Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World

by Mike A Vickers

  ‘She does like to strap you in tight, doesn’t she?’

  ‘My wife is talented in that direction, yes.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll take them off if your toes go blue. Again!’

  ‘I’m not that much of a masochist, despite reports in the papers to the contrary. Right, what have we got this morning? Anything I need to know about?’

  Angela Hutchinson had stuck with James through thick and thin. They had first met when James worked at the MoD. How long ago that now seemed. So many things had changed, but Angela hadn’t. She was still rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed, still blessed with waves of naturally blonde hair – and still formidably talented. Next to Celeste and Bertie, she was his closest friend and confidante. A blushing English rose she may have been, but those innocent, wide-eyed looks belied the sharpest of minds.

  And a fearsome temper; James had never forgotten the menacing way she handled the office pencil sharpener.

  James’s needs were modest. Unlike most MPs, who seemed to equate the size of their staff with their perceived importance, he only needed one assistant – Angela. Frankly, most of the time his presence wasn’t really required at all. She was in charge whether he was there or not, and continued to run his official life with consummate, effortless efficiency. In addition to updating his constituency website, one of her prime tasks involved shielding him from the torrent of anonymous hate mail that poured in every day. The Establishment did not like James. Trolls lurked everywhere. She responded to their cowardly vitriol with crushing sarcasm and humour, pointing out spelling and grammatical errors, advising on evening classes to boost their command of English, suggesting various places to insert all manner of unlikely objects, and generally having an excellent time. Her nephew, showing a rare talent that promised a stellar future career in MI5, had bought a clever little piece of software from the darker recesses of the internet and installed it in James’s computer, allowing Angela to trace and log all his incoming communications, just in case some outraged nutter threatened to go all mental over the worrying prospect of increasing democracy in the West Country.

  All MPs have an office in which to house their staff. The lucky, popular and important ones are provided with offices in the Houses of Parliament themselves. Sadly, James did not qualify, failing spectacularly on all three criteria, so he’d been allocated a tiny broom cupboard in the Norman Shaw Building opposite the Palace of Westminster, where the hoi polloi of MPs were housed. He didn’t mind at all. His cupboard was amply big enough to house them both and that was good enough. Loyalty personified, she’d resigned from the MoD and stuck with him through the turmoil of the last election. The two of them against the rest of Westminster. Like The Lone Ranger and Tonto.

  But with more leather.

  In his new role, he spent far less time at the House than any other MP, preferring to maintain the personal touch in his constituency rather than sitting on arcane committees and figuring out ways to claim even more expenses. Besides, he didn’t like being away from Celeste and Bertie unless it was absolutely necessary. This minimal attendance also suited those many MPs who expressed their disapproval of him openly. Frankly, they made it abundantly clear that the less they saw of him around the place, the happier they felt, and this unkind ostracism extended to the eight restaurants and six bars and lounges dotted around the grand old building. So, after working all morning, James left Angela and her prawn salad ciabatta and went in search of some lunch off the premises.

  The area around Westminster was far too crowded with milling throngs of tourists, all waving their cameras and posing in front of Big Ben, and so he strolled, hands in pockets and deep in thought, to a very nice little coffee shop in Dartmouth Street just ten minutes away. He was welcomed as an old friend, ushered to his favourite window table and enjoyed a bowl of homemade chicken broth with warm tiger rolls and a plain, ordinary, no-nonsense cup of coffee: no frills, no fancy Italian accoutrements, no barista from Walthamstow massacring a Tuscan accent. Just filtered coffee. Black. No sugar. OK?

  He then texted Celeste to give her an update on the state of his constricted parts and put in a formal request for extra straps and spanking the next time he was home, knowing these were never denied. With that to look forward to, he browsed through the papers, sipping his drink, but now being a man of a certain age, the strong coffee soon made its presence felt. The briefs probably didn’t help, either. He settled his bill and searched out the little boy’s room. The spotless facilities at Choccy, Toffee & Coffee were located out back, separated from the lounge and, unhappily for James on this occasion, extremely private. No sooner had he pushed through the swing door, when he was grabbed from behind and bustled unceremoniously into the only cubicle by three large and very determined gentlemen. All four squeezed in and the door was slammed and locked. Normally, James was happy to spend time in an enclosed space – wardrobes figured near the top of his favourites list – but he preferred to be alone in these moments of blissful confinement. This was entirely different.

