Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

12

Now, although Jim’s day had been hot on success, it hadn’t been big on adventure.

Jim was not an adventurous type. He was more your chit-chat-in-a-bar-and-get-things-sorted kind of body. As opposed to, say, your macho-manly-man-gung-ho-abseil-into-the-embassy-shoot-all-the-terrorists-rescue-all-the-hostages-and-shag-six-chicks-before-tea-time blokish sort of bloke.

Not that Jim wasn’t a manly man. He was. He lacked not one jot for manly mannishness. He just wasn’t big on adventure.

But, then, who is?

Life, as we have seen from this small slice in Brentford, is mostly composed of conversation. Few people ever actually do very much. And if they do do anything, it is rarely of an adventurous nature.

There are exceptions, of course. There are always exceptions. There will always be one or two folk in every community who positively thrive on action and adventure. But you will rarely, if ever, get to meet these people. Because they will be off somewhere else, getting into action and having adventures.

In fact, the only time you will get to meet them is when they are home for a while between adventures and you have a conversation with them in a bar. And if it’s past the ten o’clock watershed, you probably won’t believe anything they tell you anyway.

But they do exist and every community, no matter how small, can usually boast at least one.

Brentford could. And Brentford did.

If you were looking for an action man in Brentford, for a man who combined the courage and adventurousness of Indiana Jones, the true grit of John “The Duke” Wayne, the chandelier-swinging skills of Dougie Fairbanks Jnr, the “I-ain’t-got-time-to-bleed” toughness of Jesse “The Body” Ventura and the big-cock action of Long Johnnie Holmes, that man would be—

Soap Distant.

At least in his opinion it would.

Although those who knew Soap well might have questioned certain aspects of this character assessment, they would have agreed that any man who had journeyed to the centre of the Earth was deserving of certain respect. And if he chose to spice up his CV somewhat, he should be forgiven.

And when he told people about things he had actually done and things he had actually seen and how he himself knew that things that shouldn’t have changed had changed, he should be believed.

But he wasn’t. The Lord of the Old Button Hole had pegged him as a loony and his conversation at the Brentford nick with Inspectre Hovis had only complicated matters further and made him more confused than ever he had been.

So what was Soap to do?

He certainly didn’t want to sit about in bars and chit-chat. He wanted action and he wanted it at once.

What did he want?

Action!

When did he want it?

Now!

And so it came to pass, upon that evening previous, that Soap Distant had taken his leave of Inspectre Hovis in a suitably action-packed fashion.

“I’m leaving now,” said Soap.

“You’re not,” said the Inspectre.

“I am,” said Soap. “There is much I need to know and, interesting as this conversation has been, I feel it is now time for action.”

Inspectre Hovis leaned across his photo-crowded desk. “I’m arresting you, sunshine,” he said.

“Arresting me!” said Soap.

“For harbouring a wanted criminal and aiding and abetting him in the course of his escape from justice. Such crimes incur considerable fines and if you do not have the wherewithal to pay, you may well find yourself in one of the Virgin workcamps, manufacturing the rattly bits that are put in Ford Escort doors.”

“What?” cried Soap. “What?”

“David Carson, the cannibal chef.”

“Small Dave?” said Soap. “But how—”

“The thing about police surveillance cameras,” said Inspectre Hovis, gesturing variously round and about, “is that they are simply everywhere. Everywhere. A few years ago people were outraged by them. They complained that they violated human rights. That it was Big Brother. But people don’t complain any more, do they? Not since the police force put a little spin on them with the aid of television crime shows. Now people watch their TVs and see the crims caught on camera and have a chance to phone in and grass them up. People just love surveillance cameras now. They make the man in the street feel that someone is watching over them. And that’s always a comfort, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it is,” said Soap. “But I’m innocent of all charges and I’m off. Goodbye.”

“Not so fast,” said Hovis. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

The Inspectre rootled around amidst the photos on his desk and unearthed a video cassette. This he slotted beneath a small portable television type of a jobbie, the screen of which he turned in Soap’s direction. “Tell me what you think of this,” he said.

Soap watched as the screen lit up, and stared at the image displayed. It was a view of the Flying Swan’s front doorway, evidently filmed from one of the flat blocks opposite.

Soap watched as the onscreen pub door opened and he and Omally came out and walked away.

“That is a violation of human rights,” Soap complained.

“Those who are innocent have nothing to fear from the law,” said Inspectre Hovis.

Soap looked at Hovis.

And Hovis looked at Soap.

“Sorry,” said Hovis. “It just slipped out.”

