Bring me flesh and bring me wine.
Bring me pine logs hither.
Six-pack, pies, crisps.
Central heating’s on. There’s no need to shiver.
So all’s well at number six.
Across the road at number thirteen Gladys waits
For the phone to ring.
But it stays silent.
Hark! The herald—angels sing
But not for Gladys.
He’d always sent her a card and some money
At Christmas, had Alan, especially after Reg had died.
“With love from Alan, Linda and the kids.”
But not last couple of years. Last year nothing.
This year a cheap card with “Alan and Cheryl” inside.
Who’s Cheryl? Why is everything so
Confusing as you get old?
A few days ago, he’d shown up. Joy of joys, her only son
But he’d made her empty her savings account
Just a few hundred quid, you know, everything else had been sold.
And cashed in her pension, two weeks worth, so now she’d
Got no money until the New Year
And only a few 50ps for the meter.
A couple of tins of fish for the cat
And a little food for herself but that was it.
No-one else would come near her to greet her.
He’ll ring, won’t he? Course he will!
Now it’s four o’clock in the morning, Christmas Day.
Tyrone and Jade come bouncing in.
“He’s been! He’s been!”
Pearl grumbles and stretches, her huge bosom quivering.
“What time is it? It’s the middle of the night!”
Darren stops snoring and mutters something
Obscene.
The kids are sent away, saddened.
He nestles his flabby hairy paunch against her belly.
“Still, Christmas Day, innit?” She does not resist.
At six they’re back again. This time they get up
The kids to open their presents
And Darren to start getting pissed.
Gladys sleeps in the kitchen now.
It’s the only place she can keep warm.
She puts another 50p in the meter—enough for an hour or two,
Gives the cat half a tin of fish.
She nibbles at a couple of biscuits.
It’s only half past six. There’s an awful lot of day
To get through.
We three kings of Orient are
Bearing gifts we travel afar
But not for Gladys—no gifts for her.
Tyrone gets his new trainers, bought from the catalogue
And Jade that dress she liked in the market.
For Pearl cheap jewellery and for Darren a lighter.
Nothing special, not large amounts.
Just a few bits and pieces but, as they say,
It’s the thought that counts.
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow.
It’s five in the evening now.
This morning seems a long time ago.
All the goodies have been eaten, the drink’s all gone.
“Here Pearl, give us a fiver, get some booze at the corner shop.
I’ve got no credit left on my card.”
“I can’t give you no money. I ain’t got none.”
Spent all the Benefits money, of course. Two weeks worth.
And there’s no way they could cash it
Anyhow.
Corner shop won’t give them any credit, not with their record.
No drink, no money.
What to do now?
“That old cow across the road.
Her son’s got a posh car. She must be loaded.”
“Gladys? She ain’t got two pennies to rub together, bro!”
“Worth a try. Come on Tyrone. Get your boots on.”
They wrap up warm and set out through the snow.
Mark my footsteps, good my page.
Tread thou in them boldly.
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.
No chance. Darren leaves tracks like craters
And Tyrone has to follow best he can.
Tumbles and totters his way over, poor little so-and-so.
The doorbell goes. It’s him! It’s him!
I knew he’d come!
“Merry Chr… . Oh! It’s Tyrone from across the road.
And who’s this with you? Not your Daddy, is it?”
“No, stupid witch.
I’m not.
Now give me some money to get some booze
Or I’ll fill your face in.
I know you’ve got plenty.
Bitch!”
“I’ve got no money, not even two pennies to rub together.”
“Lying cow!” He hits her across the face.
She’s as light as a feather.
Down she goes, bangs the corner
Of her head
On the step where the snow’s been cleared.
Before you can say “Merry Christmas”,
She’s dead.
God! Where are you, God?
And Jesus! You’re supposed to save!
But answer came there none,
Only the endless eerie echoes of eternity
And the crushing, cracking blackness of the grave.
Silent night, holy night.
All is calm, all is bright
And the lurid-hued incarnadine seeps slowly through the white.
Gloria in excelsis deo!”
Gwyneth Llewellyn. Dec ’78
37
They say a watched kettle never boils and it certainly seems that way. If you nip out of the office hoping to get a brew before the supervisor notices your absence, the water will take forever to come to the boil. If you trotted legitimately off to the loo in the meantime, it would be ready in no time but because you’re standing there watching it, the kettle just merrily goes about its business, taking as long as it likes.
Thus it was with Gareth and Beth and no doubt everyone else involved in the planned face-off. On Thursday, they mooched round the British Museum, promising themselves a longer return visit next time, did a bit of shopping and in the evening walked round the corner from the hotel to watch We Will Rock You at the Dominion. At least, as they were both Queen fans, they were able to relax for a while and enjoy it. On Friday they sought consolation in the huge HMV shop in Oxford Street, where Gareth finally managed to lay his hands on a copy of Tchaikovsky’s Manfred symphony that he had been looking to get hold of for a while now. Beth was able to pick up a couple of Eric Clapton Blues CDs, so at least something was achieved. Gareth looked gloomily at his new purchase.
