Cowboys and Dinosaurs - Chapter 17

17. Would You Like A Ride In My Big Black Car?

On the way to work, Steve was paced by a large black car. This car, however, was not a salesman's BMW, but a mirror-windowed executive cruiser of the sort driven only by Presidents of the United States, gangsters, and those who were unsure which of the other two categories they fitted into. Steve shrugged himself down deep into his raincoat and tried to keep his eyes forward while watching for shotgun barrels emerging from wound-down windows. In the event, what emerged from the wound-down windows was a weatherbeaten head that looked as though its hair care was performed purely by Veet For Men.

"Excuse me", said the head.

Steve continued walking.

"Excuse me", pressed the head, "I wish you wouldn't keep ignoring me, I find it rude." This was said in a voice that might also have been used to say You've been a bad boy, Lefty, and for that reason we are going to introduce your head to Mr. Lawnmower. "We are looking for a Mr. Lucian Featherstonehaugh. It's spelt Featherstonehaugh, but pronounced Fanshaw. We were told he would probably be here around about now. Do you know him at all?"

Steve turned his head and halted; the car halted in turn.

"Yes", he said. "I know him." Might as well stand and die here.

"Well, if you see him, could you please tell him Mr. Dowd is looking for him. We have to go now. Mr. Dowd is a busy man."

Steve nodded woodenly. "I think I can remember that."

"We are much obliged." The window wound up; the car sped away.

Steve began to physically shake as if he had been standing on ice for an hour. His teeth chattered. He had to tense his arms and legs to be able to stand still again.

"I have to go now", he said. "I have to go now."

***
Once into the office, Steve found his path to productive labour blocked by yet another obstacle. This particular obstacle was female, dressed in a hideous polka-dot kaftan, and sitting on his desk.

"Ah", said the obstacle. "There you are."

Steve moved to put his sandwiches into the desk. "Sesame", he said to her legs. Her legs opened. He slid out the drawer and put in his sandwiches.

"Never fails", said Steve humourlessly. He sat down in his chair and began to log in to his computer. "Going to tell me why you're at my place of work instead of on the other end of the phone and in my nightmares?"

"I'm here to tell you that I know what you tried to do to me and Gary", said Kim. "And it didn't work. You've just made us stronger than ever."

"Righty ho", said Steve, trying to remember his network password.

"Gary's going to have words with you. He'll make you squeal like a little girl."

"Very possibly, assuming he doesn't attack me with an assegai when I have a bayonet", admitted Steve frankly. He successfully typed in his password, blocking the keyboard from her with his body.

"I'm going to have his baby", announced Kim smugly.

Steve choked.

"I knew that would shut you up", she gloated.

"Only at the sheer depth of your stupidity", said Steve. "The man's a knuckle-walker. If you had a baby it'd be odds on whether he'd abandon it first or eat it."

"He wants to call it Jordan", said Kim, offering information without even being asked.

"Why not?" said Steve, muttering through clenched teeth. "Why not give your child a name that isn't a proper human name, but the name of a river? Why not call it Trent, or Shannon, or Amazon, or Po."

"Don't assume I'm stupid", glowered Kim. "Po's a Teletubby, not a river." She toyed with the other possibilities. "Trent's nice."

"In any case, where is he of the potent loins? Don't tell me, he doesn't like using condoms because it ruins his sensation."

Her pursed-lipped silence provided proof if proof were needed. "He's in the toilet", she said.

"You do know that if you don't use condoms it could kill you", said Steve. "He simply does not care who he's giving it to, and that includes you. He could be carrying anything. Anything at all."

"That was a lie cooked up by you and you know it. Bribing women to lie for you, that's low, Steve, I knew you could get low, but I never knew how low, and of course now I do know how low."

"I am trying to save your life here", said Steve. "If you don't want me to, well, then fine, go ahead, die."

"You're just jealous because I've found happiness and you're still living in a poky little flat with another man who dresses up as a cowboy."

