‘Pleased to meet you, Soap,’ said Ricky, reaching for a handshake. ‘John’s told me all about you. Did you really visit the centre of the Earth?’
‘Certainly did,’ said Soap. ‘Although I’ve mislaid the photos.’
‘Isn’t it always the way,’ said Ricky, which rang another bell.
‘This is Pigarse,’ said Omally. ‘Pigarse is the loudest drummer in history.’
‘I can see right through your nose,’ said Pigarse. ‘Horrible it is and filled with bogeys.’
‘Pleased to meet you too,’ said Soap.
‘But John has told us a lot about you,’ said Pigarse.
Soap nodded out a ‘That’s nice’.
‘He said you were an amiable buffoon.’
‘Cheers, John,’ said Soap.
John made the last introductions. But as the other members of the Gandhis rarely said anything and appeared to be little more than mere ciphers included to make up the numbers, that was that was that.
A plate was pushed in front of Soap and he was urged to fill it.
The spread of food was quite beyond anything Soap had ever seen before, even when dining with the King of Shambhala.
It is a fact well known to those that know it well, that the very rich like nothing better than to dine upon endangered species. But Soap was particularly impressed to find that here things were different. This selection of foodstuffs was entirely composed from extinct species.
Soap helped himself to the haunch of woolly mammoth.
John Omally filled Soap’s glass with wine and spoke. ‘As this is the anniversary of Jim’s death,’ he said, ‘we gather together here to feast. To toast Jim’s memory and to think of him. It’s good to have you here, Soap. Norman would have come but as he’s in prison he’s had to cry off.’
‘Norman in prison,’ said Soap. ‘What for?’
‘It’s quite a long story, but I’ll keep it short. Norman built a racehorse for Jim.’
‘Built him a racehorse?’ Soap helped himself to the fillet of cave-bear. ‘That sounds right, knowing Norman.’
‘He’s a most inventive lad. But you see, it was more than just a racehorse. And when Jim was killed, Norman didn’t know quite what to do with it. So he thought that, in Jim’s memory, he’d race it. And it was the first time the Derby was ever won by a unicorn.’
Soap’s slice of cave-bear went down the wrong way.
‘Small Dave rode it to victory.’
‘But I thought Small Dave was wanted by the police. For biting off that manager’s—’
‘Cock,’ said Pigarse.
‘Penis,’ said Soap.
‘That sounds even ruder,’ said Pigarse. ‘Why do you think that is?’
Soap shook his head and Omally continued.
‘Small Dave disguised himself as a woman. So he was the first woman ever to win the Derby. Made history, that did.’
Soap had no comment to make regarding history.
John went on. ‘Do you recall what that Penist said to Small Dave?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Soap, checking out the Irish Elk. ‘It was only a couple of days ago.’
Omally raised an eyebrow.
‘Seems like a couple of days ago. But she said that she saw him galloping to glory. So I suppose she was right, wasn’t she?’
‘She’s always right. I’ve seen her myself on more than one occasion.’
‘She jerks him off,’ said Pigarse.
‘She does not,’ said John. ‘But to go on with what I was saying, Norman named the unicorn The Pooley. And Small Dave pulled off the Derby win. And not just once, but four times in a row.’
‘Hard to beat a unicorn, eh?’ Soap forked sabre-toothed tiger onto his somewhat crowded plate.
‘And no doubt he would have won again this year, if it hadn’t been for the Incident.’
‘Go on,’ said Soap. ‘Tell me the worst.’
‘Small Dave was on Parkinson. In drag, naturally. He’d become something of a TV celeb. But being Small Dave, he’d imbibed rather too freely in the hospitality lounge and by the time it was his turn to come on, he was—’
‘Banjoed as a bishop,’ said Pigarse. ‘Pass me the dodo legs.’
‘He was drunk,’ said John. ‘And you know what Parkie’s like with the women.’
‘No,’ said Soap. ‘What is he like?’
Omally made a knowing face, which spared him the use of the word ‘allegedly’.
‘Oh?’ said Soap. ‘Really?’
