Give The Devil His Due

by H G White

  In response to Phil’s earlier request, I scanned the crowd, looking for Michael Flatteley, hoping he might be able to come forward and give Phil some sort of mouth-to-arse resuscitation. Michael was nowhere to be seen.

  Phil’s fans had witnessed their idol kiss the blarney stone and were cheering. Phil was looking like one serious casualty. Peachy and Neil were doubled up. I heard someone at the back of the crowd holler, ‘Fuck off back to Ireland and get some dancing lessons!’

  I yelled, ‘He’s from Wales.’

  The Ire-o-Phobe, wanting to demonstrate that he’d travelled widely, and in having done so, knew how a welcome in the hillsides is kept, had a new suggestion, ‘Stick to sheep-shagging mate. It's safer.’

  As the mob, came to the realisation that the main event was over, they began to ebb away. I found a tissue in my pocket and gave it to Phil. Mr Simms, who looked more like an extra off a bad vampire B movie, rather than the king of Irish dancing, ungraciously took it and started to clean himself up.

  A few minutes later, following an explanation to the restaurant doorman as to why Phil was covered in blood, coupled with a not insignificant amount of grovelling, we were seated in The Emperor of Kilburn, tucking into our poppadoms discussing Irish jig-dancing technique and enduring Phil's moans about how much pain he was in. The sympathy wasn't forthcoming.

  Fed and watered, it must have been nearly 2 a.m. when we arrived back at the boat. Phil had just stopped whingeing. I'd lost count of how many times the phrases self-inflicted injury and It's your own fault were used. Peach, being the true gentleman, gave Phil the first aid kit. We all got our heads down.

  ***

  I was awakened by the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. I’d managed six hours sleep though in reality it felt like six minutes. Peach was making toast. We started chatting. It wasn't long before the other two began to stir.

  After we’d all consumed several rounds of toast and at least two mugs of coffee (apart from Phil) each, it was decided that we would make our way to Victoria for the bus back home. We hadn't managed the early bird start that Neil had hoped for, although he didn't seem to care, having been reminded of the old adage ‘beer and curry mean joy and happiness’.

  Sunday 5.15 p.m. South Wales

  Arriving in the afternoon, after a short detour to retrieve the dog from Ma, Neil – a man on a mission – departed for work. Although I was still feeling tired I was eager to see Tegan.

  I grabbed the lead and other dog-walking accessories, harnessed the newly bathed and pampered beast, walked across the street, and knocked Tegan's door. She answered, phone in hand but beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Fancy a stroll down the park?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, come in a minute, I've just got to make a call. Won't be two ticks.’

  I sat in the lounge waiting, while Tegan made her call. Maude, seeing another dog on a lead, sensed she too was going for a walk and started getting worked up. Phone call over, we made our way to the park. Tegan wanted to know about the trip.

  ‘Did you have a nice time with the boys?’

  I was dying to tell her about the note, our quest to find it and make ourselves millionaires as a result, but couldn't bring myself to. ‘OK, the usual beer and curry thing.’ She had an inkling I was keeping something from her.

  ‘What? Both nights?’

  ‘No, the first night we just stayed on the boat. Peach made us a meal.’

  ‘Sort of – like a lad's night-in then?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’ It was obvious she wasn’t sure whether or not to believe me. She definitely wouldn't if I told her we were all going back to London midweek. It was time for some distraction tactics. ‘How was Manchester?’

  ‘Not good. One of our major clients isn't happy with a couple of the pieces I've brought back.’

  ‘So can't you give them something else?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. They are specially-commissioned works. The client wants changes made and the artist involved won't take kindly to that.’

  ‘Pardon? Who's paying his bill?’

  ‘Have you ever been in a restaurant and sent a meal back for some reason and wondered how the chef feels after you've rubbished his creation?’

  ‘I’d never send a meal back based on the principle that I wouldn't want it to reappear in front of me looking slightly different and containing some of chef's “special” sauce!’

