2.seven

“Now you try it.”

   Phil Kennedy thrusts the shoulder bag towards me and I take it.

   “Can you show me just one more time?” I ask, realising that Phil Kennedy and I will never be friends.

   “No,” says Phil. “It’s your turn to pitch me.”

   Apparently I need retraining and it’s even more soul destroying than doing it for real. He takes a few steps back in the crowded meeting room at Chariot and looks at me with fake enthusiasm. I hold the big bag of crap compact discs and take a tentative step forward.

   “Good morning,” I say with the dodgy smile I smile when I don’t have a genuine smile on me.

   “Good morning,” replies Phil, doing a strange twisting movement with his hands.

   “Sorry,” I say, “but why are you pretending to wring a chicken’s neck?”

   “I’m not,” says Phil, “I’m cleaning a pint glass. We’re in an East End boozer.”

   “Right,” I say. “I’m from a company called Chariot.”

   “Who?”

   “Chariot. We’re a marketing company and we’re doing a promotion in the area today.”

   “Get out of my pub.”

   “Righto.”

   “No, no,no…” sighs Phil Kennedy. “Remember what I said about turning negatives?”

   “…Yessss…”

   “No you don’t,” says Phil as he scratches his head. He’s right, I don’t. I silently ask myself for the hundred millionth time what the hell I think I’m doing working for a Direct Sales Company.

   “Look,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll be fine once we’re out on the street again–”

   “It’s field,” says Phil. “Not street.”

   “Well, whatever,” I say impatiently, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

   “Don’t say I didn’t try to educate you,” says Phil Kennedy, wagging his finger at me.

   “I won’t Phil,” I say. Knob.

   “GOOD MORNING BOYS AND GIRLS!” shouts Pat Burridge suddenly from the centre of the meeting room. The forty-strong gathering of sales people immediately whips into a frenzy and assembles itself in a crowd before him. I get wedged between Habib and Selena as Pat Burridge strides back and forth like a television evangelist.

   “JUICY!” yells Pat Burridge. “What I want to talk about is attitude. Now that’s a word that in my dictionary is spelt with a capital A and ends with a kick up the arse. Juicy?”

   “JUICY!” everyone yells back. I mime it.

   “Attitude is what’s going to make sales at the end of the day. And what do sales make?”

   He suddenly points directly at my face. I swallow, “Prizes?”

   “MONEY!” yells Pat Burridge and holds his hands up.

   “MONEY!” yells everyone else. I mime it.

   “Juicy,” says Pat Burridge. “Because when you’re in the field, nine out of ten people you pitch are going to be negative. But every one in ten is going to be a positive. And that’s a scientifically proven law of averages. Juicy?”

   “JUICY!” yells everyone. I’m up to a whisper.

   “Now, I’m going to demonstrate, by way of a little role playing, how you can turn those negatives.”

   Ohh, not again…

   “So, I need two faces. Habib and you.”

   He nods at me and I follow Habib into the centre of the room.

   “Right,” says Pat Burridge, “you be a negative and Habib will demonstrate how easy it is to turn you into a positive.”

   Habib gets his merchandise bag and approaches me.

   “Good morning,” he says, flashing the ivories.

   “Morning,” I say lazily.

   “I’m from a company called Chariot.”

   “Are you selling stuff?”

   ”Well, we are doing a one-off promotion in the area today–”

   “So, you’re selling stuff.”

   “Yes, but–”

   “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SHOP BEFORE I CUT YOUR NUTS OFF AND TURN THEM INTO CUFFLINKS YOU LOW LIFE PIECE OF SHIT.”

   Habib stops in his tracks, stunned by my negative response. The room is silent. Pat Burridge is looking around his nose at me. I turn to face the crowd and support from my pal Phil Kennedy but he simply stands there with a hand over his face.

   “Juicy?” I say.

   Apparently not.

2.six

“Murray isn’t seeing Dustbin Tits anymore,” I say, easing my aching feet into a bowl of cold water.

   “Really?” says Roper, hovering over the armchair with one hand between his legs. “Probably for the best.”

   I watch him from the comfort of my sofa, “What are you doing?”

   “Just making sure the gusset of my pants isn’t caught or wrapped around anything before I sit down,” he replies and drops slowly back into the seat. “That’s why I never go to the pictures.”

   “I’ve been to the pictures with you,” I say, drinking some red. “We saw Sirens together.”

   “Yeh,” says Roper, “but I went commando.”

   “Oh.”

   “Anyway,” he says, spreading his legs, “you can talk.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Sitting there with your feet submerged in water.”

   “I’m none the wiser.”

   “I could never do that,” he sniffs, leaning forward to pick up his beer. “That’s why you’ve never seen me in the bath.”

   “Why would I have ever seen you in the bath?”

   “If my feet submerge in water they start to ache between the toes. Who knows what I would have done in the bad old days before showers.”

   “Peed on them, I expect.”

   Roper considers this, “Possibly…”

   I sigh and we drink in silence.

   “So how’s the new career going?” asks Roper after a couple of moments.

   “It isn’t,” I groan. “I honestly don’t know why I’m still doing it. It’s more soul destroying than a conversation with you.”

   “Commission only, eh?” Roper gives a sharp intake of breath. “How are you surviving on that?”

   “I’m not. I’m currently picking off the bones of my redundancy package.”

   “Pack it in, I would,” says Roper firmly.

   As if I’d take advice from him.

   “I’m going to give it another week. If I don’t start making some serious dough, then it’s down the road.”

   “That’s what I like to hear,” says Roper heartily and raising his glass. “Decisive action.”

   “Oh, shut up Roper. What would you know about decisive action?”

   “Well…”

   “Have you finished with Gussie yet?”

   “Well, no…”

   “Are you going to finish with her?”

   “I…it’s in the timing…”

   “So shut up.”

   This sales job is making me incredibly irritable. But it’s okay to be incredibly irritable with someone like Roper because he’s the kind of person who doesn’t register straight away when people have got the arsehole with him.

   I raise my glass.

   “To Gussie,” I say.

   Roper grins and leans forward with his beer and we clink, “To direct sales.”

   It’s a sad day when the only toast two people can come up with is for a girlfriend who has the personality of Vlad the Impaler and the body of an iron lung, and my dog’s cock of a job.

2.five

Somewhere in north-west London and my armpits are drowning in a rare British heatwave.  Roberto and Vicky are sitting in the front of the car talking excitedly about how they are going to clean-up today in sales so they can ‘ring the bell’ back at the office, an actual bell on the wall that announces to everyone else that they’ve hit their target.  It’s only my first week and I hate that bell. I loathe everything about this direct sales business I’ve wittingly gotten myself into but I’m still here doing it, slouching on the back seat of a Vauxhall Corsa listening to two young would-be entrepreneurs banging on about how lucky they are not to be confined to an office job.

   Vicky, who’s driving, calls back at me over the Enrique CD, “Feeling juiced about today?”

   “I’m practically soaking,” I say.

   Roberto turns round in his seat, his perfectly groomed mug gleaming confidently back at me.

   “I’m gonna make sure you smash it this afternoon, my friend,” he says. If he had spots they’d just slide off.

   “Great,” I say. “I so desperately want to ring that bell.”

   “How bad do you want it?” says Roberto with a clenched fist in the air.

   “So badly it makes me want to be physically sick,” I say.

   “My man,” says Roberto and turns back.

   “Here we are,” chimes Vicky and pulls over to the side of a leafy suburb.

   “Are there any shops around here?” I ask.

   “You’d be surprised where we find places to sell,” says Vicky. “Chances are we’ll come across a little precinct of shops or a business park that’s never even been touched by any sales company.”

   We all get out of the car and Roberto gets the merchandise bags from the boot.

   “Let’s split up,” he says.

   “Good idea,” says Vicky. She points back the way we came, “I’ll go down there.”

   “I’ll go this way,” says Roberto, pointing in the opposite direction.

   “Meet back here in two hours,” says Vicky. “Juice.”

   “Juice,” says Roberto.

   “Juice,” I say and then they both strut off with admirable determination. I stand there adrift for a couple of minutes until they are suited and booted specks on the horizon and then I survey my surroundings. A prosperous-looking avenue if ever I saw one. I put the bag over my shoulder and cross the road. My shirt sloshes around on my back as I daydream of towels and air-conditioning.  After about forty minutes I do indeed chance upon a small row of shops. Kudos to Vicky, she’ll definitely make a guest appearance in my next wet dream. The first business is an estate agency, who promptly tell me to “fuck off” as soon as I open my mouth. I’ve had a lot of that over the past week. The next place is a pet shop. I don’t get sworn at but I’m sure if I had feelings I’d probably cry my sorry arse out of there and go back to the stone I crawled out of earlier and duly rue the day I ever set foot in that establishment.

   The next place is closed down. Good, I think to myself.

   Just after that is an alleyway and then a florist. I sigh wearily to myself and then enter. I make immediate eye contact with the woman behind the counter.

   “Hello,” she says sweetly.

   “Hi,” I say.

   “How may I help?” she asks, “you wish to buy flowers?”

   “I’m actually from a music company,” I say.

   Her thick eyebrows raise slightly, “Music company?”

   “Yes,” I say, “we’re doing a promotion in the area today for businesses that play music.”

   “But I don’t play music here.”

   “Right. It’s just that we’ve finished for the day and we have some CDs left over so my boss told us to go and see if any other businesses wanted them. We’re doing really good deals on what we have left. What kind of music do you like?”

   “Me?” she says, placing a hand across her ample chest, “I don’t know…all kinds I suppose. What do you have?”

   “A bit of everything,” I say, taking the bag off my shoulder and placing it on the counter. She steps forward out of curiosity as I open it. She looks inside.

