Rant (15 page)

The ticking stopped.

I looked up, open mouthed. Then looked down to see whether I had peed myself.

‘Beth? How did you…?' I croaked.

‘Saw it on telly. On
24
. They had to defuse a nuclear bomb and it had a motion detector.' She peered into the box. ‘Just like that, it was.'

Inspector Mallefant is not a happy man.

After the events at the service station he has been dressed down by every officer with a rank equal to or above his own. The junior officers and patrolmen are clearly sniggering behind his back and even the cleaning woman had a go. He has been told that he will be made to take responsibility for everything that has happened. It will be him, not the constabulary, who will be vilified in the press. There is a shit-storm brewing, and Mallefant will be at the centre of it.

He has been removed from the case and instructed that, as from tomorrow, he will be back on the beat. He has been given a quota of dealers, curb-crawlers and prostitutes to arrest before the end of the week. He has been told he will be working as crowd control at music festivals and football matches for the rest of his career. Dirty work.

The Rant case has now been assigned to the anti-terrorist squad and they have spent most of the night debriefing him. An apt description, since he feels as though he has had his briefs removed and been given a full cavity search.

His career is over. He knows that all of these measures are designed to force him out before his pension is due in five years' time. And he knows that it will work.

As he enters his office, he notices that a package has arrived for him – the footage he has requested from the various stages of Rant's progress around the country.

He knows he should hand it over, that it is no longer any of his concern. Not his job. But, partly out of spite against those who are replacing him and partly from a morbid fascination to learn more about this man who has destroyed his life, he opens the package and begins to watch the videos it contains.
Nothing jumps out on the first run through, but he immediately begins to watch again.

Something is not right. It's tugging at his unconscious, like a pervert in the undergrowth tugging at his trousers.

Look everyone! Here is Rant at the bank. See him frown at his gun. See him try to leave the money on the counter. See him get confused. See him try to argue. See him run away.

Here is Rant at the hospital. See him shout and wave his arms about, arguing with the fat man. See his disgust as he carries the corpse. See the funny faces he pulls. Here is Rant crashing his car into a lamppost. Oh, do be careful, silly Rant!

Here is Rant arguing with the young Special Police Constable, trying to persuade him to leave. Look, he is talking to the boot of his car, silly Rant. Here is Rant ushering the Special Constable into the back of his car at gunpoint. See how defeated and despondent he looks.

Here is Rant dragging a corpse into his friend's house, on his own. What hard work he is making of it. The pathologist will insist on showing poor Inspector Mallefant its autopsy Y-incision as evidence that this was not a recent killing. How green Inspector Mallefant went.

Here is Rant dancing in the street with his shoes on fire. Dance, Rant, dance! Groovy Rant. See how unprofessional he looks. See him argue with himself, and with the boot of his car again!

Look, here is a blurry film of Rant at a service station, bewildered and bemused whilst the world falls down around his ears. He argues with the nasty gangster types. He argues with the large muscled man. He argues with the senior citizens. He argues with the fat man. He is just one big argument.

Where is Rant?

Here is Rant.

No,
thinks Inspector Mallefant. This is not Rant. This is not a man acting of his own volition. This is a man who is following orders. Following them badly, and becoming more and more deeply mired in a shit-pot not of his making. The fat man is somehow involved, if not directly in charge. The strange group at the service station is also involved, somehow. And the people in the other car, who were they? Whose side were they on? What has he missed?

Someone was merrily leading them up the wrong path.

Inspector Mallefant wonders if he should pass this information on. To the anti-terrorism unit. He knows what they are like, their reputation. They are an equal opportunity unit – they will happily shoot anyone who gets in their way, regardless of race, sex, religion or rank.

These were men whom Mallefant is happy to see heading off in the wrong direction. He would like to see them with egg on their faces (not literally, you understand). He has to figure out who the other players in this drama are (ho, ho, Rant would appreciate that). The gangster types, the fat man, the muscle-bound hero and the beautiful woman (if you like that kind of thing). But where to start?

