“What the fuck…?” he snarled, digging the pretend weapon harder into my ribs.
I already had a new plan, a much better one. He was leaning over, trying to get sight of Daphne making her way through the shop, so I lifted the heavy top of the safe and swung it at his head as hard as I could. He didn’t see it coming. The corner made contact with his skull with a rather sickening crunch and he was knocked across the stockroom floor, his useless gun clattering to the ground.
“Stay back Daphne!” I shouted. “There’s a robbery in progress!” I peered at the motionless robber. He lay face down on the floor, legs akimbo, arms splayed either side of him. “Take that!” I bellowed. “How dare you threaten my staff!”
I gave him a little kick in the bollocks. He didn’t move at all. I noticed a small pool of blood next to his head and I looked at the heavy safe lid. There appeared to be a chunk of scalp and hair on the corner. Oh dear, maybe I’d hit him a little too hard. I put my head round the door of the office. Daphne was frozen in the middle of the shop, her face a picture of terror.
“Hi Daphne. Don’t worry, everything’s under control. Would you mind calling the police and an ambulance please?”
“What’s happening?” she whimpered.
“Take a seat, darling. We’ll have to close the shop for a couple of hours. You may have to give a witness statement.”
“But I didn’t see anything!”
“Never mind. Just do your best. Now, if you could just make that phone call, please. I feel a little weak. I think I may be going into shock.”
I returned to the office and re-corked the bottle of Pinot, hiding it behind a pile of boxes, then washed out the glass and replaced it on the shelf. Can’t have things looking sloppy when the authorities turn up.
I’ll give the police their due – they arrived very quickly, and in force. Little Chalfont is not generally known as a hotbed of terror, so this was definitely a red-letter day for them. No fewer than three police cars and a van turned up, and I counted twenty uniformed and plain-clothed coppers in the store at one point.
The robber was carried out on a stretcher. He was as dead as a doornail. I’d pretty much knocked the top half of his head off with the great slab of steel. That suited me fine, it would have damaged the credibility of my story if he’d been alive to point out that I’d rumbled him before Daphne turned up.
As the body was loaded into the ambulance I put my head in my hands and whimpered. “What a tragedy. Why did he have to threaten to do that to Daphne? He already had the money.”
A rather attractive female police constable placed her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Felix. Guilt is a common emotion in situations like this.” She had sexy, short blonde hair, a sensitive, pretty face, and her blue police jumper was stretched tight over her perfect chest. She wore a little badge stating ‘WPC Anne Peters, Trauma Counsellor’ over her pert left breast.
“I just feel as though I’ve let everybody down, Constable.”
She took my hand. “Call me Anne. We’ll have to take a statement from you Felix, but we can do that in the trauma centre at the station. It’s comfortable and there’s no rush. You can even have a lie down, if you need to.”
“Will you be there, Anne?”
“Yes. It will be just me. You can take as long as you like.”
I have always been a great supporter of the forces of law and order, and the empathy shown by the newer generation of female police officers is a credit to the service. I took my time over the statement, lingering over the terrible threats of violence the robber had made to me, not to mention the obscenities he told me he would inflict on dear, innocent Daphne.
WPC Peters broke the news that the firearm had been a fake, which I took quite badly, lamenting that the poor man’s death was all in vain. “What a terrible waste!” I exclaimed, head in hands once more.
“You have an unusually deep emotional sensitivity, Felix,” she reassured me, as we sat side by side on the sofa in the trauma suite, her friendly hand stroking my hair.
I didn’t quite get everything my own way. WPC Peters explained that it was professionally inappropriate for her to comply with my suggestion that she stroke my manhood back to emotional health. She explained, patiently, that confused sexual responses, such as my stonking hard-on, were all too common in cases of mild post-traumatic stress, although not before she’d given me a couple of friendly squeezes through my trousers. I didn’t see anything wrong with that. After all, my John Thomas had been a victim of crime, too.
