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Freemantle went rigid from head to toe. For a moment Becker thought rigor mortis must have set in with exceptional speed, but then, with a convulsion that nearly shook their subterranean bunker, the captain’s eyes snapped open and the words flooded forth.
His rantings wouldn’t have made sense to an outsider. Fortunately Becker was about as much of an insider as you could get without actually becoming inside out. He had also come prepared. Holding a small dictaphone as close to Freemantle as his rabid saliva-flecked monologue would allow, Becker recorded every word for posterity and for the next chapter of his voluminous memoirs.
When the tirade had run its course the surgeon looked bemused. ‘Machu Picchu. That’s the Inca capital in the Andes, isn’t it?
But when he turned to question Becker further he was faced only by a furiously swinging door.
(#ulink_552a2d3a-f001-58c2-98b6-3a470a47e365) These days it isn’t only angst-ridden poets in fluffy white shirts who die of TB. With the help of virulent new strains resistant to those tried and tested (i.e. cheap, out-of-patent) drugs, almost anyone can receive the benefits of the ultimate creative muse. All over the globe this old favourite was making a comeback as the most efficient regulator of the urban poor, not to mention a most efficient filler of drug corporations’ bank accounts. Potent new strains require potent new cures, which in turn require potent research grants and tax incentives.
(#ulink_4a33ea8b-dc39-54a2-8f24-e4ec97e1b6cf) Not to be confused with the Donor Kebab. As in: ‘I wish I could donate my stomach to science. Pass me a fresh bucket please.’
11. Assault (#ulink_4fda8797-a5ad-51ab-ac46-cf8ceda3989a)
For no obvious reason, suddenly Frank was alert.
Nothing had changed in the dingy third-floor apartment, but like a US Marine’s genitals on his first trip ashore in Manila, the hairs on the back of McIntyre’s neck had become instantly erect. The TV news still blared in the corner – a hectic report about a military take-over in some tin-pot Central Asian republic. The bowl of Coco Puffs still hovered above Frank’s heroically stained T-shirt,
(#ulink_763f6221-6380-576f-964b-4a10d882b9e1) the spoonful of the same choc-flavoured corn-based breakfast cereal still suspended precariously half-way to his lips.
But something was different.
Some unknown set of relays had clicked inside Frank’s head. The highly tuned sixth sense which had saved his skin on countless occasions had kicked in again. So Frank McIntyre, Master Sergeant US Special Forces (ret), was in danger, but (as he reflected with a detached professional confidence) as of that instant not half as much danger as the other guy.
Just who that ‘other guy’ might be didn’t bother him at this stage. Frank hadn’t stopped to consider who had been wearing the Vietcong-issue pyjamas, or enquire after the health of the balaclava-swathed terrorists. The personalities behind the Federal Marshals’ badges hadn’t entered into the equation. He’d simply seen them as enemies, obstacles to his continued existence – and now there were other ‘obstacles’ crowding in on him. Frank was an equal opportunities killing machine, as free with his political allegiances as he was with his ammunition.
That was another good point. His Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun was tucked safely under the bed – no way to reach that now. The laser sight was a toy, but one that gave him and the drivers of the big eighteen-wheel semis that thundered beneath his window constant amusement. Frank owned a fine collection of handguns, but his Colt automatic was shut in his desk draw. His .345 Smith & Wesson Magnum was, as usual, taped to the inside of the toilet cistern. With bitter irony he reflected that he was currently equidistant from all his carefully placed hardware.
If he was going to leave with his guest when the fun started he was going to have to move very fast indeed. Abandoning his guns was not a happy thought, but he knew the deadliest weapon of all was carried with him. The United Nations had never tried to ban it, nor had it been the subject of arms limitation talks, yet its facility to unleash unrivalled mayhem and slaughter was impossible to match. It was the twin handful of pink-grey blancmange that quivered between Frank’s ears, and what’s more it was currently working overtime.
