Big Boy Did It and Ran Away (25 page)

Even dinner provided no respite. Before they could all head off for a change of clothes and a desperate ramraid on the mini‐
bar, the Tit produced a suitcase from underneath his table and dished out these huge sparkly silver wigs. He ordered that they be worn from then until midnight as a ‘team‐
building exercise’, though he declined to elaborate on how a sense of comradeship and a commonality of purpose was likely to be engendered by spending the evening looking like a twat or picking strands of tinsel out of your dinner.

When they sat down to eat, all obediently be‐
wigged like reluctant delegates to a Glam Rock convention, they discovered placecards between the cutlery, bearing what looked worryingly like lyrics. Sure enough, before any of them got even so much as a sniff of a prawn cocktail, JWB, Jumbo Wig Bastard, was demanding they all stand to attention and join in ‘the Sintek power‐
chant’, accompanied by a beatbox routed through the dining room’s PA system.

Seriously.

And it got worse. They were told to turn over their placecards, finding the reverse blank, and instructed to each compose a rap by the end of the meal. Following the postprandial coffees, the chanting was to be reprised, with each chorus followed by an individual contribution, cued by the circulation of a cordless mic. Then just in case anyone was misled as to how hideous it was going to be, Jazzmaster White Boy pumped up the volume and gave them an example.

To fully appreciate the impact, you really had to be able to see this balding little fatso, sporting the only syrup in the room more embarrassing than the proliferating silver ones, and to hear his nasally supercilious public school accent. Also, for a guy undoubtedly pulling down six figures, you’d have thought the cunt could afford some deodorant.

There were people at Simon’s table praying for food poisoning. The meal wasn’t up to much anyway, but it tasted of nothing with their thoughts so occupied by the coming horror and their appetites so ruined by the ordure of the task in hand.

The ordeal itself was a bit like being a female prisoner‐
of‐
war during a systematic mass‐
rape. You wanted to avert your eyes and cover your ears so as not to witness your fellow victim’s humiliation, already aware of how hard it was going to be to look at each other when this was over.

The Tit got them all clapping their hands as the chant started up again – Okay one‐
two‐
three CLAP. Sin‐
tek En‐
er‐
gy CLAP – then repeated his own rap before passing the mic on at the next chorus. The first up was an utter fanny from the personnel department, Grant Hughes, who (difficult as this was to believe) actually made it worse for everybody by being enthusiastic, swaying as he, er, rapped, and throwing in the occasional ‘yeah’. Mainly, though, the verses were delivered in mortified mumbling, eyes fixed firmly on the placecard, small smiles of relief on each face as the mic was lifted from his or her hands. Alice McGhee from sales burst into tears one line into her rap, dropped the mic on the table and ran from the room, too distressed to remember she was still wearing the silver wig.

Simon’s own contribution was instantly purged from his memory, though nothing could erase the residual sense of embarrassment and boiling fury. It was easier to banish the words than the emotions, and to this day he could still feel a tightening in his guts any time he recalled standing there in front of everybody, sparkly locks bouncing around his face and that fucking beatbox thumping in his ears. And etched permanently in his memory was the sight of Just Won’t Bugger‐
off dancing next to him, jabbing the air with a side‐
on fist like he must have seen on VH1, going ‘ooh ooh’ in the background and ‘Aw yeah!’ after every line.

Obviously, he had to die.

Simon found out where the Tit, or rather his company, M Power, were going to be torturing SSC wage‐
slaves over the coming weeks, setting his sights on a date in Glasgow a fortnight hence. He had long since sorted himself out with a new credit card under a false name, and booked himself into the hotel that was hosting this latest crime against humanity in the name of ViaGen Pharmaceuticals. Simon had also, by this point, acquired a gun and a silencer, but where was the fun in that? The appropriate tools of the trade for this occasion were therefore purchased at Tam Shepard’s joke shop in Queen Street, and at M&S round the corner.

Simon checked in after doing his shopping, popping his head round the door of the hotel’s main conference suite to confirm that Jumped‐
up Wee Bawbag was in da house. Sure enough, there he was, coordinating the ‘raft game’ that had been Sintek Energy’s pleasure on the Sunday morning. It involved everybody kneeling down in a square formation, pretending to row an imaginary raft down an imaginary stream while he threw figurative obstacles into their way: ‘the dead tree trunk of indecision’, ‘the boulders of complacency’, ‘the floating corpse of a wee baldy fat guy’.