1.5
Tinto Towers
“Well, we can’t condone reckless behaviour, Felix.” Gary Richards tapped his fingers on the counter. “Company policy is very clear – no heroics when faced with a dangerous incident.”
“I understand, sir. I never would have done anything like this if it hadn’t been for Daphne’s sudden arrival at the front door.” I paused for a second and looked at the floor. “I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to her.”
“You’re a fine man, Felix, don’t worry about it.” This from Clive Willoughby, the Director of Wine. He had travelled all the way from Head Office, no less.
It was a month after the attempted robbery and we were standing in the middle of Little Chalfont store a few minutes before opening time – Richards, looking slightly peeved; Willoughby, suave in his pinstriped suit; and another man, a cynical-looking ex-detective who was the company’s Head of Security.
I had been sent abroad on paid study leave for a few weeks, to avoid the media furore that erupted following my selfless act of have-a-go heroism. I’d spent the time in Andalucía, improving my knowledge of Sherry, tapas and Spanish student life, and a rich, culturally immersive experience it had been too.
“But it was still a serious breach of policy,” said Richards.
“Oh, bollocks to your policy, Gary,” said Willoughby. “Felix here is one of our superstars. You told me he ran Crouch End over Christmas, not to mention most of the preceding year, and he’s single-handedly taken over this place and turned it around.” He looked around the well-stocked shelves and nodded, approvingly.
“And he got rid of that slag Philips who’d been terrorising the area for the past year,” noted the Head of Security. Philips, it turned out, was the name of the unfortunate robber, now at peace in a cheap urn in the ‘unclaimed’ section of the local council’s crematorium.
But Richards wouldn’t let it go. “It caused a great deal of paperwork and disruption. He might have been prosecuted for murder!”
“Oh, hardly! It’s not as if he deliberately killed an unarmed man, is it?” said the Head of Security, scanning the shelf of single malts wistfully. “Done us a favour, really.”
“Is Felix in the clear, then?” asked Willoughby.
“Yes. I’ve had a chat to the local Inspector and they have no intention of taking it any further. It’s a clear case of self-defence through the use of reasonable force. The CPS has no intention of pressing charges and no jury would ever convict in a situation like this. Job done.”
“Jolly good,” said Willoughby. “Felix, I understand you are something of a self-educated wine authority?”
“Well, sir, I have developed a huge passion for the subject. It helps when one is trying to sell, of course, but I do find the world of wine quite fascinating. My only wish would be for a larger tasting budget, so I could learn even more. But I do understand there are costs to control,” I added, giving Richards an insincere nod.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Sod the budgets. Felix, if you want to try a wine or run a tasting, you go ahead. You can charge it to my personal cost-code.”
“Thank you sir! I can’t wait to try those new Burgundies we’ve listed.”
“Good man. You see Gary, that’s how to make money! Invest in our people, what?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” muttered Richards, shooting me a disapproving look.
“Right, well, keep up the good work Felix. You must come
up to Head Office one day and say hello. And good luck with the Australian sales competition.”
The three men left.
Ah yes, the annual Australian Sales Incentive. Every January, in the week running up to Australia Day, every store in the group tried to sell the most Aussie wine. The top prize was a fortnight long, all expenses paid trip to Australia, to roll around the vineyards in a state of advanced inebriation, shagging young wenches up the billabong and generally raising merry hell.
Well, that was my interpretation – officially it was an educational visit, funded by the Australian High Commission. There were also some runner-up prizes of Aussie-themed merchandise, but as far as I was concerned you could shove your stuffed koalas up your arse – I was going for the full monty.
The competition began the next day and I had a plan as ruthless as a marsupial with a knuckle-duster hidden in its pouch. I’d drafted in my Polish assistant, now promoted to assistant manager, to run the shop for the day. Ever since my brave foiling of the robbery, the staff had become ultra-loyal and were only too happy to cover any shift I threw at them.