For the briefest of seconds he contemplated leaving the contents of his fridge undisturbed. No way, hosayovich. His uncommunicative guest represented the chance of several million lifetimes. He had no doubt it was the thing in his chiller cabinet ‘they’ were after. It was too much of a coincidence to hope his former employers wanted a chat for anything less. They also wanted to take him alive. Otherwise he’d already be dead. Frank knew how these guys operated – he’d all but written the manual himself. But knowing he was wanted for interrogation gave him a slender advantage, and right now he needed all the help he could get.
These thoughts went through Frank’s head in a split second. He didn’t have to think about them, the act of knowing he’d been compromised and analysing the tactical situation happened so fast as to be instantaneous. How would he plan it if he were commanding the assault? First off he’d place a sniper team in the derelict warehouse across the street. Secondly, he’d put a back-up squad at the bottom of the fire escape, to rush up when the main team hit the front door. He’d make sure he had every detail planned three ways in advance. But the time for preparation was at an end, now it was time for action.
Slowly, Frank lowered his bowl and made a careful show of appearing relaxed. The surveillance spooks would have him scoped at that very moment; his every move carefully analysed for signs of stress. As Frank got up and stretched, from the corner of the room, the confessional TV show presenter pointed out the problems faced by single-parent-transvestite households. There was a careful line Frank had to tread between haste and circumspection. Too fast and he risked letting on he knew of the raid, too slow and he’d be yesterday’s enchiladas before you could say ‘justifiable force’. As nonchalantly as he was able he headed for the kitchen, as if to fetch a morning beer.
His speed/stealth quandary was resolved for him. Before he’d gone three steps with low-battery flatness his musical doorbell creaked to life. When the first bars of ‘Do You Know the Way to San José?’ had trailed away, a carefully measured voice (too quick) called out, ‘Floral delivery for Mr McIntyre. I need your signature.’
The image of fifteen black berets, spread-eagled along the threadbare hallway, shotguns and battering rams at the ready, one reading from a carefully prepared script, sprung alarmingly to mind and refused to go away. That settled things. Speed was of the essence, and he’d have to leave by the window. Painful, but not half as painful as getting shot.
‘Coming,’ Frank called in a none-too-convincing effort to buy time, as he ducked into the kitchen. He knew that wouldn’t stall them for long, but at least he was hidden from view in the pokey windowless room.
Working quickly, he bundled his decaying guest from the fridge, removing its satchel as he did so. Checking the inhuman buckle he securely fastened the bulging sack around his neck. The document it contained was most definitely leaving with him. Next, he jammed the alien under one sinewy arm and tucked its legs up into his armpit. This way he was able to carry the feather-light carcass with surprising ease.
Now came the minor matter of making his escape. Talented and trained he might have been, but Frank held no illusions as to his chances. With a softly spoken ‘Hail Mary’ he crawled back into the living room. He had the makings of a plan. It wasn’t good, but it was painfully simple – with the emphasis very much on the painful part.
Stealthily he backed up against one damp mould-encrusted wall. Next to him the apartment’s main window overlooked the busy street below. Luckily they hadn’t stopped the traffic going past, otherwise his embryonic plan would have fallen in tatters at his sneaker-clad feet. A loud crash from the hallway’s front door told him that the ‘delivery man’ really wanted to give him those flowers. Sure enough tear-gas soon followed.
The full-length window next to him opened out onto a small balcony, the apartment’s single redeeming feature. With an impressive shower of glass Frank kicked his way through it and was onto the veranda in a tobacco-stained flash. Instantly a high-velocity ‘whoosh’ came racing in from the building across the street. A split second later a black-flighted crossbow-bolt embedded itself in the rail scant inches from his elbow. Frank recognized the lethal projectile before it had stopped twanging; he had used them himself on more than one occasion. But this was no time to stand around admiring the view. It was just as well that out of the corner of his twitching eye he spotted just what he was after. Up at the intersection a big eighteen-wheel road-transporter rounded the corner and ponderously accelerated down the main street beneath him.
