Cowboys and Dinosaurs - Chapter 19

19. Let's Play Buzkashi

Sunday morning, eleven a.m.

The water meadows had not been saved from encroaching urbanization because of their outstanding natural beauty. Rather, they'd survived out of utter uninhabitability. Criss-crossed by drainage channels, they sat on Thames river clay so deep that buildings over two storeys in height would have sunk into the earth like stricken ships without foundations as deep as the walls they supported were tall. They were prone to catastrophic flooding at the merest breath of moisture, and had been overlooked by property developers in favour of easier greenbelt land and nature reserves to the north. In the past, someone had built a factory here, several storeys high, in order to be able to pump noxious waste into a part of the country nobody cared about. The factory could still be seen on the horizon, its name picked out in flaking man-high letters - HAPPY BABY MILK (BETTER THAN MOTHER MAKES!).

The gate across the bridge was manned by a small group of marshals, sitting on deckchairs beneath a portable patio heater, clipboards in hand, walkie talkies strapped to shoulders. A large map of the battlefield, bulldog-clipped to an easel and weighted down with stones, stood close at hand. In the distance to the south, monstrous metal behemoths could be heard rumbling.

From the north, down a dirt track, a people carrier was approaching, bouncing across waves of gravel. A Licensed Hackney Carriage sticker was visible in its window. The marshals, who had already told two dog walkers and an angler to turn around and go elsewhere for their own safety, eyed it vigilantly.

Eventually, it pulled to a halt just short of the gate, and German uniforms poured out of its back and side door.

"Sorry we're late." The Sturmbannführer presented herself to the marshals, removing her helmet and rubbing her completely bald scalp.

"I'm sorry?" said Mr. Wittering, Marshal-in-Chief.

"Sorry we're late", said the Sturmbannführer. "For the battle."

"I'm sorry", said Mr. Wittering. "I don't know you. And I know everybody", he added.

Another trooper arrived beside the Sturmbannführer. This one bore the double white triangles of a Rottenführer.

"Is there a problem?" she said, removing her own helmet.

Mr. Wittering looked from Sturmbannführer to Rottenführer.

"How shall I begin?" he said weakly.

"How about with 'Yes, the battle's over there, just half a mile further, have a nice day'?", said the Rottenführer.

Mr. Wittering made a shaky attempt at a smile. "But it would be out of the question for you to fight in the Waffen-SS", he said.

"Why?" said the Rottenführer combatively. "Not good enough for them, am I?"

"Well, no...it's simply that you're women...and you're a black woman."

The Rottenführer exhaled in disgust. "Racism! Racism, even here!" She turned to her squad of lady negro Nazis. "Racism, girls."

"Racism?" Sleeves began rolling up. Feldmutzen began turning round.

"Racism!"

"Who'd credit it!"

"In this day and age!"

Mr. Wittering raised his hands in conciliation. "No, no, that's not my intention. And those weapons, many of them are highly inauthentic - good grief, is that a clay pigeon gun? And that is a Glock 17, and, and I'm pretty sure that's an assegai -"

The Rottenführer nodded, and began unbuckling her pistol holster. "It's a functioning Glock 17. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"Are you threatening me, miss?"

"Yes."

Mr. Wittering folded his arms. "The enemy never frightened me when I fought for my country", he said. "You don't frighten me now."

The Rottenführer sighed. "Fair enough." She turned to her troop. "GIRLS! THIS ONE HAS SPIRIT!"

"Oooh, spirit."

"It's a terrible bad thing, spirit."

"The isangoma hates spirit."

"DEBAG HIM AND TIE HIM UP WITH HIS OWN TROUSERS."

Mr. Wittering flailed defencelessly as the impi descended on him. The other marshals gave in without a fight.

***

The air in the Book and Candle was sweet with the odour of ethanol, formaldehyde from the breaths of drinkers, and the tiniest piquant whiff of human vomit. Behind the bar, Dave was absent-mindedly polishing a hole into a Stella glass.

"Excuse me", said a voice from the other side of the bar.

Dave looked up.

"A man in a bobble hat carrying a sleeping bag over one shoulder walks into a bar", said Dave, "and does not say to the barman, A Pint Of Beer, Or Human Blood, For Me And My Friend Tiny Here. He does not ask for toasties of cheese, baked bean or any other flavour. The bar is not an iron bar. He does not go, Ow, My Head. In fact, all he asks is, Can I Use The Toilet, to which the barman replies, No, For You Have Not Bought A Pint. You do not need to laugh; it is not funny."

The man in the bobble hat carrying a sleeping bag over one shoulder shifted from foot to foot in discomfort.

"By the look of you, you could probably just about make the McDonalds at the end of the High Street", said Dave. "Best hurry, you want to avoid an unpleasant sliding-down-the-leg situation."

Behind the man in the bobble hat, a tall man in a suit and a complete set of head bandages walked in from the street. "Morning Dave."

"Morning Noel." The door closer on the Gents' whined shut.

"But you let him go", said the man in the bobble hat.

"He is a vicious and dangerous thug", pointed out Dave.

The door from the street opened again. An impossibly slim, angular woman entered, wearing two mink coats, a balaclava and real sealskin legwarmers. She held a frighteningly large hypodermic syringe; a clear liquid spurted out of the needle at the end of it, which looked only slightly smaller in diameter than a coaxial television cable. "Morning Dave."

"Morning Liz." The door to the Gents' banged shut again. There was a scream.

"You let her in", said the man in the bobble hat.

