by Rob Grant
After what seemed to Grenville an unnecessarily substantial interval, two uniforms emerged from the police car: one a ruddy-faced, squat man who turned out to be Scots, the other a tall, wiry man with close-cropped hair. They both looked very serious and threatening, and Gren was worried he might be in for a drubbing.
They ambled up to him, the radios on their lapels barking occasional nonsense, and crouched to his level at the driver's side window. The tall one tapped on the window and made a circular motion Grenville understood to mean he should wind his window down. Old-fashioned sign language, really, this day and age, Gren was thinking. Who manufactured cars with non-electric hand-operated window winders this side of the millennium? Might as well have mimes for turning over the engine with a hand crank. He pressed the electronic window button and the little window motor whirred and strained inside the door, but the window only budged a fraction of an inch or so and then juddered and struggled until he gave up.
Grenville made a helpless gesture with his hands and squeezed his lips into a suitably cowering apologetic expression. The ruddy Scot tightened his face and looked away, but Grenville couldn't tell if he was suppressing anger or merriment. The tall one straightened, took a step forward and leaned towards the windscreen gap.
'Are you aware, sir,' he asked with considerable gravity, 'that your rear licence plate bulb is out?'
And with that the Scot all but collapsed in a raucous fit of hysterical laughter, slapping his thighs. The tall one was trying not to snicker, but he wasn't making a terribly good fist of it. 'Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle, sir?'
Confident, now, that he wasn't facing a quick going over with a pair of telescopic truncheons, Grenville reached down to unbuckle his seatbelt, which set the Scot off again, and tried to open his door, but it seemed to be jammed solid. Horrified he might have to be winched out through the windscreen, he doubled his efforts and after two or three sturdy shoulder charges, the severely weakened door relented and came off its hinges completely.
Grenville climbed out of the car and walked noisily over the prone door, which rocked with each step, and jumped off onto the road as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and surely everybody did that, everywhere, pretty much every day, then strolled with what he hoped was nonchalant dignity around the car's smoking bonnet and onto the pavement.
Neither of the policemen seemed able to speak. Both were wearing tortured expressions, as if they were sucking incredibly sour boiled sweets they dared not spit out.
Grenville looked back at the remains of his car. It was, indeed, a comical disgrace. Charlie Caroli himself would not have been seen dead in it. No wonder the lad at the McDonald's hatch window had gawked at him so oddly.
The tall one had composed himself sufficiently to be capable, almost, of speech. 'Have some kind of...' He forced his lips together, but couldn't prevent a small series of farty noises escaping from his mouth. 'Have some sort of a prang, did we, sir?'
Right. This was what Grenville needed to complete his Perfect Morning. Two comedians in police uniforms taking the piss out of him in public and broad daylight. No, wait. Here was the crowning glory. A couple of passers-by seemed to have recognised him from the television and were recording his humiliation on their mobile-phone cameras for all posterity to enjoy at their collective leisure. Bring it on.
Now more angry than afraid, Grenville steeled his expression, drew himself to his full height and said, with hefty dignity: 'Is there a problem, Officers?'
That did it for Scotty. He literally doubled up in an uncontrolled guffawing fit, and couldn't stop for a good two minutes. His face had gone from ruddy to bright, shiny scarlet. He leaned on the tall policeman's shoulder, too weak from the laugh attack to support himself with any confidence.
Grenville did not react; did not move a muscle; certainly, did not smile. Bring it on, you blue bastards.
The tall one again calmed down first. 'I'm afraid, sir, I'm going to have to place you under arrest,' he announced, in all seriousness, though his voice was cracking.
Arrest? They were placing him under arrest? As if he was some kind of criminal? 'Arrest? What for?'
'For being a complete bloody twat!' Scotty-boy blurted, and went off on one again.
'You are not obliged to say anything...' the tall one said.
He was reading Grenville his rights. Grenville felt his head suddenly swell alarmingly. Heat rushed to his cheeks and there was a strange kind of wet buzzing in his ears. He could no longer hear the policeman's voice. They couldn't be arresting him. He had a show to do. He had to be at the studios in, what? Two hours. This had to be some kind of wind-up.
