And I proceed to make some further adjustments. What they are you may not know just now . . .
A few moments later I step back and consider. I am so pleased with the results that I start to think boastfully. I reflect that my inborn talent should be propagated for generations to come and resolve sometime soon to post an anonymous donation to a sperm bank. Then with more humility I realize that God put this fire in me and it is his to bestow or withhold at will.
“You are ingeniously disguised with clingfilm,” I say. “Now let us see what will befall . . . ”
Jetta wakes up and blinks in astonishment.
To be continued! Very soon.
Chapter 42
Downstairs the two junior villains and Heinrich’s foul mother are playing cards for money. Practiced in deception, she is making good her losses to Heinrich and has won a kidney from Otto to replace the one her son has won from her.
“Oh scheisse,” she curses as a new hand is dealt, “I cannot believe how bad these cards are. A three, a four, a forged library card that must have got shuffled up by mistake, and two other useless cards. I will never win with this hand.”
Otto and Lothar cackle to themselves and shove large amounts of money into the pot, confident of victory.
“Oh, what the hell, I need the action,” she says casually, and matches their bet.
They raise each other for a few rounds, markers and IOU notes taking the place of cash as the betting heats up. Then the old woman cackles and turns over her cards—to reveal three aces and two kings!
“Pontoon!” she cries. “I win again!”
“I see where Heinrich gets his lying technique from,” says Otto ruefully.
“Now you owe me both your kidneys,” the evil old woman cackles. “I will keep one and sell the other to whichever renal patient will perform the most sexual favors for me.”
“Wait a minute,” says Otto quizzically, “how can you have three aces when I had two myself?”
“And now I come to think of it I had three kings,” says Lothar.
They exchange suspicious glances while the old woman hums and looks casual.
“She is cheating,” says Otto, outraged.
“Seize her.”
“Dangle her upside down.”
“Confiscate her false teeth to ensure repayment of debts.”
Perhaps fortunately, just then a distraction arrives—for Jetta and I come boldly down the stairs!
“What,” cries Lothar, seizing his knife menacingly, “out of the cupboard? Return at once or it will go badly with you.”
“The psychic!” cries Otto, paling. “There is something eerie about his escape. He has manipulated the cupboard doors in some uncanny fashion.”
“Woe,” I cry, “woe and calamity.” I have a sad face.
“What has happened?” asks Lothar.
“Roy,” I say, my voice a broken whisper, “Roy has expired from ill-usage. He is currently dead!”
I put my hand on my brow to express misery. Jetta for her part gets into the spirit of things by bowing her head sadly, or perhaps she is merely scanning the floor for more insects.
Otto and Lothar sit down heavily.
“Dead?” says Otto sadly. “But I only just met him.”
“He seemed so nice,” says Lothar.
“And in the best of health.”
“Yes, it makes you think.” They are plainly shaken.
“We had best call the coroner,” says Otto.
“We will get into trouble for this.”
“Fools!” cries the old woman. “Can you not see he is lying? I know an unpracticed bluffer when I see one. See how he blushes as he speaks!”
“I am not,” I say, reddening even more. “It is merely hot in here.”
“Bah, she is right,” cries Otto angrily. “We are surrounded by cheats and mountebanks.”
They advance on me angrily.
“Seize him.”
“Punish him for lying.”
“Wash his tongue with soap.”
“Pull his ears and shake him roughly.”
“Make him stand in a special corner for discredited liars.”
Fortunately a further distraction arrives. . .
There are footsteps upon the stairs.
“I would like to inquire,” says Otto silkily, taking up his bomb, “if Orbison is dead, then who, pray, is descending the stairs?”
“It is Roy’s ghost,” I say sepulchrally, and Roy appears, disguised as a ghost by the miracle of clingfilm.
