Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

2

Soap Distant strode up Brentford High Street.

There was the vaguest hint of stagger to his stride, but this was the inevitable consequence of two hours spent in Omally’s company. Not that Soap was unacquainted with the grape and grain. Like most of Brentford’s manly men he took his sup, but rarely to excess.

However, on this particular occasion Soap had felt the need for a drop of that courage which hails from the Low Countries. And why not? For hadn’t Soap lately returned from some very low countries himself? Had he not planted the nation’s flag at the Earth’s core and claimed the realm for England? And was he not, even now, on his way to keep a three o’clock appointment with the editor of the Brentford Mercury to negotiate the serialization rights for the account of his epic adventure?

In short, he had, and he had, and he was.

Soap paused before the window of Mr Beefheart the butcher to peruse his reflection. He wanted to look his very bestest. Create a favourable and lasting impression. Exude a certain air. Make a presence. Be the business. And things of that nature, generally.

Soap adjusted the filters on his solar goggles. His eyes, still sensitive to sunlight, would sort themselves out in time. But what about the rest of him? He removed his broad-brimmed black hat and reviewed his facial featurings.

A gaunt and deathly face peered back at him. It was a white’n and that was a fact. Turning his head a little to the right, Soap noticed that the sunlight shone clear through his hooter. His hair had become similarly transparent, lending the crown of his head the appearance of a fibre-optic lamp.

Soap nodded in approval. He looked mighty fine.

Within Mr Beefheart’s, a lady in a straw hat caught sight of the ghostly visage staring in at the window, took it to be the shade of the husband she had done to death and buried in the sprout patch and fainted dead away.

The way you would.

Soap replaced his hat and continued up the High Street.

The offices of the Brentford Mercury were just as Soap remembered them. Worn at heel and down upon the uppers. At ground level the Electric Alhambra, Brentford’s only cinema, its doors long closed to an indifferent public, slept in the sunlight. Peely paint and crumbling brickwork, rubbish strewn upon its mosaic entrance. And above, behind the unwashed windowpanes, the borough’s organ.

Soap squared his shoulders and made up the cast-iron fire escape. The door at the top lacked a sign, but Soap gave it a knock.

The door swung in and so did Soap.

The place was a bit of a mess. Packing crates and cardboard boxes filled the outer office. Soap did the old “Cooee” and “Shop?”

“Hang about, hang about,” called a voice. “I’m all in a tangle here.”

Soap steered his sturdy boots between the towers of boxes, bits and bobs and came upon a woman who was worrying at wires. She had many wires to worry at and wires they were of many different colours.

“Why are you worrying at those wires?” asked Mr Distant.

“We’re going on the Web,” said the woman, and there was pride in her voice as she uttered these words. “We’ll soon have our own Homepage.”

“Your words are strange to me, dear lady,” said Soap in a suave and silken tone. “But I have every reason to believe that you know what you’re on about.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what goes where,” she said, and she looked up at Soap. “Oh my Gawd!”

“Soap Distant’s the name.” Soap removed his hat and goggles.

“Oooh, your ’air,” went the woman.

“My apologies for my appearance. I have been many years below.” Soap got some serious timbre into that final word: below. It was a belter of a word, below. One of his all-time favourites.

“Below?” said the woman.

“Beloooooooooh,” repeated Soap. “I would present you with my card, but at present I do not possess one. I thought I would wait until after my knighthood before I had any printed.”

“Knighthood?” said the woman. Loony, she thought.

Soap smiled and nodded and bowed a little too. She’s a fine-looking woman, he thought, and it’s clear that she’s taken with me.

“The door’s that way,” said the fine-looking woman, pointing with a fine-looking hand. “Don’t forget to close it on your way out.”

“I am expected,” said Soap. “I have a three o’clock appointment with the editor.”

“Ah, you’ve come about the job.”

“Job?” said Soap. “No, I am Soap Distant. The Soap Distant. Would you be so kind as to inform your employer of my arrival?”

“Are you from outer space?” asked the woman of fine looks.

“Eh?” said Soap. “Do what?”

“Are you one of those Men in Black? Because we had one of your bunch in last week giving it all that.” She mimed mouth movements with her fingers. “I said to him, ‘On your bike, sunshine, or off in your saucer.’ That told him, I can tell you.”

“I’m mighty sure it did,” said Soap. “Would you please tell the editor that I’ve arrived?”

The woman, whose wires were now all over the place, made a face, flung down her wires and flounced away between the box-piles bound for God knows where.

Soap scuffed his boot heels and wondered at the wires.