He snapped out of the funk when he realised Tall Boy was expecting some kind of response from him.
'I said: do you understand, sir?'
'There must be some kind of mistake, Officer, I'm not a--'
'Do you understand, sir?' The policeman's words were slow and deliberate.
'But what am I supposed to have done?'
'Well, why don't we talk about it at the station, sir? In the meantime, would you like me to read you your rights again?'
'No, no. That's... I mean, if there's any damage, I'll be happy to pay--'
A weird barking noise leapt out of Rob Roy's throat and he sprayed the air with spittle. 'Any damage? You fucking demolished the East Finchley David Lloyd Centre in its entirety, you bollock-brained moron!'
'Leave it out, Moggoch,' the taller one said, but he couldn't disguise his grin. 'If you'd just like to turn around, sir.'
Turn around? Were they going to search him? Good God, this was all getting a bit too serious for Grenville's liking. He turned reluctantly, placed his hands on the shell of his derelict car and spread his legs. He was, indeed, being patted down.
What a mess. The car was a mess... everything was a mess. And all he'd wanted to do was take a spot of bloody exercise. Demolished the health club? He didn't think so. Knocked over a couple of bollards and snapped the arm off the exit barrier, which, in all seriousness, was doing the world a major favour, surely. Most of the damage he'd caused had been done to his own property. There was no law against that, was there? Unless he tried to claim it on his insurance, which he had absolutely no intention of doing. Imagine filling out that accident claims report. 'Inadvertently backed into a giant monster truck at thirty miles an hour, then inadvertently backed into the same truck at thirty miles an hour again, then accidentally knocked over three cast-iron bollards set in concrete as if they were skittles in a bowling alley after two or three attempts.' No, thank you. There would be no insurance claim. What, then, was his crime?
He felt the officer's hand grip his own firmly, and heard the disturbing clink of metal behind him. 'What are you...?' The officer bent his arm behind his back, not painfully, but not gently, either. 'Are you going to...' He heard the metallic snap and felt the restraint close around his wrist. 'Are you handcuffing me?' Grenville hissed in distress and horror.
'Sorry, sir. It's just procedure.' He secured Grenville's other arm and snapped the second cuff closed. 'But what am I supposed to have done?' The policeman gently pushed his shoulder and spun him round. 'If you'd just like to come this way, sir?' As if it were an invitation. As if Grenville had any choice in the matter, whatsoever.
He walked, slow and reluctant, to the police car. The oglers were still snapping away. Possibly, even, recording his tragic nightmare onto video. He felt like a drug runner or a serial killer, finally snared after months of manhunt. In fact, didn't those people get a blanket thrown over their heads to shield them from public scrutiny? Was Grenville not to be allowed even that small favour, afforded as a matter of course to mass murders and evil terrorists? Grenville turned his head and glared filthily at the photo-happy mob, creating a perfect image of hounded derangement which would make page five of three of the tabloids the following morning.
The police car was a Skoda. Dear me. Grenville couldn't possibly fit in the back of that, but William Wallace
was holding open the back door, and the big lad was steering him towards it. 'Would it be a problem, Officers,' Grenville asked politely, 'if I sat in the front?'
The policemen looked at each other. It seemed to Grenville they were seriously pondering his perfectly reasonable request. At last, some ordinary human respect.
'I don't know,' the tall one said. 'What d'you think, Moggoch?'
The Scottish one bent his lips in an inverted bow. 'Don't see why not. Christ -- why don't we let the bastard drive?'
He'd barely got the words out before he was seized again by a shuddering fit. They both went this time.
The Scotsman really did have to wipe the tears from his eyes. 'I'll tell you what, big boy, you are first-rate entertainment value. Get in the car.' He forced Grenville's head down and roughly shoved him into the back seat so Gren was lying face down laterally across it.
The laughing policeman knelt on the edge of the seat behind him. 'Sit up,' he barked.
But that, sadly, was an impossibility. With his arms pinned behind him by the handcuffs, Grenville had no leverage. The horrible truth is, a gentleman of Grenville's dimensions cannot lift himself with his stomach muscles alone, as if he were a teenage lad with a six-pack. In a sad, quiet voice, muffled by the seat, he said: 'I can't.'
