‘I can’t wait. And you are free, too, it seems, then?’ said Monika. ‘If your wife has really gone?’
‘Yeah. Well, it looks that way,’ said Richard. He shook his head.
‘It’s amazing, really. But it looks like she’s done a runner and with another woman, to boot! I really had no idea she was that way inclined.’
Monika shook her head.
‘How could you not know?’ she said.
Richard held his hands up.
‘I’ll admit it. I haven’t been the most attentive husband.’
Monika laughed.
‘When I got home this morning, the whole place had been cleared out. Well, her stuff, anyway, but she wouldn’t have wanted any of my gear, I’m sure.’
‘Were there any clues?’ said Monika.
‘No, nothing. There was no letter of explanation, or anything like that. Just an envelope containing her lawyer’s business card.’
‘Show me the money, eh?’
‘Oh, don’t remind me of that bloody annoying film! But I did check her Facebook page and her status update was a quote from The Terminator film. Well, the second Terminator film, to be precise.’
‘Hasta La Vista, Baby?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Very … touching.’
‘Brought a tear to my eye, it did. I had a little natter with Batty Betty. She’s the eccentric woman I told you about? The one who lives in a car in our street?’ said Richard.
‘I remember,’ said Monika.
‘And she told me a big removal van had arrived last night just after midnight and took Camilla’s stuff away. Apparently this American woman had been turning up every time I left home. Sometimes staying the night and sneaking out at the crack of dawn. So, you know, I just put two and two together and made sixty-nine.’
The ‘Theme From Mash’ played and Richard took his old Nokia from the inside pocket of his black leather jacket.
‘Yeah mum, I won’t be too long. Just round the corner from the tube station, in fact. See you there in a bit,’ he said.
‘Family meeting?’ said Monika.
‘Yeah, my mother. She’s supposed to be in Spain and I don’t know what the hell she’s doing back here,’ said Richard. ‘It’s been a life of surprises these last couple of days, I can tell you.’
‘So, what are your plans, now?’
‘Well, once I sort out whatever business I need to, I’m off on my travels. I need a break. I’m getting tired of London.’
‘I thought they said that if you are tired of London that you’re tired of life?’
‘Yeah, well they had obviously never been to Chiswick on a Saturday morning when all the yuppie mums are dragging their spoilt brats around after them. The bland leading the bland in The Land Of The Twee.’
***
The smell in Aldo’s library was worse than in the hallway and his menagerie was even bigger. A snake oozed down the worn velvet curtain and squawking parrot was perched on the gold curtain rail. Keith sat nervously on the sofa, swigging his bottle of beer.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ hissed Pella, to Keith. ‘They won’t bite.’
‘No but Pella might,’ said Aldo, who laughed until he farted.
Pella plucked a copy of Around The World In Eighty Days from one of the bookshelves, took out a large brown envelope and handed it over to Be-Bop.
‘Cheers Pella. Cutlass said he’d pay you in the usual way,’ said Be-Bop.
‘Indeed,’ said Aldo. ‘PayPal does make life so much easier, eh? Another one, gents?’
‘Not for me thanks,’ said Be-Bop. ‘Nothing wrong with drinking in the morning but it’s best to pace yourself a bit when you’re working.’
‘I’ll have another one,’ said Keith.
Little Keith had pretty much downed the first bottle of weird tasting foreign beer in one and he was feeling a tad bilious but he’d needed it to steady his nerves. He’d freaked out a bit earlier when he’d seen a walnut-whip shaped toddle of shit moving by itself across the multi-coloured carpet. Then he’d realized it was actually plonked on the back of a turtle, although that didn’t make him feel that much better.
‘So, you’re another musician, eh? A bass player. Like the delightful Lemmy Kilminster?’
‘Naw, I’m not into heavy metal, like’
‘Oh, but Motorhead are more than mere metal, dear boy. They transcend the genre, they …’ Aldo finished his drink and handed his empty glass to Pella who started preparing another one.
‘Has your uncle informed you of my Stockhausen Syndrome theory?’ said Aldo.
