and quick wit would get him off the hook.
Of course there was a strong likelihood that being rousted out of bed by a belligerent boxer at this ungodly hour would make her react to the suggestion that Joe was her fiance with a derisive laugh and unambiguous denial.
In which case George would return…
In which case, dropping onto the balcony below didn't seem quite such a desperate act…
He sat with his back against the railings so that he could watch the main entrance across the living room.
At least he wasn't cold.
Even at this hour the newly risen sun had enough warmth to warn him of another red-hot day in prospect. Which he might or might not live to see.
Oh well. No point worrying.
His mouth opened in a huge yawn. He had after all had a very disturbed night. A few seconds later the old Sixsmith philosophy that, however bad things were, losing sleep over them only made them worse, kicked in and the yawn turned into a gentle snore. Joe was asleep again.
16
Wondrous Regiment
Joe's second awakening was a lot less violent than the first but still fell well short of the ideal which included the warm memory of a good woman and the smell of frying bacon that said good woman had just got up to prepare.
A foot prodded at his ribs. He half opened one eye and looked at it. The foot prodded harder. He didn't mind too much because his first assessment had told him it wasn't a size-thirteen foot, therefore it did not belong to Jurassic George. This foot was shod in a size five or six sensible flat-heeled shoe, and it was attached to the end of a shapely leg wrapped in a black silk stocking. This was interesting. He followed the stocking up with his eyes till it reached the hem of a skirt which in turn led him to some kind of uniform blouse. A nurse. It was a nurse. Meaning the stocking wasn't silk but probably lisle or some such stuff. He must be in hospital. Well, that wasn't bad either. Except what sort of hospital even in the cash-strapped National Health expected its patients to sleep on the floor?
"You going to lie there all day, Joe Sixsmith?" said a voice. A familiar voice.
He opened both eyes fully and took in the face peering down at him.
"Beryl, that you?"
"Yes, it's me and I wish it wasn't. What the hell you playing at, Joe Sixsmith? I just had some gorilla beating on my door and waking all the neighbors, asking if I was your effing fiancee!"
"That would be Jurassic George."
"I know who it was. I read the sports pages too."
"So what did you say to him?" asked Joe, struggling to his feet.
"I said if he didn't turn the volume down and the language off I'd punch his lights out," said Beryl.
Joe looked at her with mingled admiration and sorrow, the first because she was clearly Wonder Woman, the second because he could see no way he could ever deserve her.
"So what did he say?" he asked.
"After he calmed down, he gave me some garbled story about him going to tear your head off because he'd heard you were balling his young and gorgeous girlfriend, and you saying he'd got it wrong 'cos I was your ever- loving fiancee and there was no way you could even look at another woman."
"And what did you say?"
"I said there was no way any young and gorgeous
girl would let you ball her, but in any case you'd be too scared to even think about it 'cos, if you did, I'd be the one to tear your head off. After that he went away and I got dressed. I'm on early shift and I thought I'd better look in here first to find out just what the hell's been going on."
"Beryl, you are a real star!" said Joe.
He reached forward to give her a grateful hug. She started back, crying, "Don't even dream about it, not in that state!"
Only now did it occur to Joe that he was stark naked. It was funny, he'd been stark naked with Beryl before and she'd been in a similar condition and they'd both really enjoyed it. But now it was just plain embarrassing.
He moved past her into the living room in search of clothing. At least that was his intention, but Beryl mistook it and retreated before him. The back of the low settee caught her just behind the knees and she fell over it backwards, her legs kicking in the air. Joe rushed forward to help her.
At the same moment, King Rat's PA, the gorgeous Mimi, dressed as if she planned to step right from the plane into the wine-dark Med, rushed through the open door saying, "Joe, I'm sorry I'm a bit late, we'll need to rush… Oh my God!"
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