Masterminders

by Tara Basi

  “Everything you need to know,” Dimple screamed directly into my face, pointing violently at the cardboard, then spun on the spot and danced back out on to the stage where she resumed her demented preparations.

  I stared open mouthed: was that it?

  “What you waiting for boy? Read, study, rehearse,” Mummy-ji bellowed, thumping my instructions with her pudgy fist as she shouted each command.

  Dimple was still practicing when the audience started trickling in. After a moment of further whirling she finally noticed the theatre filling up and slowly sneaked off stage to join me.

  “Do you think anyone noticed that, me practicing?” Dimpled asked with a horrified expression.

  “Absolutely not, too dark,” I lied convincingly.

  “So what, they get extra, lucky people,” Mummy-ji snorted.

  “Why are you not dressed and ready? You’re trying to sabotage my show,” Dimple hissed, almost in tears.

  “No, no, but I’m not on for half an hour,” I replied in surprise, pointing at the instructions written on the card.

  “You are trying to ruin everything, humiliate me, destroy my career,” Dimple sobbed while pointing accusingly at me with her sharp red nail.

  “Evil boy, look what you’ve done,” Mummy-ji said softly, while staring kebab skewers at me. “Poor Dimple, don’t worry he’ll get ready right now.”

  “Look, I’m dressing, sitting in the chair, I’m ready,” I replied, taken aback by Dimple’s outburst.

  “Better. Even if you’re not on stage I’m dancing for you. I have to see you in the character of my eternal love trapped in his damaged body, not a snotty kid still smelling of dead rats,” Dimple explained, suddenly calmer and sweeter, if slightly bug-eyed and crazy looking.

  Dimple continued to prepare silently behind the wall and Mummy-ji fiddled with bits of material. I sneaked a peek through the stage curtains and was amazed to find the hall was already full, people were even standing at the back. There were a lot more men in the audience than I’d expected. Then again, Dimple had really trimmed down and in the poster for the show she was wearing a very tight sari, with a low cut top and a bare middle which showed off her rippling abs.

  Finally it was time for the show to start.

  I don’t know much about dancing but I think Dimple was actually very good. She could leap really high, twirl for ages without falling over and her legs and body bent like spaghetti into some very interesting shapes. The music turned out to be quite good as well, not all thumpy and ear drum damaging. The best part, though I probably wouldn’t tell Madge, was when Dimple rushed off for a costume change, which was about every fifteen minutes. I learned more about the female anatomy that night than I ever had from Madge, Mum and Bobby combined.

  The worst part was performing. The cardboard instructions told me what costume to wear at what time and what angle my head should be tilted, to indicate different internal levels of emotional turmoil. I wasn’t to do anything else, not even roll myself on stage; I just had to dribble when Dimple signalled. Dimple would look after everything else. In the beginning I thought nothing could be easier until Dimple leapt into the wings to collect me for the first time.

  Dimple saved all her fastest, craziest dance moves just for me. Each time I was flung on to the stage at incredible speed, I was twirled dangerously on one wheel, tilted so far that the back of my head bumped the stage floor while she leapt around me, over me, did handstands on my armrest, my backrest, slid towards me at frightening speeds, somersaulted over my head and I had to sit completely still while every sensible cell in my brain said duck, run, throw up.

  Finally, Dimple finished and I’d survived, though drenched in sweat, shaking and saddled with a morbid fear of wheelchairs.

  The audience went wild. Dimple took ovation after ovation. Everyone was whistling and cheering. At one point Dimple wheeled me forward, my knees were knocking too hard for me to stand, and I got cheered too which led to me quickly being wheeled off again, while Dimpled returned to even happier clapping.

  “We must have collected a fortune for Charity X,” I whispered to Mummy-ji as Dimple performed one more encore.

  “Break even be good,” Mummy-ji replied, staring proudly at another Dimple back flip.

  “What? It’s full, packed out there and all the chicken bits got sold,” I insisted. I’d really counted on tonight’s show raising a lot of money. I had very low expectations of Mr Dicklightly and Mr McTater’s truly unhinged events planned for tomorrow.

