by Tom Sharpe
‘Excessive?’ squealed Mr Symper. ‘It’s positively monstrous. And what’s more I take exception to your use of the word “Kraut”. I shall protest most vehemently to the authorities.’
‘Odd bod,’ said the Major as the secretary of the League of Personal Liberties rushed from the room. ‘Anyone would think Mrs Wilt was the terrorist instead of a devoted mother.’
It was more or less the attitude adopted by Inspector Flint. ‘Listen, mate,’ he told the distraught Symper, ‘you can lead as many protest marches as you fucking well like but don’t come yelling at me that Mrs Bloody Wilt is a murderess. You brought her here …’
‘I didn’t know she was going to hang people. I refuse to be party to a private execution.’
‘No, well you won’t be that. You’re an accessory. The bastards on the ground floor have bumped off Wilt and the children by the sound of things. How’s that for loss of personal liberties?’
‘But they wouldn’t have if you had let them go. They …’
Flint had heard enough. Much as he had disliked Wilt the thought that this hysterical do-gooder was blaming the police for refusing to give way to the demands of a group of bloodthirsty foreigners was too much for him. He rose from his chair and grabbed Mr Symper by the lapels. ‘All right, if that’s the way you feel about it I’m sending you next door to persuade the Widow Wilt to come downstairs and let herself be shot by …’
‘I won’t go,’ gibbered Mr Symper. ‘You’ve no right …’
Flint tightened his grip and was frogmarching him backwards down the hall when Mr Gosdyke interrupted.
‘Inspector, something has got to be done immediately. Mrs Wilt is taking the law into her own hands!’
‘Good for her,’ said Flint. ‘This little shit has just volunteered to act as an emissary to our friendly neighbourhood freedom fighters …’
‘I have done nothing of the sort,’ squeaked Mr Symper. ‘Gosdyke, I appeal to you to …’
The solicitor ignored him. ‘Inspector Flint, if you are prepared to give an undertaking that my client will not be held responsible, questioned, taken into custody, charged or placed on remand or in any way proceeded against for what she is evidently about to do …’
Flint released the egregious Mr Symper. Years of courtroom procedure told him when he was beaten. He followed Mr Gosdyke into the Conference Room and studied Eva Wilt’s astonishing posterior with amazement. Gosdyke’s remark about taking the law into her own hands seemed totally inappropriate. She was flattening the damned thing. Flint looked to Dr Felden.
‘Mrs Wilt is obviously in an extremely disturbed mental state, Inspector. We must try to reassure her. I suggest you use the telephone …’
‘No,’ said Professor Maerlis. ‘Mrs Wilt may appear from this angle to have the proportions of an attenuated gorilla, but even so I doubt if she could reach the telephone without getting off the chair.’
‘And what’s so wrong with that?’ demanded the Major aggressively. ‘The Schautz bitch has it coming to her.’
‘Perhaps, but we don’t want to make a martyr of her. She already has a very considerable political charisma …’
‘Bugger her charisma,’ said Flint, ‘she’s had the rest of the Wilt family martyred and we can always claim that her death was accidental.’
The Professor looked at him sceptically. ‘You could try, I suppose, but I think you’d have some difficulty persuading the media that a woman who has been suspended from a balcony on the end of two ropes, one of which had been expertly knotted round her neck, and who was subsequently hanged and/or decapitated, died in any meaningfully accidental manner. Of course it’s up to you but …’
‘All right, then what the hell do you suggest?’
‘Turn a blind eye, old boy,’ said the Major. ‘After all Mrs Wilt is only human …’
‘Only?’ muttered Dr Felden. ‘A clearer example of anthropomorphism …’
‘And she’s got to answer the call of nature sometime.’
‘Call of nature?’ shouted Flint. ‘She’s done that already. She’s squatting there like a ruddy performing elephant …’
‘Pee, old boy, pee,’ continued the Major. ‘She’s got to get up to have a pee sooner or later.’
‘Pray later than sooner,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘The thought of that ghastly shape getting off that chair would be too much to bear.’
‘Anyway she’s probably got a bladder like a barrage balloon,’ said Flint. ‘Mind you, she can’t be any too warm and there’s nothing like cold for making one hit the pisspot.’