   “You have R and B?” she asks.

   “I think so…” I say and reach in for the three disc set of loathsome ‘flavas’.

   She takes it from me and looks at the back of the case.

   “You’ve probably seen it advertised on MTV,” I say.

   She nods because I nod.

   “Can I play it?” she asks.

   “Yeh,” I say. “Why not.”

   She disappears out the back and I take my jacket off. There’s a mirror behind some wreaths and I look at the ocean spreading across my back. I hear music begin and after a few seconds she reappears behind the counter.

   “Your shirt is soaking wet,” she says.

   “I know,” I say, “I must be working too hard.”

   “Would you like a towel?”

   I turn round, “That would be ace, thanks.”

   “Come around.”

   I follow her out the back and lean against the cutting table until she hands me a towel. I pull out my shirt and shove the towel up my back. She bobs slightly to the music and then turns to me.

   “That won’t work,” she says, walking slowly towards me, “take off your shirt.”

   I do as I’m told and she takes the towel off me and rubs it on my back, resulting in some interference in the pants area. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away.

   “It’s been hot the last few days, hasn’t it?” she says.

   “Extraordinarily so,” I say.

   “I like this music,” she says softly as she runs the towel down my spine, “you like it too?”

   “I never listen to anything else.”

   “It’s lovers’ music.”

   “Lucky them.”

   A set of fingers slip into my waistband and slide round to the front. I tense at first but then decide to let whatever is about to happen happen. Yep, I think, there it is.

   Twenty minutes later I’m flat on my back on the cutting table breathing heavily with a hand over my mouth while the woman, whose name is Vedia, serves some customers. She comes back after a few minutes.

   “You need to go now,” she says. “This is my brother’s shop and he will be back soon.”

   I sit up and start dressing.

   “So,” I say, “do you want the R and B set? It’s only fifteen pounds.”

   She wrinkles her nose and puts her hair in a black scrunchy, “I don’t think so. I probably have most of these songs on my ipod. It was lovely meeting you, though.”

   She hands me the CD and I drop it in my case.

   “Don’t look so disappointed,” she says. “We had fun.”

   “Yes,” I say, “we had fun. But I need to go and make some money. My wine cellar is looking very under-nourished as of late.”

   She gives me a peck on the cheek and ushers me towards the back door and into the alley.

   “I hope you make your millions,” she says.

   “I will,” I say.

   “And when you do, think of me.”

   “I’ll say it with flowers,” I say and she closes the door.

   Another backstreet, another door in the face.

2.four

“So when am I going to meet this amazing guy?”

   Molly fishes in her soup with her spoon.

   “I don’t know,” she says idly. “I’m not sure he’s ready to meet anyone yet.”

   “What does that mean?” I ask, realising just a little too late that my coffee is still way too hot. I hold the cup up and scrutinize it.

   “What are you doing?” asks Molly as she scoops out a cruton.

   “Looking for the thermostat.” I put the coffee cup back on the table. “So what’s wrong with this guy?”

   “Why does there have to be something wrong with him?”

   “Okay, what’s his name?”

   “Dean.”

   “Dean?”

   “Yes, Dean. I suppose you have some problem with that?”

   “Not at all. He’s one of the few people in the world who have their very own forest.”

   “Whatever,” says Molly. “Honestly, you’re such a bloody snob.”

   “At least it’s better than Rudolph.”

   “RANDOLPH.”

   “Right. So what’s Dean’s second name?”

   Molly clears her throat and has a mouthful of soup.

   “I knew it,” I say, clicking my fingers.

   “Knew what?”

   “His second name. It’s something really embarassing like Nancy or Colon, isn’t it?”

   “No.”

   “Is his second name Dean?”

   “Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid,” groans Molly as she drops her spoon in the bowl. “Dean Dean?”

   “Stranger names have happened.”

   “If you must know,” says Molly, “he doesn’t have a last name.”

   “Come on…”

   “I’m serious. He had one – which, incidentally, he hasn’t disclosed- but now he doesn’t.”

   “Aaaah…” I say, giving the coffee another try which makes me wince. “So, he changed his name by deed poll…”

   “Yes.”

   “…to Dean.”

   “Almost.”

   “How almost?”

   Molly sighs and spreads her fingers out on the table. She really doesn’t seem to want to talk about this but I must know. I must!

   “He changed his name to Virtual Dean.”

   I cough up some scalding coffee and put my hand to my mouth.

   “Virtual Dean? That’s not a name.”

   Molly shrugs, “Something to do with virtual reality or something. He told me that’s what his friends used to call him. One of his favourite films was ‘The Flymo Kid’.”

   “I think you mean ‘The Lawnmower Man’.”

   “Whatever. Anyway, I personally think he just started calling himself that to give himself a point of interest.”

   “Yeh,” I say, “Deans can be like that sometimes.” I take another mouthful of coffee. “I can’t drink this, it’s too low grade. I should have had orange juice.”

   “Anyway,” says Molly, “he’s nervous about meeting people I know.”

   “I’m not surprised,” I say, picking up the beverage menu, “with a name like Virtual Dean.”

   “I want to break him in gently.”

   Molly’s phone vibrates.

   “Speaking of which, that’s him texting me. I’ve got to go. Finished with your coffee?”

   “Virtually.”

   “I’ll call you later.”

   Molly gets up just as Murray enters the cafe.

   “Hey people,” says Murray, slapping the table with his rolled-up newspaper.

   “I’m just going,” says Molly.

   “Something I said?” chuckles Murray.

   “Not yet,” says Molly as she puts on her coat. She waves her hand and leaves as Murray sits down in her place. He looks at the remains of her soup.

   “Molly’s got a new fella,” I say, deciding to stick it out with the coffee.

   “Really? Anyone we know?”

   “His name is Virtual Dean.”

   Murray gives me a blank look, followed by a thousand yard stare, “Don’t think I know him.”

   “Well, at least you tried.”

   “Did you hear from Ruth?” he asks as he dips a finger in the soup.

   “She’s in Sydney visiting an old flatmate,” I say. “Did you hear about the funeral?”

   “Coy Johnson’s funeral? What happened?”

   “Apparently they gave him a big porn star send off in the U.S. They had him boxed up in a penis-shaped coffin.”

   Murray gives another thousand yard stare, “Penis-shaped…I wonder what they would have used to represent the throbbing veins…Strands of purple licquorice maybe…?”

   “They wanted to fire him into the furnace hatch…”

   “…Rhubarb strips…?”

   “…But there was a malfunction and he shot the other way straight down the aisle…”

   “…Stick-on purple felt…?”

   “…So instead of coming he went.”

   “Would you be able to find out for me?”

   I spin my coffee cup around between my fingers, “Anyway, Ruth didn’t go. She’s wiped the slate clean.”

   “Good for her,” says Murray.

   “That’s what I said.”

   “So when do we meet him?” asks Murray as he sniffs a fingerfull of soup.

   “Who?”

   “This Virtual Dean guy.”

   “You want to meet him?”

   “Yeh, why not?”

   “You actually want to meet a guy who calls himself Virtual Dean?”

   “With a name like Virtual Dean,” says Murray as he wipes his finger on the table, “it would be criminal not to.”

   I hold my nose and take a sip of the black stuff.

   “I wish this coffee was virtual.”

2.three

“I’m going to be straight with you,” says Pat Burridge as he leans back into the leather chair on the other side of the desk. “I didn’t get to run this company by smothering someone’s arse with my face.”

   “Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my legs so that I look relaxed yet serious.

   “Look at this face,” says Pat Burridge, placing a chubby finger on his chin. “Does this look like the kind of face that would be found associating itself with someone’s arse?”

   “Absolutely not,” I say. His whole face resembles an arse.

   “This is the kind of face that steps on arses, not smothers them.”

   Pat Burridge lets his fingers slide down the knot of his tie.

   “So you want to come and work here at Chariot.”

   “Absolutely,” I say.

   “Ever done sales before?”

   “Never.”

   Pat Burridge says nothing for a few moments. Instead he strums his fingers on the desk. Then he stands up and walks to the window which overlooks a railway line.

   “I’m going to be straight with you,” he says. “I make a shitload of money.”

   “Great,” I say.

   “It’s a lot of hard work going out into the field every day. You’ve got to be tough, a fighter. Bend people over and screw the cash out of them.” He turns from the window. “Do you think you’re up to it?”

   “Absolutley,” I say, although I’m fairly certain I’m actually not.

   “You’ll be taking a lot of crap and a lot of rejection. A lot of people can’t take a lot of crap and rejection. What about you?”

   “Oh, I think you’ll find that I take rejection on the chin and eat crap for breakfast.”

   “I like your style,” says pat Burridge. “But I don’t like your shoes.”

   He walks over and stamps one of his feet onto the desk.

   “Feel that,” he says.

   I slowly lean forward and touch the black leather with the tip of my finger.

   “Impressed?” he says.

   “I’m speechless,” I say, making sure my face stays beyond the orbit of his arse.

   “I thought you would be,” grins Pat Burridge with self satisfaction. “I had them hand built five years ago and they’re as good as new. Do you know that if a herd of buffalo on ecstasy came charging through this office and stamped all over our heads and balls, my feet would be the only part of you and I to survive because of these shoes?”

   “That’s dazzling.”

   “It’s like I’m wearing a pair of tanks.”

   Pat Burridge slides his tank off the desk and sits back down.

   “This business,” he says as he runs a hand through his hair, ” is all about manipulation. We are manipulated twenty four hours a day through visuals, soundtracks and stinks. They make us remember things and create impulses within us to buy what we don’t have. With me?”