  ‘That's a myth.’ She wasn’t living in the real world.

  ‘It happens, I'm telling you. Ask your brother.’

  ‘He doesn’t do that.’

  ‘I bet he does. They all do. How much do these paintings cost anyway?’

  ‘Well, one of the canvases is a shade under thirteen thousand.’

  ‘And the other?’ I asked.

  ‘The other is slightly larger and involves a bit more work. It’s twenty-five.’

  ‘Twenty-five grand! If I was you, I'd be ordering this idiot to do what the client wants. He doesn't know where his bread's buttered. Why don't you give me his name and number, I'll give him a call and put him straight.’

  ‘The artist is fast gaining a reputation and his work becoming very sought after. The paintings could, in the not too distant future, be worth ten times their present value. So I have to tread carefully. Otherwise next time I ask him to accept a commission on behalf of a client, he might not be too helpful.’

  We carried on talking and walking. She’d stopped questioning me about London. As we held hands, Little Buddha stirred. The walk had definitely gone on long enough.

  ‘Do you still like me?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The thing is I'm quite tired. How about we go back to your house and have a long hot soak in that large bath of yours.’ The long hot soak wasn't my main objective. If truth be told, my priority was to get her naked then root her stupid; she'd turned me into a man with the horn.

  ‘Mmm, all right then.’ I could tell by her answer she could see through my dastardly plan, but I could also tell she didn't mind. We didn't hang about. By the following morning I was totally knackered and the aching back had returned with a vengeance.

  Tegan went off to work, looking like she could run a marathon. I, on the other hand, feebly made my way home like someone who'd just undergone major spinal surgery and was now in the midst of a long and agonising recovery period. One thing was for certain – I wouldn't be swinging from the chandeliers that evening.

  Upon re-entry, I expected the lounge to be unoccupied, with Neil asleep upstairs after his shift. This assumption proved to be incorrect. He was sprawled across the sofa with a cup of tea in his hand. ‘Haven't you been to bed?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yeah, but I couldn’t sleep, can’t stop thinking about the meeting with Steadman, and what to say.’

  ‘It’s been on my mind too.’

  ‘So, if you were in my shoes, how would you go about it?’ Neil asked expectantly.

  ‘There are a few things to get across. He has to understand that we are the only ones with the specialised knowledge required to locate the note.’

  ‘Which we haven’t.’ He said.

  ‘You’ve got to make him believe different; and that we also possess other specialist skills which will allow us to retrieve it.’

  ‘But Peachy is the only one who's a specialist.’

  ‘Well that's not strictly true. Phil’s highly qualified and certainly knows his shit on the computing side of things. As for the two of us, we are Peachy's assistants. You can use Peach's credentials to give us credibility. If Peach is correct, we’ll certainly know more about this scenario than Steadman, right?’

  ‘OK you have a point,’ Neil conceded.

  ‘So, just use that to your advantage when making the pitch. Don't let Peach answer all Steadman's questions. By doing that he'll be convinced that we all know our stuff.’

  ‘What if he asks where we think the note is?’

  ‘That's what the finder’s fee is for. Tell him the less he knows
the safer it is for him. I think the main thing is to gain his trust. You can't sound crooked, but you must sound serious. The fact that we’re the ones bringing this life-changing note to his attention should be emphasised. He's got to see us as his fairy godfathers and above all he mustn't get any hair-brained ideas about going in search of the note by himself.

  ‘If he's Mr Average as Peach says, I don't see any harm in telling him we're going to have to break the law to get this note – which is why we don't want him involved in that side of things.’

  Neil thought for a moment. ‘And if it doesn't look like I can close him, do you think I should pressure him by threatening to inform De Villiers-Moncourt about the existence of the note?’

