LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND GOATS
Chapter 7
Tuesday 20th June London Rotten Borough of Lower Springwood
The press pack hangs about the barricade like a cheap unpressed suit from the bottom rail of the charity shop down Lower Springwood High Street.
Hope among the hounds smelling strong of a juicy shot of blood, muscle, tendon, splattered nicely on the prison yard in glorious technicolour, congealing gently under the lack of morning sun <—> One shot will suffice, Blunkett is told on his way in, as long as it has the right combination of twisted limbs <—> A skull smashed flat will do <—> But for a top shot there has to be blood <—> Lots of it.
He is late and the 09.00 meeting of the War Cabinet hard at tea. ‘Ah, Blunkett. Good man. Here for a fwesh bwew.’
<—> He slips as sick as porridge into the naughty-boy seat under the searchlight of the Chief Constable’s ram-woolly eyebrows and mean eyes scowling promises of devils-on-horseback <—> and the foreign lady-doctor’s smirk smacking promises of iced baths just for starters <—>
‘If we’re not careful,’ warns Fester Featherstonehaugh-Major, feather-grey mouse from the Home Office, ‘we’ll be sent to the Deputy Head for six of the best.’
Chief Constable Colin Dibble removes a black cap burnished with scrambled egg — ‘Sar, I’m no expert. But Traitor James must have done something illegal we can arrest him for.’
‘Even birching the buggers was never against wegulations in my day,’ wistfully recalls Fester Featherstonehaugh-Major. ‘I must say. This model your chaps — ahem, and lady-chaps — have come up with is splendid. First class. Well done.’
‘Funk you, sar.’ The Chief Constable rises with menace above a matchstick model of the prison pride-of-place centre table. ‘The odd thing is, sar, the only intelligence our sound probes have picked up is herr — housy music … loud housy music. Odd, sar, belly odd.’
Blunkett smash-and-grabbing the teapot and saucer of jammy dodgers.
‘This business is a wight woyal wum do,’ squeaks the feather-grey mouse from the Home Office, Featherstonehaugh-Major. ‘Going to do the Home Secwetawy’s call for more wesources for Law and Order at the party confewence this summer the power of good … ’
‘Yussar … gmngnung … but the men on the roof are demanding buckets of fried chicken …. gmngnung,’ informs Blunkett the committee between gobfuls of jammy dodger.
‘… Best thing that could have happened to Law and Order since we shipped Lord Lucan off to South Afwica … What was that, Blunkett?’
‘Fried chicken … gmngnung … and potato side salad.’
‘All wight, all wight, let the enemy have their fwied chicken. But no potato side salad till we find out what’s happened to our missing batsman.’
‘Yussar.’
‘If we dope the fried chicken,’ dribbles the Chief Constable Colin Dibble, ‘we’ll soon have Mr Toaster and his band of Marmite soldiers sleeping like babies, sar.’
‘The stuff’s deadly enough as it is,’ winces the grey mouse from the Home Office, Fester Featherstonehaugh-Major, whiskers twitching danger. ‘Mr Toaster and his Marmite soldiers fall asleep — fall off woof. Pwess boys cwy, howzat! Whole department gets dwagged into court by those clever legal-beagles …’
‘Very good, sar.’
‘Now, Fräulein Doctor, weady to send down the wicket your best bouncers?’
‘Ja, I heff been fingering the file für das Herr Toaster.’ The grimacing Grim Reaper Doctor Thysson prods the unexploded plutonium bomb of a fat buff folder.
‘Splendid! Splendid!’
‘Es ist full of technisch jar-gon. But ich bin strongly of opinion dat Herr Toaster es suffering from — how do you say in ze English — ze Nipple Complex.’
‘Mummy’s boy, eh?’
‘Ja, very bad. But I heff ein plan — für mein new adopted country ich bin villing to drop on ze roof and succour Herr Toaster mit mein new wunder-weapon.’ Smartly thrusts the Grim Reaper Doctor from her blouse into the cold light of day between second and third finger an erect nipple, deep purple and sprouting hairs around the areola, and Blunkett is overcome with a horror vision of a perfect parabola of breast milk spouting from the head of the teat into his cup of tea which he covers instinctively with a hand.
‘Succour for a sucker,’ gushes the Chief Constable Colin Dibble flushing and transfixed.
‘Demn decent of you,’ delights Fester Featherstonehaugh-Major, grey mouse from the Home Office. ‘By George, that weminds me of the day we played Marlborough a limited over game. Young Wichards bowled for a golden duck back to the pavilion cwying his eyes out for mummy. Wouldn’t stop. In the end we had to send for Matwon. Gladly donated her left bweast for Queen and Countwy. Soon had young Wichards cwadling and wocking like a baby. Splendid effort.’
‘Well perhaps I can offer some good news,’ fumbles the Chief Constable a hot handkerchief. ‘The press boys have tipped me the wink a Cabinet minister’s been caught in flagrante delicto with his laptop computer. Been having an affair with it for months apparently.’
‘Splendid. Splendid.’
‘Should divert nasty prying eyes from our er ... minor difficulty.’
‘Any word yet, Chief Constable, on your two mystewy men ... Plum and Whitelow?’
‘Both deep undercover with their private investigations.’
‘Wein them in, Chief Constable, wein them in. We need all hands on deck with this matchstick model of the pwison.’
‘The dogs are on standby, sar.’
‘Splendid.’ A sip of Earl Grey, a twitch of stiff whiskers, and the slip-grey mouse from the Home Office preens with pleasure — ‘You chaps put your heads together …
‘‘Ja, mein Herr.’
‘... See if we can’t send down a demon delivewy that wises off a good length …’
‘Yussar.’
‘Ja, mein Herr.’
‘... to let this Mr Toaster know he’s batting on a sticky wicket.’
***
Candida James stirs with a wooden spoon her fruit-n-nut muesli topped with wildwood honey. Barefaced bang-to-rights and glaring in glittery print from the centre-page spread of her glossy magazine — the naked evidence of her letter to Dear Lizbie Browne, the winner of Readers’ G-Spot of the Week and star prize of a weekend for two in Paris with five-hundred Euros spending money.
She pulls about her perfumed breasts the folds of a silk dressing-gown. Stella’s Dear Stella wafts across the breakfast table from Candida’s cold black box.
Dear Lizbie Browne,
You don’t know me but my name is Candida James and I am a frustrated housewife with a high sex drive and trapped in a sham marriage to an alcoholic north-London prison Governor …
Never mind. No-one will notice. The milk has been spilt. The silk string of her dressing-gown she flicks with her blood-painted finger.
Candida James shovels muesli topped with wildwood honey down the back of her receptive tongue.
The homely hive impregnated with odour of cleavage and basket of Fifi.
Grab the bull by the horns, says Dear Lizbie Browne.
And strike while the iron is hot.
Absence not making the heart grow fonder (nor the hands grow fondlier), and not extracting the right sort of contrition she expects from a runt of a husband.
And that nice Doctor Thysson with the gravely voice cooing comfort down the dog-’n’-bone with offer of a holiday. For the two of them. To get to know each other. In Paris. Somewhere quiet. Where they’ll not be disturbed.
How nice to have a new friend on offer.
Fancy a liddle jig-jig on ze dance floor?
Eh? You like?