by Tom Sharpe
‘It’s five hours later in the UK. The time there now must be around midnight,’ said Auntie Joan. In his chair in front of the TV Uncle Wally groaned. He’d had a hard day trying to keep the thought of Dr Cohen and the scandal of being known as a sodomiser out of his mind. It was impossible. Life in Wilma could become impossible. The scandal had come at the worst possible time just when he was thinking of diversifying Immelmann Enterprises into pharmaceuticals. And here he was saddled with a woman who didn’t know that English time was five hours ahead of Eastern US time. Like she didn’t understand the sun rose in the east.
‘But then he must be at home,’ said Eva, her anxiety reaching a new pitch. ‘I’ve been phoning him every day around this time because he finishes his course by midday and he never stays out late at night. Do you think I should try again?’
‘Yes,’ said Wally. ‘I definitely think you should. He could have had an accident. Guy down in Alabama fell off a stepladder last fall and his wife kept calling and he couldn’t reach the phone. Couldn’t make the fridge either. Died of starvation. That and thirst. They didn’t find him until some kids broke in and there he was nothing but skin and bone.’
He didn’t have to say any more. Eva was already in the bedroom trying to get through again.
‘You didn’t have to tell her that,’ said Auntie Joan. ‘That was a real mean thing to say.’
‘I did and it wasn’t. Like being cooped up in prison with her and those nieces of yours.’
‘And yours, Wally Immelmann, your nieces too.’
Wally smiled a nasty smile and shook his head. ‘I married you, honey, not your fucking family. Ain’t no blood relations of mine.’
Before another full-scale quarrel could develop Eva had returned with the news that the phone at home had rung and rung and Henry still hadn’t answered.
‘Guy’s got good sense not to,’ said Wally to himself. He didn’t say it out loud.
‘Isn’t there some friend you could get to see where he is?’ Auntie Joan asked.
Eva said Henry didn’t like the Mottrams and he wasn’t on good terms with the neighbours.
‘His best friend is Peter Braintree. I suppose I could try them.’
She went back into the bedroom and came out five minutes later.
‘They don’t answer either,’ she said. ‘It’s the summer holidays and they always go away.’
‘Perhaps Henry has gone with them,’ said Auntie Joan.
But Eva wasn’t convinced. ‘He’d have told me if he’d been going to do that. He definitely said he had to stay behind because he has this course for the Canadians to teach. We need the money for the girls’ education.’
‘From what they said to the Revd Cooper…’ Wally began and was silenced by a look from his wife.
‘Tomorrow we’ll go out in the sail boat and have ourselves a picnic,’ she said. ‘It’s really nice out on the lake this time of the year.’
In the swimming-pool the quads were having a wonderful time.
‘Honestly, how those girls do enjoy the pool,’ said Auntie Joan. ‘They’re having a whale of a time.’
‘Sure are,’ said Uncle Wally. He reckoned he knew why they were so peculiar. With a mother as dumb as Eva it was surprising they could talk. For the first time he was surprised to find himself feeling fond of them. They took his mind off his other worries.
But Eva’s thoughts were concentrated on Henry. It wasn’t like him to be out all the time. And he couldn’t have gone away. If he had, he would certainly have phoned to let her know. She didn’t know who to turn to. Besides, if anything had happened to him like he’d been knocked over or been taken ill, someone would have got in touch with her. She’d left her name and Auntie Joan’s address and telephone number on the cork pin board in the kitchen where no one could miss it and just to be on the safe side had given it to Mavis Mottram. Henry might not like Mavis or Patrick Mottram and they certainly didn’t like him–Mavis’s feelings amounted to loathing because, Eva suspected, she’d once made a pass at Henry and he’d told her where to get off–but even so Mavis would have been the first to let her know if anything serious had happened. She’d relish doing it. On the other hand Eva didn’t relish having to phone Mavis and ask her what Henry was doing. She’d only do that as a last resort. In the meantime she tried to console herself with the thought that the girls were learning so much and having such a good time with it.
She was unknowingly correct on both counts. Josephine and Samantha had retrieved the tape recorder from under the bed and on the excuse that they just wanted a quiet day playing music in their room asked could they borrow Uncle Wally’s earphones so as not to disturb him and Auntie Joan.
