by Joyce Porter
Tea! For the first time she remembered Miss Jones, still presumably sitting patiently outside in the car. Poor old Bonesy-wonesy, thought the Hon. Con somewhat vaguely, she must be wondering what on earth was happening.
‘Well,’ said the Hon. Con, finding to her surprise that she was beginning to speak rather thickly. ‘I think it’s time I was pushing off. Thanks for all your help.’
‘No more questions?’ Jack the John was watching her with sly amusement.
‘Don’t think so,’ mumbled the Hon. Con, missing the tin lid with her cigarette and grinding it out on the table top. She made an effort to marshal her thoughts. ‘This bottle of whisky – could Rodney have stolen it from Mr Golly-what’s-his-name?’
‘Gorostiago?’ Jack the John’s amusement became even more pronounced. ‘Not in a thousand years! You couldn’t nick a spent match off him. Anything else?’
The Hon. Con shook her head slowly. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Well, drink your coke up, then – and have another cigarette!’
It was another hour before they let the Hon. Con go. The detention was done with the utmost delicacy, without a hint of force. The Hon. Con – not the world’s most perceptive aristocrat – had just known that she wasn’t going to be allowed to leave the Kama Sutra until Jack the John was good and ready to let her go. It was not a very pleasant situation and the Hon. Con didn’t go much on playing cat and mouse when she was allocated the role of the rodent.
As the minutes ticked slowly by she found herself wondering, none too clearly, what the game was. In the end she reached the unsatisfactory conclusion that Jack the John was merely indulging in a childish demonstration of his power. There he was – an adolescent punk who earned his living washing out urinals – detaining, against her will, what was practically a peer of the realm. It probably did his mouldy little ego no end of good. It also provided him with a captive audience and the Hon. Con knew what a desirable acquisition that was in all ranks of society. Jack the John was a great talker and, like others of his ilk, his favourite topic of conversation was himself.
The church pew bit into the Hon. Con’s well-padded behind as she drank that nauseating Coca-Cola and puffed away at those nauseating cigarettes. Jack the John expounded at length on his views on life, criticized and reformed the entire social structure to his personal advantage, raged about the high cost of police corruption and put in a passionate plea for complete sexual freedom for young men of his age.
The Hon. Con coughed, blew a few involuntary smoke rings, envied the sleeping girl-friend and almost came to wish that she’d never heard of Rodney Burberry.
‘How about some more coke?’ asked Jack the John.
The Hon. Con hunted slowly through her many pockets. ‘Thorry,’ she said at last, ‘ I don’th theem to have any more cath.’ She hadn’t spoken for a long time and was astonished to find how difficult it had become. Her tongue seemed swollen and her lips were parched. Come to think of it, she wasn’t seeing too straight, either. Jack the John’s grinning face kept swinging in and out of focus in a very peculiar way.
‘Oh,’ said Jack the John from what sounded like the other side of the room, ‘must you be going?’
The Hon. Con wasn’t too fuddled to miss this heaven-sent hint. ‘Yeth,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I think I really muth.’
Pimp sniggered and got to his feet as the Hon. Con propelled herself carefully along to the end of the pew. Jack the John, ever the little gentleman, stood up too.
‘We’ll see you out,’ he announced and he and Pimp grabbed their guest just as her legs buckled under her.
‘Bit thtiff,’ explained the Hon. Con, blinking her eyes furiously as the entire Kama Sutra threatened to revolve through three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘Been thitting too long, I exthpect.’
She had the impression that this perfectly ordinary remark set Jack the John and Pimp off laughing but, although they were now one on either side supporting her, she couldn’t be absolutely sure. Too much of her attention was being absorbed by the incredibly difficult mechanics of placing one foot in front of the other.
Jack the John and Pimp were young, strong and comparatively fit. They half-carried the Hon. Con out of the club. When the party reached the bottom of the flight of stairs that led up to the street, she felt the cold night air on her face. It didn’t make her feel one bit better. She shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it and opened her eyes very wide. The flight of stone steps loomed up in front of her like a precipice. She closed her eyes again.