  “Stupid boy, look, expensive make-up, top costumes, special carbon fibre wheelchair, you think it’s free,” Mummy-ji answered in an angry whisper, waving her arms at the costume rails and pointing at my wheels. I had wondered how Dimple was able to throw me about quite so easily.

  “So, how much?” I pressed, thinking about how much Bobby really needed the money.

  “Don’t worry, loads, £250, at least Dundee no problem,” Mummy-ji said with a smile as she pinched my cheeks and waggled my head.

  It was all very disappointing. I left the hall and looked for Madge.

  “You’re amazing, when did you get the time to rehearse?” Madge blubbered, still quite tearful even though the show had finished an hour ago. “All those intricate moves and the lovely head angles with just the right amount of dribbling, it was really emotional.”

  “Thanks Madge. Obviously I did have to practice a lot and it was really tough, but we’re not raising that much. It seems these events are really expensive to put on. I’m getting worried we won’t have enough,” I said, pleased that Madge thought I was a star but still worried about the money.

  “How much have you got so far,” Madge asked.

  “I can’t check the account till Monday, but I reckon we’ve only got about £1,200,” I told Madge sadly.

  “You’re crazy, that’s a huge amount. But we’ve still got my movie and tomorrow’s events. You’ll have loads,” Madge answered cheerily.

  “Sure, you’re probably right,” I replied. I didn’t want to upset Madge, but I knew it was a long way short of the £4000 Bobby needed. Mr McTater and Mr Dicklightly’s events would have to be spectacular.

  Sunday had an optimistic feel. It was a nice chilly bright December morning. On the way to the beach I kept reminding myself I’d never expected rat tossing to raise any money, even though that was quite sane compared to Mr McTater’s challenge. It was not certain it would even go ahead. To take up the McTater challenge you’d have to be crazier than McStrumpy with a stronger stomach, which left no one.

  Mr McTater had put up bizarre signs all the way along the path to the cliffs overlooking the beach; ‘Take Back the Skies’; ‘Take Back the Beaches’; ‘We Can Eat What We Want’; ‘They Smell the Fear’; ‘It Ends, Right Here, Right Now’. The event wasn’t due to start for an hour but already a huge crowd was swarming all over the cliff top. An excited group was gathered around Doggie the bookmaker who was shouting out odds on how long the event would last. People were clamouring to place bets. The favourite was 3 seconds; nobody seemed to think anything beyond six seconds was worth betting on. Mr McTater had roped off a huge area around the cliff and was charging people a £1 to get in.

  “Great Mr McTater you must have collected a fortune and minimal expenses, right?” I asked hopefully.

  “Right you are Terry, collected £425 so far, all for Charity X,” Mr McTater happily replied.

  “I was hoping for more,” I said sadly.

  “What you talking about, it’s a huge haul. Doggy says he’ll donate another £100. That makes more than £500. Hear me boy? £500,” Mr McTater explained, obviously mighty pleased with himself.

  He was right and so was Bobby. It was just too much money to try and collect in such a short time. So far everyone, the nuns, Mr Singh, Mr McStrumpy, Dimple and now Mr McTater had all done amazingly well, but it just wasn’t going to be enough. I smiled limply, gave my pound to Mr McTater and went to join Bobby, who’d saved me a great spot right at the front. I s
at down next to him on the grass, and we waited with our legs dangling over the cliff. Down below a simple gas fired barbeque sat all alone on the beach. Madge was a little further back along the beach, camera at the ready. As ten o’clock approached the crowd grew quiet.

  From behind an old fisherman’s hut near the shoreline a surreal figure emerged and began slowly trudging across the sand towards the barbeque. He, or she, was wearing a black motorcycle helmet with the visor down, a big yellow fisherman’s sou’wester over bright green angler’s waders and wearing huge red industrial rubber gloves. In one hand the figure carried a large square metal box. The crowd gasped. A rope was tied around the challenger’s waist and it was being played out by the women’s institute tug-of-war team as the strange figure advanced across the sand.

  “Someone’s actually going to do it,” I whispered in amazement to Bobby.