‘In which case it’s curtains for La Schautz,’ said the Major. ‘Let’s us off the hook, what?’
‘I can think of happier ways of putting it,’ said the Professor, ‘and it would still leave us with the problem of Fräulein Schautz’s evident martyrdom.’
Flint left them arguing and went out to look for the Superintendent. As he passed through the Communications Centre he was stopped by the sergeant. A series of squeals and squelches was coming from one of the listening devices.
‘It’s the boom aimed at the kitchen window,’ the sergeant explained.
‘Kitchen window?’ said Flint incredulously. ‘Sounds more like a squad of mice tap-dancing in a septic tank. What the hell are those squeaks?’
‘Children,’ said the sergeant. ‘Hardly likely, I know, but I’ve yet to hear one mouse tell another to shut its fucking trap. And it’s not coming from inside the house. The two wogs have been complaining that they haven’t anyone left to shoot. If you want my opinion …’
But Flint was already clambering across the rubble of the conservatory in search of the Superintendent. He found him lying in the grass beside the summerhouse at the bottom of the Wilts’ garden, studying Gudrun Schautz’s anatomy through a pair of binoculars.
‘Extraordinary lengths these lunatics will go to gain some publicity,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘It’s a good thing we’ve kept the TV cameras out of range.’
‘She’s not up there out of choice,’ said Flint. ‘It’s Mrs Wilt’s doing and we’ve got a chance to take the two swine on the ground floor. They’re out of hostages for the time being.’
‘Are they really?’ said the Superintendent, and transferred his observation to the kitchen windows with some reluctance. A moment later he was refocusing his binoculars on the compost bin.
‘Good God,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve heard of rapid fermentation but … Here, you take a look at that bin by the back door.’
Flint took the binoculars and looked. In close-up he could see what the Superintendent meant by rapid fermentation. The compost was alive. It moved, it heaved, several bean haulms rose and fell, while a beetroot suddenly emerged from the sludge and promptly disappeared again. Finally, and most disconcerting of all, something that resembled a Hallowe’en pumpkin with matted hair peered over the side of the bin.
Flint closed his eyes, opened them again and found himself looking through a mask of decaying vegetable matter at a very familiar face.
22
Five minutes later Wilt was hauled unceremoniously from the compost heap while a dozen armed policemen aimed guns at the kitchen door and windows.
‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ squealed Josephine as she was lifted from the mess. A constable bundled her through the hedge and went back for Penelope. Inside the house the terrorists made no move. They were being occupied on the phone by Flint.
‘You can forget any deals,’ he was saying as the Wilt family were led through the conservatory. ‘Either you come out with your hands up and no guns or we’re coming in firing, and after the first ten bullets you won’t know what hit you … Christ, what’s that revolting smell?’
‘It says it’s called Samantha,’ said the constable who was carrying the foetid child.
‘Well take it away and disinfect the beastly thing,’ said Flint, groping for a handkerchief.
‘I don’t want to be disinfected,’ bawled Samantha. Flint turned a weary eye on the g
roup and for a moment had the nightmarish feeling that he was looking at something in an advanced state of decomposition. But the vision faded. He could see now that it was simply Wilt clotted with compost.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in. If it isn’t Compost Casanova himself, our beanstalk hero of the hour. I’ve seen some sickening sights in my time but …’
‘Charming,’ said Wilt. ‘Considering what I’ve just been through I can do without cracks about nostalgie de la boue. And what about Eva? She’s still in there and if you start shooting …’
‘Shut up, Wilt,’ said Flint, lumbering to his feet. ‘For your information, if it weren’t for Mrs Wilt’s latest enthusiasm for hanging people we’d have been into that house an hour ago.’
‘Her enthusiasm for what?’
‘Someone give him a blanket,’ said Flint. ‘I’ve seen enough of this human vegetable to last me a lifetime.’ He went into the Conference Room followed by Wilt wrapped rather meagrely in one of Mrs de Frackas’ shawls.
‘Gentlemen, I’d like you all to meet Mr Henry Wilt,’ he told the dumbfounded Psycho-Warfare Team, ‘or should I say Comrade Wilt?’
Wilt didn’t hear the crack. He was staring at the television screen. ‘That’s Eva,’ he said numbly.
