Joe Sixsmith: The Roar Of The Butterflies Part 13

Eventually, perhaps because of the increasingly twitchy Twitch's protests, the swinging ceased once more and Joe's enhanced but jangling brain could get to grips with the pressing problem of how to deny there was anything going on between him and the girl without actually mentioning her name.

He let himself go limp, which wasn't difficult, and called up in a broken voice, 'George, after I die, man, do me one promise. You owe me that, man. Promise you'll go and see Beryl and tell her I love her.'

That hiatus again. For a moment he feared that George's cauliflowered ears might have misheard Beryl for Eloise and he closed his eyes in antic.i.p.ation of being let go.

Then the voice rasped, 'Beryl? Who's this Beryl?'

'Beryl Boddington. My fiancee,' croaked Joe.

'Your fiancee? You two-timing my Eloise?'

This sideways bound of logic impressed Joe, himself no mean leaper on the dance-floor of debate, but this was no time for abstract a.n.a.lysis.

Keep it simple.

'No ... Beryl my one and only love ... She's a scary woman, George ... no way I'd dare two-time her ... You tell her I was always true ...'

There was a moment of complete stillness which, thought Joe, was perhaps really death. Then he felt himself swung high once more, this time the grip on his ankles was released, and now he was flying through the air.

He had time to think, 'I'm going to die,' before he hit the ground a bit earlier than he'd expected.

There was surprisingly little pain, which meant he must have been killed instantly. If Aunt Mirabelle had got it right the next voice he'd hear would be the voice of St Peter.

But oddly St Peter sounded a lot like George.

'You saying you're not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my girl, Eloise?'

Joe opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of the balcony. Way above him loomed Jura.s.sic, who now prodded him with a booted foot and repeated the question.

'You saying you're not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my girl, Eloise?'

Joe tried to think of someone who in a similar situation might have replied, 'Well yes, I am, actually. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her, I mean. As often as I can.'

James Bond maybe? Had to be someone in a movie. No one in real life would even dream of it!

'Yeah, that's what I'm saying, George. I love my fiancee, Beryl.'

'What about them photos? You telling me you're not feeling her up on them photos?'

I was right, thought Joe. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Twitch (he'd fallen out of love with Twitch) had been taking pictures and sending them back to George.

'No!' he declared. 'She was just pretending to mess with me to make you jealous.'

'Why'd she do that?'

''Cos she's still got feelings for you, man! She knew your boy was there, spying. Hard to miss him, all that twitching.'

George glowered at the now spasmodic Twitch, who said defensively, 'Looked like he was really feeling her up to me, George,' confirming Joe's disenchantment.

It was decision time. Joe could actually see the thoughts making their slow progress across the boxer's face. If he fought like this, how did he ever manage to win? Then his gaze fell to those huge fists which looked like they'd been carved by that Greek guy Mickey Angel out of solid granite for some gigantic statue.

He urged, 'She loves you true, George. You gotta see that. How could she settle for a guy like me when she could have a hunk like you?'

He could see how this logic made its mark, but in George's primitive mind a photo was still worth a thousand words. He needed supportive evidence.

'This fiancee, Beryl, where does she live?' he demanded.

'Next block, number 23,' gabbled Joe, thinking, I've got him!

'I need to talk to her.'

'Yeah, sure. Er, why is that?'

'She tells me she's your fiancee, then maybe I don't smash you to a pulp,' said George.

Joe's mind was racing. Beryl was sharp. A couple of quick winks as he explained the situation and she'd be well up to confirming their engagement and convincing George there was no way her man would have strayed. Beryl could be really scary when she chose. OK, he would have to pay for it later, but it would be worth it whatever the price.

'Let me get some clothes on and I'll take you round there,' he said, scrambling to his feet, which George immediately swept from beneath him, sending him crashing back to the ground.

'No, you stay there. I'll talk with this woman without you winking and nodding and fast signing in the corner.'

Shoot! The monster wasn't so simple after all.

But there was always the phone ...

Not if you're locked naked on your balcony seven floors up, there wasn't, he thought disconsolately as the boxer slammed the balcony door shut and turned the key in the lock.

Through the locked door he watched his unwelcome visitors make their exit from the flat. He could see the so-called security chain dangling loose. Presumably a single push from George's bull-like shoulder had ripped it from its staple on the wall. He thought of trying to smash the gla.s.s panel in the balcony door, but it wasn't worth the bother. After some early fraternal visits from a few of the brothers in Hermsp.r.o.ng, the Ra.s.selas inhabitants had demanded and got shatterproof gla.s.s put in all their windows. Height was no disincentive to agile thieves who had a Whitey-like ability to scale the sheer side of the tower block from one balcony to the next. Joe peered down and shuddered at the thought of even making the attempt to descend. He might at a pinch be able to drop down on to the balcony below, but by the time he had persuaded the flat-owners that they shouldn't take the dramatic entry of a stark-naked man into their premises personally, George would almost certainly have arrived at Beryl's.