  ‘What, you mean like if we can't get our ten per cent we'll see to it you get nothing?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That's Peach's call, but in my opinion no. He may just want to mull things over to be sure, before signing. Once you've gone down the threatening road, it’d be pretty difficult for him to see us as anything else but blackmailers. How about this for an idea? When you go to work today, don’t just take your bundle, take a pad and pen. Write down any really effective phrases that come into your head. Tonight we can both sit down and do a bit of role playing. I’ll take the part of Steadman and maybe come up with some questions that you haven't thought of. I'm sure it'll help with your final delivery at the meeting.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea.’

  And that was the way it went. Neil studied his bundle and made notes. I studied mine and, by the evening, I had taken in as much as I possibly could, given the material at my disposal. Later we spent a good two hours role-playing all the possible pitches Neil would use, the likely responses, and the counter-responses that could be used against them. Neil's closing was excellent, not at all used-car salesman. He really was persuasive. By the end of it I was in no doubt that Neil had all the bases covered. As long as he didn't suffer a bout of amnesia before meeting Peter Steadman, I'd have staked my little toe on it being a done deal.

  I checked the time; it was almost 9.00 p.m. We were starving. I phoned Tegan and asked her if she fancied some Chinese take-away with us. She did and said she’d put three plates in the oven to warm up. Neil and I took a walk down Stainton Road. Inside The Wok of Plenty I ordered what sounded like a small banquet. About ten minutes later we were presented with two sizeable carrier bags and a complementary bag of prawn crackers. Arriving back at Tegan's, I tapped on her front window; she was in her dressing gown watching TV. She answered the door, grinning as always. In a very short while we were tucking into our oriental feast. Tegan was just finishing a spring roll and had a look of satisfaction on her face.

  ‘Has that really hit the spot then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Actually it was the nurse's alter-ego that ordered it.’ The party had left an indelible mark on my brain.

  ‘How's yours Neil?’

  ‘How's my what?’ I could see his mind was elsewhere.

  ‘Meal, you plonker.’

  ‘Oh, great, yeah great.’

  ‘You don't sound too sure.’

  ‘No, it's fine honestly, it's fine.’

  Tegan changed the subject. ‘Will, if you don't mind me asking, what have you been doing over there all evening?’

  Neil shot me a ‘keep your gob shut’ glance.

  ‘Oh, I've been sorting out my accounts for last financial year.’ It was the first excuse that came into my head.

  ‘That's a bizarre way of doing your accounts. Was Neil helping you? And why did he keep on walking around your sofa? It was almost as if he was giving you a lecture. From over here I got the distinct impression you two were rehearsing a play or something.’

  If only I'd drawn the curtains. Tegan was starting to get a little too inquisitive. An excuse suddenly sprang to mind. ‘It's Neil. He likes to pretend he's a tax inspector. It's a bit of a power-tripping thing.’ I could see she wasn’t buying that. She was like a dog with a bone.

  ‘Is there something you two want to tell me?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ We answered in unison. Now this definitely seemed like we were hiding something. Tegan had a look of ‘I'll get it out of you in the end’ about her.

  I changed the subject. ‘Do you give Maude Chinese leftovers?’

  ‘No, she gets the trots with the garlic and I don't want to come down to a messy kitchen floor in the morning.’

  Neil was giving me his ‘I wish I was somewhere else’ face. We finished our late supper and the small-talk ensued for a short while. Then Neil, like some sort of veteran Sunday-tabloid reporter, made his excuses and left, still digesting the evening's role play, as well as the recent meal no doubt.

  It wasn't too long before Tegan and I were in bed. Awake for a good deal of the night, I was suffering heartburn. And when it wasn't heartburn, it was Tegan's questioning. The thought occurred to me that she might have chosen the wrong career path. Instead of art gallery manager perhaps interrogator for MI5 would have been a better option.

  When morning arrived she still hadn't managed to break me down, though my resolve was starting to weaken. I did my best to hide this from her. She was getting a little moody, steadfastly believing that Neil and I were up to something, and she was right. From now on, I'd have to be extra careful, just in case she sneakily tried to mix sodium pentothal into my food.

