Madame de Gaulle's Penis

by Herbie Brennan

  “I’m not upset about it,” I lied. “I’m just damn’ annoyed. Where’s she gone off to anyway? Do you know?”

  “Haven’t an idea.” There was no question but that she was telling the truth. She never kept anything back once you thought to ask her a direct question.

  “Well, who’s this man she’s taken up with? Do you know that?”

  “Yes,” Pat said. “That headshrinker of yours. What’s his name? Van something?”

  I stared at the phone open-mouthed. My first emotion was astonishment, followed by disbelief, followed by chill belief, followed by fury. No wonder the smooth-talking fart wasn’t home yet! He was off tupping my beautiful Seline! No wonder he was worried in case I’d been home that afternoon! No wonder he was nervous before I told him who I planned to murder - the goon-brained old tort-feasor probably thought it was him! I babbled obscenities and violence across the phone to Pat; and as I babbled, like the hero of The Incredible Hulk something changed inside me.

  Chapter Six

  About three weeks later, two days after the house sold, I got a trite little note from my bank manager inviting me to call and see him. At first my inclination was to ignore it - my preparations were virtually complete by then - but I had little enough to do that day and thought it might be an amusing interlude. It was fairly obvious what he wanted. I had liquidated the account the day before, converting my assets (£644.00, according to my calculations, since I’d written a few cheques on the original £700) into cash, an operation I planned to repeat when the cheque for the house came through tomorrow. I imagined he wanted to ask me what the hell was going on. Bank managers hate it when you liquidate your account, even though you have a perfect right to.

  So I strolled down to the branch at eleven o’clock that morning, interested mainly in seeing his reaction to my new style of dress. I had now abandoned Chester Barrie for a stylish safari suit more in keeping with the image of the hunter, worn over a casual open-necked shirt in military green. I still had the vague feeling full combat gear might have been more appropriate, but I had no intention of looking a scruff, even for de Gaulle. Besides, had you known me then, you would recognise that the compromise was still a long step from my original sobriety.

  Despite the massive changes in my character, I was still plagued by my sexual obsession, so that as I entered the bank, I paused to consider how the female staff would look if they were naked. There were five altogether: three working at the counter as tellers, the remaining two busily typing in the background. One of the tellers, a sloe-eyed brunette, had remarkably large breasts, so I permitted her to wear a quarter cup bra - in shiny black PVC - to give them support. The rest I simply stripped. I was less uptight now about the process than I had been, probably because it was happening so often, so I took all the time I needed to visualise as clearly as I could. It struck me forcibly that there were ways for this branch to increase its business that the manager had never dreamed of.

  In the event, it is doubtful if he even noticed my new style of dress, since he emerged from his office heavily preoccupied with the problems of his previous customer. She was, he mentioned, the wife of a Surrey farmer who was having trouble with rustlers.

  His sympathetic expression evaporated as the office door closed behind us. He was by no means a threatening individual - very small, fat and prematurely bald - but I suppose he felt he had to do his best for the sake of his position.

  He walked behind his desk and frowned at me. “Mr Sinclair, I am frankly worried about the state of your account.”

  I sat down without being invited. The office was a chicken-coop with wood veneer. Strange how a man will sell out for a tiny portion of power. But then there had been a time when I sold out too and for a lot less. I didn’t even have my own office in the BBC. I’d shared space with seven other journalists of greater or lesser rank and prestige. And the power I’d wielded was directly proportionate to my popularity as a broadcaster, which, since I was an up and comer rather than an arrived, was strictly limited. No more. “It’s empty, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Hardly empty, Mr Sinclair. Empty is scarcely the word I would use.” He scrabbled a piece of paper from his desk. “There is an overdrawn balance of £3,144. That’s considerably over your overdraft limit - more than £1600 over.” He stared at me, obviously waiting for some comment.

  I stared back at him, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Eventually I asked, “What was that figure again?”

