‘Fella,’ I said, ‘let me ask you one question. What’s red and white and lies dead in an alleyway?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Colin.
‘A bullet-ridden corpse,’ said I. ‘And that corpse is your dad.’
‘That was subtle,’ said Fangio. ‘And who’s this Jiffy, anyway?’
‘My dad?’ said Colin. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your dad bought the big one.’
‘My daddy is dead?’
‘Deader than a stone gnome in a whore’s window box,’ said I. ‘Colder than an Eskimo’s nipple at an Alaskan alfresco piercing party. More bereft of life than a rerun of the Monty Python parrot sketch.’
‘That dead?’ said Fangio.
‘And then some. Kaput.’
‘No,’ said Colin, getting a blubber on now. ‘It can’t be true. Not my poor dear daddy. Tell me that it isn’t true.’
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Truer than the noble love that wins the heart of a maiden fair. More unvarnished than a dunny door in a pine restorer’s stripping tank. As factual as a…’
‘Fat fop in a foolish fedora?’ said Fangio. ‘Only a suggestion, you don’t have to use it.’
‘Oh my poor dear daddy.’ Colin took to wailing and gnawing his knuckles and carrying on like a silly big girl.
‘You’ve upset him,’ said the bone-bag of a maitre d’.
‘Enough of the thin-boy jibes,’ said Fange. ‘I’m only human too, you know. Cut me and do I not bleed?’
‘We can check that out,’ I said. ‘Give us a lend of the knife you use to hack up your chewing fat.’
‘No, really, Laz. I’m not kidding. You can be very cruel sometimes. I remember Jiffy. Jiffy the broomstick man! You shouldn’t be so horrid to people. And the guy’s really upset. Look at him, he’s crying.’
‘He’s faking it,’ I said.
‘I’m not,’ blubbed Colin.
‘You are too,’ said I.
‘Blubb blubb blubb,’ went Colin.
‘Give him a hug,’ said Fangio. ‘That sometimes helps.’
‘I certainly will not,’ I said. ‘I’m not getting Tears on my Trench-coat. (A Lazlo Woodbine Thriller).’
‘What’s the trouble?’ asked a broad-shouldered dame in a pale pink peplos and Day-Glo dungarees. She had the kind of face that you generally see only on a platter with an apple stuck into its gob.
‘Butt out, Miss Piggy,’ I told her. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
The porcine dame burst into tears.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Fangio. ‘You monster.’
‘And you keep out of it too, skeleton boy.’
‘Waaah,’ went Fangio, breaking down upon the bar.
‘Blubb blubb blubb,’ went Colin.
‘Boo hoo’ and ‘snort’ went the pig-faced lady.
‘Can I be of assistance?’ asked a solitary cyclist who’d just popped in for a Perrier water. He wore one of those figure-hugging Lycra suits that only look good on Linford Christie, and one of those streamlined bikers’ helmets that don’t look good on anybody.
‘Clear off, you Spandexed poseur,’ I told him.
‘Sob sob sob,’ went the cyclist.
Now I don’t know what it is about crying. It must be infectious, I guess. A bit like yawning really, I suppose. Somebody yawns and you want to yawn too. Perhaps that’s a conditioned reflex. Or something atavistic, dating back to our tribal ancestry. When, if the headman yawned, everybody yawned and the tribe all went to bed. Or, if the headman cried, you joined him too, in a good old howling session. I’m not too hot on the history of Man, so I couldn’t say for a certainty.
What I could say for certain was this, however.
It wasn’t my fault.
OK, I might have started Colin off, but he was only faking it. And Fangio is a sissy boy and the pig-faced dame had it coming. And as for the solitary cyclist and the three students and the retired colourman and the two young women from Essex and the humpty-backed geezer and the continuity girl from Blue Peter and the lady with the preposterous bosom and that oik with the mobile phone, who said he’d call for an ambulance, well sure, Okay, I might have pointed out their shortcomings, when they came muscling in to what clearly was none of their business. But for them all to start bawling their eyes out and saying that it was all my fault, that was laying it thicker than a concrete coat on a Baghdad bombproof bunker.
