O, HITMAN, MY HITMAN!

    

    Things were made much worse by Tom's extraordinary manner of

     speech. He was Cassie Lee's retarded younger brother. Whenever he

     ended a sentence, he repeated the last two words of that sentence

     anything up to four times.

    

     It was a bitterly cold February day. Cliff, their father, walked across

     the fields in the freezing rain to shoplift. When he returned, he was

     soaked to the bone and rushed into the railway carriage, their home,

     in the hope that Cassie had turned on the Spartan stove, which brought

     a little heat to the cold, damp home.

       Tom was lying on his bunk, apparently insensitive to the cold.

       "Where's your sister?" barked Cliff, even more irritated by the fact

     that Tom was lying down, resting in the middle of the day.

       Very slowly, Tom rolled to the edge of the bunk and let his head

     hang over the side with his cretinous mouth gaping open.

       "She's out, she's out, she's out, she's out," he replied. As he

     spoke, he nodded his head like a tin mandarin.

       "Where did she go?"

       "Through the fields, the fields, the fields, the fields."

       "I don't understand why the hell you couldn't light this stove."

       "Light it yourself, yourself, yourself, yourself."

       Cliff struggled to control his temper. He crouched by the stove.

     The bitterly cold sleet had almost frozen his only clothes. He got up

     and waved his arms about, running up and down on the spot.

       Tom made a desperate but unfortunate effort to humour his foul-

     tempered father.

       "How are you finding the weather, the weather, the weather, the

     weather?" he asked.

       Something broke within Cliff. He grabbed hold of Tom and banged

     his head repeatedly against the wall until he lost consciousness.

    

     When Cassie had finished typing the Minutes, she handed the

     beautifully presented draft to Pyke who was sitting in one of the

     offices in a semi-alcoholic stupor.

       For the first time during their acquaintance, Pyke abandoned his

     pompous mien and roared with laughter.

       "These show initiative but they're supposed to be the Minutes of

     a meeting, not a novel by James Hadley Chase!"

    

    

     When Pyke lost his temper with Cassie over nothing, she wrote a letter

     in his name to the IRA. It read:-

    

                                           9 Bradbury Villas

                                                        Hove

                                                    Brighton

       To:                                   3 November 1987

       The Headquarters of the Provisional Sinn Fein

       Falls Road

       Belfast.

    

       Dear Sir,

          Although I am a Brit, I have a burning moral conscience and

            am committed to the withdrawal of British troops from Ulster.

            I wish to join the Irish Republican Army.

          Perhaps you would care to send one of your representatives

            round to my house to discuss this.

          If someone does decide to call at my house, could they be sure

            to make it latish 'cos of darts.

                      Yours sincerely,

                        Jeffrey Pyke

    

    

    

     

     The dock of the courtroom at the Palais de Justice was occupied by

     ten prisoners, each charged with a separate offence. Cassie took her

     place in the crowded public gallery. Both she and Wiseman were in a

     light-hearted mood by the time his case came up, because of the

     humorous nature of the exchanges between the presiding Magistrate

     and the occupants of the dock.

       The Magistrate's name was Jean-Cedric Gautier. He was a short,

     dapper man with neatly-cut, black hair parted at the side. The cases he

     was presiding over took place after he had had a liquid lunch. He

     stumbled as he entered the courtroom and staggered to his chair,

     singing under his breath.

    

            "Au clair de la lune-e,

            Je pétais dans l'eau.

            Ça faisait des boules-e.

            C'etait rigolo."

    

     He slumped theatrically into his chair, and rubbed his hands as he saw

     the ten prisoners sitting before him.

       "Delighted to see you, my children," he remarked, his speech

     slurred and his accent Parisian. "It is your crimes that give me the

     right to work."

       The first two prisoners were a married couple from a high-rise

     block in the sixteenth arrondissement. The man was dressed like a

     suburban bank manager, and his wife wore an imitation fur coat and

     matching hat. They were accused of leaving a restaurant, failing to pay

     a bill of sixty francs. The paucity of the sum irritated Gautier, who

     had no patience for the restaurateur, the first to give evidence.

       The restaurateur made an elaborate speech about how he had

     chased the couple from the restaurant and made a citizen's arrest in the

     street. Gautier struggled to stay awake, which was not easy after his

     consumption of two bottles of wine.

       "I'm listening, monsieur. I'm listening," said Gautier, "with my

     head resting on the back of my chair, and my eyes tightly closed, but

     I am listening all the same."

       The restaurateur was irritated by Gautier's indifference and

     continued his emotional tirade. Eventually, Gautier lost his temper.