“And I should think so too.”

“However,” said the Detective in Residence, “this particular doodad has more than one trick up its sleeve. The footage you have just seen was taken this very lunchtime, when the forces of the law were surrounding the Flying Swan in the hope of arresting the cannibal chef. But he somehow sneaked past us. Now how might that have been?”

“How should I know that?” asked Soap, making the face of all innocence.

“Let’s see what the doodad has to show us.” Hovis tinkered at the television jobbie. Soap’s image reversed and froze and expanded to fill up the screen. And then it went all multi-coloured.

“Oh,” said Soap. “Whatever is that?”

“Thermal imaging,” said the Inspectre. “Clever, isn’t it? We use it to track criminals from helicopters. That makes good television, too. The crims try to hide in dustbins, but their heat signatures give them away. Lots of laughs all round.”

“I’m not trying to hide in a dustbin,” said Soap.

“No, and at least you’ll know better than to do so in future. But tell me,” Inspectre Hovis pointed to the colourful Soap on the screen. “What would you take that to be?”

“What?” Soap asked.

“This area here. Up the back of your coat. Surely that is the heat signature of a tiny man, all crouched up, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Soap. I’m nicked, he thought.

“You’re nicked,” said Hovis. “I have you bang to rights.”

“Now look,” said Soap. “I can see that this doesn’t look too good for me at the present and I can see that on the evidence it would seem that you have a case. But, as dearly as I love justice, and I do love it dearly, don’t get me wrong, I’m afraid I can’t stay around here any longer. I have important things to be doing and I—”

“Have to stop you there,” said Inspectre Hovis. “Have to give you the necessary caution. Must keep things all legal and above board.”

“Would you take a bribe?” Soap asked.

“Certainly not,” said Hovis.

“Well, could you pass my case on to an officer who would take a bribe?”

“Nice try,” said Hovis. “Novel suggestion. But I think I’ll just bang you up in the cells until the accounts department can work out just how much you owe us in fines. Now, do you want to go quietly, or will I be forced to summon in a couple of constables to rough you up a little?”

“I am a Buddhist,” said Soap, “and I abhor violence. So—”

And here at last Soap got his chance for some action.

He gathered up his hat and goggles, thrust them on and with no thought for anything but the said action, rushed the Inspectre’s office and flung himself through the plate-glass window.

If this courageous deed had been captured on camera it would have been well worth a play on Crime Watch. Viewers would no doubt have taped it for their private collections and played it in slow motion, and freeze-framed on the good bits and even run it in reverse, which is always good for a laugh, if you’re suitably sad and lonely.

But it wasn’t, so they couldn’t, so to speak.

For there were no surveillance cameras trained on the Inspectre’s window. Not that there weren’t any trained on the building. There were, loads of the buggers. But these were all aimed at the ground floor.

And Inspectre Hovis’s office was not on the ground floor.

Inspectre Hovis’s office was on the twenty-third floor.

A bit too high up to merit surveillance.

Now it came as some surprise to Soap that, having smashed through the plate-glass window, he did not land immediately upon the ground. He had assumed, incorrectly as it proved, that he was on the ground floor and the spectacular rooftop view of Brentford[11] that met his eyes for a mere split second was pleasing to behold. But the pleasure was fleeting and tempered by a feeling of alarm and, as he began the rapid rush downwards, alarm in turn became terror.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Soap Distant, the way that you do when falling to your death. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” and, “Look out, below.”

There is, apparently, a mathematical calculation that can be worked out, regarding the speed of a falling object. Soap did not know this calculation, and even if he had known, and indeed known that it would take him precisely 3.4256 seconds to make contact with the ground below, it is doubtful whether he would have shown a lot of interest.

But a lot can happen in 3.4256 seconds, as anyone who knows such things will tell you.

But you have to know, of course, precisely which 3.4256 seconds to choose.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” continued Soap, using up 1.3849 seconds.

“Aaaaaaaaagh!” went he a little more, which was part of the very same “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

And then he stopped aaaaaaaaaaghing, because he ceased falling, which must have meant that he’d made impact.

As indeed he had. Though not with the ground.

Soap suddenly found himself hanging in the air. Just hanging there, suspended, so to speak. Some three good yards above the pavement and perched on a cushion of air.

And looking up from directly below him was a lad. A lad in a black T-shirt and shorts. A lad who looked strangely familiar.

“What’s your bloody game?” asked the lad. “You could have killed me falling down like that.”

Soap took to floundering up upon high. Boggle-eyed behind his goggles, open-mouthed beneath. Hovering on nothingness, defying gravity’s law.

