The Greatest Show Off Earth

  ‘What?’ Simon gawped at the book. ‘No further part in our narrative? You set me up you . . .”

  The old couple next door were both deaf. So they didn’t hear the word BASTARDS! Although they felt the wall vibrate and saw their framed picture of The Queen Mother (Gawd bless you, ma’am) fall down into the coal scuttle. Which was quite upsetting.

  ‘You can’t do this to me.’ Simon shook his fist at the offending page. ‘I won’t let you. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ He really didn’t know what he would do. ‘I do know what I will do,’ he went on. ‘I will lie. That’s what I’ll do. When I’m interviewed for this book I’ll lie. I’ll give the names of the wrong horses. So then I won’t win the money. Let’s see how they like that. The bastards.’

  He flicked back a few pages. The same names of the winning horses were still there at the top of chapter nine.

  ‘Damn,’ said Simon. ‘Damn damn damn. I don’t understand any of this.’

  And now there came a knocking on Simon’s front door.

  Simon looked up in alarm. And then he looked down at the book. It had nothing to tell him.

  ‘Damn.’ Simon flung it once more to the floor, rose from his bed, slouched over to the bedroom window and peered down.

  Three men were standing below. Two wore police helmets, the third had an Arthur Scargill comb-over job.

  ‘Police!’ Simon flattened himself against the bedroom wall. What did they want him for? He hadn’t done anything. He was an innocent man. He was an innocent man. ‘I am an innocent man,’ said Simon. ‘In fact. . .’

  A small dot with the word HOPE written on it suddenly appeared on the otherwise bleak horizon that was Simon’s future. The word HOPE was in purple. To match the prose. It grew and it grew.

  ‘Of course,’ said Simon. ‘I know what must have happened. Someone must have seen me being robbed in the high street, telephoned the police with a description of the Jag. The police then intercepted the vehicle arid after a hair-raising chase, down side roads and leafy lanes and across fields, with lots of gates getting burst through and chickens fluttering and near collisions with oncoming tractors, there was a shoot-out and all the B.E.A.S.T. terrorists were killed (HOPEfully) and now the officers of the law wish me to come down to the police station and identify my winnings. That has to be it.’

  It takes a certain kind of mind, doesn’t it?

  ‘Coming,’ called Simon.

  Now, the constables knew Simon. And Simon knew the constables. They’d all been at the village school together. Simon could recall no past animosities. Although he felt sure that one of the constables had a younger sister whom he’d once . . .

  ‘Good afternoon, officers of the law,’ said Simon brightly. ‘How might I help you?’

  ‘Mr—?’ The Arthur Scargill spoke Simon’s surname.

  ‘Not so loud.’ Simon flapped his hands about. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Mr—.’

  ‘Simon, please, just Simon.”

  ‘I’ll call you “sir” if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sir? Have I been awarded a knighthood then?’

  ‘No, er, sir. But as servants of the public, we are obliged to speak to that public in a respectful and polite manner. My name is Inspector D’Eath. And I wonder if I might just ask you a few questions, sir?’

  ‘I’m easy,’ said Simon.

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ muttered one of the constables. The one with the sister, Simon supposed.

  ‘Thank you, Constable. Perhaps if I might just step inside for a minute or two, sir.’

  ‘Do you have a search warrant?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No, sir, why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to know what they look like.’

  ‘I saw one once,’ said the other constable. ‘They’re not all that special. Just typed paper really.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’ Inspector D’Eath pushed past Simon. ‘This way, is it, sir?

  ‘You chaps coming in?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No.’ The constable with the sister shook his head. ‘We are going to guard your front door.’

  ‘Why? Do you think someone might try to steal it?’

  ‘No. We are going to guard the front door so that you don’t get out through it.’

  ‘But I don’t want to get out through it. I live here.’

  ‘You might do a runner. It has been known.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Well, if I do, I’ll be sure to do it through the back door, so as not to disturb you in the course of your duties.’