Uncle Wally jumped at the opportunity. ‘Make yourselves at home, feel free,’ he said enthusiastically, showing them his music workroom. ‘I built this sound system myself and though I do say it, it’s got to be the best this side of Nashville, Tennessee. Man, I doubt even Elvis himself had anything this powerful. I call it my music operations centre. With the equipment I got in here I can blast a boat out of the water with Tina Turner at three miles. And deafen a fucking…well, anyway a bear at five hundred yards. The way I look at it, girls, you got to have decibels, and I’m telling you the speakers I got installed in the grounds up trees and you name it, all water- and weatherproofed, are so powerful I could play a tape of a Shuttle launch and it would make more noise than the real thing. Did it for your auntie because she don’t like bears too much so I got this gunfire tape and I put it on a timing device so it goes off every hour we’re away. And I can vary it, too. Sometimes only every four hours and then three shots in a few minutes. I got a banshee sound, too, that don’t do intruders any good. Come over the gate or the fence and sensors in the ground pick up the intruder and all hell breaks loose. Tried it out one time on a guy who came to serve an injunction on me. He got through the gates OK and then I closed them automatically behind him and let this baby go full bore. Couldn’t tell he was screaming till I switched it off. Could see he wasn’t having the nicest time because he was trying to climb the gates to get out and running around like he was crazy. He dived in the lake in the end and I had to fish him out because he couldn’t swim. Couldn’t hear, either, by that time. I never did get that injunction. I reckon he lost it someplace like he lost his hearing for a while. Wanted to sue but didn’t get no place. No witness and bears don’t give evidence in court and besides, I’ve got influence in these parts. When I talk people listen to old Wally Immelmann and no mistake. Learn something, too.’
The quads had thanked Uncle Wally and had taken the earphones up to their room and listened to him and Auntie Joan having their spat in bed. And they certainly learnt something, too. So while he was busy playing mechanics with the Sherman turret and keeping his head down, the quads returned to the music operations centre–Auntie Joan and Eva were baking cookies in the kitchen and Eva was saying how difficult Henry had become and how he needed a new job instead of being stuck at that stuffy old Tech–and went quietly about their business. It was not business Auntie Joan or Eva would have liked knowing about and Uncle Wally’s feelings would have been inexpressible. They found another long reel tape and made a copy of the one they had already heard. Uncle Wally was most helpful. He was beginning to think the only thing wrong with those girls was that they went to a Godless school run by nuns. What they needed was a good American education and help with acquiring good old American know-how. So he came out of the turret and showed them his equipment again and how to do things with it like with the timer and how to copy from reel to reel, and he was very impressed how quickly they picked it all up.
‘Those girls of yours have real talent,’ he told Eva when they were having coffee in the kitchen mid-afternoon. ‘You should let them come over here for their schooling. Put them in Wilma High School and they’d be real Americans no time at all.’
Eva was pleased to hear it and said so. Unfortunately Henry was such a stick-in-the-mud he wouldn’t ever consid
er emigrating.
By the evening the quads had got Uncle Wally to set up the music operations centre and the timing device to play when they were all out on the lake having a picnic on the island where Uncle Wally had another barbecue.
‘I’d show you what this system can produce in decibels except your auntie doesn’t like it real loud,’ he said. ‘Now what shall we play? Nothing too heavy. Your auntie just loves Abba. I guess it’s kind of old-fashioned for you but it’s soothing and we’ll hear it real good.’ He put the reel on the machine and fed the tape through and presently the house was filled with sound. In the kitchen Auntie Joan had to shout to make Eva hear what she was saying.
‘I hear that Abba again I’m going to go crazy!’ she screamed. ‘I keep telling him I don’t like it any more but he doesn’t listen. Men! I said, ‘Men!”
Eva said Henry didn’t listen to her either. I mean, if she had told him he needed more ambition once she’d told him a thousand times. Auntie Joan nodded. She hadn’t heard a word.