‘Harry!’ Jack the John shouted upwards. ‘ Harry! Come and give us a hand!’
The elderly doorman crept down a couple of steps. ‘ What you got there?’ he demanded anxiously. ‘You bloody young devils, what you been up to now? I’m warning you, I’m not getting mixed up in nothing fishy.’
‘Aw, shut your grousing!’ rasped Jack the John. ‘It’s this old cow. She’s come over all faint. You know what it’s like down there.’
‘Yus, and I know what you young buggers are like, too,’ grumbled the doorman, descending a few more steps. ‘What you want me to do? I can’t do no lifting, not with my back.’
‘Oh, just get behind the blasted old tart and shove! Pimp and me’ll take her arms.’
The Hon. Con was lugged unceremoniously up to the entrance of the club.
‘You’d best be careful,’ warned the doorman with what little breath he had left. ‘Her friend’s sitting out there in the car waiting for her. Best not let her get a proper look at you two, case there’s any repercussions.’
‘There won’t be any repercussions!’ snapped Jack the John. ‘She’s just come over faint, that’s all.’
‘I am perfectly all right,’ said the Hon. Con, straightening her back and throwing her chest out. ‘I don’t require any further athith … athith … help, thank you.’ She, too, was not keen on letting Miss Jones see her being assisted to the car by three strange men. Obligingly, the doorman swung her round so that she was pointing in the right direction. ‘Thank you, my man!’ She smiled vacantly. ‘Good night, all!’
‘Good night!’ growled the doorman and administered a parting shove.
Jack the John waved farewell. ‘Drop in for a cup of tea,’ he shouted, ‘any time you’re passing! You know where I work.’
The Hon. Con arrived at the car somewhat sooner than she had expected. She grabbed the door handle. After a short pause for thought, she adjusted her balance, opened the door and collapsed into the driving seat.
‘Constance!’ squeaked Miss Jones who, not being totally blind, had duly noted the undignified manoeuvrings outside the Kama Sutra. ‘What in heaven’s name is the matter with you?’ She watched with mounting disapproval as the Hon. Con made two unsuccessful attempts to get hold of the ignition key. ‘Constance!’ – the tone was both outraged and accusing – ‘Constance, you’re drunk!’
Chapter Seven
‘Drunk?’ The Hon. Con caught the ignition key as it sailed past for the third time and managed to turn it. ‘Courthe I’m not drunk! Couldn’t be! The blooming plathe ithn’t even lithenthed.’
Miss Jones leaned across and removed the ignition key from the dashboard. ‘There’s something the matter with you, dear,’ she insisted. ‘In any case, I think I’d better drive.’
‘Ugh!’ Defiantly the Hon. Con snatched the key back again and, choosing by sheer luck the real keyhole from the three or four she could see, rammed it home. ‘Over my dead body!’ She fended off Miss Jones with her elbow and got the engine started. ‘ Thee?’ she crowed proudly. ‘Ath thteady ath a rock!’
‘Oh, don’t be such a fool, Constance!’ Miss Jones got her hands on the steering wheel and tugged just as the Hon. Con found reverse. The car shot backwards in a graceful arc across the road.
There was a remarkably loud crash as metal smacked into metal.
‘Oh, heck!’ groaned the Hon. Con. She pushed the window back and stuck her head out. A blue-uniformed figure, his left hand already reachin
g up to undo the button of his breast pocket, was approaching with that infuriating leisurely gait which the guardians of the law assume when they know they’re on to a sure thing. ‘Oh, heck!’ The Hon. Con slumped back miserably in her seat. ‘Of all the louthy luck!’
The policeman, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more pleased. He and his mate had been cruising around all evening without observing a single incident of criminal activity which could safely be investigated without threat to limb or dignity. A very desirable state of affairs, no doubt, but it didn’t pay to go back night after night with your book empty. This little contretemps – a vehicle in a perfectly quiet street driving backwards into a passing police car – would do beautifully. Licking his lips in anticipation, the policeman consulted his watch. Fifteen minutes before knocking off time. Couldn’t be better! Just see them through nicely, this would.