With recklessness born of desperation Frank threw himself from the balcony, his unearthly passenger grasped tightly for dear life. For a stomach-churning second he thought he’d gone too soon, and would slam into the dusty roadway in the vehicle’s path. But then, as if in slow motion, the hissing juggernaut arrived beneath him. A bone-crunching impact later and Frank was attached like a limpet to the container section’s boxy flank.
One arm grasped the canvas-covered top as the other clung to the alien with grim determination. The bulk of the transporter now shielded Frank from the tactical position across the street. Shortly his pursuers were firing more than just arrows. Within seconds the gaudy awning was peppered with the gaping exit wounds of automatic fire. Soon the barrage was augmented from his rear, as the assault-team joined the party from the balcony above. Frank’s flaring nostrils filled with the evil smell of cordite, dragged along amidst the turbulent airflow of the truck’s lengthening wake.
The vehicle thundered on, the driver either unaware of the hail of bullets or more likely terrified out of his wits. Frank decided he could hardly blame him. Remorselessly he began the slow process of clambering up on top of the hurtling juggernaut.
By now they were well clear of the apartment block and quickly leaving the crackle of gunfire behind them. Frank judged he was in more danger of being thrown off than of getting hit by a lucky long-range shot. There was a nasty moment as they sped around a corner, the highlight of which saw Frank clinging on by mere fingernails, his glassy-eyed companion grasped desperately by the other hand – spread-eagled like a bony grey starfish – but as they slalomed through the crowded streets the centrifugal forces flung them both back into the body of the careering lorry.
Grimly Frank hauled himself along the length of the tarpaulin. When he reached the container’s leading edge he had good reason to thank the gods of chance once more. In front of him, across the metre-wide gap that separated the cab from its articulated container section, the driver’s window lay open.
With a superhuman effort Frank swung his posthumous passenger in a wide arc and in through the open window. Seconds later Frank followed his mouldy companion through the opening.
The driver was looking more than a trifle alarmed, as well he might. Yelling at the top of his prodigious lungs he wrestled with the lifeless freeze-dried alien, simultaneously struggling to steer the big vehicle with his enormous belly. Frank’s wide-eyed arrival did nothing to calm him.
‘Get the fuck out of my cab!’ he screamed, scant moments before Frank’s fist undid $900 of careful dental bridgework.
‘Mmmmrrrph!’ the driver spluttered, spitting like a popcorn machine, as Frank unlatched the door and bundled him from the cab.
The ex-commando had no time for remorse, not that he would have fallen victim to such an emotion anyway. All his nerve-endings had long since been cauterized by the searing heat of battle. This was a shooting war now and the occasional civilian was bound to get hurt. Frank was neither stimulated nor disturbed by this certainty, he merely accepted it as matter-of-factly as he’d accept the readout on a laser range-finder. Besides, it was the forces of ‘law and order’ which had fired the first shots – he knew from bitter experience they would be no more careful with the lives of the electorate than they had to be.
But there was another good reason why Frank had no time to feel guilty. With testicle-tightening certainty the thought came crashing home that, along with a semi-mummified extra-terrestrial, he was suddenly in control of a decidedly out-of-control juggernaut. The very act of not crashing was going to be a major achievement in itself, never mind the slightly more complex issue of safely bringing the vehicle under control and escaping his omniscient pursuers.
Either side of the highway the city limits gave way to desert at a shuddering pace. This fact at least brought a partial improvement; Frank was no longer in danger of taking half a city block with him on his final death charge. Unfortunately the petering-out of civilization had another, less welcome effect – the road surface over which they flew was no longer capable of sustaining such a speed. When Frank hit the first series of potholes the truck seemed to buck from under him like a Saigon call-girl he’d once known. Stamping on the brakes did little to improve matters, merely sparking off the sort of skid that could have brought tears to the Michelin Man’s eyes.
