Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

by Robert Rankin

  Norman sheltered beneath his hands, in fear of falling plaster. He was no stranger to explosions. They went with the territory, when you were an inventor. In fact they were part of the fun of it all. If you didn’t have at least one decent explosion in the course of each experiment, you didn’t qualify for the right to wear the inventor’s white coat, in Norman’s opinion.

  Norman raised his head from his hands. The ceiling hadn’t fallen and down below the tape played on. It was just a minor explosion. Not the full gas mains job.

  ‘Phew,’ went Norman. ‘I wonder what that might have been. I think I’d better go downstairs and find out.’

  And Norman was just on the point of climbing from his bath when it happened.

  It happened fast and it happened hard and it didn’t give Norman a chance. It came up through the floor and up through the bath and caught Norman right where Pigarse’s dad had stuck the Barbie for art.

  Whatever it was, it was long, hard and white. Long, hard and white as a length of two by one. But this was not the carpenter’s friend of the well-loved music hall song. This long, white, hard thing was sharp at the end and more cylindrical in nature.

  Norman went up in a foamy blur and came down again in slow motion.

  Whatever it was had vanished now, but a bellowing came from below.

  It was quite a remarkable bellowing. And although Norman’s thoughts were not particularly centred upon any bellowing other than his own at this precise moment, even he could have told that this was not the bellowing of a horse.

  As such.

  But the beast that did the bellowing had many horse-like features. The mane, the hooves, the flanks and fetlocks and the rest. But this beast that reared and bucked in Norman’s kitchen, beneath the flow of water from his punctured bath, was more than just a horse.

  Much more.

  For this beast had a single horn that rose in glory from its head.

  A long, white, hard and pointed horn.

  A wondrous and magical horn.

  A horn, indeed, that is only to be found upon the head of a unicorn.

  14

  As he always liked to make an early start, Inspectre Sherringford Hovis, Brentford’s Detective in Residence, led the dawn raid on John Omally’s house.

  The Inspectre had spent much of the previous evening interviewing the captured Omally, in an attempt to learn the whereabouts of Small Dave. But the captured Omally had stubbornly insisted that he was really the clerk from the library.

  Even when put to the torture.

  Although never a man to give a crim the benefit of the doubt, Hovis had finally tired of all the screaming and agreed that in order to prove the truth of the matter once and for all, he would raid the address shown on the library ticket and if there was another Omally to be found there, he would set the captured one free.

  Enthusiastic constables smashed down John Omally’s door and burst into the house, with big guns raised and safety catches off.

  The sight of Omally’s kitchen had a most profound effect upon several of the married officers. Awestruck in admiration and moved almost to the point of tears, they could do little other than remove their helmets and bend their knees in silent prayer, within this sacred shrine to single manhood.

  A search of the upstairs revealed only two things of interest: an unmade and unslept-in bed and an ancient library book entitled How to Play the Stratocaster.

  The latter was bagged up as evidence.

  Secure now in the knowledge that he did in fact have the right man in custody and that this man was evidently a hardened crim who could hold out under torture, Inspectre Hovis returned to his office, a cup that cheers and a bowl of muesli that doesn’t.

  So where was the real John Omally?

  The answer to that was: elsewhere.

  John had spent the night with Jim at the Gandhis’ squat. The band occupied a large and run-down gothic house in Brentford’s Bohemian quarter. The tradition (or old charter, or whatever it was) that all aspiring rock bands must live together in a squat began with the Grateful Dead. And if it was good enough for the Dead, then it’s good enough for anyone.

  It was a little after nine of the Thursday morning clock when Omally awoke to a proffered cup of coffee.

  He awoke on the living-room sofa, and not, as he had hoped he would, in Litany’s bed. John yawned and stretched and sipped at the coffee.

  ‘Thank you, Ricky,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ said Ricky. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Somewhat odd, as it happens.’

  ‘Hardly surprising. You crashed out, mate. A couple of tokes on the hookah and you were gone. Dope not really your thing, is it?’

  ‘Not really,’ Omally confessed. ‘Where’s Jim?’

