And back towards the pit ran they.
It was all quite exciting really. Although there certainly was an element of danger involved. The Devil incarnate about to unleash all the horrors of The Bottomless Pit upon the plain God-fearing people of Brentford.
And everything.
By the time they reached the allotment gates, they were pretty much out of breath. Omally had sworn that he would never smoke another Woodbine, and Archroy that if he should survive, he would become a monk.
The storm was getting up a treat. Black clouds tumbled in the heavens. Lightning pitched and struck. Wind whistled, thunder biffed and banged. Rain showers seemed imminent.
There! There!’ cried Omally. And there, there, he stood. Although still small, he was awesome, his old frock-coat whipped about him in the wind and his self-styled hat showed two distinct peaks.
Somewhat horn-like.
And he stood, mouthing something on the very rim of The Pit.
‘Lord save us,’ gasped Archroy. ‘What do you reckon the time is?’
Omally gagged for breath. ‘I heard the clock chime. Maybe five past six.’
‘We’ve got to stop him.’ Archroy snatched up half a brick from a pile quite conveniently placed and advanced upon the terrible figure. Omally did likewise. An icy wind was rising and it was getting darker by the moment.
‘You go that way, I’ll go this,’ shouted Archroy.
Lightning exploded from every side and the wind grew stronger and stronger.
Trillby stood with his hands raised as high as his short arm’s length would allow. He ranted and raved with his eyes glowing red. The ground rocked and shivered and screams could be heard welling up from the darkness below.
It was horrible!
Archroy flung his half-a-brick—
And missed.
Trillby turned upon him. ‘Too late, too late,’ he crowed. ‘Now is my time. You all die. All. All. All.’
‘You first!’ Omally threw his missile.
Vincent Trillby caught it in the left ear. He swivelled around on the rim of the pit, spitting fire and brimstone, laughing like a loon.
John Omally kicked him in the cobblers.
Vincent Trillby staggered back and tumbled, down into the pit of his own making. Down and down. For ever and for ever.
The sound that followed might well have been described as indescribable. The earth heaved and the pit closed like a great hungry mouth snapping over a fish finger.
And all went very quiet. And the sun came out again.
Barrington Barber appeared at the allotment gates. ‘Hello, lads,’ said he. ‘How’s tricks?’
Archroy scratched at his head. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
Barrington Barber scratched at his head. ‘Well. The last thing I remember is, I was dowsing down my dustbin when there was a knock at the door…then it all sort of goes blank. What are you blokes doing here anyway?’
John Omally now scratched at his head. ‘Hey, Archroy,’ said he, ‘what are we doing here?’
13
A hen is only an egg’s way of making other eggs
Popular Aphorism.
THE DOG FORMERLY KNOWN AS PRINCE
There were pots in Danny’s shed. Fine big pots they were. Terracotta pots. And there was a broken hoe, an old-fashioned rat trap, some bails of wire and a bit of a bench with half a bag of solid cement tucked away beneath it.
On the bench were many curious items: odd roots and dried vegetable matter, pickled things in jars, the remains of Aunt May’s favourite fox-fur stole, marbles and magnets, medical textbooks and motor cycle manuals. But, taking up the greater part of the bit of a bench, was an overlarge something covered by a pink nylon bed sheet.
Danny went, ‘Tarraaah!’ and flung the sheet aside.
And by the light of a single hurricane lamp his wonder was revealed. And lo his wonder was a dog.
It was Princey the Wonder Woofer.
Danny viewed the magnificent construction, so realistic as to be awesome. It was a dog all right. And some dog. A great big, lovable, floppy-eared, cold-nosed, waggy-tailed, golden-haired Labrador of a dog. Good boy, Princey. Good boy there.
Danny whistled. ‘Beautiful,’ said he. ‘It’s coming on a treat.’ He ran a loving hand over the canine head, tickled it beneath an ear, stroked his knuckle under the chin. It looked perfect.
You couldn’t see the joins or stitches. And it didn’t look like a stuffed dog either. It looked like the real McCruft’s, just standing still, waiting for the command to fetch a stick or beg a biscuit. Danny gave it a pat upon the back. ‘Good boy,’ said he. ‘Good boy there.’