'You what?'
Grenville lifted his head up and twisted his neck as best he could. 'I can't sit up.'
'Jesus.' The Scot grabbed his arm, and with Grenville's cooperation managed to manoeuvre him more or less upright. 'Comfy?' he asked, sardonically.
'Not really.'
'Right.' The policeman tugged at the seatbelt and tried to latch it, but it wouldn't reach. Not even nearly. 'Budge back a bit.'
Grenville tried to accommodate the request, but it was a doomed enterprise.
Beam Me Up Scotty tugged at the belt, pushed and prodded at Grenville's belly, then tugged again, enjoining Gren to breathe in, cursing and muttering under his breath all the while.
'What's going on back there?' the tall one asked from the driver's seat.
'Can't get the bastard seatbelt on. Look! Won't go anywhere near him.'
The tall one turned and they both spent a few moments marvelling at this phenomenon, as if it were some inexplicable miracle, and perhaps they should be thinking about calling the Vatican to get it verified, which Grenville found not even mildly humiliating, though he did pray, quite fiercely, for a lightning bolt to strike him dead on the spot, and possibly the two police officers as well, but such gods as were listening extended him no such mercy.
'What are we going to do?' Moggoch asked.
'Forget it.'
For a tiny second Grenville thought that meant they were going to let him go, that his mighty bulk had been his salvation. But no.
'You're joking,' the Scot said. 'What if we crash? I don't want this bastard shooting through the windscreen with me sandwiched in between. They'd have to scoop me up with a bucket.'
'I'll drive carefully.'
'Shuffle over,' Moggoch ordered Grenville. 'Behind the driver's seat.'
Grenville shuffled. There was even less legroom behind the driver's seat, but all the protest had been driven out of him. This was ridiculous. He was a few pounds overweight, that was all, and yet here he was being made to feel like the bloody Elephant Man.
Robert the Bruce slammed the door on him and climbed into the front.
'What about my car?' Grenville asked.
Moggoch turned to him, his face a picture of delight. 'Your what, now?'
'My car.' He nodded at the wretched wreck of a thing. 'You're not just going to leave it there, are you? Shouldn't one of you drive it to the station?'
Rabbie Burns was chuckling quite openly. 'Don't you worry about that, sir. We'll send someone to pick it up.' He nodded to his companion. 'Put in the call, Micky. Get them to send someone from the Clown Division.'
LUNCH Menu
A Disturbingly Green Kiwi Smoothie Chickpea Cutlet with Some Kind of Wild Rice Crap
--o0o--
Steamed Chicken
--o0o--
Sloppy Porridge Crawling with Roaches
or
Steak Pie with Chips, Baked Beans and gravy
or An Unlucky Juicy Centipede
--o0o--
Absolutely Nothing At All with the Merest Hint of Apple
PHYSICIAN: He no doubt orders you to eat plenty of roast-meat.
ARGAN: No; nothing but boiled meat.
PHYSICIAN: Yes, yes; roast or boiled, it is all the same; he orders very wisely, and you could not have fallen into better hands.
ARGAN: Sir, tell me how many grains of salt I ought to put to an egg?
PHYSICIAN: Six, eight, ten, by even numbers; just as in medicines by odd numbers.
(Moliere: Le Malade Imaginaire, 1673)
FOURTEEN
Jeremy scanned the food on offer in the institute cafeteria. The fare was, predictably, astonishingly healthy-looking. Which is to say, unappetising in the extreme. Brown rice, wholewheat pasta, limp-looking and therefore, presumably, organic salad items. Steamed and unseasoned vegetables. Nothing here had ever felt the gentle caress of a knob of butter, the tender sprinkle of a pinch of salt. Certainly, none of it had ever seen the inside of a frying pan. Neither, in any other circumstances, would any of it ever have seen the inside of Jeremy's stomach. But he was here, and he had to show willing. Trying not to sigh, he selected a re-formed chickpea cutlet with some kind of dry wild rice crap and a disturbingly green kiwi smoothie, and looked around for Jemma.
