by Trevor Hoyle
‘Angie told you that about me?’ Vail says in disbelief, having stopped weeping altogether.
‘Yes.’
‘Angie, – the girl I live with, – told you that?’
‘Correct.’
‘I don’t understand, – why should she? When?’
‘Jack,’ Fully Olbin smiles, ‘Angie lives with you because I asked her to. I told her to get to know you, which she did, and gain your confidence. It was much easier than we could have hoped for.’
‘Angie is Fully’s girl,’ Tex Rivett chips in.
‘Do you mean she belongs to this terrorist cell?’ Vail says incredulously.
Fully Olbin smiles down at him. ‘That’s how we were able to keep tabs on you and how we knew that Wayde Dake Ass. Inc. had followed up Tex’s phone calls and compiled a report on the four of us. Fortunately he couldn’t discover Angie’s identity. You don’t think you met her by chance at that party, do you?’
‘Yes … I thought …’
Fully Olbin is shaking his head. ‘Nothing is ever that simple, Jack, not in this day and age. I thought you’d have learnt that by now.’
‘Christ, and I told her everything.’
‘Yes, it was a very full account.’ Fully Olbin doesn’t have to reach up very far to take down one of the S-shaped meat hooks with sharpened ends hanging from the metal bars. ‘About your wife and child and the green van on the M6, and picking up Brown, and meeting Tex at Sandbach, and what happened in Spaghetti Junction and your experiences at Watford Gap, and then at the Newport Pagnell checkpoint and driving along the A422, the supermarket and the hospital, the milk tanker and all that stuff. It was a very full account indeed.’
‘So,’ Vail says, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose, ‘you’ve just been waiting. Would you have waited and waited … I mean just kept on waiting until I was where you wanted me to be? It could have taken years.’
Fully Olbin throws the hook the full length of the meat locker with sufficient force for it to be embedded in the lead-lined wall.
‘We nudged it along here and there. Angie planted the idea in Bryce Ransom’s head that a programme along the lines of Bootstraps might be just what the public wanted and in Virgie Hance’s head that you might be just the person to front it. It was very simple. Childishly easy, in fact. And of course they leapt at it.’
‘You know,’ Vail says, ‘when you brought me here I thought you were going to kill me.’ He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
‘That was the last thing on our minds, – we want you to kill for us.’
‘Then we’ll be quits,’ Vail says. ‘That will be the favour I owe you, will it?’
‘Paid in full,’ Fully Olbin confirms.
Vail thinks this over for a moment or two. ‘Are those photographs you showed me genuine?’
‘From Govt files.’
‘The things in them are actually going on right this minute?’
‘Everything Brown told you is true. Dumping toxic waste near to densely populated areas, discharging radioactive effluent into streams and rivers next to schools, reducing health care to the point where the system breaks down completely, conducting so-called medical/scientific experiments to control and inhibit the population. All true. That’s what the U.M.P.S. Programme is all about.’
‘What does it stand for?’
‘It’s a Govt departmental euphemism: Unwashed Masses Prefer Suicide. It confirms their own belief in what is right and best, and is a sop to their conscience. They want to believe, and do believe, that people would rather die than lead empty brutish lives, and as only a very few can lead decent lives, this is the expedient solution. It makes it easier for everyone.’
Fully Olbin delves into the photographs and holds one up for Vail to see: the workmen planting saplings in raw earth recently levelled by a bulldozer. ‘I thought you might have recognised the five high-rise buildings in the background. If you had there would be no need to convince you or say anything more.’
After studying the photograph Vail is none the wiser.
‘Zuttor Estate taken two years ago. You lived at Number 431, so my informant tells me.’
[12]
The suavely diminutive and softly spoken Ed Flesh is on the phone to Vail, his voice like the distant rush of the sea inside a mouse’s ear.
‘Have you heard the good news? The programme’s won an award.’
‘Really?’ Vail says, sitting up in the oval bath. ‘The U.M.P.S. Programme, you mean?’