  James turned indignantly and was about to protest, when he received a warning finger pressed hard against his forehead. ‘Zip it, Timbrill, not a word,’ hissed their leader, a shaven-headed man, hard and chiselled, with nasty little dark eyes and an aura of smouldering violence. Bertie would have hacked his face off in a moment as a matter of general principle. The man’s two companions stood behind, silent, with carefully cultured, gimlet-eyed sneers on their simian faces. A solid wall of muscle and bone stood between James and freedom.

  It was all rather unpleasantly claustrophobic.

  The shaven-headed man moved up to stand even more uncomfortably close to James, which in actual fact simply meant swaying slightly forward in the crowded cubicle. A strange gleam of whetted anticipation hardened his black eyes. ‘You need to concentrate on what I’m saying,’ he said very softly. ‘Here, let me help.’ Without warning he grabbed James’s leather-clad balls and gave them a good old-fashioned twist.

  To the right.

  Now, it would be fair to say James was fond of his balls. Very fond. Only three people had ever touched him in his special little place before: his mother, who’d efficiently cleaned and talced his infant marbles while coochie-coochie-cooing him outrageously; James himself, who, with enormous enthusiasm had embraced testicular self-examination twice a day from the age of fourteen; and now his wife, whose cool, leather-gloved fingers did unspeakably pleasurable things to the Timbrill family conkers. This man was the fourth – and James didn’t like it very much.

  ‘Listen very carefully, Leather Boy.’ His grip tightened painfully. James squirmed, a squeak escaping gritted teeth. The briefs offered no protection. Sweat popped on his brow. ‘You will be contacted from time to time with specific instructions. You will follow these instructions to the letter. Failure to comply will result in … unpleasantness. You will never question these instructions and you will never attempt to identify their source. You will not contact the police. Should you fail to comply with any of these, your wife will then be regarded as a viable target, exposing her to equal – unpleasantness. And your wife’s parrot. Especially your wife’s parrot.’

  ‘He’s a macaw,’ gasped James. Bertie was fussy about that. ‘Get your facts right.’

  ‘Thanks for the correction, you smart-arsed toff.’ Another twist, this time to the left, and James keened in agony. The man sneered. ‘Thought you would’ve liked that, pervert! Don’t forget, now. Be a good boy, do as you’re told and from this moment on your life will be surprisingly rewarding. Here’s a small golden handshake. Welcome to the team.’ Gorilla Number One placed a bulging sports bag on the loo seat. The man with his grip on James’s knackers gave one final squeeze, then polished off the interview with a sharp, straight-fingered jab to his stomach. James collapsed in a heap, winded, scrotum screaming, his disinterest in the proceedings now overwhelming. He grovelled on the floor between pan and wall as Gorilla Number Two extracted his mobile and lobbed it down the khazi. Then all three goons
tried to exit the cubicle at the same time, only to get snarled up in the door frame. Wedged firmly and with arms flailing, they pushed hard. The cubicle creaked alarmingly. Baldy swore, but was caught fast in a hard-muscled sandwich. All three pushed again; the frame finally splintered and they popped free, the door swinging back with a bang on its broken hinges.

  ‘Idiots!’ he muttered with real venom, shaking his lapels and stalking out, trailing chastened gorillas in his wake.

  James groaned. The floor smelt suspect, an aroma of badly-aimed pee and bleach. He huddled in the recovery position for quite a while until his legs began to work again then slowly levered himself to his knees, rubbing his bruised stomach. He felt pretty crap, to tell the truth, and his mood was certainly not lifted when he unzipped the sports bag and looked inside.

  A quarter of a million pounds peered back.

  His shoulders slumped. ‘Damn!’