Ahead the road ran up a gentle gradient which did little to bleed off the frightening momentum. Worse was to follow. As the highway plunged over the far side it veered to the left. The wheels barely touching the ground, there was no way Frank could steer his mount around this bend. But it wasn’t just a large sandy hill that blocked his path. Half way up the rise a towering advertising hoarding for ‘Yoke Cola – as real as you’ll want to get!’ blocked their path. Across it, a scantily-clad young lady frolicked on a deserted beach, red lips clasped around the distinctly shaped bottle.
Seconds later the hoarding no longer blocked Frank’s path, because the juggernaut had slammed through it, to embed itself cab-deep in the dusty slope beyond.
Moments before impact Frank had buckled himself into the cab’s elaborate strapping system. He was fortunate this truck was a luxury top-of-the-range model. It was fitted with the sort of safety features which could have done spacecraft proud. The gel-filled air-bag offered the ultimate in protection, but also the ultimate in subliminal advertising – being carefully designed to maximize customer exposure to the brand logo at a moment of maximum stress and susceptibility. Frank was saved from serious injury, but left with a peculiar everlasting urge to purchase Ford motor vehicles for the remainder of his unnatural life. Unbeknownst to him his terrified mind had been subjected to some of the most effective and subtle advertising yet known to man.
(#ulink_4d8bd758-6182-5480-9c2c-c1438a637235)
Admittedly there were strange-coloured shapes dancing before his eyes, and far off in the distance he could have sworn he heard an ice-cream van jingle, but there was nothing new in that. A few scratches and scrapes, and tomorrow some seriously impressive bruising, was all he was going to have to show for his morning’s adventure. Unfortunately the same could not be said for the alien.
Amidst the general mayhem the cab’s glove compartment had sprung open – somehow the creature’s bulbous cranium had got wedged inside. On impact its head had been clasped firmly in this vice-like grip, while its frail body was free to snap wildly around. A fearful whiplash had resulted that by rights should have decapitated the poor creature. If it had been a horse it would have almost certainly been shot by now to put it out of its misery – that’s if it hadn’t already been long dead of course.
Grabbing the satchel and prising the tenderized alien from its resting place, Frank jumped out into the clear morning air. Clambering out of the gaping hole cut in the towering young lady’s blossoming left breast, he surveyed the swathe of destruction cut through cacti and tumbleweed alike. Briefly he paused, experiencing a terrible and sudden desire for a fizzy sugar-filled caramel-based drink, but he shook it from his mind with iron military discipline.
Gulping past the pain of his itching throat, Frank checked his ponderous load and began trekking off into the baking desert. It was going to be a blazingly hot day, but he had a lot of ground to cover by nightfall. He was going to have to find a more controllable transport if he was to put sufficient distance between himself and his pursuers.
(#ulink_1431a240-aef3-59d2-b354-dd84f2ad70d1) ‘LIVE FREE and BUY! I’ve visited Preacher Jack’s Old-Time Trading Post and Ammunition Store: Free Wyoming’s foremost survivalist retail outlet. Discounts available with NRA membership cards. (No Queers, Papists or UN Stooges.)’
(#ulink_4b57d0f7-e322-5f19-85c6-14043073cc30) Even more effective than the compelling 1990s campaign by the MIEC to enslave the masses to mobile phone use. Conducted over decades, through a combination of cultural familiarization (‘Star Trek’ communicators), electromagnetic long-distant brainwashing (those relay transmitters don’t just ‘boost the signal’), and cynically blatant association with a well-known TV show depicting the uncovering of the One World Shadow Government. Who needs an ID card when everyone carries a transponder and their very own number-of-the-beast?
12. The Jimmy Maxwell Show (#ulink_c5164b42-b554-5318-a436-0e8fc9eafe1f)
The studio audience had been whipped up into a frenzy of anticipation. For Kate Jennings, standing off in one darkened wing watching the recording on a monitor, the transformation never ceased to be a surreal and slightly scary experience. No matter how many true-life confessionals she worked on it was always a little alarming just how easily a group of otherwise sane human beings could be agitated into a baying mob; each herd-member impatient for the moment they could sink their fangs into the carnival of human misfortune paraded before them. What had, until half an hour before, been nothing more than a studio full of perfectly normal Britons, united admittedly in the fact that they had nothing better to do than attend the recording of a daytime TV show, was no longer a pretty sight. Each individual’s identity and inhibitions was lost in the anonymity of the pack.