  I watched her leave for work then went back over the road to breakfast with Neil. Instead of being miles away, he was considerably more attentive. A good night's sleep must have done wonders for him.

  ‘Heard anything from Peach?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not a dicky bird.’

  ‘Have you checked the computer for email?’

  ‘Yeah, about half an hour ago.’ It was early days yet, but even so, both of us were dying for this thing to happen.

  ‘Tegan was a bit full-on last night Will. Did you fold under cross-examination?’

  ‘No my friend, the secret’s still safe.’

  ‘Not for long, I'll bet. If you don't tell her she'll start using sex as a weapon.’

  ‘That'll have no effect on me mate. I have a rock-hard determination where my word is concerned.’ This wasn't a lie, it was an absolute truth. Only trouble was – I also had a rock-hard cock where Tegan was concerned. If she did decide to use her not insignificant sexual powers over me, it would mean a battle royale would soon be upon us. Small brain versus small penis; there could only be one champion. It would be a smart tipster that could predict the outcome of this contest. The brain’s starting price was 2–1 with the penis just edging it as favourite at evens.

  After traditional bacon sarnies and mugs of tea, we both went off to work. The day dragged; the fares were slow in coming. My takings for the day were a disaster. By 5 p.m. I was in the house, feeling sorry for myself. Neil arrived about half an hour later. He'd done better than me; Lady Luck had smiled on him.

  He was getting changed upstairs. I was just about to inspect the contents of the freezer in a bid to assess what was available for our delectation when suddenly there was a knock at the front door. It was Tegan.

  ‘Hi Will, can I come in?’

  ‘Of course, you can. Take a seat. Can I offer you a coffee or something?’

  ‘What does the something entail?’ She gave me a suggestive look. Little 'B' awoke from his slumber.

  ‘Neil's upstairs.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

  ‘So, tea, wine or perhaps a beer if you like?’

  ‘I've had a crap day, so wine please.’

  ‘No problem, coming up.’

  ‘Denise is inviting all of us over for dinner Thursday. I've said yes. That's not a problem, is it?’

  It bloody well might be if Peach managed to arrange an audience with Steadman for Thursday evening. To have a three-hour drive to London, do the meeting, come back and still be in time for an early-evening dinner at Denise's house was pushing it ever so slig
htly. Unless of course in the meantime, we managed to get hold of Scotty from the Starship Enterprise and he beamed us home. It just wasn't going to happen.

  ‘No, it's not a problem at all.’ What was I saying? My mouth had very obviously been monitoring recent events between my dick and brain. Noticing my dick enjoying an ever-increasing new found independence, the mouth had become jealous. It’d suddenly felt the need to go it alone and in a moment of mandible-madness, decided not to take any more orders from my brain. The anatomical anarchy would have to stop. I had to get things under control. If I didn't, who knew where it would all end? Perhaps my arse might feel like it had to be next in breaking the chain-of-command and offer up a little something to help with Thursday evening's arrangements.

  I took a deep breath and managed to find some unity within my portly being. Now that I'd just announced everything was hunky-dory for Thursday night, I'd just have to hope Peach could fix the meet for Wednesday or Friday. If not, I was going to have to tell some serious porkies to come out of this one unscathed.

  I concentrated on Tegan's drinks order and looked on the wine rack to see what was available. There were still a couple of bottles left of the delightful Rioja Peach had given me during my first visit on his boat. Where was the corkscrew? My memory failed me. Just as I was going through a second drawer in my quest to locate the little bugger, five words I wasn't expecting to hear emanated from the lounge.

  ‘Will, who is Edward De Villiers?’

  What! I put the wine bottle down and discontinued my search for the corkscrew. I walked over to the kitchen door, looking into the lounge. Tegan was sitting on the sofa with her back to me. She was holding Neil's bundle and reading voraciously. I knew it had to be his, because mine was still in the boot of the car.