He was lounging in a chaise longue, sipping a mint julep. Be-Bop was drinking a gin and tonic and Keith was well into his second Belgian beer.
‘Naw,’ said Keith. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Well, it’s connected with the subjectivity of a human being’s aesthetic taste and how were are all capable of throwing off our moral shackles,’ said Aldo.
‘Oh, aye,’ said Keith.
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Aldo. ‘It is a fascinating theory, I’m sure you’ll agree. Eh, Be-Bop?’
Be-Bop nodded and reclined in the large brown leather armchair. He looked around the room, wondering how much the antiques and paintings were worth. A plan corkscrewed through his mind but he ignored it. He was pretty much on the straight and narrow these days. Or would be. If it wasn’t for his brother-in-law Cutlass putting the pressure on him to do the odd job.
‘Well,’ said Aldo, sitting upright as Pella gave him a new drink, ‘You are, I’m sure, aware of Stockholm Syndrome?’ He was positively glowing, now.
‘Sort of, yeah,’ said Keith, not having a clue what Aldo was babbling about.
‘Well, let me refresh your memory. Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological phenomenon wherein a kidnap victim becomes infatuated with their kidnapper. Like when the rich brat Patty Hearst was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army and later joined them and helped them rob a bank. Remember?’
‘Aye, I think so,’ said Keith, eagerly grasping another beer from Pella.
‘Well, Stockhausen Syndrome goes a little like this: Imagine that every day you go to the same pub and they play the same music. Quite common?’
‘Yep. Like in The Blacksmiths Arms. Non-stop friggin’ Dire Straits.’
‘Ah! A perfect example. And Dire Straits are quite appalling, aren’t they?’
‘Naw, they’re a bag of shite.’
‘Indeed!’ Aldo was becoming more animated and sweating even more heavily.
‘But what happens when you hear them every day? Are there some songs you begin to hate less than others?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose. The one with the sax on it is alright. I don’t mind that one.’
‘And after time, you may even look forward to hearing it, a little?’
He smirked.
‘Well, yeah, a bit, I suppose. It’s better than that friggin’ ‘Suntans and Bling’ anyway.’
‘Exactly! An after a period of time, you will start to like it. And so, through indoctrination you have gone from being one who loathes Dire Straits to someone who likes some of their music.’
‘I suppose…’
‘Yes!’ Aldo clapped his hands. ‘And from this we can conclude that every living creature is capable of murder or even more heinous crimes. Eh? What do you think?’
He leaned forward on the chaise longue, eyes bulging.
‘Yeah, er, see what you mean,’ said Keith. He took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Is it alright if I have a tab?’
TWENTY TWO
‘You got Clement Freuds?’ said Tony, dropping a couple of lumps of brown sugar into his mug of tea.
‘Eh?’ said Cilla. She was staring out of the window, deep in thought. The rain poured down in sheets and the wet pavement reflected Madge’s Mini Coffee Pot’s flickering neon sign. The radio was playing The Walker Brothers’ ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore’, which only added to her feeling of melancholy.
‘Chalfo
nts?’ said Tony.
‘You what?’ said Cilla. Her mind was elsewhere.
‘Farmer Giles?’
‘Oh, piles. Why do you say that?’ said Cilla. She shuffled in her chair and fiddled with the cigarette packet in her handbag.
‘Well, you’ve been up and down like a bride’s nightie all morning. In and out of the khazi, playing the one armed bandit. I’ve got some of my old mum’s cream left, if you want.’ Tony winked.
Cilla laughed and shook her head.
‘Thanks, you old charmer but I’ll ignore that kind offer. I’m just wound up. I think I’ve made a big bollocks of things, haven’t I?’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no. I’ve gone arse over tit many a time, metaphorically and literally,’ said Tony. ‘Especially when I’ve been imbibing.’
Cilla looked like she was going to a funeral. She was wearing a black business suit and had an expression so hangdog as to make a basset hound jealous.
‘But sometimes you just have to bite the bullet, grasp the nettle.’
