by Tom Sharpe
‘That’s enough of that,’ interrupted the warder, ‘I don’t want to hear that word again. You’re supposed to be talking about books.’
‘Listen to Wilberforce,’ said McCullum, still looking fixedly at Wilt, ‘bloody marvellous vocabulary he’s got, hasn’t he?’
Behind him the warder bridled. ‘My name’s not Wilberforce and you know it,’ he snapped.
‘Well then, I wasn’t talking about you, was I?’ said McCullum. ‘I mean everyone knows you’re Mr Gerard, not some fucking idiot who has to get someone literate to read the racing results for him. Now as Mr Wilt here was saying …’
Wilt tried to remember. ‘About Barbara Cartland being moron fodder,’ prompted McCullum.
‘Oh yes, well according to your theories, reading romantic novels is even more detrimental to working-class consciousness than … What’s the matter?’
Mr McCullum was smiling horribly at him through the mesh. ‘Screw’s pissed off,’ he hissed. ‘Knew he would. Got him on my payroll and his wife reads Barbara Cartland so he couldn’t stand to listen. Here, take this.’
Wilt looked at the rolled-up piece of paper McCullum was thrusting through the wire. ‘What is it?’
‘My weekly essay.’
‘But you write that in your notebook.’
‘Think of it like that,’ said McCullum, ‘and stash it fast.’
‘I’ll do no …’
Mr McCullum’s ferocious expression had returned. ‘You will,’ he said.
Wilt put the roll in his pocket and ‘Fireworks’ relaxed. ‘Don’t make much of a living, do you?’ he asked. ‘Live in a semi and drive an Escort. No big house with a Jag on the forecourt, eh?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Wilt, whose taste had never been drawn to Jaguars. Eva was dangerous enough in a small car.
‘Right. Well now’s your chance to earn 50K.’
‘50K?’
‘Grand. Cash,’ said McCullum and glanced at the door behind him. So did Wilt, hopefully, but there was no sign of the warder. ‘Cash?’
‘Old notes. Small denominations and no traceability. Right?’
‘Wrong,’ said Wilt firmly. ‘If you think you can bribe me into …’
‘Gob it,’ said McCullum with a nasty grunt. ‘You’ve got a wife and four daughters and you live in a brick and mortar, address 45 Oakhurst Avenue. You drive an Escort, pale dogturd, number-plate HPR 791 N. Bank at Lloyds, account number 0737 … want me to go on?’ Wilt didn’t. He got to his feet but Mr McCullum hadn’t finished. ‘Sit down while you’ve still got knees,’ he hissed. ‘And daughters.’
Wilt sat down. He was suddenly feeling rather weak. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
Mr McCullum smiled. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. You just go off home and check that piece of paper and everything’s going to be just jake.’
‘And if I don’t?’ asked Wilt feeling weaker still.
‘Sudden bereavement is a sad affair,’ said McCullum, ‘very sad. Specially for cripples.’
Wilt gazed through the wire mesh and wondered, not for the first time in his life, though by the sound of things it might be the last, what it was about him that attracted the horrible. And McCullum was horrible, horrible and evilly efficient. And why should the evil be so efficient? ‘I still want to know what’s on that paper,’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ said McCullum, ‘it’s just a sign. Now as I see it Forster was the typical product of a middle-class background. Lots of lolly and lived with his old Ma …’
‘Bugger E. M. Forster’s mother,’ said Wilt. ‘What I want to know is why you think I’m going to …’
But any hope he had of discussing his future was ended by the return of the warder. ‘You can cut the lecture, we’re shutting up shop.’
‘See you next week, Mr Wilt,’ said McCullum with a leer as he was led back to his cell. Wilt doubted it. If there was one thing on which he was determined, it was that he would never see the swine again. Twenty-five years was far too short a sentence for a murdering gangster. Life should mean life and nothing less. He wandered miserably down the passage towards the main gates, conscious of the paper in his pocket and the awful alternatives before him. The obvious thing to do was to report McCullum’s threats to the warder on the gate. But the bastard had said he had one warder on his payroll and if one, why not more? In fact, looking back over the months, Wilt could remember several occasions when McCullum had indicated that he had a great deal of influence in the prison. And outside too, because he’d even known the number of Wilt’s bank account. No, he’d have to report to someone in authority, not an ordinary screw.