“It’s a good job I’m wearing this,” said the lad, pointing to a complicated wristwatch affair. “Personal lifespan chronometer, incorporating personal defence mechanism. Activated by a wide-band polarizing field that detects rapidly approaching objects. Do you have any idea of the speed you were travelling?”

Soap managed a “No” and shook his head a little.

“Well, I can work it out on my chronometer. Look, here comes your hat.”

Soap’s black hat came fluttering down and landed on his head.

“Well caught, that man,” said the lad.

“What?” went Soap. “How?”

“How does it work? Simple. The wide-band polarizing field detects the approaching object, calculates its mass and causes a cohesion to occur in the surrounding air, effectively joining the oxygen molecules to create a spherical barrier that is virtually impenetrable. Go on, poke it with your finger if you don’t believe me.”

Soap didn’t bother. He did believe him.

“Trouble is,” said the lad. “It takes it out of the batteries. So if you don’t mind I’ll just step aside and switch it off.”

This he did, and Soap crashed to the pavement.

“Are you all right?” the lad asked.

Soap sat up and felt at his limbs. He seemed to be all in one piece.

“Well, if you’re not, it will just serve you right for falling on people. If you must jump out of high windows, try to do it when no one’s around. And look at all this glass, someone could cut themselves on that.”

Soap nodded numbly.

“Goodbye,” the lad said.

“No, wait, please.” Soap climbed painfully to his feet.

“What is it?” said the lad.

“You saved my life. I want to thank you.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. In fact I didn’t do it at all.”

“Well, thank you anyway. My name is Soap Distant. Might I ask you yours?”

“Soap Distant?” the lad thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “That name doesn’t ring any bells.”

“But it will,” said Soap. “I will soon be very famous.”

“No,” said the lad. “If you were to be, I’d know.”

“Eh?” said Soap.

“Goodbye,” said the lad.

“No, hold on, please. At least tell me your name.”

“My name is Wingarde,” said the lad. “My surname I’d rather not mention.”

And with that he walked away, leaving Soap to wonder.

But he didn’t stand and wonder very long. Because all at once alarms began to clang out from the police station.

Which proved, at least, that Soap did ring some bells.

Soap fled the scene of his falling and saving and spent the evening and the night stalking around and about. He rarely, if ever, slept nowadays. Ten years beneath had altered him in many ways.

Soap stalked along the streets of his youth, passing the houses of friends he’d once known. Cab-Arthur Roper, Duck-Barry Martin, Wild-Norman Peacock and all of the rest. Soap paused at times to lurk in alleyways, where, with the rain beating down on his hat, he viewed people’s various doings.

He saw Norman Hartnell in his underwear returning to his shop. He saw Pooley[12] enter the Penist’s house and he made a mental note of the address. And he saw other things that were strange and mysterious. Things that you only see late in the night.

By the coming of the new dawn, Soap had formed a plan of action. Determined as he was to discover exactly what was going on and how history could have changed while he’d been belooooow, he was equally determined to remain at liberty and out of the clutches of the Virgin police.

Nine-thirty of the morning clock found Soap upon the steps of the Memorial Library. Hardly an action-packed kind of a place, you might think, but appearances can be deceptive.

Soap’s appearance this morning, for example, was one that he hoped might deceive.

Soap no longer wore his broad-brimmed coal-black hat, his coal-black coat and boots of coaly blackness. Instead, Soap sported a Hawaiian shirt, a dove-grey zoot suit and a pair of white winkle-picker boots. He had acquired these during the night, but from where was anyone’s guess. Soap cut a dashing figure in this get-up and one that he hoped would allow him to move about the borough unrecognized by those who viewed through street surveillance cameras.

When the Keeper of the Borough’s Books made the ceremonial opening up of the door, Soap hurried into the library, marched across the marble-panelled vestibule and presented his similarly acquired credentials at the desk.

The clerk on duty looked over the credentials and then the clerk on duty looked at Soap.

“This library ticket is out of date, Mr Omally,” said the clerk.

“Then kindly furnish me with a new one.”

“These things take time. If you’ll call back in a week or two.”

Soap Distant took to the shaking of his head. “It is time for action,” he said. “Kindly direct me to the reference section.”

“Oooooooh,” went the clerk. “The reference section. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Just lead me to it,” said Soap.

“Well, then, it’s through that door over there.”

“That door?” said Soap.

“No, that door,” said the clerk.

“Aren’t they both the same door?” asked Soap.

“It depends what you mean by ‘the same’, I suppose.”