The effect is uncanny, though I say so myself. I have affixed trailing streamers of clingfilm to each of his various limbs to give the appearance of some sort of spectral ectoplasm and wrought a clingfilm halo atop his head and at least a sketchy suggestion of a pair of angel wings on his back. The silvery sheen and glinting lights make him appear less a man than some eerie kind of phantom.
“Whoooo,” says Roy, somewhat muffled.
Otto and Lothar turn pale and back away in terror, crossing themselves and attempting to remember prayers.
“By my psychic powers I have brought him here to haunt you,” I say. “He is vexed with you for your ill-usage and unless you allow me and my terrapin to escape he will hound you without let until the end of your days. Your careers will stall, you will have no luck in gambling or pursuing floozies, your pension schemes will prove inadequate and wherever you move property values will depreciate due to his unearthly moaning.”
“Whoooo,” says Roy again, scarily.
“By all means escape,” says Otto quickly. “Just take that spooky apparition with you.” Lothar nods.
But the old woman is not deceived.
“Pah,” she says contemptuously. “Fools and cowards! If that is a ghost then I am Greta Sonderbar of ‘Spooky Occurrences,’ intrepid girl ghost hunter and fearless exposer of charlatans and mountebanks!” And she stamps on Roy’s foot, causing him to hop and say “Ouch.”
“We have been taken in!” cries Otto angrily, preparing to light his bomb. But Roy has closed in by this point and with one swift blow he thumps Otto on the shoulder, causing him to cry with pain and drop his bomb!
But meanwhile Lothar waves his knife.
“You are unarmed and defenseless,” he cackles nastily, brandishing it at me.
“Not quite,” I say, and quick as a flash I activate the spring-loaded quick-release mechanism in the arm of my jacket and the sawn-off half-roll of clingfilm shoots out of my sleeve and pops into my hand and I brutally rap him on the knuckles with it so that he drops his knife and says “Ow.”
“Good work,” says Roy. I seize the knife and pick up the bomb while Roy punches the villains on the jaw so they are dazed and groggy.
But then we are confronted with the old woman, who is advancing toward us waving a greasy and unhygienic frying pan in one hand and a rusty bottle opener in another. She will variously bludgeon us or attempt to prize our extremities off unless she is prevented.
Guiltily we exchange a glance and then shove her down into a chair as gently as we can.
“Oh, you brutes, it will take me forever to lever my old bones out of this chair!” she cries, flailing pathetically.
Roy and I blush and look down at our feet in shame.
“We are sorry and will come round to perform household chores for you at some point in the future by way of making amends,” says Roy.
Quickly we tie the villains up in chairs with tea towels and make a soothing cup of tea for the old woman.
The villains now look sheepish and forlorn.
“Please may I have my bomb back?” says Otto bashfully. “I was only issued it for the day and I will get in trouble at work.”
“I am sorry, I must confiscate it for the time being,” I say. “However, I will write you out a receipt for it. If you behave well you may have it back at some point in the future when all this has been resolved.”
He bows and mumbles his thanks.
As Roy’s arms are free I see to my regre
t that he is pulling the clingfilm from him himself.
We put some ice on the villains’ bruises, write out a receipt for their weapons and leave at top speed.
Chapter 43
Trepidantly we venture forth into the degraded lodging house and descend the stairs.
On the next floor down we are accosted by ragged figures who cough and hold out their hands for alms.
“Please help me, kind sirs,” says a piteous figure. “I was a trick-cyclist by trade, but one day performing in the park I made a mistake and ran over a small child’s foot, causing her to cry and drop her ice cream. Since then I have been shamed and outcast.”
“I for my part was a champion yo-yo performer,” says another. “But one day showing off in the street I lost control of my implement and hit a relative of the mayor on the nose, causing him to bleed on his shirt. Since then all doors have been closed to me and I cannot bear to look at a yo-yo. I do not have an adequate pension scheme.”
Roy takes pity and magnanimously scatters a handful of coins, which they crawl after shamelessly.
“I admit to having a fear of trick-cyclists and yo-yo artistes,” I say.
