"Look, I think you'd better leave, please. I don't know what it is you're trying to sell, but I don't want any thankyou. If you don't go I'll have no choice but to get rough." I wish the girls would come back.
I also think I need to empty my shoe. I make my way to the gents. My unwanted friend doesn't follow me, but two other characters do. The two men follow me into the loo. One of them comes up behind me and kicks my legs apart. He pushes me forward so that I have to hold myself off the wall with my hands.
The second man leans back against the door to prevent anyone else entering. "Check him out," he says.
"Look I'm not buying anything," I say. "So you can cut this out."
"A tough guy," says the first man. "New around here are you?"
"OK. This has gone far enough. I've got you sussed. You're Jehovah's Witnesses aren't you?"
I feel his hands running over my body and fishing in my pockets. He's getting mighty personal too! He finds the tassels. "Check these," he says, throwing them to his mate at the door.
"I can explain those," I say. I feel his hand go into my trouser pocket. The hand comes out with my wallet in it.
"Look, you'd better put that back. I don't find this very amusing." My arms are starting to ache. My nose is pressed into the front of a vending machine. One pound, it says. Press button A for plain or button B for assorted.
"Look," I say. "If you give me back the wallet and leave now, I'll say no more about it. Fair enough?"
"Selling then are you?" asks the man in the doorway. "If you're not buying you must be selling."
"Actually, I do. As a matter of fact. Been out on a deal this morning, actually." I feel pretty smug. They won't put one over on me. I wasn't born yesterday. I can just read the description on the front of the vending machine. Under `assorted` it says one tickler and one licorice flavour in each pack. Doesn't sound very assorted to me. I strain to read the rest of the sign. I can't see what it is they're selling.
The man in the doorway is going through my wallet. He has found a little silver foil packet. "Well, well," he says. "What have we here?"
I know what he has. He has my poison sap.
Listen. Had you forgotten about the sap? From the poinsettia? In the office?
Good. Just checking. It is a pretty key point in the plot. I don't want you to miss it.
He unwraps the foil and sniffs the contents. "What do you reckon?" he asks passing the packet to his mate.
"It's a new one on me," the second man says after taking a sniff.
I have a feeling that this could be difficult to explain. I'm beginning to suspect that these men aren't selling anything at all. My arms are almost breaking. My nose is pressing so hard into the front of the vending machine I think it might be permanently deformed.
"You're nicked," says the first man.
"You're not obliged to say anything," says the second. "But anything you do say may be used in evidence against you." He pulls me back upright.
"Condoms," I say. I've been leaning up against a condom dispenser all this time. "Now why would anyone want licorice flavoured condoms?" I ask.
CHAPTER 16
I read somewhere once that your finger nails keep growing after you've died. Your hair too, apparently. I suppose this is an evolutionary thing in case you are buried alive.
So that you would be able to scratch your way out of the coffin, of course.
Look, I'm not making this up. If finger nails didn't keep on growing the entire human race would probably have died out by now.
Somebody else told me that your ears keep on growing too, but I'm not so sure about that. If your ears kept growing and the rest of you just withered away then pretty soon the whole coffin would be filled with ears. You don't ever hear about archeologists uncovering giant pairs of ears, do you? Still, it makes you think.
Well it makes me think. It makes me worry actually. I worry about things a lot. Like how you'd have to wear umbrellas on your feet if it rained upwards.
Or what anyone would do with a licorice flavoured condom.
Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.
I worry about sex a lot, too. But I'm not thinking about sex at the moment.
At the moment I'm thinking about why two Jehovah's Witnesses have kidnapped me in a pub toilet. That's if they are Jehovah's Witnesses. It could still be timeshare. I'm keeping an open mind.
There is no sign of either of the girls as I am frogmarched through the pub. The other customers studiously ignore us. Maybe this sort of thing happens regularly. Maybe they are believers too. I do think about shouting for help, but when I try all that comes out is a tiny whisper.
"Bless you," says the barmaid as we pass.
"Gesundheit," says a man by the door.