"She is technically a man", said Dave. "Though not, by her own estimation, technically a human being."

The door to the Gents' banged open; Liz emerged dragging an unconscious Noel, the hypodermic protruding from his shoulder like a blowgun dart.

"Always", grunted Liz, hefting Noel with difficulty, "strike your enemy at his weakest point. In this case", she added through gritted teeth, managing to make Noel's bandaged head collide with every chair and table leg between the Gents' and the door to the outside as she heaved, "the fact that two male mammals sitting constantly in a car outside the same address will use the nearest available toilet, and will not want to do so together in case of accusations of homoexuality." She looked up at Dave suddenly. "Do you know where I can find a taxi at this time of day?"

"It's a good hundred yards to the taxi rank", said Dave. "I am, however, one hundred per cent certain that if you buy this young man a drink, he will help you."

He looked across the bar at the man in the bobble hat. The man in the bobble hat considered his alternatives, licked his lips, and nodded.

"Sure."

***

Steve sat in the substitute Pool Car, counting seconds.

Going to do it when the clock comes round to the minute.

Despite the fact that that's what I said the last five times.

What happens if they decide not to show up this morning. I'm going to look so stupid.

What happens if they do show up and I run into traffic on my away across town? I'm going to look so dead.

No use thinking about it. Got to do it. Going to do it when the second hand comes round to the minute -

Sod the minute. Do it now.

His hand was shaking s badly he couldn't operate the door catch. Eventually, he managed to get out of the car, and began walking down the street into danger. They wouldn't be able to actually see him until he turned the corner. The fear of them not being there, this morning, was almost larger than the fear they instilled in him.

Almost.

He panicked when he realized he couldn't see their car, feeling simultaneous relief and terror. Then he remembered that it had been written off by Lucian's off-the-wall driving. Once he realized this, it was the work of seconds to run his eyes along the line of parked vehicles - presenting, for every second he did this, a target - and spot the one that said Courtesy Car. Steve imagined just how far the Mercedes garage receptionist had got with the line I'm afraid our courtesy car is out at the moment with Noel and Lucian.

Lucian sitting in a black C Class with HELLO! THIS COURTESY CAR WAS SUPPLIED TO THE STUPID SONOFABITCH WHO PRANGED HIS OWN MERC BY JONES SMITH MERCEDES LIMITED! DID YOU HEAR ME? HELLO? paraphrased down the side of it in large white letters. For some reason, Noel was not with them. Lucian was reading the sporting pages; an ersatz Noel, a huge and imperfect rendering of a human being in bone and scar tissue, was picking his nose and flicking the end product out of the window at passing old ladies. Steve distinctly heard him say: "Hey! I got one square on the blue rinse. Twenty-five points!"

"Blue rinse counts for ten", said Lucian grumpily. "In the top of one UGG boot counts for twenty-five."

If they turned round now, they'd see him. He'd have to run to get back to his car in time. But what then?

Suddenly, agonizingly, he realized the plan could never work.

They'll never follow me right across town. What, I just happen to get into my car and drive just fast enough to stay just ahead of them? They'll tumble to it before we've gone a few yards; and I need to go miles.

If, that is, they're thinking straight.

I need to bend their thinking. I need to make them mad.

He searched around him on the street until he found what he was looking for - the only heavy object in sight, an abandoned beer bottle half full of what was almost certainly not beer, balanced on a windowledge.

Careful now...don't want to look too sure of yourself...

He hurled the bottle at their rear window - don't hurt them, they have to be able to drive - and forced himself to stand still as it splattered down the offside quarter light like a tan supernova, making a hellish mess of the paintwork. He forced himself to stand and yell: "WAKE UP, DOZY BASTARDS", letting them turn and get a good look at his face before he turned and made for the safety of the pool car.

He heard car doors slamming. They'd started out on foot; that was bad. That would mean they'd either have to run back to their car once he got away (bad) or catch him before he even got to his own car (very bad). Running for his life rather than his supper, he rounded the corner, reached the car and miraculously found the ignition with the accuracy of Robin Hood splitting an arrow. However, he'd parallel-parked the car, and it was necessary to saw backwards and forwards with the speed and grace of a mating brontosaurus. He was also painfully aware that he'd failed to memorize the position of the central door locking button. Eventually, he pulled free of the line of cars, unfortunately heading directly into Lucian and Noel as they charged at him down the street.

Then the bad thing happened. What came out of their pockets was not knives, but guns. Big guns, too - magnum revolvers by the look of them, weapons that laughed at tin hats and body armour. Lucian and Noel were trying to remember how to cock them and take their safeties off, suggesting that they'd bought their pieces that very same day.

I have been proven right. Grinding his teeth together, he stamped on the gas and forced them to jump aside, then had to brake sharply as the road veered round to the left. Two gunshots, loud like the barking of huge steel dogs, sounded behind him. Luckily, no part of the car seemed to have fallen off, broken or exploded. But their accuracy could only improve.

He turned off onto the main road, cruised up to the lights, and forced himself to stop and deliberately stall. He found deliberate stalling far more difficult than the accidental stalling which he normally found quite easy.

They came piling out of the street behind, having had scraped one wing of their courtesy car in their haste to be after him. As they were still a good hundred yards behind him, he faked another stall before setting off as the light went green. Behind him, other drivers hooted. He wondered if Lucian and Noel would dare to step out of their car and pop off with their hand artillery in a crowded high street.

I've got another three miles of this.