‘Can I give you a hug?’
‘Certainly not,’ said John. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Soap. ‘And good luck.’
There had been quite a lot of talk of late in the press regarding the return of the death penalty. Well, in those papers owned by the Virgin Newsgroup at any rate. They’d been running a competition, inviting readers to write in with their suggestions for a new and novel form of public execution that could be broadcast on the Virgin Community TV Network.
Inspectre Hovis had not written in. Not that he wasn’t for bringing back hanging. He was. But the line, in his opinion, had to be drawn somewhere.
Unlike his constables, Inspectre Hovis was not in plain clothes. Nothing about him was plain. He was a character, and as a character he was dressed in style. Today it was a four-piece blue suede suit and a rather dashing pair of riding boots. However, at the present moment, all this sartorial excess was hidden from view. Because Inspectre Hovis was invisible.
He was sitting in one of the latest line in Virgin Community Police helicopters. One with the new stealth mode. This was hovering soundlessly, employing its exterior aural camouflage modification. Based, no doubt, on the principle of Ricky’s silence tape.
The Inspectre’s invisible person hung a mere twenty feet above the cheering crowd of Gunnersbury Park.
‘Take us up,’ Hovis told the pilot. ‘And make us reappear. The last time I had an experience like this was back in sixty-seven, when Lord Crawford and I did some really bad acid. Mind you, it wasn’t fan-boys we saw down there that time. It was vampire sheep.’
The pilot took the helicopter up to five hundred feet and re-engaged reality.
‘That’s better,’ said Hovis, examining his person. ‘And now tell me about all this electronic hocus-pocus you have on the dashboard.’
‘Actually,’ said the pilot, who was a stickler for correct terminology, ‘it’s not called a dashboard. It’s an instrument panel.’
The helicopter dipped alarmingly as Hovis stamped hard on the pilot’s foot.
‘Right, sir,’ said the pilot, as soon as he had regained control. ‘Beneath this aircraft is the new High-Spy 3000 Series surveillance camera. One thousand times magnification. Infra-red and ultra-violet tracking systems. Fully integrated missile guidance lock-on facilities.’
‘Demonstrate,’ said Hovis.
‘Certainly, sir. Would you like me to blow up that band on the stage?’
‘Very much,’ said Hovis. ‘But I meant the camera. Tell me how the camera works.’
‘Well, there’s not much to it, really. Light enters the lens and passes into a system of refracting mirrors that—’
The helicopter took another alarming dip.
‘I meant, show me how I work the camera.’
‘Just jiggle the little joystick,’ said the pilot.
Hovis jiggled the joystick and the camera scanned the crowd.
Soap sat in one of the Virgin control boxes, peering at video screens. These too were scanning the crowd, on the look-out for anyone who was having too much of a good time.
On one of these Soap could see Omally. The Irishman was not having a good time. He was standing at the park gates, his hands behind his back, no doubt awaiting the arrival of Wingarde.
Soap sighed and turned his attention to the other screens. Crowds and crowds and more crowds. Black T-shirts and black T-shirts and an odd little group wearing kaftans and beads.
‘Plain-clothed policemen,’ said Soap. ‘And they seem to be looking for someone.’
Soap leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his knees. He had to find Geraldo and he had to find him soon. Soap felt certain that if he could get to Geraldo, before John got to Wingarde, matters could be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, without the need for bloodshed.
It was a good, pure thought, was that. And one that was worthy of a Buddhist such as Soap. And, if this had been a perfect world, where life was lived in little movies and there was such a thing as justice, Soap’s worthy thought would have earned him a bit of Instant Karma and he would have been rewarded by an instant sighting of Geraldo.
But, as events have so far proved beyond any shadow of a doubt, this is not a perfect world. And so Soap sat there in the control box and saw nothing whatever.
And after half an hour of this, poor Soap fell fast asleep.