Then he pauses. Something is afoot. He rewinds the tape and watches the events at the service station again, more slowly, concentrating on fuzzy video of the beautiful woman. He rubs his eyes. Watches again. It can't be. But…

Inspector Mallefant glares at his telephone, which has begun to ring. More reprimands, or more sneering from his colleagues? He sighs and picks up the receiver.

Into his ear comes a familiar voice. The last person Inspector Mallefant would have expected to call. As the voice explains, things become clear. He stares again at the frozen screen in front of him.

And Inspector Mallefant's day begins to look decidedly better.

Then the caller gives him the details of what is about to take place.

And Inspector Mallefant's day begins to look decidedly worse.

Thursday May 6
th
. 2pm.

We arrived at the sewage works a little later than we'd hoped.

In the wasteland that must have once been a courtyard there were an awful lot of Mercedes and BMWs and stretch limos parked up; many of them with chauffeurs, who sat and watched in amusement as Ms Agent Smith backed in and out of a narrow space to park up the minibus.

She and Mr Agent Smith agreed to stay behind with the children and Joshua. They would follow us when they could for their part of the plan. I told Mr Agent Smith cheerfully to pull his finger out.

I stepped from the bus and breathed in the fresh air. Then I coughed a little and covered my nose.

‘Still whiffs a bit, doesn't it?' I said to Sam.

I was dressed in an expensive but worn suit that Mr Van G had lent to me. It was rather small on me; the jacket wouldn't fasten and it pulled in tight under the arms, and the legs were about six inches too short and showed off my paisley socks. And it had some rather nasty stains down the front.

My shirt was that peculiar grey that shirts go when they've been left to boil for too long too often. And the brogues I'd borrowed from Mr Agent Smith fitted on my feet like a pair of clown shoes.

In short, I looked like I had just stepped from the back benches of the House of Lords.

Which was the cunning plan.

‘Now you know what we're doing, don't you?' asked Sam. ‘I don't want you wandering off the script.'

I sniffed the air (which I immediately regretted) and told him in my most lofty manner, ‘I'm a professional, Mr Smith. Just bally well trust me, old bean. You see? Got the role down pat already, don'tcha know.'

The look he gave me did not give the impression that he trusted me to find a nut in a squirrel's nest, but we pressed on.

The meeting should have started by then so we hurried in, following a battered red carpet laid out to protect the shoes of the visitors.

As we reached a large room, more like a hall, I went to pass through the door just as another man was exiting. He was a smallish, portly man dressed in a beautiful Italian suit and loafers. He looked a little like Arthur Lowe playing the part of a gigolo.

We almost collided and he said, in a plummy Oxbridge accent, ‘Terribly sorry, after you.'

‘Ah, thank you, me good man,' I said. ‘Nice to find a bit of civility in this day and age.'

‘I think civility is a much underused quality,' the man said.

‘Sorry old boy, did I say civility. Meant to say servility!' I hooted at my own humour.

And then I looked at his face.

It was undoubtedly Bela Barbu.

I paused, staring at him.

‘Is there a problem?' he asked.

‘Not at all, old bean, just admiring your…hair. Very nice it is. Where'd you get that 'do?'

He touched his toupee self-consciously, still regarding me closely.

‘Do I know you?' he asked.

‘Crackenthorpe's the name. Lord Crackenthorpe. But you can call me Crackers – everybody else does,' I hee-hawed like a donkey. ‘Glad to make your acquaintance. And this here's me butler, Smithers. Goes everywhere with me. And you are?'

He looked taken aback that I did not know who he was.

‘I am Bela Barbu,' he said suspiciously.

‘Course you are, old thing, terrible memory for faces. Was just saying the same thing to the wife only this morning. Funny thing was, turned out I was talking to the bally housekeeper!' I hee-hawed again. ‘Well, best get down to business.'

‘Of course,' he said, ‘please take a seat.'

We wandered through into the room, and I could sense Barbu's eyes on me every step of the way.

‘Try to tone it down a little,' said Sam. ‘We're here to get the lie of the land, not blow our cover before we get through the door.'

‘Chin up old man,' I bellowed at him, drawing the attention of the whole room. ‘Soon have this dashed nonsense out of the way. Then we can get back to the shootin'.'