  “I know. Who’d believe it? I just hope Charity X is worth all this,” Bobby answered without taking his eyes of the bulky figure slowly moving towards the barbeque.

  It seemed best to keep quiet at that point. Even for Bobby, I wondered if it was worth putting a person through the unbelievable horror we’d soon be witnessing. Maybe the yellow coated figure would come to their senses, drop the box and run for their life? I tore my eyes away to check on Madge. With relief I saw that she was sensibly keeping her distance.

  The figure reached the barbeque and very carefully lifted the metal box and placed it on a flat serving area next to the burners. There was an almost breathless silence from the crowd as the box was opened and the figure reached inside and pulled out… a box of matches. A collective ‘phew’ filled the air. The burner was lit and attention returned the box. The figure reached in, to a mass sucking of air past teeth, and pulled out a smaller metal box, which was greeted by another gasp of relief. The big box was lifted to the ground and the smaller shoe box sized metal container placed next to the burner. With their bulky rubber gloves the figure struggled for a moment to unlock the second box, driving the crowd in to a frenzy of hyper-tension. Finally, the smaller box popped open and the sky wasn’t clear anymore. The crowd grew very still. From inside the box a long bundle wrapped in tinfoil was extracted. And the sky darkened.

  “It’s not really going to happen, is it?” I asked Bobby, not sure I believed what I was seeing.

  “The countdown commences when the actual barbequing starts. I’ve got five quid on 7 seconds at 30-to-1,” Bobby whispered, still staring at the monstrous spectacle unfolding on the beach.

  As soon as the foil was opened the screeching started, the horrible noise bombarded us from every corner of the sky. The figure wasted no time throwing the hideous pink sausages on to the barbeque. The crowd gave out a collective, “Ooh”, as the sizzling started and a thin pink streak of smoke spiralled up into the dark sky. Immediately the onslaught started. Within the first second the black motorcycle helmet had turned white and the figure stumbled back from the barbeque struggling to keep their feet under the relentless bombardment as wave after wave attacked. If the challenger fell, it was all over. Somehow, the barbeque hero bent forward into the oncoming tide from the sky and forced their way back to hunch over the grill. Three seconds had passed and the yellow sou’wester was now mainly white as well. The crowd began to cheer and shout dementedly, forgetting their bets, instead willing the brave soul on the beach onward. As five seconds came up on Doggy’s official giant stopwatch the attackers switched from their loathsome chemical assault to a physical battering. The lonely, nearly all off-white, figure battled bravely to protect the barbeque and keep their feet. The battering increased in ferocity and intensity till it was nearly continuous. Finally our hero could struggle on no more and fell backwards onto the sand toppling the barbeque over and extinguishing the flames. Instantly everyone turned away from the cliff and stared at Doggy’s giant stopwatch: seven seconds exactly had passed. Only Bobby was jumping up and down; Doggy looked very pleased with himself. I turned back to the beach to see the figure still under attack, but less ferociously. With a series of, “heave-ho’s” from the tug-of-war team our toppled hero was gradually dragged backwards across the sand by the lifeline, till they were some distance from the barbeque. Slowly, the attacks died down, and then stopped altogether, soon after the sky cleared completely. After Bobby had collected his winnings we rushed down the path to the beach to find out who could have been so brave, and stupid.

  “George?” I shouted in astonishment as the helmet with its disgusting coating was removed.

  “Hi, Terry, Bobby. Madge, did you get it all? I couldn’t really see anything,” George replied cheerfully.

  “Why’d you do it,” I asked, still struggling to understand why George would do something quite so horrible to himself.

  “It’s for Charity X, right? The nuns said it was a good cause, had to do my bit,” George answered, still smiling despite what he’d just been through.

  “Good on you, George. You hit the seven seconds right on the nail, just like you said. That’s an extra £150 for Charity X,” Bobby shouted, waving a big bunch of tenners in the air.

  Later, when everyone else had gone for lunch, though how anybody could eat after what we’d just seen was a mystery to me, I sat down with Madge and we tried to work out how much we’d collected so far.