   “I am indeed.”

   “Only the other day I was in a gents standing at the urinal sandwiched inbetween two men with massive wangers – and I’m no Snickers Funsize – and it immediately reminded me of that Paul McCartney song.”

   ” ‘We All Stand Together’?”

   “No, ‘Jet’. The point is I immediately found myself running to buy All The Best! Impulse is a mystical product of the unknown…”

   Pat Burridge hums to himself for a few seconds then looks me in the eye.

   “Now, let’s talk about the salary.”

   “Great.”

   “There isn’t one.”

   “I’m sorry?”

   “This is a commission only business. How much you earn depends on how much you sell. That’s why all of our field people have such a high level of motivation.”

   “I thought the ad said ‘40,000+OTE’?”

   “That is correct; forty thousand pounds On Target Earnings.”

   “‘OTE’ stands for ‘On Target Earnings’?”

   “Well of course it does. What did you think it stood for?”

   “‘Own Transport Essential’.”

   Pat Burridge guffaws into the air for an unflattering length of time. “This is a business-to-business operstion; having your own transport is far from essential.”

   “I see,” I say, feeling very foolish, especially seeing as I don’t even own a car anyway.

   Pat Burridge leans forward, “Still interested?”

   I know I’m going to regret this.

   “Yes,” I say, “I’m still interested.”

   “Top tits,” says Pat Burridge as he springs to his feet. he stretches a hand across the formica. “Lenny, our administrator, will set up an observation day for you.”

   I stand up and we shake hands; it’s like grabbing hold of warm plasticine.

2.two

“So what was her name?” asks Molly as she closes her phone.

   “I don’t think it ever got that intimate,” I reply as I stretch my legs out on Murray’s two-seater.

   Molly leans forward and picks up the copy of Vanity Fair from the coffee table. “He still has this? It’s nearly three years old.”

   “If I had a house I’d probably get a conservatory fitted like hers,” I say.

   “Surely you don’t fit conservatories,” says Molly, fanning the pages without looking at them, “you construct them.”

   The toilet flushes and Murray strolls in to the lounge fastening his belt.

   “Well, that one came out kicking and screaming,” he says.

   “Do you mind…” groans Molly wearily.

   “Don’t crease that magazine.”

   I look at my watch, “Are you ready now?”

   “Yeh,” replies Murray. “Just needed to throw some passengers overboard.”

   Out on the street, Molly checks her phone again.

   “I’m going to leave you two to your sordid evening.”

   “You’re not coming to the Cloisters?” I say. “It’s 3-for-1 Tuesday.”

   “I have to meet someone,” says Molly.

   “Mind you don’t get a dose,” says Murray.

   “I’ve just been sitting in your flat so it’s probably too late. See ya.”

   And with a wave Molly wanders off down the street. Murray and I start walking the other way.

   “Hey,” says Murray after a few moments, “Guess who I spent Saturday night with.”

   “Bruce Hornsby And The Range?”

   “Tanya Cole.”

   “Who?”

   “You remember…”

   Do I? I don’t think so…Oh, wait, yes I do…

   “Not Dustbin Tits?”

   “Please,” groans Murray, “why does everybody still have to call her that?”

   “It suits her,” I say, “or should I say them?”

   “Anyway,” continues Murray, “we spent a very romantic evening together and I found her nothing short of charming and attentive.”

   “Eeugh…” I mutter.

   “What do you mean ‘eeugh’?”

   “You’d better get yourself checked out, never mind Molly.”

   “So you’re saying she’s a slag?”

   “Come on,” I say. “She’s got ALL YOU CAN EAT FOR A TENNER tattooed on her navel.”

   “She explained that, actually,” says Murray defiantly.

   “Oh, really,” I say.

   “Yes. She used to sell nuts from a tray at illegal cage fights and one day her blouse got torn and she lost her price list so her supervisor wrote it on her stomach, only it was permanent ink.”

   I look at him for a minute as we walk. He seems convinced.

   “She’s desperate to get it removed,” he says quietly.

   “Who wouldn’t be?” I say.

   “It doesn’t make her a bad person.”

   “Certainly doesn’t.”

   “She’s very misunderstood.”

   “That’s just the way it is.”

   We cross the road as the Cloisters comes into view.

   “Anyway,” I say as I glance left and right, “I thought Dustbin Tits was going out with Sensible Pants?”

   Murray shakes his head as we reach the other side, “No, that was just a one off. Actually, I heard that Sensible found out he’s a quarter Scottish. Or is it an Eighth Scottish?”

   We arrive at the pub door, resplendant with smokers.

   “Really?” I say.

   “Yeah,” says Murray. “So now everyone’s calling him Reasonable Kilt.”

   “Has he started wearing a kilt then?”

   “No,” says Murray, pulling open the door, “but apparently he never wore pants either.”

2.one

I awake to find my face imprisoned in plastic and the nauseating fragrance of stale cigarettes making unwelcome progress in my nasal cavity. It’s dark and uncomfortable and I bring myself to an upright position. I don’t know where I am or where I’ve been. I put my hands up to my head and let my fingers crawl across the moulded aperture. I hear someone stir beside me and tentatively reach out and touch hair, then a face. I recoil as the face suddenly moves and I hear a low, sleepy female moan.

   I slowly stand up from what seems to be a sofa and get the feeling that I am much taller than I actually am. I pat myself down and realise that not only am I naked but it is pitch black and I don’t know where my clothes are. I pull at the plastic but it won’t move. I try and see through the slits in front of my eyes and then I notice a rectangle of muddy amber just ahead of me. I stretch out my arms and zombie over to it until my hands touch cold glass. I then get down on all fours and scrape along the carpet until I find some clothing and eliminate by touch what can’t be mine. After finding a pair of trousers, a shirt and some shoes I decide to sod the underwear and sweater and leave. I dress quickly and and turn back to the window. I feel along the sill until I find the handle. I ease the window and it slides sideways as far as it will go. I give myself a couple of deep breaths and pull myself up onto the sill and drag one leg up followed by the other. I wait there for a moment to listen for any movement. Then I count to five, missing out two, three and four, and roll out.

   A second later my fall is broken by lots of objects that break very easily and very noisily and, unable to grab onto anything, I find myself sliding off a ledge and hitting the floor right side first. A long groan finds its way from inside me as I lay there stiff as a board. The two slits in front of my eyes suddenly become lines of white light.

   “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” comes the northern female voice.

   “Where am I?” is all I can say.

   The voice is closer this time, “The bloody kitchen.”

   An arm pulls me up and leans me back against something solid.

   “Oh, yeh,” I say. “I was just getting a glass of water.”

   “Really,” she says flatly.

   “Yes.”

   “Well why didn’t you come through the door instead of climbing through the bloody conservatory window?” Her voice moves away again. “Just look at me bloody plates. And why are you still wearing that bloody Porky Pig mask?”

   “Is that what it is? It won’t come off.”

   All of a sudden the plastic gets ripped from my face and I shut my eyes to block out the kitchen strip light.

   “And,” she continues, “you’re wearing my blouse which, by the way, you don’t have the tits for.”

   I open my eyes gradually to let everything come into focus and look at the woman standing before me wearing nothing but an old Bay City Rollers tee shirt.

   “Bay City Rollers?” I say, straightening myself up.

   “Not again,” she says wearily. “You went on about this tee shirt last night for nearly a bloody hour while we were at it. I haven’t heard anyone prattle on like that since my first bloody husband. And all he ever talked about was bloody mushrooms.”

   “I don’t really like mushrooms,” I say vacantly.

   “Just as well the silly old bugger’s dead then,” she says. “Now then; are you coming or staying? Because it’s four o’clock in the bloody morning and I need my beauty sleep.”

   You’re not bloody joking either, I think to myself.

   “I reckon I could probably lie down for a bit,” I say weakly.

   “Right,” she sighs. “Well, come on then. Maybe this time you might be able to make it up the stairs.”

   She holds out a hand and I take it. I follow her out of the kitchen and we start up the staircase. As we get to the top she turns and gives me a kiss.

   “So what did your husband do?” I ask.

   “A hundred and ten into a traffic island,” she says and turns away, pulling me towards a doorway.

   “What was your name again?” I ask as we enter.

   “That’s funny,” she replies, “I was about to ask you exactly the same thing.”

twenty eight

Ruth’s wedding. Thirty or so naked guests, myself included. One (fully dressed) registrar on a backhander.

   “Congratulations,” I say inbetween cheek kisses. “Happy?”

   Ruth Johnson, nee Newton-Hart, smiles at me, wide-eyed and beaming, “Absolutely.”

   There’s something behind those hazel eyes. I try to look elsewhere but I’m prevented from doing so due to the fact that Ruth is naked, and even though she seems too happy to care I just can’t let my eyes wander across her body.  Instead I let my gaze fall on the purple faced Registrar who is getting in as many eyefuls as he can before the next normal wedding service.  Not that many of Ruth’s friends are here, only the more game ones plus Murray, Roper and myself.

   “So how did you find a Registrar who’d be susceptible to a bribe?” I ask.

   “A friend of mine knows Mr Jenkins,” she says, nodding to the beige-suited Registrar. “He’s broke so he was an easy target for some fast cash.” She looks at my wrist, “You could have left your watch on the bus with the rest of the clothes, y’know.”

   “No, I couldn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d have just felt naked without it.”

   “You are naked,” says Ruth.

   “Don’t remind me,” I sigh, having another sudden pang of self-consciousness.

   “Oh, come on,” she laughs. “I think you boys have shown terrific sportsmanship by taking part in all this. Not like a lot of people I know. I’m not surprised Molly opted to stay on the coach.”