‘So, Parkie starts chatting Small Dave up and Parkie puts his hand on Small Dave’s knee, and the next thing you know there’s trouble, and Dave’s bitten off Parkie’s—’
‘No!’ Soap coughed up Mastodon. ‘Not Parkie’s……?’
‘I’m afraid so. And you’ll never guess who was another guest on that same show. Only Inspectre Hovis, Brentford’s Detective in Residence.’
‘So Small Dave’s back in the suitcase.’
‘A very special suitcase, built for the purpose. And of course Norman got arrested and banged up in prison. So he couldn’t be with us tonight.’
‘Pity,’ said Soap, wondering whether he should eat what he had on his plate so far, before trying to fit on any Siberian Rhinoceros. ‘But at least you’ve survived a free man, John. And you’ve got this incredible house.’
‘I got it pretty cheaply, as it happens. The last of the Crawfords snuffed it and the place came on the market. It had acquired a bit of an evil reputation.’
‘The Curse of the Crawfords?’ said Soap.
‘A ghost. And not a family one. A new one. Although I’ve never seen it.’
‘I don’t like ghosts,’ said Soap. ‘Don’t like them at all.’
‘Have you ever seen a ghost?’ asked Litany.
‘Loads,’ said Soap. ‘It’s in the family. My dad was a seer, my mum a psychic, even our cat read the tarot. That’s one of the reasons I went beloooow. To get away from ghosts. The tales I could tell you…’
‘Yes,’ said John. ‘But they’re better left until after the ten o’clock watershed…’
‘I heard,’ said Pigarse, ‘that there’s a tribe of dwarves with tattooed ears living under Brentford and that they come up at night and snatch away infants from their cots.’
‘Wherever did you hear that?’ Soap asked.
‘I read it in the Brentford Mercury. There was this whole series of articles written by the editor about how he’d travelled to the centre of the Earth and planted the nation’s flag. And he had photos and everything. He was knighted by King Richard. I’ve got a copy of his book. It was a bestseller. Published by Virgin, of course.’
Soap took to the grinding of his teeth.
The evening passed as such evenings do, with great conversation and mighty consumption of liquor. The noise of laughter rose to unthinkable heights, as the quality of humour sank to unthinkable depths.
Ricky took out his Virgin walkman (no longer Virgin-Sony) and put on the headphones. Soap saw a look of contentment appear on his face.
‘What are you listening to?’ asked Soap. ‘Is it the Gandhis’ music?’
Ricky’s look was one of bliss. Soap Distant nudged his elbow. ‘What are you listening to?’
‘Pardon?’ Ricky lifted an earphone.
‘I said, what are you listening to?’
‘It’s a tape of silence,’ Ricky said.
‘What? You’re listening to a blank tape?’
‘No.’ Ricky switched off his walkman. ‘It’s a recording of silence. Made in the meditation chamber beneath the Potala, in Tibet.’
‘I’ve been there,’ said Soap. ‘And it is a very quiet place.’
‘It’s the quietest place on Earth, apparently. This is a digital recording made of that silence. It’s in stereo, too.’
‘Stereo silence?’
‘Here, have a listen.’ Ricky passed the walkman and Soap slipped on the headphones.
‘Just press the on button,’ said Ricky.
; And Soap pressed the on button.
And silence fell upon Soap.
Complete and utter silence. Blissful silence. Peaceful, healing, all-consuming silence. Soap could no longer hear the laughter and ribaldry. All the noise of the room had gone and only silence remained.
Soap switched off the walkman and the row came rushing back.
‘That’s incredible,’ said Soap. ‘I couldn’t hear anything at all. Except for utter silence.’
‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Ricky. ‘And great if you’ve got noisy neighbours. You just stick the tape on your sound system and turn it up full blast. And then the whole room’s filled with silence. Helps me to get off to sleep when we’re on tour, I can tell you.’
Ricky took his walkman back and put on his headphones once more.
‘Could you make me a copy of that tape?’ Soap asked.
But Ricky couldn’t hear him.
Soap chatted with the other Gandhis, even the ones who had nothing to say. The ones who had nothing to say said to Soap that they were really pleased to meet him and how John had told them so much about him and what a nice evening it was and had Soap heard their new album? Which was called Armageddon: The Musical and was based on the bestselling novel by the famous Johnny Quinn.
