by Tom Sharpe
Eva grabbed Wilt’s legs and began to pull. Outside the police had reached Gudrun Schautz and were cutting her down. As the rope broke Wilt fell from his perch and mingled with portions of the chair.
‘Oh my poor darling,’ said Eva, her voice suddenly taking on a new and, to Wilt, thoroughly alarming solicitude. It was typical of the bloody woman to practically turn him into a cripple and then be conscience-stricken. As she took him in her arms Wilt groaned and decided the time had come to put the boot in diplomatically. He passed out.
*
On the patio below Gudrun Schautz was unconscious too. Before she could be more than partially strangled she had been lifted down and now the head of the Anti-Terrorist Squad was giving her the kiss of life rather more passionately than was called for. Flint dragged himself away from this unnatural relationship and cautiously entered the house. A hole in the kitchen floor testified to the destructive force of a ruptured bio-loo. ‘Out of their tiny minds,’ he muttered behind his handkerchief and dithered through into the hall before climbing the stairs to the attic. The scene that greeted him there confirmed his opinion. The Wilts were clasped in one another’s arms. Flint shuddered. He would never understand what these two diabolical people saw in one another. Come to think of it, he didn’t want to know. There were some mysteries better left unprobed. He turned back towards his more orderly world where there were no such awful ambiguities and was greeted on the landing by the quads. They were dressed in some clothes they had found in Mrs de Frackas’ chest of drawers and wearing hats that had been fashionable before the First World War. As they tried to rush past him Flint stopped them.
‘I don’t think your mummy and daddy want to be disturbed,’ he said, firmly holding to the view that nice children should be spared the sight of their naked parents presumably making love. But the Wilt quads had never been nice.
‘What are they doing?’ asked Samantha.
Flint swallowed. ‘They’re … er … engaged.’
‘You mean they’re not married?’ asked Samantha, gleefully adjusting her boa.
‘I didn’t say that …’ began Flint.
‘Then we’re bastards,’ squealed Josephine. ‘Michael’s daddy says if mummies and daddies aren’t married their babies are called bastards.’
Flint stared down at the hideously precocious child. ‘You can say that again,’ he muttered, and went on downstairs. Above him the quads could be heard chanting something about daddies having wigwags and mummies having … Flint hurried out of earshot and found the stench in the kitchen a positive relief. Two ambulance men were carrying Mrs de Frackas out on a stretcher. Amazingly she was still alive.
‘Bullet lodged in her stays,’ said one of the ambulance men. ‘Tough old bird. Don’t make them like this any more.’
Mrs de Frackas opened a beady eye. ‘Are the children still alive?’ she asked faintly.
Flint nodded. ‘It’s all right. They’re quite safe. You needn’t worry about them.’
‘Them?’ moaned Mrs de Frackas. ‘You can’t seriously suppose I’m worried about them. It’s the thought that I’ll have to live next door to the little savages that …’
But the effort to express her horror was too much for her and she sank back on the pillow. Flint followed her out to the ambulance.
‘Take me off the drip,’ she pleaded as they loaded her inside.
‘Can’t do that, mum,’ said the ambulance man, ‘it’s against union rules.’
He shut the doors and turned to Flint. ‘Suffering from shock, poor old dear. They get like that sometimes. Don’t know what they’re saying.’
But Flint knew better, and as the ambulance drove away his heart went out to the courageous old lady. He was thinking of asking for a transfer himself.
23
It was the end of term at the Tech. Wilt walked across the common with the frost on the grass, ducks waddling by the river and the sun shining out of a cloudless sky. He had no committee meetings to attend and no teaching to do. About the only cloud on the horizon was the possibility that the Principal might congratulate the Wilt family on their remarkable escape from danger. To avert it Wilt had already intimated to the Vice-Principal that such rank hypocrisy would be in the worst of taste. If the Principal were to express his true feelings he would have to admit that he wished to hell the terrorists had carried out their promises.
Dr Mayfield was certainly of this opinion. The Special Branch had been going through the students in Advanced English for Foreigners with a fine-tooth comb and the Anti-Terrorist Squad had detained two Iraqis for questioning. Even the curriculum had been under scrutiny and Professor Maerlis, ably assisted by Dr Board, had submitted a report condemning the seminars on Contemporary Theories of Revolution and Social Change as positively subversive and inciting to violence. And Dr Board had hoped to exonerate Wilt.
