I PLAYED THIS TAPE YESTERDAY AFTERNOON IN A BOOTH AT THE VIRGIN MEGASTORE AND NOTICED SOMETHING ON IT THAT I THINK MIGHT INTEREST YOU. CHECK OUT THE FOOTAGE OF THE CROWD BESIDE THE STAGE JUST BEFORE THE QUEEN GETS SHOT. YOU’RE IN FOR A BIG SURPRISE.
Hovis took the tape and slotted it beneath his little portable television type of jobbie. He fast-forwarded through half an hour of Virgin commercials and then through band after band after band until he reached the moment when the Beatles finished their final song and the Queen walked onto the stage.
Inspectre Hovis diddled at the remote control. Doing that jerky slow-mo thing that you do when you reach your favourite bit. The head exploding, or the woman inserting the—
“No!” said Hovis. “That just isn’t possible.”
Rewind-slow-mo-freeze-frame.
“No!” Inspectre Hovis stared. “It can’t be.”
But it was.
There was no doubt about it. There, by the side of the stage, waving and cheering, were a dozen young men. And although they were surrounded by many many other young men there was no doubt in the inspectre’s mind about where he’d seen this bunch before. He had police speed-trap-camera photos of them all over his desk.
“It’s them,” said the inspectre. “The same men. But this concert was twenty years ago and they look exactly the same. They’re even wearing the same T-shirts.”
A knock came at his office door.
“Come in!” called Hovis. “What is it?”
The constable stuck his head around the door. “There’s something I think you should see, sir,” he said.
“What is it?” said Hovis. “I’m busy.”
“It’s a tape of surveillance footage, sir. From one of the cameras on the ground floor. It’s of that bloke who jumped out of your window.”
“What, of him hitting the pavement?”
“Well,” said the constable, “he does hit the pavement eventually. I think you’d better see for yourself. But I don’t think you’re going to believe it.”
“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” Bob the Bookie wriggled and jiggled and clutched at himself and went “Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh!”
He had his Virgin-Sony Walkman on. Pooley had taken out the Now That’s What I Call a Cash Register tape and slotted in the Gandhis’ bootleg.
Bob seemed to be enjoying himself.
“I don’t believe it!” he screamed.
“I don’t believe it,” said John Omally, though not in a scream but a whisper.
Pooley stood before him in the Gandhis’ sitting room. The hour was now ten of the morning clock, the atmosphere somewhat electric.
The Gandhis stood all around Jim. Staring not only at him, but also at the open briefcase he held in his hands.
The briefcase bulged with money notes of high denomination.
“How much?” Omally dared to ask.
“One hundred thousand pounds,” said Jim. “It was all Bob had in his safe. He even lent me his briefcase to carry it in.”
“Bob? As in Bob the Bookie?”
Pooley grinned and nodded too. “You should have seen me, John,” he said. “It was my finest hour. I was nearly pooing myself, I can tell you. I did this thing where I casually thumbed through my wad. I’d practised it in front of the mirror, you see and—”
“Jim,” said Ricky, “you are a fucking genius.”
“Thank you,” said Jim. “I—”
“No, hold on,” said Litany. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you had to raise the money for the tour from a third party?”
“Well, yes,” said Jim. “But it doesn’t really matter where the money comes from, as long as the tour goes ahead.”
“No,” said Litany, “I suppose it doesn’t. But why should this Bob give you one hundred thousand pounds on the strength of a band he knows nothing about? Or was he at our gig in the Shrunken Head?”
“No,” said Jim. “He wasn’t there. But I played him the bootleg tape.”
There followed then a silence. It was a heavy kind of silence. An unearthly kind of silence. It was the heavy unearthly kind of silence that you normally only associate with that terrible moment just before the trap door opens and the hangman’s rope draws tight.
“Bootleg tape,” said Pigarse, breaking this silence to bits. “Shall I kill them for you, mistress?”
“No,” said Litany, holding up her hand. “No, not here. Not now.”
“Hang about,” said Omally. “What is going on?”
“Silence!” shouted Pigarse.
And John became silent.
“Who made this bootleg?” asked Litany.
“Sandy,” said John. “He bootlegs all the gigs. But I nicked the tape from him before he could make copies.”
“And you made copies?”
“I did,” said John.
“Give me all the tapes you have, at once.”
John dug into his pocket. Pooley put the briefcase down and did likewise. “I’m sorry,” said Jim. “Here you are.”
Litany took the tapes in her hand. And crushed them. Just crushed them to splinters. As if they were nothing at all.
“You do not understand,” she said, in a voice so cold that it raised the hairs on Jim Pooley’s neck. “There must never be bootlegs. Never. Our music must only be recorded upon encrypted CDs that cannot be copied. Bootleg tapes would ruin us. They would be copied by the thousand. By the million. We would not make a penny.”
“Well, yes,” said Jim in a quavery tone. “I suppose they would. I’m really sorry. We had the tape and we just didn’t think. But I do have the money now and you can do the tour and end up doing a really huge gig at Wembley or something.”
“All right,” said Litany. “You did what you thought was for the best.”
“I did,” said Jim. “I truly did. I just want the band to succeed. I want the world to hear your music”
Litany smiled upon Jim. “You are a good man,” she said. “You are everything I hoped you’d be. So I think you are deserving of a treat. A special reward for your labours.” Litany reached out her hand towards Jim. “Would you like to come into my bedroom?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Oh yes, please.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Soap Distant. “Oh yes, indeed!”
Soap was in Boots the Chemist. He had drawn money from his bank account and now had his photographs back.
“Stag do, was it?” asked the assistant from behind the counter. “Fat birds with their kit off? Let’s have a butcher’s.”
“Certainly not,” said Mr Distant. “These photographs prove my claims. These photographs will make me famous.”
“No titties, then?” asked the assistant.
“None whatsoever.” Soap flicked through the photographs. “Well, a few, actually. Temple dancers in the sunken city of Atlantis. Oh yes, and that princess with the long golden hair, whose father rules the subterranean land of Shambhala. And a couple of goblin nymphs from the Middle Earth. And Hitler’s daughter, I’d forgotten about her.”
“Hitler’s daughter?” The assistant leaned across the counter.
“Met her beneath the South Pole,” said Soap. “There’s a secret Nazi base under there. It’s where all the flying saucers come from. Nazi technology. Not a lot of people know that.”
“I did,” said the assistant. “But then I am the reincarnation of St Joseph of Cupertino. Would you like to see me levitate?”
“No, thanks,” said Soap, pocketing his photographs.
“Oh, go on. It’ll only take a moment.”
“Perhaps some other time. I have an appointment with destiny at the offices of the Brentford Mercury.”
“Look, I’m doing it now. My feet are off the floor.”
“Goodbye,” said Soap and he took his leave.
“Good morning,” said Norman. “And how may I help you?”
“Just a packet of peppermints, please,” said Soap. “I have an appointment with destiny and I feel that fragrant breath is called for and …” Soap’s voice trailed off. “What has happened to your shop?” his voice trailed on again.