Akin to goats struck by panic, a rank of six black BMWs, windows hung with dark curtains, was slowly driving down Church Road, turning right into Almondsbury Circus, amid lawns with oaks, acacias and poplars, and inching its way towards Oxford bishopric‟s wondrous, but also distinctly phallic, palatial HQ.
By its doors, a crowd was waiting. Who was hiding in that string of motors ?
— Who‟s this lot?
— Its his bishophood ! His worshipful bishophood !
— Don't talk daft! This lot‟s film stars! a grandma, without a tooth to suck, was gawping.
— I‟ll lay four quid that it‟s Harrison Ford ! a twit of a Hollywood fan sang.
— Bullshit! It‟s Hugh Grant! a group of six idiot box fanatics hit back.
— Harrison Ford ! Hugh Grant! Mais pas du tout! I spat out, fuming. This is Alma da Brabant-Bravant!
—Alma da Brabant-Bravant!! all said in confusion, obviously not having caught on.
— Natch ! I chid. Alma! Alma whom London, Paris and Tokyo worship ! Alma our lady of a thousand skinflicks, a star among stars on our porno circuit! And a good many monks pray for Alma‟s soul! As soon as such a star starts stripping, any man worth his salt bursts his pants !
— So what‟s a skinflick star doing in our bishopric ? a kind of spotty choirboy with lank black hair and an anorak was chirruping. I didn‟t think communion hosts would attract that sort of bird!
— Oh, how wrong that is ! I said, riposting. Alma‟s a usual visitor to your bishopric. For his worshipful bishop is Harold Moralback‟s bro, who in turn is Ursula Moralback‟s grand-dad, and Ursula Moralback is Alma‟s top pupil!
Thinking this all a bit puzzling, our choirboy pulls off and on his thick pair of NHS glazing.
— I find your bros, grand-dads and top pupils a tad hard to follow !
With my irritation now at boiling point, I split away from this chitchat without point or conclusion. Through that slowly thinning crowd I slunk off towards Hannah‟s flat.
By a dark, spooky pathway, I caught a snatch of chat, which a south wind brought wafting to my lugs:
— ...It's a bishopric in ructions...
— ...Our star‟s in hock !...
— ...And flogging off all that tom !...
— What, loads of it ?
— ...Who‟s handling ?
— Our worshipful bish, as usual!
— ...Hah hah!...
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At that, a north wind got whistling, thus occluding this discussion‟s final point.
* * *
Hannah was staying in Ingrid‟s flat, not far from Old Brunswick Road, just by Alhambra Station and Lloyd‟s Park. «No way in!» ajanitor shouts. But as soon as I‟d paid him a fifty p bung, in I could go, as cool as a cucumis sativus.
Hannah was waiting, holding out a cold coca cola. I drank it down and undid my top button whilst fanning my jowls.
-What a scorcha!
— Almost forty in a shadow !
— It is August, you know !
I took Hannah‟s hanky, using it to dab slowly at my brows.
— Softly, softly ! Who‟s hurrying ?
Though it might sound as though Hannah was joking, I saw that this was far from right. Our lady was in fact all agog to find out what was going on. Just as I thought, Hannah couldn‟t stop blurting out:
— Has Alma got to Oxford ?
— Indubitably.
— Brilliant! Our plan‟s shaping up !
— What do you want, Hannah ? To rob candy from a baby ?
— What I want is to lay my hands on Alma‟s ruby rings and diamond tiaras!
Trying to calm down this flagrant agitation, I said :
— But that‟s totally crazy ! In front of Oxford‟s bishopric, I saw a myriad Portakabins housing a grillion pigs, fuzz and boys in bluish garb all out to block our way ! You out to lunch, or what ?
— Stuff that! I‟ 11 just find a wobbly link, snap it and in both of us go ! Upon which, you and I can start improvising !
Again, hoping to calm this fury down I told Hannah what I‟d caught along that dismal windy pathway.
— I‟m sorry, but I just found out that a gang of bad guys is also planning to pinch Alma‟s tom!
That shut Hannah‟s gob. Hours slunk by, strung out by a load of unsaid words. Finally, I dumbly said:
— Is anything wrong, my darling girl ?
— I‟m thinking things through, Hannah slowly said in a murmur. That‟s all.
— And to what conclusion do your profound thoughts draw you ?
— To that bastard Antonio !
— What ? That mafioso bozo ?
— That‟s right! That shit and his six Italian bum bandits !
— I‟ll whack him and all his clan !
— Oh no you won‟t! Hannah firmly said, putting a foot down. Killing‟s cunt‟s work and a good span in Dartmoor is what you‟ll cop for it. How about spinning
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him a good yam ?
Hannah‟s cool thinking did calm my spirits a bit. That said, I couldn‟t but find this approach a tad light and frivolous.
— Spinning Antonio and his gang a yam isn‟t child‟s play at all. Saturday and Sunday‟s a short span. What trick, plan or scam will allow you to approach Alma‟s pillow?
— Don‟t act dumb ! I‟ll pack off Ursula !
— Who ? Ursula Moralback ?
— Obviously ! Alma‟s darling pupil is part of this carry-on. Oxford‟s bishop and his God squad all bank on having an orgy this coming Sunday and our Ursula has an invitation !
— OK, why not ? I said with a grin, thoroughly into this smart, sinful plan. Good thinking ! But Ursula‟s in Paris right now, which is many a day‟s march from Oxford!
— You thick or what, Ian ? Is a fax too IT for you ?
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