The office, previously filled with a low drone of conversation, became silent as a John Cage concert. All eyes turned to Mr. Botham, sat at his keyboard answering emails in a grey suede Stetson. Mr. Botham continued to type as if the rest of the world did not exist.

"I'm going out with someone", said Steve, thinking: Oh God, that means I've got to go out with her now. But nothing can be worse than going out with this hideous PMT monkey I narrowly escaped marrying -

"I knew it! I knew it! You lying BASTARD! You were sleeping with her before I ever slept with Gary, weren't you? Go on, ADMIT it! What sort of a woman is she? Is the good in bed? Huh? Will she play doctors and nurses like I would, eh? Will she let you take her temperature with your Special Oral Thermometer?" Ears were pricking up all round the office, which was, if anything, growing even quieter. Steve reddened despite himself.

"Actually", said Steve, "her body temperature requires regular attention. She's a reptile."

Ha! That shut her up. Oh blessed peace. Steve was able to type an entire sentence of quarterly sales forecast before she replied:

"...a reptile?"

"And so am I", said Steve defiantly.

The toilet flush sounded; Gary emerged in clearly insufficient time to have washed his hands properly, spotted Steve and breathed in ready to spout.

"I'll deal with you later", said Steve, fixing Gary with the evil eye, "ballerina boy."

Gary's face drained of colour; Steve continued to type. The mosque clock on Mas Sayani's desk hit ten a.m., lit up from within, and began calling the Faithful to prayer.

***

The mosque clock hit three p.m., and a recorded message began wailing out the glories of Allah. Steve barged in through the door to the stairwell, carrying his laptop and an unmarked black plastic bag.

"You're back early", said Mr. Botham. "Short trip, I take it."

"I've been to Wales", said Steve. Gary, whose face had aged ten years in five hours, typed the same word wrongly several times on his word processor.

"Damn. Damn damn damn damn DAMN!" A Rolex-adorned fist mashed the keys in frustration.

Steve gave Gary's screen his attention. "'the' is spelt T-H-E, Gary."

"How is Rhodri Griffiths?" said Mr. Botham. "He plays very good table tennis, you know."

Gary threw Mr. Botham a boggle-eyed look of agonized betrayal.

"He showed me his new binoculars", said Steve. "Fantastic magnification. He's a keen birdwatcher. Did you know he's studying for a pilot's licence this year? He's already qualified on single-engined aircraft, wants to move up to multi-engined -"

He was interrupted by his mobile phone, for which he had managed to find Marillion's She Chameleon as a ringtone.

Steve plastered the phone to his ear.

"Hello?

"...oh my god.

"...I'll be there in ten. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god."

He dashed from the room, still holding the laptop and bag.

"Does this mean the meeting you booked at six is cancelled?" called Christina from Direct Marketing.

Steve turned and thrust a finger at her.

"It's on", he said. "More than ever, it's on."

"STEVE", called Mr. Botham. Steve stopped at the door. "Yes?"

"You appear to have programmed your mobile to ring with an amusingly reptilian ringtone. Does this mean you have just been phoned by Miss Livingstone?"

Steve had to fight to identify the surname. "Liz, yes. She hurt. The bastards have hurt her."

"I'll drive", said Mr. Botham. "We're taking the pool car." He drained his cold coffee and shrugged his way into his duster. Apparently innocently, he pulled out his own mobile phone, flicked experimentally down the list of numbers, and pressed SEND.

Immediately, Steve's own phone lit up playing the theme from The Lone Ranger.

Mr. Botham nodded, as if a suspicion had been confirmed.

"Steve", he said reprovingly, "we have to talk."

"Later", said Steve. Mr. Botham nodded; they left the office at a run, the William Tell overture still ringing down the stairwell.

***

"It looks worse than it is", said the doctor. "A straight cut, and it's been sewn up well. There's unlikely to be any permanent scarring. Does this hurt?"

