Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

24

Now it is the nature of things, that they do not occur in isolation. Things happen all at once or not at all. There must surely be some reason for this. But it is probably one that is beyond all human understanding. Like why people who do not engage in sports wear sportswear. Perhaps it is that things simply don’t like to happen alone. They crave the company of other things to happen with. They like to buddy-up and go about mob-handed.

There’s just no telling, with things.

Of course, we do our best to fight against things. We try to put things off and leave things ’til tomorrow. But things still get on top of us. Things conspire to grind us down. In fact things really get on our nerves. Things drive us to distraction.

And so, as we reach the conclusion of our tale, it should come as no surprise to find that things, which have been building up, are now about to happen all at once.

And happen, as things so often do, with a bang.

It was now nearly eight of the evening clock and the Beatles were about to go onstage. But, nearly eight? Can this be right? Some things should have happened by now. But, no, things hadn’t happened.

Soap had slept through the balance of the day, missing all the really good bands. Bands which should have received some attention and been described in considerable detail. As indeed should the Gandhis’ performance. But they hadn’t. And it wasn’t. Because, let’s face it, our tale really isn’t so much about the music itself. Our tale is about other things.

Other things which have to do with Wingarde. And so where is he? John Omally has been standing at the park gates for nearly five hours, grinding his teeth and shuffling his feet and planning a terrible vengeance. But there is still no sign of Wingarde’s car, because Wingarde’s car has made a slight diversion. Wingarde has spent the afternoon at the house of his chauffeur. Where, with permission from The Voice, he has been engaging in certain things which need not concern us here.

And what about Inspectre Hovis? Well, he is still in the hovering helicopter, scanning the crowd. But has he caught sight of Geraldo and his pals? He has not. And have the plain-clothed constables caught sight of Geraldo and his pals? No. They have not.

And what is Dr Trillby up to? And where, for that matter, is Prince Charles, who was expected to make a spectacular arrival in a hot-air balloon, but has so far failed to appear. Who knows?

So things just haven’t happened. Things have been waiting to happen. And things will happen. Happen all at once, they will.

And happen with a bang.

The bang, when it happened, was a good’n. A right royal belter of a bang. It tore the outside wall from Norman’s cell and flung it in pieces across the prison yard and through the wire perimeter fence.

Norman, cowering beneath mattresses in Small Dave’s cell, raised a smiling, if now slightly smoke-blackened face. “That went rather well,” said he.

Small Dave, who had been cowering under Norman, said, “I tend to agree. And now, if you’ll take the advice of one who knows these things, we had better do some running.”

Sirens wailed, alarm bells rang. They upped and did some running.

Inspectre Hovis was running out of patience. “I’ve had enough of this,” he shouted and he kicked the instrument panel. The surveillance telescreen rocked on its mounts and then displayed a curious image.

“What is that?” Hovis asked.

“You appear to have, er, nudged it into infra-red mode, sir. Those are the heat images of the people in the crowd.”

“I can see that,” said Hovis. “But look at that little group there, gathered by the front of the stage. Why are their images different from everybody else’s?”

“Oooooh, yes,” said the pilot, peering at the telescreen. “That is strange. They appear to be radiating some unusual form of energy. It’s almost as if they’re vibrating at a different frequency from everyone else. Faster, somehow.”

“Vibrating faster? It’s them! Take us down at once.” Inspectre Hovis snatched up his police walkie-talkie and bawled into it at the top of his voice. “Attention plain-clothed unit!” he bawled. “Suspects are grouped together directly in front of the concert stage. Move in and make immediate arrests. At once, do you hear me? At once!”

And all at once Soap Distant awoke, by falling from his chair. He scrambled up in the usual confusion and almost checked the time on his watch. “Oh no,” cried Soap, gawping up at the surveillance screens. “The Beatles are on. I’ve been asleep. And oh—” He paused. “It’s Geraldo. Down at the front by the stage. And oh—” He paused once more. “It’s the plain-clothed policemen and they’re heading in his direction.”

Soap kicked his fallen chair across the control room and Soap sprang into action.

And John Omally ceased kicking his heels and sprang to attention. Wingarde’s limousine came cruising through the open gates, with Wingarde at the wheel.

John stepped into its oncoming path and sought to flag it down.

“Down!” cried Hovis to the pilot. “Land this thing at once.”

“But, sir. There’s nowhere to land. Unless I fly us out to the back of the crowd.”

“No!” Hovis pointed. “Land there! Land on that!”