In the music operations centre Uncle Wally turned the tape off and smiled happily. ‘Reverses itself automatically,’ he told the quads. ‘That way you get music non-stop. I tell you one time I had Frankie Sinatra singing ‘My Way’ up here for a month. Of course I’m not around but they told me you could hear it fifteen miles away no problem and that’s with the wind blowing the opposite direction. A guy over Lossville way had to buy a machine-gun to stop the bear stampede from trampling his place to death they were so desperate to get away their way. I’ve told your auntie she’s only got to whistle ‘My Way’ and them bears are going to hit the trail. Won’t come nowhere near her. And it’s got its own independent power plant. Guys trying to burglarise here can cut the main power line it won’t make any difference. Got electricity backup. Now that’s what I call American know-how. I bet they don’t teach you that in England. And them Roman nuns don’t know nothing. Never been…well, I guess you girls could benefit from some of that American know-how.’
The quads already had. While he went to watch a movie and drink some whiskey they took the label off the Abba reel, put it on the one they had made and fed it through just like Uncle Wally had shown them. Then they wiped the Abba reel and put it away in a box and went through to be nice to Auntie Joan and have some cookies.
Next day it rained and even Uncle Wally had to agree it was no time for going out for a picnic.
‘Best be getting back to Wilma. I got an important meeting tomorrow and this rain’s going to stick around.’
They packed into his four-wheeler and drove down the dirt road through the forest. Behind them the timer on the music centre ticked ominously. It was set for six that evening and the volume was at maximum. According to Uncle Wally that was like one thousand decibels.
On the way Eva said she was going to call the neighbours in Oakhurst Avenue even though Henry didn’t get along with them.
‘He’s very private,’ she said. ‘He hates people to know what he’s doing.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Uncle Wally. ‘It’s a free country. Everyone’s entitled to privacy. That’s the First Amendment. No one has to incriminate himself.’
‘What’s ‘incriminate’ mean, Uncle Wally?’ Emmeline asked.
Uncle Wally swelled in the driver’s seat. He liked being asked questions. He had all the answers. ‘Incriminate oneself means to say things that could damage your reputation or land you in court on a criminal charge. It’s like it’s three words, ‘In’ and ‘Crime’ and ‘State’. That’s the way to remember things. Break them up into little lots.’
From their rented house across the street Palowski and Murphy watched the jeep turn in to the Starfighter Mansion and the gates open automatically.
‘Big Foot’s back,’ Murphy told the Surveillance Truck in the disused drive-in over the scrambler.
‘We got him onscreen,’ came the reply. ‘No problem. Vision sound on.’
Murphy sat back and had to agree that all systems were working perfectly. The screen in the room showed Auntie Joan getting out of the four-wheeler and going into the house.
‘Only problem we’ve got is that Mrs Immelmann. Need wide screen to get her all in,’ he told Palowski. ‘That’s sumo on steroids. And here comes another bulk carrier.’ Eva and the quads had entered the hall. ‘I don’t want to see either of them undressing. Put you off sex for life.’
Palowski was more interested in the Wilt girls.
‘Clever using kids like that. Quads. Like they’re special. Nobody’s going to suspect they’re carriers. That Mrs Wilt can’t have any feelings. She gets ten to twenty she’s going to lose custody. If I hadn’t seen that report from the Brits on her record I wouldn’t have thought it possible she’d be involved. Too much to lose.’
‘Weightwise she could afford to. But some people never learn and those girls are more than good cover. Gets a good lawyer to plead for her and work up public sympathy it could be she wouldn’t do any time. Depends how much they were carrying.’
‘Sol said a sample, he thought. She could claim she don’t even know it’s there.’
‘For sure. Not that I care so much about her. It’s that Immelmann bastard I’m out to nail. What’s the schedule for the other house, the one up by the lake?’
Murphy talked to the Surveillance Centre.
‘Says they should have moved in by now. You reckon that place is important?’
‘Got its own air strip. Could be the ideal place for a lab to make the shit.’
But Murphy wasn’t listening. Auntie Joan had gone to the toilet.
