Vail (23 page)

‘They've got it all right. The question is, can they deliver it?'

‘Can they?'

‘With a combination of Arabs and Micks, what do you think?'

After passing through the metal detector arch, which gave Vail a nasty twitch in the scrotum, he and Angie are given a brisk and expert frisking by the guards on the door before being finally allowed to enter. The hall reminds him of the interior of a large silage barn, ceiling and walls one continuous sloping piece supported by curved metal girders reaching to the floor. The floor is concrete, which makes the scuffling of feet sound hollow, like in a railway station.

However, being eighty feet below ground makes everyone feel reasonably safe and quite jolly.

As is usual at such gatherings, cliques have already formed. Vail's clique is at the bar: Laine Vere Jumper, Mrs Stretcher, Bryce Ransom, Virgie Hance, Suze, the director, with Ed Flesh and Wayde Dake making up the party. Tonight, Vail is the star attraction. Passers-by smile at him familiarly, even though he doesn't know them from Adam, and important people like Ministers and Under-Secretaries nod and smirk in his direction so that he feels naked and exposed to the elements. Such is the price of media fame.

After a couple of drinks Vail begins to loosen up. He had
debated with himself whether or not to take a
Temporal
capsule, to get him through the evening, and had decided, he's now glad to say, not to. He might even begin to enjoy himself later.

Wire-frame spectacles winking, thin neck writhing with blue veins above his ruffled shirt and velvet bow tie, Bryce Ransom makes a little speech. Vail listens dumbly to the spill of words, nodding when the others nod, smiling when they do, throwing back his head and laughing along with the rest. It is only when the speech is over and the others look towards him expectantly that Vail realises he was the object of Bryce Ransom's gibberish and is expected to respond. What had been said about him? Was it a eulogy? Had he been praised, congratulated? Was he being thanked for his part in making
Bootstraps
such a resounding success?

Vail shrugs modestly and stares at his shuffling feet. ‘Well. I don't know what to say. What can I say? All I
can
say is that it was a team effort and that we all deserve, collectively, whatever's coming to us. That's all I have to say.'

Virgie Hance squints at him greedily and slips him a slow lingering lascivious wink through the wraith of cigarette smoke curling up from the corner of her mouth.

‘........ A noble sentiment succinctly expressed,' drawls Laine Vere Jumper in his out-of-sync fashion. He is exquisitely attired in a brocade tuxedo with midnight blue velvet lapels and trousers with a shiny stripe down the sides.

‘Unilever and Rowntree Mackintosh are going to go bananas for endorsement rights after this,' chortles the neatly diminutive Ed Flesh, a happy smile wrapped round a fat cigar. ‘Hell, Jack, the lobes of your ears alone could be worth ten grand apiece! Watch out Steve Davis, stand aside Jimmy Saville, make way Bob Monkhouse!'

Everyone laughs delightedly, even Laine Vere Jumper, who has never heard of these people; his tastes run to Mozart, Proust and Cardinal Newman, though he did once see a television programme, many moons ago.

All along Vail has been wondering when the PM will put in an
appearance. The award is to be presented personally, he has been told, an Opportunity he has looked forward to ever since he stood on the pavement outside the electrical retailer's these many weeks past. The events beyond the wire are now a murky racial memory residing in the base of his brain, though the desire they gave rise to remains.

As for Angie, he is undecided; will she encourage him in the act, indeed insist that he carry it out, or balk his attempt and report him to the UCP? Where, if anywhere, does she stand?

There is an explosion of flashlights and everyone turns to see what the commotion is all about. At first Vail thinks it is the PM, but it is in fact Selina Southorn making her entrance in a sequinned flesh coloured body stocking artfully torn in the most alluring places. Literally taken aback, Vail steps on the toe of Laine Vere Jumper, who utters a debonair oath. The reason for Vail's reaction is that hitherto he has only seen Selina Southorn in video pornlets and TV commercials and has assumed, not unnaturally, that she is a full-grown woman. But this creature, standing nipples akimbo in an admiring circle, is no more than four feet high! Beautifully proportioned it is true, but a midget nonetheless. No wonder the studs who serviced her on screen appeared as prime specimens of hulking manhood with dongs like bazookas, – any ordinary man would seem stupendously equipped alongside this child-woman, the height if not the build of a nine-year-old.