Simon treated himself to an excellent a la carte meal in the hotel restaurant, the leftovers of which would probably go into the mass‐
catering table d’hote in the function suites.

After that he retrieved his briefcase from his room and had a seat in one of the public lounges, close enough to the ViaGen suite to hear the rap get underway. Through a gap between the partially open double doors he could see silver wigs bobbing to the beat, and the repetition even extended to a distraught female exiting at speed shortly after, makeup streaked with tears, giant pom‐
pom still stuck on her head.

Simon waited until he saw the Tit heading for the lift, content that his work for the evening was done and that the process of empowerment was well underway. If it was anything like the Sintek do, now that the annoying little fucker had vacated the room, everyone left would rapidly become too empowered to stand up. He gave it a few minutes, then went to one of the lobby telephones and asked to be put through to the Tit’s room.

‘Hello, Mr Watson? … Bewington?’

‘Watson‐
Bellingham,’ he replied testily.

‘My apologies. It’s the handwriting on this thing. This is Guest Services. We’ve just received a package for you by courier.’

‘Oh, right. I’ll come down and—’

‘That’s not necessary, sir. I’ll send someone up with it right away. You’re in room 432, yes?’

‘Ye … No. 432? I’m in 327.’

‘327? Are you sure?’

‘Well it’s my room, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry, you’re absolutely right. 432’s flashing on the switchboard here, got me confused. Your package will be there in two minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘A pleasure, sir.’

He took the predictably deserted stairs to the third floor, avoiding any potential witnesses in the lifts, then checked the corridor was clear before knocking on door 327. The Tit answered in his trousers and semmit. Simon could hear water running in the bathroom behind him.

‘Jeremy Watson‐
Bellingham?’

‘That’s me. JWB. Just Wunning a Bath. Ahahaha. You have something for me?’

‘Oh yes.’

Simon stuck his gun into the Tit’s mouth and pushed him backwards into the room, kicking the door closed behind him with his heel.

‘Any noise you make will be your last, you understand?’

The Tit nodded rapidly, eyes bulging almost out of his skull in fear and surprise.

‘You cooperate and this will all be over in no time, okay?’

More eager nodding. He was also, Simon realised, gesturing towards his wallet, which lay on the tabletop next to the TV.

‘Oh no, don’t worry. I’m not a thief.’

The sad sack actually looked relieved.

Simon flipped open his briefcase and removed a pair of tights and a small plastic Teletubby. He withdrew the silencer from JWB’s mouth and replaced it with the doll, then secured it by tying the tights behind his head.

‘Say “Ah”.’

‘Mmmff mmm.’

‘That’s perfect. Now, get undressed.’

The Tit furrowed his brow, possibly thinking about defiance. Simon kicked him in the balls, dropping him to the floor, then knelt down next to him.

‘You are going to cooperate, right? I’m not going to have to do that again, am I, JWB? Just Walloped Bollocks?’

The Tit shook his head, tears leaking from both eyes. He climbed tentatively to his feet and removed his clothes as quickly as his throbbing nads would allow, stopping at his Y-fronts. Simon gestured with the gun, and they came off too.

‘Very good. Now put these on.’

He handed the Tit a pair of stockings and sussies, the look on the guy’s face getting more and more priceless with each development. Simon turned off the bath taps while the Tit sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the stockings, the poor mite struggling a little with the suspenders, which were at ninety degrees to the correct position.

‘Rose goes in the front, big guy,’ Simon told him, indicating the embroidered flower currently at his side.

‘Mmm,’ he said, which might even have been ‘Thanks’.

With the suspenders now attached, Simon sat him back down on the bed, then handed him a set of false breasts and a lacy bra to contain them.

‘Jumbo Wobbly Boobs. Even bigger than the ones you’ve got already.’

By this point, the guy was becoming so baffled that he almost forgot to be scared. He pulled on the falsies but fumbled unsuccessfully with the bra until Simon got him to turn around and did it up one‐
handed, pressing the gun into his neck in case he attempted to self‐
empower his way out of the situation.