‘You like it then, Danny boy?’
‘I love it. But will it really work? I mean how does it work? Is it radio-controlled, or what?’
‘Voice-activated, of course.’
Danny clapped his hands together. ‘It’s brilliant. But what makes it go? Is it clockwork or does it have batteries?’
‘Secret, Danny. I can’t tell you everything.’
‘But what I don’t understand is, how do you work on it? I mean, you’re a discorporate being. You don’t have a body. But each time I come here, a bit more’s been done. And I can never figure out when you did it, because you’re always with me.’
‘I have my methods, Danny.’
‘Yes but how…?’
‘Leave it, will you?’
‘Yes, but, all I want to know is—’
‘Leave it!’ This time Danny felt the voice. It echoed about in his head. It actually hurt.
‘Oh.’ Danny put his hands to his temples. ‘Not so loud. Stop.’
‘Time to go home, Danny. Time to go home.’
‘Yes. okay. Right, I’ll do that.’
‘Good boy, Danny. Good boy there.’
Inspector Westlake paced up and down the hall. The hall was in a house and the house was in Moby Dick Terrace. Number eight. Inspector Westlake’s hands were in his pockets and his chin was on his chest. He had a bit of a sweat on also.
The inspector was a professional policeman. No mucking about. Things done by the rule book, because that’s what the rule book’s for. Tall the inspector was. Imposing. Long neck.
They have long necks, policemen, don’t they? Or perhaps it’s just the haircuts. A bit like soldiers, or any of the armed services really. Simple rule of thumb there: if the job demands that you have your hair cut off, tell them to stick the job. Inspector Westlake hadn’t told them to stick it. He was a career policeman. In the force until pension.
Tall, imposing, long neck, professional. Hard. Gaunt, chisel-featured, bitter mouth.
He paced.
At intervals he ceased pacing and turned towards a wall, where he gently kicked at the skirting board. Then he shook his head, returned his chin to his chest and resumed pacing.
Mid-morning sunlight fell upon him through the stained-glass panels of the front door. A colourful erotic confection styled in the manner of Peter Fendi. Each time the inspector paced in the direction of the front door his chin rose a little and his head cocked upon one side. And thoughts of the Long Jean Silver came to him.
But each time he paced back again, towards the rear parlour, his face became grave and his chin pressed firmly down. The front door swung open and banged against the wall. A young constable, of the type so useful in supplying comic relief when things get really heavy, tripped over the doormat and fell into the hall.
‘That’s a bit premature, lad,’ said Inspector Westlake.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
‘We haven’t set the scene yet. All I’ve done is pace.’
‘Sorry, sir. Should I go out and come in again?’
‘I think that would be for the best. Yes.’
The young constable went out and came in again. This time the door didn’t bang and he didn’t fall over the mat.
‘That’s much better,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Now go on, tell me what you want.’
‘Pardon me, sir, but
the Soco’s here.’
‘Socko the magic clown?’
‘No, sir. Soco. Scene of Crime Officer. And the forensic people and the press.’
‘Is the street cordoned off?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bunting?’
‘No, I’m Constable Dreadlock, sir.’
‘Bunting, lad! Those little flags on a long string that you hang out for coronations and royal weddings.’
‘Don’t think I quite follow you, sir.’
‘Well, you cordon off the streets for a royal wedding and you hang up bunting. I would have thought that was patently obvious. Never mind, Constable Dreadlock, did you say?’
‘It’s a Polish name, sir. It means “he who comes in the middle of the night bearing a box of chocolates”.’
‘How very interesting. Well, don’t just stand there like a candle in the wind, Dreadlock. Send in the clowns.’
‘Er, yes, sir, I’ll do that.’ Constable Dreadlock offered a formal salute and departed. He knew, as all his fellow officers knew, that Inspector Westlake was a certifiable loon. But he wasn’t going to be the one to speak up about it and lose his pension. He was a professional.
A very short, fat, round, bald-headed fellow, wearing a yellow tweed suit, wire-framed specs and a goatee beard, and evidently designed to contrast with the inspector, now entered the hall. ‘Inspector Westlake,’ said he.