Soap said that he was sure he could remember reading a book by Johnny Quinn, way back in the sixties, but the name of it had slipped his mind.
The evening passed further on and soon became the middle of the night. Soap stifled yawns. It had been a long day, and a hard’n. He peeped at the wristwatch. What was the time?
The face of the watch was a blank and unlit screen.
Soap peered a bit more closely and wondered which button you had to press to get the time up.
‘That’s a smart watch,’ said Pigarse, leaning far too close to Soap. ‘Wingarde’s got a watch like that.’
‘Has he?’ said Soap. ‘Well, that clinches it.’
‘Clenches what?’ asked Pigarse. ‘Bottom cheeks?’
‘Very possibly,’ said Soap. ‘But it has to be the same Wingarde. He did have some fancy wristwatch, but I didn’t get to look at it closely. I’d just jumped out of a window and I was hovering in the air.’
‘Go on, Soap,’ said Omally. ‘It’s well past the ten o’clock watershed now.’
‘Well,’ said Soap, ‘perhaps I should tell you all about it.’
‘Let me try your wristwatch on,’ said Pigarse.
‘No,’ said Soap. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘That’s just what Wingarde said. Come on, I won’t break it.’
Pigarse lunged forward to snatch at the wristwatch, but his hand struck something invisible and he fell back wailing and clutching at his fist.
‘What did you do to him, Soap?’ said Omally. ‘He’s the drummer, you’ve injured his hand.’
‘I didn’t do anything.’ Soap shook his head. ‘He just lunged at me, you saw it and…’
Soap’s voice trailed away. It was the watch. It had to be the watch. What was it Wingarde had said? Lifespan chronometer incorporating personal defence mechanism. That was what he’d said.
‘So,’ said Soap, ‘what do we have here?’ And he tinkered with the buttons on the watch.
And then there was a click and a bang and a whoosh.
And there was no more of Soap Distant.
20
As Soap had no idea what to expect, he was not particularly surprised when he found himself in yet another empty room. This one, however, differed from the last in that it retained all of its fixtures and fittings. This room had merely been emptied of people. Soap was all alone now in Omally’s dining room. It was cold and dark and somewhat eerie.
Moonlight sidled in through the French windows and fell upon the Crawford faces on the wall, which seemed to view Soap disapprovingly.
‘Damn,’ said Soap. ‘Not again.’
And then he fell backwards onto the floor.
Someone had obviously moved his chair, so it wasn’t there to greet his bum upon its future return.
Effing and blinding, as was now his habit, Soap struggled onto the vertical plane. It was not a matter of where am I now? It was a matter of when? The remains of the feast could be seen in the moonlight, so surely it was only a matter of hours.
Soap considered checking his watch. Soap scrubbed around that idea.
‘Wooooooooooooooooo,’ came a voice from a darkened corner. ‘Wooooooooo and woe.’
Small hairs rose all over Soap and his face took on a haunted expression. Which, although appropriate, didn’t help too much.
‘Woe unto the house of Distant,’ went the voice.
Soap stammered out a ‘Who’s there?’
‘This is the ghost of Gunnersbury House.’
‘Oh my,’ went Soap, a-clutching at his heart. ‘Oh my, no, hold on there.’
‘Hold on there?’ asked the ghost.
‘Hold on there, I know that voice. Pooley, is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me,’ said the ghost of Jim.
Soap clenched hard upon chattering teeth and sank down into the nearest chair. ‘Oh, Jim,’ he said. ‘Oh, Jim.’
‘It’s very good to see you, Soap,’ said Pooley.
Soap squinted into the semi-darkness. ‘I can’t see you,’ he said.
‘I’m over here by the window. But I won’t come out of the shadows. You wouldn’t want to see what I look like now.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jim. It’s awful.’
‘It’s horrible,’ said Jim. ‘Being a ghost. It’s cold and it’s lonely and you hear things in the night. Things that make noises beloooow.’
‘Probably the dwarves,’ said Soap, shaking away like a good’n.