24
Now it is the nature of things, that they do not occur in isolation. Things happen all at once or not at all. There must surely be some reason for this. But it is probably one that is beyond all human understanding. Like why people who do not engage in sports, wear sportswear. Perhaps it is that things simply don’t like to happen alone. They crave the company of other things to happen with. They like to buddy-up and go about mob-handed.
There’s just no telling, with things.
Of course, we do our best to fight against things. We try to put things off and leave things ‘til tomorrow. But things still get on top of us. Things conspire to grind us down. In fact things really get on our nerves. Things drive us to distraction.
And so, as we reach the conclusion of our tale, it should come as no surprise to find that things, which have been building up, are now about to happen all at once.
And happen, as things so often do, with a bang.
It was now nearly eight of the evening clock and the Beatles were about to go onstage. But, nearly eight? Can this be right? Some things should have happened by now. But, no, things hadn’t happened.
Soap had slept through the balance of the day, missing all the really good bands. Bands which should have received some attention and been described in considerable detail. As indeed should the Gandhis’ performance. But they hadn’t. And it wasn’t. Because, let’s face it, our tale really isn’t so much about the music itself. Our tale is about other things.
Other things which have to do with Wingarde. And so where is he? John Omally has been standing at the park gates for nearly five hours, grinding his teeth and shuffling his feet and planning a terrible vengeance. But there is still no sign of Wingarde’s car, because Wingarde’s car has made a slight diversion. Wingarde has spent the afternoon at the house of his chauffeur. Where, with permission from The Voice, he has been engaging in certain things which need not concern us here.
And what about Inspectre Hovis? Well, he is still in the hovering helicopter, scanning the crowd. But has he caught sight of Geraldo and his pals? He has not. And have the plain-clothed constables caught sight of Geraldo and his pals? No. They have not.
And what is Dr Trillby up to? And where, for that matter, is Prince Charles, who was expected to make a spectacular arrival in a hot-air balloon, but has so far failed to appear. Who knows?
So things just haven’t happened. Things have been waiting to happen. And things will happen. Happen all at once, they will.
And happen with a bang.
The bang, when it happened, was a good’n. A right royal belter of a bang. It tore the outside wall from Norman’s cell and flung it in pieces across the prison yard and through the wire perimeter fence.
Norman, cowering beneath mattresses in Small Dave’s cell, raised a smiling, if now slightly smoke-blackened face. ‘That went rather well,’ said he.
Small Dave, who had been cowering under Norman, said, ‘I tend to agree. And now, if you’ll take the advice of one who knows these things, we had better do some running.’
Sirens wailed, alarm bells rang. They upped and did some running.
Inspectre Hovis was running out of patience. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he shouted and he kicked the instrument panel. The surveillance telescreen rocked on its mounts and then displayed a curious image.
‘What is that?’ Hovis asked.
‘You appear to have, er, nudged it into infra-red mode, sir. Those are the heat images of the people in the crowd.’
‘I can see that,’ said Hovis. ‘But look at that little group there, gathered by the front of the stage. Why a
re their images different from everybody else’s?’
‘Oooooh, yes,’ said the pilot, peering at the telescreen. ‘That is strange. They appear to be radiating some unusual form of energy. It’s almost as if they’re vibrating at a different frequency from everyone else. Faster, somehow.’
‘Vibrating faster? It’s them! Take us down at once.’ Inspectre Hovis snatched up his police walkie-talkie and bawled into it at the top of his voice. ‘Attention plain-clothed unit!’ he bawled. ‘Suspects are grouped together directly in front of the concert stage. Move in and make immediate arrests. At once, do you hear me? At once!’
And all at once Soap Distant awoke, by falling from his chair. He scrambled up in the usual confusion and almost checked the time on his watch. ‘Oh no,’ cried Soap, gawping up at the surveillance screens. ‘The Beatles are on. I’ve been asleep. And oh—’ He paused. ‘It’s Geraldo. Down at the front by the stage. And oh—’ He paused once more. ‘It’s the plain-clothed policemen and they’re heading in his direction.’