   “Yeh, she wouldn’t be caught dead naked in public,” I say. “I reckon she came out of the womb rolled up in an Axminster carpet.”

   Murray strolls over, swaying his hips a little to give him a bit of extra swing.

   “Great ceremony,” he says.

   “Thanks,” replies Ruth.

   “Nice birthday suit,” I say. “Oxfam?”

   Murray gives me the finger, “Coy wants to speak to you, Ruthie.”

   Ruth nods and heads over to one corner of the room where her new husband is holding court with a bunch of his porn star pals.

   Murray leans in close, “There’s a lot to be said for the power of the mind…I’ve managed to keep the old soldier sedated the entire time.”

   “Good for you,” I say.

   “Ladies and Gentlemen!” calls Coy Johnson loudly. “I’m afraid we have a slight problem…”

   Here we go…

   “As you know the coach is having to drive around the area due to the lack of available parking. Well, I’m afriad the driver has just called to say he’s broken down in the traffic…”

   There are various rumblings of dissent.

   “What about our clothes?” asks Alison, a pert blonde friend of Ruth’s.

   Good point. All of our clothes and most of our possessions are on the coach, along with Molly. I bet she’s loving this right now.

   “Well,” says Coy, slyly looking Alison up and down, “that is cause for concern as we can’t stay here due to the fact that there is another wedding service in ten minutes time.”

   It had to happen, I think to myself. It should have been a simple in and out job; straight in from the rear of the Registry Office from the coach door and back again without anybody else having to see our nude flesh at all. But no.

   “Please,” calls Ruth, “if anyone has any ideas, now’s the time.”

   Murray raises his hand and says, “I’ve got a great idea!” He points to me, “His place is right round the corner, almost.”

   “No it isn’t,” I blurt.

   “You’re right, Murray,” says Ruth, staring directly at me along with everyone else in the room. “We could easily get to yours in around five minutes if we take those backstreets.”

   “No way,” I say solidly. “And that’s non-negotiable.”

   …I can’t elaborate enough how ridiculous I feel leading the charge of thirty naked  wedding-goers through the backstreets of London in broad daylight. The number of times I go red as we thunder past pedestrians and delivery vans who give us reactions varying from disgust to cheers via bewilderment. This barefoot running makes me aware how soft the soles of my feet are; I’m going to buy all my shoes dinner when we are reunited. I reach the last corner that leads to where the entrance of my block is and stop, resting a hand against the wall. The others all come to a halt behind me. I look back at them, huddling together in the cold afternoon air.

   “What are you waiting for?” pants Murray.

   “I don’t have any keys, do I,” I say between breaths. “You’ll all have to wait here a minute while I ring next door’s buzzer.”

   “Hurry up,” whispers Murray, “it’s cold…”

   I dart round the corner, up the steps and into the metal porch, one hand hitting the buzzer to old Mrs Robinson’s flat. I press myself into the porch wall and cover my crown jewels. Finally there is an answer:

   “Hello?” the speaker cackles.

   “Hello!” I say cheerily, “Mrs. Robinson?”

   “Oh, hello dear,” she recognises my voice instantly. “Are you locked out again?”

   I need to stop taking advantage of her.

   “Yes I am, I’m afraid.”

   “Oh, dear,” she says.

   The door clicks open and I open the door. Just as I’m about to enter a tide of flesh piles past me and my entourage charge in, something heavy striking me on the back of the head as they go. I drop to the floor from the blow. As the guests dash past me, following Murray and Ruth up the stairs, I hear Roper yell ’sorry’. I sit up and see him standing at the foot of the stairs holding a coffee perculator on his right shoulder.

   “What’s that?” I say, getting to my feet.

   Roper taps the appliance proudly, “I couldn’t help myself.”

   “You stole a perculator from the Registry Office?” I say in disbelief.

   It’s then that I remember Mrs Robinson who will be waiting patiently on the fourth floor with my spare set of keys: “Oh, shit!”

   I race past Roper up the stairs to the fourth floor. The wedding guests are squashed tight in the corridor. I can see that Mrs Robinson’s door is shut. As I squeeze through I notice that they are all standing over Ruth who has old Mrs Robinson’s head resting in her lap. Ruth stares up at me apologetically.

   “I think it’s been a while since she last saw a whizzer.”

   “Tell me she’s not dead,” I say, sweating way too much for a man with no clothes on.

   “No,” says Ruth, stroking Mrs Robinson’s forehead, “she’s just in shock.”

   “Well,” I say, relieved, “let’s get her back into her place.”

   “We can’t,” says Alison, “when she collapsed her cardigan got hooked on the door handle and pulled the door shut.”

   “Yeh,” adds Murray, “the only keys she has on her are yours.”

   “Brilliant,” I say. “Well, let’s drag her in to my place then.”

   Murray opens the door to my flat and a couple of pornos carry Mrs Robinson in, the rest of us quietly shuffling in after them. I close the door behind me and let out a huge sigh. I go into the lounge where everybody is thankfully spreading out. The two pornos are standing in the centre of the lounge still holding Mrs Robinson by the arms and legs.

   “Where do you want Dirk and Smiley to put the old woman?” asks Ruth.

   “Put her on my bed,” I say. “Just through there.”

   Dirk and Smiley follow my finger and disappear. I go into the kitchen and assemble all the alcohol I can find, which is no small amount; eleven bottles of red wine, two slabs of lager, a bottle of cheap tequila and a couple of bottles of awful vodka that I don’t think is mine. Everyone helps themselves to these and the bottles of spirits in the lounge cabinet and someone turns the hi-fi on. Ruth comes over to me in the arm of Coy Johnson.

   “This is really sweet of you,” says Ruth, placing a hand on my arm.

   I smile thinly, “I’m going to put some clothes on. Do you want to borrow something to wear?”

   “I’ll ask. Hang on.”

   “No, I didn’t mean–”

   “Hey!” yells Ruth, “Does anybody want to borrow some clothes until we touch base with the coach?”

   A few people say yes and Ruth winks at me as she leads a dozen or so people towards my bedroom. Coy Johnson slaps Alison on the arse as she goes past and she makes an exaggerated hop in the air.

   I give up and have a drink of wine.

   “You’re a true English gent,” drawls Coy Johnson as he opens a beer. He lightly punches me on the shoulder, “I respect that.”

   “Respect Ruth,” I say as I open the washing machine. “Look after her.”

   “You got it, buddy,” says Coy Johnson.

   I put on a pair of track bottoms and a sweater as my landline rings in the lounge.

   “Yeh?”

   “Thank God,” says Molly. “I just called the Registry Office and the guy said you’d all made a run for it. How’s it going?”

   “Don’t ask,” I say. “Right now I have thirty porn stars sampling my Winter Collection.”

   “The driver’s got the coach going,” says Molly. “With this traffic we shouldn’t take too long to get to yours.”

   “Great.”

   “Oh, and that Chess Pample-whatever has woken up and he’s still drunk and giving me the eye.”

   I’d forgotten about Chess Pamplemousse. He’d been passed out before I got on the coach earlier. I was hoping he’d stay out cold for the rest of this miserable experience.

   “Great,” I say. “Just hurry up.”

   I hang up and go back to the kitchen to pour myself another huge glass of wine. I lean against the counter and watch the parade of wedding guests filtering out from my bedroom wearing various items of my clothing – a pair of jeans here, a shirt there. And one guy wearing nothing but a pair of dog slippers I had when I was fourteen.

   Murray approaches clutching a bottle of gin.

   “I see you’ve decided not to raid my wardrobe then,” I say sullenly.

   “Ah,” says Murray, stroking his chest, “I’m happy with my body.”

   “I’m not happy with your body,” I say. “Go and put a dressing gown on.”

   “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

   “You’ve always made me uncomfortable,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of red. “Molly will be here soon. At least then you lot can put your own bloody clothes on.”

   Roper approaches, holding the percolator over his crotch, “Is there anywhere I can stick this?”

   “Yes,” I reply. “There is.”

   Molly lets herself in with my keys and walks in to the lounge followed by a swaying Chess Pamplemousse who is rapidly removing all of his clothes. The fact that just about everyone else is wearing at least something seems to go right over his big ridiculous face. He walks directly up to me, vague recognition twinkling in his piggy little eyes.

   “You look very familiar to me,” he says. “Have you been in one of my films?”

   “Not yet,” I reply and quickly turn to the bottle of red behind me. I sense that he might be about to pursue his line of enquiry but he suddenly cries out “Coy!” and leaves me alone.

   Murray creeps up behind my shoulder and hisses in my ear, “I’m going to get that bastard for cutting my scene.”

   “Please don’t cause any trouble,” I say. “Remember, this is Ruth’s big day.”

   “Ohhhh,” says Murray coldly, “he’ll get his, don’t you worry about that.”

   Molly is standing in the doorway of the hall, clutching a bottle of vodka and surveying the scene around her. The expression on her face would have made Mary Whitehouse look like a Bronx pimp. I make my way through the revellers and put a reassuring arm around her.

   “Have fun on the love bus?” I ask.

   “Piss off,” replies Molly. “All their clothes and crap are on the coach so will you let them know?”

   “I can’t be bothered to be honest with you,” I say; I’m feeling drunk already.

   “Well,” says Molly, “if you can’t be arsed then neither can I.”

   On which note she thrusts the neck of the vodka bottle between her lipstick. I leave her to it and make my way to my bedroom. When I get to the doorway I bump into Roper who is now wearing one of my towels around his waist, having left the percolator in the hall.

   “That old bird has come round,” he burps, dowsing me with bourbon breath.