       "Do you mean you are wasting my time about a mere sum of sixty

     francs?" he bellowed.

     The couple's defence counsel intervened, shouting at the top of his

     voice, waving his arms in the air like a swimmer calling for help.

       "Monsieur thought Madame had paid! Madame thought Monsieur

     had paid! It was not a crime they committed! It was a

     misunderstanding!"

       "Shut up!" shouted Gautier, now so drunk he was oblivious of his

     surroundings.

       Gautier was fractionally more tolerant when he addressed the

     female defendant who explained that the incident was accidental.

     Gautier rubbed his hands and shrugged his shoulders in a bemused

     Gallic gesture.

       "Et c'est pour ça que nous nous rencontrons dans cette salle" he

     said, half amused, half bored.

    

     "In the light of the moon,

     I farted in the water.

     It made bubbles.

     It was hilarious."

    

     "And that is why we are meeting each other in this room."

    

     Footnote: Eleanor Berry witnessed this case in the Palais de Justice in

     Paris in December 1975. The name of the Presiding Magistrate is

     changed.

    

     "I'll have a pint of Guinness," Rand announced to the barman,

     "and my charming lady friend here will have a gin and tonic." Rand

     was an unemployed hooligan of no fixed abode, of nihilistic mien and

     inclined to snarling vicious rages.

       The woman, who was Bohemian in outlook, was attracted by

     Rand's blunted London East End accent with its mild South African

     lilt, and accepted his offer.

       The barman produced the two drinks.

       "My charming lady friend has kindly agreed to pay for these

     drinks," said Rand, as he drained the pint of Guinness in one go.

       "I'm not paying for these drinks, and I never said I would," said

     the woman.

       The barman turned to Rand.

       "I know you. You've caused this kind of trouble in here before. I

     want you out."

       "I'm not going anywhere," said Rand, his low mood improved by

     the beer.

       "In that case I shall have to call the police."

       The desk sergeant at the main Brighton police station answered the

     call. He summoned PC Williams, who had dealt with Rand before.

       "I've got yet another complaint about Shorta Rand at The Red

     Lion," he said. "He's up to his usual again, ordering drinks and saying

     other people will pay for them."

       PC Williams was fed up with being called out because of Rand.

       "Not Shorta Rand again, please, Sarge. I can't stand it."

       "I'm afraid so. Off you go."

       Rand had had other drinks before the beer and was drunk when PC

     Williams arrived at the crowded pub. He was sitting in a frayed leather

     armchair, staring moodily into a flickering log fire.

       "Come on, Mr Rand. I want you out, and out means out!"

       "I don't intend to leave," said Rand, now in a state of manic

     euphoria, "It is an honour for you to approach me. I'm a writer. Here,

     let me show you my work and, once you've seen it, you won't dream

     of throwing me out. It's a work of genius."

       "Please leave now. I don't want to have to use force," said the

     constable.

       "I don't think you realize what a popular, knowledgeable, and

     talented man I am," said Rand. "I have inside knowledge that will help

     you with your work. I know the names and addresses of 25 hardened

     criminals in London. If I were to give you their names and addresses,

     perhaps you would re-consider asking me to leave." He slapped the

     constable on the back adding:

       "And may your worthy wife be faithful to you!"

       "I'm not interested in this potty talk," said the constable. "Either

     you leave, or I physically throw you out."

       Rand obeyed and went outside. PC Williams left. Ten minutes

     later, Rand went into another entrance, found another woman at the

     bar and started again. Yet again, the desk sergeant's telephone rang.

     It was the second barman who had been tipped off by the first barman.

     Again, the desk sergeant called for PC Williams.

       "More trouble with Shorta Rand, constable. He went back in after

     you got him out. Out you go again."

    

     Footnote: The man who has been named as "Sean Rand" existed and

     all references to him in this book are authentic, except his "witnessing"

     of Dr Wiseman's suicide. Dr Wiseman is modelled on the late Dr

     Victor Ratner who died in suspicious circumstances in 1993.

       "Sean Rand" was a former student at Sussex University. He spent

     most of his time hanging about there for two years following his

     graduation. His real name was Paddy but his surname is withheld.

       He was killed in a car crash on 23 September 1977. He was an

     alcoholic, a sponge and a professional brawl-starter. He was a very

     good lover, but apart from this one asset, he was on the whole

     disliked.

    

      On boarding the merchant navy ship, Rand, accompanied by

     Charlie and Cassie, was drunk and waving his "manuscript" which he

     carried under his arm. The "manuscript" so-called, was a wad of

     crumpled papers two inches thick, but only the front page had writing

     on it.