Soap kicked his fallen chair across the control room and Soap sprang into action.
And John Omally ceased kicking his heels and sprang to attention. Wingarde’s limousine came cruising through the open gates, with Wingarde at the wheel.
John stepped into its oncoming path and sought to flag it down.
‘Down!’ cried Hovis to the pilot. ‘Land this thing at once.’
‘But, sir. There’s nowhere to land. Unless I fly us out to the back of the crowd.’
‘No!’ Hovis pointed. ‘Land there! Land on that!’
‘What, on top of the stage canopy, sir? You mean land directly above the stage?’
‘Why not? It looks strong enough.’
‘But, sir. The Beatles are about to perform. We can’t interrupt the Beatles.’
‘Then stick this thing into stealth mode and engage the aural camouflage. And then no one will hear or see us land, will they?’
‘All right,’ said the pilot.
‘All right,’ said John Lennon. ‘It’s good to see you all.’
The crowd responded with riotous applause. Well, it was pretty good to see John.
‘There’s something you might have noticed,’ said the great one, adjusting the strap on his Rickenbacker.
John had always favoured the Rick, particularly the 325 model in the now legendary Capri series, which was launched in 1958.
Unlike the solid Strat, the Rick has a hollow body shell, but with a similar three-pickup arrangement. George Harrison, of course, preferred a Gretsch, the black Duo-Jet being his favourite. McCartney popularized the Höfner 500/1 violin bass, onto which he always taped the list of songs to be performed during the set.
These are the sort of things that really matter.
And it is only to be regretted that we don’t have the time to delve into them more deeply now.
But we don’t.
‘You might have noticed,’ said Lennon, ‘that me and the boys are looking somewhat perkier than we have done lately.’
And it was true, they did look a whole lot perkier.
There was evidence of new hair upon the balding pates. Sagging bellies had been uplifted, bandy old legs straightened. It was almost as if the Fabs had grown thirty years younger in a matter of minutes. Which indeed they had.
‘We feel just great,’ the great one continued. ‘And it’s all thanks to a little lady called Litany, who sang to us before we came on. And I think she’s going to come out and sing for you, after we’re done. Just like she did for us.’
A roar went up from the long-standing Gandhi fans. Could this really be true? Had Litany really got her magic back?
‘Take it away, boys,’ said Lennon, and the Beatles launched into their latest hit record.
The crowd strained ever nearer to the stage, causing some squelching up front. Usually the stage would have been protected by a stock of broad-shouldered, big-bellied Rent-a-thugs, called in to provide security. But on this occasion there were none. With the non-arrival of Wingarde, many things that should have been done hadn’t been done.
And now certain things that shouldn’t be done were about to be done. So to speak.
‘Hold up, Wingarde,’ called Omally, waving his hands in the air.
Wingarde slowed the car to a crawl.
‘Run him down,’ ordered The Voice.
‘Run him down?’ said Wingarde. ‘Why?’
‘Because we don’t have time and because he means to harm you. Trust what I’m saying. Run him down.’
Wingarde shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I never liked him much anyway.’
Wingarde’s foot hit the accelerator pedal. ‘Run him down it is, then,’ he said.
Norman and Small Dave were doing some running. All across the blighted wastes of Brentford. Surveillance cameras viewed them from on high. Operators called in their location and police cars now streaked in pursuit.
‘We ought to split up,’ puffed Dave. ‘Find separate places to hide.’
‘Bad idea,’ puffed Norman in reply. ‘We must head for my lockup. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘I do hope you know what you’re doing.’ Surrounded by silence and invisible to all, the pilot’s voice echoed in the void.
‘You’re the one doing the landing,’ said Hovis.
‘Yes, but under your orders. I can’t see the wheels. I’m not sure how low I should go.’
‘Just drop us down another yard. We’ll no doubt feel the thump.’