   “Oh, shit, I forgot about her,” I groan. I step past him into the bedroom and see poor old Mrs Robinson sitting upright againsst the headboard looking dazed and considerably confused. in her hands is a pint glass that is being topped up with whisky by her two new suitors, Dirk and Smiley, who are lounging either side of her. They seem to be whispering dirty nothings into her hairy ears and she turns tomato red.

   Well, I think to myself, that’s her taken care of for the time being. Ruth hangs on my shoulder.

   “Hey, handsome, have you seen Alison anywhere?”

   “No,” I reply. “How pissed are you?”

   ”Well on the way, actually,” she says. “Thank Christ I have friends like you who drink too much.”

   “The coach is downstairs,” I say. “What time are we going to the club?”

   “Soon,” says Ruth, hiccupping into my armpit. “I just need to find Alison first. Girly talk, y’see.”

   “I understand,” I say and down my glass. “I’ll keep an eye out. And I don’t drink too much.”

   Ruth mouths ‘okay’ and tightens the cord on the blue jogging bottoms. I slip from her grasp and head for the bathroom. The queue of half a dozeen people redirects me to the kitchen. Along the way I pass Chess Pamplemousse spouting out tall tales of his exploits in porn to a bunch of willing dick disciples. I feel like telling him to get his foot off the sofa but open a bottle of wine instead.

   “I’ve got a present for you mate,” says Roper.

   “I don’t want a coffee percolator,” I say.

   “But you said you wanted me to steal you something.”

   “No, I didn’t,” I say, pouring. “You offered. I’m actually sorry you remember that conversation. In fact, I’m actually sorry I remember that conversation. In fact, I’d probably go as far as to say that I’m sorry I can remember any conversation we have ever had. Ever.”

   “Does that mean I can keep the percolator?”

   “Percolate away.”

   “You’re a star.”

   “You’re a cock.”

   “Cheers!” he says, raising a can. We clink and drink.

   I peer into the lounge and notice Murray circling Chess Pamplemousse and his merry band. I’m about to intercept when I hear raised and heated voices coming from down the hall. I see Alison thunder past in my jockey shorts and Elephant Stone tee shirt. She flies straight out the front door. I pour myself another drink, sink it, and go and have a look. There are the same group of guests still standing outside the bathroom door. I can hear shouting and screaming voices coming from inside which I recognise as belonging to Ruth and Coy Johnson. The door suddenly crashes open and Ruth rushes out, her eyeliner making narrow rivers through her blushing cheeks. She catches my eye briefly but doesn’t stop, carrying on out the front door. I look back and see Coy Johnson, one foot on the side of the bath, pulling up an old pair of swimming trunks. Suddenly, no one in the hall is talking anymore.

   I go to follow Ruth but Molly stops me.

   “I’ll go,” she says calmly. “He and her mate just did the dirty on her.”

   I sway gently in the hall and then go back to the kitchen again. Roper is now having a bolting session with Murray and a couple of buxoms, one with jet black hair, the other a platinum blonde. Blondie slides a shot glass my way.

   “No more Beatles left,” she says, “you’ll have to have an ordinary shot glass.”

   I hold it as it’s filled to the brim with rum and we all drink.

   “That’s the one, BABY!” says Murray, dragging a hand across his mouth.

   “Anybody fancy a coffee?” asks Roper.

   “Coffee’s for pussies,” snorts Murray, giggling in the faces of the two girls who are oblivious to his rapier wit.

   We all have a few more shots; Murray drinks from Lennon, Roper from Harrison, Blackhair from McCartney and Blondie from Ringo Starr. If only Stuart Sutcliffe had lived, I muse, I might not feel so left out.

   The phone rings again and I swagger over to it. I put a finger in my ear to block out the smug drunken ramblings of Chess Bloody Pamplemousse.

   “Y’ello?”

   “It’s me,” says Molly. “We have a problem.”

   “Is she alright?”

   “We’re in The Cloisters and she won’t come out of the Ladies’.”

   “Shit.”

   “Yeh. Look, can you come down? I’m no good at this.”

   “Okay,” I sigh. I’m no good at this either.

   I hang up and return to my little drunken set just in time for another round.

   “Listen,” I say to Murray and Roper. “I have to go out for a bit. Can you get all the gear off the coach and get this lot out of here. I think the party’s over now.”

   Roper gives me a giddy salute, “Yes, Constable.”

   Murray puts a hand on Blackhair’s shoulder, “I’m going to have a little chat with Mr Pamplemousse regarding my deleted scene.”

   “Don’t start any trouble while I’m gone,” I say.

   Murray holds up his hands, “I won’t. I just want to see my orgasm, that’s all.”

   I shake my head and realise I’m wasting time. I find a pair of flip-flops on top of my wardrobe and as I leave I try not to look at Mrs Robinson who is being handclapped into a striptease by Dirk and Smiley. Before I leave the flat I step into the bathroom where Coy Johnson is sitting on the edge of the bath with his head in his hands. He looks up and I punch him in the face, sending him sprawling back into the tub.

   I walk round the corner and into The Cloisters which is about half full. I find Molly standing outside the Ladies’.

   “See if you can get her to come out,” she says. “I’m all out of shouldes to cry on.”

   I feel way too drunk now to possibly deal with this, but also drunk enough to feel that glow of all-round sensitive nice guy. It’s easy to be a good listener when you’re too pissed to talk.

   “There’s no one else in there,” says Molly.

   I nod and enter the Ladies’. The cubicle door at the far end is closed and as I approach I can hear a shifting noise. I tap on the door.

   “Ruth, it’s me.”

   “I’m not coming out,” says Ruth. Bleeding hell, she sounds really upset.

   “Okay,” I say. I stand there for a moment feeling really stupid. “What if I come in?”

   I hear her sniff. Then I hear her lean forward and unlock the door. It swings open and she’s sitting on the toilet seat, make-up and hair a mess, clutching at tissue from the dispenser. She has one of my sports jackets pulled tightly around her.

   “Come in and close the door,” she says. Her voice sounds really hoarse. I step in and close the door behind me. I lean back and my neck touches the cold hook.

   “Is he still at yours?” she asks after a few moments.

   “I think so,” I say. “I doubt he’ll be there for long, though.”

   She shakes her head slowly, “I’ve been sooo stupid.”

   “It’s not your fault,” I say.

   She shakes herr head again, “No…no, you don’t understand. I’ve been stupid for as long as I can remember. Do you know I’ve been married before?”

   “Really?” I didn’t know that.

   She looks up at me to laugh once at my confused expession and then returns to her tissues.

   “When I was nine. I got married to Derek Thurlock. He said we could live together in a big house one day if I bought him all the He-Man toys. His best friend was the vicar…It sounds ridiculous now but at the time it was the best, most romantic thing in the world.”

   The wistful expression slips away from her face as though she recognises something deeply unpleasant.

   “Even he cheated on me. I caught him holding hands with another girl down the bottom fields. And guess who that was; that was Alison. My wonderful best friend. I mean, why did she have to do that again? She’s supposed to be my friend.”

   I put my hands behind my back, “Well, that’s the problem with friends. They let you down, pulling the rug out from under you when you least expect it. I should know.”

   “Well,” says Ruth resolutely, “she’s not my friend anymore. And as far as I’m concerned, Coy Johnson isn’t my husband.”

   “Good for you,” I say.

   She looks up at me and I can see it again behind the hazel eyes, ”Do you think I’m a bad person?”

   “You’re not a bad person,” I say. “You’re a shitty person.”

   Ruth suddenly sticks a hand in the jacket pocket. Her eyes light up as she pulls out an old cigarette packet. Inside, she finds three cigarettes and a lighter.

   “That’s not allowed anymore,” I say.

   Ruth pulls a slightly bent cigarette from the crumpled packet and lights it.

   “Fuck ‘em,” she says coldly. She offers me one and I take it. I lean awkward and drunk against the door as I smoke, keeping one ear on duty for anyone coming in.

   We finish smoking in silence and then she says, “Give me a minute?”

   I nod, stamp out the cigarette and step out of the cubicle.

   Molly is still outside.

   “Well?” she asks.

   “She’ll be out soon. I’m going back to the flat. Any sign of her treacherous friend?”

   “No,” says Molly, checking her phone. “She’d do well to lie low for a few decades.”

   I nod, “I’ll see you later.”

   The coach has gone by the time I get back to the flat. Roper is still in the kitchen doing shots with Blackhair and Blondie. The three of them are clearly wasted and trying to dirty dance with eachother. The lounge is empty but I can hear more shouting from the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar and I push it open.

   Murray and Chess Pamplemousse are still both naked and Murray has Chess bent over the toilet, trying to push his head down into the bowl.

   “GIVE ME MY ORGASM” screams Murray. “I WANT MY ORGASM!”

   Chess splutters something back  but Murray forces his head further into the toilet and flushes it.

   I leave them to it, closing the door as I retreat. My bedroom is also empty now; all my clothes are piled on the bed. I sit down and massage my eyes.

   “Triumphant day, wasn’t it.”

   I look up. Molly is standing in the doorway holding half a bottle of vodka and two glasses.

   “Glorious,” I reply. “How’s Ruth?”

   “She’s taxied home to set fire to Coy’s stuff.”

   “Good for her,” I say. We drink.

   “What’s going on in the bathroom?”

   “Murray’s giving Chess Pamplemousse the ceramic shampoo.”

   “Good for him,” says Molly.

   We have another drink.

   “I see you have a percolator,” says Molly.

   “Have it if you want it.”

   “Really? Thanks.”

   “Don’t mention it.”

   I hear Roper calling me and we go into the hall. He and his two companions, now fully dressed, are standing in the hallway giggling like naughty children.

