Jack enjoyed his leisurely stroll along the promenade. It was a chance to clear his thoughts, and to also appreciate the beach on which he’d spent so many happy times as a child, which also served to calm his mind. He was walking the length of the promenade and back again, which would be a total of about three miles once completed.
As Jack was nearing the end of his journey, he found himself much more at peace. He pulled out his phone and, since his return to the coffee shop had been delayed, sent off a quick text to allay any fears Emma might have had as to his late return in order to assure her he had not perhaps been hit by a bus whilst out and about. Currently, he was approaching the tall granite column of the Douglas War Memorial on the return leg of his jaunt, with the statue of The Manxman sitting atop it as usual looking out over the promenade, and something caught his eye.
“That’s odd,” he said, raising a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, and trying to focus in on the crowd up ahead. “I wonder what’s going on?”
Jack couldn’t quite make out the finer detail from his current distance, but there must have been a good thirty people milling about if not more. It was unusual to see that many people congregated on the promenade at this time of day. Jack wondered if it might be workers from the offices opposite. Perhaps a fire alarm had gone off or something? As he got closer, though, he could see figures spinning ’round like a teacup ride at an amusement park, and he could just make out a sunny melody riding on the wind. When he came closer still, it became clear that some of the figures were in wheelchairs whilst others were on their feet, and with all of them being guided by enthusiastic helpers and with everyone having a complete blast judging by the giggly laughter.
Now within view, Jack recognised a woman whose name he couldn’t immediately recall, who was clapping her hands along to the music emanating from the portable CD player set up close by and encouraging her seemingly reluctant dance partner. “Julie,” Jack said to himself, and pleased to remember now. Julie had introduced herself previously when Jack and Emma had initially founded the club, with generous offers of help or support, or even just to run ideas past. She was a special type of human being, was Julie. She managed a charity on the Island which provided support and assistance to a group of people with varying physical and mental challenges. What she did to make an impact on others was inspiring, particularly to Jack.
“I’m loving the dance moves,” said Jack, joining in with the clapping now that he was upon them. “What’s going on?” he asked. “You got room for another over here?” he said, wiggling his hips, which resulted in a joyous snigger from Julie’s partner.
“This is Emilia,” said Julie, introducing her dance partner, who was somewhat reluctant in that regard at present in that she was not as yet dancing, despite Julie’s coaxing and continuing gentle encouragement. “Emilia has been so excited about coming down to the promenade today. In fact all of us have, Jack, and that’s thanks in no small part to you.”
“Oh?” said Jack.
“Yes, indeed,” Julie told him. “We’ve been having dancing classes all week, and Emilia and the others have been perfecting their mixed wheelchair waltz,” she continued. “I’d promised the troop that I’d bring them all down here so they can see where the world record attempt is going to be held, and also to give them a chance to practice their moves. And so here we are,” she said joyously.
“I’m seriously impressed,” replied Jack, nodding his head in approval and appreciation while observing the rest of the gang polishing and perfecting their routines.
“We’ve even been making dresses for some of the ladies for the big day,” offered Julie. “Haven’t we, Emilia?” she asked of her charge. To which Emilia smiled a smile that could easily melt the coldest of hearts.
“Although it looks like I may not be getting my dance today,” Julie added unhappily. “Or will I, Emilia?” said Julie, with a sad face that was exaggerated for effect. It was a frown that turned immediately upside down, however, when Emilia started to move in time to the music, appearing rather more eager now to engage in a waltz with her appointed dance partner.
“I was sorry to hear about that awful mess of trouble with the accountant,” said Julie, addressing Jack again, at least for the moment. “It’s a terrible bit of business, but you will bounce back, Jack,” she assured him. “You need to know that. What you’re all doing at the club is so wonderful, and absolutely commendable. Call it a sixth sense, but I just knew that you and Emma were something special the first time I met you. I knew the two of you would go on to do great things.”
“Aww, shucks,” said Jack, honoured by the praise, of course, yet slightly embarrassed.
“Now, I think Lady Emilia is wanting to dance with me and how could I refuse that smiling face. Emilia, this is Jack who has arranged the big dancing party on the promenade.”