My two new friends take me round to the front of the pub. We stop by the black BMW saloon. One of the men kicks the corner of my car.
"These your wheels?" he asks.
"Actually the whole car is mine if you must know," I reply.
He opens the door using the keys he took from my pocket. "I think we've struck paydirt," he says. "It smells like a chemical factory in here."
"I can explain that," I say, but noone listens.
He prods my jacket which is still standing stiffly to attention on the rear seat. "Looks like some kind of body armour," he says. "Looks as though he came expecting trouble."
"I can explain that, too," I say to noone in particular. I wish Julie was here. I wish Gail was here. I even wish Carole was here. No, maybe not. Things aren't that bad yet.
I'm pushed roughly into the black saloon, and handcuffed to the armrest. I think it must be timeshare. I don't think Jehovah's Witnesses carry handcuffs. The second man gets into my car, and follows as we drive out of the car park. I wonder how Julie will get home? I wonder if she's missed me yet? Things were going so well until this little hitch cropped up.
Well she did kiss me, and she did call me Tom when she introduced me to her friend Sandra. And another thing, I'm still wondering how those tassels were attached. I shall lie awake tonight worrying about that. I know I shall.
Listen. Just in case you are worrying, too, it all turns out alright in the end. I do enough worrying for both of us. I don't want the responsibility of you lying awake all night as well.
After a short drive we arrive at a police station. This seems to be a little short sighted to me. Don't they realise that I'll report them for kidnap? I've come across some confident salesmen before, but these two take the biscuit.
Inside the police station I'm led through to a small office. As we go, I leave a trail of wet foot prints across the floor. My right shoe is still awash with beer. My left foot leaves no mark. To anyone following it will appear as though a one legged, amphibious brewer has hopped through. Noone appears to notice, though. Hey, I'm invisible again. If only I could work out how to switch this thing on and off it might even be useful.
The office to which I'm taken is almost filled by a wooden desk, behind which is a man with the biggest ears I've ever seen. His hair is cropped very short. Apparently he wears his ears with pride. He seems to want to display them to the whole world. I try not to look.
"I'd like to report a kidnap," I say to the man with the ears. I look around for somewhere to sit down, and choose a leather covered red chair in front of the desk.
"Shut up and empty your pockets," he says.
"You don't understand," I continue, removing my right shoe and sock as I speak. A few drops of beer splash onto the floor. "These two timeshare salesmen have forced me to accompany them. I've been kidnapped."
The man with the ears seems to be fascinated by my right foot. Even I am surprised by it's appearance as I remove my sodden sock. My foot is bright green.
I think it might be better not to draw attention to it, but in truth I'm a little worried. Could this be gangrene?
I wring the sock out on the floor beside me. A little pool of green liquid forms on the carpet, and slowly soaks into the pile. I put the sock
on the radiator to dry.
Big ears looks from my foot to the carpet and across to the radiator. He comes round from behind his desk and crouches down to inspect the bottom of my foot. I think maybe he's not happy about the carpet.
"Try salt," I say.
"Salt?" he replies.
"Salt," I repeat. "Rub salt in it, and it will wash right out. Be good as new. Better even I shouldn't wonder. Always works, salt. Or red wine. I've heard that red wine works too, but I've never tried that."
"Red wine?"
Why does he keep repeating everything I say? Mr Hudson did that, too.
Suddenly he reaches over and starts to tickle the bottom of my foot.
"Ha. Ha. Ha. He. He. Stop," I cry, but to no avail. This must be some form of interrogation technique. "He. He. He. Stop. Stop. I give in. Stop."
He straightens up, clutching something that was apparently stuck on the sole of my foot. It's a green pine tree. Sodden. Misshapen. Disintegrating. But a pine tree nonetheless. He looks triumphant.
"Ha. Ha. Te. He. He." I chortle through tears of laughter. "I can explain that."
"Take off the other one," he says.
"Not if you are going to tickle me again," I say.
"Off!" he orders. I decide to comply.
The pine tree in the other sock is in better shape. It still smells faintly of pine. I place it on the desk alongside the first one.
"Quite a relief," I say.