“What, on top of the stage canopy, sir? You mean land directly above the stage?”

“Why not? It looks strong enough.”

“But, sir. The Beatles are about to perform. We can’t interrupt the Beatles.”

“Then stick this thing into stealth mode and engage the aural camouflage. And then no one will hear or see us land, will they?”

“All right,” said the pilot.

“All right,” said John Lennon. “It’s good to see you all.”

The crowd responded with riotous applause. Well, it was pretty good to see John.

“There’s something you might have noticed,” said the great one, adjusting the strap on his Rickenbacker. John had always favoured the Rick, particularly the 325 model in the now legendary Capri series, which was launched in 1958.

Unlike the solid Strat, the Rick has a hollow body shell, but with a similar three-pickup arrangement. George Harrison, of course, preferred a Gretsch, the black Duo-Jet being his favourite. McCartney popularized the Höfner 500/1 violin bass, onto which he always taped the list of songs to be performed during the set.

These are the sort of things that really matter.

And it is only to be regretted that we don’t have the time to delve into them more deeply now.

But we don’t.

“You might have noticed,” said Lennon, “that me and the boys are looking somewhat perkier than we have done lately.”

And it was true, they did look a whole lot perkier.

There was evidence of new hair upon the balding pates. Sagging bellies had been uplifted, bandy old legs straightened. It was almost as if the Fabs had grown thirty years younger in a matter of minutes. Which indeed they had.

“We feel just great,” the great one continued. “And it’s all thanks to a little lady called Litany, who sang to us before we came on. And I think she’s going to come out and sing for you, after we’re done. Just like she did for us.”

A roar went up from the long-standing Gandhi fans. Could this really be true? Had Litany really got her magic back?

“Take it away, boys,” said Lennon, and the Beatles launched into their latest hit record. Something about Hoppers that come in on the wind.

The crowd strained ever nearer to the stage, causing some squelching up front. Usually the stage would have been protected by a stock of broad-shouldered, big-bellied Rent-a-thugs, called in to provide security. But on this occasion there were none. With the non-arrival of Wingarde, many things that should have been done hadn’t been done.

And now certain things that shouldn’t be done were about to be done. So to speak.

“Hold up, Wingarde,” called Omally, waving his hands in the air.

Wingarde slowed the car to a crawl.

“Run him down,” ordered The Voice.

“Run him down?” said Wingarde. “Why?”

“Because we don’t have time and because he means to harm you. Trust what I’m saying. Run him down.”

Wingarde shrugged his shoulders. “Fair enough,” he said. “I never liked him much anyway.”

Wingarde’s foot hit the accelerator pedal. “Run him down it is, then,” he said.

Norman and Small Dave were doing some running. All across the blighted wastes of Brentford. Surveillance cameras viewed them from on high. Operators called in their location and police cars now streaked in pursuit.

“We ought to split up,” puffed Dave. “Find separate places to hide.”

“Bad idea,” puffed Norman in reply. “We must head for my lockup. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I do hope you know what you’re doing.” Surrounded by silence and invisible to all, the pilot’s voice echoed in the void.

“You’re the one doing the landing,” said Hovis.

“Yes, but under your orders. I can’t see the wheels. I’m not sure how low I should go.”

“Just drop us down another yard. We’ll no doubt feel the thump.”

The thump he received on the back of the head took Geraldo by surprise. He wasn’t used to getting thumped about and under normal circumstances he would have had his personal defence mechanism activated. But having an invisible forcefield surrounding yourself in the middle of a large crowd can tend to get you noticed. So Geraldo and pals had kept them switched off, and Geraldo got thumped in the head.

“Ouch!” went Geraldo, clutching his skull.

“You’re nicked,” said a plain-clothed constable.

“You’re dead,” said Wingarde, pushing his foot to the floor. The limousine swept forward, gathering both speed and mass. The tyres burned rubber, the engine burned oil and the eyes of Omally burned red. There was no time at all to do anything but leap out of the way. And in fact when it came right down to it there was no time at all to do that.

“Don’t do that!” A fist sailed through the air and struck the plain-clothed constable. Geraldo turned, as best he could amidst the crush, to view the scourge of his attacker. The scourge was a man dressed all in black, with a chalk-white face and a transparent nose.

“Good Gawd!” went Geraldo, “It’s Death himself. How hard did that bloke hit me?”

Other constables, now close at hand, were drawing out their truncheons. At the sight of these more fists began to fly and chaos was given its head.

“Come with me!” shouted Soap to Geraldo.