‘Had a nice little session with “Fireworks”?’ enquired the warder at the end of the corridor with what Wilt considered to be sinister emphasis. Yes, definitely he’d have to speak to someone in authority.
At the main gate it was even worse. ‘Anything to declare, Mr Wilt?’ said the warder there with a grin, ‘I mean we can’t tempt you to stay inside, can we?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Wilt hurriedly.
‘You could do worse than join us, you know. All mod cons and telly and the grub’s not at all bad nowadays. A nice little cell with a couple of friendly mates. And they do say it’s a healthy life. None of the stress you get outside …’
But Wilt didn’t wait to hear any more. He stepped out into what he had previously regarded as freedom. It didn’t seem so free now. Even the houses across the road, bathed in the evening sunshine, had lost their moderate attraction; instead, their windows were empty and menacing. He got into his car and drove a mile along Gill Road before pulling into a side street and stopping. Then making sure no one was watching him, he took the piece of paper out of his pocket and unrolled it. The paper was blank. Blank? That didn’t make sense. He held it up to the light and stared at it but the paper was unlined and as far as he could see, had absolutely nothing written on it. Even when he held it horizontally and squinted along it he could make out no indentations on the surface to suggest that a message had been written on it with a matchstick or the blunt end of a pencil. A man was coming towards him along the pavement. With a sense of guilt, Wilt put the paper on the floor and took a road map from the dashboard and pretended to be looking at it until the man had passed. Even then he checked in the rear-view mirror before picking up the paper again. It remained what it had been before, a blank piece of notepaper with a ragged edge as though it had been torn very roughly from a pad. Perhaps the swine had used invisible ink. Invisible ink? How the hell would he get invisible ink in prison? He couldn’t unless … Something in Wilt’s literary memories stirred. Hadn’t Graham Greene or Muggeridge mentioned using bird-shit as ink when he was a spy in the Second World War? Or was it lemon juice? Not that it mattered much. Invisible ink was meant to be invisible and if that bastard had intended him to read it, he’d have told him how. Unless, of course, the swine was clear round the bend and in Wilt’s opinion, anyone who’d murdered four people and tortured others with a blowtorch as part of the process of earning a living had to be bloody well demented. Not that that let McCullum off the hook in the least. The bugger was a murderer whether he was sane or not, and the sooner he fulfilled his own predictions and became a cabbage the better. Pity he hadn’t been born one.
With a fresh sense of desperation, Wilt drove on to The Glassblowers’ Arms to think things out over a drink.
6
‘All right, call it off,’ said Inspector Flint, helping himself to a plastic cup of coffee from the dispenser and stumping into his office.
‘Call it off?’ said Sergeant Yates, following him in.
‘That’s what I said. I knew it was an OD from the start. Obvious. Gave those old windbags a nasty turn all the same, and they could do with a bit of reality. Live in a bloody dream world where everything’s nice and hygienic because it’s been put into words. That way they don’t happen, do they?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Yates.
The Inspector took a magazine ou
t of the cardboard box and studied a photograph of a threesome grotesquely intertwined. ‘Bloody disgusting,’ he said.
Sergeant Yates peered over his shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t think anyone would have the nerve to be shot doing that, would you?’
‘Anyone who does that ought to be shot, if you ask me,’ said Flint. ‘Though mind you they’re not really doing it. Can’t be. You’d get ruptured or something. Found this little lot in that boiler-room and it didn’t do that murky Principal a bit of good. Turned a very queer colour, he did.’
‘Not his, are they?’ asked Yates.
Flint shut the magazine and dumped it back in the box. ‘You never know, my son, you never know. Not with so-called educated people you don’t. It’s all hidden behind words with them. They look all right from the outside, but it’s what goes on in here that’s really weird.’ Flint tapped his forehead significantly. ‘And that’s something else again.’
‘I suppose it must be,’ said Yates. ‘Specially when it’s hygienic into the bargain.’