"Relief?" he repeats.
"Yes. I thought it might be gangrene at first."
Big ears turns to my kidnapper. "What else did he have?" he asks.
"We found these on him," says my new companion. He puts the two silver tassels on the desk along with the little foil packet from my wallet and the wallet itself.
"I can explain those," I say. "It has absolutely nothing to do with murdering my wife."
"Has he been cautioned?" asks big ears.
"Yep. He's been talking non stop ever since. Seems obsessed with condoms and Jehovah's Witnesses. We've got it all logged."
"That's how they do it of course," says big ears. "Persuade innocent people to swallow condoms full of drugs. That's how they get it through the customs."
"So that's why they're licorice flavoured," I say. It seems to me that the manufacturers are playing into the hands of these people.
My second new companion staggers in carrying my rigid jacket. It still smells of lemon. "Better get this off to forensic," he says. "I don't know what it is, but it's loaded with something."
The man behind the desk pulls on his right ear. All this while I've managed not to keep staring at those ears, but he seems to want to draw attention to them. "I suppose you can explain the jacket, too," he says.
"Actually, yes," I reply. God, I hope I don't start saying actually again. I don't want them to think I'm odd. My best hope is not to draw attention to myself. Just stay calm and polite.
"What do you reckon these were for?" asks big ears, fingering the two silver tassels. "They look as if they might have held something."
"Oh, nothing," I say. "Just a present from a friend." I remember Julie and Sandra suddenly. I wonder if they've missed me yet.
Big ears is still toying with the tassels. "I can't see how they fasten," he says.
"I was wondering that," I say. "Must be glue, or suction, I reckon."
"Better get these off to forensic, too," he says. He pushes the tassels over with the jacket and the little foil packet.
"They'd better check the car, too," adds the second man. "It smells of every chemical you've ever come across. I reckon this guy could be into something big."
I decide not to mention the tracksuits. No point in getting arrested for petty theft.
"What about the wife? Is she dead? He said she'd been murdered."
"Actually, no," I say. I think I should try to change the subject. This could get a bit sticky. Big ears is playing with his lobes again. I wish he wouldn't do that. I'm sure he's making them bigger. All that pulling and stretching.
"They do that in Borneo, you know," I find myself saying.
"So that's the source is it?" asks big ears. "I hope you're getting all this down, son," he says to the first of my kidnappers who has been writing furiously all the while we've been talking.
"To their ears," I say. Damn. I didn't want to mention his ears. "Not that your's are big I mean. Well not as big as theirs, anyway."
"Should I still be writing this down?" asks the first man.
"They put golden pegs in them," I say. Actually I may have got that wrong. Perhaps it's wooden pegs. Maybe it's the giraffe necked women who use gold.
"I think he might be trying to buy us off, sir. Should I keep writing, or are we dealing?"
"Actually, I might be thinking about giraffe necked women," I say.
"This guy is cool, sir. Fancy thinking about women at a time like this."
I look at my watch. "Gosh is that the time. I should be getting back to the office. Mr Hudson will wonder where I am. Perhaps I'd better give him a ring."
"OK, wise guy. So you know your rights. One phone call then, that's all. You can make one call. Who is this Hudson? Your solicitor? Or are you about to tip someone off?"
"Mr Hudson is my boss, I'll have you know. And he wouldn't like to hear you drop the Mr."
"Sir, I think he's offering to deal. It sounds as though he's willing to name the boss."
"This Hudson, is he boss of the whole show?"
"Absolutely," I reply. I thought that would get their attention. "Nobody messes with Mr Hudson."
"OK. You can make one call," says big ears. "But we'll be listening, so nothing funny, understand?"
Big ears pushes the phone over to me. I punch in the code confidently. There are a couple of faint clicks before I hear the ringing tone. The phone rings four times before it's answered. That means Julie can't be back yet. She always answers within three rings.
"Sicilian Pizza," says a voice heavy with a foreign accent. "Howa my we helpa you?"
"Pardon?" I reply in surprise.
"Sicilian Pizza. Howa my we helpa you?"
