I look from the gun to my clingfilm and back again. At this range there is no way he can miss. My palms sweat. My mouth is dry. I wish to be far away, on some pleasant desert island where everyone is happy and there is a keen respect for property rights.
“I will not do so,” I hear myself say in a small desolate voice. “You will not take my clingfilm.”
“What was that?” roars the villain in disbelief.
“I said you will not take my clingfilm!” I say louder. “Shoot me if you will but I will still not give it to you. I estimate there can only be twenty or thirty bullets in that gun. You would have to shoot me many more times than that to make me hand over my clingfilm.”
“So,” says the villain, “a hero! I can almost respect you for that.” He muses thoughtfully. “You and I are not so very different, you know. True, you are polite and well-behaved, and I like rolling marbles under the feet of nuns so they go flying in the air and I can see their knickers, but we each have our own integrity. Tell me, do you ever cross the street against the traffic light?”
“That would be the act of a fool,” I say.
“A fool—or a man who is even braver than you!” The villain rubs his unshaven chin pensively. “Very well, then, Mr. Hero, perhaps I would be wasting my time shooting you—but how about if I shot your friend—or your terrapin!”
Sniggering horribly, he points the gun at Roy and then at Jetta and back again.
I turn pale.
“You may take my clingfilm,” I say in a small faint voice.
Reluctantly I hand over the roll.
“Thank you,” says the villain. “And now will you please to turn out your pockets.”
I feel dizzy and the cupboard swims around me.
I swallow nervously. “I will do so,” I say at last. I turn my trouser pockets inside out.
“Those are well-kept pockets, remarkably free of lint,” says the villain in grudging admiration. “However, I was not referring to them. I meant your inner jacket pockets where I suspect you of harboring more clingfilm!”
I turn ashen and quiver. “You are a cruel man,” I say, and reach into my inner pocket and take out a spare roll.
“Danke Schön,” says the villain as he takes it. “And now the others.”
“I assure you, there are no others!”
“In a long career of stealing everything from gold bullion to old ladies’ half-sucked cough drops I have learned when someone is holding out on me! Give me the rest of your clingfilm or it will go badly with you!”
This time I think I really might pass out. With every nerve ending screaming in rebellion I force my arm back into my pocket and bring out another roll of clingfilm and mutely hand it to him. He makes an encouraging gesture with his gun and then aims it at Roy and I reluctantly produce one more.
“Your pockets are capacious,” says the villain. “I believe I will have my tailor make me something similar the next time I am about to go stealing piglets. But I believe we have now reached the end of your little treasure trove . . . or have we?” He grins and prods with the gun. “I estimate there is yet one more roll of clingfilm in there! Hand it over or else!”
Who would blame me if I broke down completely at this point? If Roy and Jetta were not there it is possible I would weep hysterically and beg for clemency. As it is I cry, “You must not take my clingfilm!” and cower in the corner of the cupboard trembling. But the evil man is merciless and by a mixture of threats and brute force he succeeds in wrenching the last lonely roll of clingfilm from my pocket. I fall from the cupboard and collapse to the floor more dead than alive, a broken and pitiful man.
“So,” he gloats. “Now your clingfilm is mine. I will sell it to a tinker and you will never see it again. But just to be sure . . . perhaps we should perform a body search.” He hauls me to my feet.
“A body search?” I croak brokenly. “What can you hope to find? You have left me bereft of clingfilm, you monster in human shape.”
But without remorse he proceeds to pat me down expertly.
“Aha!” he cries. “So I left you without clingfilm, did I? Then what, pray, is this?”
With a flourish he produces the emergency roll concealed up my sleeve. It is only a small one, consisting of a normal roll sawn in half so as to allow me to flex my arm, but he takes it nonetheless.
“I had forgotten about that,” I say. “A sundry roll left over from my catering days. You will find no more.”
