“But someone else did?”
He nodded. “And they told me I could stop it happening by changing the trays round. I could save Ted from getting into trouble.”
“Who told you that, Ray?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by the sound of another door opening in the hall. He turned, and Jude looked up to see the kitchen doorway filled by the frame of a large man in jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. In spite of the heat he also wore a black leather jacket, rubbed grey at the seams. He had a dark beard and hair combed greasily back; in his nose there was a silver stud. His eyes were as black as two olives.
“Football’s on, Ray,” he announced. The words sounded too big for his mouth.
Ray had risen to his feet the moment he saw the man. His expression showed respect with a strong undercurrent of fear.
“But the football doesn’t start till twelve,” said Jude desperately.
“There’s other stuff on earlier.”
The man made no pretence to be addressing her, and Ray responded to his cue. “Yes, Viggo.” And without a word or a look back to Jude, he scuttled across the hall to the open door of the television room.
Viggo didn’t say anything more. Ignoring Jude’s questions and entreaties, he watched her rise from the table and cross to the front door. Immediately she had passed through, he slammed it shut behind her, and followed his friend to watch the football build-up.
Jude’s excitement at getting so close to the truth was replaced by total frustration. And also, from her short encounter with Viggo, a sense of menace.
Ten
On the Saturday night the Crown and Anchor again did good business. Though again it probably wasn’t the kind of business Ted Crisp was looking for. Carole and Jude didn’t go to the pub, but from their bedrooms they both heard the late-night roaring procession of bikes up Fethering High Street. Greville Tilbrook’s task of signature-gathering must have been getting easier by the minute.
And still the Sabbath-breaking Dan Poke evening lay ahead.
The event was billed to start at eight o’clock, but when Carole and Jude arrived just before seven-thirty, the Crown and Anchor already seemed full to the gunwales. A large heavy-drinking crowd had spilled out into the garden area and car park. If all of them were planning to watch the show, the pub threatened to burst at the seams.
Judging from the people standing outside, the presence of Dan Poke had certainly brought out a mixed clientele. A few aged pub regulars had been drawn by curiosity to witness their local’s new venture. There were also a surprising number of couples in their forties, whom Carole and Jude recognized from the streets of Fethering, but whom they’d never seen before in the Crown and Anchor. A lot of really young people were there too, talking loudly and swigging from beer bottles. They were dressed as for a night’s clubbing, the girls revealing acres of firm brown flesh, the boys in voluminous shorts and sleeveless T-shirts.
The bikers, who had shattered the evening calm of Fethering for the last two nights, were also present in numbers. In spite of their chain-bedecked leather uniforms, close to they looked pretty harmless, but still incongruous in a place like the Crown and Anchor.
There was one surprise component in the Sunday evening crowd. At the entrance to the car park, some distance from the rest, stood Greville Tilbrook and three of his lady acolytes. In spite of the warmth of the evening they were all wearing suits, rather old-fashioned Sunday best. What was more, they carried banners. KEEP THE LORD’S DAY FOR THE LORD, NO FILTH IN FETHERING, BATTLE AGAINST BLASPHEMY and, rather incongruously, KEEP OUR STREETS CLEAN.
As he saw Carole and Jude approaching, Greville Tilbrook favoured them with a thin smile. “Good evening, ladies,” he said. “It’s still not too late to change your minds.”
“About what?” asked Jude, deliberately obtuse.
“About attending the blasphemous performance in the Crown and Anchor tonight.”
“How do you know it’s blasphemous?”
At that moment a girl walked past them. On the black T-shirt across her ample bosom was printed one of Dan Poke’s catchphrases: FANCY A POKE?
Furious, almost losing control of himself, Greville Tilbrook spluttered and pointed to the slogan. “Look, does that answer your question? What could be more blasphemous than wearing that slogan on the day that is dedicated to the Lord? People who behave in such an offensive way are insulting Almighty God!”
“It seems to me,” Jude responded mildly, “that you have a very idiosyncratic definition of ‘blasphemy’. In what way do the words ‘Fancy a Poke?’ have anything to do with God?”
“This is the Lord’s day and the Lord should be afforded the respect that is his due! T-shirts of that kind are an abomination and those who wear them should be cast into the outer darkness! Along with this evil man who calls himself a comedian!”
He was almost manic now in his denunciation. His group of geriatric cheerleaders looked very excited. They clearly loved seeing their idol in passionate mode.
“Excuse me, Mr Tilbrook,” said Carole, “but have you ever seen Dan Poke perform, either live or on television?”
He seemed shocked by the suggestion. “No, of course I haven’t.”
“Don’t you think your argument might have more validity if you had actually seen the performance you are protesting against?”
Now it was the turn of his female acolytes to look shocked. Also distressed that their crusading hero should be taken to task in this way. One, the youngest of the three, a fluttery woman in her early sixties dressed in Black Watch tartan, looked positively mortified.
But they needn’t have worried. Greville Tilbrook could be relied on to come up with the argument wielded by opponents of free speech down many centuries. “I don’t have to immerse myself in filth to know that it’s filth!”
“Possibly not immerse yourself,” suggested Jude, “but maybe just dip a toe in. At least then you would have some knowledge of the subject you’re talking about.”
“I will not watch a so-called entertainment whose only purpose is to deprave and corrupt!” The eyelashes of his female acolytes fluttered. They loved it when he talked like that. He was magnificent. The eyes of the one in Black Watch tartan narrowed in ecstasy.
“You must be very insecure about the strength of your own personality,” observed Carole Seddon, “if you’re worried that watching a stand-up comedian is going to corrupt and deprave you.”
And she and Jude moved magisterially towards the door of the Crown and Anchor.
Inside, the pub already seemed almost full to capacity. Some customers were crowded round a table selling Dan Poke merchandise, T-shirts, DVDs, books and so on. But most were gathered at the bar. The crowd through which Jude elbowed her way was four-deep. Ted, Zosia and three extra girls brought in for the evening were rushed off their feet. Catching Jude’s eye, Zosia quickly produced two large Chilean Chardonnays and mimed, “Pay later.”
“Oy, come on, darling! Get your Polish ass over here! I want some service!” The speaker, pressed close against Jude, was a tall man whom she had noticed at the centre of the bikers’ group. But he wasn’t wearing their leather livery. He had on khaki combat trousers, heavy Caterpillar boots and a camouflage-pattern sleeveless T-shirt. He was surrounded in the strong, animal scent of a hot day’s sweat. The man’s hair was shaved almost to baldness, one side of his face was heavily scarred, and the hand with which he rapped the counter had two and a half fingers missing. As Jude moved away from the bar, he turned suddenly towards her. His hazel eyes were already glazed with alcohol, or maybe drugs. “Weren’t queue-jumping, were you, darling?” His tone bleached all warmth out of the word.