Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

19

Soap Distant wasn’t mowing the lawn. He was having a bath.

He was ruminating in the tub. Dwelling in the lather. Soaking, sud-sniffing, things of that nature.

Omally had told him that, although the retro library clerk costume and the smudged face make-up did make Soap look something of a character, it also made him look something of a twat. So why didn’t Soap just go upstairs and have a bath, help himself to something from Omally’s extensive wardrobe and then come down and meet the Gandhis for dinner?

And so Soap was having a bath. Ruminating in the tub. Soaking, sud-sniffing—

“I’ve got to work all this out,” said Soap to himself. “Apply the science of deduction. I haven’t got all the pieces yet. But I know I’ve got some of them. I know it’s the men in the black T-shirts. I know they travel through time. And I know they mess around with history. Save rock stars from tragic early deaths, and so on. And now this Wingarde is in charge of Virgin and Virgin virtually own all rock music. It’s all connected and it’s all to do with rock music.

“But what about Jim? Why kill poor Jim? Jim was a friendly harmless soul. An amiable buffoon, really. But he was a good man. A much-loved man of Brentford. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

Soap sighed amidst the suds. “It has to be the music,” he said. “Jim’s share in the Gandhis or something. But I’m sure it’s all down to this Wingarde and his guru. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Getting to the bottom of things is what I do best.”

And with that said, and as he was now all prune-wrinkly from more than three hours in the bath, Soap rose from his perfumed water, slipped on a rather spiffing white towelling bathrobe and examined himself in a mirrored wall tile.

Same death-mask dead-white physog. Same transparent hooter. Same pink hamster eyeballs. Same fibre-optic flat-top.

“Same good-looking son of a tunnel,” said Soap Distant.

Soap rootled about in Omally’s wardrobe, marvelling at the quantity of suits. He selected for himself a black silk number, matching shirt and shoes.

“Black silk shoes,” said Soap, twirling before the mirror-tiled bedroom wall. “Omally knows how to live. But is this me, or is this me?”

Soap concluded that it was indeed he, as black was really his colour. He turned out the pockets of the library clerk’s uniform and came across the golden plastic medallion and the watch.

Now, what should he do with this? Flush it down the toilet? Soap weighed up the pros and cons. Perhaps it would be better just to hang on to it. Use it as a means to meet up with this Leo once again. Soap stuck the medallion into his pocket and strapped the watch onto his wrist.

“Very smart,” said Soap. “Very futuristic”

All dolled up and dandy, Soap made his way downstairs. Sounds of gaiety echoed where they could about the crowded entrance hall. Coming from behind a panelled door, which Soap assumed must lead to the dining room.

Soap thought that he’d make a grand entrance and so he picked his way through the chaos, knocked smartly on the door and flung it open.

The dining room, for such it was, was grand as grand could be.

The walls were hung with portraits of the Crawford family.

There were dudes done up as generals and ladies all in lace.

You could tell they all were Crawfords, for they had the Crawford face.

The furniture was old and rich, of Chippendale persuasion.

The table fairly groaned with grub, as for some state occasion.

A laughing group was gathered round, Omally at the head.

As Soap appeared their laughter stopped and silence reigned instead.

“What a very poetic room,” said Soap. “Er, why are you staring at me like that?”

Omally rose from his chair and pointed a trembling finger at Soap. “Of all the suits in my bloody wardrobe,” he said, “why did you have to choose that one?”

“It’s black,” said Soap. “My favourite colour.”

“It’s my funeral suit,” said Omally. “The one I wore to Jim’s funeral.”

“Oh dear.” Colour rose to Soap’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know. I’ll go and change at once.”

Omally shook his head. “No,” he said. “Forget it, Soap. It does suit you. Keep it, it’s yours.”

Soap Distant stood in the doorway, the now legendary spare prick at a wedding.

Omally beckoned. “Come and sit down here by me and get stuck into this grub.”

Soap took a seat. Omally poured wine and made the introductions.

“This is Litany,” said John, “the most wonderful singer on Earth.”

Soap nodded smiles towards the woman nodding smiles at him. She was slim and svelte and stunning. All in white with eyes of emerald green. Soap was taken at once by her beauty, but also by the thought that surely he had met this woman before. There was something about her that rang one of those little bells that you can’t actually hear but you know are being rung. Somewhere.

“I love the moustache,” said Soap. “Is that a fashion thing?”

“It’s a metaphor,” said Litany.

“Oh yes,” said Soap. “Of course it is.”

“And this is Ricky,” said John. “The greatest Stratster on the planet. He’s teaching me to play.”

“Pleased to meet you, Soap,” said Ricky, reaching for a handshake. “John’s told me all about you. Did you really visit the centre of the Earth?”

“Certainly did,” said Soap. “Although I’ve mislaid the photos.”

“Isn’t it always the way,” said Ricky, which rang another bell.

“This is Pigarse,” said Omally. “Pigarse is the loudest drummer in history.”

“I can see right through your nose,” said Pigarse. “Horrible it is and filled with bogeys.”

“Pleased to meet you too,” said Soap.