He spotted her, waving at him from a table she'd secured by the panoramic window looking out onto the gardens. She really was quite a decent looker. A good seven, maybe even an eight in her slap and Friday-night finery. Jeremy had long ago progressed past the stage of mentally undressing women completely. Now he tended more often to picture them padding around his flat with morning-tousled hair wearing one of his shirts. He found this much more erotic. In fact, it frequently involved mentally dressing women in more than they were actually wearing, which Jeremy considered a sign of his growing maturity.
'I couldn't find any ketchup.' He set down his tray and waited for directions.
'Ketchup?' Jemma gurned in a strangely becoming way. 'You'll be lucky, meladdo. There's sugar in ketchup. Pure evil. If you're lucky, every third Thursday you might find they put out some ethical fair trade organic sugar-free low-fat tomato sauce substitute in a perfume-bottle-sized portion. Other than that, you bring your own and hope you don't get spotted.'
'Still.' He prodded at his sawdust cutlet. 'It's all good healthy stuff.'
She took a bite of her chicken and winced.
Jeremy smiled. 'Not good?'
'Not anything. People used to say everything tasted like chicken. Now, even chicken doesn't taste like chicken. Nobody says things taste like chicken any more because they don't know what chicken tastes like. On top of which, this chicken is steamed. Steamed meat? It never had a chance of tasting like anything.'
Jeremy watched as she slipped a salt cellar out of her bag and shook liberal amounts of the deadly white crystals on the offensive meat. His eyes widened censoriously. 'Well, that's one way of doing it. Or you could just leave the chicken entirely and put a bullet through your brain.'
She looked up. 'So what now? You disagree with salt?'
He shrugged with his face. 'It's your life.'
'And I'm risking it by adding salt to my food?'
'Come on, now. It's a killer.'
'It's a killer?'
'Everyone knows that.'
'Everyone knows that? Really?'
Jeremy did not like the bite of sarcasm in her voice. 'Yes, Jemma. It's common knowledge.'
'OK, Jeremy.' She set down her cutlery. 'How's it going to kill me?'
She was shaping up to do battle. Jeremy sensed he was walking into some kind of trap.
'Blood pressure. Strokes. You should know that: you're the scientist.'
'I am indeed. I'm a sci
entist who's actually read the studies. And I can tell you there is no compelling evidence that excessive salt intake increases blood pressure, even by a tiny margin. Much less that such an increase would lead to strokes.'
'Oh, come on.'
'Here's the argument against salt. The theory starts with a plausible assumption: the more salt you ingest, the more water your body has to retain to maintain its sodium balance. Eventually, your kidneys respond by excreting more salt, which leads to a slight increase in blood pressure.'
'Well, there you have it.'
'The problem is, no studies have ever managed to prove that is what actually happens.'
'Now, I know that isn't true. I've seen studies quoted in Government literature--'
'I didn't say there are no studies which claim to prove a link. It's just that those claims are mostly scientific hogwash, where the figures have been massaged so crudely no one who believes in scientific methodology could take them seriously.'
'You're saying researchers actually made up the results? I mean, just plucked figures out of the air?'
'I always find this funny. You ever heard the Disraeli quote: "Three kinds of lies: lies, damn lies and statistics"?'
'Sure. Everyone knows you can make statistics prove just about anything.'
'I think you're right. Just about anyone knows that. Yet here you are, incredulous that respectable scientists might actually bend results to prove their case.'
'But other scientists check the results, don't they? I mean, that's how the process works, isn't it?'
'That is how it works, yes. And, mostly, a consensus is reached successfully. Just not in the case of salt. All the studies linking salt to strokes are disputed. They tend to use the Bing Crosby approach to data.'
'The what now?'
'The Bing Crosby approach.' She dropped her voice three octaves and delivered an impression of the crooner which was partly disturbing, but also partly sexy: 'Aaac-centuate the positive, eeee-liminate the negative. They just leave out the data that don't fit their conclusion. And so the link has never been satisfactorily proven.'
'But no one's disproved it, either?'