I shook Norman by his smart lapels. ‘It’s not one of your stupid name-pun things. It’s the victim’s real name. Danbury Collins.’
‘Not the Danbury Collins?’
‘The very same.’
‘Not the one who’s always...’ Norman mimed the appropriate wrist actions.
‘He was doing it when he died.’
‘It’s how he would have wanted to go.’ I couldn’t disagree with that.
‘But dip my dick in Duckham’s,’ said Norman. ‘Lazlo Woodbine and Danbury Collins on the same night. If P. P. Penrose were alive today, he’d be turning in his grave.’
‘Listen,’ I yelled at Norman, ‘we can’t waste any more time. We have to find this murdering—’
And the music of the mariachis ended.
‘—bitch!’
It was quite amazing, the way my voice carried right around the momentarily silent hall. And as for the way that all heads turned in my direction.
That was quite amazing too.
It was the second major embarrassment of the evening. And it was early yet.
‘Nice one,’ whispered Norman. ‘Very l990s. Very PC.’
And then clash went some cymbals, sparing Norman a walloping.
‘Boom shanka,’ came a voice from on high, the voice of Professor Merlin. Heads turned and tilted. The ancient showman stood upon the balcony rail of the minstrels’ gallery, arms flung wide and long fingers wiggling.
‘Boom shanka boom boom boom,’ cried the oldster. ‘I am Professor Merlin and I welcome you to the Great Millennial Ball.’
The crowd, well-fuelled on drink and drugs and all loved-up by the Hartnell Home Happyfier, roared approval and clap-clap-clapped.
‘I hate that old bugger,’ said Norman.
I displayed my fist. ‘As soon as he’s finished, we search for the murdering you-know-what’
‘Dearly beloved,’ said Professor Merlin, folding his hands as in prayer. ‘We are gathered here tonight in the presence of this recherché décor...’ He gestured towards Lawrence’s dangling dog-dragon thing and the crowd guffawed aplenty. ‘We are here’, the professor continued, ‘to celebrate the birth of a new millennium. But also to celebrate the life of a most remarkable man. You knew him as the King of the Corona. The Grandee of the golden leaf. The Caesar of the ciggie. The Rajah of the roll-up. He was the
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha of the small cigar. He was the Sheik of snout. I speak to you, of course, of Mr Doveston.’
Clap, clap and whistle went the crowd. And cheer, also.
‘You’ — Professor Merlin raised a forefinger and swung it about to encompass all — ‘you folk are the great folk. The rulers and makers of men. The lords of high office. The grand muck-a-mucks. The captains of industry. The fair maidens of fashion.’ Professor Merlin bowed gallantly. ‘You are the stars of the silvery screen. You are the thespians. You are the musicians. You, my dear friends, are the business.’
More cheenng and clapping and whistling too.
‘And so you are deserving of an entertainment.’ Professor Merlin snapped his fingers and a glittering yo-yo appeared in his hand.
‘OOOooooooooooooh,’ went the crowd, most impressed. ‘Easy trick,’ muttered Norman. ‘I could do that.’ Professor Merlin twinkle-eyed the mosaic of faces beneath him and then sent the yo-yo skimming above. It sparkled like a gemstone as he whisked it in mighty arcs out to the left and the right.
‘Piece of piss,’ muttered Norman.
‘On this night of nights,’ called the professor, ‘on this final moment of our age, I shall present a special entertainment. An amusement. A frippery. A bit of fol de rol—
‘To bewitch and bewilder, beguile and bemuse.
To instruct and construct and perhaps to bemuse.
Will you see what you’re seeing?
Or hear what you hear?
Will you say to yourself
This is all rather queer?
Does it mean what it says?
Does it say what it means?
Is he bashing the bishop
Or straining the greens?’
And he danced his yo-yo through a dazzling series of tricks which naturally included the ever-popular ‘stuffing the stoat’. As well as porking the penguin’, ‘furtling the flounder’ and ‘giving the gibbon a gobble’.
‘You can’t do that,’ I said to Norman.
‘I’m not altogether sure I’d want to.’
‘Now be mindful, my friends,’ said Professor Merlin, ‘because the swiftness of the hand deceives the eye.’ And he flung his yo-yo once more over the crowd. And lo and behold, it just wasn’t there. ‘The more you see,’ the old man said, ‘the more you think you know.’
And then he clapped his hands. ‘Come, carpets, cushions and kilims,’ he called. ‘Come cosset and comfy our cool congregation.’
From all sides of the great hall came serving folk, members of the catering staff, baldy-headed lady dwarves and those littlest-said-about-them-the-better human ashtrays. They carried carpets and cushions and kilims and they walked about amongst the guests, setting these down on the flagstoned floor.
‘Please be seated,’ called the showman. ‘Sit ye down, oh yes indeedy do.’
With general hilarity all round, and with much trouser-knee-adjustment from the men and tight-skirt-bottom-wriggling from the women, the party guests set to settling down on the out-spread rugs and comfy cushions.
‘I think I’ll just nip off to the bog now,’ said Norman.
‘No you bloody won’t. Just sit down here until he’s finished.’ Norman sat.
And I sat. Sit sit sit.
‘Now,’ cried Professor Merlin. ‘As you watch and marvel at our show, why not tuck a little tucker into your laughing gear? Dine upon delicacies, Nirvana to the nasal parts and positively paradisical to the palate. Vivacious viandes. Magical morsels. Tantalizing titbits. Knock-out nosebag. Johnny B. Goode, by golly.’
And once more he clapped his hands.
There came a fanfare from the mariachi men and beneath the minstrels’ gallery, to the rear of the invisible pillars, the door that led to the kitchens opened and out strode the famous chef.
He clapped together hands of his own,
And swung on a polished heel.
And he called to his waiting waiters,
To bring on the marvellous meal.
‘Get a move on, you fuckwits,’ he called.
And out from the kitchen marched the waiters, looking every bit the way that waiters should. They had crisp white shirts and smart dickie-bows and sleek tail-coats and slicked-back hair with killer sideburns. And they were all gym-trained and Club-Med-tanned and they all had those ‘rose-for-the-lovely-lady?’ eyes.
‘Fuckwits to a man,’ whispered Norman.
Oh, but what they carried on their burnished silver trays. What toothsome taste-bud ticklers. What choice and chewsome chomperies. As the waiters moved amongst the party guests, bowing with their trays to offer up their bounty, the professor called down from on high and pointed to the platters as each passed beneath him.
‘Lo and behold,’ he called. ‘A beano, a beanfeast, a banquet. A Saranapalian swallow-me-down. An Epicurean eat-’em-up. Lo and behold and look you there,’ and he pointed. ‘Fillet mignon of Alytes obstreticans, lightly fried in Ranidae miluh and served upon a bed of Taraxacum.’
‘Sounds delicious,’ I said.
Norman made a face. ‘If you happen to like midwife toad, cooked in frog’s milk and bunged on a bunch of dandelion leaves.’
‘Some of these foreign dishes do lose a bit in the translation, don’t they?’
‘Hmmph,’ went Norman, waving a waiter away.
The professor continued to point and proclaim, naming each dish that passed beneath him and loudly extolling its virtues.
To which Norman added his clever-Dick-I-did-languages-at-Grammar-school translations.