“Who does not?” says Roy. “They are a menace to themselves and others. Moreover those are foolish careers with little stability and no future once arthritis sets in.”
Shuddering, we descend to the next level, where behind closed doors failed car designers can be heard moaning and wringing their hands.
“Five wheels, what was I thinking?” cries one.
“The sooner we are out of here the gladder I will be,” says Roy.
“I too,” I say. “This is no place for respectable citizens or innocent terrapins.” Jetta for her part has withdrawn her head very nearly into her shell and only her eyes and adorable little nose can be seen protruding. “At least we can congratulate ourselves on having escaped the villains’ lair.”
But just then a figure appears in the lobby below us—the lead villain, in his trademark Mexican bandit hat!
“Let this be a lesson to you not to congratulate yourself prematurely,” says Roy dryly.
The chief villain is whistling a cheerful if nasty tune and looks pleased with himself—as well he might, for he is carrying the mysterious briefcase he must have burgled from Roy’s house. We swallow nervously as we perceive his gun sticking out of his bandolier. He lingers in the lobby playing a nasty trick on the degraded wretches who cluster round him begging for alms—he throws his trick coin tied to a piece of thread onto the floor and then yanks it away from them as they crawl to grab it, chuckling loudly to himself at this unpleasant fun.
“What a rotten man,” says Roy in outrage. “I confess I would love to put a spoke in his mysterious plans and return that briefcase to its rightful owner. But instead it seems more likely he will presently climb the stairs and shoot us to death with his gun.”
“It is so,” I agree dismally. We look around for a hiding place or way of escape but there is none.
However, then a plan occurs to me.
“We have one thing on our side,” I say. “We managed to recover my clingfilm.”
“It is so,” says Roy, “and I will wager you will find a means to extricate us from our predicament using that improbably useful miracle of science—although what that means could possibly be completely eludes me.”
“There is one thing we might try,” I say. And I lean forward and whisper in his ear. Again you may not know what I say! You may be hurt to feel excluded, but for now I am again concealing my plan for your heightened suspense and enjoyment.
“Also,” says Roy, “that plan is completely logical and eminently sensible. You will proceed to wrap me in clingfilm in the manner you describe at once.”
I bow. “As you wish, Roy.”
I start from the feet and work my way up. I work hurriedly and fearfully and yet not without pride in craftsmanship and by no means without unbearable exhilaration. Though time is of the essence I cannot help but take a moment or two to admire the soft play of light on the pellucid miracle of science as I apply it to Roy’s dark contours. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm. I am a cup filled with euphoria sitting on a saucer of gladness.
“You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I comment. “But now I must proceed to the next part—to wrap you some more!”
You may not know yet exactly how I wrap him! But suffice it to say my plan involves wrapping Roy again and again and again, many many times, to a depth of many many layers. So much so that it involves using up all my remaining clingfilm! Soon the landing is littered with empty tubes and tears of joy are coursing down my features and ticking like little raindrops of happiness onto the floorboards. I am as weak as a kitten and happy as a cow.
“You are wrapped in clingfilm to a depth of many, many layers, in a manner that has used up all my remaining clingfilm,” I finally gasp.
Roy makes sounds I cannot really hear at all, but by dint of much straining and diligent attention I finally surmise they may be “Capital, proceed with the next stage of the plan.”
“Oh yes—the plan,” I remember with a sudden start of recollection.
Some moments pass in hurried preparation . . .
Down in the lobby the villain finally tires of his mean game and allows one of the beggars to catch the coin. The poor man clutches it happily, crying, “At last, now I can invest in an adequate pension scheme,” whereupon the villain cruelly yanks it out of his grasp and puts it back in his pocket with a big laugh. Sighing to himself, he starts to mount the staircase—and sees me and Jetta at the top of the first flight of steps!
“So,” he cries, whipping out his gun, “the man with the well-groomed terrapin! I deduce you have managed to escape from my inefficient henchmen.”