I mean, blaming me?
I could have wept.
In fact, I nearly did.
‘Shut up!’ I shouted. ‘Shut up the lot of you.’
‘Waaaaaah,’ they went, in chorus.
‘Will you stop all this weeping, you bunch of witless wimps?’
‘Waaaaaah!’ they reiterated, somewhat louder this time.
‘He called me Quasimodo,’ whined the humpty-backed geezer.
‘He said I had a face like a cow’s behind,’ squalled a woman with a face like a cow’s behind.
‘He impugned my manhood,’ snivelled a closet queen.
‘He referred to me as a pretentious ninny,’ ululated a thespian.
‘He murdered my daddy!’ howled Colin.
There was a lot of silence then.
‘He did what?’ asked the guy with the sore on his lip, which, I’d mentioned in passing, was probably the pox.
‘He murdered my poor dear daddy. Shot him down in an alleyway.’
‘I did nothing of the kind,’ I rightfully protested.
‘Assassin!’ cried a crying lady, who, let’s face it, did look a lot like Terry Wogan.
‘Murderer!’ shrieked the bloke with the birthmark that I’d drawn attention to.
‘String him up,’ yelled the woman with the questionable hairdo that I’d well and truly questioned.
‘I’ll get a rope,’ hollered Fangio.
‘Oi, Fange,’ said I. ‘Turn it in.’
‘Sorry, Laz, I got carried away.’
‘Murdered my poor dear daddy,’ went Colin again.
And would you believe it?
Or even if you wouldn’t.
The whole damn lot of them went for me!
‘If you ask me,’ said Johnny Boy, ‘we’re lost.’
‘I’m not asking you,’ said Icarus Smith.
‘No need to be shirty,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘Just because I put you straight about the relationship you have with your brother.’
‘It isn’t that,’ said Icarus Smith, even though it was. ‘But actually, I think you’re right. We’re lost.’
They had wandered a goodly way amongst the corridors of the Ministry of Serendipity. They had left the barber far behind, strapped into his chair with his Velocette in his mouth. But now, somewhere in the middle of what might have been anywhere, they were well and truly lost, which wasn’t a nice thing to be.
‘Perhaps we should retrace our steps.’
‘No,’ said Icarus. ‘We’ll go on. We’ll leave this to fate. Which way would you choose?’
‘How about turning right here?’
‘Left it is then,’ said Icarus.
As they walked and wandered, Johnny Boy tried to lighten things up with tales of the music halls. But Icarus darkened things down again with a tale of a film he’d seen about miners who got trapped underground.
‘We might be going in circles,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘You do that, you know, if you try to walk in a straight line. One of your legs is always a tiny bit shorter than the other, so eventually you walk round in a big circle.’
‘Does that work if both of your legs are short?’ asked Icarus.
‘Don’t be horrid,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘You’ll make me want to cry.’
The crying howling mob closed in upon me, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. I was prepared to stand my ground and dish out as good as I got. I’d raise my fists and fight a fair fight and devil take the hind-parts.
But I was severely outnumbered here.
So I whipped out the trusty Smith and Where’s-this
-all-gonna-end and let off a couple of shots at the ceiling.
Which started the sprinkler system.
And set off the fire alarm.
Way down deep in the Ministry of Serendipity, other alarms started ringing.
‘I think the barber’s broken free,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘What should we do now?’
‘I would say, run,’ said Icarus. ‘But I’m not sure just in which direction we should run.’
‘Up might be a good plan,’ said Johnny Boy.
‘Run up?’
‘Head up. Up and out of here.’
Sounds of running footsteps could now be heard.
‘There,’ said Icarus. ‘There’s a ladder fastened to the wall. It leads up some kind of shaft.’
‘That would be the one then. Let’s get a move on before the guards get us.’
‘Get him!’ shouted the bloke with the bulldog jowls which I’d said could be cured by surgery. ‘Get the murderer, batter him good.’