"Yes."

"That's good. It's good that it hurts. That means there's been no damage to the facial nerve."

Steve felt his fingernails jammed into the heels of his palms. Liz sat with a bandage covering half her face; the doctor had lifted it, and was inspecting her. On the wall, a poster shrieked TOO MANY VITAMINS CAN KILL.

"Who was it?" said Steve.

"The fat one I bit yesterday", said Liz. "I bit him today as well, but he was too strong. I'm afraid I let the species down."

Steve patted her on the head, trying hard to avoid the bruises. "You did fine. Where did it happen?"

"Outside the house. He was waiting there with a group of similar simians. He called me a variety of names popular among the humans, including freak and lezzer. They had little effect on me, of course, as I do not belong to his species." Despite the lack of effect, she was shaking nonetheless.

"I'm sorry", said Gonoroid, who stood next to Steve. "It all happened outside while I was watching TV. I had the sound wound up high on The Man of Steel, and Joseph Stalin was ranting megalomaniacally."

Steve shook his head. "How could you heave heard? Your flat is hermetically sealed, you've bricked up all the windows." He stopped and murmured Gonoroid's last statement. "Joseph Stalin?"

Gonoroid frowned in puzzlement. "Well, yes. As I told you earlier, The Man Of Steel is often wrongly thought to be an episode about robots, whereas in fact the plot involves a clone of Joseph Stalin taking control of the Invincible. 'Stalin', you see, means 'Man of Steel' in Russian -"

"My god", said Steve. "The Tiger and the Man of Steel."

Gonoroid was nonplussed. "There's no tiger in it, Steve."

"Dave", said Steve, "moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform." He held Gonoroid's hand and kissed it, causing the head attached to the hand to glow like a firelight bulb. "I have a course of action."

"I think you need a course of tranquillizers."

"Two wrongs don't make a right", cautioned Mr. Botham.

The doctor took Steve's arm. "You do realize this woman shouldn't be outside in the street on her own. She needs professional psychological help. She believes herself to be a reptile."

Steve looked back at him in surprise. "Really? Well, that's hardly likely. She hasn't got a tail for a start."

"I don't think you're taking this quite as seriously as the situation demands -"

"- of course, she could be some sort of highly evolved pteranodontid pterosaur -"

"I assure you", said the doctor, "she's as mammalian as you or I."

"You too?" said Steve. "Not so loud", he continued in a stage whisper, "the humans will hear." He winked. The doctor, outraged at having his professional judgement criticized to the extent of being accused he had misidentified a patient as human, stood still fuming.

"They said they were going to get every single one of the Nigger Bitches", recited Liz carefully. "And that they were going to shove the same knife they did this to me with up your arse, and wiggle it about."

Steve stood silent, feeling as if made of marble. If anyone pushed him hard enough, he would fall onto the floor of A&E and shatter into a thousand pieces.

"This is too far", said Mr. Botham, his hat in his hand out of respect and a desire not to be recognized for drug theft. "I feel we should have words with these gentlemen."

"They might still be at home, if we go there", said Steve.

Mr. Botham nodded. "Then we should go there now."

Steve's eyes bounced out of his head. "That wasn't what I meant. In fact, it's precisely the opposite of what I meant."

"If they are never told their actions are disapproved of", admonished Mr. Botham, "they may continue in the same vein."

Liz shook her head. "They won't be there any longer. There's a police car there. People are being asked questions. If they are there to be asked questions, they might be forced to say, Oh yes. It was I who attacked that reptilian lady with a Stanley knife."

Steve kissed Liz on the forehead. "I've got to go now. I'll be back later. Mr. Botham will take you home."

Mr. Botham had not been aware that he would take Liz home, but nodded without complaint. "Where are you going?"

Steve did not answer. He had already thumbed up a number on his phone, and was waiting for it to pick up.

It picked up.