Emilia paused in her warm-up moves for a moment, turning to acknowledge the introduction. “Thank you, Jack!” she said brightly, offering up a wave at first, but then leaning in to give him a generous hug instead. “I can’t wait to wear my new dress for the dance!” she told him. “Thank you so much!”
“Well, I’ll leave you all to your practising, then, and hopefully see you in a couple of weeks,” offered Jack, once hugging duties had been successfully and happily performed, and he bid Julie and Emilia and the rest of them goodbye.
Jack hadn’t expected it, but seeing all the guys out practising their moves and obviously so excited set his bottom lip to wobbling without warning. It’d been simply awful, this last couple of weeks, but seeing Emilia and the others in the group so happy, and hearing from Julie about how many people had signed up for the record attempt was, well, proper staggering. Tears ran down Jack’s face as he headed along the promenade on his way back to work. He’d been long overdue a good cry, to let the emotions out, and this provided a welcome outlet to get those old tear ducts of his in good working condition again. “Silly bugger,” he said to himself, wiping his face. But he needed today. The positives, lately, had been drowned out by negative thoughts. Or at least he’d allowed them to be. And right now, as he turned back to offer a thumbs-up and a wave to the dancers, he could feel the rain clouds lifting above his head and sense that the positive, optimistic Jack, the true Jack, was returning. He still very much wanted to rip out that crooked accountant’s entrails and use them as a skipping rope. Oh, indeed he did. But he had to move on for not only his sake and his family’s, but also for that of the charity as well. Jack Tate wasn’t going to let a simple matter of wholesale fraud destroy all he’d worked so hard for, he firmly decided. No, not on your nelly.
Jack extended his left arm out beside him, as if he were taking a lady’s hand, lifted his chin up, and, keeping his back nice and straight, raised his right arm to chest height, smartly folding it into V-shape, as if he were placing his right hand on the centre of the same invisible woman’s back. He took his imaginary dancing partner and proceeded to take her for a waltz down the middle of Douglas Promenade, moving this way and that in graceful sweeping motions, and with no concern for those passing by who no doubt might be wondering if they should perhaps be ringing for the police.
“Up yours, Barry Cox!” he shouted, mid-chassé. “You won’t get us down, you thieving bastard! You won’t get us down!”
.
Chapter Nine
W hat’s with the dark sunglasses, Grandad?” asked Jack, casting a glance over to Emma and offering her a quick smirk before turning his attention back to Grandad.
Grandad flicked his arms out with a shrug of his shoulders to straighten his coat sleeves, adjusted his cufflinks, even though he wasn’t wearing any cufflinks, straightened his tie, and then sniffed. “It’s what we do in the business, son,” said Grandad, and accompanying this with another indignant sniff.
“The business of what? Being a crackpot?” asked Jack. “And it’s murky as hell out there, Grandad, so I hardly think you need sunglasses. Seriously, it’s pissing dow
n outside, Grandad, and I mean pissing down. The rain’s that heavy that I’ve just seen some bloke going past the shop in a canoe.”
“Well I think you look quite smart in that suit,” said Emma to Grandad in solidarity. “Very dapper. And I think those sunglasses are a nice touch.”
“And that, my dear, is because you’re a sensible girl,” observed Geoffrey appreciatively.
Jack looked to Ray, who was stood shoulder to shoulder with his chum. “And, Ray,” continued Jack, not finished yet, “What’s with this?” he asked, cocking his head to get a better view of the plastic device stationed in Ray’s right ear. “I mean, I knew your eyesight was terrible, but I thought your hearing was okay?”
“It’s a Bluetooth headset, son,” replied Ray, with a confident nod of the head. Grandad nodded as well, and they looked rather proud of themselves, the both of them. Ray added, “It’s what they do in the—”
“It’s what they do in the business?” suggested Jack, anticipating the rest, and completing Ray’s sentence for him.
“Exactly, son,” replied Ray.
“The business of being a crackpot?” asked Jack.
“Yes, laugh all you want,” Ray replied, and giving Jack a tight frown and a dismissive little shake of the head.
