Acid Bubbles (33 page)

“Hoy, you up there. Yes, you. It's me, Hysandrabopel. You know your pixie.” She was wearing what appeared to be black sub-aqua gear.

“Have you been there all day, watching?” I enquired.

“No, I have been with the dog in the invisible briefcase. They're both under the table!” pixie said. And so they were.

I shouldn't have concentrated. I was squinting down into the glass to get a better look at the tiny pixie with her ridiculous rubber suit on, the flippers far too big for such a small girl. She was, yet again, a frog. I suppose it was appropriate in Paris, if it was Paris? I concentrated too much and the next thing I knew I was swimming among the icebergs and the cold was extreme.

“Paul, take the bubble quick before you freeze to death!” Jennifer said, with great affection for my well-being in her voice.

Pixie walked over splashing through waist-deep icy water. Most of the gin had gone and all that remained was the residue of melting ice. She was as large as me which always came as a surprise. Grinning like a loon she handed me her spear gun.

“You'll need this to burst the bubble!”

I was about to ask what bubble when she put her snorkel down into the icy water and sucked. She then, with an almost violent deliberation pointed it at me and blew as hard as she could. Out of the snorkel came a bubble that was as black as coal and the size of a golf ball. The damn thing shot towards my face at one hundred miles an hour. I had no chance of aiming a spear gun, the only thing I did was swing and pull on the trigger. The spear gun was no ordinary weapon. It had a mind of its own sending the tethered spear on a direct course into the black orb. The spear struck the orb digging deep into its tough flesh. So there I was holding a spear gun with a fierce grip, waist-deep in icy water with what felt like a twenty ton weight pulling on me.

The tether on the spear gun wasn't strong enough to reel in the tiny orb, but it was strong enough too real me into the tiny orb. I tried desperately to release the contraption from my grip, but my hands were frozen hard to the handle with ice. The only way to release the gun was to rip the skin off my hands. I was willing to go to this length, however, time had run out and the cord was rushing in. There was nothing I could do but follow my harsh fate hard into that black orb.

They, whoever they are, say that clothes maketh the man. My clothes were making me sick. No longer the gauche teenager, I appeared to have gained impeccable style in the last two years. My suits were not cheap or nasty like those worn by plain-clothes police officers. Mine were Reed and Taylor cloth, precision cut by a local master tailor, and impeccably finished with the finest silk linings. All the accessories, shirts, shoes, and the dozens of ties were of equal quality. All these fine clothes shouted money in a small town. What they also shouted was criminal! I made money not through hard work, but by working a hard product into other people's lives.

Smiggy had been broken like a plastic doll by the psychopathic John Smith. I probably knew he was a psycho before. This time it only took me only forty-eight hours to rediscover the lunatic inside him. There were no laws, because John was a warrior in a different world, living in an older time without governments or constraints. A world in which he could shape his own form, become as terrible as he desired. In a different era he could've forged a kingdom through terror and guile. I was in league with this lunatic, and I'd even suggested the basic bones of a scheme he now carried out. I knew I hadn't suggested the gory mayhem, but realised John Smith liked permanent solutions, no comebacks, no surprises in the middle of the night. With adversaries dead he was at peace, and so were they.

The quality clothes I wore reminded me of everything I'd become. I was the dismal coward who stood by and watched a murder. I didn't like Smiggy, but I didn't dislike him enough to lash out and kill him. John Smith, saw him in a different light. He was a little snitch, and John didn't like being watched. His solution was to murder. What I feared most of all was I would become a victim in John's constant quest for credo, another victim to put others in fear. He wanted to run the show, having everybody in awe of him. A cold void lived inside this lunatic and you had to be in awe because being involved with him was more dangerous than juggling nitro glycerine. It wasn't a matter of will it explode killing you, that was given, and the only question was, when?

The summit meeting in the pub was closing in on me. I saw no reason why I should go. Of course, if I wanted to live in this town there was no way I couldn't go. I couldn't run, John Smith wouldn't allow it. He'd seek me out half a world away, and kill me as a demonstration of his powers to others. Returning to my wrecked flat would be a wasted walk. Normal teenage street clothes weren't part of my lavish wardrobe. Also I imagine by now most of my clothes had been ruined by the terrible duo who'd been watching me. They would've taken delight in slashing my handmade suits, and urinated in my shoes. This is the kind of thing they thought was funny. There was nothing much in my other place. I now realised it was used after a good night out, somewhere to rest my head or spend the night not resting with some girl. I didn't know if Samantha had ever visited, though I doubted it. My clothing was impeccable, and the whole ensemble reeked of a person I didn't want to know – me.