‘That’s a coincidence,’ said the inspector.
‘No, no, no.’ The fat man shook his baldy head. ‘I’m Gould. But don’t be formal. Call me Fridge-Magnet.’
‘Fridge-Magnet, did you say?’
‘It’s a Cherokee Indian name. Father was a Cherokee Indian serving on an airbase here. Secret one, very hush-hush. And you know how they name red Indian children—’
‘It’s native American, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? Well, they name them by holding them up by the river and calling them after the first thing they see. But it was raining, so I got baptized in the kitchen.’
‘Would you like to see the body?’ asked Inspector Westlake.
‘Oh, there’s a body, is there?’
‘Parts of one, yes.’
‘Parts of one.’ Fridge-Magnet Gould smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s have a look then.’
Inspector Westlake pushed open the rear parlour door. Mr Gould peeped in. And whistled. ‘Well,’ said he. ‘Well...er...yes...well…that’s definitely…parts of a body…yes indeed.’
‘And along the mantelpiece.’ Inspector Westlake pointed.
‘Mm, yes.’
‘And threaded onto that drying-line before the window.’
‘Mm, there too. Rather festive, a bit like—’
‘Bunting.’
‘No, Gould,’ said Mr Gould. ‘I think I’d better get one of my chaps to take some photos.’
‘I’ll comb my hair then.’
‘Yes, you do that.’ Fridge-Magnet Gould shook his bald head and waddled away up the hall. ‘Oh, Inspector,’ he called back, ‘do you have any idea of the identity of the body?’
Inspector Westlake took out his regulation police notebook and flipped through the pages. ‘A Mrs Roeg,’ said he. ‘Glenda Roeg.’
‘Done to death,’ said The Kid, to roars of applause. ‘Ripped up and spread all about.’
‘You’re winding me up,’ said Sandy, and laughter filled the air.
‘Turn off that bloody machine,’ said Big Frank. ‘It’s not funny and nobody likes it.’
Sandy looked around the pub. The lunch-time crowd that normally packed the place was a bit lacking. In fact, other than for Big Frank and The Kid, there was only Marmsly to be seen. And he was going off to the toilet.
‘Typical,’ said Sandy. ‘You bend over backwards to please people and they spit in your eye.’ Big Frank tried to picture that, but the effort was too great for him.
Sandy switched off the canned-laughter machine.
‘Ripped up?’ he said. ‘What, like sawn up, or hacked, or torn limb from limb?’
‘I think limb from limb would have it,’ said The Kid. ‘I shinned over the back fence and had a squint in through the parlour window. I couldn’t see too much, there was a policeman in there having his picture taken. But the limb-from-limbing appeared to be quite comprehensive.’
‘Urgh,’ said Sandy. ‘Weren’t you sick?’
‘Oh yes,’ said The Kid. ‘All over the place. Give us another Bloody Mary please.’
Sandy did the business. ‘I’m glad I don’t live in Moby Dick Terrace, that’s the second murder in a few months.’
‘Could happen anywhere,’ said Big Frank. ‘It’s just a coincidence. Two murders in the same street, blood everywhere, bits of body strewn all around.’
‘You don’t see some kind of pattern emerging then?’ asked The Kid, with a smirk on his face.
‘Nah.’ Big Frank shook his big head. ‘I used to work in a morgue, remember. One year we had eight young women, all strangled and mutilated in identical ways, just coincidence. And before that it was tobacconists, heads cut off and bottles of Tizer stuck in the neckholes. Coincidence again. You get a run on a certain type of crime. It happens all the time.’
The Kid hid his face and stifled his mirth. ‘You prat,’ said he.
‘You what?’
‘Nothing. So it’s just a coincidence, that’s your opinion?’
‘Bound to be.’ Big Frank took a big swill of beer.
‘But Mrs Roeg.’ Sandy shook his head sadly. ‘Good-looking woman, what a waste.’
The Kid looked up at the barman. ‘So it wouldn’t have been a waste if it had been an ugly-looking woman?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Sandy. ‘We’ve a surplus of ugly-looking women in this country. And ugly-looking men, come to think of it. Look at Big Frank here, for instance.’