Chapter 18
Harold Rottecombe reached the boat-house to find the brilliant plan he had devised to save having to cut across the fields to Slawford wasn’t going to work. It was clearly out of the question. The river, swollen by the downpour that had driven Wilt to the whisky bottle, swirled past the boat-house in full spate, carrying with it branches of trees, empty plastic bottles, a whole bush that had been swept from the bank, someone’s suitcase and, most alarmingly of all, a dead sheep. Harold Rottecombe eyed that sheep for a moment–it passed too quickly for him to dwell on it for long–and instantly came to the conclusion that he had no intention of sharing its fate. The little rowing boat in the boat-house wouldn’t drift downstream; it would hurtle and be swamped. There was nothing for it. He would have to walk to Slawford after all. And Slawford was ten miles downriver. It was a long time, a very long time since Harold had walked ten miles. In fact it was quite a long time since he had walked two. Still, there was nothing for it. He wasn’t going back to the house to face the media mob. Ruth had got them into this mess and she could get them out of it. He set off along the river bank. The ground was soggy from the torrential rain, his shoes weren’t made for trudging through long wet grass and, when he rounded the bend in the river, he found himself confronted by a barbed-wire fence that ran down to the water’s edge. It stood in two feet of water where the river had overflowed. Harold looked at the fence and despaired. Even without the rushing water he would not have attempted to climb round it or over it. That way lay castration. But several hundred yards up the fence there was a gate. He headed for it, found it locked and was forced to climb painfully over it. After that he had to make several detours to find gaps or gates in hedges and the gaps were always too narrow for a man of his size to squeeze through while the gates were invariably locked. Then there was the barbed wire. Even the hedges that would have looked attractive on a nice summer day turned out on closer inspection to be festooned with barbed wire. Harold Rottecombe, Member of Parliament for a rural constituency and previously a spokesman for farming interests, came to detest farmers. He’d always despised them as greedy, ill-informed and generally uncouth creatures but never before had he realised the malicious delight they obviously took in preventing innocent walkers from crossing their land. And of course with so many detours to make to find gates or something he could get through, and parts of fields that were flooded, the ten miles he’d dreaded looked l
ike becoming more like thirty.
In fact he never reached Slawford.
As he staggered wearily along he cursed his wife. The stupid bitch had been raving mad to set the dogs on those two bloody reporters from the _News on Sunday_ instead of being tactful. He was just considering what he would do to her and coming to the conclusion that short of murder she had him by the short and curlies, when it began to rain again. Harold Rottecombe hurried on and came to a stream which led into the river, and trudged up it looking for a place to cross. Then his sodden left shoe came off. With a curse he sat down on the bank and discovered his sock had a hole in it. Worse still his heel was blistered and there was blood. He took the sock off to have a look and as he did so (he was thinking of tetanus) his shoe rolled down the bank into the water. The stream was flowing fast now but he no longer cared. Without that damned shoe he’d never get to Slawford. In a frantic attempt to get his hands on it before it was swept away he slid down the bank, landed painfully on a sharp stone and a moment later was flat on his face in the water and struggling to get up. As the water carried him down his head hit a branch that hung down over the stream and by the time he reached the river he was only partly conscious and in no condition to deal with the torrent. For a moment his head emerged before being sucked under by the current. Unnoticed, he passed below the stone bridge at Slawford and continued on his way to the Severn and the Bristol Channel. Long before that he had lost more than his political hopes. The late Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement swept on his way towards the sea.
Chapter 19
Sheriff Stallard and Baxter were on their way too. In the police car on the dirt road that led to Lake Sassaquassee. Alerted by the guy at Lossville, who’d had trouble with the stampeding bears, that Mr and Mrs Immelmann were having a quarrel that had to be heard to be believed and if the police didn’t hurry and get there soon someone was going to die, the Sheriff was puzzled. He couldn’t see how anyone who admitted he was at home ten miles from the Immelmann place could know what was going on there. By the time he got within five miles he knew exactly. Even with the car windows shut it was possible to hear Auntie Joan yelling that she was fucked if she was going to be sodomised and that if Wally wanted to do that dirty thing with someone he’d better find a gay who enjoyed it. The Sheriff didn’t like it either and the man at Lossville said his wife couldn’t bear it. Listening to it, that is. He was thinking of suing. He’d had enough trouble shooting all those bears without a licence and they were protected animals and the fucking police…The Sheriff turned the communications off. He was more interested in hearing about Dr Cohen and it was coming through loud and clear. At four miles. Not that the Sheriff knew that. He’d never been up to the Immelmann house before. On the other hand he’d never heard anyone shout that loud even in the next room. The man at Lossville was right. This was a domestic dispute to end all domestic disputes. And the business about the Watergate hearings tasting and where her pussy was and had she been totalled when she’d had the hysterectomy was too incredible to put into words. Leastways not so fucking loud the whole world could hear it.