“No way, Death!” came the reply.

Omally, in the path of certain death, had nowhere to run or to hide. So he did that thing which few would ever dare and he flung himself flat on the ground. The limo passed over him, all heat and choking exhaust. Wingarde slammed on the anchors and the car swerved to a halt.

“Did I get him?” Wingarde asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“No, you didn’t,” said The Voice. “Back up. Back up fast.”

Wingarde thrust the stick-shift into reverse. But as he did so a shot rang out and his rear-view mirror shattered.

“Holy fuck!” shouted Wingarde. “He’s got a gun. He’s firing at me.”

And indeed Omally did have a gun. It was his grandfather’s gun. The one given him by Michael Collins. John had hung on to that gun. Had repaired and restored it. Had loaded it and saved it. Awaiting the day on which it would be used, upon the man who had killed his bestest friend.

And this was that very day.

And the man at the wheel was the man.

John ran forward, firing into the back of the car.

Wingarde ducked his head and rammed the stick-shift into first. “I’m outta here!” cried Wingarde, flooring the pedal once more.

“I think that’s wise,” said The Voice in his head. “For my sake, get a move on.”

“Get a move on,” Small Dave huffed and puffed. They had reached Norman’s lock-up at last, but Norman was looking perplexed.

“What’s the problem? Open it up.” Small Dave huffed and puffed a bit more.

“The problem is that I don’t have the key to the padlock.”

“Oh shit, Norman.” Small Dave rattled the door. “What have you got in there anyway? A tank, I hope, at least.”

“No,” and Norman shook his head. “It’s not a tank, it’s—”

Two police cars swung around the corner and into what was left of the street.

“Give us a lift up,” shouted Small Dave. “Give us a lift to the lock.”

“What?” went Norman.

“Give us a lift up!”

Norman gave Dave a lift up.

The police cars slewed to a double halt.

Small Dave bit through the padlock.

“Give yourselves up,” came that old loudhailer voice. “Give yourselves up or we fire.”

“Inside!” shouted Norman, dragging open the door.

“Come with me,” shouted Soap, dragging at Geraldo’s arm.

“Spare me, Death,” wailed Geraldo in his silly squeaky voice.

“I’m not Death.” Soap tugged and pulled. “I have to talk to you. It’s about Wingarde.”

“Wingarde?” Geraldo’s voice went up an octave. “What has that bastard done now?”

That bastard has his head down and his foot down hard as well. The limo’s tyres burned further tread and the car moved off at the hurry-up along the gravel towards Gunnersbury House. John Omally, racing forward, made one of those heroic all-action, manly-man, Hollywood-movie-star leaps for the boot that all-action manly man Hollywood movie stars always leave to their stunt doubles.

With his non-gun-toting hand he managed to hang onto one of those delta-wing type jobbie things that big expensive limousines always have at the back. And which are probably designed for this very purpose.

“Whoah!” went Omally, as his expensive although non-stunt toecaps raked along the gravel, raising a fine shower of sparks.

The helicopter’s invisible wheels raised no sparks at all as they settled down upon the gleaming aluminium half-dome of the stage canopy.

“Pretty impressive landing, eh?” said the pilot. “I should get a Blue Peter badge for that.”

“I’ll put a word in for you,” said the voice of Hovis. “I know the new presenter, Myra Hindley. Now switch off the engine. I don’t want to get my head chopped off by an invisible rotor blade.”

“Sure thing, sir.” The pilot fumbled about at the invisible instrument panel with his invisible fingers and drew out the invisible ignition key. “All done, sir,” he said. “You may now disembark.”

“Just wait for me here.” Hovis fumbled open the invisible door and leapt out of the helicopter.

Outside Norman’s lock-up various officers were now leaping from various squad cars. These were parked in a sort of semi-circle, and the officers were strapping on flak jackets and pushing large shells into pump-action shotguns.

“You are surrounded,” came that old loudhailer voice once more. “Resistance is useless. Give yourselves up.”

Officers cocked their weapons and winked at one another.

“Come out with your hands held high and your trousers round your ankles.”

“That’s a new tactic,” an officer observed.

“You have thirty seconds or we open fire.”

Officers started counting down.

“Three … two … one,” went that old loudhailer voice.

Now there should have been a fanfare, or a big orchestral something. There would have been if this had been a movie. But, as this wasn’t a movie, even a little one, what happened next just happened. With a bang.

