Face Down

by Garry Bushell

  “They aren't a creative people. They're users, exploiters, the cultural equivalent of the teredo shipworm.”

  “I’m not sure about that, I’m not comfortable with anti-Semitism.”

  “I’m not an anti-Semite, just look at who the champions of the anti-culture are and draw your own conclusions. These are facts, suppressed facts, but facts all the same. Think about it. There are no great Jewish composers or authors or original thinkers.”

  “Duh, not even Einstein?”

  “Duh, no! He was a plagiarist, just like your blessed Marx was!”

  Paul shifted uncomfortably. “I need a fag. Can you get us a lager top Willie, please?”

  Five minutes later, they both stoodin Bull Inn Court, the alley outside the pub.

  “How have you been since the divorce?” asked William with mock concern. The slur on ‘since’ told Paul Leather that the brandy had achieved the desired effect.

  “Not too bad, thanks. Losing my job hurt more, but the good times in the television game are over. Luckily I had some money put away for a rainy day, I just wasn't expecting a monsoon...”

  He took a drag on his fag. “I’m seeing someone else now,” he confided, raising the stakes. “She’s a teacher, 32. Bangs like a shit-house door.”

  “Tell me about it! I’ve got one that wears me out.”

  “You mean, you’re over the side?” The $64million question.

  “Like a liferaft! Don’t tell the others will you?”

  Ker-ching! “Of course not.”

  “Jackie. A little beauty, works for Cameron. Knows I’m married and doesn’t care.”

  “Works for Cameron? The Cameron? David Cameron?”

  “Yes, but not directly. Her firm handles their public relations guff.”

  Ker-ching! Ker-ching! “Decent bunk-up?”

  “God, yes. The best I've ever had, and so up for it I can't tell you. We've done things that before I'd only read about. Positions, places...”

  “Cars?”

  “Car backseats, bushes, laybys, hotels, stables. Handcuffs, S&M, spoons...it's like she's using Fifty Shades is her starter manual...and that's another rotten book by the way.”

  “And Fiona?”

  “Has no idea.”

  “How long?”

  “Oh well over a year...”

  A less self-absorbed man might have noticed the almost imperceptible smile that had crept over Paul Leather’s face.

  “I'll be thinking of you as Christian Grey from now on,” he said. “Or Christian Grave when I see you try to out-grump Hitchens on Question Time. I’d settle for the Rumpo Kid myself! Come on, they’ll start sending out search parties for us soon and it gives me the creeps out here. It’s supposed to be haunted isn't it?”

  “Oh yes, famously. They say a stage hand from the Adelphi murdered an actor called William Terris in this very back alley back in Victorian times – I suppose reviewers were tougher back then! It’s said that his tormented spirit still haunts the area where we're standing.”

  “Another good reason to go back in.”

  “Agreed, come on, I'm starting to geta sense of impending doom.”

  Paul Leather grinned. The fat Tory prick didn't know the half of it.

  55

  Midnight, Stringfellows.

  Minutes of nothing happening turned to hours of nothing happening. Maxine and Bella had gone off dancing; Johnny who had been filling his boots with free shampoo had been deep in a relatively sensible conversation with a classy brunette on the subject of penal reform, but was now discussing the effect the US craft brewing explosion had had on micro-distillers. Full of surprises, our John.

  The woman was quite exquisite too, a bit like a taller Audrey Tautou but not quite as painfully undernourished. I caught Gary Shaw’s eye and motioned that I was going for a quick gypsy’s. En route, the cut-price Bermondsey Bardot pulled me to one side.

  “So, are you taking me home handsome, or what?”

  “I'll take you as far as my hotel room, if you like.”

  “Oh, I like.”

  Bang on! “I'd better warn you, though, tomorrow morning I probably won't remember your name.”

  “Darling, after what I'm going to do to you, you won't remember your own name.”

  Get in! I laughed. “Just popping to the little boys' room...”