‘True enough,’ said The Kid.
‘Bollocks,’ said Big Frank.
Marmsly returned from the toilet. ‘Your bog’s been vandalized,’ said he.
‘I know,’ Sandy said. ‘I did it myself. Gives the Gents a bit of character, I thought. I’m trying to attract a rougher clientele to the pub. What do you think?’
‘Very nice,’ said Marmsly. ‘Does this mean that all the yobbos you previously barred will be invited back?’
‘Certainly does. You see, with the laughter machine driving away all the respectable customers, I didn’t have any choice.’
Marmsly shook his head. You couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. ‘Smart move,’ said Marmsly. ‘We’ll drink elsewhere in future then.’
‘I should,’ said Sandy. ‘It’ll be Hell in here. I’m thinking of selling up before the trouble starts.’
And as if on cue (for such is the only way to do things) the saloon-bar door opened and in walked Danny Orion.
‘Hello each,’ said Danny.
‘Blimey,’ said Big Frank. ‘It has returned. It speaks to us once more.’
‘What do you mean?’ Danny asked.
‘He means,’ said The Kid, ‘that you haven’t been in here for months. Not since you got the job in the offy.’
‘Of course I have. Haven’t I? No, maybe I haven’t. I can’t quite seem to remember.’
‘You haven’t,’ said Marmsly. ‘So did you get the sack, is that it? Good thing too. It’s bad luck to work in an off-licence. Uncle of mine worked in an off-licence and he came to a very sticky end. It’s a strange story, but I’ll tell it if I may.’
THE TALE OF MARMSLY’S UNCLE
‘No thanks,’ said Danny.
‘Oh,’ said Marmsly. ‘Please yourself then.’
‘Well,’ Danny said, ‘if it’s so long since I’ve been in, then I suppose it must be my round.’
This remark received what is known as a consensus.
Sandy did some more business.
‘Actually, you look like dog dirt,’ said Big Frank.
‘How dare you,’ said Danny.
‘Well you do, bags under y
our eyes, face all thin. You look shagged out.’
‘I don’t.’ Danny glared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A smiling face gazed back at him, rosy cheeked, bright eyed (no doubt bushy tailed also). Healthy it looked. To Danny.
‘Knackered,’ said Big Frank.
‘I’m never knackered. I’m fine. I look fine and I feel fine.’
‘Hmmph!’ said Big Frank, proving that it could be done.
‘So did you get the sack?’ The Kid asked.
‘No,’ said Danny. ‘In fact, I think I’m in line for promotion. I sent off for this book, RUNEISTICS: The Modem Science of Mental Health. It teaches you how to think positively. I’m a changed man.’
‘Did you hear about Mrs Roeg?’ asked Big Frank.
‘Mrs Roeg? No.’
‘Dead,’ said The Kid. ‘Murdered, chopped up and strewn all about the place.’
‘No?’ Danny’s face did a Procul Harum. ‘Dead? I don’t believe it.’
‘Last night.’
‘But she was in the shop.’ Danny’s thoughts returned to that time. And to the words which had flashed up on the cash register when he ran the bar-code-reader over Mrs Roeg’s wrist weeks before. And then Danny’s thoughts became a little scrambled. He recalled leaving the shop and going to the allotment shed and then…what? Going home to bed? Danny couldn’t remember. He had gone home to bed, hadn’t he? He woke up in bed this morning. But there was some dream. Some horrible dream.
‘Be at peace there, Danny Boy.’
And then Danny forgot all about any dream and could only think of his dog. Good boy, Princey. Good boy there.
And the voice in Danny’s head hummed a soothing melody and whispered, ‘Good boy, Danny. Good boy there.’
And Danny smiled a happy smile and bought another round.
14
If you took as much LSD as Paul McCartney, you wouldn’t eat anything with a face either.
TED NUGENT, 1995
MURMURS OF DISAPPROVAL
Danny stayed too long at The Shrunken Head. He’d quite forgotten how much he enjoyed the company of his friends. And thus he drank rather deeply of reunion’s chalice and was very late back to work.
A Dog Called Demolition Page 11