“We shall see,” he says. “Aha! And what is this I feel here?” Mercilessly he tears off my coat and lifts my shirt to reveal one more roll taped to my backbone.
“You must not take that!” I cry. “It is a spinal support. If you remove it I may collapse like a jellyfish.”
“I do not care! Now, though, I believe you are finally relieved of all your clingfilm, every roll of it.”
I hum nonchalantly and study my nails.
“Wait, though—it strikes me that the bottoms of your trousers are unusually baggy for one so otherwise dapper! Roll up your pants at once!”
“Please,” I beg, “not the pants—surely you would not—”
“Do so at once or you will surely rue the day!”
It is the death knell. All hope is gone. All I can do is memorize the villain’s face and pray for the day when he will stand in the dock and I from the witness stand will say, “That is the man who took my clingfilm.”
Numbly I comply. I lift my trouser bottoms to reveal the emergency emergency rolls taped to my shins. Savagely he tears them from me. Now there are truly no more rolls left.
“That is it,” I say hollowly, “there is no more.”
However, he also makes me take off my shoes and discovers the loose clingfilm folded up into small flat packages concealed therein.
Roughly he places me back in the cupboard. For a moment I have a gleam of hope, but he even thinks to take the discarded remnants of clingfilm littering the floor from the previous wrappings.
“Farewell once more, gentlemen,” he says.
“Farewell,” we say, politely but disconsolately.
“This time you really are left to the tender mercies of my insects! There is no clingfilm to protect you now!” Sneering, he bends and cruelly flicks several of the earwigs on the bottom just to put them in a really foul mood. “Rest assured that this time I really am going away—there will be no one to hear your whimpers! I think, if I do find the briefcase, I will simply leave you here until they have eaten you!”
He slams the door shut and locks it and this time his shoes really do clump down the stairs.
“You have a surprising amount of clingfilm,” says Roy thoughtfully.
“Had,” I say in a sad small voice. Fortunately the villain did not find the small scrap of clingfilm kept wadded under my armpit. It is not nearly enough to begin to wrap Roy but I rub it against my cheek soothingly.
“And now what are we to do?”
“Be probed and nibbled by insects!” I say dismally.
For the earwigs are massing to attack . . .
To be continued . . . !
Chapter 40
I do not wish to speak immodestly, but I am pleasantly surprised by how good I am at cliff-hangers. I believe when I have finished this novel I will contrive to write a thrilling TV series.
Unfortunately I have noted before that clingfilm is hard to pick up on a video camera. I suppose they would resort to some fake stage clingfilm, but I would not be prepared to stoop to such a measure.
On the other hand perhaps I will write an opera.
So then. Recall if you dare that Roy and I and my terrapin Jetta were imprisoned in a cupboard at the mercy of a horde of enraged earwigs with no clingfilm to protect us.
In the flickering candlelight we can see our insecty enemies milling about our feet on their innumerable pairs of legs, their feelers wiggling obscenely as they prepare to invade our personal space.
Who can tell what they will do? At the very least they seem certain to
scurry all over us and lick us in intimate places.
“Is it just me,” I whisper, “or are there even more of them now than when we started?”
“Possibly they are breeding,” says Roy. “I tell you they fornicate like three Swiss skiing instructors on top of a pile of Bavarian milkmaids.”
We can only wait in horror for their attack. They seem certain to invade our pockets and even our socks.
“Perhaps I could—stamp on them?” I suggest.
“They would squash horribly under your shoe. Personally I would have to cut my foot off afterwards.”
It is so. They are the perfect attack beasts in that their squelchy death would be even more horrible than their disgusting wriggly life. We cannot prevent them overrunning us. Bravely we steel ourselves for the onslaught but inside I am near breaking point. I reflect that if they do eat us it would almost be preferable to them merely nesting in us. I do not think I would wish to live with the memory of having had my pockets and various crevices infested with earwigs. A horrible thought comes to me—is their name a clue to their habits? Will they crawl into my very ears and take up residence there? The thought almost makes me pass out.