The thump he received on the back of the head took Geraldo by surprise. He wasn’t used to getting thumped about and under normal circumstances he would have had his personal defence mechanism activated. But having an invisible forcefield surrounding yourself in the middle of a large crowd can tend to get you noticed. So Geraldo and pals had kept them switched off, and Geraldo got thumped in the head.
‘Ouch!’ went Geraldo, clutching his skull.
‘You’re nicked,’ said a plain-clothed constable.
‘You’re dead,’ said Wingarde, pushing his foot to the floor. The limousine swept forward, gathering both speed and mass. The tyres burned rubber, the engine burned oil and the eyes of Omally burned red. There was no time at all to do anything but leap out of the way. And in fact when it came right down to it there was no time at all to do that.
‘Don’t do that!’ A fist sailed through the air and struck the plain-clothed constable. Geraldo turned, as best he could amidst the crush, to view the scourge of his attacker. The scourge was a man dressed all in black, with a chalk-white face and a transparent nose.
‘Good Gawd!’ went Geraldo, ‘It’s Death himself. How hard did that bloke hit me?’
Other constables, now close at hand, were drawing out their truncheons. At the sight of these more fists began to fly and chaos was given its head.
‘Come with me!’ shouted Soap to Geraldo.
‘No way, Death!’ came the reply.
Omally, in the path of certain death, had nowhere to run or to hide. So he did that thing which few would ever dare and he flung himself flat on the ground. The limo passed over him, all heat and choking exhaust. Wingarde slammed on the anchors and the car swerved to a halt.
‘Did I get him?’ Wingarde asked, glancing over his shoulder.
‘No, you didn’t,’ said The Voice. ‘Back up. Back up fast.’
Wingarde thrust the stick-shift into reverse. But as he did so a shot rang out and his rear-view mirror shattered.
‘Holy *********!’ shouted Wingarde. ‘He’s got a gun. He’s firing at me.’
And indeed Omally did have a gun. It was his grandfather’s gun. The one given him by Michael Collins. John had hung on to that gun. Had repaired and restored it. Had loaded it and saved it. Awaiting the day on which it would be used, upon the man who had killed his bestest friend.
And this was that very day.
And the man at the wheel was the man.
John ran forward, firing into the back
of the car.
Wingarde ducked his head and rammed the stick-shift into first. ‘I’m outta here!’ cried Wingarde, flooring the pedal once more.
‘I think that’s wise,’ said The Voice in his head. ‘For my sake, get a move on.’
‘Get a move on,’ Small Dave huffed and puffed. They had reached Norman’s lock-up at last, but Norman was looking perplexed.
‘What’s the problem? Open it up.’ Small Dave huffed and puffed a bit more.
‘The problem is that I don’t have the key to the padlock.’
‘Oh Norman.’ Small Dave rattled the door. ‘What have you got in there anyway? A tank, I hope, at least.’
‘No,’ and Norman shook his head. ‘It’s not a tank, it’s—’
Two police cars swung around the corner and into what was left of the street.
‘Give us a lift up,’ shouted Small Dave. ‘Give us a lift to the lock.’
‘What?’ went Norman.
‘Give us a lift up!’
Norman gave Dave a lift up.
The police cars slewed to a double halt.
Small Dave bit through the padlock.
‘Give yourselves up,’ came that old loudhailer voice. ‘Give yourselves up or we fire.’
‘Inside!’ shouted Norman, dragging open the door.
‘Come with me,’ shouted Soap, dragging at Geraldo’s arm.
‘Spare me, Death,’ wailed Geraldo in his silly squeaky voice.
‘I’m not Death.’ Soap tugged and pulled. ‘I have to talk to you. It’s about Wingarde.’
‘Wingarde?’ Geraldo’s voice went up an octave. ‘What has that monster done now?’
That monster has his head down and his foot down hard as well. The limo’s tyres burned further tread and the car moved off at the hurry-up along the gravel towards Gunnersbury House. John Omally, racing forward, made one of those heroic all-action, manly-man, Hollywood-movie-star leaps for the boot that all-action manly man Hollywood movie stars always leave to their stunt doubles.