Cowboys and Dinosaurs - Chapter 11

11. Long Live Enver Hoxha

The car was not how he remembered it. It was the way the words DEAD MEN DRIVING had been carved all down the side of it, even thoughtfully including the petrol cap, that gave the game away. Elsewhere on the car, the words LIVVING ON BOROWED TIME and ALBANIAN CRU had been added.

"It's the spelling errors", reflected Steve out loud, "that make it most disappointing."

He dropped to his hands and toes beside the car, inspecting it for explosive devices whose presence he had idea how to diagnose. An elderly gent passed him on the street, looked down, and nodded knowledgeably.

"Mine used to leak oil too", he said.

Steve opened the driver side door, made sure the car was in neutral, then stuck the key in the ignition, remaining outside the car with his head on the other side of the door, and turned the motor over. The car started without exploding.

"Mind you", said the old man sadly. "It were a Morris Traveller. They made cars out of wood in them days."

Steve climbed into the car, put on his seatbelt, and realized he was sitting in several litres of cold human urine.

With the ignition on, the CD kicked in. The CD said:

"THIS IS A MESSAGE TO THE DEAD MEN FROM THE ALBANIAN CHAPTER OF THE BURGLAR KING NETWORK. LONG LIVE ENVER HOXHA! YOU ARE DEAD. GO DIRECTLY TO DEATH. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE, THIS CAR WILL EXPLODE IN THIRTEEN SECONDS. TWELVE. ELEVEN. TEN. NINE. EIGHT -"

Steve fought his way free of the seatbelt, an exercise that suddenly became more difficult than extricating himself from a boa constrictor. Eventually he struggled clear of the car as the voice continued calmly counting down.

"- TWO - ONE - ZERO.

"JUST KIDDING.

"BUT MAYBE NOT NEXT TIME.

FOR THE REMAINDER OF OUR SCHEDULE, HERE IS A SELECTION OF EASY LISTENING HITS, BEGINNING WITH I BELIEVE I CAN FLY BY R KELLY."

Steve shuddered. He had no other CD's in the car.

***

"I can't go to the police. Remember what he said? Half the police are on their payroll."

Gonoroid snorted. "Believe that, and be a slave forever. You've got to stand up to them, like Captain Delamitri did to the Circadians. Even though they had godlike powers and could project bolts of poorly-rendered lightning from their eyes."

Steve looked up. "The Circadians?"

"TOSS 16 - Am I Not A God Among Men? Zquarxn, foremost among the Circadians, was played by Karl Malden."

"Whatever." Steve cupped both hands around his coffee. "I made up the trip to the client, in any case. I telephoned them and got an order out of them regardless. They were very understanding."

"Steve, this could lose you your job."

"I can't go home either." Steve looked down at the ripples in his coffee caused by his hands shaking. "She might be there."

"She is there. She's rung your bell three times in the last hour."

"How do you know? Do you have a camera in the hall too?"

"Of course." Gonoroid sipped his own green tea. "A starship captain is nothing without effective forward sensors."

Steve considered his words carefully. "Gonoroid, you don't have any forward sensors in the actual flats, do you? People can get arrested for that sort of thing."

Gonoroid shook his head. "No. Only the garbage chute, the mail boxes, the front and back doors, the halls, the back passage, the cellar, and the street for a hundred metres in both directions."

"WHAT? How do you put up cameras a hundred yards up the street?"

"I put on a blue overall and string up wires during normal working hours. If anyone asks, I tell the truth and say I'm putting up camera wires. Everyone assumes I'm from the Council, no-one says a word." He flicked a switch in his chair arm; the viewscreen flickered on to show a grainy stop-motion image of a bichon frise squatting to lay a dog's egg in the gutter as its leopardskin-coated, blue-rinsed owner hung around guiltily, looking the other way as if her presence on the other end of the leash were pure coincidence.

"That's a thousand pound fine", said Gonoroid, "right there."

"It's a steamer", said Steve.

"A real Walnut Whip", agreed Gonoroid. "In answer to your unspoken question, yes, if you phone me first thing in the morning, I can tell you whether or not any really big men are outside waiting for you. Does that make you feel better?"

"Considerably. But I'm living on borrowed time in any case. Botham's made things worse. What might have been just the loss of a few ears and fingers has become a horrible, slow and painful death."

"A coward", advised Gonoroid, "dies many times before his death, a brave man only once."

"So no matter how brave I am, I still end up dead?"

"Yes, but only once."

"So cowards possess some means of coming back to life? If I'm cowardly enough, I can cheat death in some way, is that what you're saying?"

"You're being obtuse, Steve. Look, why don't you change your appearance? Shave your head, grow a beard, get that facial spiderman tattoo you've always wanted. Then they probably won't recognize you."

"Gonoroid, I travel home every evening with a man who dresses like Wild Bill Hickok. I could have plastic surgery and have a vulva grafted onto my head and they'd still know who I was."