He leafed his way laboriously through the driving licence and insurance certificate which the Hon. Con, meek as a sacrificial lamb, passed through the car window and realized that his first impressions had been erroneous. He must remember to address this stupid git as ‘madam’ and not ‘ sir’ when he came to the heavy sarcastic bit.
The second policeman, boot-faced, strolled up to join in the fun. A knowing glance was exchanged.
I’m afraid, madam,’ said the first policeman, hardly able to conceal his joy, ‘that, under the prevailing circumstances, we have no alternative but to request you to accede to the taking of a breath test.’
‘Oh, heck,’ said the Hon. Con.
Miss Jones trod, heavy footed, to the rescue. ‘You can’t do that!’ she protested. ‘ This is the Honourable Constance Morrison-Burke! She’s not feeling very well, that’s all.’
The first policeman raised his eyebrows. He spoke across his shoulder to his mate. ‘ Got one handy, George?’
George had.
‘What do I have to do?’ asked the Hon. Con as a plastic bag was thrust towards her.
‘Don’t do anything, dear!’ Miss Jones urged hysterically. ‘Stand on your rights! Send for a solicitor! Get Dr Young – he’ll certify that you’re not drunk and incapable. These men are exceeding their authority. And you know the Chief Constable quite well, don’t you, dear?’
Massively unimpressed, the first policeman inclined his head nearer to the Hon. Con’s right ear. ‘Just exhale through that tube, madam, and distend the transparent plastic container. You will perceive that the tube is filled with small yellow crystals. Should you prove to be as inebriated as would appear to the naked eye, those small yellow crystals will turn green. And, if they turn green beyond this line here, you are for the high jump.’
The Hon. Con gazed at him blankly. She could hear what he was saying all right, but none of it was making much sense. ‘Yellow turnth green, doeth it?’ She stuck the tube in her mouth.
Miss Jones and the two policemen watched with bated breath.
The Hon. Con did her best, as she saw it. ‘Ugh!’ She spluttered and spat out a mouthful of yellow crystals.
The first policeman sighed and looked at his watch again. Much more of this and they’d be running over the end of their shift. He passed a second breathalyser to the Hon. Con.
‘Blow, not suck, madam!’ he admonished her sternly.
Dumbly the Hon. Con nodded her head. Golly, she did feel seedy! Bleary-eyed she raised the tube to her lips.
‘Blow!’ the policeman reminded her.
The Hon. Con blew and wrenched her eyeballs round so that they were both directed on the tube at the same time.
The crystals had turned a rather flashy pink.
The two policemen regarded them bleakly.
‘You see?’ Miss Jones was triumphant. ‘I told you she wasn’t under the influence! It was just that stuffy Kama Sutra place which upset her.’
For the first time Miss Jones got the law’s full attention. ‘The Kama Sutra? Do you mean to say she’s been in the Kama Sutra?’
‘Yes, of course. That’s what I’ve been telling you.’
‘Is she a member?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Miss Jones could spot a trap like that as well as the next good-intentioned idiot. ‘ She’s a fully paid up, regular member. She’s got a membership card and everything.’
The first policeman’s face was grim. He motioned to his companion and they both withdrew a short distance from the car. ‘Did you hear that, George?’
The second policeman, equally grim, nodded. ‘That explains those crystals turning pink, I suppose. Never heard of that before, I must say. News to me.’
The first policeman seized on this observation. ‘ Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? It’s the CID’s pigeon, all that sort of thing. We’re traffic patrol, we are.’
‘True.’
‘You reported this to HQ George?’ The first policeman gazed innocently up into the star strewn sky.
‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. Not yet.’
‘We’re likely to be at it all night if we tell ’ em about this little lark – and you did say you wanted to get off tonight on the dot, didn’t you? They’ll raid the Kama Sutra for sure and there’ll be a right old carve up. With you and me in the front row, like as not.’ He paused to let this sink in and stared up at the sky again. ‘Er – how badly’s that patrol car damaged?’