Flint looked at him suspiciously. He never knew if Sergeant Yates was as stupid as he made out. ‘You trying to be funny or something?’
‘Of course not. Only first you said they lived in a hygienic dream world of words; and then you say they’re kinky in the head. I was just putting the two together.’
‘Well, don’t,’ said Flint. ‘Don’t even try. Just get me Hodge. The Drug Squad can take this mess over, and good luck to them.’ The Sergeant went out, leaving Flint studying his pale fingers and thinking weird thoughts of his own about Hodge, the Tech and the possibilities that might result from bringing the Head of the Drug Squad and that infernal institution together. And Wilt. It was an interesting prospect, particularly when he remembered Hodge’s request for phone-tapping facilities and his generally conspiratorial air. Kept his cards close to his chest, did Inspector Hodge, and a fat lot of good it had done him so far. Well, two could play at that game, and if ever there was a quicksand of misinformation and inconsequentiality, it had to be the Tech and Wilt. Flint reversed the order. Wilt and the Tech. And Wilt had been vaguely connected with the dead girl, if only by going to the wrong toilet. The word alerted Flint to his own immediate needs. Those bloody pills had struck again.
He hurried down the passage for a pee and as he stood there, standing and staring at the tiled wall and a notice which said, ‘Don’t drop your cigarette ends in the urinal. It makes them soggy and difficult to light,’ his disgust changed to inspiration. There was a lesson to be learned from that notice if he could only see it. It had to do with the connection between a reasonable request and an utterly revolting supposition. The word ‘inconsequential’ came to mind again. Sticking Inspector Bloody Hodge onto Wilt would be like tying two cats together by their tails and seeing which one came out on top. And if Wilt didn’t, Flint had sorely misjudged the little shit. And behind Wilt there was Eva and those foul quads and if that frightful combination didn’t foul Hodge’s career up as effectively as it had wrecked Flint’s, the Inspector deserved promotion. With the delightful thought that he’d be getting his own back on Wilt too, he returned to his office and was presently doodling figures of infinite confusion which was exactly what he hoped to initiate.
He was still happily immersed in this daydream of revenge when Yates returned. ‘Hodge is out,’ he reported. ‘Left a message he’d be back shortly.’
‘Typical,’ said Flint. ‘The sod’s probably lurking in some coffee bar trying to make up his mind which dolly bird he’s going to nail.’
Yates sighed. Ever since Flint had been on those ruddy penis-blockers or whatever they were called, he’d had girls on his mind. ‘Why shouldn’t he be doing that?’ he asked.
‘Because that’s the way the sod works. A right shoddy copper. Pulls some babe in arms in for smoking pot and then tries to turn her into a supergrass. Been watching too much TV.’
He was interrupted by the preliminary report from the Lab. ‘Massive heroin dose,’ the technician told him, ‘that’s for starters. She’d used something else we haven’t identified yet. Could be a new product. It’s certainly not the usual. Might be “Embalming Fluid” though.’
‘Embalming Fluid? What the hell would she be doing with that?’ said Flint with a genuine and justified revulsion.
‘It’s a name for another of these hallucinogens like LSD only worse. Anyway, we’ll let you know.’
‘Don’t,’ said Flint. ‘Deal direct with Hodge. It’s his pigeon now.’
He put the phone down and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Says she fixed herself with heroin and some filth called Embalming Fluid,’ he told Yates. ‘You wouldn’t credit it, would you? Embalming Fluid! I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
*
Fifty miles away, Lord Lynchknowle’s dinner had been interrupted by the arrival of a police car and the news of his daughter’s death. The fact that it had come between the mackerel pâté and the game pie, and on the wine side, an excellent Montrachet and a Château Lafite 1962, several bottles of which he’d opened to impress the Home Secretary and two old friends from the Foreign Office, particularly annoyed him. Not that he intended to let the news spoil his meal by announcing it before he’d finished, but he could foresee an ugly episode with his wife afterwards for no better reason than that he had come back to the table with the rather unfortunate remark that it was nothing important. Of course, he could always excuse himself on the grounds that hospitality came first, and old Freddie was the Home Secretary after all, and he wasn’t going to let that Lafite ’62 go to waste, but somehow he knew Hilary was going to kick up the devil of a fuss about it afterwards. He sat on over the Stilton in a pensive mood wishing to God he’d never married her. Looking back over the years, he could see that his mother had been right when she’d warned him that there was bad blood in ‘that family’, the Puckertons.
