by Mike Ripley
Basically, you take a good slug of tequila (ice cold if poss) and add a splash of lime-juice, then top up a five-ounce glass with champagne – or Sainsbury’s Asti Spumante, whichever comes first to hand. Then you put your left hand over the glass, swirl it round two or three times in mid-air, slam the glass down as hard as you can on a hard surface and drink the lot in one. The theory is that the bubbles are evenly spread throughout the drink by the slam, but after one, who the hell cares?
We were drinking out of glass tumblers with British Rail logos on and generally chewing the fat and putting the world to rights.
‘Thisisgood … juice,’ slurred Carol, who was over halfway to Smashed City Arizona already. ‘Where did you say Dave was from?’
She was still talking about me rather than to me, so in a way I was glad I hadn’t used any of my real names.
‘Germany, wasn’t it?’ Melanie was warming to me. Or maybe it was the tequila.
‘I’ve been out there for a year or so.’ I set up another three Slammers, pouring the lime-juice and tequila together so that I could cut mine to about half the strength I was giving them. It’s a good trick if you can do it.
‘When did you get back?’ asked Melanie.
‘Yesterday. Came into Harwich on the ferry and called in the Uni on the off-chance.’
‘Off-chance of meeting Carol?’ The very thought made her pause in mid-slam.
‘No, looking up an old friend called Jo.’ I glanced at Carol, but she was staring vacantly at the fire. ‘And I ran into a guy called Alan who said Carol might know where she was.’
‘Alan sent you?’ Carol perked up. Obviously there still some solidarity among the ‘84 Four. It seemed a useful line to follow.
‘Seems a straight type. He told me you’d be here. We did a little business.’
‘Business?’ A flicker of interest there as she downed her Slammer and rocked back on her haunches, but only at about Mark 5 on the Richter Scale.
‘Just a little bit of trading.’ I offered her more tequila, leaning across Melanie to do so. Either Melanie pushed some part of her anatomy against my leg or I was too close to the campfire.
‘You dealing stuff for Alan? Pardon.’ Carol broke wind at the other end this time. Maybe I was putting too much Asti in the Slammers.
‘Just a little something from the groves of Lebanon, via downtown Dusseldorf, that is.’
‘Got any left?’
‘Some seed and grass. Wanna smoke?’ What a question. Do fish swim?
I stretched up and strolled over to the Transit. Around me the camp was settling down for the night, bricks securing groundsheets, tent flaps tied tight, kerosene lamps hissing away their shadows. Ironically it looked more like a scene from after the nuclear holocaust instead of a plea to prevent one. I mean, can you imagine surviving with all these wimmin going round saying ‘Told you so’?
I retrieved my stash from where I’d taped it under the steering column, and my cigarettes and green Rizla papers from the dashboard. It always seemed a waste to use up a couple of Gold Flake this way, but I always forget to buy cheaper cigarettes, and anyway, the corner tabs on the cardboard packets make excellent roaches.
I locked the Transit – you can take peace, harmony and sisterly love just so far – and threaded my way back through the tents to the fire Melanie had lit near the clapped-out bus without wheels. Tricia and Melissa had disappeared, probably in disgust.
Melanie had found some more wood, mostly bits of USAF fencing by the look of it. Carol hadn’t moved, though the level of the tequila had.
‘Who did you say you were looking for?’ she asked suspiciously as I pulled up a weather-beaten bus seat.
‘Jo. I heard she was a friend of yours.’
‘Jo who?’ She was clocking me from the corner of one bleary eye. I concentrated on rolling a very juicy joint.
‘I don’t think I ever knew her last name. She was at the Uni down the road, so I called in. Alan said you might know where she is.’
‘Can’t place her,’ said Carol, but the piggy eyes never left the joint.
‘Single strands?’ I suggested, and Carol snapped yes so quickly I almost dropped the thing into the fire. Melanie said no, she’d toke on mine. In some countries that’s virtually the same as going through a wedding service. In most countries it’s preferable. I licked and rolled, then lit the joint and handed it to Carol. It was a humdinger. I rolled a much leaner version for Melanie and me to share.