‘Gorgeous. Just needs one final touch now. Can you guess what?’

Evidently he couldn’t. Simon opened the Tit’s suitcase, resting by the bed on a folding rack, and produced one of his vital team‐
building components.

‘Joke Wig, Big‐
boy!’

The Tit closed his eyes resignedly. If he hadn’t been gagged he’d have let out a sigh of relief. He knew what it was about now, and probably assumed it was a vengeful prank. Probably thought the gun wasn’t real either. He got to his feet unprompted, perhaps thinking he was about to be paraded through the ViaGen function suite. Time to disabuse him of that notion.

‘Where you going? Sit down and face the window until I tell you otherwise.’

JWB complied, adopting a pitiful slumped posture on the edge of the double bed, his chin almost resting on the false funbags.

‘Do you recognise me?’

The Tit shook his head.

‘Not surprising. You must do this every week. Every day.’

The Tit nodded.

‘Sintek Energy?’

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

‘Simon Darcourt. Strength and Diligence. Super Dynamic.’

More nodding, but Simon could tell it rang no bells.

Simon reached into his briefcase for a long silk scarf and used it to tie the Tit’s hands behind his back. Then he took another one and passed it around his neck.

‘You’ve guessed what’s going on, haven’t you?’

The Tit nodded.

‘You humiliated me, so I’m going to humiliate you, right?’

More nodding, trying to look as humble and contrite as he could. Behind the Tit’s back, out of sight, Simon looped the scarf into a slipknot and attached the free end to the headboard.

‘In front of all those people at the conference, right?’ he said, walking around in front of his prisoner, nodding as he spoke. ‘That would be fair, wouldn’t it?’

The Tit kept nodding, Simon too, smiling until he could tell the Tit was trying to smile also. Then he suddenly ceased and began shaking his head. JWB stopped nodding and looked up, concerned.

‘Simon Darcourt. SD. Self‐
Debasement. Squalidly Dressed. Secret Disgrace.’ He grabbed both of the Tit’s ankles and pulled, lifting him off the bed until the slipknot tightened around his neck. The Tit kicked and thrashed wildly, but all his efforts merely further tightened the noose, allowing Simon to stand back and watch the rest.

‘Sexual Disaster. Senseless Death. Suicide? Dunno.’

He didn’t always have to kill to get the rush. Just knowing he could was sometimes juice enough, like the aforementioned face in the magazine. He and Alison were going through what in their relationship constituted a good patch, in that she managed to go almost a week without her face tripping her or making mention of ‘the future’, her catch‐
all euphemism for marriage, mortgage, babies and a long, slow lingering suburban death. In an attempt to further prolong this unaccustomed cordiality (and hopefully to effect some Pavlovian behavioural reinforcement), he decided to spring for dinner, bed and breakfast at a hotel on Speyside. It was while they were sipping their after‐
dinner espressos in the terribly‐
civilised‐
don’t‐
you‐
know drawing room that Alison picked up a magazine from the coffee table and introduced Simon to the unique delights of the publishing phenomenon that was Country Life. More specifically, amid the offers‐
over‐
ten‐
million property ads and the features on how to cause bigger tailbacks on B-class roads, she drew his attention to the publication’s equivalent of page three. There were half a dozen issues to be perused, and each one featured what could only be described as ‘the willing sperm receptacle of the month’. The format was a full‐
page photo showcasing each puppy‐
fatted, fertile aristocratic offspring, accompanied by a caption that was all but selling her for pedigree breeding (no proles need apply).

‘Ariadne Winston‐
Havers McPherson, 18, pictured here at the family estate of Beinn Ardraig, Morayshire, atop Biffy, her favourite stallion. Ariadne is the younger daughter of Sir Douglas McPherson and Lady Marjorie Winston‐
Havers McPherson. Sir Douglas leads the Glen Ardraig hunt, with which Ariadne proudly rides, and all members of the family are keen supporters of the Countryside Alliance. Ariadne has just completed her final term at L’Ecole de Mme Aimet in Lausanne, and will be travelling for a year before taking up a place at St Andrews.’