In 1973 the new late shopping was coming in. Some of the outlets in the new shopping centre stayed open until 7pm, and the town was taking advantage of this new business opportunity despite the three-day week and the frequent power cuts. (My aunties were right!) I decided that if clothes made the man I would form myself in a new image. I desperately wanted to rid myself of the past two years, expunge the unremembered. The irony was not lost on me. I would be buying my new clothes with money from the same miserable trade. The new look would be no different from the suit I wore unless the clothes purchased today became a first step on a long road to reform. This was the moment I took the first faltering step on my journey to the present day. And I started this journey wearing the latest in sports shoes – trainers!

I spotted them in the middle of the window on a plinth. The shoes were of blue suede in three colours, not in vivid contrasts, but more subtle shade differences. The sole was made up of three layers of blue rubber, also subtle in its contrasting stripes. This
soufflé
of sporting delight was topped off by the outer sole formed to look like miniature motocross tyres with a small block knobbly pattern. The price was quite extraordinary for shoes, and they were only shoes. I would pay far more for my smart black shoes, but these were only sports shoes and the price was vicious.

I tried them on. They only had three sizes, nine, nine and a half, and ten. One pair fitted perfectly. They were the most comfortable things I'd ever worn, light and springy. Somewhere deep inside a voice was shouting, “Buy them!” So I did. I dumped my beautiful shoes in the wastepaper bin, and from the corner of my eye I noticed they were retrieved by the assistant before I'd even left the shop. I saw him slipping them under the counter in the reflection from the plate glass window. If he knew where those shoes had taken me he'd have left them in the bin.

I hadn't owned a pair of Levis for over forty-eight hours, or two years in real time. I wanted to get back into something casual, to slip back to being a teenager rather than a gangster, a drug dealing lowlife, an idiot who suggested business plans to a psychopath. The 70s were an era of terrible fashion and innovation, this depending on your view. Stonewashed jeans, this was the first day I'd ever seen these. Again the pricing was vicious, and they had a pair that fitted. I stayed in the shop until I purchased everything right down to the underwear. I placed everything apart from two items in the carrier bag in the changing room, leaving it all sitting under the bench.

I didn't feel anything like the seventeen-year-old me, and with my much heavier frame I didn't look much like that teenager either. I was nearly twenty and feeling so much older. The fitting had gone well. Now I wore a white T-shirt, dark blue V-neck sweatshirt, and with a defiance to my past two years no need for a coat. The young shop assistant couldn't believe his luck when I told him the suit was in the changing room. I hope he didn't want the underclothes!

My associates loved coats, big coats, overcoats in the summertime, somewhere to hide your angry girlfriend, Millicent. I'd strolled about with my heavy overcoat draped across my shoulders. Who the hell did I think I was, Al Capone? It was as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders, the simple act of relieving myself of the weight of those clothes gave me the slight feeling of hope. I stopped at a phone box and contacted my sister at work. We talked for a few minutes. I explained the deep worries I held about tonight's meeting and I told her I believed John Smith was insane. She told me she had no doubt at all about that. I asked her at the end of the conversation if she had any ideas. My sister didn't raise my spirits with any suggestions to give hope, and nothing was forthcoming apart from some vague promise to think about it.

It was almost confrontation time. I walked in the direction of The Cauldron. The trainers were a revelation. Each step was a new freedom allowing me to bounce along at a pace. I was in no hurry to get to the pub, but the shoes were in a great hurry to show me how good they were. Then I came across the Old King. I decided that I needed some Dutch courage. I was going to invest in a pint of beer, and then changed my mind opting for a large brandy, after which I had a pint of beer. You never knew who was drinking in some of these lowlife establishments, and this place had no quality. No lounge bar, no restaurant, and the eating area always between your thumb and fingers. Only a bar, but this in a way was a lie. This drinking establishment had two bars, the better equipped with dart boards and a pool table, the other bar for the serious sport of drinking yourself senseless.

I was at the bar in the quiet end, the bar that didn't have any “sports” equipment. It was too early in the day for people to be drinking themselves senseless apart from two semi-conscious figures slumped at a table in the corner arguing about boxing, “Ali, he is the man, Ali.”

“No, Frazier, yeah Frazier.” This was followed by a long silence until another name was thrown into the hat, and again Muhammad Ali appeared from nowhere. He was magic!

“Greatest. Yeah, greatest.” They may have been more coherent. I was in deep conversation with myself. It was a shouting match between several idiots, none of whom knew the answer to anything. They all shouted at once. Run, run for your life, fight, fight for your life, negotiate, and negotiate for your life. All bollocks! I was like a sapling in the wind waiting for the storm. I ordered another brandy. As I sipped it inspiration came! I had an inkling of an idea that might work.