  “Three thousand one hundred and forty-four pounds,” he said. “Overdrawn. Your limit -”

  “Is two and a half thousand - I know.”

  “Then why have you exceeded it?”

  “I haven’t,” I said. “Your computer must have blown a fuse.” It was no joke. In 1969, computers were relatively rare outside banking - even hand-held calculators were still a novelty - and everyone mistrusted them. Urban myths abounded about bankrupts who found themselves millionaires because of misplaced decimal points. The more sensible among us dismissed the cheerful legends, but retained a healthy paranoia that convinced us the decimal points could easily slip the other way.

  My attitude was not endearing me to him. “The figures have been checked,” he told me coldly.

  “By a human being?”

  “By me.”

  That seemed close enough. “Let’s go back a bit,” I said. “My last statement showed a credit balance of about £700 - right?”

  He glanced at the paper again. “Seven hundred and four pounds.”

  “Call it seven hundred,” I said generously. “Since then -” I fished my chequebook from a pocket of my new safari jacket and flicked through the stubs. “ - I’ve written cheques for £16, £110 and £40 - a total of £156.” He looked as if he was about to say something, but I waved him grandly to silence. “Which leaves a total credit balance of £644 by my calculation. Now if you check your records again, you will find that yesterday, in this very bank, I cashed a further cheque for precisely that amount, leaving my account at zero.” I fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Not three thousand one hundred and forty-four pounds overdrawn.”

  “You’re forgetting your wife liquidated the £644 and went to the limit of your overdraft three weeks ago.”

  I blinked. “Say again.”

  “You’re forgetting your wife liquidated the £644 and went to the limit of your overdraft three weeks ago,” he said again.

  The bitch! The two-timing, double-dealing, back-biting, poxy, greedy, flatulent whore! The scheming freak-faced turd! It was a joint account and she’d calmly gone and screwed me for everything I had. No bloody wonder she didn’t want the hassle of dividing up the household effects. Why waste time on peanuts when you can troll off with a cool £3,000 in your handbag? I know I keep saying this, but £3000 was mega-money in 1969. Those were the days when you could buy a nice little red-brick semi for £1,500, even at London prices - £1,000 if you shopped around outside the city. By liquidating the overdraft as well as the cash funds, Seline had walked off with a small fortune... and left me to pay it back. Her Freudian fink must have been delighted with that one, the money-grubbing refugee from a loony-bin.

  But while thoughts of this ilk were seething through my mind, I remained outwardly composed. Indeed, I smiled. “You are correct,” I said, since it was pointless to question so obvious a truth.”I also overlooked telling you that I sold my house yesterday.”

  You could have seen the change is his expression at a mile without binoculars. Bankers have an attitude towards property (land, with bricks and mortar built on it) that would be utterly obscene if it were applied to women. It is their ultimate security, next, I suppose, to gold. They believe God has destined its value to increase indefinitely. I’d only said I sold the house, but what he heard was that I’d sold it at a profit - which, as it happened, was true enough.

  “Ah,” he said, a sound simila
r to that made on achieving orgasm.

  “It was valued at £28,000 and mortgaged for £20,000 - ” A lie: it was mortgaged for £25,000. “The selling price was £32,500.” Which was perfectly true since I’d found a sucker. “Which leaves a clear profit of £l2,500.” I smiled.

  He smiled. Then, suspicious little sod, he asked, “When is the money actually likely to arrive in the account?”

  The answer to that was never, but I couldn’t bear to upset him any more than he already was. My smile broadened. “The cheque will be in my hands tomorrow.”

  His smile broadened: “Ah well, Mr Sinclair, that does put a different complexion on the matter. Although -” He wagged a playful finger at me. “- you were very naughty not mentioning it sooner.”

  “Yes,” I said contritely. “I meant to come in to arrange a bridging loan, but I’m afraid I was under certain pressures and it slipped my mind.”

  He nodded, understandingly. “Yes, I believe there was some trouble at the BBC.”