It wasn’t as if the techniques Kate’s show used were particularly sophisticated. The procession of hadn’t-been comedians and enthusiastic young floor-assistants were not what instantly sprung to mind when you thought of subtle weapons of psychological warfare. But they were all that was needed.
A more informative and depressing insight into the darker reaches of the human psyche you’d be hard pressed to find – and the show hadn’t even begun yet. With the first bars of the terminally cheerful theme tune, Kate knew the unnaturally orange host couldn’t be far behind.
Kate wasn’t to be disappointed. As the ‘Applause’ lights flashed their strident instruction, Jimmy Maxwell sprung from an alcove and bounded down the audience aisle stairs leaping, slapping hands with the people and whooping with every breath. Britain’s favourite daytime TV celeb might have had the body and face of a middle-aged angel, but put him in front of a tight-lipped guest and he’d rip their tale from them like his career depended on it – which it did. He was undeniably the biggest fish in a small pond, but Maxwell had agents working round the clock to facilitate the move he craved. There was only so far you could take this format in the closeted and provincial TV backwater that was the UK. North America beckoned, like a cut-price whore offering twice as many bangs for the buck. It was rumoured that a major Hollywood producer had flown in today to watch him perform.
Unlike his hair Jimmy Maxwell’s appeal was harder to pin down. His voice retained just enough of a regional accent to smack of the exotic, setting the pulses of the housebound ladies of the Home Counties aflutter with hints of the mysterious hinterlands beyond the Stockbroker Belt. His strange mixture of Cockney-Scouse-Brooklyn was as distinctive as his cantilevered hair and trademark grey suit. Ever since the groundbreaking ‘I Married My Stalker’ episode last season the British public couldn’t get enough of him. Between two fingers he currently held a radio microphone like a magician’s wand.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this our hundredth show, and what a show we have for you today. In a moment we’ll be meeting our first guests, but first a word on our topic today – meaningful relationships within a loving family group and how hard it can be to maintain those traditional values in today’s hectic world.’
Jimmy cast an indulgent glance over his besotted audience, and ran a manicured hand over his spotless silk tie. He was a self-made man, and worshipped his creation.
‘It’s easy for us to judge the lives of others and to form snapshot opinions on their lifestyles, especially if those lifestyles differ from our own. At this point I’d like to ask you all to come to today’s show with an open mind and a forgiving heart, and the awareness that we all follow different lanes down the long and pot-holed motorway of life.’
It was all Kate could do to fight back the waves of nausea that shuddered through her body. These opening speeches reassured the harried station execs that they were paying for a worthwhile piece of informative public service broadcasting, and not half an hour of bandwagon-jumping emotional warfare that dragged the lowest common denominator down to previously unheard of depths. Jimmy’s monologues served as a convenient counter to the show’s myriad critics, but it was hard not to be cynical when you knew what was to come. You almost had to admire the cheek of the man for his ability to blurt them out with a cheddary grin smeared across his tea-stain coloured face. Amidst his adoring audience Jimmy hardly paused for breath.
‘With those thoughts in mind let’s meet our first guest. Come on out, Lucinda!’
The stage was mocked up to give the appearance of a well-to-do family lounge, though no such room Kate was aware of sported six different cameras, enough lighting to beckon down a jumbo jet and a barely restrained audience seated within easy abuse-hurling range. Five chairs formed a stark line across the sumptuous red carpet, chosen that way so as not to show the blood. Behind the carefully polished potted plants a series of painted-on windows looked out over an idyllic view of rolling downland. Onto this surreal tableau bounced the first victim.
Lucinda didn’t look the type to get embroiled in the sort of tale this show thrived on, but then that was always half the appeal. She was a little bunny-rabbit of a girl, one who took the word ‘wholesome’ into entirely new territory – where she rode metaphorical ponies through dewy meadows and won blue ribbons in gymkhanas. Her sweater was as tight as her bottom and as rosy as her smile.