Other people had other ideas. Some lowlife looking through from the other bar had seen me. The word was out and he could make a quick five pounds. The Cauldron beckoned me and I was in no hurry to get to the happy hour reunion. Rushing would only make me hot and I'd had a premonition of the heat inside The Cauldron. Leaving the Old King by the side entrance, I'd taken only a few steps towards the side gates of the pub when a friendly voice beckoned me over.

“Hello. Millicent wants to ask you a few questions… Now!” Dave Hartley Sparrow said. Millicent was shy this evening, hiding under the ubiquitous overcoat. He was wearing his usual light beige coat with a double-breasted front and dark contrasting collar. Two deathly black eyes peeked out from behind the unbuttoned front. Millicent was being very persuasive. With a drink inside me for courage I managed to be very scared. Without the drink I might've had a heart attack on the spot, but then the quick coronary infarction might be better than slowly bleeding to death with half my face blown away.

“Harry's dead! I wanna know before I kill you right here, right now, If you helped?” Dave was spitting in my face as he said this. More worrying was I could feel both barrels hard against the bottom of my pelvis. He had the gun pressed hard into my penis, and I could hardly speak. Pain was one thing, but my vocal chords were crippled by fear.

“Kill Harry? Nobody's killed Harry! Have they?“ I think these words came from my mouth in a squeak. It felt like it.

“Harry's dead! Blown away by some big fat guy. He's dead too. Only thing is Harry doesn't use a gun. He uses me!” Dave said, no truer word ever spoken.

Inspiration can change the world, inspiration can change how you feel about yourself, inspiration can come at the moment when you most need it, and my inspiration was a small square of paper in my pocket. It may save my life. No, I wasn't going to offer him money.

“I saw John earlier. He said he was going to Harry's. I went shopping. I have receipts!” Pathetic I know, but at that moment I was grasping for the lightest straw imaginable. He pressed the gun even harder in the top of my testicles. I reached into my pocket in a slow deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving mine. One of them may have followed my hand for a fraction of a moment. He was not going to be diverted from his purpose, and was concentrating fully. My hand touched the flimsy piece of paper from the boutique. Very slowly and with great care I drew it from my pocket. It was so slow that for a second I thought he might shoot me in frustration.

“Look, I was shopping an hour ago, I was shopping an hour and a half ago for shoes, and I have another receipt. John dropped me off in town. You've got to believe me.” I sounded like I was begging for my life, a pathetic beggar of a man. This was true. Dave snatched the receipts from my hand and drew back a few feet so I couldn't rush at him. Then, to my surprise, he squinted at the receipts. The man had poor eyesight. I thought he was a marksman, and now the shotgun made sense. Panic was setting in. What if he couldn't read the times printed with weak ink on cheap paper.

An age passed before he was satisfied. He then did the most extraordinary thing. He gave me the receipts back. This was the moment I think I decided that I might live. He had decided something. The smile of a happy man crossed Hartley Sparrow's face, after which it grew to a positive beam. He had a knack of thinking outside the box, and outside of his box usually contained some form of retribution.

“Don't try and run. I know where you live, or I know where your family lives. Pretty girl that sister of yours. Jane, that's what she is called, isn't she? Fuck her. Yes fuck her hard and kill her. That could be fun!” Sparrow said these words with all the menace of a Hollywood gangster, except this was very real. I didn't want my family involved in this stupid mess. Without any options The Cauldron beckoned me, and my new idea grew, after which it seemed ridiculous.

“So I'll see you in The Cauldron will I? Peter your pathetic!”

“Yes.” I don't know which one I was saying yes too.

“You've got no money! I'm going to watch John Smith rip your legs off. When you're dead, or nearly dead, I'm going to kill him! I followed the blonde twat a couple of weeks ago to Raymond's place. When he's gone me and Smiggy, with Lenny's help, will take over!” Dave said this as he turned dramatically away. His overcoat hanging over his shoulders almost slipped off, but the bastard managed to carry it off. He didn't seem particularly worried over Harry's death.

I wasn't going to mention Raymond Nice was dead. I walked the walk of a dead man. I was on death row walking towards the chair, or being English would that be the gallows pole?

More bloody questions? “You've got no money.” How did he know? Double-Barrelled Dave and John Smith had both been in the alleyway behind my town house. Was it just a game and they worked together? Did Dave know that Raymond nice was dead, and I would never know if he was working with John because I would be dead before they celebrated their new partnership? Was it my idea to form a new syndicate, and were they keeping me in the dark until they sent me towards the light. As the distance to The Cauldron grew smaller and smaller chronic paranoia was growing and growing.

There was no Rover 3.5 coupe in the car park waiting. There would definitely be no visit from Harry the Pocket, and there would be no visit from the blubbery Walter Nice. It was obvious Dave knew nothing about his missing sidekick. I wasn't going to pass the information on, not with a shotgun pressed into my testicles, or anywhere else for that matter.