As I watch in horror, one crawls up to the tip of my shoes, wiggles its feelers, and then bustles away again.
“What are you waiting for, damn you?” I almost scream at it.
“They are toying with us, the brutes,” opines Roy.
The tension is unbearable. All around us I seem to hear the scampering of tiny feet.
“I believe I can hear a chewing sound!” I suddenly cry.
“They must be nibbling my shoelaces,” groans Roy. “I cannot bear to look.”
Neither can I, but the sound continues, a small but relentless chomping noise. I commend my soul to God and bid a fond farewell to my shoes.
“Sweet Mother of Mercy, we are sunk without trace,” laments Roy.
I can take the suspense no longer. I nerve myself to look down at our feet again, since to see what horror is taking place is better than guessing what they may be up to.
And then I see it—the miracle!
“Look, Roy!” I cry. “We are saved! Saved! Jetta! Jetta has saved us! Jetta is eating the earwigs!”
It is so! It is she who is chomping and slurping! My plucky terrapin has come to our rescue.
“Go, Jetta, go!” I cry. “Annihilate them all, my avenging angel!”
“Show no mercy, Jetta,” says Roy.
And indeed she shows no mercy whatsoever to the earwigs. Relentlessly she cuts a swath through them, turning this way and that seeking whom she may devour, plodding inexorably through their ranks like some unstoppable dinosaur, her head darting and pouncing remorselessly, pausing in her rampage only to chew each mouthful thoroughly, as I have taught her.
Soon not an earwig is left alive within the bounds of the cupboard. Jetta nods slightly to herself in satisfaction and licks her lips.
Then she goes to sleep.
Roy and I let out huge sighs of relief.
“If I have any political pull in this town I will see to it that that plucky little terrapin receives a medal for this day’s work,” says Roy, with a quiver of suppressed emotion in his voice.
On this note of joy I will end the chapter.
Chapter 41
Unless you have corroded your brain with a sequence of late bedtimes, you will remember the heartwarming climax of the last chapter, where my terrapin Jetta fought like a tigress against a vast army of earwigs to defend me and Roy.
Nevertheless our predicament remains an unfortunate one. We are trapped in a cupboard with a prospect of almost certain death and no lunch. We are also horribly bereft of clingfilm.
Furthermore we are fast running out of topical small talk with which to make the ordeal more pleasant.
“I think I will use airplane wallpaper in Jetta’s bedroom,” I am finally reduced to saying.
“I do not give a ____ about Jetta’s bedroom,” says Roy in a rare lapse from his customary urbanity. “We must contrive an escape from this cupboard before the man comes back to kill us or I die of peckishness, whichever comes first.”
“It is so,” I admit.
“It is destructive, but perhaps we should seek to use our combined strength to attempt to burst forth from the confines of this cupboard.”
“In the circumstances we would be within our rights to damage his property.” I lower my voice. “But what if he has tricked us again and is once more lurking nearby ready to surprise us?”
“It is possible. I will put my eye to the keyhole and look for him.” Roy stoops to bring his dark glasses next to the keyhole. “Ach,” he says, “my view is occluded by the key.”
“But if he has left the key in the lock then I believe I have a plan!” I take the last scrap of clingfilm I have been nursing, roll it up into a taut narrow length and double it so that it resembles a slender pair of pincers. I insert the tool I have fashioned into the keyhole and delicately clasp the key with it. After several attempts I am able to turn the key—a click is heard and we are freed!
Roy says, “I think I may have to write a song on my new album extolling the many virtues of clingfilm.”
“If you will permit me, Roy, I have never presumed to suggest it, but I have long felt that a song about clingfilm is the one thing your oeuvre lacks.”
We open the cupboard and step forth into the attic, holding each other’s hands for courage in case the villain is still hiding there ready to pounce on us. But he is not there.
However, something else is!
