The Wilt Alternative (25 page)

'No go,' he told the sergeant. 'The Idiot Brigade reckon we're dealing with a homicidal
maniac.'

It was more or less the reaction that Wilt wanted. He had spent a miserable night pondering
his next move. So far he had played a number of roles a revolutionary terrorist group, a grateful
father, a chinless wonder, an erratic lover and a man who had intended to assassinate the Queen
and with each fresh fabrication he had seen Gudrun Schautz's sense of certainty waver. Stoned out
of her mind by the drug of revolutionary dogma, she was incapable of adjusting to a world of
absurd fantasy. And Wilt's world was absurd; it always had been and as far as he could tell it
always would be. It was fantastic and absurd that Bilger had made the bloody film about the
crocodile but it was true, and Wilt had spent his adult life surrounded by pimply youths who
thought they were God's gift to women, and by lecturers who imagined that they could convert
Plasterers and Motor Mechanics into sensitive human beings by forcing them to read Finnegan's
Wake or instil them with a truly proletarian consciousness by handing out dollops of Das Kapital.
And Wilt himself had been through the gamut of fantasy, those internal dreams of being a great
writer which had been re-awakened by his first glimpse of Irmgard Mueller and, on a previous
occasion, the cold-blooded murderer of Eva. And for eighteen years he had lived with a woman who
had changed roles almost as frequently as she changed her clothes. With such a wealth of
experience behind him Wilt could produce new fantasies at a moment's notice just so long as he
wasn't called upon to give them greater credibility by doing anything more practical than gloss
them with words. Words were his medium and had been through all the years at the Tech. With
Gudrun Schautz locked in the bathroom he was free to use them to his heart's content and her
discomfort. Provided those creatures down below didn't start doing anything violent.

But Baggish and Chinanda had their hands full with another form of bizarre behaviour The quads
had woken early to renew their assault on Eva's freezer and stock of bottled fruit, and Mrs de
Frackas had given up the unequal battle to keep them moderately clean. She had spent an
exceedingly uncomfortable night on the wooden chair and her rheumatism had given her hell. In the
end she had been driven to drink, and since the only drink available was Wilt's patented homebrew
the results had been remarkable.

From the first appalling mouthful the old lady wondered what the hell had hit her. It wasn't
simply that the stuff tasted foul, so foul that she had immediately taken another shot to try to
wash her mouth out, it was also extremely potent. Having choked down a second mouthful Mrs de
Frackas looked at the bottle with downright disbelief. It was impossible to suppose that anyone
had seriously distilled the stuff for human consumption, and for a moment or two she considered
the awful possibility that Wilt had, for some diabolical reason of his own, laid up a binful of
undiluted paint stripper. It didn't seem likely somehow, but then again what she had just
swallowed hadn't seemed likely either It had seared its way down her gullet with all the
virulence of a powerful toilet-cleaner going to work on a neglected U-bend. Mrs de Frackas
examined the label and felt reassured. The muck proclaimed itself 'Lager' and while the title was
in blatant disregard of the facts, whatever the bottle contained was meant to be drunk. The old
lady took another mouthful and instantly forgot her rheumatism. It was impossible to concentrate
on two ailments simultaneously.

By the time she had finished the bottle she had difficulty concentrating on anything. The
world had suddenly become a delightful place and all it needed to make it even better was more of
the same. She swayed back to the wine store and selected a second bottle and was in the process
of unscrewing the top when the thing exploded. Doused with beer and holding the neck of the
bottle Mrs de Frackas was about to try a third when she caught sight of several larger bottles in
the bottom rack. She pulled one out and saw that it had once contained champagne. What it
contained now she couldn't imagine but at least it seemed safer to open and less likely to
fragment than the beer bottles. She took two bottles out into the cellar and tried to uncork
them. It was easier said than done. Wilt had fastened the corks down with Sellotape and what
looked like the remnants of a wire coathanger.

'Need some pliers,' she muttered as the quads gathered round with interest.

'That's Daddy's best,' said Josephine 'He wouldn't like it if you drank it.'

'No dear, I daresay he wouldn't,' said the old lady with a belch that suggested her stomach
was of the same opinion.