Jack raised his finger to pose a further question. “You don’t have a mobile phone, Ray. Do you?”
“No, son, I don’t,” Ray answered him. “What’s that got to do with anything?””
Jack narrowed his eyes. “So what’s the Bluetooth earpiece actually connected to, then?” he asked.
Ray laughed, looking to Grandad with an incredulous grin at Jack’s stupidity. “Ha! What’s it connected to, he says,” Ray told Grandad, echoing Jack’s words.
“What’s it connected to, he says,” Grandad repeated back to Ray sarcastically, conspiratorially, as if Jack was clearly the dim one here.
It was obvious to Jack that the two of them didn’t really have the slightest of clues as to what exactly a Bluetooth device was, how it worked, or what precisely it did. He decided it just wasn’t worth pursuing with them, figuring it might be best to simply let it go.
“It’s what we do in the business,” Ray confidently insisted again, taking Jack’s current silence as his admission of defeat, adding, “This is what you do when you have a press junkshop.”
Grandad nudged his mate. “Oi! Ray! I told you, it’s a press junket, yeah? Not a junk shop,” he whispered.
“Same difference,” replied Ray with a shrug of the shoulders.
“Well I’m very proud of you both,” said Emma, beaming, and then adding, “We both are. Aren’t we Jack?”
“Ow! Whadya hit me for?” protested Jack, nursing his battered shoulder. “I mean, ahem, yes. Yes, we’re both very proud,” said Jack, correcting himself, and addressing Grandad and Ray again. He rubbed his sore shoulder. “Very, very proud,” he reiterated, throwing in an extra ‘very’ for good measure as he did not wish to be the victim of any further assaults.
“Right. So how many have you got coming?” asked Emma. “Journalists, I mean. To your junket?”
Ray took this as an invitation to open up his Filofax, a Filofax that’d last seen action during the financial boom of the late 1980s, thumbing through the pages with a stern expression. “Two,” he declared, after a painful delay. “One reporter from the papers, and one from the radio,” he said.
“Ah. Speaking of which,” said Jack, motioning towards the front window to the street outside. “Looks like this could be the first one, maybe?” he offered, on account of the bloke outside glancing up at the shop sign, then down to the note in his hand, and then back up to the shop sign.
“Hmm? What’s that? It looks like who could be the first one?” enquired Ray, looking up from his Filofax.
When Ray had looked up from his organiser notepad, he’d inadvertently tilted it forward in Jack’s direction. As he did this, Jack could see there was in fact nothing at all written on the page Ray was referencing. Jack could only surmise that this lack of any actual notes being placed in Ray’s notepad — but Ray looking at the page as if there was something genuinely written there — must be something or other to do with what was done in the business, and all Jack could do was sigh.
“Well? It looks like who could be the first one?” Grandad asked, chiming in.
“The fellow that’s about to walk through the door,” replied Jack. “You can’t see anything, can you, Grandad, what with those Maverick sunglasses of yours on? And I’ll bet Goose there can’t hear anything on account of his earpiece, either.”
“Maverick? Goose? What the devil are you talking about, boy?” replied Geoffrey.
“He’s talking gibberish, as usual,” offered Ray.
“I’d have to say you’re correct, old chum,” concurred Grandad. “Sad, really.”
“Sad,” agreed Ray.
“I loved Top Gun,” said Emma, drifting off for a moment and happily imagining hunky airmen in white dress uniforms in her mind’s eye.
Shaking the rain off himself, the man from outside entered the door of the coffee shop. He was not hunky, however, nor was he in dress white uniform. Rather, this was a rather portly gentleman who gave the impression that he perhaps spent too much time typing at his desk and not enough time getting any sort of exercise at all, and his rumpled, tatty beige raincoat appeared something that even Columbo might be embarrassed to be seen in. He walked up and presented himself at the counter, staring down at his handwritten note with the lettering now barely legible on account of the heavy rainfall. “Yes, hello there, I’m here to see…” the man began, looking down to the ink-splotched paper… “a Mister… Ginger… Tapas,” he said, slowly and deliberately.