“I suppose it does,” Soap agreed.

The reference section came as a bit of a shock to Soap. It didn’t have any books. All there was now was a neat row of desks, each of which held up a television jobbie attached to a typewriter keyboard. Soap sat down upon a chair at the nearest and stared at the TV screen.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF KNOWLEDGE

To access please touch any key.

Soap sought the key marked “any”.

“Assistance, please,” called Soap.

The clerk from the desk came bustling in. “What do you want?”

“I want action,” said Soap. “And I want it now. Where are all the books, please?”

“All the books are now on the Web.”

Soap’s thoughts returned to the offices of the Brentford Mercury and the woman who was worrying at wires. She had mentioned the Web, and she had mentioned it proudly.

“What exactly is the Web?” asked Soap.

The clerk explained all about it.

Now it doesn’t take long to explain about the Web, and the average person can grasp all the essentials and gain a good working knowledge in less than a lifespan. Soap listened patiently for at least five minutes.

“So I just touch any key,” he said.

“Yes,” said the clerk and departed.

And so Soap Distant, voyager to the realms belooooow, became a surfer of the Web. The Web, the Web, the wonderful Web, from which all knowledge flows.

It’s all there on the Web, you know. The whole wide world and then some.

Of course, you do have to know where to look.

Soap had no idea, but he got straight down to the action.

He typed in QUEEN ELIZABETH II and was quite amazed by what flashed up before him. And then he typed in ASSASSINATION OF.

And then he sat right back and stared.

According to the Web, Queen Elizabeth had been shot dead while on stage during a Beatles concert at Wembley Stadium in nineteen eighty.

“A Beatles concert in nineteen eighty?” Soap called up THE BEATLES.

And according to the Web it was true. The Beatles had played Wembley in nineteen eighty. The show had been organized by John Lennon, who had apparently become something of a royalist after receiving a visit from Prince Charles while he lay in hospital recovering from the shooting incident.

“Shooting incident?” said Soap. “But Lennon should be dead.”

Soap called up JOHN LENNON: SHOOTING and learned to his amazement how the great one’s life had been saved by a mystery man who never came forward to claim the fortune Lennon offered him. All that was known of the mystery man was that he wore a black T-shirt and shorts.

“Oh ho,” said Soap. “Oh ho.”

But as “oh ho” didn’t help a lot, Soap continued his search.

He backtracked to the Wembley gig and boggled at the list of support bands. Not only had The Doors played there. But also the Jimi Hendrix Experience. And Janis Joplin.

“Methinks I see a pattern here,” said Soap.

“Would you please keep the noise down,” said the clerk, poking a clerkish head around the door.

“I’m sorry,” said Soap. “But could you help me here?”

The clerk sighed and plodded over. “What is the trouble now? I do have things to be doing.”

“All the bands listed here,” said Soap. “They all really played at Wembley in nineteen eighty, did they?”

The clerk perused the list. “Yes. It was a legendary gig. The video of that gig has outsold any other.”

“Really?” said Soap. “And this would be a Virgin video, would it?”

“What other make of video is there?” asked the clerk.

“Just checking,” said Soap. “Now go away, please.”

“Well, really!” said the clerk and went away.

Soap surfed the Web until lunchtime. It was all action stuff. Well, at least it was sometimes. Well, perhaps it wasn’t really, to be honest. No, in fact, actually, it wasn’t all action at all. It was just sitting at a TV screen and typing at a keyboard, and although there are ways of putting a spin on that kind of thing and making it sound really interesting—

IT ISN’T!

IT’S CRAP!!!

GET A LIFE!!!!!!!

By lunchtime Soap had had his fill of the Web. He had learned from it all he could learn from it. This hadn’t been all that he’d wanted to learn, but he had learned the Web’s evil secret.

And the evil secret of the Web is this, my friends.

That all you can ever learn

from The Web is what the

people who put the stuff onto

it want you to learn.

“Right,” said Soap. “Well, that’s quite enough of that. Time for a bit of action, I think.”

And right on cue (for there is no other way) came that good old police loudhailer voice.

“John Omally,” it called. “John Omally, this is the Virgin Police Service. We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands held high.”

“Oh,” said Soap, to no one but himself. “John Omally, what?”

“You have been positively identified from a frame of surveillance footage as the man aiding Soap Distant to assist a wanted criminal in his escape from justice. To whit, one David Carson, also known as the Cannibal Chef and Brentford’s Most Wanted Man.”

“Oh,” said Soap once again to himself. “But how?”

