Sprout Mask Replica (15 page)

I was
fifteen, my loins were stirring.

‘This
is Julie,’ said my Uncle Brian. ‘She’ll show you the ropes.’

They
were nice ropes. And between sessions, when she taught me tap and ballet, Julie
let me tie her up with them.

Things
were looking up already.

Julie
taught me escapology.

Things
weren’t really looking up.

‘You haven’t been in for a
while,’ said Fangio as I entered Fangio’s Bar. ‘Word is you’ve turned in your trench
coat and taken to treading the boards.’

‘Watch
this trick,’ I told him. ‘Now you see it, now you don’t.’ ‘I’ve seen that one
before,’ he replied. ‘But all right, I give up, what did you do with the Statue
of Liberty?’

‘It’s
right here.’

‘Very
clever.’ And it was.

‘Care
for some chewing fat?’

‘Don’t
mind if I do.’

Fangio
passed me over the plate, then that look came into his eye once more. I’d seen
that look before. I’d seen it the last time he’d given it to me.

‘What
does
that look mean?’ I asked him.

‘It
means there’s been some guy in here asking for you,’ he said, tipping me the
wink.

‘A
promoter?’ I tipped the wink back at him. Word was probably already out on the
street regarding the talents I was daily acquiring. I could already juggle six
sprouts, mime being trapped inside a phone booth and sin g ‘Orange Claw Hammer’
with a spectacular emphasis on the cherry phosphate line.

‘Looked
more like a Fed to me,’ said Fangio. ‘He left his card.’ He passed me the item
in question. It was a questionable item. I questioned it. ‘Is this the item?’
(I questioned.)

‘You’ve
lost me,’ said Fangio.

I
examined the card.

Mr J Smith

Department 23

Ministry of Serendipity

Mornington Crescent

It rang
a bell somewhere.

‘Is
that last orders?’ somebody asked.

‘Not
that
bell,’ said Fangio.

I
further examined the card. This card felt bad. Well, not the card as such, but
something about it. Something felt bad. Something smelt bad. Smelt very bad.
Smelt very very bad. Smelt— ‘Get a grip,’ said Fangio. ‘It’s only a piece of
card.’ ‘Something about this smells bad,’ I told him.

‘I
dropped it in the slops pail. Give me a break.’

‘You
know,’ I told Fangio, ‘although I’m dead keen on show business, what with it
being a potential fanny-magnet and everything, I like being a private
detective best. You get to stand about in bars and talk a load of old toot.
That’s what
I
call having a good time.’
[19]

‘You
might one day have to solve a case.

‘Yeah,
that could be hairy.’

‘A
hairy case? Surely that would be a sporran.

The bar
went silent. I looked up at the clock. It was twenty to nine. Have you ever
noticed that when the conversation suddenly stops, it’s always either twenty to
something or twenty past something?

No?

Well,
it must be me then.

‘The
Ministry of Serendipity,’ I said. ‘I wonder what that’s all about.’

‘Possibly
some weird parapsychological unit,’ said Fangio, tipping me yet another wink. ‘And
Department 23. 23 is an illuminati number.’

‘In the
TV series, Tony Hancock lived at number 23 Railway Cuttings,’ I said
(knowledgeably).

‘And
Mornington Crescent
is
a railway station,’ said Fangio (perceptively).

‘Ooooooooooo-weeeeeeee-ooooooooo,’
chorused the patrons about the bar (tunelessly).

‘So did
this J. Smith guy say anything?’ I asked (enquiringly).

‘He
said he wanted to book you for the Christmas staff party,’ said Fangio
(cop-out-endingly).

‘We’ll
take that booking,’ said my Uncle Brian, who had entered the bar
(surreptitiously). ‘And why all the adjectives in brackets?’

‘It’s a
private eye thing,’ I told him (genreistically).

‘Yes,
well, we have to go. You’re on in eighteen minutes.’

‘Got a
gig?’ asked Fangio.

‘Why do
you think I’m wearing the gold lamé catsuit?’

Fangio
made the face that says, Listen, just because I’ve never seen you with a
girlfriend, doesn’t mean to say I think you’re a pou— ‘How dare you!’ I said,
striking that face with my fist.

‘My
face never said that,’ complained the fat boy from the floor. But I didn’t hear
him, because Uncle Brian and I were off to the gig.

We didn’t
take the free bus. We took the limo. Well, you have to, first impressions are
everything. Come on like a superstar and they’ll treat you like a superstar.
After all, as Uncle Brian had explained, nobody really knows anything. So they’ll
believe what they think they see.

Small
Dave drove the limo. As he was too short to see over the dashboard, Uncle Brian
gave directions. I sat in the back chewing my fingernails and repeating the
cherry phosphate line over and over to myself with ever-increasing spectacular
emphasis. This was to be my night. My
big
night. I wasn’t going to blow
it.

As the limo weaved to and
fro across the road, passing through red lights and scattering pedestrians
before it, I felt good inside, nervous certainly, but good. I
would
achieve
great things. I
would
become a superstar. I
would
pull birds.
Lots
of birds. Lots and lots of birds. I wouldn’t fail. I
couldn’t
fail.

Of course, if I’d known then
how things would turn out, I wouldn’t have gone. I’d have stayed in the bar and
talked toot.

But I
didn’t
know.

I didn’t
know what horrors lay in store.

And.

And,
well.