  “Not that little I hope...”

  “Ha. No. Trust me, it'll fill a pram. I'll collect you on the way through, okay?”

  She smiled and pinched my arse. Feisty girl, and nicely curvy – I have no interest in women who look like size zero fetish models – but something told me I wouldn't want to listen to this one’s iPod.

  So what had happened to our bold vigilante? Clearly, something must have spooked him. Maybe he sniffed this out as a set-up. Maybe he was laying low. Who knew? It did look like we were going to make our own fun tonight though.

  The other two geezers in the khazi were only there for a bit of what the degenerate youth of today call ‘ream nose-bag’, so I was in and out like an SAS raid. I can’t have been gone more than three minutes but when I came back to the sound of Darrow Fletcher’s ‘Pain Gets A Little Deeper’, a massive great ruck had broken out between the lookalikes and a group of hounds from Deptford. It was like a proper bar-room brawl from a Western. Furniture was being flung, glasses smashed, geezers in penguin suits were getting stuck into each other, while women gibbered like a bunch of laboratory monkeys. Was this a good time to mention Health and Safety?

  I couldn't help grinning as the Keith Lemon lookalike got a paper plate full of pie and mash slap bang in the mooey; it would have been even funnier if the pie had been a custard one. And a lot riskier if Mr T had been on the receiving end...I pity the food...

  One of the Minaj lookalikes was using her stiletto heel like an actual stiletto, jabbing it into a fat bird’s fleshy neck. The Tony Curtis recoiled, accidentally stepped on some big lump’s toes, and was sent sprawling. He landed in the most painful way imaginable on the ice sculptured hand-gun, the barrel of which, combined with the silencer, was at least nine inches in length with a four inch girth. Curtis didn’t get that in The Rawhide Years...

  Gents, if you need a reason why not to wear a toga and no underpants to a party, look no further. Tony’s scream would have brought a tear to a glass eye.

  To add another layer of unexpected farce, the drunk and distracted DJ mistook his agonised yelping as a cue to release the Millwall balloons from their netting. That’s the best way to see their colours – going down.

  Gary Shaw and his battalion of stealth Old Bill went into action...it’s a shame his shifty-looking oppo didn't just sling his trap wide open. The bloke must personally generate 55 per cent of the country’s supply of halitosis. But as it happened, the fight was over as quickly as it had begun. Just a tanked-up tear-up, nothing more, nothing to worry about. Still Johnny must be loving this – he did say he wanted to end up in a circus.

  As the warring parties were separated, I looked over to our table. No Johnny Too. I scanned the room quickly, only to catch the sight of John disappearing out of the front door with the brunette, Audrey Too-Tall. For fuck’s sake. I started after them, but it wasn’t easy getting through the throng. I’m not as fit or as fast as I was.

  56

  The NCP car park, Upper St Martin’s Lane

  Johnny had no idea who this woman was, and neither did he care. All that mattered was she was cute, sexy and apparently up for a quick bout of sexual Tasering. He’d steered the conversation away from sloe gin to slow comfortable screws, and she’d responded by saying how important the root was to the taste of gin. She’d mentioned angelica root and orris root, and then, her hand slipping between his legs, the possibility of some quick rooting in the relative safety of the NCP.

  By the look of her he’d expected to find she drove a Chelsea tractor, but the girl, called Lotte, had taken him to the back of a clapped out Ford Transit van. Johnny Baker laughed.

  “What the fu
ck’s this? Ha! Are we going dogging, love? It looks like a fuckin’ kidnapper’s van? Ha-ha. Take me I’m yours, I’ll go eas...”

  CRACK!

  “As easily as that,” she said softly.

  ***

  “You seen, John?”

  The big lug on the door was either dumb, deaf or pig ignorant.

  I grabbed his lapels. “Johnny Baker. It’s his party. He just left. With a brown-haired girl. Which way did they go?”