I’d hired a smart Rover Montego estate car which I filled with Australian wine, all funded by Willoughby’s gold-plated tasting budget, of course. Then I toured the restaurants, hotels and pubs of Buckinghamshire, dialling the Felix Hart charm up to maximum and selling my little bollocks off. I would waltz into a restaurant, find the main decision-maker and carry out an impromptu wine tasting, accompanied by a poetic and mouth-watering commentary. Any punters who exhibited even the slightest resistance would be promised a couple of bottles for free if they felt the wines weren’t up to scratch.
Nobody turned me down, of course. That first day I bagged a dozen orders and plenty of potential follow-ups. The biggest order came from the landlady of the Queen’s Head in Ley Hill. She bought thirty cases after I offered her a five-percent discount, a free case of tasting stock and a right royal docking in the tap room downstairs. Angela at the Stag & Hounds came a close second, in more ways than one, after signing up for twenty cases, and even good old Abdul down the Indian restaurant bought half a dozen, although I’m pleased to say I didn’t have to drop my pants for that one.
When I returned to the shop that evening, the full complement of staff was on hand and we turned that shop into an Aussie-wine theme park. Every bottle of French, Italian and Californian was packed up and hidden in the back. In fact, anything that wasn’t from down under was retired for the week. Instead, the shelves groaned under the weight of kangaroo Chardonnay and koala Cabernet.
Unsurprisingly, Aussie sales went through the roof. A couple of customers complained they couldn’t buy their favourite French Chablis, but we had a dozen wines lined up on the counter for free tastings and, with a no quibble money-back guarantee, we converted even the most ardent Francophile to the glories of wallaby claret.
I spent the rest of the week on the road, conducting tastings and racking up larger and larger orders. By the time I’d finished my sales blitz, nearly every restaurant in Buckinghamshire had an Aussie special at the top of their wine list. I even persuaded the local vicar to convert his communion wine to possum Merlot.
And so Australia Day, 26 January, came and went. The following morning I drafted in the full team once more to return all the French, Italian and Californian wines to our shelves, and waited to see if we’d won.
Wodin wandered in around lunchtime, picked a bottle of Champagne from the fridge and walked through into to the back office. “I see the Antipodean love-fest has come to an end?”
“Yes, indeed. Nice of you to treat yourself to one of my bottles of expensive Champagne.”
“Join me. We have something to celebrate.” He lit a large joint and eased the cork out of the bottle. He poured two glasses, offering me the spliff with one hand and a glass with the other. “You’re moving in. It’s official. We have assessed you thoroughly and are delighted to declare you a worthy addition to our little community.”
“I’m allowed into my own house, you mean. That’s great news.”
We clinked glasses. I’m not a high maintenance guy but, to be honest, I had become bored with showering under a bucket hanging from the ceiling of the staff toilet every morning. So that evening I carried my mattress and kit bag up the iron steps at the back of the shop and entered the front door of number two.
As Richards had hinted, prior to my taking the Little Chalfont job, the place was vast. It had three floors, the top two each boasting three bedrooms while the lower floor consisted of a large kitchen and lounge. Most of the windowsills were lined with pot plants with a distinctly medicinal aroma, while the kitchen contained a large black plastic tank the size of a rainwater barrel, smelling mildly of pickled vegetables.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A waste fermenter. One of our fellow residents, Fistule, is a passionate composter. All the food scraps and waste paper go in there, and after a couple of months it’s used for the pot plants.”
The place was rather run-down, with no central heating and ancient metal-framed windows. The lounge, however, was warm and comfortable, with a roaring fireplace and four mismatched sofas lining its perimeter. The only other furniture was a well-stocked bookshelf and a pair of low tables, both of which were strewn with torn-up pieces of cardboard, cigarette papers and loose tobacco.
Wodin introduced me to his two flatmates. Mercedes, curled up on the sofa nearest the fire, was around twenty, dressed in black combat trousers and a colourful, striped jacket in coarse wool. She had thin, fine features and her black dreadlocks were threaded with multi-coloured ribbons and studded with silver rings. She smiled and raised a hand in greeting, before returning to her doze.