Maxwell barely gave her time to settle in. ‘Welcome, my dear. Why don’t you start by telling us why you’re here today?’
Lucinda was only too eager to oblige. ‘Hi Jimmy. I’m here to tell you about my wonderful family. We’re so close and loving that I just want all the world to share what we’re doing right.’ At that instant two small boxes appeared in the corners of Kate’s monitor. One showed a head and shoulders close-up of a well-dressed middle-aged couple, beaming in a slightly forced manner from ear to ear; the other, a vacantly handsome young man with an unreadable expression splashed across his pallid features.
‘That’s a very worthy sentiment,’ said Jimmy, with the first hint of a smile breaking across his chiselled jaw-line. ‘Let’s just make this clear, you come from a perfectly ordinary, middle-class family from a leafy London suburb. Is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Lucy a little self-consciously. ‘Though we do have a second home in the Dordogne – helps Daddy with his wine import business.’
Jimmy’s smile widened. Kate could see he was going to enjoy this more than usual. ‘Why don’t you tell us all about the people who make up this ideal group.’
Lucinda leaned forward in her chair. ‘Well, there’s Mummy and Daddy, or Edward and Virginia as they’re known to their friends. They’re the best parents a girl could wish for. There’ve always been there for me, but have let me know from an early age I’ve the freedom to discover life’s wonders for myself. That freedom ensured I didn’t once go off the rails like some girls did.’
Jimmy’s eyes lit up, his voice chokingly eager. ‘What do you mean by ‘‘going off the rails’’ exactly?’
Lucy dimpled and looked demure. ‘Well, you know, ‘‘boy trouble’’. I knew some girls at finishing-school who got into all sorts of bother. Some of them were even expelled and had to attend the local comprehensive.’
‘Shocking,’ agreed Jimmy. ‘But these days you’re completely sorted out in the ‘‘boy department’’, I understand?’
‘That’s right. I’ve known Toby since we met at Jemima’s, that’s his older sister’s, coming out ball. He’s perfect, we’re getting married next spring.’
Jimmy looked pleased with himself. ‘Well, you know, Lucy, we’ve got a surprise for you today. Toby, your loving fiancé, is actually backstage. Let’s hear it, ladies and gentlemen, for Toby!’
Onto the stage shuffled the sad and stooped figure Kate had seen in the ‘picture in picture’ shot. His eyes were downcast as he mounted the short flight of steps, barely acknowledging his bride-to-be as she made a brave attempt at a one-way hug. Lucy looked genuinely surprised and more than a little bewildered by her boyfriend’s standoffish behaviour.
Jimmy began pacing back and forth amidst the highly expectant congregation. ‘Welcome, Toby, take a seat. Let’s not draw this out any longer than we have to. Why don’t you tell the lovely Lucy why you’re here today.’
Toby’s eyes never left his highly polished shoes as he mumbled, ‘Lucinda, I’ve got something I have to tell you.’
Lucinda looked on with growing incomprehension, as Jimmy pressed for the kill. ‘Why don’t you share it with us, Toby? You’ll feel better once you’ve got it off your chest.’
Toby cast a furtive glance over the audience of strangers that he knew would soon turn against him, then retreated behind his ponderous fringe. ‘This isn’t easy for me to say, but I’ve been having an affair behind your back.’
Even though they had known what was coming, the audience let out a collective gasp which seemed to suck the air out of the room. Kate felt her eardrums bulge outwards as, up on stage, Lucy put her dainty hands to her mouth and turned an ashen shade.
Jimmy wanted more. ‘That’s not all you have to tell Lucinda, is it, Toby? ‘‘Behind her back’’ is a more fitting phrase in this case than in most others. Why don’t you tell us who this liaison has been with?’
Through some strange compulsion not to let his tormentors down, Toby carried on, barely suppressing a self-conscious smile. ‘Sorry, Lucy, but I’ve been sleeping with your mum.’