  The doorman put one hand on my shoulder and went to clump me with the other one. I kneed the soppy cunt straight in the nuts – the orchestras, we call them, although in his case the brass section was entirely between his ears. His hands went down to briefly cradle his bruised bollocks and then turned into granite fists.

  He was bigger than me, about fifteen stone – fourteen without his aftershave. But before he could recover, I put him on his back with a snappy three punch combination: right, left, right...bosh. Over and out. You never lose it.

  “Who saw John Baker leave here with a brunette, minutes ago?”

  “They disappeared into the car park,” shouted a helpful paparazzo between snaps.

  “Ta.”

  I did wonder briefly why he hadn't chased after them, but then Johnny growling at you would discourage all but the boldest smudger. The car park eh? Sweet, he’d probably poggering the granny out of that little sort in the back of her jamjar by now. But he still needed me to watch his back, figuratively I meant. I didn’t actually want to watch them at it. I’m not Dave Courtney.

  I reached the second floor in time to see the brunette shutting the back of a Transit van. Baker was nowhere in sight. Alarm bells rang. Something told me this mystery woman was a mantrap in mascara.

  “Oi!”

  She looked up and appeared momentarily worried, but quickly recovered her composure. My piece was in my hand.

  “Where’s Johnny, luv?”

  “He’s gone. He said I was to meet him at his hotel. I’ve just come for my overnight bag.”

  Of course he did. This stank like a mermaid brothel when the tide’s gone out.

  “So where is it?”

  “What?”

  “The bag.”

  She hesitated.

  “Open the doors; I want a look in that van. Now!”

  She did as she was told, but slowly. I motioned her to stand back with the business end of the Glock. I could see a pair of finely suited legs inside, which naturally belonged to the now unconscious John Baker. The drunken sap had obviously fallen for her hook, line and plonker.

  “Okay. Don’t move.” I went for my phone with my free hand, but never reached it.

  When I came round, many hours later, I realised that she must have had an accomplice. Of course she fuckin’ had. Whoever it was had done me good and proper from behind.

  57

  Tonbridge, Kent

  Mick Neale had taken Thelma out to a restaurant. She’d been impressed by the decor, and the menu, which was such a shoddy work of fiction it should have had ‘by Jeffrey Archer’ on the front of it. The important thing though was he’d managed to stay sober. They kissed outside her house, tenderly at first but then more urgently. She invited him in “for coffee” and he settled down in the living room, readying himself for the next part of the dating ritual. He wasn't great with the flirtatious small talk, but then neither it appeared was Thelma, who came back from the kitchen with neither coffee nor clothes...

  They used to say there were a million stories in the naked city; Mick Neale had finally found one to match.

  ***

  Mick woke up at 3am, in her bed, unable to get back to sleep, and unwilling to move in case he disturbed her. He listened to her breathing for a while and then let his mind wander. He’d heard a report on the London bomb in the car coming over. TalkSPORT had an expert on who had explained how easy these home-made devices were to construct with the right blend of chemicals. Something about them sounded familiar, and now, in the middle of the night, he realised why. He’d seen all of them recently, in the Stevens barn.

  Thelma stirred and put her hand on his chest.

  “You awake?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  Her hand slid slowly south. Mick's erection was so quick it almost came with a cartoon sound effect.

  58

  Saturday, 10am. The City Of London.

  William Broadwick had been summoned to the Express offices in Lower Thames Street by his Editor. The last time that happened he got a pay rise and a TV series. This time, he was due to meet a DI Shaw, but in his place some fellow called Woodward with a face like a seaside Punch had turned up.

  The detective apologised for his governor’s absence, and cut to the chase. The PowerPoint display left little room for doubt. Broadwick’s face fell as the link between his columns and the spate of vigilante crimes were inexorably underlined, and then he winced as he realised that early on he’d actually approved of the scumbag’s actions, actions which had become increasingly unpredictable and unhinged. William hadn't felt well to begin with, but as Woodward’s display finished, he threw up all over the Editor’s expensive shag pile carpet.