   “What’s up?” I say.

   “We’re going on to club it into the night,” says Roper.

   “Good for you,” says Molly.

   They fall out of the door, nearly knocking over Mrs Robinson as they go.

   “Hello dear,” says Mrs Robinson, looking drunk and dirty. “I think I left an item of underwear in your room, young man.”

   “I’ll go and have a look,” I say. But before I can move, Dirk wraps his arm round her waist and they vanish back next door laughing to themselves.

   “Good for them,” I say.

   We have another drink.

   The bathroom door opens and Murray and Chess Pamplemousse stroll out, naked and arms around eachother’s shoulders. Chess’ perm is flattened and dripping over his face. They are engrossed in deep conversation about films and new adventures in porn. They disappear all palled-up into the lounge.

   “Good for them,” says Molly.

   We have another drink.

   “That’s the last of the vodka,” says Molly.

   My mobile rings in the kitchen and I find it neatly parked on top of my clothes.

   “How are you?” I say on answering.

   “I’ve just had a call,” says Ruth slowly.

   “From Coy?”

   “Coy’s dead,” says Ruth without emotion.

   “Wow,” is all I can say.

   “He was crossing the road around the corner from your block and he got knocked down by an old cream Sierra. Apparently.”

   Good for Rosie, I think to myself.

   “Do you need us to come over?” I ask.

   “No,” she says. “Not right now. Maybe tomorrow?”

   “Okay,” I say. “Tomorrow it is.”

   “Thanks babe,” she says. “Back to the drawing board.”

   Ruth rings off as Molly appears in the kitchen, propping herself up against the doorframe.

   “Coy Johnson’s dead and Rosie’s in the frame,” I say.

   “Who’s Rosie?” asks Molly.

   I sigh, “A story for another time.”

   “Good for Ruth,” says Molly. She holds up the bottle of cheap tequila and grins. “Look what I found.”

   “Good for us,” I say and slide my glass her way.

 

 

WEDNESDAY WEEK WILL RETURN MARCH 2009.

twenty seven

“You can’t be serious,” I say.

   The look on Murray’s face confirms that he most definitely is.

   “You heard what the man said,” says Murray, indicating Vance who has just joined us in the pub with a round of drinks.

    “So what,” I say and sink the rest of my pint followed by the vodka shot.

    Murray grabs Vance’s shoulder, “You’re a hundred per cent sure? It’s definitely being held today?”

    Vance nods, “Right now, in fact. Bootie told me herself last time I spoke to her.”

    Murray visibly flinches at the mention of Bootie Hadley. He’s quite clearly still hung up on her. Shame.

    Murray looks at me, “So what do you think?”

    “About what?”

    “About you and me slinking over to the porn auditions?”

    “What do you mean ‘you and me’? Why do I have to go?”

    Murray frowns, “You don’t want to come and help a friend?”

    “To do what? They cut your scene. Surely that tells you they don’t consider you adult feature material.”

    Murray tries to control his temper, “I don’t want to be in adult movies anymore.”

    I’m confused; “So why do you want to go to the auditions then?”

    Murray sighs impatiently, “I’m going to get my missing scene.”

    I look at him, dumbfounded, “You’re missing scene.”

    “Yes.”

    “Why?”

    “Because it’s mine and I’m in it. If anybody deserves to see it, it’s me.”

    “But there were two girls in it aswell,” I say.

    “I know,” says Murray, “and even though they both did sterling jobs, it’s a stone cold fact that I did all the donkey work.”

    I drink some of the pint that Vance bought, “but why do you think your missing scene would even be there?”

    “The audition is being presided over by none other than Chess Pamplemousse.”

    “So?”

    “The final edit of my film was done at the studio where the audition is taking place. All we have to do is sneak in, grab the master, and have it away on our toes.”

    This is a hare-brained scheme but the more I drink the more I like it.

    “Okay,” I belch, “I’ll tag along.”

    Murray slaps the table and lifts his drink, “Great!”

    We drink in silence. Then I turn to Vance.

    “So how about you?”

    “Well,” says Vance, “I’ve only had this pint so I can drive you over there. I’ve got my wheels outside.”

    “Even better,” says Murray, becoming increasingly more excited by the second. “We have a getaway car in case things go pear-shaped.”

    We finish our drinks and head out to the car park. Murray and I follow Vance over to a cream Sierra in the corner of the yard.

    “You have a Sierra?” I say incredulously.

    Vance glances at me, “Yeh, why?”

    “You weren’t a rep in a previous life were you?”

    “Nope.”

    We all get in; Murray up front and myself in the back behind him. Then I notice something to my right.

    “Jesus!”

    A middle aged shabby man is slumped asleep next to me, his head against the window. His clothes and hair are dark and scruffy. He also looks and smells damp.

    Murray spins round in his seat, “Who the hell is that?”

    Vance looks in the rear view mirror, “Oh, his name’s Rosie. He’s a flower seller. He was trying to sell cheap bouquets on the dual carriageway by Hanger Lane earlier.”

    “So why is sleeping in the back of your car?” I ask. “He smells.”

    Vance turns and looks over his shoulder, “I ran over him. I think he’s dead.”

    “He’s what?!” yells Murray.

    “Well,” shrugs Vance, “he might be.”

    “He certainly smells dead,” I say, winding my window down.

    Murray checks his watch, “Come on, let’s go.”

    Vance chugs the Sierra into existance and we lurch out of the pub car park and on to the main high street. Murray claps his hands together excitedly.

    “This is going to be so much fun.”

    “I need more booze,” I say.

    Vance cranes his head back, “There’s a bottle of brandy under my seat. Present from a client.”

    “What is it you do exactly?” I ask as I reach a hand between Rosie’s feet and pull out a bottle.

    “I have my fingers and toes in many pies, gentlemen,” says Vance.

    I look at the car we are travelling in, “One assumes…”

    I drink from the bottle and then hand it to Murray, who knocks back a big one.

    Thirty minutes later we’re outside a small business complex. Vance switches off the ignition and the Sierra sinks into a coma.

    “This is it,” he says.

    “Right,” says Murray, holding up the bottle, “let’s go.”

    “What about the flower guy?” I ask.

    “Oh, leave him,” says Vance, “he’ll stop anyone stealing the car.”

    We all get out. I drop the brandy bottle into the pocket of my overcoat and we head towards the entrance.

    “I’m feeling a bit pissed,” I mutter to Murray.

    “Me too,” he replies.

    We enter the complex which is milling with adult movie hopefuls waiting to go into the audition room. There is a main reception where newcomers are signing themselves in and receiving an A4 sized sticker with a number on it.

    “Right,” says Murray, “I’m going to hunt for the editing suite.”

    “I’m coming with you,” I say.

    “What for?”

    “I don’t want to be left here on my own.”

    “Why not?”

    “I’m drunk.”

    “So am I.”

    “Even more reason why I should come with you.”

    Murray throws his hands up in despair and walks off. As I follow him I hear Vance call out:

    “I’m going to stick around here and see if I can get any action!”

    Murray and I head up some stairs and onto a quiet corridor lined with doors on the left hand side. We bumble along in silence, stopping at each door so Murray can check. On the fifth door he squeals:

    “This is it!”

    “Hurry up, then,” I say. “I’m going for a wazz.”

    Murray goes into the room and I carry on down the corridor to look for a gents’. As I turn the corner at the end I come across a young bloke practicing thrust movements. He stops when he sees me and adjusts the big white sticker on his chest that reads ‘99′.

    “Hey!” he says shakily.”

    “Hey,” I say, “what are you doing?”

    “Ah,” he says nervily,” just getting in some last minute rehearsals, you know what I mean?”

    “Yes,” I laugh, “tell me about it. I’ve been doing push-ups on my tongue all day.”

    He extends a hand, “Chris Withers. My friends call me Pencil.”

    I shake his hand, “Rick…Cocker.”

    “Good to meet you. You done much work?”

    I take the brandy bottle from my coat and take a few gulps, “Oh, I had the led in Velvet Burger 6. You may have seen it.”

    Pencil looks confused and he reminds me of Plug from The Bash Street KIds. I hand him the bottle and he drinks a huge mouthful, coughing into his hand afterwards.

    “This your first time son?” I ask.

    Pencil hands back the booze, “Yeh…I mean, I’ve had sex hundreds of times; but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to, you know, perform in front of the judges.”

    “I can understand that,” I nod. “There’s a lot of people here today.”

    Pencil scratches his ear, “Say, Rick, can I ask you a question?”

    “Shoot,” I say as I shoot brandy.

    “What was it like, you know, the first time?”

    I exhale slowly and pass the bottle back, “Well, Pencil, it was tough, especially under the studio lights. And we didn’t have fluffers in those days so we had to do our own…fluffing. The girl I was with was a big-titted Russian called Pinky Way.”

    “Really?” says Pencil like an enchanted kid as he knocks a generous gulp of brandy down his throat – mostly on the outside. “She sounds hot!!”

    “Yes,” I say, all misty-eyed. “Died in the lotus position, apparently.”

    Pencil starts to sweat as he gives me the bottle, “I don’t think I can do this.”

    I drink some more, “Of course you can. You’re young, you can do anything.”

    Pencil shakes his head; he seems a little tipsy, “No, I can’t. Beverley was right, I’ll never be anything more than a pool guy.”

    He rips off the ‘99′ sticker and throws it to the floor. Then he grabs my arm as if to say something profound before thinking better of it and disappearing down the corridor. I lean back against the wall for a few minutes. Then I hear someone coming and look to see a woman in pigtails heading in my direction with a clipboard. Between us is the open door to the room where Murray is. I pick up Pencil’s ‘99′ sticker, slap it onto my chest and push the nearly empty bottle into my coat. Then I catch her eye and start walking towards her.

