“Hard to beat a unicorn, eh?” Soap forked sabre-toothed tiger onto his somewhat crowded plate.
“And no doubt he would have won again this year, if it hadn’t been for the Incident.”
“Go on,” said Soap. “Tell me the worst.”
“Small Dave was on Parkinson. In drag, naturally. He’d become something of a TV celeb. But being Small Dave, he’d imbibed rather too freely in the hospitality lounge and by the time it was his turn to come on, he was—”
“Pissed as a bishop,” said Pigarse. “Pass me the dodo legs.”
“He was drunk,” said John. “And you know what Parkie’s like with the women.”
“No,” said Soap. “What is he like?”
Omally made a knowing face, which spared him the use of the word “allegedly”.
“Oh?” said Soap. “Really?”
“So, Parkie starts chatting Small Dave up and Parkie puts his hand on Small Dave’s knee, and the next thing you know there’s trouble, and Dave’s bitten off Parkie’s—”
“No!” Soap coughed up Mastodon. “Not Parkie’s penis too?”
“I’m afraid so. And you’ll never guess who was another guest on that same show. Only Inspectre Hovis, Brentford’s Detective in Residence.”
“So Small Dave’s back in the suitcase.”
“A very special suitcase, built for the purpose. And of course Norman got arrested and banged up in prison. So he couldn’t be with us tonight.”
“Pity,” said Soap, wondering whether he should eat what he had on his plate so far, before trying to fit on any Siberian Rhinoceros. “But at least you’ve survived a free man, John. And you’ve got this incredible house.”
“I got it pretty cheaply, as it happens. The last of the Crawfords snuffed it and the place came on the market. It had acquired a bit of an evil reputation.”
“The Curse of the Crawfords?” said Soap.
“A ghost. And not a family one. A new one. Although I’ve never seen it.”
“I don’t like ghosts,” said Soap. “Don’t like them at all.”
“Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked Litany.
“Loads,” said Soap. “It’s in the family. My dad was a seer, my mum a psychic, even our cat read the tarot. That’s one of the reasons I went beloooow. To get away from ghosts. The tales I could tell you …”
“Yes,” said John. “But they’re better left until after the ten o’clock watershed …”
“I heard,” said Pigarse, “that there’s a tribe of dwarves with tattooed ears living under Brentford and that they come up at night and snatch away infants from their cots.”
“Wherever did you hear that?” Soap asked.
“I read it in the Brentford Mercury. There was this whole series of articles written by the editor about how he’d travelled to the centre of the Earth and planted the nation’s flag. And he had photos and everything. He was knighted by Prince Charles. I’ve got a copy of his book. It was a bestseller. Published by Virgin, of course.”
Soap took to the grinding of his teeth.
The evening passed as such evenings do, with great conversation and mighty consumption of liquor. The noise of laughter rose to unthinkable heights, as the quality of humour sank to unthinkable depths.
Ricky took out his Virgin walkman (no longer Virgin-Sony) and put on the headphones. Soap saw a look of contentment appear on his face.
“What are you listening to?” asked Soap. “Is it the Gandhis’ music?”
Ricky’s look was one of bliss. Soap Distant nudged his elbow. “What are you listening to?”
“Pardon?” Ricky lifted an earphone.
“I said, what are you listening to?”
“It’s a tape of silence,” Ricky said.
“What? You’re listening to a blank tape?”
“No.” Ricky switched off his walkman. “It’s a recording of silence. Made in the meditation chamber beneath the Potala, in Tibet.”
“I’ve been there,” said Soap. “And it is a very quiet place.”
“It’s the quietest place on Earth, apparently. This is a digital recording made of that silence. It’s in stereo, too.”
“Stereo silence?”
“Here, have a listen.” Ricky passed the walkman and Soap slipped on the headphones.
“Just press the on button,” said Ricky.
And Soap pressed the on button.
And silence fell upon Soap.
Complete and utter silence. Blissful silence. Peaceful, healing, all-consuming silence. Soap could no longer hear the laughter and ribaldry. All the noise of the room had gone and only silence remained.
Soap switched off the walkman and the row came rushing back.
“That’s incredible,” said Soap. “I couldn’t hear anything at all. Except for utter silence.”
“Good, isn’t it?” said Ricky. “And great if you’ve got noisy neighbours. You just stick the tape on your sound system and turn it up full blast. And then the whole room’s filled with silence. Helps me to get off to sleep when we’re on tour, I can tell you.”
Ricky took his walkman back and put on his headphones once more.
“Could you make me a copy of that tape?” Soap asked.
But Ricky couldn’t hear him.
Soap chatted with the other Gandhis, even the ones who had nothing to say. The ones who had nothing to say said to Soap that they were really pleased to meet him and how John had told them so much about him and what a nice evening it was and had Soap heard their new album? Which was called Armageddon: The Musical and was based on the bestselling novel by the famous Johnny Quinn.
Soap said that he was sure he could remember reading a book by Johnny Quinn, way back in the sixties, but the name of it had slipped his mind.
The evening passed further on and soon became the middle of the night. Soap stifled yawns. It had been a long day, and a hard’n. He peeped at the wristwatch. What was the time?
The face of the watch was a blank and unlit screen.
Soap peered a bit more closely and wondered which button you had to press to get the time up.
“That’s a smart watch,” said Pigarse, leaning far too close to Soap. “Wingarde’s got a watch like that.”
“Has he?” said Soap. “Well, that clinches it.”
“Clenches what?” asked Pigarse. “Bottom cheeks?”
“Very possibly,” said Soap. “But it has to be the same Wingarde. He did have some fancy wristwatch, but I didn’t get to look at it closely. I’d just jumped out of a window and I was hovering in the air.”
“Go on, Soap,” said Omally. “It’s well past the ten o’clock watershed now.”
“Well,” said Soap, “perhaps I should tell you all about it.”
“Let me try your wristwatch on,” said Pigarse.
“No,” said Soap. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“That’s what bleeding Wingarde said. Come on, I won’t break it.”
Pigarse lunged forward to snatch at the wristwatch, but his hand struck something invisible and he fell back wailing and clutching at his fist.
“What did you do to him, Soap?” said Omally. “He’s the drummer, you’ve injured his hand.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Soap shook his head. “He just lunged at me, you saw it and …”
Soap’s voice trailed away. It was the watch. It had to be the watch. What was it Wingarde had said? Lifespan chronometer incorporating personal defence mechanism. That was what he’d said.
“So,” said Soap, “what do we have here?” And he tinkered with the buttons on the watch.
And then there was a click and a bang and a whoosh.
And there was no more of Soap Distant.
The grey-whiskered father looked down at the boy
And reached for his teeth in the glass.
He slotted them onto his old wrinkled gums
And rattled his fingers and crackled his thumbs,
And suggested the lad take a seat by the window.
Because he had questions to ask.
Now tell me, young fellow, the old fellow said,