And suddenly I found myself in a maelstrom of flailing fists and battering boots.
‘I can hear their boots getting nearer,’ said Johnny Boy, halfway up the shaft that led to somewhere. ‘How are you doing up there, Icarus? Can you see daylight?’
‘Er, not exactly,’ the lad called back. ‘Just a sort of manhole cover. And I can’t seem to get it open.’
‘They’re getting closer, Icarus, I can hear them. They’re coming from all directions.’
They came at me from all directions, down as well as up and all about. I pride myself that with my daily workout regime I am always in peak condition and can take a blow to the solar plexus without even flinching. However, I’d never quite planned on taking quite so many blows and all at the same time.
‘I’ll have to blow it open,’ called Icarus.
‘You’ll have to what?’
‘Blow open the manhole cover.’
‘How?’
‘I took the liberty of relocating a stick or two of SHITE from the captain’s pocket while we were in my brother’s office. I thought they might come in handy one day. Do you have a box of matches?’
‘Sadly no,’ called Johnny Boy. ‘How about you?’
‘Er, no.’
‘No!’ I tried a ‘no’ and I also tried a ‘have mercy’ and also ‘you’ve got the wrong fellow here’ and ‘I have a heart condition’ – but callously aloof to all my pleas, even those regarding the potential damage to my trench-coat and fedora, the baying mob beat seventeen brass bells of St Trinian’s out of me, then hoisted me into the air, marched me over to the bar’s rear door and flung me out into the alleyway.
Well, at least it was an alleyway.
But boy did it hurt when I hit it.
I was bloody and bruised and chopped up and chaffed, my trench-coat was in ribbons and my hat had gone missing. And as I lay there in the mud, wondering just how many bones had been broken, I was further saddened to hear the sound of a handgun being cocked.
Especially as I knew the sound of that cocking action all too well. For it was the sound of my trusty Smith and Where’s-all-that-help-when-you-need-it-now?
I looked up through the eye that didn’t have a big brown plum growing out of it, to view the face of my would-be executioner.
‘You’re dead meat, Mr Handbag,’ he said.
‘We’re dead meat,’ called Johnny Boy.
‘No we’re not,’ called Icarus. ‘I’ll find a way to light this fuse.’
‘But we’ll get blown up and melted too.’
‘This stuff is directional. It will blow up if you aim it upwards.’
‘But we don’t have a match to light it.’
‘I’ll think of something.’
A torch lit up Johnny Boy.
‘Come down from there,’ called the voices, accompanied by the sounds of guns being cocked. ‘Come down out of there or you’re—’
‘Dead meat?’ said Icarus Smith.
‘Dead meat,’ said Colin, third child of God. ‘There’s just the two of us now, Mr Handbag.’
‘Now hold on, fella,’ I said. ‘Don’t do anything foolish that I might regret. I know who you are. What you are. I’m working for your mother.’
‘My mother?’
‘Eartha Godalming, widow of God. Big pug-ugly dame with a face like a bag full of bottoms.’
‘What has my mother got to do with this?’
‘I’ve seen the will,’ I said, spitting out a bit of blood, to add a little extra drama. ‘God’s last will and testament. You’re in the frame for the murder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The will’s a fake. The Earth gets left to you, instead of the meek, who were supposed to inherit it. I know the truth. I worked it out.’
‘You know nothing, Mr Handbag. I didn’t fake the will.’
‘I know that.’ I spat out a wee bit more blood, and what seemed like a couple of teeth. ‘I know it wasn’t you.’
‘I think you know too much, Mr Handbag.’
‘I know the truth,’ said I. ‘And I can help you.’
‘I don’t need any help. I can take care of everything myself. I’ve got this world under control. Under my control. Do you have any brothers, Mr Handbag?’
‘Me?’ I said. ‘No, I’m an only child. They broke the mould before they made me.’
‘Well, I have a brother. A very famous brother. Jesus Christ, his name is. And all my life I’ve lived in his shadow. But not any more. Not any more.’