“But John has told us a lot about you,” said Pigarse.

Soap nodded out a “That’s nice”.

“He said you were an amiable buffoon.”

“Cheers, John,” said Soap.

John made the last introductions. But as the other members of the Gandhis rarely said anything and appeared to be little more than mere ciphers included to make up the numbers, that was that was that.

A plate was pushed in front of Soap and he was urged to fill it.

The spread of food was quite beyond anything Soap had ever seen before, even when dining with the King of Shambhala. It is a fact well known to those that know it well, that the very rich like nothing better than to dine upon endangered species. But Soap was particularly impressed to find that here things were different. This selection of foodstuffs was entirely composed from extinct species.

Soap helped himself to the haunch of woolly mammoth.

John Omally filled Soap’s glass with wine and spoke. “As this is the anniversary of Jim’s death,” he said, “we gather together here to feast. To toast Jim’s memory and to think of him. It’s good to have you here, Soap. Norman would have come but as he’s in prison he’s had to cry off.”

“Norman in prison,” said Soap. “What for?”

“It’s quite a long story, but I’ll keep it short. Norman built a racehorse for Jim.”

“Built him a racehorse?” Soap helped himself to the fillet of cave-bear. “That sounds right, knowing Norman.”

“He’s a most inventive lad. But you see, it was more than just a racehorse. And when Jim was killed, Norman didn’t know quite what to do with it. So he thought that, in Jim’s memory, he’d race it. And it was the first time the Derby was ever won by a unicorn.”

Soap’s slice of cave-bear went down the wrong way.

“Small Dave rode it to victory.”

“But I thought Small Dave was wanted by the police. For biting off that manager’s—”

“Cock,” said Pigarse.

“Penis,” said Soap.

“That sounds even ruder,” said Pigarse. “Why do you think that is?”

Soap shook his head and Omally continued.

“Small Dave disguised himself as a woman. So he was the first woman ever to win the Derby. Made history, that did.”

Soap had no comment to make regarding history.

John went on. “Do you recall what that Penist said to Small Dave?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Soap, checking out the Irish Elk. “It was only a couple of days ago.”

Omally raised an eyebrow.

“Seems like a couple of days ago. But she said that she saw him galloping to glory. So I suppose she was right, wasn’t she?”

“She’s always right. I’ve seen her myself on more than one occasion.”

“She jerks him off,” said Pigarse.

“She does not,” said John. “But to go on with what I was saying, Norman named the unicorn The Pooley. And Small Dave pulled off the Derby win. And not just once, but four times in a row.”

“Hard to beat a unicorn, eh?” Soap forked sabre-toothed tiger onto his somewhat crowded plate.

“And no doubt he would have won again this year, if it hadn’t been for the Incident.”

“Go on,” said Soap. “Tell me the worst.”

“Small Dave was on Parkinson. In drag, naturally. He’d become something of a TV celeb. But being Small Dave, he’d imbibed rather too freely in the hospitality lounge and by the time it was his turn to come on, he was—”

“Pissed as a bishop,” said Pigarse. “Pass me the dodo legs.”

“He was drunk,” said John. “And you know what Parkie’s like with the women.”

“No,” said Soap. “What is he like?”

Omally made a knowing face, which spared him the use of the word “allegedly”.

“Oh?” said Soap. “Really?”

“So, Parkie starts chatting Small Dave up and Parkie puts his hand on Small Dave’s knee, and the next thing you know there’s trouble, and Dave’s bitten off Parkie’s—”

“No!” Soap coughed up Mastodon. “Not Parkie’s penis too?”

“I’m afraid so. And you’ll never guess who was another guest on that same show. Only Inspectre Hovis, Brentford’s Detective in Residence.”

“So Small Dave’s back in the suitcase.”

“A very special suitcase, built for the purpose. And of course Norman got arrested and banged up in prison. So he couldn’t be with us tonight.”

“Pity,” said Soap, wondering whether he should eat what he had on his plate so far, before trying to fit on any Siberian Rhinoceros. “But at least you’ve survived a free man, John. And you’ve got this incredible house.”

“I got it pretty cheaply, as it happens. The last of the Crawfords snuffed it and the place came on the market. It had acquired a bit of an evil reputation.”

“The Curse of the Crawfords?” said Soap.

“A ghost. And not a family one. A new one. Although I’ve never seen it.”

“I don’t like ghosts,” said Soap. “Don’t like them at all.”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked Litany.

“Loads,” said Soap. “It’s in the family. My dad was a seer, my mum a psychic, even our cat read the tarot. That’s one of the reasons I went beloooow. To get away from ghosts. The tales I could tell you …”

“Yes,” said John. “But they’re better left until after the ten o’clock watershed …”

“I heard,” said Pigarse, “that there’s a tribe of dwarves with tattooed ears living under Brentford and that they come up at night and snatch away infants from their cots.”

“Wherever did you hear that?” Soap asked.

“I read it in the Brentford Mercury. There was this whole series of articles written by the editor about how he’d travelled to the centre of the Earth and planted the nation’s flag. And he had photos and everything. He was knighted by Prince Charles. I’ve got a copy of his book. It was a bestseller. Published by Virgin, of course.”