   “You look lost,” she says. Her name badge reads Claudia.

   “I am,” I say as soberly as I can. “I was just having a look for the gents’.”

   “They’re downstairs,” says Claudia, reading my chest and checking her clipboard. “Anyway, come on, they’re waiting for you.”

   I follow her like a little lamb down the corridor and down the stairs. Then we go through the crowd and into another small carpeted corridor. Claudia turns to me.

   “Now, just relax and remember to be as natural as you can.”

   “Natural,” I repeat. “Right.”

   “Experience is not an issue here. You’ll be judged on technical ability…”

   Negligible.

   “…girth…”

   Lamentable.

   “…and overall appearance…”

   Fifty million pieces.

   “…Ready?”

   Ohhh, this is such a bad idea…“Absolutely!”

   Claudia opens the door and I step inside. I’m in a deep room with a wooden floor and big lights on long legs. At the far end is a desk with three people sitting behind it; two guys and a woman in the middle. Scattered around the room are a handful of technical staff. The woman looks at my chest and then at her notes on the desk. I reckon she’s about forty.

   “Number 99…Chris Withers is it?”

   “Yes,” I reply, trying to not look at all pissed. “But my friends call me Pencil.”

   “I’m Helena,” she says in that nice way.

   “Hello, Helena.”

   “First time?”

   “Yes it is.”

   The man to her right, an unfeasibly orange thirtysomething, speaks. “Hi Chris, I’m Runt Smacktackle. How are you feeling?”

   “Terrified,” I reply.

   “Well, don’t worry. This is just the first round audition.”

   “Okay,” I say and smile really craply.

   Then it’s the other guy’s turn to talk. He’s about fifty or sixty with fading reddish hair that’s been permed to buggery and an Etch-A-Sketch face. And nobody should be allowed to cultivate that much chest hair. It looks like he’s got a poodle strapped round his neck.

   “Hi,” he says, “my name’s Chess Pamplemousse.” The words ooze from his mouth like gravy.

   At the mention of his name I do one of those chuckles that are fairly easy to disguise as a throat clearing exercise.

   “Are you alright?” asks Helena.

   “Fine,” I say, waving a hand.

   “I take it you have heard of me?” says Chess.

   “Er…yes, yes I have.”

   “Do you know why they call me Chess?”

   I knew that wasn’t his real name.

   “Er…” I say, “…because you’ve got four bishops?”

   Chess frowns, “No. It’s because I check all your mates!”

   Between me and him, one of us looks impressed. And it isn’t me.

   Chess taps his pen on the desk and runs his fingers through his poodle, “So why are you here?”

   I clear my throat, “I think I’ve got the Triple-X factor.”

   “Really,” says Chess flatly. “Has anyone ever told you this?”

   “Yes.”

   “Who?”

   “All my friends and family…” Uuuurrrrgghh…

   “So this is a big ambition for you.”

   “Yes. It’s all I’ve wanted to do since I was a little kid…” Jeeesus…

   “So what are we thinking?” says Runt Smacktackle to the other two.

   Helena looks me up and down with her head cocked sideways, “I’m thinking…launderette scene.”

   Chess and Runt nod, their mouths the shape of downturned horseshoes.

   “I concur,” says Chess. “Bring out the washing machine.”

   A couple of guys drag out a washing machine and set it up next to me. As they disappear a brunette babe walks on in a red robe and leans against the washer.

   “Okay,” says Helena, “strip please.”

   It’s at this moment that the full horror of the situation hits me. I slowly begin to remove my clothes while everyone else looks on with indifference. And then I’m standing there completely naked apart from my wristwatch.

   “Okay,” says Chess. “When you’re ready, Paula.”

   The model removes her robe to reveal disarmingly big breasts and we both stand there as all ayes are suddenly on me.

   “Do you need any assistance?” asks Helena.

   “Sorry?”

   I glance down and realise what she is referring to.

   “Ummmm…” I start.

   “Give him a hand, Paula,” says Helena tiresomely.

   Paula duly gives me a hand and despite this incredibly uncomfortable situation I somehow manage to make myself look ‘presentable’.

   “Okay,” says Helena. “Sheath him up.”

   Paula reaches into the robe pocket and pulls out a condom which she swiftly applies. Then she hops up onto the washing machine and pulls me between her legs…

   …What should be a very enjoyable experience is in fact a harrowing nightmare. I try and black out the fact that there are a bunch of people watching me, including a dude in a baseball cap who is filming it, and imagine it’s just another saturday night bunk-up. The alcohol freezes and pops in my head and I grab the edge of the Hotpoint for support as I feel my legs starting to buckle. After about ten minutes I decide to fake it and let out a few ‘oohs’ and ‘yehs’ towards the ceiling. Then I stop and let my head hang loosely between my shoulders.

   There is a nauseating silence in the room. Eventually, Helena speaks.

   “Okay. Thank you Paula.”

   Paula moves me to one side and slips off the washing machine. I stand there limply as she puts on her robe and strolls off.

   “What did you think, Runt?” asks Helena.

   Runt Smacktackle, I notice with some dismay, has a clipboard over his mouth and he is bright red and squinting tears of laughter.

   Helena turns to Chess, “Chess?”

   Chess sighs reflectively, “Okay, look. I’m going to be straight with you; it wasn’t the best performance we’ve seen today. It was wooden, unexciting, zero charisma. At times you were completely out of synch with eachother…it had all the eroticism of a Public Safety Film. It was karaoke sex.”

   “But–” I splutter.

   “Runt, yes or no?”

   Runt has regained his composure, “It’s a no from me.”

   “Helena?”

   “No, sweetheart,” she says sympathetically, “but don’t stop practising.”

   “It’s three no’s I’m afraid,” say Chess. “But thanks for coming.”

   I put my clothes back on and leave the audition room with my Alpha Male tail between my legs. As I head out into the holding area I pull the ‘99′ sticker off my pullover and scew it up. Vance trots over to me.

   “Hey, how’s it hanging?” he says.

   “In shame,” I reply miserably.

   “I met a woman,” he says cheerfully. “Her name’s Claudia.”

   “Great,” I say.

   Murray approaches sullenly.

   “Any joy?” I ask.

   “No,” says Murray defeatedly. “All I found was an old assembly edit of True Gritter.”

   “Come on,” I sigh, “let’s get out of here and go back to the pub.”

   We leave the complex that’s given me a complex and head into the car park.

   “Where’s the car?” asks Murray.

   “Oh, shit,” hisses Vance with his hands on his hips. “It’s been stolen.”

   “So much for Rosie,” I say, turning my collar up and reaching for the booze. After I finsh this bottle, I’m never drinking brandy again.

twenty six

“It had to happen really,” says Molly with a smug grin on her face.

   “Ah, shut up,” I say miserably. Though she is right. It did have to happen.

   “Temper temper,” cuts in Murray from behind his pint. “You tuned up?”

   He nods towards my guitar which is propped up against the table between me and Molly. I sigh ruefully   and let my eyes wander around The Pink Pony pub.

   “Yes, Murray, I am tuned up.”

   Molly turns to Murray and Roper who aren’t even bothering to disguise their glee, “I’m really looking forward to this. How about you guys?”

   “Definitely,” says Roper. He looks at me and wipes beer froth from his chin. “I’ve never heard you at all.”

   “You’re not missing much,” I say. “Trust me.”

   “You only have yourself to blame,” says Molly. “You should have turned up for Ruff’s gig; then you wouldn’t have lost the bet.”

   “I couldn’t,” I say weakly. “Something came up, didn’t it.”

   “Ohhhhh…yehhh….” says Molly, placing a palm to her forehead, “…that’s right. You and Meredith were too busy getting down and dirty for you to step into a pair of strides and come and see your friend’s band play–”

   (I open my mouth to defend myself but it’s a futile move)

   “–despite telling said friend that you would be there. It was even your idea.”

   I remain silent.

   “You know what,” pipes up Murray, “I’m stunned Ruff even bothers with you at all.”

   I give Murray the daggers, “I know the feeling…”

   At that moment there is a hard slap on my back and most of my beer says hello to my crotch. Ruff kneels down next to me.

   “How’s it going?” he asks, “Feeling nervous?”

   I shake my head, “I’m good.”

   “Bollocks,” scoffs Murray. “You’re bricking it.”

   “I’ll be bricking you in a minute.”

   “What…me? Your number one fan? That hurts.”

   I look at my watch and then back to Murray, “Isn’t there an STD you should be catching somewhere?”

   I wipe beer from my trousers and turn to Ruff.

   “When are we on?”

   “Well,” says Ruff, “The Sick Driscolls are up in about twenty minutes…” he stands up “…straight after you.”

   Ohhhh, no. Ohhhh no no no no. I shake my head.

   “I’m not doing a solo set,” I say.

   Ruff slaps me again, “It’ll be fine. Just get in the zone.”

   “Yeh, come on,” says Molly, mimicking Ruff, ” ‘get in the zone‘!”

   “So who is on after you then?” asks Roper.

   Ruff coughs, “We’re supporting a band from Somerset called Mother Mary Licks. I think they’re a bunch of tosspieces.”

   “‘Mother Mary Licks’?” says Molly, crinkling her nose. “What a shit name.”

   “I know,” says Murray. “Anyone would think that there’s this guy somewhere spending all his time sitting on his arse trying to come up with ridiculous names.”

   “Anyway,” says Ruff returning to me. “You need to come and do a line check. Is your guitar in tune?”

   “Yes,” I say irritably. I finish what’s left of my beer and pick up the guitar case. Molly gives me a wink.