  59

  Surrey, moments later.

  Jackie Sutton saw Bang Bang Kirpachi’s name flashing on her mobile phone and took the call eagerly.

  “Have you seen him yet?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh yeah. I’m just leaving South London now.”

  “Did it go to plan?”

  “Better than we’d ever imagined. We’ve got the quotes to stand up your torrid affair 100 per cent, and we’ve got something much nastier, should you ever need it.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Rampant career-killing anti-Semitism.”

  “Ouch!”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “Proceed with part one of the plan. Confirm a figure with the Mail as soon as.”

  “Pictures and taped quotes now...”

  “Yes, so you’ll get five figures easily.”

  “Sweet, my love, sweet as a honey-coated nut.”

  “Is Paul happy?”

  “Over the moon. I gave him a monkey, and his face lit up like a kid at Christmas. The only thing he said was ‘Take the fat little Nazi bastard down’.”

  “He's not fat! He's cuddly. But you’ve got the microcassette, yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s all yours.”

  “Great. Only play them the relevant quotes, don't let them keep it. The only thing we’re taking down today is his sham of a marriage.”

  60

  Tonbridge, Kent

  It’s dark. No light, no windows. My head aches, my back aches, there’s a gag in my mouth, my hands are tied and I need a piss. Actually I lied when I said my head aches. This is no ache, it's more a throb and not a regular hangover throb either. I was used to them. No, this throb is a lurching, jerking, unpredictable stabbing pain. I reach up and touch the back of my head, and feel the dampness of recently spilled blood and a bump that could get me dates with unicorns.

  Just my luck. I’d planned on spending last night in the Dorchester, I should have been coming a lot in that aerobic Bardot doll, not coming to in a claustrophobic coal hole. I strain my eyes against the gloom. I can see Johnny Too still out cold to my left, and a few feet in front of me, at the top of eight or nine steps, the outline of a door. I start to roll towards the stairs and realise my foot is chained up. Hmm. How do you get room service in a joint like this?

  61

  The news of Johnny Too’s abduction was all over the London editions of every national newspaper, along with talk of a second man being taken and much speculation about who might be behind the crime. All of the mystery was blown away at midday when a phone call to the Press Association alerted the watching world to a video that had been posted on YouTube.

  Gary Shaw groaned as he watched it on Sky News. The footage showed John Baker and Harry Tyler bound, gagged and unconscious in a dark, bare room with brick walls while
a man in a balaclava talking through a voice distorter spoke of the need for society to avenge itself on those who flaunt the Law, and the alien forces that allow them to do so.

  A detailed statement issued later listed those forces as weak liberal judges, pansy pink lawyers, the ‘gauleiters’ of the European courts, and traitor politicians, many of whom were named. It was signed on behalf of the English Liberation Front by Judge Hopssen.

  Shaw was straight on the phone to Rhona Watts. “Wattsie, what’s this ‘Judge Hopssen’ thing? Another piss-take name?”

  “Give me five guv,” replied the sergeant.

  She actually rang back twelve minutes later.

  “It’s worse than before, guv. This one is Joseph Sugden.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Joe Sugden, Emmerdale. The soap opera. He was a farmer in it.”

  Shaw shook his head. “For fuck's sake! They’re laughing at us.”

  “So what now?”

  “For us, nothing. They’ve taken it off us, it’s been kicked upstairs. We fucked up.”

  62

  Tonbridge, Kent.

  The room smelt of something. Maybe rats, I wasn’t sure. Definitely some kind of animals. I heard Johnny start to stir. I stood up and started stamping, making as much commotion as I could.

  The door ahead started to rattle.

  “Pack that in!” An old bastard with bat ears in a lumberjack shirt came down the stairs carrying a plate of sandwiches in one hand, and a large jug of water which he placed just out of my reach.