No, all he could do was wait and hope that her natural intelligence and quick wit would get him off the hook.

Of course there was a strong likelihood that being rousted out of bed by a belligerent boxer at this unG.o.dly hour would make her react to the suggestion that Joe was her fiance with a derisive laugh and unambiguous denial.

In which case George would return ...

In which case, dropping on to the balcony below didn't seem quite such a desperate act ...

He sat with his back against the railings so that he could watch the main entrance across the living room.

At least he wasn't cold.

Even at this hour the newly risen sun had enough warmth to warn him of another red-hot day in prospect. Which he might or might not live to see.

Oh well. No point worrying.

His mouth opened in a huge yawn. He had after all had a very disturbed night. A few seconds later the old Sixsmith philosophy that, however bad things were, losing sleep over them only made them worse, kicked in and the yawn turned into a gentle snore.

Joe was asleep again.

Wondrous Regiment.

Joe's second awakening was a lot less violent than the first but still fell well short of the ideal which included the warm memory of a good woman and the smell of frying bacon which said good woman had just got up to prepare.

A foot prodded at his ribs. He half opened one eye and looked at it. The foot prodded harder. He didn't mind too much because his first a.s.sessment had told him it wasn't a size-thirteen foot, therefore it did not belong to Jura.s.sic George. This foot was shod in a size five or six sensible flat-heeled shoe, and it was attached to the end of a shapely leg wrapped in a black silk stocking. This was interesting. He followed the stocking up with his eyes till it reached the hem of a skirt which in turn led him to some kind of uniform blouse. A nurse. It was a nurse. Meaning the stocking wasn't silk but probably lisle or some such stuff. He must be in hospital. Well, that wasn't bad either. Except what sort of hospital even in the cash-strapped National Health expected its patients to sleep on the floor?

'You going to lie there all day, Joe Sixsmith?' said a voice. A familiar voice.

He opened both eyes fully and took in the face peering down at him.

'Beryl, that you?'

'Yes, it's me and I wish it wasn't. What the h.e.l.l you playing at, Joe Sixsmith? I just had some gorilla beating on my door and waking all the neighbours, asking if I was your effing fiancee!'

'That would be Jura.s.sic George.'

'I know who it was. I read the sports pages too.'

'So what did you say to him?' asked Joe, struggling to his feet.

'I said if he didn't turn the volume down and the language off I'd punch his lights out,' said Beryl.

Joe looked at her with mingled admiration and sorrow, the first because she was clearly Wonder Woman, the second because he could see no way he could ever deserve her.

'So what did he say?' he asked.

'After he calmed down, he gave me some garbled story about him going to tear your head off because he'd heard you were balling his young and gorgeous girlfriend, and you saying he'd got it wrong 'cos I was your ever-loving fiancee and there was no way you could even look at another woman.'

'And what did you say?'

'I said there was no way any young and gorgeous girl would let you ball her, but in any case you'd be too scared to even think about it 'cos, if you did, I'd be the one to tear your head off. After that he went away and I got dressed. I'm on early shift and I thought I'd better look in here first to find out just what the h.e.l.l's been going on.'

'Beryl, you are a real star!' said Joe.

He reached forward to give her a grateful hug. She started back, crying, 'Don't even dream about it, not in that state!'

Only now did it occur to Joe that he was stark naked. It was funny, he'd been stark naked with Beryl before and she'd been in a similar condition and they'd both really enjoyed it. But now it was just plain embarra.s.sing.

He moved past her into the living room in search of clothing. At least that was his intention, but Beryl mistook it and retreated before him. The back of the low settee caught her just behind the knees and she fell over it backwards, her legs kicking in the air. Joe rushed forward to help her.

At the same moment, King Rat's PA, the gorgeous Mimi, dressed as if she planned to step right from the plane into the wine-dark Med, rushed through the open door saying, 'Joe, I'm sorry I'm a bit late, we'll need to rush ... Oh my G.o.d!'

In such circ.u.mstances in a French farce or a British sitcom, the character in Joe's situation would probably have said, 'It's not what it seems ...' but Joe knew from his gumshoe guru, Endo Venera, that unless you were watching one of those Ag Christie shows on the telly, it was wise to a.s.sume a guy with a smoking gun standing over a bleeding corpse was guilty as h.e.l.l. OK, maybe his gun wasn't smoking, but a naked man standing over a woman in a nurse's uniform with her legs kicking in the air was a situation it would take even that Aircool Parrot a couple of hours in the library to explain away.