  “We already had £425, plus £500 from Mr McStrumpy, £250 from Dimple, £400 from Mr McTater, £100 from Doggy and Bobby’s £150, that makes £1,825,” I said very quietly. I tried to look happy for Madge, who was still buzzing about all the footage she’d caught for her movie.

  “It’s just all mental. Who’d have thought a seagull sausage barbecue on the beach challenge would be such a huge success. You must be really pleased. We’ve still got Dicklightly this afternoon, plus whatever the nuns raise,” Madge shrieked, squeezing my arm and planting a particularly nice sloppy kiss on my cheek.

  The kiss cheered me up no end until I remembered what Dicklightly was planning and I felt nauseous. Surely nobody would come within a mile of his event, it was too disgusting. In general I was very keen on disgusting; particularly the dark ages stuff with all those nasty diseases and gross tortures, but not Dicklightly’s kind of disgusting.

  I wasn’t expecting him to actually raise any money but I thought I had to go along since he was doing it for Bobby. Plus Madge would be there filming the whole thing.

  To my surprise, the town square was packed. People right at the back were standing on crates, rickety chairs and other assorted objects so they could see over the heads of the people nearer Mr Dicklightly’s bookshop. Those right at the very front were sitting on the pavement staring with open mouths at the bookstore window. Speakers at the front of the shop were blasting out gibberish in Mr Dicklightly’s sing song voice.

  “Beaumont pulled her close and disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, then he disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, Belinda tore open his trousers and disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting…”

  Thankfully I couldn’t actually see anything. I was wondering how I’d find Madge when I spotted Mr Singh at the back of huge crowd carrying a number of old chairs on his arms.

  “You accusing me, it’s free enterprise, not Charity X stuff, OK,” were the first words out of Mr Singh’s mouth before I could even ask him if he’d seen Madge.

  “What?” I asked in puzzlement.

  “60:40 best offer,” Mr Singh answered, looking a little guilty though I had no idea why.

  “What?” I repeated, still wondering what he was talking about.

  “You devil, you steal food from cheeks, OK, OK, for Charity X, one time only offer, 10:90,” Mr Singh replied. He folded his arms defiantly and only succeeded in banging his head with chair backs.

  “Sure, fine, whatever you say Mr Singh. Have you seen Madge?”

  “She’s inside shop filming porn show, filthy stuff, good for height adjuster sales though. Bobby should get extra £100, can maybe upgrade from gulag to serf class,” Mr Singh answere
d with a disapproving look on his face.

  “How do I get in?” I asked half-heartedly, hoping I might get out of seeing anything at all.

  “Back door open, see if any chairs left,” Mr Singh replied.

  I didn’t feel at all well. I made my way to the back of the shop and knocked very lightly on the door, hoping no one would hear and I could go home. My first feather-light knock had hardly landed when the door was a flung open and Mr Dicklightly’s latest thin Asian nephew flung open the door.

  “You Terry?” the tall brown boy asked, after looking me up and down for a good few seconds.

  “Yes,” I replied uncertainly, wondering what being Terry would mean.

  Immediately he reached out, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the shop and slammed the door shut.

  “You’re late, come on then,” the brown boy ordered and turned on his heels and bounced off into the shop.

  I followed cautiously down a long dark corridor. It opened out into the back of the shop, which was lined with rows of tall bookshelves around a table piled high with special offer books. Directly ahead the shop front was bathed in a warm glow from a late afternoon sun shining out of a clear blue sky. It was horrible. I could see everything. The only nice part was the sight of the lovely Madge darting around with her movie camera. How I wished I was at the back of the crowd pretending to struggle for a view. And still Mr Dicklightly droned on in his sleepy lullaby voice.

  “Beaumont ripped his shirt off and for a moment he was framed in the light of the setting sun through Belinda’s bedroom window, the muscles in his arms rippled seductively, his broad chest heaved in anticipation. He leapt on Belinda and disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting…”

  I kept my eyes on my feet as I shuffled reluctantly forward.

  “Great isn’t it, all these people,” Madge whispered when she noticed me and stopped filming for a moment.

  “Suppose so, but are we getting any money?” I answered, keeping my eyes firmly on the floor.