Lollipop

by David Fletcher

  And when it came down to it, that was what really fuelled all that ambition: the need to be important. And not just within Trampul, but also within the wider community. And that meant being known to the institutions and the pundits and the commentators and the media. They all needed to be reminded of just how important Bessie was on an almost daily basis. And, of course, at the moment they weren't. As long as Bessie was stuck on this whore-hulk, she was out of sight and out of mind. And that was terrible. Trampul's interims were out soon, and they were some fairly lacklustre figures. So Bessie needed to be back there pdq, telling all those bastards what a fantastic job she'd been doing just to keep the empire on an even keel - and that with her new initiatives, they could expect a surge in its fortunes. But there wasn't much time. This Cristalina bitch had better come up with the goodies pretty damn quick, else there could be a real problem, not least for the bitch herself.

  It was nearly one o'clock. Any second now Cristalina would arrive for a working lunch, and Bessie would have a better idea of how her plans were going - and whether she needed to “encourage” Cristalina just a little bit more. If the worst came to the worst she would have to leave the Lollipop at its next scheduled stop in five days' time - and without what she'd come for. Only by doing that would she have enough time to start to make the right noises about the interims and to put the necessary half-truths together about the fleet of Lollipop clones. But the long-term projections would have to be shelved. Without the goonies' secret, they'd simply never be achieved. And the penalty for non-achievement would be oblivion - no matter what she did or to whom she did it. And she wouldn't risk that. One thing Bessie never ever wanted was to be unimportant. That would be unbearable.

  Bessie was now on the edge of despondency. She just knew she'd be let down. They were always letting her down, even though she was so important. Her mighty bosom heaved and she sighed.

  'Well, Miss Cristalina, you long-legged bitch, I want better than the worst result. I want to be able to announce those ten-year forecasts. And to do that you've gotta perform, you've gotta get that crackpot idea of yours to work - and bloody quickly. I want that secret and I want it now. So don't you disappoint me, and don't you rile me. Because if you do, you might just see how ungracious I can be. And what I mean by ungracious, my dear little whore, is possibly not what you'd…'

  There was a knock at the door. Cristalina had arrived for their tête-à-tête. Bessie's chest moved up again. Just time for another long sigh before she had to take on her next task. Before she had to throw another of those balls in the air…

  27.

  Cristalina took her seat across the table from Bessie and took her napkin from its ring. Bessie had already started - as was her custom. There was a sizeable lunch laid out on the table. And Cristalina knew that for Bessie this meant nothing more than nourishment, just fuel for that huge body, to be taken on board as quickly and as efficiently as possible. And so sod the niceties. Grace would be dispensed with - entirely. Bessie would go about this meal in the same way that she went about every meal: as it pleased her - and disgustingly.

  The disgusting aspect was all to do with her style of eating, a style that she had developed through countless business meals - where there is always a need to talk. Where it is virtually obligatory to use one's time to converse with one's colleagues - to exchange information - or in Bessie's case, to browbeat and to threaten.

  Anybody who has experienced such meals will understand this requirement - and the problem it can lead to. For quite simply, conversation, when one's mouth is occupied in chewing or one's throat is in swallowing mode, is essentially impossible. And what becomes especially difficult is the long address, the explanation of a new business-winning initiative, the clarification of a mutual commercial opportunity - or the verbal dismemberment of a non-performing manager. To embark on such a mission is to allow one's food to become cold. Or, even worse, one finds oneself with an uneaten course when all around have cleared their plates - and the white wine begins to lose its chill and the very structure of the meal… well, it starts to disintegrate.

  Bessie, however, had learnt to overcome this hazard, and in a way that complemented her frightful appearance to perfection; she ate everything with her mouth wide open. Cristalina had seen it a thousand times before: those two blubbery lips slapping around the edge of the orifice but never closing, never hiding from the world and the other diners at the table, the intimate detail of her noshing - her every chew, her every crunch - and every twist and every turn of her busy tongue.

  And by adopting this habit, Bessie could now converse without pause whenever she wanted. She was somehow able to form her words around her food as if it wasn't there. OK, occasionally a tiny mashed-up morsel might emerge from inside to coincide with a point of emphasis in her prose. But most of the time the mastication simply ground its way on - and her words came on through it unscathed. It was almost as fascinating to observe as it was disgusting.

  And she was doing it now, a series of ghastly slapping sounds accompanying an oral horror show with, as its theme this lunchtime, the ruination of ricotta ravioli, no doubt to be followed in the second act by the rape of raspberry roulade, the one that was sitting on the table between them, and the one that Cristalina had already decided she would eschew. Her appetite would have deserted her by then, she just knew it. Bessie's gaping-gobbling always had that effect.

  'Well, cum on, Missy,' opened Bessie, her pasta covered tongue licking her lower line of molars, 'tell me all about it. Tell me what you've done. I'm not a soddin' mind reader, you know.'

  Cristalina heaved, but as she answered she busied herself with the ravioli and the serving spoon, and was able to avert her gaze from the unpleasantness across the table - and without appearing rude.

  'We've eight of them. And they're all out cold. They can't be detected. And we'll keep them like that 'til we're ready.'