‘Bent number plate. Nothing I couldn’t put right in a couple of ticks. Nobody’d ever notice.’
The first policeman buttoned down his tunic pocket over his notebook. ‘A case for tempering justice with mercy, George?’
George had no doubts. ‘Definitely. Let’s get rid of the old bag and get the hell out of here before anybody spots us. We can go and park round the other side of the cemetery till it’s time to sign off. What’ll I do about these two breathalysers the silly bitch’s ruined? Write ’em off as ‘‘unfit for use on routine check’’?’
The first policeman nodded portentously and made his way back to the car. The Hon. Con was draped across the wheel, snoring heavily. The first policeman addressed Miss Jones across the body. ‘Can you drive, miss?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Miss Jones began scrabbling in her handbag. ‘I’ve got my licence and everything here, if I can just find them. I’m a very safe, conscientious driver, officer. I’ve been driving for over three years and, apart from one parking offence which should never …’
‘Hop it!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said, hop it. Shove your buddy over into the passenger seat and hop it.’
‘Oh, officer, how extremely kind of you! The Honourable Constance is really not inebriated, you know. She assured me most earnestly just before you …’
‘You’ve got thirty seconds, miss.’
Miss Jones cut short her thanks and roused the Hon. Con sufficiently to get her into the passenger seat. The two policemen watched impassively as the Mini ground off in bottom gear. Miss Jones was taking no chances. She remained in bottom gear until the welcome sight of Shangrila hove into view.
Miss Jones carried the Hon. Con’s breakfast tray upstairs. Whatever she may have told the police, she had no doubt about the real cause of the Hon. Con’s disgusting behaviour. Her lips were tight with disapproval and the sight of her chum’s ashen face and bloodshot eyes failed to mollify her. Miss Jones held very strict views about the demon drink. And over-indulgence was so unladylike!
‘Not a drop of alcohol passed my lips!’ protested the Hon. Con, examining with some dismay a plate of bacon and fried eggs. This was pure spite on Miss Jones’s part because no one knew better than she did that the Hon. Con could never face a cooked breakfast.
‘The humiliation!’ Miss Jones shuddered fastidiously. ‘What those two young policemen must have thought – picking up someone of your age and social position on a charge of common drunkenness!’
‘They let it drop, didn’t they?’ The Hon. Con’s recollections of the night before were confused but she recalled that all right. ‘ That shows I wasn’t under the influence.’
‘Oh, stuff!’ muttered the Hon. Con dejectedly.
‘If this is the sort of behaviour you are going to indulge in, Constance, I think you had better reconsider applying to join the Badminton Club.’
‘Just when I’m beginning to get somewhere with my detecting?’ asked the Hon. Con, rallying a little. ‘Not blooming likely!’
‘Very well, Constance’ – Miss Jones spoke as a Pontius Pilate coming to judgement – ‘I wash my hands of this whole sordid business. My dear father, when speaking of his more disreputable parishioners, always used to say that it was no good trying to reason with a hangover. Perhaps you would call me when you’ve finished with your tray.’
As soon as she was alone the Hon. Con wolfed down all the tea in the pot and then tiptoed into the bathroom to flush the bacon and eggs down the lavatory. She knew that what she really needed was a cold shower. She was a great believer in cold showers for putting the old sparkle back in the eye. They got the old skin tingling and the circulation … The Hon. Con sank miserably on to the edge of the toilet and faced one incontrovertible fact: a cold shower would kill her.
Only too conscious that she was letting the side down, the Hon. Con leaned wearily across and started running herself a steaming hot bath. Well – gosh – you could carry toughness too far, couldn’t you? And, if she opened the windows wide afterwards, Bones would never know.
The Hon. Con sank back in her bath and watched the steam mount to the ceiling. Her memory of what had happened at the Kama Sutra the previous night was not as sharp as she could have wished. Of what had occurred after she left the club, she preferred not to think at all. Who’d have imagined that a few lousy cokes would have made her feel as grim as this? Could those young thugs have slipped her a mickey finn?