‘You do know a Jo, Carol,’ said Melanie. ‘You brought her up here once, or rather you got her to drive you here in that big flash Jaguar. Remember?’ Melanie edged nearer and lowered her voice. ‘Skinny, mousey blonde. Docile. Easy meat for the old bag.’
‘Vaguely …’ Carol drawled, then took a long draw, a good lung-and-a-half-full. ‘Got any of these to spare?’ she squeaked, trying to hold the smoke in.
‘You’re smoking my next six weeks’ dole money,’ I said, handing the second joint to Melanie.
‘I’ll buy some off you,’ Carol exhaled, and her head disappeared in the cloud.
‘With what, smart arse?’ sneered Melanie. ‘You were supposed to get us into town today to get our benefits, but you blew it.’
They argued some more while I poured out more Slammers, or rather Melanie argued and Carol grunted occasionally. She took the drink I offered without a word and downed it straight away, no longer even bothering to slam. After her fifth or sixth toke, she was down to the end of the joint, and a couple of the dried seeds exploded like miniature fireworks, making her jump and then starting her off giggling.
I placed the plastic bag of dope on top of the cigarette packet, in clear view, but made no move to roll her another joint. She was reluctant to let go of the roach at first, but then she hurled it into the fire and got unsteadily to her feet, saying, ‘I know what.’
Her pink flying suit had two dirty orbs where her backside had imprinted itself on the ground, and I noticed for the first time that her trainers were at least size 9 (men’s.) She seemed to be having trouble putting one in front of the other, but she did eventually make it to the steps of the disabled bus and fell inside. She was in there for a good five minutes, crashing around and swearing occasionally.
I made a facial question-mark at Melanie but she just shrugged and edged closer. Her rats-tail hair didn’t seem so bad suddenly, and in the firelight she was quite pretty. I was going to have to ease up on the Slammers.
‘Are you heading for London?’ she asked, handing me the dog-end of our joint.
‘Yeah, but maybe not tonight.’ I thought I’d better add a rider to that; it was easy to be male and misunderstood around here. ‘I’ll crash in the back of the van for a couple of hours before hitting the road; I’m too easy a target for the cops in that thing, and I’m over the limit.’
‘Is it big enough for two?’ she said, straight-faced.
‘What about the sisterhood?’ I said, indicating the surrounding tents.
‘It’s not that big, is it?’ she giggled. Melanie had a nice giggle. I was going to have to ease up on the grass as well.
‘I didn’t mean that. I just got the impression that sex with a member of the opposite sex was frowned on round here.’
‘Nah,’ she drawled. ‘We haven’t castrated a man here for weeks – and anyway, Tricia’s gone to bed.’ She gave me that up-from-under look that only women can do without appearing cretinous. ‘And it gets very cold around here at night.’
There was an extra loud crash from inside the bus, followed by a stream of invective calling into question the parentage of the Pope and his fondness for animals. Then Carol reappeared with what I first thought was cocaine down most of her right side.
She was clutching something in her right hand, something covered in white powder, as she weaved towards us and sat down heavily and out of breath. I poured her neat tequ
ila, which she swilled greedily. ‘How about these?’ She held out her hand.
It was difficult to see what she was offering at first, but as I took them from her, I saw they were credit cards, an Access and a Visa, both made out in the name Mrs J A Scamp. I made sure I got some of the white powder on my fingertips and, not making a big deal of it, brought them up to my tongue. The powder was flour. Wholemeal. I handed them back, much to her surprise.
‘You’d steal from another woman?’ said Melanie indignantly. Men, it appeared, were fair game.
‘A rich bitch who won’t miss them,’ Carol said dreamily. The effort of searching the bus had accelerated the effect of the alcohol and dope.
‘I don’t take payment by drastic plastic, I’m afraid.’ I stuck two papers together and started to make another joint. Carol’s face fell and I thought she might burst into tears.
‘You can keep them ... in exchange,’ she said slowly, holding them out like a magician would.
Melanie tuned in to the same image and whispered: ‘Go on, pick a card, any card,’ in a Tommy Cooper voice.