  ‘Gone out.’ Ricky took from his pocket a spliff of heroic proportions. ‘I don’t think he slept at all last night. I heard him pacing about. And then he woke me up early and asked if he could borrow my suit.’

  ‘Borrow your suit?’

  ‘I said he could keep it. And he showered and shaved and put it on and went out. He said he had a bit of urgent business he had to take care of. But he said we were to wait for him and he’d be back with lots of money. Is that guy boss, or what?’

  Omally sipped and nodded and tried to stay upwind of spliff smoke. He had absolutely no idea what Jim was up to. The lad had refused to tell him anything. Except that he would sort everything out, no matter what it took.

  Omally took to worrying, in a manly kind of a way.

  Now, if they were ever to organize a Most Manly Man in Brentford competition, the winner would undoubtedly be Bob the Bookie.

  Not because he was the borough’s most manly man, but because he would bribe the judges. Being thought of as manly, and always coming first, were big on Bob’s agenda.

  Bob had always liked to think of himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. And if it hadn’t been for the handicap of having a very small willy, he would no doubt have translated his thoughts into deeds that would have drawn applause from Long John Holmes himself.

  But such is life. Bob had a big bank roll, but a small willy. So, considering what an all-round bastard he was, there might, perhaps, be some justice left in the world.

  Bob was, if not a manly man, at least a self-made one. He worked very hard at the making of money, and from humble beginnings had built up a nationwide chain of twenty-three betting shops.

  But it was here, in Brentford, in the very first shop that he had ever opened, that he liked to spend his time. It was such a joy to take money from his old school chums. Chums who had pulled down his trousers at school and made mock of his midnight growler. Pooley was one of Bob’s old school chums and although Jim had never taken part in the debaggings, Bob still gained enormous pleasure parting Pooley from his pounds.

  Upon this particular Thursday morning, Bob was seated behind the armoured plexiglass of his counter window, leafing through a nudie book, when the slash curtains parted and a gentleman walked in.

  Bob noted the dark grey business suit, the shirt and tie and the confident walk. A VAT inspector, perhaps? Bob tucked away his nudie book and tried to look humble and poor.

  ‘How may I help you, sir?’ asked Bob. And then he did a double-take, and then a double-double.

  ‘Shergar’s shite!’ cried Bob the Bookie. ‘Pooley, is that you?’

  ‘Good morning, Bob,’ said Pooley. ‘And how are you today?’

  ‘I’m…I’m…’ Bob gawped at the vision before him. ‘Where did you steal that suit?’ he asked.

  ‘Always the wag, Bob. Always the wag.’

  ‘Yeah, but where did you steal it?’

  ‘I did not steal it. This is a business suit, as worn by those who do business.’

  ‘Oh, I see, you’re going to a fancy dress party. Come-as-your-fantasy, is it?’

  ‘No, Bob. I am wearing it because I am now in business. The music business.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Bob. ‘So what is it really? G
ot yourself a job as a shop-window dummy? Is that why you weren’t in yesterday?’

  ‘I was working yesterday. In the music business.’

  ‘Sure you were, Pooley. Well, just give me your slip and your stake money and then you can be off about your business.’ And Bob laughed in a most unpleasant manner.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t come in here to place a bet,’ said Jim. ‘My betting days are done. My ship has at last sailed into port and I just popped in to say goodbye, before I sail away for ever.’

  ‘And now I know you’re winding me up. So pay up and push off, why don’t you.’

  ‘I was just wondering if you had any change.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Bob. ‘Need a couple of pence to make up a quid, do you?’

  ‘No, I just need something a bit smaller. For the taxi.’ Jim pulled from his pocket the big wad of twenties and gave it a casual thumbing.

  Bob’s eyes bulged most horribly at the sight of all this money. ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked in a low and troubled tone.

  ‘Oh, this?’ Pooley thumbed a little more. ‘Just petty cash, actually. Could you let me have four fives for a twenty?’

  ‘I could,’ said Bob, his eyes now locked on Pooley’s wad. ‘I could, but…’

  ‘But?’ Jim asked.