“In case you’re wondering how we know you’re in there, our police crime computer is linked into every other national computer and it has just registered your library ticket being fed into the Memorial Library system for renewal.”

“Some of a gun,” mumbled Soap. “That’s clever.”

“Well, actually,” the loudhailer voice continued, “in case you were thinking how clever that was, I have to own up that it’s not how we tracked you down. You see, the clerk at the library desk just telephoned us to say that you have a library book outstanding on your card. How to Play the Stratocaster. And you should have returned it fifteen years ago. There’s a two-thousand-pound fine to pay.”

“It never rains but it pours,” said Soap in a philosophical tone.

“So come on out now, or we’ll come in and get you.”

“Very tricky,” said Soap.

“And get a move on,” called the voice. “We want to have our lunch.”

“Righty-right.” The man from belooow considered his options. He could try and bluff his way out. Say that he wasn’t John Omally but had just popped into the library to renew John’s ticket for him. Soap shook his head at that. It lacked the action he sorely craved. Some other way out, then.

Soap looked up and all round and about. There was only the one door into the reference section and this led from the vestibule and the front entrance. Outside which, the police were no doubt waiting.

But there was also the window. And he was on the ground floor this time. Soap considered the window. It was a most splendid window. A stained-glass window, bequeathed to the borough by its most famous son, the author P.P. Penrose. It featured scenes from the adventures of Lazlo Woodbine, the most popular fictional detective of the twentieth century, the creation of P.P. Penrose.

Soap considered the window some more. How would Lazlo have got out of this? He would have pulled off some ingenious stunt. But a stunt that had plenty of action.

Soap squared up before the window. “Time for action,” he said.

The police gave Soap five minutes and then they rushed the building. They burst into the vestibule with big guns drawn, visors down and tear gas at the ready.

The clerk at the desk looked up at them. “He’s in the reference section,” said the clerk. “Lying face down on the floor, unconscious.”

“Unconscious?” said a constable, a-cocking his big gun.

“He tried to jump through the window. But it’s made of vandal-proof Plexiglas. He knocked himself unconscious.”

The constables chuckled as constables do and went in to pick up the body.

“Not that door,” said the clerk. “It’s the other one.”

The police went in through the other one and the clerk went off for lunch.

The clerk was several streets away before he stopped walking and started to laugh.

“I’m sorry I had to do that,” said Soap Distant, for the clerk was he. “But if I hadn’t bopped you on the head and changed clothes, I might really have had to jump through that stained-glass window.”

And Soap Distant went off on his way, secure at least in the knowledge that P.P. Penrose was not turning in his grave for the loss of his window. The great writer would surely also have admired Soap’s cunning escape. For although it lacked for action, it certainly was ingenious.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

The two by one, the two by one,

That’s the stuff for you, old son.

It makes your DIY such fun,

You can’t go wrong with the two by one.

I would not lie, I kid you not,

It’s the greatest of them all.

The four by two is much too large,

And the one by one’s too small.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

I’ve sawn this and I’ve sawn that,

I’ve reeved and grieved and sworn and spat.

I’ve dug my bradawl to the hilt,

I’ve chiselled ’til I could have kilt.

I’ve planed away for hours on end

Through knotholes and through planks that bend.

But finer work I’ve never done

Than working with the two by one.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

The two by one, the two by one,

That’s the stuff for me, old son.

The war and battle, both are won,

When working with the two by one.

I would not lie, I could not lie,

It’s the greatest of them all.

The four by two is much too large,

And the one by one’s too small.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

I’ve banged nails, what times I’ve had

With a two-inch cut and an oval Brad.

A size-ten clout, a three-inch wire,

Whacking at the obo ’til we all perspire.

And screws, by God, I’ve known each twist,

Damaging the muscles on my right wrist.

But I’ll keep on ’til I am done,

As long as I can do it with the two by one.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

The two by one, the two by one,

The finest wood on Earth, my son.

I’d raise my trusty elephant gun

To him who’ll say a word against the two by one.

I would not lie, no faker I,

This stuff is on the ball.

The four by two is much too large,

And the one by one’s too small.

Ooooooooooooooooooh …

It’s clean and white and dry and cut, and you buy it by the grain.

In a curious manner, so to speak, it’s not unlike cocaine.

It comes in many handy lengths, just ask at your supplier,

And you can use the odds and ends left over for the fire.

So when I get to heaven, when my time on Earth is done,

And Saint Peter asks me what I’d like, I’ll tell him …

All together now …

The two by one, the two by one,

etc, etc, etc …

Dances from stage to monstrous applause …

Thank you and goodnight.