Soon she is lost to view in a scrum of Cabinet Ministers and the hall resumes its conversational buzz; the air of anticipation is growing.

The highlight of the evening is to be a ‘choir' made up of showbiz celebrities and media personalities who are to sing a specially-composed song in the PM's honour. To assemble such an array of
talent on a commercial stage would cost millions, yet here they all are, offering their services free, gratis and for nothing.

There is much friendly badinage, joshing and backslapping as they line up, and these genial, benevolent spirits infect the rest of the gathering like nerve gas. It's a wonderful life down here in the bunker.

Angie gasps and nudges Vail excitedly, thrilled to the core at having recognised Jimmy Saville, Bob Monkhouse, Kenny Everett, Jimmy Tarbuck, Sharon Davis, Vince Hill, Lyndsey de Paul, Steve Davis and Anthony Quayle, amongst many others. A collective halo or aura seems to surround these exalted personages, as if drab mundanity had been banished, if only temporarily, and replaced by real vibrant life. The dusty shadows in which most people live out their lives are dispelled and for a brief dizzy moment everyone basks in the penumbra of sensational immediacy blazing from the stage like radioactivity: ‘We are living in the actual here and now,' they tell themselves, ‘an instant of momentous history in which it is better to be here than anywhere else', – a rare condition for human beings to find themselves in.

The PM has arrived, serenaded by the celebrity choir backed by The Pox. The tension and excitement are pretty well unbearable, not only because the PM is here in the flesh but also because rumour has swept the bunker that the INLA, aided and abetted by the Libyans, are all set to detonate the Bomb in central London. After all these weeks of waiting it is almost a relief.

A liveried flunkey touches Vail's arm and inquires in a sibilant whisper if he would care for another drink. The face between the lace cravat and the powdered wig is none other than that of the boy or youth, otherwise known as Tex Rivett.

‘You must be crazy,' Vail says through clenched jaws. ‘The place is crawling with security, not to mention
gwiches
.'

‘Keeping a friendly eye on you, sport.'

‘Don't you trust me?'

‘Don't trust nobody, sunshine. Just don't forget we're here.' He sidles away with a crooked leer and Vail beckons him back. ‘What?'

‘Is Angie working for us or them?'

‘What makes you ask?'

‘I've been told she's really on their side. Could be a UCP plant.'

‘Relax,' Tex Rivett grins greenly. ‘We know all about that; she's a double agent, working for us while pretending to work for them.'

‘So the UCP don't know what we're up to?'

‘How could they? Unless somebody's told them.'

Vail struggles to remember if he told them anything during the interrogation in Harrods' basement; but if he did the memory evades him. He feels scared. Is he losing his mind?

The party really is in full swing. It transpires that Selina Southorn is a frenetic sensation-seeking psychotic, taking the centre of the floor and twisting and gyrating her lovely tiny body to the sound of The Pox. She dances in a world of her own making, oblivious to the crowd and yet at the same time (Vail observes) occasionally catching the eye of the lead guitarist whose expressionless eyes never leave her cavorting figure in the criss-cross of spotlights.

Why does she dance alone? Vail wonders. Is it simply for the sake of exhibitionism? Her feet attack the floor, her eyes bore into nothingness, her body sways and dips and grinds with erotic abandon. For this child-woman the music is nothing more than an excuse for a public display of orgasmic fury.

Then it occurs to Vail that perhaps she is seeking her revenge. Like him she has a score to settle, – but against whom?

Knowing everyone of any importance, Laine Vere Jumper
introduces Vail to several Cabinet Ministers and Under-Secretaries. They comment enthusiastically on
Bootstraps
and praise his convincing portrayal of someone who has wrenched himself free from the common herd and made good solely by his own efforts. ‘A smashing example,' murmurs one, and ‘Jolly fine show,' smiles another.

‘In my opinion you deserve nothing less than a bloody Oscar,' the Minister for Deformed Imbeciles tells him fervently. ‘Tell me, have you always been an actor?'