"Hello, Gary? This is Steve. You may not have checked your Outlook. I've called an impromptu sales meeting to be attended by everyone with an interest in Account 371." Absent-mindedly, he drew a VHS tape from the black bin liner he had been carrying and tapped it against a nearby cabinet.

"Yes. That account. At six p.m.

"I don't care what you have on. I don't care, in fact, if what you have on is a lacy pink ballet tutu, basque and thigh-length suspenders.

"I'm glad we understand each other. Please gather the troops. No, no management, coalface only. See you then. Goodbye."

He ended the call.

"So it begins", he said. "My monkey army masses. Fly, my pretties! Fly!"

He left the office with a determined stride.

***

"Gentlemen", said Steve, "I am faced with a quandary. What am I to do about such professionally reprehensible behaviour?"

An entire room of odium was turned on him. Gary, in particular, stared at him with eyes like two blue hate lasers.

"Of course", continued Steve, clicking the PAUSE button on the website with his radio mouse and strolling round the boardroom table, "there is really very little I can do. As a good employee, our company handbook tells me, I have a duty to report all unprofessional behaviour. But that would destroy the careers of so many promising young men and women who have done nothing worse than to belittle a blind cripple in the name of the company. As a bad employee, I could of course threaten to take this to senior management unless you provided me with money or sexual favours. But frankly, ladies and gents -" Steve let his gaze linger on each and every one of the Crouch End sales team - "you can furnish no sexual favours I might want. Also, whatever blackmail money I might ask you to deliver wouldn't last long because, frankly", he said, flicking his pointer over the image of Gary opening his overcoat to reveal a novelty animal-face jockstrap and nipple tassels, "the bosses are going to find out about this. You know that as well as I do. So what I imagine is likely to happen now is that you'll all slope off quietly to find other jobs elsewhere. That will take around two or three months each at the most, and you will need those two or three months to do it. So if I want to force you into doing something for me, I have to do it now. Which is why, this coming weekend, at Saturday at nine a.m., all seven of you are going to be present at the Olympic Buzkashi field at Stratford, postcode E15, wearing German Einsaztgruppe uniforms complete with replica firearms."

Christina from Direct Marketing, who had been the first to visit Rhodri's House of Cards in a basque and suspenders and the first to completely remove the same, seemed unfazed by the idea. "Oo! Do you want me to dress up like Helga? I can do the Apple Strudel hair, and I've got the nylons with the seam down the back." She giggled and turned to the others. "He's kinky -"

"Kinkier than you can imagine", said Steve. "You will dress up as an authentic SS Feldwebel from Sonderkommando 7a of Einsatzgruppe B, Army Group Centre, 1941. Mandatory for this uniform are coal scuttle helmet, grenade cannister, collar insignia, and field grey battle dress." He dealt a pack of business cards onto the table. "Here are the addresses of several reputable theatrical uniform suppliers."

There was an uneasy silence.

A hand raised tentatively. "Er - question?"

"Yes?"

"What and where is a Buzkashi field?"

"Buzkashi", said Steve, "is an ancient and venerable Afghan sport played on horseback using the carcass of a sheep. To win, one must manoeuvre one's dead sheep successfully across enemy territory and onto the enemy goal. Afghanistan has only recently begun sending athletes to the Olympics again after the fall of the Taleban. The International Olympic Committee, prompted by Ken Livingstone himself, have decided that this exciting Afghan sport should be part of the 2012 Olympics to honour the rebirth of Afghanistan as a democratic nation. The game is normally played on a pitch several miles wide. The Olympic pitch will be smaller, and in deference to vegetarian sensibilities, a plastic weighted ersatz sheep replica will be used. However, a patch of land has been set aside for the purpose, and this is where we will meet."

"And what will you be dressed as?" said Gary.

"I", smiled Steve, "will be your commanding officer."

"And what are you going to do with us", said Christina from Direct Marketing, "once you have us in uniform?"

"I intend", said Steve, with the most red hot of poker faces, "to invade Poland."