"Then", said Gonoroid, "you'll have to take the fight to them. Remember TOSS 23, The Sabre Has Two Edges."

"A sabre has one edge. Otherwise it'd be a rapier."

"I hate it when you're obtuse, Steve. Is there no way you could get together some Simpson family hard cases, go round these guys' hangout, and break a few arms and legs?"

"My family are Seventh Day Adventists", said Steve, "apart from my uncle Lesley, who is a window dresser."

"I know where I can find a man with a tank", said Gonoroid.

"Somehow, I doubt a tank would be much use in a bar-room brawl", said Steve. "It has the disadvantage of inferior manoeuvrability."

"What about KwaZulu?"

"I was supposed to go to a dress rehearsal for Isandhlwana on Saturday. They're mad at me. Keep sending me poorly-spelt texts with lots of exclamation marks. I think it's a toss-up who'd do more damage to me, them or the Albanian Cru."

Gonoroid shuddered. "I'd rather face the Albanians any day...all those breasts...tell you what. Let's swap clothes."

Steve slammed his coffee mug down. "Whoah there, girlfriend! I'm not wearing no leather bondage harness with cut-out peekaboo nipple holes for no man."

"Steve, you assume that simply because I'm gay, I have a wardrobe full of such items. As it happens, I do have one or two, but that's not the point. My point is, in fact, that if you wear my clothes, you might get laughed at on the way to work, but at least you'll get to work. No-one really gives me a second glance; I'm the weird space cadet guy. And even if any Crouch End Albanians beat up on me when I leave the house, they'll soon let me go as soon as they see I'm not really you. You can take some Earthling clothes to work with you in a suit carrier, and change into them later."

"Earthling? Is that what you Invinciblies call us?"

"We prefer to be called Invinciblers. Come on, give it a try." Gonoroid squirmed in his captain's chair excitedly. "It'll be like As You Like It."

Steve cringed into his acceleration couch. "I don't know..."

***

"WHERE'S CAPTAIN KIRK?"

"GIVE US THE VULCAN DEATH GRIP!"

Steve was acutely conscious of the irony of the fact that he was being followed down the high street and ridiculed, for the fact that he was wearing a uniform, by a group of public schoolboys in straw boaters.

"BEAM ME UP SCOTTY!"

"PHASERS ON STUN!"

It was the phasers that broke the camel's back. He turned, aware that he was considerably larger and heavier than Gonoroid. The same estimated size/volume arithmetic seemed to be going through the minds of the three boys behind him.

"Beam Me Up Scotty", he said, "is an expression from the 1960's television series Star Trek. This", he continued, indicating his uniform with as much dignity as stretch lycra allowed, "is transparently the costume of a Brevet Sub-Commander from what series?"

The boys stared up at him mournfully.

"SPACE CRUISER INVINCIBLE!" yelled Steve. "For god's sake, don't you kids know ANYTHING? Instead of Captain Kirk, you should be referring to me as Commander Delamitri; Instead of the Vulcan Death Grip, you should ridicule me by referring to the Disappearing Fist of Uranus. Instead of Beam Me Up Scotty, you should be saying One To Pick Up, Mr. Withers, and instead of Phasers on Stun, Sonic Laser - Wide Dispersal." He grabbed a petrified schoolboy by the lapel. "Say it!"

"Sonic Laser", repeated the boy. "Wide Dispersal."

Steve became abruptly aware that all three boys had ceased to look at him, and were instead looking further up the street. With a horrid sinking feeling, he looked into the eyes of the policeman standing only ten yards away on the corner.

The policeman nodded to him meaningfully. Slowly, Steve removed his hand from the boy's lapel.

"In addition", said Steve in a more subdued voice, "Vulcan Death Grip would be inappropriate, as this phrase was never used in Star Trek. Vulcan Nerve Pinch would be more correct. And the same is true of Beam Me Up, Scotty. Instead, you should just say Energize. If you're going to subscribe to a scientifically inaccurate, poorly-acted piece of space hokum with no story arc, get it right at least."

He looked up warily at the policeman again. "Now run along, little scamps. You've taken your first step into a larger world."

He exhaled, and stood quiet until his hands stopped shaking. Then he turned and continued on his way.

"BEAM ME ALL THE WAY UP, SCOTTY! BEAM ME, BEAM ME!"

"PHASERS ON BOIL WASH!"

"VULCAN POO PUNCH!"

Grimacing, Steve hunched himself up against the taunts, and reflected on the poor cold weather protection afforded by lycra.

***

As he walked down the home stretch towards Reception, a black BMW with mirror-tinted windows and the numberplate A553GA1 drew level with him. A heavily-muscled figure leaned out of the driver side window, and a razor-sharp steel spear shivered into a wooden loading door a pace in front of him. The spear was gaily decorated with white chicken feathers. Wrapped around it, held on by an elastic band, was a roll of writing paper.