Colin’s finger tightened on the trigger. And I stared into the barrel of my gun.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t shoot me. I can help you.’
Colin shook his head. ‘Just let me ask you one question,’ he said.
‘Anything,’ said I.
‘What’s red and white and dressed as a handbag and lies dead in an alleyway?’
And then, believe it.
Or believe it not.
He put my gun against my head and went and pulled the trigger.
16
They say that your whole life flashes in front of your eyes at the moment before you die. Or rather, at the moment when you think you’re going to die. And friends, I have to confess that I was pretty certain at that moment, there in the alleyway, that I was going to die.
And I can tell you, that my whole life did flash right in front of my eyes.
And what a life it was!
I’d truly forgotten many of the great things that I’d done. The noble deeds that I’d performed. The seemingly unsolvable cases that I’d solved. The awards I’d been awarded. The accolades I’d had accoladed all over me. The beautiful women I’d made love to. The fast cars I’d driven. The exotic places I’d seen. The friends I’d known. The laughter. And the joy.
I’d been there. Done that. And bought, not only the T-shirt, but a place in the hearts of millions. I had been Lazlo Woodbine, the greatest detective of them all. And not many people can say that about their lives.
In fact, none can, but me.
So, if this was to be my time, I would face the great unknown with dignity. Accept my fate. Turn a brave face to the ultimate adversity. Go out with a smile on my face and a song on my lips.
‘Have mercy!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t kill me.’
But he squeezed the trigger all the same.
And then there was an almighty flash.
And Colin just vanished away.
Huh?
My trusty Smith and Well-I-never-did dropped onto my head, nearly taking my good eye out, and I had the strange sensation that I was now all covered in melted goo.
‘Come on,’ called a voice that I knew. ‘Let’s go.’
I raised my battered head and stared dizzily at the spot where Colin had been standing but a moment before.
That spot was now an open manhole and clambering out of this was the lad called Icarus, closely followed by his little dolly chum.
Icarus stared down upon my broken remains and his jaw dropped as slack as a sloe-eyed slapper at a slumlor
d’s slumber party.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
And I might well have asked him the self-same question. But I chose instead to ask him this: ‘Whatever happened to Colin?’
‘Colin?’ said Icarus.
‘Colin, the third child of God. He was standing right there on that manhole cover and now he’s just, well, gone.’
‘Oh,’ said Icarus Smith. And it was the kind of oh that I wouldn’t wear as a Homburg.
‘Aaagh! They’re coming after us,’ cried the little man. ‘Do something, Icarus, please.’
Icarus glanced around and about the alleyway. ‘The dumpster,’ said he. ‘Give me a hand to move the dumpster. You too, brother.’
‘I’m not your goddamn brother,’ said I. ‘And I can’t help, I’m all broken up.’
‘Never mind.’ The kid grabbed hold of the big dumpster wheelie bin thing and with the help of his small companion dragged it over the manhole. ‘That should hold them,’ he said.
‘Kid,’ said I, ‘you turn up in the damnedest places. I reckon I’ll thank you this time. And I’ll…’
But I didn’t get to say too much more after that. Because with all the beatings I’d taken and with the broken up bits and bobs and frankly with the stress I’d been under, staring death in the face and all, I lapsed from consciousness and found myself falling one more fricking time, down into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion.
Yes siree.
By golly.
‘What’s the news?’ said Icarus. He was sitting in a doctor’s office. The office smelled of feet and fish and fear. A fetid fermentation. The doctor had my case notes on his desk. He leafed through them as he spoke to Icarus.
‘Your brother is a very sick man,’ said the doctor, adjusting his spectacles and doing that thing with his pencil. ‘He was badly beaten up and has not only several broken bones, but some internal injuries also.’
Icarus nodded thoughtfully. ‘So when do you think you’ll have him up and about?’
‘Weeks. Months perhaps.’
‘He can’t be injured as badly as that.’
‘It’s not so much the physical injuries. It’s more his mental health that worries me.’
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