“My clingfilm!” I gasp. “It has returned to me!” I sink to my knees in gratitude and joy, for the clingfilm is still there on the floor where he has negligently discarded it. There are all the rolls of it and I count them twice to be sure, giving each one a little welcome-home kiss as I stow them securely back in my various pockets and flaps, not forgetting the half a roll I keep up my sleeve for emergencies. “Now we are fully armed again,” I say to Roy as I push this last back on to its homemade spring-loaded quick-release mechanism, which I copied off a Hollywood film about guns and floozies.
“However, the villains are better armed,” says Roy, “and since the bloodlust has passed from Jetta we are outnumbered.” The spy known as Heinrich has gone to burgle Roy’s house, but from downstairs we can hear the sounds of the remaining two villains confabulating and gambling and the harsh cursing and unpleasant cough of his degraded mother.
“We must make plans to deal with them but they must not overhear us,” whispers Roy.
We huddle in a corner and confer in low voices.
“Like it or not we must deal harshly with them or they will attempt to prevent our escape,” says Roy. “I for one am prepared to use physical force.”
“I also,” I say. “But the villain’s mother? No matter how degraded she is, it goes against every tenet of politeness to assault an old lady we have barely been introduced to.”
“It is so,” says Roy, rubbing his chin. “If we cannot reason with her we will have to shove her gently into a chair and hope she is so aged in the bones as to find rising again difficult.”
“Very well.”
“We must take them by surprise,” says Roy. “If they have any warning of our coming they will attempt to variously saw and bomb us, and hell alone knows what that unhygienic mother will assay.”
“Perhaps,” I suggest, “if we were to don a disguise before descending, in order to put them off their guard for a few vital seconds?”
“I see no disguises here,” says Roy.
“No,” I say, “but we do have the clingfilm back.” I presume to nudge him knowingly. “If you know what I mean.”
“I do not,” says Roy. “Please state the thing you mean.”
“Can you have forgotten so soon the splendid costumes I wrought from it only last night, which won you first prize at the fancy dress party?” I try hard to keep any suggestion of sulkiness from my voice.
“Ach so,
” says Roy, “I am a clod and an ingrate. Then the way is plain. You will improvise disguises from clingfilm at once.”
I consult with myself. “You know,” I say, “it strikes me that at least one of those two villains was markedly superstitious. Perhaps we could take advantage of that . . . ”
“There is no time for suggestive ellipsis,” says Roy. “State your case plainly.”
And I do so—whispering in his ear. Who do I not wish to hear me? Why, you, dear reader! For your heightened enjoyment you may not know what my plan is yet. For now you must just attempt to guess what it can involve.
“That plan is sound at bottom,” says Roy a moment later. “Commence to wrap me in clingfilm at once.”
I start at the feet and work my way up. I wrap carefully and thoughtfully. I am like some tender mother who has neglected to make a costume for her child’s school nativity play until the last minute and so been forced to improvise one out of a certain household necessity and then realized that she is making the best damned costume ever and the child has never looked more beautiful and she wishes she could keep her child wrapped up in that household necessity for ever and ever and keep it locked safely in a room for the rest of its life so she could always look at it like that and cherish it forever but she knows that interfering killjoys from the social services would come and find the child eventually and institute complicated legal proceedings and besides she supposes the child would eventually become unhappy and odd so she has to let it go even though her heart is breaking but still it looks so damned beautiful she will never forget that moment in a thousand years. I do it with several layers but not too many, so that the wrapping is by no means opaque but has a faint silvery sheen in places and twinkles as with heavenly lights in others. As on the previous occasion when I made a costume, I wrap his arms and legs individually—in this case so that they are free to move so that he may thump the villains if we can put them off guard. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely costumed with clingfilm. If loving this is wrong I do not want to be right.
“You are completely wrapped with clingfilm,” I mutter to myself thoughtfully in a fury of creation, “and yet I am not quite satisfied with the effect yet . . . ”
Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Page 15