       Skiver met the trio and escorted them to the petty officer's mess

     where they were given free drinks. Rand sensed that the petty officers

     surrounding him were not intellectuals and decided to show off

     aggressively.

       "I'm a famous writer," he lied, leaning against the bar. "What you

     see under my arm is my latest play."

       Skiver, Charlie and the bystanding chief petty officers, and petty

     officers ignored him. Rand could not tolerate a silent audience. He

     banged his fist on the bar.

       "Listen, you bunch of fuckers! It's time you realized that I am

     superior to you. I am educated. You are not! I am strong and you are

     weak. I'm strong because I have nothing and can therefore lose

     nothing."

       The silence of his audience persisted. Skiver was the first to break

     it. He changed the subject.

       "Last night was pretty stormy but we still managed to round the

     Eddystone," he said.

       "What the hell's the Eddystone?" asked Rand.

       "The Eddystone's a huge, granite lighthouse, a magnificent-looking

     structure," replied Skiver.

       Rand banged his fist on the counter a second time.

       "Ah, that brings us all to that bulimic bull-dyke, Virginia Woolf's

     crappy book, The Lighthouse!" he bellowed. "My friends in the

     academic community, with whom I should imagine you are unfamiliar,

     hold absurd, almost pubescent views about that book. Some lecturers

     liken it to Dante's Paradiso. Others liken it to the central focal point

     of the very essence of being. Here's what I say Æ' Dante's Paradiso,

     shit! Central focal point, shit! What you've all got to realize is, it's

     just one great big dick! Give us another drink, Skiver."

       Skiver reluctantly gave Rand another double whisky which he

     drained in one go, throwing the empty glass over his shoulder like a

     Russian. He continued his tirade while the chief petty officers, and

     petty officers stared at him transfixed, as if they had seen a vision.

       "I don't think you realize how famous I am," said Rand, now

     almost too intoxicated to stand. "No writer in the history of mankind

     has had talent equal to mine. Take Balzac, for instance. He's crap.

     Zola is crap. Goethe is crap and even Shakespeare is crap in

     comparison with my matchless genius!"

       Skiver, Charlie and the men continued to gape at him. Charlie

     begged him to moderate his embarrassing behaviour but was ignored.

     By this time the men had also become drunk to drown their anxieties.

       The Mess President descended on Skiver and spoke to him in a

     whisper.

       "I'm asking you formally to tell your brother to ask his friend to

     leave." Skiver reiterated the command to Rand who shouted: "I ain't

     going nowhere! Let me address you in simpler language: YOU POE,

     ME RAVEN. YOU SUFFER, ME STAY."

       Skiver had had enough. He was unable to understand what Rand

     was talking about. He turned and beckoned to the men who advanced

     slowly towards Rand, singing a ribald sea shanty, and lifted him

     shoulder high.

    

          What shall we do with the homo sailor?

          What shall we do with the homo sailor?

          What shall we do with the homo sailor?

                  Early in the morning.

    

     Cassie sat in a leather-studded arm chair, smoking and sniggering to

     herself. She did not wish to intervene, so dependent was she on Rand's

     immaculate performance between the sheets, which she hoped would

     occur when they left the ship.

       The officers continued their drunken song.

    

       Make him walk the plank being buggered by

                           his bum boy.

       Make him walk the plank being buggered by

                           his bum boy.

       Make him walk the plank being buggered by

                           his bum boy.

                  Early in the morning.

    

       Shove the ship's main cannon up him.

       Shove the ship's main cannon up him.

       Shove the ship's main cannon up him.

                  Early in the morning.

    

     Rand went uncharacteristically quiet, once the men had put him back

     on the floor. He turned to Charlie.

       "Let's go ashore and have a game of darts," he muttered.

    

    

     Rand's poorly-attended funeral, which took place in an inconspicuous

     church in Lewisham, was as dismal and as dour as the man who was

     cremated, and whose ashes were vomited into a grey autumnal sky.

       Even the parson conducting the service was unable to conceal his

     contempt for Rand. During the prayers, he said:

       "If there is anyone here who does not wish to pray for this man,

     would they please refrain from showing anger until after the service."

       As a strange and unexpected contrast to the cold, bleak, poorly-

     attended funeral, Rand's two sisters, Maureen and Marion, walked out

     of the church weeping. Suddenly, in a gesture of united desperation,

     they clasped their hands above their heads and hugged each other as

     if in militant defiance of the world that had despised their brother.