We settled down, Sam looking daggers at me all the while, and I glanced around the room. None of the faces were obviously familiar, though I had an inkling I'd seen some of them on the telly and should know who they were.
Must start watching the news more often,
I thought.

Then I did see someone I knew. Something to do with the Olympic committee. An ex-athlete? A fight promoter? He was—Yes! He was a sports commentator on one of the cable channels. Got into trouble for some call-girl thing. Not that I ever watched any of that rubbish. I only knew him because he'd gone on
Big Brother
and got booted off in the first eviction. I think Anna showed me his picture in
Heat
magazine.

See, I do know some important current affairs stuff.

Then a sound system started up, belching out ‘If I Were A Rich Man' as Barbu re-entered the room and walked to a small raised dais at the front of the room. Four very large men in matching black suits and sunglasses strode in behind him and lined up behind the stage, trying to look threatening. They succeeded rather well, I thought.

I started tapping my foot in time to the music. I almost got the lead once in
Fiddler on the Roof
in an off-West End production. Then at the last second the director had changed her mind and gone for an all-black production. It got mixed reviews. I think I was better off out of it.

When he reached the platform, Barbu stood behind a lectern and held up his hands like a presidential candidate at a photo opportunity. The crowd gave some muted, sickly applause whilst the music faded.

‘Gentlemen,' he started. I thought that was a bit sexist, but then I had a quick look around and he was right. This particular meeting was a boys-only affair. ‘You all know who I am. And I certainly know all of you…intimately.'

He chuckled softly, but nobody else joined in.
Tough crowd,
I thought. With the instinctive empathy of someone who has died on stage many times, I guffawed loudly, clapped and said, ‘Oh, jolly good. Well said.'

Everyone stared. Including Barbu.

He cleared his throat and carried on. ‘But we are not here to talk of the past, gentlemen. We are here to talk about the future. The future of London. The future of the United Kingdom as a whole. And the future of my own country, Dagestan, and my adopted country, Romania. In my country we are very fond of the English. We are grateful to the help and support you have given us in the past, and now both Dagestan and Romania need your help again.'

‘Just say the word, old thing,' I called, ‘we'll be there.'

Heads turned to me again. Some of the looks were most definitely hostile this time. Especially the one Sam gave to me.

‘You are too kind,' said Barbu, stiffly. ‘But, to continue. My country needs strong leadership, as does your own. And with your help, I shall be the man to provide that leadership. But bringing a country out of the past does not come cheap. And that is why we are gathered here today. With your support, I can gather together the finances I need to begin to pull my country into the twenty-first century. I intend to raise my finances right here. I intend to raise it from the blackened earth on which you now sit. I intend to own the London 2012 Olympics. And you are going to ensure that I am allowed to do so.'

There were angry mutterings and black looks from many members of the crowd, but Barbu silenced them with a wave of his hands.

‘I see that some of you still need convincing.'

He clicked his fingers and two of the henchmen went out through a small door at the back of the room and returned a few seconds later with two large black suitcases.

I looked meaningfully at Sam. He ignored me.

‘So I have a little gift for you,' continued Barbu. ‘Each of you will receive a…promotional disk about my campaign to share with your family and colleagues. I am sure that, once having viewed these short – and some not so short – films, you will be in full agreement that what is on the table will be a worthwhile investment.'

All of the audience seemed a teensy bit tense by now. Some were openly sweating.

‘So if you could all form an orderly queue, there is a gift for each of you. Come along now. Don't be shy.'

I could bear it no longer.

‘Not so fast, Mr Barbu,' I said.

‘Ah, Lord Crackenthorpe,' said Barbu. ‘You have a question?'

‘Er, not as such,' I improvised, feeling Sam tugging violently on my sleeve. ‘It is more of a…demand. Old thing.'

‘And what might that be – Crackers?'

A few people giggled at this, but I silenced them with a glance.

‘That you hand those cases over to me. With immediate effect. If you know what's good for you.'

A few members of the audience looked a bit panicky as I spoke. One or two even rose to their feet and told me to sit down and stop interfering. What a cowardly bunch.

Barbu waved them into silence.

‘And by what authority,' he asked, ‘do you make such a request?'