  So some stoolie had told him about my losing my job. It was only to be expected. I nodded back. “Unfortunate.”

  “Anything else lined up, have you, Mr Sinclair?”

  “I start with Granada Television next Monday. Double the salary.”

  “Double?” He looked impressed.

  “Double,” I nodded. Another lie, like the story about getting the job. It was my day for keeping people happy.

  “Well, I must congratulate you.”

  “I was quite well pleased, I must say.” I coughed. “I suppose we should really regularise the bridging loan, since I seem to have eaten into it.” I looked him in the eye with every indication of honesty.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary now you’ve told me the position, Mr Sinclair.” He smiled again, the sycophantic little git. “You did say you were getting the house cheque tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” But not handing it to you, I thought. In point of fact, the building society were going to have to whistle for their money as well. This would leave me with working capital of £32,500, plus the £600-odd I’d pulled out of the bank yesterday - say £33,000. 1 wondered suddenly if it would be possible to round it up to f35,000.

  “Mr Sullivan,” I said, that being his name, “I should still like to formalise the bridging loan. The fact is I have need of a further £2000 for a business deal this afternoon.” I stopped. If he said no, it didn’t matter. I’d more than enough. In fact, thinking about it, I suddenly realised I could live very comfortably indeed for quite a long time on £33,000. I could even fund a small business somewhere like Ireland, where the Courts had little sympathy for the principle of extradition. I dismissed the thoughts as unworthy. For the first time in years I had a purpose in life. I wasn’t about to sell out again.

  I could see the emotions chasing across his cherubic little features. His better judgement told him he should refuse the loan. His greed pulled him the other way. But after all, I’d been a steady customer for years, conservative and reliable. “I imagine we could facilitate you,” he said.

  A young woman I hadn’t seen before brought in the necessary forms. I had her down to her knickers in the twinkling of an eye. For the first time, it struck me I should do something about my obsession. With Seline out of the way, there was no longer any moral need for me to simply visualise women nude. I could, at least in theory, chat up a few to let me look at the real thing. But I approached the notion cautiously. This will certainly surprise you, but I was very nearly a virgin when I married at the age of twenty-five and had been totally faithful to Seline from the first night of the honeymoon. It may be that this was what brought on my obsession in the first place, but the fact was it was in keeping with my character - my character before the big change of course. Were matters different now? Did I really want a life of promiscuity? Damn right I did! But on the other hand, I could not afford involvement. I had important things to do and the last thing I needed was some broad (you will notice how my mental vocabulary was changing) hanging round my neck. Casual sex was the thing. Very casual.

  “I’m sorry?” Mr Sullivan said.

  I realised I must have murmured the last words aloud. “I was just saying how sorry I was to leave all this to the last moment. It must appear very casual of me.

  “Not at all, Mr Sinclair,” he assured me. “Only too happy to oblige.”

  I collected my £2,000 in large denomination bills from the teller in the PVC bra. She did not look the type for casual sex, so I put no propositions to her. There was a notice advising bank customers to check their cash before leaving the counter, which I did. Then I went home.

  The house was still full of furniture and effects, including a set of 4-minute, 8mm pornographic movies which would be a nice surprise for its new owner, a retired bishop from East Anglia. I felt he might particularly enjoy the one where a Swedish couple consummated their marriage in a public bar. With a new life full of purpose ahead of me, I wanted no memories of the old existence. I planned to travel light, although not all that light.

  I went upstairs and laid out the items I would be taking with me. Two suits, several shirts, underwear, socks, shoes, toothbrush and razor, plane tickets, light overcoat, two wigs, check pads, false teeth, silencer, garrotte, several knives, Luger automatic (I’d wanted a Biretta like James Bond, but when you’re buying illegally, you take what you can get) telescopic sight, infra-scope, binoculars, pyjamas, ammunition, smoking jacket and one of those rifles that come apart after you’ve shot somebody with it. Plus some other odds and sods, including, of course, ammunition.