‘It’s not the dwarves,’ said Jim. ‘And calm yourself down, Soap. It’s only me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Soap shook and quivered. ‘I know it’s you, but you’re d—’
‘Dead,’ said Jim. ‘But we don’t use the ‘D’ word. Get yourself a drink and pull yourself together.’
Soap found an empty glass and a full bottle and set to correcting the imbalance.
‘But what are you doing here?’ he asked Jim. ‘I thought ghosts haunted the places where they, you know, D**d.’
‘You reach out,’ said Jim. ‘At the moment of death. You reach out to your nearest. I reached out to John. He was here in Gunnersbury House, chatting with Lord Crawford about putting the Gandhis on. I reached out to here and this is where I’ve stayed. I’m stuck here. But John can’t hear or see me and although I’ve been able to put the wind up a few people you’re the first old friend who has the gift, as it were.’
Soap drank up and refilled his glass. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Jim,’ he said. ‘You were a good man. You should have gone to the good place. It’s not right for you to still be here.’
‘I can’t leave,’ said Jim. ‘Not yet. Not until everything’s been put right. And my spirit cannot be at rest until the man who killed me is brought to justice.’
Soap’s teeth rattled against his wine glass.
‘Sorry,’ said Jim. ‘The afterlife can get a little gloomy.’
‘I think you’re taking it all very well.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve come to terms with it now. For the first couple of years I raged about like a wild man. But it didn’t help.’
‘I’ll sort it for you, Jim,’ said Soap, ‘trust me, I will.’
‘I rather hoped you’d say that. You know that you were right all along, don’t you? About history being changed while you were belooow? Branson on the banknotes and all that kind of business.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Soap, a-swigging. ‘I know.’
‘But there’s still a lot of it that you don’t know and so I’m going to tell it to you now.’
And so Jim did. He told Soap the lot. About THE END and Dr Trillby and Geraldo and the fan-boys from the future and how Wingarde had been saving rock stars’ lives because Jim had pulled off The Pooley. And Soap told Jim all that he knew and all
that he’d been through and by the end of it all they both agreed that they seemed to know quite a lot about everything.
Which they almost did, of course.
‘You must find Geraldo,’ said Jim. ‘You’ve seen his photograph, so you know what he looks like. He said he’d go back in time and reverse everything that Wingarde had done. But he obviously hasn’t got round to it yet. He’s probably still going from concert to concert. But I’m sure he’ll turn up for this one and I’m sure that if you tell him what Wingarde’s up to now he’ll sort it all out.’
‘Okay,’ said Soap. ‘But listen, Jim. Everything points to Wingarde, you know. That he was the one who killed you. To clear the family name because you pulled off The Pooley.’
‘I know,’ said Jim. ‘But it doesn’t make any sense. He killed me because I pulled off The Pooley. But I never got to pull off The Pooley, because he killed me first. So if I never pulled off The Pooley, he would have had no reason to kill me in the first place.’
‘Do you know what I think, Jim?’ said Soap.
‘No, Soap, what do you think?’
‘I think time travel really complicates things.’
Jim looked at Soap.
But Soap didn’t look at Jim.
‘Quite,’ said Jim.
‘And I’ll tell you something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have a score to settle with that Leo. He nicked my photos and took the credit for my journey to the centre of the Earth.’
‘Well, you did nick his wristwatch first.’
‘I didn’t nick it. It just sort of came off in my hand while we were fighting.’
‘Just leave it all to Geraldo, Soap. Let him sort it out.’
‘All right. But that Wingarde must be brought to justice for what he did to you. And then you can rest easy in your grave and go to the good place.’
‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘I’d like that very much.’
Soap stretched and yawned. ‘I’m really knackered,’ he said. ‘I was knackered anyway. But now I reckon I’ve got the time traveller’s equivalent of jetlag.’
‘That’s really tough,’ said Jim, ‘because you’re not going to get much sleep.’
‘I’ll have a lie-in tomorrow.’
‘No, you won’t, Soap. This is the day after tomorrow. This is the day of the concert.
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (The Brentford Trilogy Book 6) Page 20