Jack glanced over at the note in the fellow’s hands. It wasn’t like he needed confirmation of who the man was seeking, but more to understand how anybody could possibly get Ginger Tapas from Geoffrey Tate. “I think you’re looking for them two,” suggested Jack, pointing to the foot of the stairs that led to the studio upstairs, where Grandad and Ray were now standing. “The one presently waving you over would be, erhm… Ginger Tapas,” Jack told the fellow, not bothering to correct the man’s error.
“Much obliged,” replied the reporter, grasping the front edge of his raincoat’s hood while he said this and tipping it forward in a quick nod, as if he were a cowboy in an old Western film. And then, realising he still had his hood up indoors, he peeled it back away from his head, and looked over to a patiently waiting Geoffrey/Ginger and Ray.
Upstairs from the coffee shop, awaiting them all, was Florence, sat behind her piano with several small candles flickering away on the top to create mood lighting. She shifted nervously in her seat as she heard the sound of footfalls on the stairs leading up towards the second-floor loft. She fidgeted with the candles, rearranging them, and then rearranging them a second time yet again, even though they didn’t need rearranging and were just fine the way they were to begin with. The footsteps grew louder, indicating that she was shortly to be ‘on’, as they say in the business.
“Only us!” shouted Ray, waving as he negotiated the final step and made his way onto the landing and into the room, the others beside him. “Florence, this is Mister…” he said, turning to the journalist for proper introductions, and realising he didn’t yet know the fellow’s name.
“Higginbottom,” the reporter replied. “Marion Higginbottom.”
Grandad and Ray exchanged amused glances, ready to laugh, assuming the reporter was making a joke. When it became clear that he was not joking, however, Ray suppressed his giggle and dutifully made the introduction, trying to sound as serious as possible as he did so. “Florence, this is Mr Higginbottom. From the newspaper,” he said. “And Mr Higginbottom, this is Florence. She’s the artiste extraordinaire with the voice of an angel you’re here to see.”
“Oh? Is she?” replied Marion, retrieving a dog-eared notepad from his pocket, arming himself with a pen, and appearing uncertain as to wh
y precisely he was there. “Sorry, the office sent me down but didn’t give me any details. So what’s going on here, then?” he asked, glancing around and pen poised at the ready.
“Well,” said Geoffrey, whipping off his sunglasses like he was at a photoshoot for a low-budget porno. “It all started when our boyband, The Arthritic Limbs…” he began.
Marion’s eyes glazed over as, for a full ten minutes or so, Grandad proceeded to speak, in great depth, and sparing no details, about their failed attempt to become the next N-Sync or the like, with the occasional chiming-in from Ray to support whatever point Geoffrey happened to be making at any given time. Of course, their band had in fact been styled as a rap or hip-hop group, not as a boyband like N-Sync or The Backstreet Boys. But, to Grandad and Ray, it was all the same. All that ‘new’ music could easily be lumped together, as far as they were concerned — and with new, to Geoffrey and Ray, meaning anything coming after, say, the year 1960 or thereabouts.
It would be kind to say that Higginbottom let the both of them prattle on, but the truth was that he couldn’t slip a word in sideways. A clue for Ray and Grandad that they’d lost his attention, if they’d cared to notice, would have been that the journalist’s pen was presently redundant on account of its owner being bored to tears and not taking any notes. Fortunately, however, at least where Marion was concerned, their ramblings moved on from the rise and fall of their ill-fated pop career to the actual reason Marion was there. They filled him in about the fraud, of which, being a reporter, he was already aware. But they went into greater detail about how this had affected the charity, the wider remit of the charity, and hence the now more-urgent-than-ever requirement to raise funds for the charity. The two of them spoke in depth about the upcoming world record attempt, and then of course about the matter at hand and the reason for Marion’s present visit this particular day, Florence’s performance, and how that tied into everything. Overall, the two of them — being in the business, as they described themselves, although what specific business that was, precisely, remained unclear — spoke passionately, and to an extent that Marion Higginbottom’s pen was moving quicker than a hooker’s headboard when navy seamen were in town on shore leave.
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