Vail glances uncertainly at Laine Vere Jumper. ‘Not always. Only very recently.'

‘Even more commendable. You're damn' convincing, I will say that.'

The talk moves on to other things: the success the Americans have had with the development of AIDS, which has drastically reduced the male homosexual population; and on this side of the Atlantic the importing of heroin from Pakistan to keep the kids docile, and in particular the U.M.P.S. Programme.

The Minister for Environmental Pollution waves aside the effusive compliments with a fleshy manicured hand. ‘It was nothing, nothing,' he insists deprecatingly. ‘A simple equation. On the one side, several thousand tonnes of toxic and radioactive waste to be disposed of; on the other, large urban populations that had outlived their usefulness and quite frankly were a pain in the arse. Bring the two together and, – hey presto! Both problems solved at a stroke.'

‘Damn brilliant, Henry; a masterstroke.'

‘Nice of you to say so, Cecil. I do think it worked rather well myself.'

‘No chance of the beastly stuff spreading down here, I suppose?' someone inquires with a twinge of unease.

The Minister smiles and shakes his head. ‘Trust Forte.'

‘Only there are rumours floating about that a number of Illegal Aliens have broached the wire. Don't like the sound of that.'

‘You mean breached the wire, surely?'

‘Broached or breached, is it true?'

‘Perhaps the odd one. But I shouldn't worry about it.'

‘I do worry about it, Henry. I don't view the prospect of getting a dose of dioxin poisoning with sanguinity. Does the PM know about it?'

‘The PM never misses a trick, you know that.' The Minister downs his drink with a flourish. ‘Let's stop all this morbid speculation. We're here to enjoy ourselves, – but I say, that Selina's a bit of a sexy tart, isn't she though?'

For a while Vail watches Selina Southorn in her frenetic lonely dance, overlooked by the louring dead gaze of the lead guitarist. Something will happen there before the night's out, given half a chance.

He goes to the toilet, relieves himself at the galvanised trough (as with everything else in the place, he is reminded of a farm) and washes his hands and face. There is perfume on the air; sandalwood. The harsh strip lighting makes him appear gaunt and skull-like with sunken eyes. Not at all like Jack Nicholson.

The washroom attendant deferentially proffers a soft snowy-white towel and as Vail sinks his face into it mutters, ‘So far so good, Jack. Keep it up.'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Just keeping a friendly eye on you,' Pete Rarity says, hands clasped servilely in front of the gleaming lapels of his crisp white jacket. ‘Said I would. Don't disappoint us, will you?'

‘I shouldn't like to disappoint anyone, least of all the UCP.' Vail hands the towel back and walks to the door, where he pauses. Something is troubling him. ‘You did say that Angie works for you? I mean, she doesn't work for anyone else as far as you know?'

‘They think she does,' says Pete Rarity, ritually going through the motions of a washroom attendant, folding the used towel and dropping it into a plastic bin with a swing lid.

‘‘They' think she does?'

‘An underground terrorist cell.'

‘So you know about that?'

‘We're not fools, John.' He takes a fresh towel from the pile and drapes it over his forearm and arranges the edges neatly. ‘They know she works for us but are under the impression that she really works for them when all the time she really works for us.'

‘She couldn't really
really
be working for them could she?'

‘You mean working for them but working for us but working for them but working for us but really working for them?'

Vail nods.

‘If she was we'd know about it.'

‘Not if they knew you knew about it.'

‘But then we'd know they knew we knew about it.'

Vail is prepared to concede this; besides, the conversation is making his head spin. He tips Pete Rarity and returns to the barnlike hall whose curved walls and ceiling, streaming with condensation and nicotine, reverberate to the thumping beat of The Pox. Better not have anything else to drink. There are things to be done and he'll need all his wits about him.

What time is the presentation ceremony?

‘What time is the presentation ceremony?'

‘You're sweating. Are you nervous?' Angie says.

‘No. Impatient. Why don't they just get on with it?'

Angie dimples in a smile. ‘Your turn will come. The preliminaries are as important as the event itself don't forget.'

‘Fuck the preliminaries.'

‘You've never been this nervous before.'