Cilla stared out of the window at High Street, bustling with shoppers and glistening with fairy lights. A group of elves holding cans of Special Brew raced past, chased by a wheezing Santa Claus. A vinegary-looking woman in a safari-suit followed moments later, screaming something unintelligible and waving a broken golf umbrella.
‘I was just thinking about that time I went to visit Bilko in Durham. I was so stressed out afterwards that I got trolleyed and went on a pub crawl with Richard in tow. He was about eight at the time.’
‘I’m sure that was a life lesson for him.’
‘I’ll bet. One of the places I went into was one of those old working man’s clubs.
I remember bursting through the frosted glass door and rushing into the bar dragging Richard behind me. The customers, all pale, old men, except for me, glanced up, irritated. This prune faced old geezer shouted over. ‘This is for men only.’ ‘So is this,’ I said, making an ‘o’ with my mouth, ‘But I’ve got to use it to have a drink sometimes’.’
She laughed until she cried and looked up as the door to the café squeaked open and Richard and Monika walked in.
Richard rushed over to Cilla and gave her a hug.
‘Mum, this is a bleedin’ shock. Are you alright? You should have told me that you were coming.’
‘Yeah, well, something came up’
‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ said Richard, They laughed.
‘What can I get you all,’ said Madge. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Madge, have you got any of that brandy that Tim gave you for Christmas?’
‘I have indeed. Mr C.’
Madge disappeared behind the café counter and held up a bottle of Courvoisier. Tony nodded.
‘That’ll do nicely.’
‘Bit early for you to be on the strong stuff,’ said Richard as they all sat at a table. ‘Not that I’m complaining, mind you.’
‘Yeah, well, the thing is…I don’t know how to put this,’ said Cilla,
‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ said Richard.
Cilla forced a grin. She looked at Tony who shrugged. Richard seemed to notice him for the first time and looked at him suspiciously
‘And who..?’
Tony put his hand out.
‘Nice to meet you Richard. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Tony Cook.’
Richard nervously shook his hand.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you too, Mr Cook.’
‘Please, Richard. No need for the formality. You can call me Uncle Tony.’
***
‘Get your shit together,’ said Be-Bop, as they stood outside Michelin House on the Fulham Road, trying to flag down a taxi. Little Keith was gazing up at the stained glass windows and the tiles of famous racing cars that adorned the building. He finished a cigarette and threw it into the bin.
‘So, where did you say we’re going, Be-Bop?’ said Keith, slurring a little. ‘The London Zoo?’
‘Naw, the London Aquarium, down near The Houses of Parliament. Well, I think it’s called the London Sea World now. Formerly County Hall, home of the Greater London Council,’ said Be-Bop. ‘There used to be even more sharks inside there than there are now.’
‘Is it open this early? It’s not even mid-day.’
‘Nah, but it’s not what you know it’s who you know,’ said Be-Bop. ‘Or, more precisely, who you put the fear of living daylights into.’
TWENTY THREE
‘You see, they call them issues these days,’ said Bilko, as he fiddled with an unlit cigarette.
‘Not like issues of comics like The Beano or Shoot or Whizzer and Chips or Razzle, though. Naw, these are things like anger management issues, relationship issues, substance abuse issues. What that means is that these issues are stuff that’s wrong with you. Stuff that fucks you up. And fucked-up people are called people with issues. See?’
Tony nodded.
‘Yes, Bilko. Endlessly fascinating.’
The tanks in the aquarium bubbled and gurgled, bathing the room in a blue and orange light. Brightly coloured tropical fish filled smaller tanks while sharks darted around the biggest tank, making Tony feel uneasy. And Bilko was really starting to do his head in.
They walked up a metal gangplank to some sort of bridge than spanned the shark tank. Kenny and Richard walked slowly behind them, eyeing each other suspiciously.
‘It’s like Alessio Amerigo. Remember him? He’s got that mucky book shop off Crucifix Lane. He’s got issues, alright. He used to be a well tasty heavyweight, he did. Could have knocked the Brut out of Henry Cooper, back in the day. But old Alessio, like his dad before him, is more than a bit fond of the gargle – floats like a butterfly, drinks like a fish. So, he’s got alcohol issues. Self-medication issues. And, subsequently, cash flow issues.’