  James did not consider himself a man of action. Men from Gloucester rarely did. He felt excessive physical exertion only made him look undignified. For God’s sake, he didn’t even run to get out of the rain any longer, but he also knew he needed to exit the scene as soon as possible. If the staff – who he now realised by their notable absence must all be deaf as a post – discovered him, then the police would certainly become involved. They all knew he was an MP and the Met took attacks on MPs very seriously indeed. Instinct told him this was probably a bad move.

  He needed to talk to Celeste and thus fished his phone out of the toilet sump. Unsurprisingly, the screen remained stubbornly blank despite an impressive amount of random button-stabbing, so he tidied himself as best he could, took the bag and hobbled out of the facilities as nonchalantly as his bruised broad beans allowed. A fire exit door stood ajar in the passageway beyond. James peered through and discovered an alley leading back to Dartmouth Street. Various bins clustered beside various back doors. The alley was not long and appeared mercifully deserted. He hefted the bag – two hundred and fifty large was surprisingly heavy – and rather than risk attracting attention in the coffee shop, slipped through the fire exit, making sure the door snapped shut behind him. Gathering strength and dignity, he made his way down the alley, limping painfully like a saddle-sore gaucho at the end of a hard day’s herding. He paused at the corner and peered around, and was thankful that the men were nowhere in sight.

  The encounter had left him shaking, nervous and very uncertain. He hesitated, unsure what to do, and leaning against the wall with eyes shut, took a few moments to compose himself. His chestnuts throbbed horribly and his belly hurt with every breath. He considered his position. There was no way he would ever accept a bribe. Take just one payment and they have you for ever. He looked back up the alley. The bag had to go. There were plenty of bins to choose from, might as well make it the nearest.

  ‘They went that way.’ The words startled James. They seemed to rise from a large bundle of rags and cloth wedged in a cosy niche just inside the alley entrance. To his amazement, a threadbare blanket draped over the bundle moved and a hand appeared, bony finger pointing. ‘Three men. Nasty-looking bastards, too. They went that way.’ A grubby face materialised out of a fold in many layers of hoods and scarves. Limbs moved lethargically, uncurling to reveal a frail woman. She looked much older than she probably was – pavement life was obviously harsh on the complexion. A mandatory Bag Lady red woollen bobble hat was perched precariously on top of a mess of washed-out ginger frizz streaked with ashen grey. Individual hairs sprang in all directions like a hedgehog who’d just been surprised by an electric fence. Despite his predicament, James’s natural West Country courtesy was just too ingrained to ignore and he found himself unable to walk away. The pain in his plums also contributed significantly to this general reluctance to move. He peered into a face pinched by worry yet oddly serene with indifference to her less than salubrious surroundings.

  James put the bag down. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll be following them.’

  ‘Of course not. Only a fool would do that. I don’t see you as a fool. Strange sort of mugging though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you go into yonder cafe full of the joys of spring. I saw them follow you in with the bag. Now everyone comes piling out the back door. They were in a hurry, you’re obviously bruised and battered but now have the bag. None of my business, but even I know muggings don’t work like that.’

  ‘Can’t pull the wool over your eyes, can I?’

  The woman cackled like a crazed Shakespearean witch. ‘Not with this hair you can’t. So what’s a fine-looking gentleman like you associating with dirtbags like that?’

  ‘Not my choice, madam.’

  ‘Mmm, well, take my advice – might be wise to avoid them at all costs. As I said, nasty looking. Dangerous. Wouldn’t want to meet them again in an alley like this, would you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Normal people don’t use fire exits out of an eating house unless they haven’t paid. You don’t strike me as a man who doesn’t settle his bill.’ She nodded back down the alley, head bobbing on a neck long enough to provide a home for several scarves, then looked at him more carefully, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. ‘You hurting bad, sonny?’

  James couldn’t conceal the drawn look of pain on his face. Perspiration sheened his forehead. ‘A bit. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Liar!’ she snapped. ‘That’s not you. I see an honest man. You can’t hide anything from me. I know it hurts.’

  ‘It does a little,’ he admitted.

  ‘Go home,’ the beggar ordered. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no help I can give you, but be careful. These men might come knocking on your door again. They knew where you’d be today, that means you’ve been targeted and followed. Understand?’