‘Tell you what I’ll do.’ I finished the joint, lit it and handed it to Carol. It was another rich mixture. ‘I’ll see what value I can get on the street in town for these and I’ll leave you this bag on the basis that if I can’t dispose of them, I’ll be back for it.’
‘Sure, sure.’ She sucked on the joint and put her head back. Now she could relax, she thought, if she was still capable of thinking. She had no intention of handing the joint back, but I didn’t bother fixing another for Melanie and me. Instead, I just lit up a straight fag and shared it with her, Bogart style.
I moved the bag of grass over towards Carol, but kept hold of it.
‘So you don’t remember Jo, then?’
‘Jo? Jo? Josephine ...”
It was too late; she’d gone. Three minutes later, she was snoring gently. I palmed the credit cards into my jacket pocket so that Melanie didn’t see me and rescued the still-smoking joint from Carol’s fingers. I half-offered it, but Melanie shook her head, so I tossed it reluctantly onto the fire. I hate waste.
‘We’d better get her inside,’ I supposed.
‘If we really must. Her pit’s at the back of the bus.’
Melanie took her legs and I took the bows and we struggled up the steps, Carol’s bum hitting most of them, which I reckoned Melanie was doing deliberately.
The interior of the bus was lit only by a small torch made to look like an old lamp, the type you see in Westerns, and from what I could see I was glad there was no more light. The debris included empty wine bottles, food wrappers, part of a loaf of bread so hard the sparrows would bend their beaks, and a half-empty tin of baked beans with enough penicillin growing in it to supply most of Soho for a year.
Carol’s ‘pit’ was the back seat of the bus piled high with old coats and a couple of threadbare blankets.
‘We all had sleeping-bags when we came here,’ said Melanie. ‘The Christian CND sent them. Carol sold hers.’
‘Heave.’
We dumped Carol face down and I leaned over to try and turn her. Never leave anybody in that condition face down. Not even a Carol.
As I leaned further, I felt a hand sliding up the inside of my left thigh. Christ, she’s awake, I thought; then I realised it was coming from behind.
‘What about Antiope?’ I asked hopefully.
‘She’ll be asleep.’ Melanie’s voice had gone suddenly husky, as if the treble control on the stereo had failed.
‘You’d better check,’ I said without turning round. ‘I’ll make sure Carol’s okay.’
‘That cow will sleep through anything.’ The grip on my thigh tightened.
‘We don’t want her choking on her own vomit, though, do we?’
‘If you say so. See you in five minutes.’
As soon as she’d gone, I finished rolling Carol on to her side and threw a coat over her. Then I picked up the lamp-torch and held it above my head. I knew roughly what I was looking for, and I found it on the floor under a seat-frame from which the seat had been removed.
It was a brown paper bag of Jordan’s Wholemeal Flour, about half full. Quite a bit had spilled over the floor already, so nobody would notice any more. Carol must have just dropped the bag when she fetched the credit cards.
I lowered the torch to floor level, just in case anyone was watching, and squeezed the bag gently. Yes, there was something in there, and I bet myself it would be Jo’s emerald pendant. Wasn’t it Chandler’s The Lady in The Lake where Philip Marlowe finds the jewellery clue in a box of sugar? I put my hand in and found it. Well, I supposed it was an emerald under all that flour – either that or the millers were giving away some expensive free gifts these days.
I slipped it into my pocket and dusted off my hands and clothes. Carol hadn’t stirred. Mission accomplished. Almost.
Melanie was waiting by the Transit holding two sleeping-bags, the sort that you can unzip and lay flat. I picked up my fags and the bag of grass from near the campfire and motioned her around to the driver’s door. I wanted to keep the back door locked, and you couldn’t do that from inside.
It turned out to be a wise precaution. During the night, the handle was tried at least twice.
Chapter Seven
I was back on the A12 heading south for the Smoke by 7.00 the next morning, well before the Front Line had stirred – all but Melanie, that is, who had been grumpily evicted from the Transit at 6.30. I was whistling a medley of Ellingtonia, keeping an eye out for a transport café for breakfast and feeling fairly pleased with myself. Not cocky enough not to watch my speed, though, nor to keep looking in the rear-view mirror. The Suffolk traffic cops were well-known to be a lot keener than their Essex brethren, and a van like this one coming away from a military establishment was a natural target at that time in the morning.
