Yo-yo's Weekend
Page 28
20.
Second Night
02:28. He always wakes at 2.28. He tosses under the heavy covers on his bed. It's hot in the stuffy room and he cannot sleep. He needs a plan, but without the jewel he feels slightly lost. He racks his brains for an idea, fails to find one, tosses again. The sheets are damp. He's far too hot. He flicks back the covers and gets out of bed. Drawing back the heavy, pink curtains, he kneels on the sill and lets the moonlight wash through the window to bathe the slender, copper-topped, night-shirted figure in its lambent glow. Is this a 'New Moon', or just an eclipse? Are dashing, glittery vampires out there in the trees wooing silly young things with their breathless sweet-nothings?
Oh Ella, I (gasp gasp gasp) love (gasp gasp gasp) you (gasp gasp gasp).
Oh Jedward, I (gasp gasp gasp) love (gasp gasp gasp) you too (gasp gasp)
But (breathe) you (breathe) can (breathe) never (breathe) have (breathe) me
Why, Jedward? Because you're a vampire and will suck the blood from my veins?
No, Ella, because this is a 12-certificate movie and therefore can’t be too fruity in front of the children. Also the franchise needs to stretch this rather thin plot to fit several sequels or they’ll lose money, so the plot has to slooooooooow dooooooown.
Clifton Green is quiet. The parked cars are still. The night air is calm. Everyone is sleeping. Except for Yo-yo. Who needs a plan. He gets off the window sill and goes to the bathroom.
''Hi, Yo-yo.''
''Hi, Eleazar.''
The ghostly boy perched on the cistern crosses his legs. ''You got a plan yet?''
''No,'' says Yo-yo. ''Any ideas?''
''I told you before.'' The boy cocks his head, considering Yo-yo with bright, shining eyes. ''If you need our help…''
''I'll bear it in mind.'' Yo-yo lowers the lid but doesn't flush this time.
''You never know when a ghost might come in handy,'' Eleazar Glenn chirps.
''That's true,'' says Yo-yo thoughtfully. ''A ghost or two might come in handy.''
Down in the living room, the tiny glow of a miniature china lantern illuminates the corner of the mantelpiece. Sylvain is sitting on a hummock. His battered straw hat is shoved back on his head. One filthy bare ankle rests on the ragged edge of his shorts on his filthy right knee. His rod curves and bends in his hands. He is fishing. He is also worried and chews frantically on a grass stalk. He is worried about the blue-bonneted, basket-carrying milkmaid Aureole, for Aureole is pregnant by Sylvain and Sylvain has no means of supporting a child. Aureole, however, is blooming. She dances round the hummock singing '' 'ello mon cheri.''
'' 'ello, Aureole,'' says Sylvain unhappily. '' 'Ow is ze bébé?''
''Bien, mon Sylvain, très bien. Le bébé, c'est ici.'' She places Sylvain's palm on her bulging china belly. ''Oh, mon cheri. We 'ave un bébé.''
''Oui,'' says Sylvain unhappily, feeling it kick beneath Aureole's skirts.
''Now we can marry,'' says Aureole.
''Oui,'' says Sylvain unhappily, choking back a tear. It isn't fair. He's only a boy, a poor farmer's son. He has his whole life ahead.
''You dirty leetle ba-stard!'' Chrétien tugs at his green cord trousers. ''You dirty bastard.'' He rubs his bristly chin. ''What the hell did you think you were doing, getting my granddaughter up the duff like that?''
Tears well in Sylvain's eyes. ''I didn't mean to,'' he murmurs.
''Didn't mean to what?'' barks Chrétien. ''Get her up the stick or shag her?''
''Get her .... pregnant,'' says Sylvain.
''So you meant to shag her.''
It wasn't as simple as that. One moonlit night Aureole had led him off behind the big mock-Ming flower vase and, breathing urgently into his ear behind the daffodils that her pond needed fishing and he should cast his rod in it and she could help him arrange his tackle, tugged at his string till it broke.
''What do you think she is?'' Chrétien rants. ''Some whore you can shag when ze fancy takes you?''
''No ...'' says Sylvain miserably.
''Some cheap china tart you can use for your pleasure then cast aside?''
''No.''
''Some painted slut or trollop you can have on a whim?''
''No…''
''So you raped her, you bastard!'' yells Chrétien.
''No …'' Sylvain starts crying. Aureole was a practised and skilful milkmaid and she'd practised her skill on him, screaming 'Sylvain Sylvain' so loudly she had rattled the daffodils in their vase. A head had dropped off. ''It wasn't like that.''
''Oh, mon grandpère,'' Aureole sighs, ''Me and my bébé and my husband to be.'' She places her hand on Sylvain's straw hat. ''I am so 'appy.''
Light floods the living room. The figurines freeze. Yo-yo comes in. What the hell does he want now, at this time of night? It's 02.25. Does this night-shirted prowler never sleep? He picks up the York Evening Press and is instantly mortified.
BARE-FACED CHEEK OF MYSTERY STREAKER
reads the headline.
Three large photographs dominate the front page. Photo 1 shows
Nude Yo-yo on the Minster steps in front of the Great West Door. It's a full-length frontal shot. His hands are dangling at his sides, his expression similar to that of the startled pigeon on his head.
Photo 2 shows
Bare-skinned Yo-yo sitting in Constantine the Great's lap, his arm round the green Emperor's neck, his ankles crossed, a big grin on his face. He isn't exactly capering with Constantine, but it isn't far off.
He doesn't remember posing for that second photo. Did he pose? He'd have had to spring onto the plinth for one thing. He can't remember doing that. But maybe he did. Oh Lordy. Doctor Molasses will have him in Gillworthy for life.
Photo 3 shows
Yo-yo's bare buttocks mooning at the crowd.
''The nudie boy, who then ran away into the Minster's gardens, has been identified.'' Yo-yo's heart thuds uncomfortably. ''One Martin Mizzenmast, a pupil at the Minster School, was discovered lurking in his underwear in the bushes.''
Ha ha ha! Martin Mizzenmast! Yo-yo rejoices. Poor sap! That'll teach him.
''Martin Mizzenmast denies all charges. 'Those aren't my buttocks,' he told police, 'At least I don't think they're mine.' Nonetheless, Martin Mizzenmast is to be ducked in the river tomorrow as a punishment for his bare-faced cheek.''
Ah well. Yo-yo tosses the paper back onto the coffee table and rummages around for some bus timetables and tourist leaflets. How to come at it from a different angle? Disguise? What kind of disguise? He asked Baby for more ideas but all Baby said was ''Use your imagination'' over and over again. Last time he'd done that, Doctor Molasses had streamed electricity through his brain. He had no desire to repeat that experience, twitching in his chair with dribble running down his chin and piss running down his leg. Matron Majeiskii had told him: ''You have to co-operate, Yo-yo. It's for your own good.''
Suddenly a tourist leaflet catches his eye. It is advertising a play in the King's Square at the top of the Shambles and a plan begins to form in his imagination.
''We'll settle zis later,'' Chrétien tells Sylvain as Yo-yo closes the door. ''You won't get away with putting your bun in 'er oven, you feelthy chien.''
Sylvain keeps weeping whilst, in his bedroom, Yo-yo sits on his bed with his feet crammed inside the lion's paws and studies the leaflet. He grins at his own cunning. This is a plan so fiendishly clever it cannot fail.