  ‘But that is a very large amount of cash you’re carrying there, Jim. Don’t you think it might be advisable to keep it somewhere safe? Perhaps I might look after it for you.’

  ‘Did you say large amount?’ And Pooley laughed. ‘Well, it might be a large amount to you, Bob. But it’s nothing to what I shall be making over the next few months. But if you can’t give me change I’d better be getting along.’

  And Pooley turned to leave.

  ‘Hold on, there!’ cried Bob. ‘There’s no need to rush off just yet.’

  ‘Can’t hang about,’ said Jim. ‘More than my job’s worth. People to see. Business to do. Backers to vet.’

  ‘Backers to vet?’ asked Bob.

  ‘It’s my job,’ said Jim. ‘To vet backers who want to put money into a nationwide tour of a major new rock band.’ He turned back and grinned at Bob. ‘I have to check their credentials.’

  ‘And what do you know about stuff like that?’

  ‘Well, Bob.’ And here Pooley winked. ‘Actually I don’t know anything about it, but the deal is that anyone who invests in the band will double their money within six months.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Bob. ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘And why should you?’ said Jim. ‘You’ve never heard the band play—’

  ‘The only music I like to hear is the sound of the bookie’s piano.’ Bob gestured towards his cash register. ‘Ding ding ding, it goes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodbye.’

  ‘No, stop a minute, Jim.’ Bob had a bit of a sweat on now. He knew that he would never forgive himself if he let Jim escape from the shop with all that cash in his hand. He had always considered Jim’s money to be his money. And he couldn’t have his money walking out of the door. ‘Tell me about this band,’ he said. ‘Do you have a tape or something?’

  ‘I think it’s a videotape,’ said the constable, handing Inspectre Hovis the package. ‘Bloke dropped it off for you at the front desk.’

  Hovis took the package and leaned back in his chair. ‘And did this bloke leave his name?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but he was a respectable-looking type. Wore the uniform of a library clerk. And if we can’t trust a library clerk, who can we trust? Eh, Inspectre, sir?’

  ‘Be off on your way,’ said Hovis. ‘And get on to those glaziers again. I’m sick of the wind blowing in through that dirty great hole in the window.’

  The constable glanced towards the gaping hole. ‘I wonder what happened to the body,’ he wondered.

  ‘That is a question I shall be putting to Mr Omally. Here, take this before you go.’ He handed the constable a sheet of paper.

  ‘What is this, sir?’ the constable asked.

  ‘It’s a requisition form for a bigger cattle prod. A couple of days without rations should soften the blighter up. And then we’ll see what he has to tell us.’

  ‘Nice one, sir.’ And the constable departed, whistling in the way they often do.

  Hovis pushed photos to left and to right and opened the package on his desk. In it was indeed a videotape. A videotape of the now legendary Beatles’ Wembley concert of nineteen eighty. CONTAINS ACTUAL FOOTAGE OF THE QUEEN’S ASSASSINATION, ran a gaily coloured flyer on the front. Hovis pulled the tape from its sleeve and a note dropped onto his desk. Hovis examined the note and read.

  I PLAYED THIS TAPE YESTERDAY AFTERNOON IN A BOOTH AT THE VIRGIN MEGASTORE AND NOTICED SOMETHING ON IT THAT I THINK MIGHT INTEREST YOU. CHECK OUT THE FOOTAGE OF THE CROWD BESIDE THE STAGE JUST BEFORE THE QUEEN GETS SHOT. YOU’RE IN FOR A BIG SURPRISE.

  Hovis took the tape and slotted it beneath his little portable television type of jobbie. He fast-forwarded through half an hour of Virgin commercials and then through band after band after band until he reached the moment when the Beatles finished their final song and the Queen walked onto the stage.

  Inspectre Hovis diddled at the remote control. Doing that jerky slow-mo thing that you do when you reach your favourite bit. The head exploding, or the woman inserting the—

  ‘No!’ said Hovis. ‘That just isn’t possible.’

  Rewind-slow-mo-freeze-frame.