Bilko unconsciously tapped the stainless steel suitcase he was carrying.
‘And that’s not the main trouble with people like Alessio,’ continued Bilko. ‘Their real problems is that they just don’t understand that times are changing. Like in the Bobby Zimmerframe song. Now me, I’m a man of the twenty-first century but Alessio’s, well, a bit of a relic, you see. He’s had that same shop for donkey’s. The same rusty shutters. The same sun-bleached pigeon racing and trainspotting magazines in the window – as if the locals don’t know what he sells. Probably the same sticky porno mags in there, for all I know of it.’
Bilko took hold of waist high barrier and looked into the shark tank below.
‘That’s why his business is going down the shitter, to be honest. These days everyone can get their filth on their computer or even on their mobile phone. For nothing. So, why go to a dump like that?’
‘Yes, does seem more than a tad redundant,’ said Tony.
‘Of course, I’ve told Alessio to diversify. Maybe get in a couple of one armed bandits, scaffolder’s lap tops and the like. Or some of the duty free ciggies that the Poles and the Euthanasians sell. But he’s stuck in his ways, isn’t he?’
Tony felt tired.
‘Get on with it, Bilko,’ he said.
‘Well, it brings us to the finder’s fee for this.’ He scraped it against the metal railings. The sound cut through Tony’s head like a stiletto.
‘You see, them boozers of mine are like Jurassic Park. The customers are old schoolfriends of Methuselah and spend next to nothing. So, with regard to the finder’s fee issue. I feel that adequate compensation should be, well, The Blue Lagoon.’
Tony’s eyes almost popped out of his head and Kenny and Richard looked at each other nervously.
‘You what?’ said Tony, his booming voice echoing around the room. ‘The Blue Lagoon?’
Bilko grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Business is business, Tony. You always told me that.’
Tony opened his mouth to speak but there was the sound of footsteps and a cough. Everyone turned as Be-Bop and Keith stepped out of the shadows.
‘Who the fuck are you?
’ said Bilko.
‘Regards from Captain Cutlass,’ said Be-Bop. He put down his saxophone case and put a hand into the inside pocket of his overcoat.
‘Right you twats,’ said Bilko. He rushed towards Be-Bop and tried to hit him with the briefcase but Be-Bop easily sidestepped him and Bilko staggered forward, slipping on a piece of red cabbage that was attached to the bottom of his shoe.
Be-Bop moved toward Bilko and it all happened in a matter of seconds. He elbowed Bilko in the throat, kneed him in the groin then kicked him in the face as he crumpled to the ground. He quickly picked up his saxophone case and slammed it against Bilko’s right knee cap. Kenny and Richard started to rush forward but Tony held them back. Be-Bop started on the left leg and Bilko screamed.
Be-Bop and Keith took hold of Bilko and picked him up with ease. And things really started to go downhill after that.
***
Lynne was relieved to kick off her shoes. She was feeling quite relaxed now. The flight to the Canary Islands was crowded and there was a young kid crying in the seat in front of her but she’d managed to get a window seat and the seats next to her were empty. She was thinking of ordering a drink, despite it being just before noon, and tried to spot a stewardess and catch her eye. There was no one near her so she looked toward the rear of the plane and saw a familiar face come out of the toilets. Which is when her heart sank like the Poseidon.
‘Are you going all the way?’ said Detective Toshack as he sat next to her, wearing a Hawaiian shirt loud enough to drown out a Metallica gig.
***
Father Tim had once again sat through confession waiting for the juicy bits much as, when he was a kid, he’d sat through some ropey BBC Sunday evening costume drama hoping for the quick flash of a bit of tit.
Although the hip flask of rum he sipped from had dimmed the glare of the self-pity that he’d had to endure, it was really only the lurid details of the sinners’ sordid shenanigans that blew his cassock up these days.
Guns of Brixton Page 9