“It is so,” I admit, “although you should not upbraid them for it, for they tried their best.”
“Where is your friend who dresses in black?”
“Nowhere,” I am forced to fib. “I have not seen him.” Actually he is very close at hand.
“Hmm,” says the villain suspiciously. “What is that behind your back?”
“Nothing,” I again lie, blushing somewhat, “a trick of the shadows.”
“I spend much of my working life lurking in shadows,” he says silkily, “and I have never before seen a trick of the shadows resembling a large mass of a futuristic plastic-like substance that glints mischievously.”
I hum noncommittally and examine my fingernails and flick bits of lint off Jetta.
The villain shrugs. “It does not matter. I will now shoot you many times for daring to escape. Farewell, Mr. Hero!”
“Farewell,” I say, with a somewhat perfunctory bow.
“Always so courteous and correct,” he sneers. “Where does it get you? What fun do you have? I almost pity you. You will die without having known the savage thrill of crawling under tables and tying people’s shoelaces together or flicking meatballs across crowded restaurants into people’s soup so their shirtfronts are splashed or sticking rude post-it notes on clergymen’s backsides or swapping old ladies’ handbags for trick ones that huge rubber snakes come out of or setting fire to badgers’ tails and letting them loose in women’s department store changing rooms so the women run out screaming and you can see their bras.”
“With all due respect,” I say defiantly, “you will go to prison without having known the happiness that comes of being nice and considerate to those around you.”
“Bah,” cries the villain, “prepare to be shot in the organs a hundred times or more!” And he starts to mount the stairs.
Briskly I step to one side, revealing that which is behind me. It is a huge ball of clingfilm at the center of which is a man-shaped figure in black.
“Prepare to be bowled over by Mr. Roy Orbison, completely wrapped in clingfilm!” I cry. And I give a big push and launch the ball of clingfilm and Roy down the stairs.
The villain’s eyes widen in alarm as he sees Roy rolling down
toward him, gathering speed as he goes. “No!” he cries, but then the ball/Roy is upon him and he is knocked over and flattened.
To my alarm Roy bounces off a wall and crashes through the apartment house doors and goes rolling down the street a way, but the derelict who caught the trick coin helps me retrieve him. I then watch helplessly as the derelict takes a rusty penknife and releases Roy from the clingfilm ball.
“Thank you, my man,” says Roy to the degraded figure as he helps him out. “Tell me, can you say, ‘Testing, one two’?”
“I can indeed, sir,” says the derelict puzzledly. He clears his throat and says it quite well, although his pronunciation leaves something to be desired and his voice is a bit phlegmy from his life of degradation.
“Good enough,” says Roy. “You are now a roadie. Report to my tour manager, who will check you for vermin and give you soup and an advance of money.”
The degraded figure is overwhelmed with gratitude and touches his forelock several times, and I repress a tear of emotion at my friend’s kindness. We give him the villains’ bomb and knife to take to Roy’s tour manager with instructions for them to be kept safely on a high shelf away from children.
The villain is snoring and unconscious. We check he is not badly injured, take the mysterious briefcase from his inert hand and leave the bad neighborhood with all possible haste.
Chapter 44
Roy and I flee through several streets until we are in a much nicer part of town and at last sit down breathlessly at a table at an open-air cafe in a crowded square. Here surely we will be safe from everything save the occasional trick-cyclist or yo-yo show-off.
“We must find a policeman,” I say, “and report our ill-usage and give them the briefcase.”
“Hold,” says Roy, “a problem arises. The briefcase is not ours and for all we can prove belongs to those scoundrels. As far as legal nicety goes we are in the wrong in depriving them of it.”
“It is so,” I admit glumly.
“Besides . . . ,” says Roy darkly, “I do not wish to cast aspersions, but can we trust the police to return the case to its rightful owners? We do not know how far the conspiracy has spread. Think how easily those villains infiltrated the press.”
Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Page 16
