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