Soap took to the grinding of his teeth.

The evening passed as such evenings do, with great conversation and mighty consumption of liquor. The noise of laughter rose to unthinkable heights, as the quality of humour sank to unthinkable depths.

Ricky took out his Virgin walkman (no longer Virgin-Sony) and put on the headphones. Soap saw a look of contentment appear on his face.

“What are you listening to?” asked Soap. “Is it the Gandhis’ music?”

Ricky’s look was one of bliss. Soap Distant nudged his elbow. “What are you listening to?”

“Pardon?” Ricky lifted an earphone.

“I said, what are you listening to?”

“It’s a tape of silence,” Ricky said.

“What? You’re listening to a blank tape?”

“No.” Ricky switched off his walkman. “It’s a recording of silence. Made in the meditation chamber beneath the Potala, in Tibet.”

“I’ve been there,” said Soap. “And it is a very quiet place.”

“It’s the quietest place on Earth, apparently. This is a digital recording made of that silence. It’s in stereo, too.”

“Stereo silence?”

“Here, have a listen.” Ricky passed the walkman and Soap slipped on the headphones.

“Just press the on button,” said Ricky.

And Soap pressed the on button.

And silence fell upon Soap.

Complete and utter silence. Blissful silence. Peaceful, healing, all-consuming silence. Soap could no longer hear the laughter and ribaldry. All the noise of the room had gone and only silence remained.

Soap switched off the walkman and the row came rushing back.

“That’s incredible,” said Soap. “I couldn’t hear anything at all. Except for utter silence.”

“Good, isn’t it?” said Ricky. “And great if you’ve got noisy neighbours. You just stick the tape on your sound system and turn it up full blast. And then the whole room’s filled with silence. Helps me to get off to sleep when we’re on tour, I can tell you.”

Ricky took his walkman back and put on his headphones once more.

“Could you make me a copy of that tape?” Soap asked.

But Ricky couldn’t hear him.

Soap chatted with the other Gandhis, even the ones who had nothing to say. The ones who had nothing to say said to Soap that they were really pleased to meet him and how John had told them so much about him and what a nice evening it was and had Soap heard their new album? Which was called Armageddon: The Musical and was based on the bestselling novel by the famous Johnny Quinn.

Soap said that he was sure he could remember reading a book by Johnny Quinn, way back in the sixties, but the name of it had slipped his mind.

The evening passed further on and soon became the middle of the night. Soap stifled yawns. It had been a long day, and a hard’n. He peeped at the wristwatch. What was the time?

The face of the watch was a blank and unlit screen.

Soap peered a bit more closely and wondered which button you had to press to get the time up.

“That’s a smart watch,” said Pigarse, leaning far too close to Soap. “Wingarde’s got a watch like that.”

“Has he?” said Soap. “Well, that clinches it.”

“Clenches what?” asked Pigarse. “Bottom cheeks?”

“Very possibly,” said Soap. “But it has to be the same Wingarde. He did have some fancy wristwatch, but I didn’t get to look at it closely. I’d just jumped out of a window and I was hovering in the air.”

“Go on, Soap,” said Omally. “It’s well past the ten o’clock watershed now.”

“Well,” said Soap, “perhaps I should tell you all about it.”

“Let me try your wristwatch on,” said Pigarse.

“No,” said Soap. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“That’s what bleeding Wingarde said. Come on, I won’t break it.”

Pigarse lunged forward to snatch at the wristwatch, but his hand struck something invisible and he fell back wailing and clutching at his fist.

“What did you do to him, Soap?” said Omally. “He’s the drummer, you’ve injured his hand.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Soap shook his head. “He just lunged at me, you saw it and …”

Soap’s voice trailed away. It was the watch. It had to be the watch. What was it Wingarde had said? Lifespan chronometer incorporating personal defence mechanism. That was what he’d said.

“So,” said Soap, “what do we have here?” And he tinkered with the buttons on the watch.

And then there was a click and a bang and a whoosh.

And there was no more of Soap Distant.

The grey-whiskered father looked down at the boy

And reached for his teeth in the glass.

He slotted them onto his old wrinkled gums

And rattled his fingers and crackled his thumbs,

And suggested the lad take a seat by the window.

Because he had questions to ask.

Now tell me, young fellow, the old fellow said,

As the lad spread his feet on the pouffe.

There are things I must know, for my time’s drawing near.

And I’ll be just a memory later this year.

So please do me the kindness to answer me this,

Before you’re away on the hoof.

Just name it, my daddy, the young boy replied,

Ask anything under the sun.

If it’s answers you want, then I’ll speak as I find,

So go right ahead, be assured I don’t mind.

Consider the floor to be yours, as I’ve said,

Spit it out, you old son of a gun.

Thus and so, said the ancient, my question is this—

But the telephone interjected.

And the boy went to answer it out in the hall,

And a large moose’s head that hung there on the wall

Fell down on his father and crushed him to death.

Which is pretty much what we expected!