‘Yes, well, it takes one to know one, I suppose,’ said Flint, ‘and on the end of all those ropes is your playmate, Gudrun Schautz. The moment your missus gets up from that chair you’re going to find yourself married to the first British female executioner. Now that’s fine with me. I’m all in favour of capital punishment and women’s lib. Unfortunately these gentlemen don’t share my lack of prejudice and home hanging is against the law, so if you don’t want to see Mrs Wilt on a charge of justifiable homicide you’d better come up with something quick.’ But Wilt sat staring in dismay at the screen. His own alternative terrorism had been tame by comparison with Eva’s. She was sitting there calmly waiting to be murdered and had devised a hideous deterrent.
‘Can’t you call her on the telephone?’ he asked finally.
‘Use your loaf. The moment she gets off …’
‘Quite,’ said Wilt hastily. ‘And I don’t suppose there’s any way of putting a net or something under Miss Schautz. I mean …’
Flint laughed nastily. ‘Oh, it’s Miss Schautz now, is it? Such modesty. Considering that only a few hours ago you were pork-swording the bitch I must say I find …’
‘Under duress,’ said Wilt. ‘You don’t think I make a habit of leaping into bed with killers, do you?’
‘Wilt,’ said Flint, ‘what you do in your spare time is no concern of mine. Or wouldn’t be if you kept within the limits of the law. Instead of which you fill your house with terrorists and give them lectures in the theory of mass murder.’
‘But that was –’
‘Don’t argue. We’ve got every word you said on tape. We’ve built up a psycho …’
‘Profile,’ prompted Dr Felden, studying Wilt in preference to watching Eva on the screen.
‘Thank you, doctor. A psycho-profile of you …’
‘Psycho-political profile,’ said Professor Maerlis. ‘I would like to hear Mr Wilt explain where he gained such an extensive knowledge of the theory of terrorism.’
Wilt scraped a carrot-peeling from his ear and sighed. It was always the same. No one ever understood him: no one ever would. He was a creature of infinite incomprehensibility and the world was filled with idiots, himself included. And all the time Eva was in danger of being killed and killing. He got wearily to his feet.
‘All right, if that’s the way you want it I’ll go back into the house and put it to those maniacs that …’
‘Like hell you will,’ said Flint. ‘You’ll stay exactly where you are and come up with a solution to the mess you’ve got us all into.’
Wilt sat down again. There was no way he could think of to end the stalemate. Happenstance reigned supreme and only chaos could be counted on to determine man’s fate.
As if to confirm this opinion there came the sound of a dull rumble from the house next door. It was followed by a violent explosion and the crash of breaking glass.
‘My God, the swine have blown themselves up kamikaze-style,’ shouted Flint as several toy soldiers toppled on the ping-pong table. He turned and hurried into the Communications Centre with the rest of the Psycho-Warfare Team. Only Wilt remained behind staring fixedly at the television screen. For a moment Eva had seemed to lift from the chair; but she had settled back again and was sitting there as stolidly as ever. From the other room the sergeant could be heard shouting his version of the disaster to Flint.
‘I don’t know what happened. One moment they were arguing about giving themselves up and claiming we were using poison gas and the next minute the balloon had gone up. I shouldn’t think they knew what hit them.’
But Wilt did. With a cheerful smile he stood up and went into the conservatory.
‘If you’ll just follow me,’ he told Flint and the others, ‘I can explain everything.’
‘Hold it there, Wilt,’ said Flint. ‘Let’s get something straight. Are you by any chance suggesting that you’re responsible for that explosion?’
‘Only in passing,’ said Wilt with the sublime confidence of a man who knew he was telling nothing but the truth, ‘only in passing. I don’t know if you’re at all acquainted with the workings of the bio-loo but –’
‘Oh shit,’ said Flint.