“And this is Fistule. He’s the composter.”
“Hi man.” Fistule sat cross-legged in front of one of the low tables, crumbling a small block of hashish onto the gauze atop an elaborate water pipe. He was short and stocky, with a dark bushy beard covering his pudgy neck. He was barefoot and wore a brown leather jacket with tassels and dark jeans, giving him the air of a benign but hairy toad in human clothes.
“Try this, man.” Fistule held a lighter over the pile of powdery hashish and inhaled hard through the wooden mouthpiece. The flame dipped and danced over the hashish as thick smoke rushed into the decorated glass chamber, where it bubbled through a grim-looking yellowish liquid. He exhaled slowly and sighed with pleasure. “Here man, don’t waste it.” He pointed the end of the pipe at me.
It seemed best to be polite – these were to be my close companions for the foreseeable future – so I stooped and held the mouthpiece to my lips, inhaling some of the smoke. It had an unusual but familiar taste, a hint of iodine and peat over the pungent, floral resin of the hashish.
“That’s pure Nepalese hash, bubbled through a sixteen-year-old Islay single malt,” announced Fistule, with evident pride.
I inhaled again, deeper this time. The smoke was cool and delicious, like potpourri mixed with a gentle breath of antiseptic. “Very nice. Fistule is an unusual name. Where’s it from?”
“When I was young, I had a fistula,” he said.
“What’s a fistula?”
“It’s a pipe between two chambers. Like this,” he tapped the brass tube leading from the smoking gauze into the water chamber.
“So you’re named after a bong?”
“No, it’s a medical thing. I had a fistula in my intestines when I was young. I had to take lots of time off from school and, in the end, people stopped using my real name and just called me Fistule. Even my Mum.”
“But you’re called Fistule, not Fistula?”
“Fistule is the French translation. I think it sounds classier.”
I was suddenly extremely stoned. I sank back into one of the sofas and passed out.
I woke the next day, still sprawled on the sofa, with a dry throat and a rather sluggish head. But I was pleased to have the use of a genuine shower for the first time in a month. There was no sound
from the rest of the house – I assumed my new flatmates were sleeping in. I wandered into the kitchen in search of a kettle, to find Mercedes in the centre of the room practising tai chi, wearing her combat trousers and a knitted bikini top.
“Carry on,” she breathed, circling her clasped hands, her body rising and falling gently as she flexed her knees.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to carry on with. I watched, fascinated, as she slowly danced on the spot, her slim body flowing from side to side. Little tufts of bushy black hair winked from her armpits as her arms rose and fell, and her ribbon-festooned dreadlocks followed the movement of her head.
It was mesmerising and I confess, more than a little exciting. I cleared my throat, tearing my eyes from the tiny pert breasts barely covered by her knitted top, and filled the kettle, turning so she wouldn’t notice my reawakened morning glory. Being a gentleman, I left her a cup of tea and, closing the front door quietly behind me, descended the cold outside stairs to open the shop below.
As I did so, an elderly female voice called out, “Who are you? I’m calling the police!”
I turned to see a scowling, wrinkled face at the open upstairs window of number three. I gave her a wave. “Morning madam! I’m your new neighbour!”
There was a pause and I continued down the stairs. “We don’t like transvestites!” she screeched back.
I glanced down to check I wasn’t wearing a dress. “Couldn’t agree more, madam. You never know what’s happening down there, do you?”
As I unlocked the shop door, I could hear the phone was ringing. I skipped in and leant over the counter, lifting the receiver to my ear. “Charlie’s Cellar, Little Chalfont. How can I help you today?”
“Felix. It’s Clive Willoughby. Good to hear you’re in, nice and early. How’s business?” I hoped he wasn’t going to complain about my battering of his tasting budget.
“Business is booming, sir. The recent Australia Day promotion went very well.”
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