‘You can’t breed bad blood out, you know,’ she’d said, and as a breeder of bull terriers, she’d known what she was talking about. ‘It’ll come out in the end, mark my words.’
And it had, in that damned girl Penny. Silly bitch should have stuck to showjumping instead of getting it into her head she was going to be some sort of intellectual and skiving off to that rotten Tech in Ipford and mixing with the scum there. All Hilary’s fault, too, for encouraging the girl. Not that she’d see it that way. All the blame would be on his side. Oh well, he’d have to do something to pacify her. Phone the Chief Constable perhaps and get Charles to put the boot in. His eyes wandered round the table and rested moodily on the Home Secretary. That was it, have a word with Freddie before he left and see that the police got their marching orders from the top.
By the time he was able to get the Home Secretary alone, a process that required him to lurk in the darkness outside the cloakroom and listen to some frank observations about himself by the hired waitresses in the kitchen, Lord Lynchknowle had worked himself up into a state of indignation that was positively public-spirited. ‘It’s not simply a personal matter, Freddie,’ he told the Home Secretary, when the latter was finally convinced Lynchknowle’s daughter was dead and that he wasn’t indulging that curious taste for which he’d been renowned at school. ‘There she was at this bloody awful Tech at the mercy of all these drug pedlars. You’ve got to put a stop to it.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the Home Secretary, backing into a hatstand and a collection of shooting sticks and umbrellas. ‘I’m deeply sorry –’
‘It’s no use you damned politicians being sorry,’ continued Lynchknowle, forcing him back against a clutter of raincoats, ‘I begin to understand the man-in-the-street’s disenchantment with the parliamentary process.’ (The Home Secretary doubted it) ‘What’s more, words’ll mend no fences’ (the Home Secretary didn’t doubt that) ‘and I want action.’
‘And you’ll have it, Percy,’ the Home Secretary assured him, ‘I guarantee that. I’ll get the top men at Scotland Yard onto it tomorrow first thing and no mistake.’ He reached
for the little notebook he used to appease influential supporters. ‘What did you say the name of the place was?’
‘Ipford,’ said Lord Lynchknowle, still glowering at him.
‘And she was at the University there?’
‘At the Tech.’
‘Really?’ said the Home Secretary, with just enough inflexion in his voice to lower Lord Lynchknowle’s resolve.
‘All her mother’s fault,’ he said defensively.
‘Quite. All the same, if you will allow your daughters to go to Technical Colleges, not that I’m against them you understand, but a man in your position can’t be too careful …’
In the hall, Lady Lynchknowle caught the phrase.
‘What are you two men doing down there?’ she asked shrilly.
‘Nothing, dear, nothing,’ said Lord Lynchknowle. It was a remark he was to regret an hour later when the guests had gone.
‘Nothing?’ shrieked Lady Lynchknowle, who had by then recovered from the condolences the Home Secretary had offered so unexpectedly. ‘You dare to stand there and call Penny’s death nothing?’
‘I am not actually standing, my dear,’ said Lynchknowle from the depths of an armchair. But his wife was not to be deflected so easily.
‘And you sat through dinner knowing she was lying there on a marble slab? I knew you were a callous swine but …’
‘What the hell else was I supposed to do?’ yelled Lynchknowle, before she could get into her stride. ‘Come back to the table and announce that your daughter was a damned junkie? You’d have loved that, wouldn’t you? I can just hear you now …’
‘You can’t,’ shrieked his wife, making her fury heard in the servants’ quarters. Lynchknowle lumbered to his feet and slammed the door. ‘And don’t think you’re going to –’
‘Shut up,’ he bawled, ‘I’ve spoken to Freddie and he’s putting Scotland Yard onto the case and now I’m going to call Charles. As Chief Constable he can –’