  Bessie's response was the antithesis of gratitude - just as Cristalina expected - and it contained its usual helping of barely concealed contempt.

  'I see. So what you're saying is that you haven't finished yet. You're going to ask me for more time, aren't you? I've gotta sit in this stinkin' room for another day while you… while you sod off and play the Queen of friggin' Sheba again. Well I'm not too impressed, Missus Chrissy. I'm not too impressed much at all.'

  Any attempt to defend her performance to date, or indeed to attempt to explain what a fine performance it had been, was futile. Eight goonies kidnapped and stowed away without setting off any alarms couldn't be other than good in anyone's books. But Bessie wasn't interested. She would just become more insufferable. So Cristalina didn't try. She just ploughed on regardless.

  'We need two more,' she said, her even tone as even as ever, 'and we'll have them by tonight. Then tomorrow we can set them up for the trace, the lot of them.'

  'Why not tonight?' shouted Bessie, something of an achievement considering she was replenishing her face-hole with another consignment of ravioli at the time.

  'We need to get them all to the stern of the ship - so that we'll get the best triangulation. And that'll take some time. Probably most of the morning. We'll have to take them one at a time.'

  'Sounds friggin' risky to me,' retorted Bessie. 'I hope you know what you're doing.'

  'They'll all still be out cold… ' replied Cristalina, just a touch too sharply - and Bessie was on her before she could finish.

  'What d'you take me for, you stupid bitch? I mean, do you think I'm some sort of dummy, some sort of deadhead? Hell, don't you think I might have guessed that you might not be waking them up first - and then like soddin' asking them to walk to the end of this bleedin' whorehouse on their own? You just remember who you are, my little pucker-faced tramp. You are precisely nothing. A complete round zero. You're only anything at all because of me. And you'd better hope I just keep playin' on your side, because otherwise you're stuffed, you're completely stuffed. And I'm not talkin' about any o' your damn passages, my gir
l. You understand? I mean, do you understand?'

  Cristalina nodded. This wasn't exceptional behaviour from Bessie, just a little unusual - especially when there was no one around to witness it. But Cristalina knew that Bessie's enforced isolation must be getting to her now. So there was no point in making things worse, and no point at all in getting upset. That would be the worst thing to do.

  'Well, it's your neck on the line, honey,' continued Bessie in a less vitriolic tone. 'If you screw up, then it's you who gets screwed. I'm not in it. I'm not even here. So jus' you be careful. Trampul would hate to see someone with so much promise disappear in a puff o' smoke, so to speak. And that, Cristalina, is what will happen. And don't you forget it.

  'Progression has its price, my girl. And if you're not prepared to pay it then you shouldn't be in this job. And never let that slip your mind.'

  Cristalina's first thought was that she would miss out on the ravioli. She hadn't had a mouthful yet, but the lunch was already at an end. Bessie's last comments were her closing remarks, and now it was time for Cristalina to leave and to do the rest of her boss's work, her boss's very dirty work. And then her second thought was that she wouldn't have to look into that concrete mixer of a mouth any more, that ugly aperture that was just being charged with a triple helping of the raspberry roulade. So today was looking up…

  …and Cristalina looked forward to the day it would look up to the very top, the day when she and not the despicable Bessie would be the empress of the Trampul empire. It had been twelve years now, twelve long years since she'd forsaken a promising career as a dancer for a career in the mega combine that was the Trampul Corporation. And in that time she'd worked in just about every one of its divisions. A grounding in baby products had been followed by a short spell in clothing, and then in food. And then more senior rôles in education and health care, graduating eventually as an executive in what was now the core activity: entertainment. This was the most exciting and the most challenging area that Trampul had to offer. And Cristalina, with her artistic antecedents, was in her element. She'd quickly made her mark there and was soon brought to the attention of Bessie herself.

  She'd always known that Bessie wasn't too fastidious in her business dealings - and that she wasn't squeamish when it came to a bit of industrial skulduggery. But it was only recently that she'd learnt of her total and out and out ruthlessness, her complete disregard for the rules or indeed the law, when it suited her purpose. This was when she was admitted into the inner circle, when she was given the job of running Bessie's Praetorian guard, her very own secret service at the heart of the empire. And Cristalina loved it, because she too was ruthless, she too burned with the same ambition that drove Bessie to excess. And despite everything, despite all the danger, all the hardship and now all the indignity and all the humiliation, she still lapped it up. Because whatever Bessie might think and no matter what Bessie might do, Cristalina was becoming more powerful by the day. She was learning from this terrible woman. And she was learning how Bessie worked and what Bessie could and couldn't do. And she was beginning to understand just how limited this great slab of lard was - and just how lacking in intellect she was, just how much of that lard had grown between her ears.

  It would only be a matter of time. There was no doubt about it. She would move in and Bessie would be moved out - forever…

  …and then some other poor schmuk could step into her Praetorian shoes. Or maybe, if the need arose again, into these damn awful, thigh-length boots. And she could strap on these damn awful chains as well - and put on this damn awful hat - and this damn awful, damn stupid bra…

  Thank God they all had to wear this stuff. It would be just too dreadful if it were just her on her own. And thank God that this was the last night, and that tomorrow would see the job done - and maybe the other job started, the job of usurping the throne. Anyway, it was about time the Trampul empire had at its head someone who wasn't sickeningly ugly, and could keep her mouth closed while she ate. In fact, it was long overdue.