“Not exactly the most inspiring piece of music,” he commented mournfully, as he perused the notes on the CD. “Still, could have been worse. Could have been the Pathetique.” Beth half-smiled, doing her best to look cheerful but not quite succeeding.
The chewed a few mouthfuls of food without any enthusiasm before getting their belongings together, going downstairs and checking out of the hotel. The weather was appropriately funereal, dark, wet and windy. “A suitable day for dying”, Beth couldn’t prevent herself from thinking rather morbidly as she made her way out into the street. They summoned a taxi and headed for Tachbrook Street. They arrived at about seven o’clock as arranged and made their way quickly into the basement flat. Theeth was there, pensive and withdrawn and, unusually, a number of other gnomes were gathered round him. One of
them, more distinguished-looking than the others, introduced himself.
“I am Bohommen, Theeth’s son,” he said. “I will be in charge if… .” He did not finish the sentence; there was no need. Everyone knew what was at stake.
Theeth roused himself. “Do you have the picture?” Beth nodded. “May I ask where it is?”
“It’s in my handbag”, Beth replied. “Will it be safe there? It’s the only place I could think of to put it.”
“Yes, handbags are permitted. Sticks and other visible weapons would not be. Well, let us gather ourselves and make our way to the meeting-place. Good luck!” he said, although it sounded more in hope than expectation.
“Theeth? Can I ask you one question before we go?”
“Yes, of course, my dear. I will answer it if I can.” The gnome leader could not stop himself from smiling. Beth had that effect on people. “What is it?”
“What is your real name?”
“My name is Nuebo.” He dragged it out over three syllables, separating the u and the e, grinned enigmatically to himself and then said: “Now shall we proceed?”
They went through the rear door and were ushered into the back of a dilapidated, undistinguished van, that would draw no attention to itself at all if there were any commotion or other disturbance. They trundled over Waterloo Bridge at hearse-like pace, past the ever-busy railway station and into a maze of side streets behind it. Like all city centres, central London is a really interesting place at night, with the bright lights of the pubs, clubs and shops friendly and enticing. People are around, you feel safe in the environment, even invigorated perhaps, particularly around Christmas time, when there is an extra buzz about and you can be sure to come across lots of inebriated idiots wandering around in daft costumes and silly hats. But as soon as you turn away from that air of activity and hubbub, everything takes on a much more sinister aspect. Dark little corners are threatening rather than enticing, passers-by are a potential menace rather than fellow fun-seekers. Strange shapes and threatening shadows loom up unexpectedly from unforeseen nooks and crannies. Thus it was with this journey. The streets seemed hostile and uninviting, a place of menace and peril, the dim roadside lighting creating an inimical and unfriendly environment. Beth felt almost as though she was travelling in a latter-day tumbrel. Only the baying hordes of onlookers were missing.
The van slumbered to a halt after a couple of minutes and everyone got out, slowly and not evincing a great deal of enthusiasm. The building in front of them was in total darkness and appeared to be an old empty shop of some description. They were ushered through a side entrance via a broken wooden door to the back of the building. Everywhere was dark, dank and deserted, except for one light shining from the first floor. That apart, the edifice confronting them showed no sign at all of occupation, recent or otherwise. The back room was empty but for a few bits of wood, some broken chairs and a couple of used paint pots. A paint-spattered staircase seemed to offer the only means of egress.
“Upstairs”, a rasping voice guttered at them and they climbed the rickety stairs, several of which creaked ominously under the unaccustomed strain. A door at the top of the staircase opened and they went into the room. At the same time, another door at the other end of the room opened and three figures came in.
Pierre Poivre and his associates swaggered aggressively as they entered. The two humans quickly turned their attention to Beth and leered most unpleasantly, with Patterson adding one or two choice obscenities. All six protagonists then sat at the table, the two trios facing each other. These niceties observed, accompanying diminutives slipped away almost unnoticed as unwritten protocol demanded and the main players were left to resolve the situation. They glared across the table at each other with unconcealed hostility. Patterson continued his foul-mouthed profanities, Etheridge used his fingers to communicate crude gestures and Pierre Poivre could not conceal an anticipatory smirk of triumph. It was the first time he had been face to face with his principal antagonist since that awful day in Berlin all those years ago—now he was ready to be victorious again. His three opponents sought solace in a dignified if uneasy silence, not replying to the taunts bandied at them but quietly awaiting developments.
The room they were in was large, covering as it did most of the surface of the building. A single grimy light bulb, minus lampshade, provided the sole illumination, dangling from the middle of the dirty ceiling. The ancient tobacco-stained wallpaper was peeling away in great clumps, showing uncontrolled damp patches underneath. The window to the front of the building was heavily curtained, which explained why the pavement below was so dark. The window at the back was guarded merely by a net of dubious quality and cleanliness, enough to conceal the activities inside from any prying eyes but adding no aesthetic value to the room. A large crack across the window-pane gave further weight to the appearance of total neglect. Apart from the table and chairs and an elderly radiator grumbling away against a side wall, there was no other furniture in the room, and this contributed even more to the air of desolation. This was not the Field of the Cloth of Gold, not even a railway carriage at Verdun. A less propitious environment for the resolution of a great crisis it was hard to imagine.