  ‘No!’ Inspectre Hovis stared. ‘It can’t be.’

  But it was.

  There was no doubt about it. There, by the side of the stage, waving and cheering, were a dozen young men. And although they were surrounded by many many other young men there was no doubt in the inspectre’s mind about where he’d seen this bunch before. He had police speed-trap-camera photos of them all over his desk.

  ‘It’s them,’ said the inspectre. ‘The same men. But this concert was twenty years ago and they look exactly the same. They’re even wearing the same T-shirts.’

  A knock came at his office door.

  ‘Come in!’ called Hovis. ‘What is it?’

  The constable stuck his head around the door. ‘There’s something I think you should see, sir,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ said Hovis. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘It’s a tape of surveillance footage, sir. From one of the cameras on the ground floor. It’s of that bloke who jumped out of your window.’

  ‘What, of him hitting the pavement?’

  ‘Well,’ said the constable, ‘he does hit the pavement eventually. I think you’d better see for yourself. But I don’t think you’re going to believe it.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!’ Bob the Bookie wriggled and jiggled and clutched at himself and went ‘Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh!’

  He had his Virgin-Sony Walkman on. Pooley had taken out the Now That’s What I Call a Cash Register tape and slotted in the Gandhis’ bootleg.

  Bob seemed to be enjoying himself.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ he screamed.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said John Omally, though not in a scream but a whisper.

  Pooley stood before him in the Gandhis’ sitting room. The hour was now ten of the morning clock, the atmosphere somewhat electric.

  The Gandhis stood all around Jim. Staring not only at him, but also at the open briefcase he held in his hands.

  The briefcase bulged with money notes of high denomination.

  ‘How much?’ Omally dared to ask.

  ‘One hundred thousand pounds,’ said Jim. ‘It was all Bob had in his safe. He even lent me his briefcase to carry it in.’

  ‘Bob? As in Bob the Bookie?’

  Pooley grinned and nodded too. ‘You should have seen me, John,’ he said. ‘It was my finest hour. I was nearly pooing myself, I can tell you. I did this thing where I casually thumbed through my wad. I’d practised it in front of the mirror, you see and—’

  ‘Jim,’ said Ricky, ‘you ar
e a fecking genius.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jim. ‘I—’

  ‘No, hold on,’ said Litany. ‘Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you had to raise the money for the tour from a third party?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Jim. ‘But it doesn’t really matter where the money comes from, as long as the tour goes ahead.’

  ‘No,’ said Litany, ‘I suppose it doesn’t. But why should this Bob give you one hundred thousand pounds on the strength of a band he knows nothing about? Or was he at our gig in the Shrunken Head?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim. ‘He wasn’t there. But I played him the bootleg tape.’

  There followed then a silence. It was a heavy kind of silence. An unearthly kind of silence. It was the heavy unearthly kind of silence that you normally only associate with that terrible moment just before the trap door opens and the hangman’s rope draws tight.

  ‘Bootleg tape,’ said Pigarse, breaking this silence to bits. ‘Shall I kill them for you, mistress?’

  ‘No,’ said Litany, holding up her hand. ‘No, not here. Not now.’

  ‘Hang about,’ said Omally. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Silence!’ shouted Pigarse.

  And John became silent.

  ‘Who made this bootleg?’ asked Litany.

  ‘Sandy,’ said John. ‘He bootlegs all the gigs. But I nicked the tape from him before he could make copies.’

  ‘And you made copies?’

  ‘I did,’ said John.

  ‘Give me all the tapes you have, at once.’

  John dug into his pocket. Pooley put the briefcase down and did likewise. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jim. ‘Here you are.’

  Litany took the tapes in her hand. And crushed them. Just crushed them to splinters. As if they were nothing at all.

  ‘You do not understand,’ she said, in a voice so cold that it raised the hairs on Jim Pooley’s neck. ‘There must never be bootlegs. Never. Our music must only be recorded upon encrypted CDs that cannot be copied. Bootleg tapes would ruin us. They would be copied by the thousand. By the million. We would not make a penny.’