Another gasp from the audience. Kate could have sworn it was getting harder to breathe. She saw on the monitor beside her that the Director had playfully cut back to a shot of Lucy’s smiling parents, still waiting in the green room, oblivious to events on stage.
That raised another point that had always left her baffled. Why the hell did people agree to come on this sort of show? If you were invited to be a guest of Jimmy Maxwell, along with several members of your immediate family, for no obvious reason, surely even the most inept viewer would realize it was not to be given ‘good news’.
Meanwhile, as usual, events onstage did not leave much time for sober reflection. Jimmy was playing the crowd for all he was worth, and at last count that was quite a bit.
‘Well, I’m sure you can guess who we’ve got back stage, can’t you folks? They haven’t heard what’s happened to this point, but there’s plenty of time to correct that right now. Come on out, Eddy and Ginny!’
Half the audience broke into spontaneous cheers, while the other half set up a chorus of boos which would have made an ugly sister feel at home. To her credit Lucinda wasted no time in getting her retaliation in first.
‘BITCH!’ she screamed, as she threw herself at her bewildered mother.
As the burly security guards peeled her off her reeling parents, Jimmy felt the need to bring them up to speed on recent developments. ‘Welcome, Eddy and Virginia. Toby has just been telling us about your very close and special relationship.’
‘Mummy’ went as white as one of her suspiciously stained bed-sheets. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped, sinking to her chair.
‘What on earth is all this about?’ demanded ‘Daddy’, as he comforted his wailing daughter.
Jimmy smirked. ‘Seems Toby and Ginny have been indulging in a spot of the old double-divan boogie-woogie. Virginia by name, but not, apparently, by nature.’
The audience loved that, this was even better than Maxwell’s infamous ‘I’m a Fat Transvestite Bisexual Who Sleeps Around’ show. There had been crowds in the Roman Colosseum which had given Christian rookie lion-tamers an easier time. Eddy looked on aghast at his wife. ‘Is this true, Virginia?’
It was all Ginny could do to nod her head. ‘It was him,’ she stammered, pointing a trembling finger in Toby’s direction. ‘He had me under some sort of hypnotic spell. I couldn’t say no to his depraved demands.’
All eyes turned to young Toby. Lucy stared at her former fiancé for a second along with everyone else, then made a heroic effort to break from her minder to tear his throat out. The crowd loved that too. There was a spontaneous standing ovation for the plucky young woman, who all knew had been done a great and terrible wrong.
Jimmy stepped up to the stage, a life-raft of tolerance amidst the ocean of chaos. ‘Now, now. Why don’t we all calm down and talk about this like sensible adults? But first I’d like to welcome a very special mystery guest. None of you knew she was coming tonight, but please put your hands together for Toby’s sister Jemima!’
The make-up and costume departments had obviously gone to town on Jemima. She looked like an extra from a certain sort of continental film that found favour with a late-night audience on Channel 5. As the heavily mascara-ed young woman oozed onto the stage she had ‘femme fatal’ written all over her.
‘Hello, uncle Eddy,’ said Jemima with come to bed eyes, and a let’s stay there smile. ‘Remember me?’
Edward’s brow furrowed. ‘Uh, I don’t see what relevance she has to this discussion.’
‘Oh really,’ sneered Jimmy. ‘I think she might have every relevance. Ever accused any kettles of being overly on the dark side?’
‘Edward! You never did?’ sobbed Virginia, as she cowered under her daughter’s continued stream of abuse.
‘He most certainly did, Virginia,’ said Jemima in the sort of husky baritone which could have melted pack-ice. ‘And may I take this opportunity to compliment you on your choice of husband, or Rock Steady Eddy as I used to call him. No need for Viagra there.’
‘Rock steady Eddy’ sank to the floor with his head in his hands and began to tremble. An over-excited member of the audience let out a half-hearted ‘whoop’, then stopped when they realized no one else was joining in. It was strange how, even in these trans-Atlantic times, some traditional elements did not transfer well across the pond.