‘No, no, not the U.M.P.S. Programme, – Bootstraps. Your show. They think it’s wonderful. That piece on the Baths …’
‘Who does?’
‘Everyone. It’s a smash. I’m raising your asking price by fifty per cent and putting in a statutory profits clause. In the meantime don’t open any supermarkets or endorse anything without my say-so.’
‘I don’t intend to open any supermarkets.’
‘Then don’t. I think I’ve clinched a six-figure exclusive merchandising contract for TV commercials and a ten-week promo tour.’
‘Who with?’
‘The Milk Marketing Board.’
‘Not milk,’ Vail says firmly. ‘Anything but milk.’
‘I’ve only sold your mouth and larynx. The rest of you is up for grabs.’
‘Not milk, Flesh, I’m sorry. Beer, Coke, piss, vomit, diarrhoea, you name it and I’ll endorse it. But not milk.’
Ed Flesh shrugs his sloping shoulders in his silk-mohair suit. ‘All right, Jack, have it your way. But if Selina had your attitude she’d still be fucking politicians for a living. And you know something, Jack? She hasn’t had to fuck anyone she didn’t want to in over two years. Think about it.’
Vail watches Ed Flesh’s blurred image through the rising steam, – funny how he looks small even on the screen.
‘The last thing we want happening to you is what happened to The Pox, remember.’
‘Why, what happened to them?’
‘They’ve gone bust. Burn Down the Schools grossed $26 million worldwide and instead of putting it into securities as I advised they went into audio equipment, electronic games, TV leasing, car hire, insurance and fast food franchising. I told them they’d get their fingers burned but would they listen to Flesh? Sunk every cent into four offshore companies for tax avoidance and then guaranteed equity capital of quarter-million apiece to a Swiss outfit specialising in share dealing, commodity trading, venture capital and split dividend futures. Lucky they’ve got their property interests, recording studios and stock portfolio to fall back on or they’d really be in trouble.’
‘I suppose they would,’ Vail says, soaping his chest thoughtfully.
‘So don’t let that happen to you, Jack.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Take a leaf out of Josh’s book. He never invests more than $100,000 at any one time. That’s how his LA operation started, – nothing wild, nothing high-flown. Now look at him. Of course he prays a good deal.’
‘So I believe.’
‘The presentation’s on the seventeenth.’
‘What presentation?’
‘The award presentation, nationwide TV live, the PM in person. Has Wayde Dake Ass. Inc. been in touch?’
‘No, why?’
‘He’s worried about you. His operative lost contact for over three hours. They thought you’d been kidnapped or killed.’
‘I’m still here. Must have been a malfunction.’
‘Well, take care. You’re a very precious commodity, Jack. You’re being watched every minute night and day, don’t forget. We can’t afford to lose you.’
The cold hard formation of rage in Vail’s stomach, his only viable form of human emotion, has been joined by another of incipient gathering excitement. The two bubbles reside side by side like ovaries awaiting fertilisation. Soon they will swell and divide and multiply and take possession of the organism that is host to them. Vail’s identity, precarious at the best of times, is soon to be
taken over by a monster.
[13]
It was common knowledge that the Libyans had the Bomb and speculation now grew rife that they had made it available to the INLA. The pubs, restaurants, cafes and video porn shops were agog with rumour about when, where and how such a device might be deployed. Would the target be military or civilian? Would they have the nerve and the capability to try for London, the seat of power, or, say, somewhere unimportant like Reading or Bournemouth?
For a while these fearful conjectures were confined to the streets and not discussed openly in the media: everyone knew and yet the Govt embargo prohibited public dissemination of such material in case it caused panic and alarm.