‘Considering the political lunatics he has to cope with in his department it’s a wonder Wilt isn’t a raving fascist. Take Bilger for example …’ he had told the Special Branch officer in charge of enquiries. The officer had taken Bilger. He had also screened the film and had viewed it with incredulity.
‘If this is the sort of filth you encourage your lecturers to produce it’s no bloody wonder the country is in the mess it is,’ he told the Principal, who had promptly tried to shift the blame to Wilt.
‘I always considered the thing a disgrace,’ said Wilt, ‘and if you’ll check the minutes of the Education Committee meeting you’ll see I wanted to make the issue public. I think parents have a right to know when their children are being politically indoctrinated.’
And the minutes had proved him right. From that moment Wilt was given a clean ticket. Officially.
*
But on the domestic front suspicion still lurked. Eva had taken to waking him in the small hours to demand proof that he loved her.
‘Of course I do, damn it,’ grunted Wilt. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘Actions speak louder than words,’ retorted Eva, snuggling up to him.
‘Oh all right,’ said Wilt. And the exercise had done him good. It was a leaner, healthier Wilt who walked briskly to the Tech, and the knowledge that he would never have to take this path again buoyed his spirits. They were moving from Willington Road. The removal van had already arrived when he left and this afternoon the home he returned to would be 45 Oakhurst Avenue. The choice of the new house had been Eva’s. It was several steps down the social ladder from Willington Road, but the big house there had bad vibes for her. Wilt deplored the word but agreed. He had always disliked the pretensions of the neighbourhood and Oakhurst Avenue was nicely anonymous.
‘At least we’ll be away from haute academe and the relicts of imperial arrogance,’ he told Peter Braintree as they sat in The Pig In A Poke after the Principal’s pep talk. There had been no mention of Wilt’s ordeal and they were celebrating. ‘And there’s a quiet little pub round the corner so I won’t have to brew my own gutrot.’
‘Thank heavens for that. But won’t Eva pine for the compost heap and all that?’
Wilt drank his beer cheerfully. ‘The educative effects of exploding septic tanks have to be seen to be believed,’ he said. ‘To say that ours revealed the fundamental flaws in the Alternative Society might be going too far but it certainly blew Eva’s mind. I’ve noticed she’s taken to medicated toilet paper and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn she’s making tea with distilled water.’
‘But she’ll have to find something to occupy her energy.’
Wilt nodded. ‘She has. The quads. She’s determined to see they don’t grow up in the image of Gudrun Schautz. A losing battle, to my way of thinking, but at least I’ve managed to prise her away from sending them to the Convent. It’s remarkable how much better their language has become of late. All in all I have an idea that life is going to be more peaceful from now on.’
*
But as with so many of Wilt’s predictions this one was premature. When, having spent an ho
ur tidying his office, he sauntered contentedly up Oakhurst Avenue it was to find the new house unlit and empty. There was no sign of Eva, the quads or the furniture van. He waited about for an hour and then phoned from a call-box. Eva exploded at the other end.
‘Don’t blame me,’ she shouted, ‘the removal men have had to unload the van.’
‘Unload the van? What on earth for?’
‘Because Josephine hid in the wardrobe and they put that in first, that’s why.’
‘But they don’t have to unload because of that,’ said Wilt. ‘She wouldn’t suffocate and it would teach her a lesson.’
‘And what about Mrs de Frackas’ cat and the Balls’ poodle and Jennifer Willis’ four pet rabbits …’
‘The what?’ said Wilt.
‘She was playing hostages,’ shouted Eva, ‘and …’
But the coin in the phone box ran out. Wilt didn’t bother to put another in. He strolled out along the street wondering what it was about his marriage with Eva that turned everyday events into minor catastrophes. He couldn’t bring himself to think what sort of time Josephine was having in the wardrobe. Talk about trauma … Oh well, there was nothing like experience. As he passed along Oakhurst Avenue towards the pub Wilt suddenly felt pity for his new neighbours. They still had no idea what was going to hit them.
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Published by Arrow Books in 2004
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Copyright © Tom Sharpe, 1979
Tom Sharpe has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1979 by Secker & Warburg Ltd
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ISBN 9780099466499