‘By the authority vested in me by the Permanent Undersecretary of the Olympic Leisure, Vice and Fairness Committee, who I am here to represent.' I could almost hear cogs turning in brains all over the room, trying to figure out if the person I had named actually existed.

‘And if you do not immediately hand over said luggage, I will give the command for the armed policemen positioned all around this building to move in and open fire.'

At that point the four very large men who were standing behind Barbu pulled out four exceedingly small guns.
Ha!
I thought,
I knew they were compensating for something with all of that weight training.

I also wondered if I had painted myself into something of a corner. Sam just sat with his head in his hands, which was no help to anyone at all really.

Barbu smiled at me, unperturbed.

‘I think that you might just be an impostor, Lord Crackenthorpe.'

‘Well, I could just as easily make the same assumption about you, young fella-me-lad. A Johnny Foreigner coming over here and trying to steal our Olympic Games? Who do you think invented the bally games in the first place?'

All four guns were now trained on me.

I gulped. Waited for the shot.

‘Cool!' said a voice from behind us. ‘It's just like
Reservoir Dogs
.'

I looked around and there stood Beth.

Next to her stood Davie, looking somewhat agitated. My heart sank.

‘And who are you?' shouted Barbu, sounding more than a bit peeved at this latest interruption.

‘Fucking bastards!' Davie shouts, staring straight at Barbu, who pales a little.

Now, I know I shouldn't have done it. It's not big and it's not clever, and it's certainly not PC, but I was improvising on the spot here with a very narrow margin of error in the script. I know that the marginalisation and stereotyping of those with mental health issues is wrong and to be challenged every step of the way and that the language we use is very important. But I did it anyway, for which I apologise unreservedly.

‘This,' I said, ‘is “Mad Dog” Davie McGraw.'

Davie growled, right on cue.

‘He may look like a harmless teenage boy,' I said, moving myself between the guns and Davie, just in case, ‘but he is fact a highly trained killer. He is part of a new breed of soldier, and we are creating them as a primary line of defence against terrorist action during the Olympic Games. And he is
ferocious.'

‘Shit on a stick!' shouted Davie.

‘Calm now, Davie,' I said, and I meant it. I didn't want anyone to get hurt. Least of all me. ‘Now, Mr Barbu. You may wish to rethink your position vis-à-vis your little suitcases there. Otherwise I shall let Davie slip his leash.'

‘Motherfucker!' Davie bellowed.

The four gunmen were looking at each other uneasily, but Barbie was not so easily led.

‘Lord Crackenthorpe,' he said quietly, ‘I think it would best if you leave right now. I will have one of my men escort you to your—'

‘Oh, there you are!' came a voice from the back of the room.

I glanced around as Sophie the carer came into the room and took Beth and Davie's hands.

‘Sorry,' she said, ‘we were just looking for a loo and these two wandered off.'

Barbu was definitely getting a bit cheesed off by now.

‘This is a private meeting,' he shouted. ‘We can't have all and sundry just wandering in! Who the hell are you and what are doing here?'

I tensed, waiting for an answer that I knew was going to land me in deep doo-doo.

But we were saved by the bell. Or should I say the
Bill
.

A strange apparition entered the room. He wore a plastic see-through mac over an immaculate overcoat. He seemed to have galoshes over his shoes but it was difficult to tell as he had plastic bags over the galoshes, pulled halfway up his legs and tied around his knees with string. He also wore rubber washing-up gloves and a shower cap. He looked more miserable than anyone had a right to look and still be alive.

‘Ah would appreciate,' he said, ‘if everyone could jus' stay exactly where thu are. And remain calm, if ye wud be so kind.' At least I think that was what he said. It was hard to tell through the plastic mouth mask he was wearing.

‘Who the hell is this,' whispered Sam. I shrugged. I had been wondering the same thing. Obviously, so too was Barbu.

‘Who the hell are you?' he asked. See, I told you.

‘Mah name's Mallefant. Inspector Mallefant.'

We were none of us any the wiser.

‘And Ah'm here tae make an arrest.'

‘What did he say?' asked Barbu of one of his henchmen.

The henchman shrugged. ‘I am not sure,' he muttered, ‘something about being an anorexic.'