And,
well, listen. I can’t talk about this here. It demands a chapter to itself. Quite
a long chapter. But a significant one. It’s the next one. I can’t talk any more
now. I have to take another tablet and get some sleep.

But I
do want to say just this, IT WASN’T
MY
FAULT.

DONER
KEBABS

Hoorah for the doner kebabs

Loved by the drivers of cabs

Loved by the porters

And post office sorters

And profs in their underground labs

All hail to the doner keboobs

Admired by the men on the tubes

Food for the lift men

And cut-price-glass-gift men

The tailors and cutters of cubes

God bless the doner kebobs

Good for the gourmets and snobs

Tipsters on courses

And owners of horses

And others in dubious jobs

Shout ‘Aye’ for the doner kibibs

Foodstuff for me and his nibs

Toast of the Tommies

The Aussies and Pommies

The Indians, Dutch and the Gibs

Sing ‘Ah’ for the doner kebubs

Eaten by sailors in subs

Yearned for by waiters

Who fight alligators

And scout troops and Brownies and Cubs

They’re a
very
popular dish.

9

SECRETS
SECRETS SECRETS

MY UNCLE BRIAN MUNCHED
UPON A DONER KEBAB AND SPOKE TO ME
through the lettuce.
‘The journey will take precisely five minutes. Do you want to compensate for
that at all? Put a bead up your nose, or stick your hat on back to front?’

I made
the face that asks, Are you taking the piss?

‘Not at
all.’ My uncle flapped his hands and spat tomato over my body stocking. ‘Just
trying to be helpful.’

‘Well,
don’t be. I can manage fine. I’m learning to keep it under control now.

‘How?’
he asked, and I dodged an air-borne gherkin.

‘If I
concentrate my thoughts, really hard, on, say, a piece of poetry. If I recite
that poem again and again in my head. Or if I listen very carefully to what
someone is saying, really think about it, not do as most people do, just amble
through a conversation, trotting out the rehearsed lines and not really
listening to what points the other person is trying to make, I can stop
compensating. I think it’s OK.’

My
uncle went, ‘Hm,’ which involved some tomato. Then he scrunched up his
remaining kebab, wiped his hands and face on the paper and tossed the greasy
item out of the window.

‘Good,’
he said. ‘Well, we now have four minutes, thirty seconds remaining, so
concentrate your thoughts on this. I’m going to tell you a little story.’

‘Why?’
I enquired.

‘To
pass the time and so you don’t have to do any compensating, fair enough?’

‘Fair
enough.’

‘All
right.’ Uncle Brian settled himself down into the rich tan leather of the limo’s
celebrity seating, composed his fingers in his lap, pursed his lips and handbagged
his eyebrows. ‘This is the tale of a secret,’ he said, ‘and how this particular
secret keeps the village where I grew up very happy indeed. There’s a moral in
the story, of course.’

‘This
story isn’t a parable, by any chance, is it?’

‘Certainly
not!’

‘Go on
then.’

‘Right.’
Uncle Brian took a deep breath, stared wistfully out of the window, let out a
little sigh and then began to speak. ‘There was once a teenage girl who loved a
teenage boy in our village. But this girl was very shy and she didn’t know how
to approach the boy. And also this girl wanted to have sex with this boy, but
she was a virgin and she had heard terrible tales of just how bad teenage boys
are at having sex. Teenage boys generally being drunk by the time they have it.’

I
sighed a little wistfully myself.

‘Well,
the shy girl didn’t know what to do for the best and then she remembered the
village wise woman. This venerable lady was old and blind and very wise and
would answer any question asked of her. The teenage boys used to disguise their
voices and ask her rude questions. And she answered them all. So the shy girl
went to the old blind wise woman and told her of her problem (in a disguised
voice, of course).

‘The
old blind wise woman smiled and said, “Many young women throughout the years
have come to me with this problem and I have a secret tonic prepared for just
this purpose. What you do is to pour some of this tonic into the young man’s
tea, he will fall asleep, but while asleep he will still be able to respond
sexually. And he will awaken later remembering nothing. Thus you can enjoy
completely uninhibited sex with the young man, do anything you please.”

‘The
young woman grasped the possibilities of this immediately. With such a tonic
she could have sex with any man she chose.
Any
man.

‘I
thought she was just in love with the one boy,’ I said.

 ‘She
was.
I was just stressing the possibilities.’

‘Fair
enough, continue then.’

‘All
right. So the shy young girl receives a small green bottle of the secret tonic
from the wise woman. Then the wise woman asks, ‘Young woman, are you a virgin?’
and the young woman (still in the disguised voice) admits that she is. ‘Then it
would be best if you allow me to deflower you,’ says the old woman.’

‘What?’
I said.

‘Don’t
interrupt. The old blind wise woman explains that the shy young girl will have
a great deal more fun with the young man if she’s already got her virginity out
of the way. And explains that she has a special appliance for doing this. And,
in order not to be too graphic about this, the young woman bends over an
armchair and the deed is gently but efficiently done. And moving swiftly along—’

‘I
should think so too,’ I said.

‘Moving
swiftly along, the young woman telephones the young man and gets him round to
her house on some bogus pretence or another while her parents are out. She slips
some of the secret tonic into his tea. He begins to stumble about, she leads
him to the bedroom. He passes out. She strips him and then she makes love to
him. And she really has a great time, lives out all her fantasies. Afterwards,
when he’s beginning to stir, she dresses him again. And he wakes up and says, “What
happened?” and she says, “You just fell asleep,” and he says, “OK,” and goes
home.’