   “Break a string.”

   I ignore her and do the short stroll to the small stage in the corner of the pub. I unsleeve the electro-acoustic Fender and Ruff plugs me in. Then I look out in front of me. The Pink Pony is about three quarters full. Some punters are eyeing me, most aren’t bothered or aren’t noticing that anything is about to happen. I sweep to my left. Molly, Murray and Roper are sitting in the alcove with loud smiles on their faces. I mouth the word wankers at them and they give me a synchronized triple thumbs-up.

   “Play a chord,” says Ruff.

   I pull the plectrum that’s weaved into the srings and give the sound engineer a slow E. Ruff looks across to the other end of the pub and pats me on the shoulder.

   “Good to go,” he says and trots off the stage.

   I stand there motionless for a few moments. Now the whole of The Pink Pony seems to be eyeballing me. I don’t actually feel nervous, if I’m being honest. Just very empty. I decide to forget the small talk and just start playing…

   ….I’m singing a song called ‘She’s Whispering’, which I think I wrote when I was around twenty one. For the whole three minutes or so the audience is no longer there and I almost feel as though I am somewhere completely different to everyone else. I am barely aware of my own voice or chord changes.

   Then, something catches my eye during the coda. I turn my head slightly and see Roper sliding down in his seat until he is under the table. Then his right hand pops back up like a periscope and begins to point frantically. I follow his finger.

   “Ohhh, shiiiit…” I mutter into the microphone.

   At the far end of the bar, near the doors, I can see Jora and Colleen ordering drinks. They have their backs to the stage and seem to be keeping intimate company with a pair of Bullet-heads; all Grade Ones and arms like rolled-up Beanos. I suddenly realise that I’ve reached the end of the song. I say a thankyou very quickly and swiftly turn my back on the pub before Jora and Colleen have a look. During the moderate ripple of applause I see a curtain and what appears to be a Fire Door behind it. Ruff is standing behind the curtain, clapping and nodding. Still with my back to the pub crowd, I edge crab-like across until I’m behind the curtain.

   “I can’t go back on,” I say in a loud whisper.

   “Course you can,” says Ruff, “that was really good. It’ll get easier.”

   “Sod the performance,” I snap. “Remember those two old sorts me and Roper shagged a few weeks back?”

   Ruff chuckles and nods, “Yeh…?”

   “They’re at the bar.”

   Ruff goes to peer round the curtain but I grab his shoulders.

   “So what?” says Ruff.

   “We didn’t part on the best of terms,” I say. “Now I’m going through the Fire Door.”

   “You can’t,” says Ruff. “It’s painted shut.”

   “Then cover me,” I order him, ” and don’t use my real name.”

   Ruff sighs and steps out onto the stage. I take my guitar off and press myself as flat as I can against the useless – and illegal – Fire Door.

   “Okay, people,” I hear Ruff say into the microphone, “let’s have one more show of appreciation for…Johnny Zodiac!”

   There follows a rather more muted round of applause from the audience.

   “Next up, The Sick Driscolls,” announces Ruff, “so sit tight.”

   Ruff comes back.

   “How am I going to get out of here?” I say. I’m starting to feel slightly claustrophobic stuck in this corner.

   “Wait until we’ve set all our gear up,” says Ruff. “I’ll get Rocky to put his bass amp next to the curtain. You’ll be able to crawl out behind us back to the table.”

   I nod vacantly as Ruff heads back across the stage. I sneak a peek while he is talking to the bass player, Rocky Jones. Through the crack between the curtain and the wall I can see that Jora, Colleen and their beaus are still rancid and still propping up the bar at the far end of the pub. Roper is still under the table. His right hand is trying to grab hold of his pint which is being slid around the table by Murray. Molly is on her phone.

   Rocky Jones slides his huge bass amp right up to the curtain without acknowleding me. Henwood is sorting out his drums whiile placing a half-eaten pasty on the snare. The lead guitarist, Nixie Burke, is adjusting her tee-shirt under her thick leather guitar strap. As they are doing their soundcheck I decide to make my move.

   I leave my Fender resting against the Fire Door and drop to my knees. Leaning forward I proceed to crawl along the tight alley between the wall and Rocky’s amp. As I reach Ruff’s amp I hear him count in.

    The Sick Driscolls launch into a song which I think is called ‘Tell It To Me Again’. I’m close enough to Henwood’s crashing drums that my brain could possibly split open like a Chocolate Orange. As Ruff screams towards the first chorus I slither down into a gap where the stage doesn’t quite meet the wall and pull myself along. Just then, the remains of Henwood’s pasty bounce off the snare drum during a fill and land on the side of my neck. I grimace and give a brief violent shake to throw them off. Then I continue until I’m behind Nixie’s towering Marshall amp. Our table is right there; another couple of feet and I’ll be under the table with Roper. I can see him squatting there, his collar turned up due to excess lager dripping down from the table rim above his head. I note that Ruff appears to have stacked the band’s flight cases into a low wall and I pull myself across until I’m squeezing under the table. Irest against Molly’s tights; I feel her kick my back so I pinch her leg.

   “We have to get out of here,” says Roper.

   I punch Roper’s arm, “Why did you have to steal Colleen’s false teeth?”

   “Why did you say Jora was fat?”

   “That’s not what I said,” I retort, then decide that arguing whose fault this is is totally pointless. “Let’s just lay low. Maybe they will move on after one drink.”

   “Okay,” nods Roper.

   This is really uncomfortable. The Sick Driscolls finish the song and the pub cheers. Murray sticks his head under the table.

   “They got more claps than you did,” he smirks.

   “How would you like to eat the table,” I say.

   “But then you’d have nothing to hide under,” he says and disappears back upstairs.

   “Well,” I harrumph, “this is a terrific night.”

   “Don’t worry about it,” says Roper. “Rock and Roll.”

   I bring my knees up to my chin and rest my head miserably, “It’s hardly glamorous, is it.”

   I hear Ruff speak again.

   “We’d like to continue with a new song. It’s called ‘Guilty Of Driving Under The Influence Of Love’.”

   “Oh, god,” I moan. “They’re not going to play that are they?”

   The song, a loud, sprawling rocker, begins and Roper leans in close to me:

   “Hey,” he says, “do you reckon that if you twist round a bit you could see Molly’s knickers?”

   Molly’s hand suddenly appears between us, slaps Roper in the face, then returns.

   At that moment, as Ruff wails his ludicrous lyrics, four sets of legs appear before us at the table.

   “I know those shoes…” Roper whispers with sudden dread.

   Four chairs are dragged over and Jora, Colleen and the two Meatheads sit down opposite Molly and Murray, facing the stage. I put one hand over Roper’s mouth and the other over my eyes.

   “I can’t stay under here all night,” I mutter after a few moments. I let my hand drop from Roper’s mouth.

   “What are we going to do?” he asks.

   “We’ll have to make a break for it.”

   “Noooooo….” whispers Roper through gritted, panic-stricken teeth. He grabs my sleeve but I shrug him off.

   “Be brave,” I say paternally.

   I crawl towards the last chair in the row upon which sits one of the women. I ease myself past it until I’m about half way out. At that moment I look up and see Colleen’s seventy-something scraggy face peering down at me. Her mouth widens to reveal a very badly fitted pair of brown dentures. As she starts to squawk the alert I spring forward, but for some reason Roper is holding on to my ankle and I trip and fall headlong into a neighbouring table, sending drinks and various savoury snacks up in the air. Roper scurries out from under the table just as I hear Colleen say; “There’s those cheeky bastards who stole my teeth!”

   As I pick myself up and grab on to Roper, I notice Jora half-standing and staring at me with an expression of shock and contempt. The two Bullet-heads are a little slower off the mark and so we make a run for it through the pub audience. And The Sick Driscolls, like the truest of professionals, play on.

   We make it to the doors and burst out into the chilly night air. Roper makes to cross the road but I get hold of his coat and pull him. We run up the street and head down a narrow side road. In the distance I can hear the voices of the Bullet-heads shouting what I expect are the usual, unimaginative knucklehead insults and expletives.

   We turn left again at the end and we’re on a residential road. It’s at times like this I’m reminded just how out of shape I am; not that are too many times like this. Something in one of the big front gardens catches my eye and I yank Roper onto the driveway with both hands.

   “In here,” I whisper urgently and we climb under some thin tarpaulin and into the shadowy hideout of a small speedboat. Then we sit tight and listen.

   After a short while we hear the Bullet-heads walking up the street. They stop at the end of the driveway and grunt almost intelligebly:

   “<I reckon they went the other way>”

   “<Yeh. Unless they jumped in a cab>”

   “<Yeh. Shall we have a look down here then?>”

   “<Dunno.>”

   A mobile with a crap ringtone.

   “<Alright luv?>”

   Pause.

   “<No, we reckon they jumped in a cab….I know. Cowardly bastards.>”

   Yep, that’s us.

   “<Okay, we’re on our way.>”

   We hear their voices fade back into the night. I massage my face.

   “Close one,” whispers Roper.

   “I’m never, ever getting drunk with you again,” I say and climb out of the boat.

   We walk down the avenue at a swift pace to put as much distance between us and The Pink Pony as possible. I read a text message on my phone.

   “Molly and Murray left the pub just after us in case that lot put two and two together,” I say. “They’ve gone to The Cloisters.”

   “It’s a shame really,” says Roper. “There were some fit women in the Pony.”

   “Maybe you should just go back and grovel to Gussie,” I say tiredly.

   “Although,” continues Roper, “there was this one strange looking bird there.”

   “What strange looking bird?”

   “You didn’t see her? She had a great body. But she just had a really square head…”