  28.

  It overlooked the grand ballroom: a small gallery bar perched high above its floor - and reached from the ballroom by its very own spiral staircase. It would make a perfect vantage point - and a safe one. Renton remembered it from his first Carnal-ival night. Its occupants had seemed to avoid the worst excesses of the evening's cavortings. Maybe because they were more the voyeur types. Or maybe they were just too shy. Or who knows - just too inebriated? But whatever their reason, Renton was quite convinced that they would represent less of a threat to his person and to his privates than would the mob on the ballroom floor. And that meant he would be able to concentrate on his task for the evening: on his search for his sought-after blonde.

  He was the first there. The bar was empty, save for a single barman who greeted Renton with a nod of his head and an expression of acute glumness. It was as though he was acknowledging the misery of some sort of occupational life sentence. Renton even conjured up the judge:

  'You shall be taken from this place to licensed premises as appointed by this court. And there you shall wipe glasses meaninglessly and unconvincingly until such time as patrons patronise the establishment, whereupon' - and here the judge narrows his eyes over his half-moon specs - 'whereupon you shall serve them with a smile or studiously ignore them as directed at the time. Your sentence will have no fixed term. You will die in your licensed premises. May cod have parsley for your sole. Take him down. Next case, please.'

  A shiver ran down Renton's back. It really must be awful, this bar tending stuff. And especially if you had to stand all the time. It must be murder on your feet.

  'Can I get you a drink, sir?' smiled the barman, as Renton placed a bar stool beneath his bum. 'A cocktail or maybe a beer?'

  'Ah,' thought Renton, ' he's been directed to adopt his smiling mode tonight.' And he really must have been. It was as though he'd been switched on. Flick the lever - and poof! The scowl's gone and in its place the smile of an angel. Incredible. Quite incredible.

  But then the smile began to wane. There was now a hint of impatience on that face, impatience turning to resentment. And soon the glumness would reappear… And then Renton remembered he needed to do something more than just observe. That when somebody asked him a question, he needed to provide a response, preferably within less than a few minutes of the completion of the question. It was how society operated. Real-time conversations with barely a silence between exchanges.

  'Ah yes,' he managed, ' a drink would be great.'

  He immediately felt like a complete wally. What a facile statement to make to a barman - in a bar. And to a convicted barman at that, a lifer, a long-termer, a full-stretcher with no hope of a better future…

  'Oh come on, Tenting, get a grip of yourself. If you can't even get your head around ordering a drink, how the hell are you going to cope with the rest of the evening?'

  'Look, I'm sorry,' he continued, 'but it's just that… well, you know, it's just that…'

  The barman was now looking at him as though… well, as though he was a complete wally. And who could blame him? Renton dried up. He just couldn't go on. And then the barman tried again.

  'I can recommend the beer, sir. It's a new barrel. Beautiful stuff. Not too light and not too heavy. In fact, just about perfect…'

  'Oh yes, oh yes,' said Renton desperately, 'that would be fine, absolutely fine.'

  And so the first hurdle in locating the lady with the tattooed titty was over. Renton had a seat by the bar and had ordered a drink. The rest would be plain sailing. Now he'd got the measure of the situation, it would be a doddle. And look, already other people were arriving. Soon the bar and the ballroom would be full of bon viveurs, and amongst them would be the required Ms Blonde. His Ms Blonde. He was sure of it.

  'Hello, my name's Skissy, and this is my friend, Spanka. And we'd love a drink. Wouldn't we, Spanka?'

  'Yes, we would. We'd love a drink.'

  Renton had been confronted. As if from nowhere, two
ladies had appeared at the bar and were now grinning at him like a couple of demented apes. He froze. And for once one could understand why. These two were enough to startle a corpse. And as far as startlability was concerned, Renton was a good deal more advanced than most stiffs.

  Skissy went on. 'I'd like a Mint Twolips,' she said, and then she paused in order to make a suggestive allusion with her tongue and her pouting lips. 'And Spanka would like a Penile Colada. Wouldn't you, Spanka?'

  'Yes, I would. A lovely long stiff one with plenty of rum. I'd like that a lot.'

  Renton was weighing up the options. A rejection of these two hustlers? A submission? An expeditious retreat? A fainting fit? Or should he just ignore them? But then he thought of the man with his tie tethered to his tojjer, and the salvation of companionship, no matter how strange the companions. It might be worth it. Hook up with these two, and less chance of being bothered by anyone else. Heck, they both looked so dippy - they could hardly be a threat. And you could never tell - they might even prove useful.

  He turned to the barman who had now recaptured a little of his glumness.

  'Errh, one Mint Jul… I mean, errh, Twolips, and a… you know, a colada thing, a long one with… errh plenty of rum. And errh, why not have one yourself…?' an offer that induced another of the barman's nods and a stare to melt solid marble.