  James regarded her for a few moments. There was a lively and perceptive mind hidden under all those rags. A woman that clever shouldn’t be living in an alley. He withdrew all the notes from his wallet. ‘Thank you, you’ve helped with good advice and for that I’m very grateful. I’m honoured to give help in return. It’s not much, but it’s everything I have. Please tell me you’ll spend this on some hot food.’

  His words seemed to break through the woman’s gruffness. She stared up at him. James was captured by her intensity, but there was a touch of madness in her green eyes. She suddenly looked awfully familiar. He searched his mind, but could not place her.

  They shared a moment in silence. James could easily bear a silence, unlike so many of his fellow MPs. They loved the sound of their own voices. None of them would have stopped since there would have been nothing to gain by the encounter. With no cameras around to capture the moment, nothing would have appeared in the media, and so no advantage gained. Instead, there was just James and the woman. He had a powerful feeling of deja vu. She detached an arm from the burrowed recesses of her blanket and squeezed his hand in thanks as she took the money. ‘You are so very kind,’ she said gently, the wild cast in her eyes softening. ‘Hot food, I promise.’

  James smiled wanly. Jeez, his knackers hurt. ‘My pleasure, madam. Be safe.’

  He strode away as quickly as his injuries allowed. Now, where had he seen her before? He was so consumed in thought he completely and intentionally forgot to pick up the bag.

  The woman watched him go. The blanket stirred and a pigeon’s head appeared. ‘All right, Agnes, let’s see what’s in the bag Mr Timbrill was so careful to leave behind.’ She opened the holdall and pulled out a great big thick wad of twenties. There was a moment’s silence, then she tossed the wad back into the bag and stared thoughtfully at James’s back until he limped round a corner and disappeared.

  ‘My, my, I don’t think we need worry about the price of bird seed for a while,’ she murmured.

  Miller sat in the usual meeting room deep in the heart of The City. A fine view, he thought idly, staring out of the window while Woolley and Brasenose bickered and argued. What the hell was wrong with them. A bunch of nervous old men with
too much money and an incurable addiction to power. He curled a weary lip at Adam Netheridge who in turn rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Miller said loudly and forcefully enough to silence the room, ‘I’m happy to report first contact with Spanker Timbrill.’ Yeah, he thought, my fist in contact with his belly. Mmm, that had been a pleasant moment. Miller had always been given a wide latitude by Netheridge and took full advantage of his operational freedom, but grabbing hold of another man’s goolies didn’t quite cut the mustard as much as a good thump in the guts.

  ‘All went according to plan. The encounter was brief but – ah, instructive.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ rumbled Black. Miller had proved himself on numerous occasions to be direct, brutal and sadistic. ‘And the invitation?’

  ‘Delivered.’

  ‘Good. It’s always best to establish the nature of these relationships from the beginning.’

  ‘A bag full of money is a powerful incentive,’ agreed Woolley. His own avarice blinded him to any other conclusion. Naturally, he expected James to react in the same way he would himself. A pecuniary incentive backed up by the threat of violence usually obtained the required results and, of course, the moment Timbrill accepted just one payment then the man was theirs, heart and soul, to be corrupted for as long as he was useful.

  Miller’s mobile vibrated. He took the call while the others congratulated themselves on their cleverness, but Netheridge studied his man’s face and knew all was not well. This assessment was swiftly confirmed.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announced Miller flatly, once the call had ended. ‘I regret to announce Mr Timbrill has misplaced the invitation.’

  There was a stunned silence. Miller smirked, despite his flash of anger at hearing the news. He so loved to see them all discomfited. ‘I tasked one of my colleagues to observe the target post-delivery. He emerged from the venue without the invitation. My colleague entered the venue to make enquiry. My colleague has confirmed the invitation was not left in the venue. Despite an extensive search, it has not been located. Therefore, we have to assume Timbrill has not accepted the invitation and it has been lost.’ His information was delivered in terse, accurate packets, one piece of information per sentence. Military style. Actually, Herefordshire style. Thanks for the SAS education, boys.