  When I’d packed, I made a few phone calls then went into the bathroom where I stripped in front of the full-length mirror. I might be approaching forty, but by God it didn’t show. I looked lean, muscular and even slightly hairy. If you ignored the fact that my penis was crooked, I was damn nearly a perfect physical specimen. And even that defect was not serious; or so a doctor once assured me. It had only to do with a unilateral loss of skin elasticity and did not affect my virility, potency or sexual performance. I dressed again and went downstairs to eat a TV lunch out of the fridge. It was the one time I missed Seline with her Cordon Bleu touch.

  I allowed myself to think of her now, not bothering to undress her in my mind since, as I mentioned earlier, I had a sexual problem with Seline and it wasn’t lust. I had still not decided whether to kill her too. Probably not, since the majority of murders are committed on spouses and I had no wish at all to become predictable. But Van Rindt had had it, that was for sure. I planned to hunt him down with skill and patience, then take him out when he least expected it. Ideally when he was engaging in an act of masturbation. He had once told me he still engaged in masturbation, as, apparently, do most Freudian psychiatrists, who consider it a healthy outlet for the libido.

  But all that was for the future. I was moving carefully now, step by step. And the first stop was obviously de Gaulle. He had damaged me and my instinct was to damage him back, according to Van Rindt. I’d denied my instincts for years and look where it got me: jobless, wifeless and battered. I hadn’t even enjoyed life, comfortable though it was. I had lived, as most men live, in quiet desperation. No more. First, as my subconscious had once wisely prompted me, I would do for de Gaulle. If I didn’t get Madame de Gaulle at the same time, I would do for her next. Then I’d come home and do for Van Rindt. Barclay Haslett and the Director General of the BBC were two other possibles on my list, but I hadn’t quite made up my mind about them. I didn’t want to expend so much energy on revenge that I had no time left to enjoy myself.

  I turned on the radio and listened to Hardcastle for old time’s sake. The lead story was a bribery scandal involving a trade union steward. Old Bill announced it so breathlessly it might have been World War Three. I began to wonder how I could ever have taken broadcasting seriously. The following morning I picked up my cheque for the house and cashed it in one of t
he larger city centre branches.

  That afternoon, I was on the plane to Paris.

  Chapter Seven

  De Gaulle wasn’t there.

  Could you believe luck like that? There I was with a suitcase full of mayhem, mind and body finely honed for slaughter, and my prey had flown. Specifically, he had flown to America. The front page of Paris Soir carried a picture of him shaking hands with Lyndon Johnson. I recognised Madame de Gaulle lurking in the background.

  I found myself torn. I had a fondness for Paris dating back to my student days, when I decided it was easily the most civilised city in the world. Its boulevards are a delight, its architecture superb, its museums and galleries tasteful and distinctive. Besides which, it’s bulging at the seams with the horniest women this side of Bangkok.

  As you have possibly noticed, my sexual obsession was strong at the best of times. But now, like so many men abruptly isolated from their native culture, I was almost berserk to get my hands on a woman. It’s a curious phenomenon, well recognised by the inhabitants of Spanish holiday resorts. Placed in a strange land, surrounded by people who speak a foreign language, you feel as if you’ve stepped outside the mainstream of the human race. Nothing is quite real to you any more. It seems you can say anything, do anything and nothing will harm you. Prosecution and punishment are no longer possibilities since, like everything else, the police aren’t real and the Courts are institutions that deal with foreign nationals. Nobody knows you, so nobody who counts can disapprove of you. Your wife is safely .at home (in my case, safely at somebody else’s home) and cannot possibly learn what you’re doing. As a result, the animal appetites rush headlong to the surface. I wanted to eat good food, drink fine wine, spend money like a sailor. Most of all I wanted to wallow in the fleshpots, to bed showgirls from the Follies, to screw a stripper from the Crazy Horse on the topmost platform of the Eiffel Tower.