Presently the woman returned and told him that he could go in now.

“Thank you,” said Soap. “And good luck with your wires.”

The editor’s office was a big old room, but it was also given over to boxes. Soap stepped between and through and over them and made his way to a large desk at the window.

Behind this sat the editor. He did not rise at Soap’s approach.

Soap stretched his paw across the desk in the hope of a hearty handclasp. The editor viewed Soap’s paw with distaste and folded his arms.

Soap viewed the editor. The editor viewed Soap.

Soap saw a man in his mid to late twenties. Smartly clad with long brown hair swept back behind his ears. An intelligent face, good cheekbones, calm grey eyes and a look about him that said, “I’m going places.”

The editor, in his turn, saw a loony. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Mr Bacon?” asked Soap.

“Mr who?”

“Bacon. The editor.”

“I’ve never heard of any Bacon,” said the editor. “My name is Justice. Leo Justice. Known by many monikers. The Magnificent Leo. The Lord of the Old Button Hole.” He gestured to the red rose he wore in his lapel. “Leo baby to the ladies, and Mr Justice to yourself.”

“I am Distant,” said Soap. “Soap Distant. You were expecting me.”

“Ah, you’ve come about the job.”

“No,” said Soap. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“If you can find a chair. But you can’t stay long. I’m busy.”

“Moving out,” said Soap, who, finding no chair, pulled up a box.

“Moving in,” said the editor.

“In?” said Soap. “But the Mercury’s offices have always been here. Ever since the paper was founded in Victorian times.”

“Are you one of those Men in Black?” asked the editor, “because if you are—”

“I’m not,” said Soap, comfying himself upon the box to the sound of cracking glassware from within. “I am Soap Distant. Traveller through the hollow Earth. The man who has claimed the planet’s heart for England and her Queen.”

“Queen?” said the editor. “Are you taking the piss?”

“I’m sorry,” said Soap. “I’m becoming confused. Before I embarked upon my journey I communicated with your predecessor, Mr Bacon. Only by telephone, as he never seemed to have the time to see me. I told him that I intended to journey to the centre of the Earth and he agreed that when and indeed if I returned from doing so he would print my story. I offered him an exclusive. He was all for it. Said he’d hold the front page and everything.”

“I suppose he would have,” said the editor.

“And when I returned, successful, just two days ago, I telephoned this office and spoke once more with Mr Bacon and made an appointment and now I’m here.”

“I suppose you are,” said the editor.

“But you’re not Mr Bacon,” said Soap.

“No,” said the editor, shaking his head.

“I’m now extremely confused.”

“Why don’t you just go home and sleep it off? Would you like me to phone for a minicab?”

“What?” said Soap.

“You are clearly delusional,” said the editor. “Does your condition manifest itself in bouts of uncontrollable violence? Because I must warn you that I am an exponent of Dimac, the deadliest martial art in the world, and can brutally maim and disfigure you with little more than a fingertip’s touch, should I so wish. And I will not hesitate to do so should the need arise.”

“Come again?” said Soap.

“It’s just that it’s my duty to warn you. The Dimac Code of Honour. I have a badge and a certificate and a little plastic card with my photo on it and everything. Would you care to see any of these?”

“No,” said Soap. “And I am not delusional, nor am I violent. I am Soap Distant, traveller beneath, and I demand to see Mr Bacon.”

The editor sighed. “Mr Distant,” he said. “If you really wish to pull off this scam you are going to have to work a lot harder, get your facts straight, make your story more convincing.”

“Scam?” said Soap. “Story?”

“I see what you’re up to,” said the editor, “and it doesn’t lack imagination. In fact it has a whole lot going for it. The centre of the Earth. The last frontier. Planting the flag for England. Admirable stuff.”

“But it’s all true!” Soap’s pale face took on a pinkish hue.

“No,” said the editor. “It’s not. You should have done your research. Found a newspaper where a former editor had died or something. Forged his signature onto some kind of contract.”

“I … I …” Soap began to colour up most brightly.

“You see,” the editor continued, “for one thing there never was a Mr Bacon on the staff. For another, this paper was only founded eight years ago, and for another yet we only moved in here today. Look, I founded this newspaper, I should know.”

“No,” said Soap. “Oh no no no.” And his head began to swim and he began to rock both to and fro. And then he toppled off his box and fell upon the floor.

There is a deep dark pit of whirling blackness that detectives who work only in the “first person” always fall into in chapter two. After a dame has done them wrong and a wise guy has bopped them over the head. Soap did not fall into one of these. Soap fell headlong into full and sober consciousness and leapt to his feet with a fearsome yell.