'He calls it his four-star BB,' said Penelope. 'But Mummy says it ought to be called
peepee.'

'Does she?' said Mrs de Frackas with mounting disgust.

'That's because he has to get up in the night when he's drunk it.'

Mrs de Frackas relaxed. 'We wouldn't want to do anything that would upset your father,' she
said, 'and anyway, champagne needs to be chilled.'

She went back to the bins, returned with two opened bottles that had proved less explosive
than the others, and sat down again. The quads were gathered round the freezer but the old lady
was too busy to care what they were doing. By the time she had finished the third bottle the Wilt
quads were octuplets in her eyes and she was having difficulty focusing. In any case she had
begun to understand what Eva had meant about peepee. Wilt's homebrew was making its presence
felt. Mrs de Frackas got up, fell over and finally crawled up the steps to the door. The damned
thing was locked.

'Let me out,' she shouted, and banged on the door. 'Let me out this inshtant.'

'What you want?' demanded Baggish.

'Never you mind what I want. Itsh what I need that matters and thatsh no concern of
yours.'

'Then you stay where you are.'

'I shan't be reshponsible for what happens if I do,' said Mrs de Frackas.

'What you mean?'

'Young man, there are shome things better left unshaid and I don't intend dishcushing them
with you.'

Through the door the two terrorists could be heard struggling with slurred English sentences.
'Things better left unshed' had them baffled, while 'not be reshponshible for what happens'
sounded faintly ominous, and they had already been alarmed by several popping noises and the
crunch of glass from the cellar.

'We want to know what happens if we don't let you out,' said Chinanda finally.

Mrs de Frackas was in no doubt. 'I shall almosht shertainly burst,' she yelled.

'You what?'

'Burst, burst, burst. Like a bomb,' screamed the old lady, now convinced she was in the
terminal stage of diuresis. A muttered conversation took place in the kitchen.

'You come out with your hands up,' Chinanda ordered, and unlocked the door before backing away
into the hall and aiming his automatic. But Mrs de Frackas was no longer in a condition to obey.
She was trying to reach one of several doorknobs and missing. From the bottom of the steps the
quads watched in fascination. They were used to Wilt's occasional bouts of booziness but they had
never seen anyone paralytically drunk before.

'For Heaven's shake shomeone open the door,' Mrs de Frackas burbled.

'I will,' squealed Samantha and a rush of competing girls fought their way over the old lady
for the privilege. By the time Penelope had won and the quads had cascaded over her into the
kitchen the old lady had lost all interest in toilets. She lay across the threshold and, raising
her head with difficulty, delivered her verdict on the quads.

'Do me a favour, shomeone, and shoot the little shits,' she gurgled before passing out. The
terrorists didn't hear her. They knew now what she had meant about a bomb. Two devastating
explosions came from the cellar and the air was filled with frozen peas and broad beans. In the
freezer Wilt's BB had finally burst.

Eva had been busy too. She had spent part of the morning on the phone to Mr Gosdyke and the
rest arguing with Mr Symper, the local representative of the League of Personal Liberties. He was
a very earnest and concerned young man, and in the normal course of events, would have been
dismayed at the outrageous behaviour of the police in putting at risk the lives of a senior
citizen and four impressionable children by refusing to meet the legitimate demands of the
freedom fighters besieged in Number 9 Willington Road. Instead, Eva's treatment at the hands of
the police had put Symper in the extremely uncomfortable position of having to look at the
problem from her point of view

'I do understand the case you're making, Mrs Wilt,' he said forced by her bruised appearance
to subdue his bias in favour of radical foreigners, 'but you must admit you are free.'

'Not to enter my own house. I am not at liberty to do that. The police won't let me.'

'Now if you want us to take up your case against the police for infringing your liberty by
holding you in custody, we'll...'

Eva didn't. 'I want to enter my own home.'

'I do sympathize with you, but you see our organization aims to protect the individual from
the infringement of her personal liberty by the police and in your case...'

'They won't let me go home,' said Eva. 'If that isn't infringing my personal liberty I don't
know what is.'

'Yes, well I do see that.'

'Then do something about it.'