  “Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No, hang about,’ said the constable who didn’t have a sister, but had once seen a search warrant. ‘Could I come through and guard your back door?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  The constable went through and stood beside Simon’s back door. Simon followed Inspector D’Eath into the front sitter.

  ‘So,’ said Simon. ‘I trust it’s good news. Have you made an arrest then?’

  The inspector shook his head. A hamstring of greasy hair slipped down across his right ear. ‘We are expecting to very shortly,’ he said.

  ‘It will be a great weight off my mind,’ said Simon.

  ‘Good, sir, good.’ Inspector D’Eath took out a regulation police-issue notebook, withdrew a slim pencil from its spine, licked the tip and made a jotting. ‘Good,’ said he once again. ‘It makes things so much easier all round. I’m sure you understand.’

  Simon nodded. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘So. If we might just clear up a few small details.’ The inspector displayed a coloured photograph. ‘Have you seen this boy?’ he asked, which rang a bell somewhere.

  Simon took the photograph. ‘Raymond,’ he said. For it was he.

  ‘Then you would say that it’s a good likeness of the deceased?’

  ‘Deceased?’ Simon returned the photograph. ‘What do you mean, deceased?’

  ‘Missing then. But as you must know, today’s “missing”, is so often tomorrow’s torso case.’

  ‘Torso case? What’s a torso case?’

  ‘Well, I am referring in this instance to a criminal case involving the discovery of a human torso. As opposed to, say, a specially designed sharkskin case with a hand-tooled lid, in which a torso might be kept.’

  ‘Thanks for clearing that up for me.’

  ‘So, sir. When did you last see the “missing person”?’

  ‘Ah.’ Simon made a thinking face. The correct answer to this question was, of course, ‘The night before last, on the allotments. He was being sucked into the belly of a flying starfish from Uranus.’ But, just because this was the correct answer, did it necessarily make it the best answer to give? Simon concluded that definitely it did not.

  ‘I can’t remember exactly,’ Simon said. ‘About a week ago, perhaps.’

  ‘About a week ago.’ The inspector made a note of this. ‘And what about this lady?’ He took out another photograph and held it before Simon’s nose.

  Simon gave it the once over. Then the twice over. It was the looker.

  ‘That’s her!’ It was a fair old shriek. In next door’s front parlour, Britain’s favourite grandmother found herself back in the coal scuttle.

  ‘That’s her. That’s the woman. Did you get the money?’

  ‘Did I get the money, sir? Which money would this be?’

  ‘My money.’

  ‘Your money?’

  ‘Don’t mess around. You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I think I do, sir, yes.’ Inspector D’Eath dictated a further jotting. ‘The suspect asked whether I’d got the money he’d sent me.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Suspect? What do you mean suspect?’

  ‘This woman has been missing since last night, sir. She was not at her regular place of work and her bed had not been slept in. That’s two in a single week, sir. And you in the frame each time.’

  ‘Frame? I’m not in any frame.’

  The inspector flicked back through his notebook. ?
??Would I be correct that you suffer from “short-term memory loss”?’

  ‘No, you would not. Look, who is this woman?’

  ‘The Boston Strangler.’

  ‘That’s never the Boston Strangler. The Boston Strangler looked like Tony Curtis.’

  ‘Short-term memory loss,’ said the inspector. ‘The Boston Strangler had it too. Murdered seven women and never remembered a thing about it.’

  ‘I do not suffer from short-term memory loss.’

  ‘That’s not what the vicar’s wife says, sir.’

  ‘My memory is perfect,’ said Simon. Although he had forgotten about the vicar’s wife. ‘I have total recall.’

  ‘But you cannot totally recall when you last saw the missing gentleman in the photograph.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can help.’ The inspector was once more at his notebook. ‘Ah yes. According to one Long Bob, chicken farmer and long-standing member of the local chamber of commerce, it was around eight-thirty p.m., the night before last, on the allotments. I quote from his statement, “Simon was behaving in a highly suspicious manner with Raymond. I believe he might have been on the magic mushrooms again.”‘

  ‘The bastard!’ said Simon.