The door of Norman’s lock-up burst from its hinges and smashed into the street, all dust and splintering timber. And then something marvellous, marvellous and magical, golden and gorgeous plunged from the lock-up and reared into the air.

The officers fell back in awe as a fabulous beast with a glittering mane and a mighty horn rose up on its hind legs and bellowed.

“Holy horseshit,” croaked an officer. “It’s a bleeding unicorn.”

“It’s The Pooley,” croaked another. “I won ten quid on that.”

The Pooley bellowed and reared a bit more, cleaving the air with its mystical horn. Its mane and its tail swirled spangles, its hooves raised silver sparks.

On its broad and mighty back sat Small Dave, and clinging to him sat Norman.

“Hi-yo, Pooley,” cried the small fellow. “Hi-yo, Pooley, and away.”

The Pooley leapt over the nearest squad car and thundered away at a gallop.

The Beatles never really thundered away. They were more your melodic harmonies. And your mop-top head-shakings And your synchronized ooooooings. The bloody great punch-up, now in progress right before the stage, wasn’t doing too much to aid the Fabs with any of this lovable stuff.

“Do you think we could be a bit more peace-loving?” John asked. “Give peace a chance, eh?”

A beer can sailed through the evening air and struck John right upon the nose.

Noses were being bloodied below as Soap dragged Geraldo from the fray.

“Come into the house,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“You’ll have to make it quick,” squeaked the fanboy. “I don’t want to miss the end of the show. It’s what I’ve come to see.”

“Hurry, then,” said Soap. “This way.”

Soap flashed his backstage pass at the broad-shouldered Rent-a-thug security men, who were standing well back from the violence. And then he and Geraldo stood well back as a limousine tore past them, trailing Omally behind.

“Oh, look,” said Geraldo. “There goes John Omally. And wasn’t that—”

“Wingarde,” said Soap. “It was Wingarde.”

They watched as the limo did a nifty U-turn and sped right past them again.

“John’ll hurt his feet,” said Geraldo. “You really need special stunt shoes to do that.”

“Come into the house.” And Soap pushed Geraldo forward.

Once inside, with the front door closed, Soap spoke at considerable speed.

“You’ve got to stop it all,” said Soap. “Go back in time and recorrect history. Put right everything that Wingarde’s done.”

“Just hold on.” Geraldo raised a none-too-podgy palm. “I’ll get round to all that. But first I want to see the big climax to the concert.”

“Stuff the concert. Wingarde’s causing chaos. Death and chaos. You have to stop it now.”

“I will, I will. But hang about.” Geraldo peered at Soap. “Just who are you, anyway? And how do you know about Wingarde?”

“My name is Soap Distant. Jim Pooley was my friend.”

“I’m out of here,” Geraldo said. “I don’t want to get involved in any of that. Jim’s a nice guy and I’m sorry he has to take the rap for pulling off The Pooley.”

“Jim Pooley is dead,” said Soap. “And I think Wingarde killed him.”

“Jim Pooley dead?” Geraldo made a puzzled face. “But if he’s dead, how can he pull off The Pooley?”

“I don’t know.” And Soap threw up his hands.

“And what’s that on your wrist?” Geraldo asked.

“One of your time machines,” said Soap. “I know all about everything. Well, almost everything. Here, take a look at this.” And Soap pulled from his pocket the golden plastic disc with the face of Wingarde’s guru on the front. “Do you know who this is?” he asked.

Geraldo now peered at the bogus amulet. “Why, that’s Dr Vincent Trillby,” he said. “What’s he doing here?”

“Aha!” said Soap. “So that’s who it is. He’s in cahoots with Wingarde.”

“I’m losing this,” said Geraldo. “Jim Pooley dead and Wingarde in league with Dr Trillby? I mean, I know this concert’s all wrong. But what happens at the end happens. The Pooley does get pulled off. It’s in the history books.”

Soap’s hands fluttered all about. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted action. “Forget about the concert,” he said.

“Forget about the concert? No way. This is the concert. The legendary Gandhis concert. The final Gandhis concert. The one where Litany gets it.”

“Gets her magic voice back. Yes, I know.”

“No, not that,” said Geraldo. “I mean, yes, of course, she does get it back. But the reason that this is the Gandhis gig is because this is the one where she dies.”

“Dies?” Soap fell back in horror. “You’re saying Litany dies?”

“Of course,” said Geraldo. “Like I say, it’s history. Litany is shot dead on the stage.”

The poem “My Aunty Nora’s Cabbage Patch”,

which should have accompanied this chapter,

has had to be removed for legal reasons.