The BMW sped off. Steve undid the elastic, unrolled the paper, and read:

THIS IS YOUR FIRST AND ONLY WARNING! TURN UP IN PERIOD UNIFORM TO ALEXANDRA PARK BOATING LAKE TO DIE LIKE A DOG!!! MEN WHO CANNOT STAND AND FIGHT ARE NO USE TO THE VUTWAMINI IMPI!!!

[PS - PLEASE CAN YOU RETURN THE SPEAR, WE HAVE A LIMITED NUMBER OF THEM]

"Period Uniform??" he said in disbelief.

***

The phone rang and rang. Mr. Botham looked up idly from his desk.

"I sincerely hope that's a call to a client", he said. "I will say nothing, but if Mr. Inglis hears you, there may be trouble." He looked at Steve's spear curiously. "Is that a spear?"

"Is it a spear? I suppose it looks like one", said Steve sardonically, and continued holding.

"It's a phone sex line", said Kerry, Mr. Inglis's secretary, and winked at Steve cheerily out of two hundred pounds of fat. "Steve's not getting enough." Steve gagged inwardly. Kerry fell into the category of not just enough but far too much.

The phone was picked up. A voice said: "DanDair."

"Alasdair? This is Steve. You gave me bayonet training the other day?"

Kerry stopped chewing her sandwich in shock, an almost unprecedented event. Mr. Botham shrugged and bent down to his work.

"Don't say I didn't warn you", he said, which was unfair, as he hadn't.

"...I don't know, I give so many people bayonet training..."

"Against the isangoma. I was wondering if you had, erm, a uniform of the British 24th Regiment of Foot, as serving in Natal in 1879, that I could borrow."

Kerry began chewing her sandwich slowly and mechanically. There was a long silence.

"There'll be a deposit", said the phone. "Do you want the officer's uniform or the ranker's? I have a variety of pips and stripes. I fix 'em on with felt, makes 'em easy to change over."

"I might as well be an officer", said Steve. "How much is the deposit?"

"Five hundred pounds", said the phone. "It's a very complex uniform. Just give me a cheque, which of course I won't cash. Hiring fee is fifty pounds per day or part thereof. You've been quite lucky, you know. If you'd asked for a Waffen-SS uniform you'd have been out of luck this week. We're re-fighting the Battle of Stalingrad in the London Olympic Village."

Steve saw, mistily, in his mind's eye, a windswept graveyard occupied by one solitary frost-split headstone incised with the words STEVE'S BANK BALANCE RIP.

"You're on", he said. "Can I pick it up at six?"

"Just a minute." There was a pause, and a sound of footsteps leaving and returning. Then the receiver was picked up again.

"I'll give it an air. Daniel's been using it to cut the garden again. I'll expect you at six."

The phone was put down.

Mr. Botham cleared his throat. "Ah, Steve, we have a client site visit in Sheffield -"

"Got it", said Steve.

The pool car keys sailed across the office; Steve caught them on the move.

***

The normal pool car was undergoing repairs following attack by unidentified vandals. In its place, the company had been forced to accept an Audi A4 with no identifying company logo whatsoever. Steve, who had been driving the car for several days now, was taking care to park it only in places mobsters would be unlikely to frequent. Yesterday, he had parked it by a Society of Friends meeting house in Wood Green. Occasionally, this meant a short bus ride to retrieve the car, but he hoped thereby to foil prospective bombers.

The A4 was a car of comparable quality to the S40, and had the added saving grace of not making him an object of public ridicule. Life was good. Life was, for this morning at least, fine.

He pulled up at a set of traffic lights outside a line of shops on the North Circular. A knot of truanting schoolgirls lounged indolently on a bench marked PLEASE GIVE UP THIS SEAT TO THE ELDERLY OR INFIRM, wearing as little of their school uniform as possible.

"Girls", he nodded through the open window with the super-cool self-assurance of a man driving a big car he didn't own.

"You're fooling no-one", said a hard-eyed harridan-in-training. "It says Ryland Multifleet in the back window. It ain't your car. You're just some poxy little salesman."

She looked the parcel shelf over critically.

"Is that a spear in the back of your car?"

"It only looks like one", says Steve.

"Ain't you the guy the Palace Albanians have put five hundred on the head of?"

"What?" said Steve.

"That lamp post", said the cronette, pointing. Steve looked, and saw himself looking back at himself - his petrified face, snapped getting out of an S40 very, very quickly, three days ago - transferred to print and posted onto, yes, every single lamp post up and down the street.

He wondered if the schoolgirls were armed.

"I only look like him", he said.

"You can give me a lift in your big black car if you like. I promise not to bite your cock off and get me five hundred."

"It's not possible to bleed to death from the cock", said one of the girls. "John Wayne Bobbitt had his cock cut off and survived."

"Yeah, but he had his cock sewed back on. If he'd not had it sewed back on he'd have died."

Steve rolled the window up.

The traffic light was green now. He was glad.