  ‘All coming back to you now, is it, sir?’

  ‘Listen, all right I was with Raymond the night before last. But Raymond is not important. Let’s forget about Raymond. Let’s talk about the woman.’

  ‘You want to own up to the woman then, do you, sir?’ The inspector licked the tip of his pencil once more. ‘Do you have a pencil sharpener I might borrow?’

  ‘No I don’t!’

  ‘I’m sorry. Was that you don’t want to own up to the woman, or you don’t have a pencil sharpener?’

  ‘Just tell me the woman’s name,’ Simon pleaded. ‘That’s all I want to know.’

  ‘You mean you never asked her her name? Yet you spent an entire evening in her company.’ More page flicking. ‘According to Andy the barman at The Jolly Gardeners, “He homed right in on her. He was spending Raymond’s money. He got her very drunk and then they left together. That was the last time I saw her alive.” Then I have the testimonies of no fewer than five late-night dog walkers, who state that they saw you and the young woman “taking tea with the parson” in the cab of Mr Hilsavise’s flat-back. Is that where you did her in, sir? Like you did with all the others?’

  ‘All what others?’

  ‘Come now, sir. Why not make a clean breast of it? I’ve a stack of unsolved missing persons files on my desk, going back years. Where did you bury all the bodies, sir? Was it on the allotments?’

  ‘I didn’t bury any bodies.’ Simon was starting to get a bit of a sweat on.

  ‘We’ll find them all eventually, you know. You were a bit too heavy-handed this time, ploughing over the entire area.’

  Ploughing over the entire area? The grey men cleaning up!

  ‘Stop,’ said Simon. ‘Stop please and listen. I have not killed anyone, nor have I buried any bodies. You are making a terrible mistake. Raymond is alive and well. Shit, I could tell you exactly where he is at this very moment. I’d only have to look him up.’

  ‘Did you say dig him up, sir?’ The pencil, though blunt, was back at work.

  ‘I said look him up. You heard me quite clearly.’

  ‘So you admit that you keep a record of your slayings in a special book.’ The inspector consulted his book. ‘Is this because of the short-term memory loss, like the Boston Strangler?’

  ‘I do not have short-term memory loss.’ Simon shook his fists.

  ‘I must warn you, sir, that I know how to use this pencil.’

  ‘All right!’ Simon pocketed his fists.

  ‘So might I have a look at this book of yours?’

  ‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’ The inspector shook his head and further horrid hair-strands draped over his right ear. ‘And I thought you were going to make it easy. Recall when I told you that we were going to make the arrest and you said, and I quote, “It will be a great weight off my mind . . .”’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon, ‘but I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Oh you do remember saying that, do you? So you’ve been lying all along about the short-term memory loss?’

  ‘I never said I had short-term memory loss.’

  ‘According to the vicar’s wife you carry a doctor’s note to this effect in your wallet. Might I ask you to turn out your pockets, so we can clear this matter up once and for all?’

  ‘Not without a search warrant you bloody well can’t.’

  ‘Simon—,’ the inspector spoke the surname, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of multiple murder. You do not have to say anything. But anything you do say will..’

  ‘No!’ Simon threw up his hands.

  ‘Beware the pencil, sir.’

  ‘No. Stop. I am innocent of all these charges. I have a book upstairs that will prove I’m telling the truth. I didn’t want you to see it. I didn’t want anyone to see it—’

  ‘Bit grisly, is it, sir? Not bound in human skin, or anything like that, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course it’s not.’ Simon buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Pity. But go on anyway. The book will prove you innocent, you were saying. Might I enquire who wrote this book, by the way? Was it you? Or was it God perhaps? Do you get the voices, sir? Does God make you do it?’

  ‘God,’ said Simon. ‘Without a doubt. Now, if you’ll just let me go and get it, you can read it all for yourself. Perhaps you’re even in it. I certainly hope you are.’

  ‘Er, sir?’

  Simon was at the door by now. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Sir, are you suggesting that I, an officer of the law, should let you, an all but self-confessed serial killer, whom the Press will no doubt soon be referring to as The Butcher of Bramfield, go upstairs on your own and fetch down a book which you claim was dictated to you by God?’

