“Police?” said Jim in a timorous tone. “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We have come to search the premises.”
“Ah,” said Jim. “Ah. I don’t suppose you have a warrant.”
“I don’t suppose we do.”
“No problem,” said Jim. “Only might I just ask one favour?”
“You might ask it, yes.”
“Well, you see, mistakes can happen. No one wants them to, but sometimes they just do. Sometimes, by mistake, a policeman will have in his pocket some piece of incriminating evidence. A cache of illegal drugs, say, or even a weapon of some kind. And whilst searching the premises of an innocent party, who has been mistakenly earmarked as a suspect, this piece of incriminating evidence might fall out of the policeman’s pocket and land, say, under a mattress, or behind a water pipe, and the policeman, in all innocence, picks it up and exclaims, ‘Well, well, well, so what do we have here?’ and the next thing you know, the innocent party is being charged with…”
WHACK! went that sound again.
But this time it was not the front door slamming.
WHACK! went the celery. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
“Would you like some chocolate powder sprinkled over it?” asked Mrs Bryant.
“Yes please,” said John.
Mrs Bryant brought over John’s cappuccino and sat down beside him at the reproduction olde worlde kitchen table.
WHACK! went the celery one more time into the bowl of salt.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, John,” said Mrs Bryant. “Are you enjoying your salad?”
“Very much indeed, thank you.”
“Need any more ice cubes in your Perrier water?”
“No thanks, it’s perfect. Very kind of you to make me a meal.”
“You need a woman in your life. To look after you, John.”
“What a man needs and what a man wants rarely coincide,” said the Irish philosopher.
“Does that explain the bulge in your trousers?”
“Oh, this.” Omally fished out Pooley’s book. “Nothing of consequence, only a history book.”
“Just hand over the book,” said the policeman with the face, hauling Pooley to his feet and hitting him again. “We can break the place up if you want and we can break you up too. Why not spare yourself the pain? Where is it?”
“I don’t have it.” Pooley flinched as another fist went in. “I don’t, honest I don’t.”
“We found this, sarge,” said the second policeman.
“It’s not mine,” wailed Jim, “whatever it is.”
“It’s got your name and address on it,” said the face. “It looks to be the packaging of a book.”
“I haven’t got it, honestly I haven’t.”
“You had it earlier when you turned up at the office of the late Mr Compton-Cummings.”
“How do you know that?”
“Never mind how. Are you going to tell us where it is, or do we have to”
“Where’s your teapot?” asked the third policeman.
“Aaaaaaagh!” went Pooley.
“Mmmm,” went Omally, releasing the lower buttons of his waistcoat. “That was a splendid repast.”
Mrs Bryant was leafing through the pages of Pooley’s book. “What is auto-pederasty?” she asked.
“You really wouldn’t want to know.”
“I really would.”
John whispered.
“That’s not possible, is it?”
“I understand that it has its own special page on the Internet. Although I don’t exactly understand what an Internet is.”
“I think it’s a type of stocking worn by female employees on British Railways.”
“Well, you live and learn,” said John. “So, what shall we do next?”
Mrs Bryant thought for a moment. “Why don’t we have a shag?” she suggested.
“Why don’t we all just relax?” said the face. “Mr Pooley is going to tell us exactly what we want to know, aren’t you, Mr Pooley?”
“I don’t have a teapot,” moaned Jim from the kitchen floor.
“This looks like one,” said the third policeman, holding up a chipped enamel job that had served the Pooley dynasty for several generations.
“I think that’s a watering can.” Jim gagged for breath as a boot went in.
“A pathological fear of teapots by the sound of it,” said the second policeman. “Inspired by what, I wonder.”
“A pathological fear of death,” mumbled Pooley. “Please don’t kick me again.”
“The book,” said the face.
“I threw it away.”
“Not good enough.”
“I gave it away, then.”
“To who?”
“It’s to whom, sarge.”
“It’s too late for that, lad.”
“Sorry, sarge?”
“If there was going to be a running gag about grammar, it should have been introduced right at the beginning of the scene.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right, sarge, sorry.”
“That’s all right, lad. Now, where was I?”
“I think you were going to kick Mr Pooley again.”
“Ah yes.”
“Oh no,” wailed Jim. “I did give it away, honest.”
“To whom?”
“To…” Jim shook his trembling head. “I don’t remember. A bloke in the pub.”
“Not good enough.” And the boot went in again.
John Omally went in, stayed there for quite a while, and finally came out.
Mrs Bryant looked up from the bed. “You’ve been a very long time washing your hands,” said she. “I was about to start without you.”
John made a strange croaking noise. His face was as white as an albino kipper.
“Are you all right, John? You look a bit…”
“Call the police,” croaked Omally. “Call the police.”
“Oh, it’s role playing, is it? What do you want me to be, a nurse?”
“It’s not role playing and it’s not a joke. There’s something in your bathroom. Someone. All shrivelled up and dead. It’s horrible. I think it might be your husband.”
Mrs Bryant fainted.
“He’s out cold, sarge,” said the second policeman, lifting Pooley’s head, then letting it fall back with a dreadful clunk onto the kitchen floor.
“Stubborn fellow, isn’t he?” said the face. “Now why do you think he would be that stubborn?”
Policemen two and three stood and shrugged. Policeman two was still holding the teapot. “I suppose he won’t be wanting the cup of tea now,” he said.
“Just answer the question, lad.”
“We don’t know, sarge.”
“Because he’s protecting someone, isn’t he? Someone he cares about. Someone he does not want to get a similar hammering.”
“Oh yeah.” The second and the third policemen nodded.
“So what do we have on known associates?”
Policeman two rooted out his regulation police notebook and flicked through the pages. “Just the one,” he said. “John Vincent Omally of number seven Mafeking Avenue.”
“Well then, I suggest we all go off to the pub for a drink.”
“Why, sarge?”
“Because Omally is an Irish name, isn’t it? And Irishmen are all drunken bastards, aren’t they? So we won’t expect Mr Omally to get home until after the pubs close, will we?”
“Surely that is a somewhat racist remark, isn’t it, sarge?”
“Not if it’s said by an Irishman.”
“But you’re not Irish, sarge.”
“No, lad. I’m a policeman.”
Several police cars slewed to a halt before Mrs Bryant’s front door. Sirens a-screaming, blue lights a-flash. In the kitchen Mrs Bryant pushed Omally towards the door.
“Just go,” she told him. “Leave all this to me.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“You must, John.”
“Then call me. No, I’ll call you, I’m not on the phone. Look, I’m so sorry about this. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything, just go.”
Mrs Bryant kissed him and John Omally went.
He managed to leap onto a 65 bus at the traffic lights and dropped down onto one of the big back seats. He closed his eyes for a moment but a terrible image filled his inner vision. A twisted, shrivelled thing that had once been a man, slouched over the bathroom toilet. John caught his breath and opened his eyes.