'I don't really know what I can do about it,' said Mr Symper.

'You knew what to do when the police stopped a container truck of deep-frozen Bangladeshis
outside Dover,' said Betty. You organized a protest rally and...'

'That was quite different,' said Mr Symper, bridling. 'The Customs officials had no right to
insist that the refrigeration unit be turned on. They were suffering from acute frostbite. And
besides, they were in transit.'

'They shouldn't have labelled themselves cod fillets, and anyhow you argued that they were
simply coming to join their families in Britain.'

They were in transit to their families.'

'And so is Eva, or should be,' said Betty 'If anyone has a right to join her family it's
Eva.'

'I suppose we could apply for a court order,' said Mr Symper sighing for less domestic issues,
'that would be the best way.'

It wouldn't,' said Eva, 'it would be slowest. I am going home now and you are coming with
me.'

I beg your pardon?' said Mr Symper, whose concern didn't extend to becoming a hostage
himself.

You heard me,' said Eva, and loomed over him with a ferocity that put in question his ardent
feminism, but before he could make a plea for his own personal liberty he was being hustled out
of the house. A crowd of reporters had gathered there.

'Mrs Wilt,' said a man from the Snap, our readers would like to hear how it feels as the
mother of quads to know that your loved ones are being held hostage.'

Eva's eyes bulged in her head. 'Feel?' she asked. 'You want to know how I feel?'

'That's right,' said the man, licking his ballpen, 'human interest '

He got no further. Eva's feelings had passed beyond the stage of words or human interest. Only
actions could express them. Her hand came up, descended in a karate chop and as he fell her knee
caught him in the stomach.

That's how it feels,' said Eva as he rolled into a foetal position on the flowerbed. 'Tell
your readers that.' And she marched the now thoroughly cowed Mr Symper to his car and pushed him
in.

'I am going home to my children,' she told the other reporters 'Mr Symper of the League of
Personal Liberties is accompanying me and my solicitor is waiting for us.'

And without another word she got into the driver's seat. Ten minutes later, followed by a
small convoy of press cars, they reached the road block in Farringdon Road to find Mr Gosdyke
arguing ineffectually with the police sergeant.

'I'm afraid it's no use, Mrs Wilt. The police have orders to let no one through.'

Eva snorted. 'This is a free country,' she said, dragging Mr Symper out of the car with a grip
that contradicted her statement 'If anyone tries to stop me from going home we will take the
matter to the courts, to the Ombudsman and to Parliament. Come along, Mr Gosdyke.'

'Now hold it, lady,' said the sergeant, 'my orders...'

'I've taken your number,' said Eva, 'and I shall sue you personally for denying me free access
to my children.'

And pushing the unwilling Mr Symper before her she marched through the gap in the barbed wire,
followed cautiously by Mr Gosdyke. Behind them a cheer went up from the crowd of reporters. For a
moment the sergeant was too stunned to react and by the time he reached for his walkie-talkie the
trio had turned the corner into Willington Road. They were stopped half way down by two armed SGS
men.

'You've no right to be here,' one of them shouted. 'Don't you know there's a siege on?

'Yes,' said Eva. 'which is why we're here. I'm Mrs Wilt, this is Mr Symper of the League of
Personal Liberties and Mr Gosdyke is here to handle negotiations. Now kindly take us to...'

'I don't know anything about this,' said the soldier. 'All I know is that we've got orders to
shoot...'

'Then shoot me,' said Eva defiantly, 'and see where that gets you.'

The SGS man hesitated. Shooting mothers wasn't included in Queen's Rules and Regulations, and
Mr Gosdyke looked too respectable to be a terrorist

'All right, come this way,' he said, and escorted them into Mrs de Frackas' house to be
greeted abusively by Inspector Flint.

'What the fuck's going on?' he yelled. 'I thought I gave orders for you to stay away.'

Eva pushed Mr Gosdyke forward. 'Tell him,' she said.

Mr Gosdyke cleared his throat and looked uncomfortably round the room. 'As Mrs Wilt's legal
representative,' he said, 'I have come to inform you that she demands to join her family. Now to
the best of my knowledge there is nothing in law to prevent her from entering her own home.'