  ‘It will only take a moment,’ said Simon. ‘And you do have a constable guarding the back door.’

  ‘Go on then, sir. Fetch down your book.’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’ Simon went upstairs to his bedroom, put on his jacket, snatched up Raymond’s biography and tucked it under his arm. Then he tip-toed across the landing and into the bathroom, climbed out of the window, shinned quietly down the drainpipe, took to his heels and once more fled.

  12

  ‘Right,’ said Raymond, pouring out a vodka, downing this and pouring out some more. ‘Right right right.’ He raised his glass to the professor. ‘Right,’ he said again.

  ‘Why does he keep saying “right”?’ Professor Merlin asked Zephyr.

  The beautiful woman shrugged Shirley from the shoe shop’s shoulders. Which was easier to do than to say really.

  ‘Right.’ Professor Merlin grinned at Raymond. ‘Right, eh?’

  ‘I mean, right. All right. I’ll do it. I mean, okay. So there’s just me. Not good odds against an entire planet that I know nothing whatever about. Not any odds at all really. But it’s a start.’

  ‘Bravo, mon Armani.’ The professor twirled his moustachios. ‘It is a start. Regrettably it is also a finish. But, a beard well lathered is half shaved, as I always say.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s a finish?’

  ‘Tempus fugg-it I’m afraid. We have no planets left to play but Saturn. From there we must return to Earth at very much the hurry up. Toot sweety, abracadabra, double time and don’t dilly dally on the way.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Zephyr offered Raymond a smile, which he took for what it was worth. ‘The topsiders intend to start sealing up the polar openings within the week. If we hope to stop them we must get there within the next two days.’

  ‘Two days to travel from Saturn to Earth?’ Raymond raised his eyebrows along with his glass. ‘Now that is nonsense. What do you take me for, some kind of schm—’

  ‘Schmecker?’ the professor asked. ‘Sch
mo? Schmoozer?’

  ‘Schmuck. But you can’t travel from Saturn to Earth in two days.’

  ‘Really?’ Professor Merlin plucked a grape from his plate, poked it up his left nostril and then produced it from his right ear. ‘Would this be the same as, you can’t fly a steamship through space?’

  ‘Same sort of thing, yes. That is a really disgusting trick by the way.’

  ‘You think it would be less disgusting if I poked it in my ear and it came out of my nose then?’ Professor Merlin swallowed the grape.

  Raymond swallowed some more vodka. ‘We had best get moving, hadn’t we? Full steam ahead for Earth.’

  ‘One thing at a time, dear boy. We have a show to play on Saturn.’

  ‘Stuff Saturn,’ said Raymond.

  ‘What, and let down my public?’

  ‘Stuff your public also.’

  ‘So you don’t think we should play Saturn then?’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond. ‘I do not.’

  ‘What a pity. But I suppose you know best.’

  ‘I do in this case. We must go at once to Earth.’

  ‘You don’t think we should rescue the two hundred kidnapped people who are bubbled up on Saturn first then?’

  ‘What?’ went Raymond. ‘What what what?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here, you see. The final consignment before the paving over. They arrived last night. I thought it might be nice of us to give them a lift. As we’re going in their direction, as it were.’

  ‘Two hundred people?’ Raymond whistled.

  ‘That’s a really annoying whistle you have there,’ the professor remarked. ‘But two hundred it is none the less. Those of the beating heart and still this side of the cold meat counter. Bubbled up and awaiting distribution. Shame to leave them behind. But if you’ve made up your mind.’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond. ‘I haven’t. Two hundred people. We must save them, of course. How many men in a regiment, do you think?’

  The professor had no idea. ‘Exactly two hundred,’ said he. ‘Two hundred and one counting yourself. You’d be the general, of course.’

  ‘Well then.’ Raymond rubbed his hands together. ‘We must formulate a plan of campaign. Synchronize watches. Things of that nature. Do you have maps?’