“Kreegah Bundolo!” cried Soap, which all lovers of Tarzan will recognize to be none other than the cry of the bull ape.

“Have a care,” cried the editor in ready response. “Beware the poison hand that mutilates your flesh.”

“Pictures!” shouted Soap. “I have the pictures!”

“Pictures?” went the editor. “Look, I was young and I needed the money.”

“Eh?” went Soap. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Do you want me to duff you up a bit? I’m feeling quite in the mood.”

“No,” said Soap, swaying on his toes. “I am a Buddhist, I abhor all forms of violence. But I do have the pictures. To prove my story.”

“Whip ’em out, then. Let’s have a look at the buggers.”

“Ah,” said Soap. “Well, I don’t have them on me.”

“Ah,” said the editor. “Isn’t it always the way?”

“They’re at Boots the Chemist, being developed. I’ll have them back by Thursday. I’ve got the receipt, here, I’ll show you if you want.”

“Don’t put yourself to the trouble. Why don’t you just come back on Thursday, with the photographs, and we’ll talk about it then. I think we might be able to come up with something moderately convincing, if we put our heads together on this one.”

“Moderately convincing?” Soap was now clearly appalled. “But it’s the truth. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

The editor settled back in his chair and sniffed at his bright red rose. “Mr Distant,” he said. “I am a professional journalist. The truth rarely plays a part in my work. I sell papers. The more papers I sell, the more money I make. If papers told nothing but the truth they wouldn’t be in business very long, would they? Most news is terribly dull. You have to put a bit of a spin on it.”

“What’s a ‘spin’?” Soap asked.

“It’s a slant, if you like. An interpretation.”

“A lie,” said Soap.

“Just because it isn’t the truth doesn’t mean it’s a lie.”

Soap Distant picked up his hat from the floor and stuck it once more on his head. “I will get to the bottom of this,” he told the editor. “Getting to the bottom of things is what I do best.”

“Do whatever you like, Mr Distant. But if you wish to pursue this, and you do have some pictures, and the pictures look moderately convincing—”

“Grrrr,” went Soap.

“If the pictures come out OK, then I’ll see what I can do.”

“Right,” said Soap. “Right. Well, we shall see what we shall see. But when I get my knighthood from the Queen—”

“Ah yes,” said the editor. “The Queen. This would be Queen Elizabeth, I suppose.”

“Of course it would be, yes.”

The editor set free another sigh. “You really must have been underground for a lot longer than ten years,” he said. “Queen Elizabeth was assassinated twenty years ago.”

“Twenty … twenty … ass … sas … sass …” Soap’s jaw flapped like a candle in the wind.

“Fair pulled the old shagpile rug from under us all, dontcha know,” said Mr Justice, shifting suddenly and seamlessly into his Lord of the Old Button Hole persona[1]. “But listen, me old pease pudding, can’t spare you any more time for the mo’. Got me personal Penist popping over in five little ticks of the clock to give me me Tuesday reading. So why don’t you cut along like a nice gentleman and call back Thursday with the old snip-a-snaps. And here” – the Lord fished out his wallet and extracted from this a one-pound note – “you seem a decent enough cove. Take this as a down payment on the exclusive. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

Soap took the oncer in a pale and trembling hand.

“And no naughties like going to another paper, eh? I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin, you know.”

“No,” said Soap, “no,” and he shook his head numbly and dumbly.

He gazed down at the oncer in his hand and then he screamed very very loudly.

For the face that grinned up from that one-pound note was not the face of Her Majesty. It was instead a big and beaming face. A bearded face. A toothy face.

It was the face of Richard Branson.

Down it came in great big buckets,

Emptied from the sky.

Watch the batsmen run for cover,

Cursing you and I.

Cursing rain and speedy bowlers,

Ill-timed runs and garden rollers.

Saying “This is not my day, I wish that I would die.”

Down came frogs and fancy footwear.

Down came trees and tyres.

Raindance wizards on the hillsides

Dowsed their pots and fires.

Saying “This is not too clever.

Will this rain go on for ever?”

Saying “Blame the rich land barons. Blame the country squires.”

Down came dogs and armadillos.

Down came latex goods.

Turnips ripe and avocados.

Full sized Yorkshire puds.

Packets of nice Bourbon bikkies.

Ancient Bobby Charlton pickies.

Ivy Benson tea dispensers, small Red Riding Hoods.

My mum has left the washing out.

She was well peeved.