I found one of those plastic and formica Little Chefs that were replacing the old greasy spoon eateries and went straight into the Gents. There I dampened some paper towels and wiped the flour off the goodies I’d removed from Flaxperson. So that was an emerald.
It was smaller than I’d thought it would be for two-and-a-half grand’s worth, but then what do I know? The pendant itself was heart-shaped, the emerald in the centre, and no bigger than my thumbnail. I presumed the metal was silver and the chain too. On the back of the heart was engraved ‘JJ’ in flowing script. A bit twee, I thought, for a prototype yuppie like Jo. Still, mine not to reason why.
I tucked into bacon and eggs and fried bread and pondered on the great philosophical issues of life such as why you never got fried black pudding for breakfast any more. (It’s now called boudin and is served with apple sauce and puréed carrots in nouvelle cuisine restaurants.) I had located the dreaded Carol easily enough, and reclaiming the pendant had been a piece of cake; well, a piece of more than cake, actually. I’d even found the missing credit cards.
All I had to do now was give them back.
Should have been easy. Shouldn’t it?
I drove via Barking to call in on Duncan the Drunken before the traffic built up, but his garage was locked and that meant calling at the house. Unfortunately, Doreen was in.
‘Hello, Fitzroy, chuck, how yer doin’?’
‘Hi, Doreen. Where’s Dunc?’ I’d long since given up trying to get her not to call me that.
‘Out – but on a job. When he’s earning, I’m not complaining. Come in for a cuppa?’
I declined quickly. She might have offered me something to eat, as most Northern women believe they have a mission in life to feed up any male who can still see his feet.
‘I just called to return Duncan’s van and pick up Armstrong – my cab.’
‘You’ll have to see the old man when he gets back. I told you, he’s out earning. Be back about 5.00.’
‘Oh no, not another w
edding?’
Doreen smiled. It was all right for her, she didn’t have to clean up the sodding confetti.
So I was stuck with the Transit for the rest of the day. If I parked that outside Stuart Street, it would really annoy Frank and Salome if they had friends round. So that’s what I did.
Disappointingly, they were out when I got home, and so, it seemed, were Fenella and Lisabeth, but that Saturday was Lisabeth’s jumble sale day. And of course there was no sign of Mr Goodson from the ground-floor flat; there never was at the weekend.
I checked behind the wall phone to see if any mail had been stuffed there for me but, as usual, there was nothing. Somebody had left me a note, though, through the cat flap in my flat door.
Springsteen circled my legs and howled a bad-tempered welcome as I opened the purple – yes, purple – envelope. On matching paper with a cartoon of Snoopy wearing a Harvard T-shirt, was written:
Dear Mr Angel
A nice lady called Mrs Boatman rang this afternoon (Friday) and said she was anxious to speak to you. Please ring her on Monday at Walthamstow DHSS office. Sorry, I forgot the number. Some secretary, eh?!!!
Love, Fenella.
I screwed the note into a ball and threw it for Springsteen to play with. He took a tentative bite and then started howling again, so I had to open a tin of Whiskas – turkey flavour, full price. (If I ever get any on special offer, I have to remove the price tags before he sees them.) Then it was a shower and a shave for me before planning Saturday Night Out.
As the house seemed empty, I got in four or five unlogged phone calls around the circuit of friends and acquaintances to see what was cooking. The menu was pretty basic as it turned out. Trippy was meeting somebody at a club down at Camden Lock, but he couldn’t remember who or exactly where. I could guess why though. Bunny had got himself invited to a party down in Fulham at a house rented by four air hostesses who worked for Cathay Pacific. I didn’t know whether that was good or not, and even Bunny admitted it was a leap in the dark, as his experience had not got above Sealink Duty Free Shop assistants in the past. There was no point in ringing Dod. In his book, Saturdays were for racing, betting and boozing – nothing else – and he rarely strayed beyond the local corner pub. I tried the Mimosa Club to see if anyone interesting was playing that evening, but got no reply. No surprises there, as Stubbly never bothered with the floating drinking trade on Saturday afternoons. After all, some of them might be football supporters.