“But what about Jim? Why kill poor Jim? Jim was a friendly harmless soul. An amiable buffoon, really. But he was a good man. A much-loved man of Brentford. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
Soap sighed amidst the suds. “It has to be the music,” he said. “Jim’s share in the Gandhis or something. But I’m sure it’s all down to this Wingarde and his guru. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Getting to the bottom of things is what I do best.”
And with that said, and as he was now all prune-wrinkly from more than three hours in the bath, Soap rose from his perfumed water, slipped on a rather spiffing white towelling bathrobe and examined himself in a mirrored wall tile.
Same death-mask dead-white physog. Same transparent hooter. Same pink hamster eyeballs. Same fibre-optic flat-top.
“Same good-looking son of a tunnel,” said Soap Distant.
Soap rootled about in Omally’s wardrobe, marvelling at the quantity of suits. He selected for himself a black silk number, matching shirt and shoes.
“Black silk shoes,” said Soap, twirling before the mirror-tiled bedroom wall. “Omally knows how to live. But is this me, or is this me?”
Soap concluded that it was indeed he, as black was really his colour. He turned out the pockets of the library clerk’s uniform and came across the golden plastic medallion and the watch.
Now, what should he do with this? Flush it down the toilet? Soap weighed up the pros and cons. Perhaps it would be better just to hang on to it. Use it as a means to meet up with this Leo once again. Soap stuck the medallion into his pocket and strapped the watch onto his wrist.
“Very smart,” said Soap. “Very futuristic”
All dolled up and dandy, Soap made his way downstairs. Sounds of gaiety echoed where they could about the crowded entrance hall. Coming from behind a panelled door, which Soap assumed must lead to the dining room.
Soap thought that he’d make a grand entrance and so he picked his way through the chaos, knocked smartly on the door and flung it open.
The dining room, for such it was, was grand as grand could be.
The walls were hung with portraits of the Crawford family.
There were dudes done up as generals and ladies all in lace.
You could tell they all were Crawfords, for they had the Crawford face.
The furniture was old and rich, of Chippendale persuasion.
The table fairly groaned with grub, as for some state occasion.
A laughing group was gathered round, Omally at the head.
As Soap appeared their laughter stopped and silence reigned instead.
“What a very poetic room,” said Soap. “Er, why are you staring at me like that?”
Omally rose from his chair and pointed a trembling finger at Soap. “Of all the suits in my bloody wardrobe,” he said, “why did you have to choose that one?”
“It’s black,” said Soap. “My favourite colour.”
“It’s my funeral suit,” said Omally. “The one I wore to Jim’s funeral.”
“Oh dear.” Colour rose to Soap’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know. I’ll go and change at once.”
Omally shook his head. “No,” he said. “Forget it, Soap. It does suit you. Keep it, it’s yours.”
Soap Distant stood in the doorway, the now legendary spare prick at a wedding.
Omally beckoned. “Come and sit down here by me and get stuck into this grub.”
Soap took a seat. Omally poured wine and made the introductions.
“This is Litany,” said John, “the most wonderful singer on Earth.”
Soap nodded smiles towards the woman nodding smiles at him. She was slim and svelte and stunning. All in white with eyes of emerald green. Soap was taken at once by her beauty, but also by the thought that surely he had met this woman before. There was something about her that rang one of those little bells that you can’t actually hear but you know are being rung. Somewhere.
“I love the moustache,” said Soap. “Is that a fashion thing?”
“It’s a metaphor,” said Litany.
“Oh yes,” said Soap. “Of course it is.”
“And this is Ricky,” said John. “The greatest Stratster on the planet. He’s teaching me to play.”
“Pleased to meet you, Soap,” said Ricky, reaching for a handshake. “John’s told me all about you. Did you really visit the centre of the Earth?”
“Certainly did,” said Soap. “Although I’ve mislaid the photos.”
“Isn’t it always the way,” said Ricky, which rang another bell.
“This is Pigarse,” said Omally. “Pigarse is the loudest drummer in history.”
“I can see right through your nose,” said Pigarse. “Horrible it is and filled with bogeys.”
“Pleased to meet you too,” said Soap.
“But John has told us a lot about you,” said Pigarse.
Soap nodded out a “That’s nice”.
“He said you were an amiable buffoon.”
“Cheers, John,” said Soap.
John made the last introductions. But as the other members of the Gandhis rarely said anything and appeared to be little more than mere ciphers included to make up the numbers, that was that was that.
A plate was pushed in front of Soap and he was urged to fill it.
The spread of food was quite beyond anything Soap had ever seen before, even when dining with the King of Shambhala. It is a fact well known to those that know it well, that the very rich like nothing better than to dine upon endangered species. But Soap was particularly impressed to find that here things were different. This selection of foodstuffs was entirely composed from extinct species.
Soap helped himself to the haunch of woolly mammoth.
John Omally filled Soap’s glass with wine and spoke. “As this is the anniversary of Jim’s death,” he said, “we gather together here to feast. To toast Jim’s memory and to think of him. It’s good to have you here, Soap. Norman would have come but as he’s in prison he’s had to cry off.”
“Norman in prison,” said Soap. “What for?”
“It’s quite a long story, but I’ll keep it short. Norman built a racehorse for Jim.”
“Built him a racehorse?” Soap helped himself to the fillet of cave-bear. “That sounds right, knowing Norman.”
“He’s a most inventive lad. But you see, it was more than just a racehorse. And when Jim was killed, Norman didn’t know quite what to do with it. So he thought that, in Jim’s memory, he’d race it. And it was the first time the Derby was ever won by a unicorn.”
Soap’s slice of cave-bear went down the wrong way.
“Small Dave rode it to victory.”
“But I thought Small Dave was wanted by the police. For biting off that manager’s—”
“Cock,” said Pigarse.
“Penis,” said Soap.
“That sounds even ruder,” said Pigarse. “Why do you think that is?”
Soap shook his head and Omally continued.
“Small Dave disguised himself as a woman. So he was the first woman ever to win the Derby. Made history, that did.”
Soap had no comment to make regarding history.
John went on. “Do you recall what that Penist said to Small Dave?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Soap, checking out the Irish Elk. “It was only a couple of days ago.”
Omally raised an eyebrow.
“Seems like a couple of days ago. But she said that she saw him galloping to glory. So I suppose she was right, wasn’t she?”
“She’s always right. I’ve seen her myself on more than one occasion.”
“She jerks him off,” said Pigarse.
“She does not,” said John. “But to go on with what I was saying, Norman named the unicorn The Pooley. And Small Dave pulled off the Derby win. And not just once, but four times in a row.”