The point was soon reached, however, when something official had to be said, and the PM made a special broadcast on the Jimmy Young programme, explicitly warning both the Libyans and the INLA that any aggressive act against the United Kingdom would be met with the sternest retaliatory measures. Grim-faced, the PM intoned: ‘We shall brook no quarter, nor shall the sword sleep in my hand. Anyone, and I do mean anyone, Jimmy, – I may call you Jimmy, mayn’t I? – who dares to drop the Bomb on a single square centimetre of this green and pleasant land drops it on me and my kith and kin. This sceptred isle has repelled boarders since time immemorial and we shall repel them now, and yes, I say, keep on repelling them. Let me just say this: beware ‘for whom the bell tolls, it might toll for thee.’’
Next day the papers carried red banner headlines.
PM SLAMS DAGOES AND MICKS … ‘DON’T TRY IT SUNSHINE – OR ELSE!’ WARNS PM … PM ‘BROOKS NO QUARTER’ AND TELLS LIBS ‘WATCH IT!’ … UK COULD FLATTEN SAND DUNES ‘AT A STROKE’ – OFFICIAL… DUNKIRK SPIRIT IN DOWNING STREET* ran one headline, which got the editor sacked and his background investigated by Special Branch.
Meanwhile, as might be expected, Vail is having problems of his own. Three or four times now he has returned home from work to find his chauffeur-cum-terrorist cell ringleader Fully Olbin humping Angie in his (Vail’s) bed. Of course Fully Olbin has explained the nature of their relationship, which Vail, having no other choice, is prepared to accept; but what he finds difficult to come to terms with is Fully Olbin’s and Angie’s brash and blatant behaviour. Fair enough, she was Fully Olbin’s girl, the black man had prior claim, – but this usurping of his rights in the broad light of day, without the least circumspection or consideration, Vail finds unsettling and even vaguely distasteful. He doesn’t feel like climbing onto a warm woman still wet and panting from exertions he himself has witnessed on walking through the door. After a hard day at the studio it is a bit too much. He is not sure he is prepared to tolerate it.
Angie lies gently steaming in the hot trough of the bed while Fully Olbin pulls on his boots and zips up his flies and Vail stands by the door kicking his heels.
‘Christ Jesus Almighty, you should have heard me moan,’ Angie says luxuriously. ‘Fully hammers away like my clit’s made of steel and there’s no tomorrow.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ Vail replies, tight-lipped politeness masking tiredness and shortness of temper. Why is she telling him this? The last thing he wants to hear is that a black man is good, – and by implication better than him, – at it.
‘Have a good day, darling?’
‘Not bad. Aren’t you supposed to be working?’
‘There was a bomb alert in Marylebone High Street and we were let off early.’ Angie smiles impishly. ‘And when I got here Fully was cleaning the car …’
‘You don’t have to elaborate. Is this all part of your search for the meaning of life?’ Vail asks sarcastically. ‘The never-ending orgasm? It seems to me, – ’
‘It seems to me you’d better shut your mouth,’ Fully Olbin says, rising to his immense height. ‘Who are you to criticise, anyway? Somebody who murdered his wife and child in cold blood. Button it.’
Vail feels a flush of outrage on his cheeks.
‘In case you’ve forgotten, it was your colleague, your fellow so-called terrorist, who killed my wife. The man’s a raving psychopath. Don’t dare accuse me of that despicable act.’
‘The cops don’t know that, do they?’ says Fully Olbin silkily.
Vail gapes. He’s seen both the subservient black chauffeur and the authoritative terrorist ringleader sides to Fully Olbin, but not this snide, underhand, smirking blackmailer before. Life is full of nasty surprises.
‘And don’t forget what you’ve promised to do in return for the favour you owe us,’ Fully Olbin continues, rubbing it in and buttoning his tunic. ‘We’re watching you every minute night and day. You’d better deliver.’
Vail says coldly, ‘You don’t have to remind me of my responsibilities. But don’t you forget I’m doing it for my own personal reasons, not for some tinpot terrorist organisation that can’t even blow up a nuclear power station properly. Pathetic.’
Here in his own flat he feels strong and capable of righteous anger, surrounded by his own possessions, whereas not too long ago in the meat locker his bowels had creaked with fear. Strange how you could feel strong one minute and weak the next, strong and then weak, strength and weakness alternating in the same frame, altering everything about you, even your physical appearance. When you were strong you could conquer the world and when you were weak you wanted to crawl into a hole in the skirting board and rot.