He said, 'Don't think I'm going to make it, Mimi.'

She managed a grin and said, 'Looks to me like you're halfway there, Joe,' and left.

Beryl pulled herself upright.

'And who the h.e.l.l was that?' she demanded. 'Maybe I should have let Jura.s.sic George tear your head off, after all!'

'No, no,' protested Joe. 'That wasn't Eloise. That was Mimi. We were flying off to Spain together ... Hang about till I get dressed ...'

He should have stuck to silence. Even that small beginning of explanation was a mistake. When he returned from his bedroom, fastening up his trousers, the living room was empty.

But not for long. Through the open door stepped Whitey. He looked around as if to say, I leave the place for a few hours and it's a tip! Then he moved purposefully into the kitchen.

He was right, thought Joe. Nothing so bad that a spot of breakfast wouldn't help.

From the kitchen came an imperious howl.

'I'm coming, I'm coming,' said Joe.

An hour later, his belly distended by a Full English Breakfast (minus of course that percentage which Whitey felt was his due), Joe felt able to bring the full beam of his mental searchlight to bear on recent events and his best response to them.

Going back to bed was a distinct possibility till it occurred to him that at some point Jura.s.sic George was going to approach Eloise with a view to telling her all was forgiven and folding her to his bosom.

Now Eloise he knew to be a girl of spirit, and while she might react by returning the embrace with an equal pa.s.sion, she might also knee him in the crutch and tell him to get his big bear paws off her lily-white body which belonged to another, and take a hike. In which case the likely direction of the hike could be back to Ra.s.selas.

He'd already taken the precaution of shutting, locking and bolting his front door, but when he looked at the devastated security chain, even this didn't make him feel secure. Best, he decided, to be out of here and on the move.

First, though, he stripped off again and got under a nice hot shower. The Full English had fortified the inner man, but the outer man was indicating by a network of twinges and bruises exactly where Jura.s.sic's a.s.sault had left its mark. In the shower he sang, not to keep up his spirits, which were self-raising anyway, but because a singer needs to exercise his vocal cords and the shower was the only place he could do it in the flat at this hour of day without the neighbours banging on the walls. He did Vaughan Williams' Songs of Travel, which had won him plaudits at the last Luton Singfest, then he tried Bach's 'Ich habe genug' with which he was hoping to impress Rev. Pot sufficiently to put him forward for the baritone solo in the Luton Combined Choirs' performance of the Christmas Oratorio at the end of the year. It still needed a bit of work, he judged, so for his finale he moved on to a selection more in favour on Entertainment Night at the Supporters' Club, building up to his show-stopping 'Ol' Man River'.

This usually left him as uplifted as his audience but as he stepped out of the shower, his thoughts moved naturally from the Supporters' Club to Sir Monty Wright and thence to Monty's cohort, Ratcliffe King, who had paid him good money to be on a plane to Spain at this very moment.

While King Rat wasn't a real and present danger unlike Jura.s.sic, whose battering ram of a shoulder might at any moment be applied to the door he was in the long run a far more potent enemy.

Probably Mimi had already put him in the picture so it might be a wise move to try and take the sting out of his anger by ringing up to explain and apologize and offer atonement.

He went to the phone and saw the message light on the answer machine had come on while he was showering. He pressed play.

'Joe, hi! It's Mimi. Listen, I'm just boarding our flight. Now don't get your boxers in a twist worrying about missing it. We've all been there and I know how easy it is to lose track. Anyway, things are busy here and the next flight I could get you transferred to leaves at two p.m., OK? So I'll take care of things till you show; quite looking forward to doing a bit of the real PI stuff instead of just being your gofer! But, Joe, Mr King wants me to report in soon as we get ourselves settled at the hotel and make contact with Tomlin. I can hold back till this evening, no problem, but if you haven't shown by then, he'll have to know. So don't let me down. Give me a ring to say you've got the message, OK? Cheers.'

I am surrounded by wonderful women, thought Joe. Whoever said that stuff about a monstrous regiment got it wrong. Must have meant wondrous!

That dealt with the King Rat problem, and flying to Spain seemed a very good way of dealing with the Jura.s.sic George problem.

He picked up the phone and rang Mimi's mobile number. He got the message service. Of course, she'd be switched off on the plane.

He said, 'Hi, Mimi, got your message, I'll be on the two o'clock. And thanks a bunch. I owe you.'

As he spoke he found himself thinking, What was it she'd said? We've all been there. Might be worth asking her about that when I get to Spain!