‘Precisely, Inspector. Now shit is converted anaerobically in the bio-loo or, more properly speaking, the alternative toilet, into methane, and methane is a gas which ignites with the greatest of ease in the presence of air. And Eva has been into self-sufficiency in what you may well call a big way. She had dreams of cooking by perpetual motion, or rather by perpetual motions. So the cooker is hooked to the bio-loo and what goes in one end has got to come out the other and vice versa. Take a boiled egg for instance …’
Flint looked incredulously at him. ‘Boiled eggs?’ he shouted. ‘Are you seriously telling me that boiled eggs … oh no. No, definitely no. We’ve been through the pork-pie routine before. You’re not fooling me this time. I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’
‘Anatomically speaking …’ began Wilt, but Flint was already floundering through the conservatory into the garden. One glance over the fence was enough to convince him that Wilt was right. The few remaining windows on the ground floor of the house were spattered with blobs of stained yellow paper and something else. But it was the stench that hit him which was so convincing. The Inspector groped for his handkerchief. Two extraordinary figures had lurched through the shattered patio windows. As terrorists they were unrecognizable. Chinanda and Baggish had taken the full force of the bio-loo and were perfect examples of the worth of their own ideology.
‘Shits in shits’ clothing,’ murmured Professor Maerlis, gazing in awe at the human excreta that stumbled about the lawn.
‘Hold it there,’ shouted the head of the Anti-Terrorist Squad as his men aimed revolvers at them, ‘we’ve got you covered.’
‘Rather an unnecessary injunction if you ask me,’ said Dr Felden. ‘I’ve heard of bullshit baffling brains but I’ve never realized the destabilizing potential of untreated sewage before.’
But the two terrorists were past caring about the destruction of pseudo-democratic fascism. Their concern was purely personal. They rolled on the ground in a frantic attempt to rid themselves of the filth while above them Gudrun Schautz looked down with an idiot smile.
As Baggish and Chinanda were dragged to their feet by reluctant policemen Wilt entered the house. He passed through the devastated kitchen and stepped over old Mrs de Frackas and climbed the stairs. On the landing he hesitated.
‘Eva,’ he called, ‘it’s me, Henry. It’s all right. The children are safe. The terrorists are under arrest. Now don’t get up from that chair. I’m coming up.’
‘I warn you, if this is some sort of trick I won’t be responsible for what happens,’ shou
ted Eva.
Wilt smiled to himself happily. That was the old Eva talking in defiance of all logic. He went up to the attic and stood in the doorway looking at her with open admiration. There was nothing silly about Eva now. Sitting naked and unashamed she possessed a strength he would never have.
‘Darling,’ he began incautiously before stopping. Eva was studying him with frank disgust.
‘Don’t you “darling” me, Henry Wilt,’ she said. ‘And how did you get in that filthy state?’
Wilt looked down at his torso. Now that he came to examine it he was in a filthy state. A piece of celery poked rather ambiguously from Mrs de Frackas’ shawl.
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I was in the compost heap with the children …’
‘With the children?’ shouted Eva furiously. ‘In the compost heap?’
And before Wilt could explain she had risen from the chair. As it shot across the room Wilt hurled himself at the rope, clung to it, was slammed against the opposite wall and finally managed to wedge himself behind a wardrobe.
‘For Christ’s sake, help me pull her up,’ he yelled, ‘you can’t let the bitch hang.’
Eva put her hands on her hips. ‘That’s your problem. I’m not doing anything to her. You’re holding the rope.’
‘Only just. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that if I really love you I’ll let go. Well, let me tell you …’
‘Don’t bother,’ shouted Eva. ‘I heard you in bed with her. I know what you got up to.’
‘Up to?’ yelled Wilt. ‘The only way I got anything up was by pretending she was you. I know it seems unlikely …’
‘Henry Wilt, if you think I’m going to stand here and let you insult me …’
‘I’m not insulting you. I’m paying you the biggest bloody compliment you’ve ever received. Without you I don’t know what I would have done. And now for goodness’ sake –’
‘I know what you did without me,’ shouted Eva, ‘you made love to that horrible woman …’
‘Love?’ yelled Wilt. ‘That wasn’t love. That was war. The bitch battened on to me like a sex-starved barnacle and …’ But it was too late to explain. The wardrobe was shifting and the next moment Wilt, still gripping the rope, rose slowly into the air and moved toward the hook. Behind him came the chair and presently he was crouched up against the ceiling with his head twisted at a curious angle. Eva looked up at him uncertainly. For a second she hesitated, but she couldn’t let him stay there and it was wrong to hang the German girl now that the quads were safe.