‘Come on if you’re coming.’ Angie is impatient. ‘I’m cooling off fast here. I can take another while I’m in the mood.’
Vail stares at her with contempt for perhaps a moment or two, loosens his tie, unbuttons his shirt.
[14]
Vail crosses Knightsbridge, passes through the barbed-wire checkpoint at the Brompton Road intersection, submits to a body search after which he is allowed to enter the sandbagged portals of Harrods, its remaining display windows criss-crossed with brown tape. Inside he pauses to inspect a baby sealskin belt costing £128, decides not to buy, and moves on.
In a mirror he catches sight of himself in false beard and redundant spectacles, a disguise made necessary by his famous face. Without it he would be accosted every few paces by admirers wanting his autograph and others brimming over with envy and malice, intent on doing him physical harm. There were some around whose lives were so meaningless, insignificant and empty of purpose that they had an overwhelming urge to change the course of history, no matter how fractionally, and the quickest way was to kill a media personality. Thus a loser and no-hoper, a swmbwl, could make the headlines for just one day and have the satisfaction of knowing that his act had altered the mental landscape of millions: the cipher of his life would have been granted momentary relevance and validity.
As an instance of this, a few days ago Vail had been followed by a young man with large red boots and plaited hair who had spotted Vail in a tube station and stuck to him at a distance of fifteen metres for half an hour or more. Down the escalator they went together, along semi-circular tiled tunnels, down several twisting flights of steps, and onto the platform where Vail pretended to study a map of the underground while his pursuer fiddled ineffectually with the worn silver knobs of a vending machine. When the train arrived Vail stepped inside and the youth did likewise through a door farther along the carriage. During the short journey the young man stared fixedly at Vail through the undergrowth of newspapers, umbrellas and briefcases and made no pretence of the fact that he was waiting to see which station Vail got out at.
Sure enough, as Vail exited, so did the youth, and now the process was reversed, – up several flights of twisting steps, along semi-circular tiled tunnels, up the escalator, the same fifteen-metre distance rigorously maintained between them. At the top of the escalator Vail turned sharp right and right again, and instead of taking one of the two tunnels marked Bakerloo and Central sidled round in a complete circle and slid back nimbly onto the down escalator once again.
As the muscles released their stranglehold on his intestines (it isn’t pleasant being followed, even in a crowded public place
) he glanced with a relieved perspiring grin over his shoulder only to find the young man in the red boots and plaited hair fifteen metres behind, staring at him without expression.
Shaking off his would-be assassin hadn’t been easy; it had been a lucky fluke that at Covent Garden Vail had been the third from last person into the elevator and that when the gates clashed shut the youth was trapped about halfway along the tiled corridor with the next consignment.
The sweat drying rapidly on his face in the cool night air, his chest and back slippery under his clothing, Vail was waiting at the pedestrian crossing outside the station when another youth, this time black, had jostled his shoulder and mumbled something about finding the way to Chelsea. Vail shook his head dumbly and dodged out through the traffic, his knees trembling with fear. In the pub he drank a double whisky straight down to calm his nerves and then immediately had to go to the lavatory to shed his load of molten diarrhoea. The lavatory was of the old-fashioned Victorian type, with high ornate ceiling and tiled cubicles and solid walnut doors that could have withstood a battering-ram. It was a haven of peace and calm, sitting there, the air circulating round his steaming flanks, and he could have sat forever had it not been for the bass gurgling moan that came from the cubicle to his left. Hurriedly wiping himself and buttoning up, Vail got out fast, merely swilling his hands under the tap and wafting them as he walked to dry them. The experience had shaken him and he wasn’t anxious to repeat it, hence the beard and glasses.
On the third floor he meanders through soft furnishings and is bent double examining a carpet for the Kite mark when a thin face with a beaked nose separating watery brown eyes is thrust into his.