For a few moments, nothing was said. An unpleasantly warm fetid atmosphere permeated the air, waiting, hanging, cloying. Who would strike first?
38
“Now!” Poivre’s sharp command broke the tension. Etheridge and Patterson leapt quickly forward, grabbed Theeth by the lapels and hauled him across the table before anybody else could react. “Quickly! Open his mouth!” Poivre produced a slim phial of brown liquid and emptied it swiftly into Theeth’s prised-open jaws.
“Aagh! Aagh!” Theeth screamed in heart-rending agony as Beth and Gareth stormed frantically round the table.
“No, Theeth, no!” cried Beth as she hurled herself at Etheridge, catching him off balance and knocking him to the ground. Gareth seized Patterson and punched him flush on the jaw with a vicious uppercut. The thug, caught off guard and unable to react, staggered backwards as Gareth hit him again, a pleasing thwack to the side of the head. “And this one’s for Wales,” he thought to himself, as he caught his unpleasant adversary for a third time, on this occasion smack on the nose. This time Patterson completely lost his footing and stumbled further back as his momentum carried him towards the back wall. He crashed his way through the cracked window-pane, which offered no resistance, and down on to the cold, inhospitable ground below. Gareth heard a distinctly satisfying “crump” as Peter Patterson’s body smacked head-first into the unforgiving flagstones.
Theeth was wrestling ever more feverishly and desperately with a manic-eyed Poivre, who was doing his utmost to make his adversary swallow as much as possible in an attempt to counteract the old gnome’s frantic efforts to spit the liquid out. Beth was trying to reach her handbag as Etheridge did his best to throttle her. Suddenly Beth grabbed the strap but in her struggle she flung the bag hard against the wall and it burst open. Scrabbling, Beth managed to grasp the mace spray from her bag and get a squirt off into her assailant’s eyes. He leapt back in discomfort as Beth took the chance to survey the contents of the bag.
“Quick, Gareth, the mints!” she managed to gasp. Gareth grabbed Stan’s half-finished packet of Polos, ripped the wrapping off and leapt on to Poivre. He had no trouble in casting the goblin aside and ramming the mints into Theeth’s mouth as quickly as he could. The gnome managed to incline his head slightly in acknowledgement and gratitude and sucked ravenously on them.
“Look out, Gareth, he’s got a gun!” A scream from Beth made the Welshman turn rapidly and see his dandified enemy wiping his eyes with one hand and trying with the other to adjust a revolver into a position where he could finish off his opponent. Gareth hurled himself desperately at Etheridge before he could fire and the two old enemies collapsed in an undignified heap on the grubby floor. There was a frantic struggle for a fe
w moments, then there was the sinister muffled sound of a gun going off. The grappling pair stopped moving and lay still in a bloodied heap on the floor. Sticky red liquid oozed indolently from under them and trickled slowly, mockingly, towards the door.
“Gareth! Gareth!” Beth sobbed uncontrollably. She knew instinctively that if they survived this, there would be no going their separate ways ever again. She bent down and, with an enormous effort, managed to roll the young man off his foe. Gareth fell back limply on to the floor, his sweatshirt front covered in blood. Beth shrieked almost inhumanly and leapt on to her lover’s prostrate form. “No! No! This can’t be happening!” She put her arms frantically round the Welshman’s body and let out a low continuous moan.
For a few moments, the awful agony and finality of death permeated the grim atmosphere of that dreadful room, but then Gareth cautiously opened his eyes, half-pushed Beth away and smiled very slowly at the love of his life.
“It’s not my blood,” he whispered. “It’s his.” He gestured towards the prone form of Etheridge. Blood was pouring out of a huge hole in the Breaker’s body. The guilty gun was still clenched in his right hand. His rimless glasses lay askew beside him. They would no longer be needed; Oliver’s lifeless eyes gazed fixedly at the light bulb oscillating gently across the ceiling above.
Unable to react in any other way, Beth clung wordlessly to her partner’s blood-soaked form, their arms wrapped so tightly round each other they could scarcely breathe. Grunting noises brought them back to reality. Theeth had rallied somewhat. The mints had obviously had a beneficial, if limited, effect. Poivre had his hands round Theeth’s throat and was doing everything he could to strangle him.
“Quick, Beth, the picture!” Beth retrieved the rolled-up canvas from the position it had taken under one of the wooden chairs. For the second time within the space of a few minutes, Gareth had the satisfaction of pulling Pierre Poivre easily and contemptuously away from his arch-enemy.
“Day of reckoning, my ugly Goblin friend”, the young Welshman hissed into Pierre Poivre’s ear. “Time to take your medicine, you evil little bastard!”
The Anagram Page 20