Big ears has reacted sharply. He's listening on an extension phone. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand and speaks to the other two men. "Sicilian? That's Mafia isn't it?"
"Is that Mr Hudson?" I ask, but I already know it isn't. Mr Hudson doesn't even like pizza.
"No, issa not udson. Issa Pizza. You wanna Pizza or no?"
Big ears is getting excited. "He's talking to the bloody Mafia," he says. "Get a trace on this bloody call, quick."
"How do we do that, sir?" asks the man who has been doing the writing.
"How should I know?" says big ears. "I've only seen it on the films. Just get it done."
Actually pizza sounds like quite a good idea. I hadn't realised how hungry I was, but I never finished my sandwiches, of course, in the pub. "What sort have you got?" I ask.
"We gotta every sort. We gotta cheese n tomato, we gotta anchovy, we gotta meaty, we gotta mushroom, we gotta seafood, we gotta vegetarian. Whatta sort you wanna?"
Choosing. I hate choosing. It all sounds good to me. "What do you recommend?" I ask.
"Everybloodyting acourse. I maka de Pizzas. I sella de Pizzas. I cooka de Pizzas. People giva me money. Itsa how I maka my living. Now, you wanna Pizza or no. I canta standa round ere alla dy talkin to you. I gotta udda customers you know."
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. Big ears still has his hand over his mouthpiece. "Anyone else want pizza?" I ask. "It's usually more economical if we get one big one and divide it."
"Ask him if they do peperoni," says big ears.
"And garlic bread," says my kidnapper. "I always have garlic bread with pizza."
"Hello," I say. "Are you still there?"
"Acorsam still ere. Where d'you tink I go? I aint in no kinda hurry. You taka your time."
"Thankyou," I say. "Most civil. Do you do garlic bread? and peperoni?"
"How many times I t
ella you? I maka de pizzas. All sortsa pizzas. An de extras. You wanna Hawaiian? I maka Hawaiian. You wanna special Sicilian? I maka de special. I maka tin base or pan pizza. But pleasa choose sometin Mr befora ma arma she drop off."
Big ears is whispering to his colleague. "It seems to be some sort of code. I reckon all these different pizzas are different drugs. This must be designer drugs I reckon."
"The special Sicilian sounds nice," I reply. "What goes into that?"
"Everybloodyting. Thatsa why itsa special. You wanna special? Wid extra peperoni an garlic bread, yeh?"
"Sounds delicious," I say. "Yes, we'll have a family size on a deep pan, please. And you'd better send round some cokes as well."
Big ears is ecstatic at the mention of coke. I find it a bit gassy myself, but it's ok with pizza. I have to ask him the address, and he gives it down his own handset.
While we wait for the pizza, 'twenny minnits or you no hava to pay no way!', big ears and his two aides make plans. The plans mostly seem to consist of one of the men hiding behind the door and grabbing the pizza delivery boy as he walks through. It all seems a bit petty to me. The price was quite reasonable. It's no wonder that people don't respect the police any more. Oh, I have come to the conclusion that they are police by the way, but I still haven't worked out why they want to talk to me. Just a routine enquiry I suppose.
We wait for almost twenty minutes. I'm beginning to think that the pizza will be free anyway. So much for big ear's plans. But, with only a few seconds to spare there is the unmistakeable sound of a pizza approaching.
The delivery boy is tiny. Not much more than a large red motorcycle crash helmet with a couple of stick legs. The pizza is almost as big as him. As he comes through the door he is grabbed from both sides. Big ears bravely rushes forward when the boy is secured and pulls the pizza package from his grasp.
"Get this lot to forensic right away," he yells.
"But...," I gasp. I am already salivating at the prospect of the pizza.
"And get those two down to the cell," he adds, waving generally in the direction of me and the boy.
Listen. I bet you are wondering how is he going to get out of this one? I'll bet you're thinking that it's time for another amazing coincidence.
I know I am.
As we are led from the office I hear a familiar voice.
"Mr F, Mr F."
Just in time!
Listen. You didn't really want me to go to the cells, did you?