Acid Bubbles (10 page)

I awoke at eight in the morning to what I thought was an earthquake. In seconds I realised the door to my flat was being battered by a rampaging elephant. I knew something else from my immediate past was coming back looking for retribution. The pounding on my door was loud and held a persistence I knew wouldn't stop until either I answered, or the door fell off its hinges. With great reluctance and fearing the worst I got out of bed, put on a towel, and with trepidation marched to the door.

I was going to look through the spy hole to see who in God's name was out there. I'd just reached the door pushing my eye towards the spy hole when it burst inwards, wood splinters spraying across the room, some digging into my forearm thrown up across my face by survival instinct. I was flat on my back as a result of this unexpected violence, and completely naked, the towel having gone missing as a door exploded inwards. To say I felt vulnerable would be a complete understatement. I was disorientated, unaware of my past and scared witless. I'd started yesterday witless only for the witlessness to grow.

What happened next was deafening and violent. I didn't know it at the time, but the guy who stood before me was David Hartley Sparrow, known as Double-Barrelled Dave. It was unfortunate for anybody who he visited because the double barrel did not refer to his name. It was a reference to his best friend, an Italian, metal with sawn-off barrels, a short stock. Dave's permanent accomplice who fitted very nicely under his raincoat, this was Millicent his favourite shotgun.

I, in the turmoil of my new life, hadn't noticed the two other people in the room. Mike was first to perish, he was to the right of me next to the fireplace. An enormous bang, a flash of flame, and Mike was fatally wounded in the chest. He fell to the floor without a sound. There could be no saving him he was ruined, gone forever. Without even blinking an eyelid Dave swung to the left side of the fireplace shooting poor Jim straight in the face. He crashed to the floor, broken, ruined and no more. I was on the verge of screaming, or shouting something, or shitting myself. Dave was reloading, and Millicent was accepting the cartridges with a sickening hunger. My stomach gave notice forcing me to dry retch.

“Now Millicent's got those two wankers out of the way, I want a word with you,” Dave said.

“Why did you shoot them?”

“I don't like Jim Clark or Mike Halewood, I'm an Ago and Surtees man myself,” continued Dave.

“They were signed posters,” I said, rather lamely. I should have been more worried about the fresh cartridges resting in Millicent's hungry chambers.

“You enjoyed it Millicent, didn't you?” He was talking to his bloody shotgun!

I had no idea where these posters had come from. I'd seen them briefly the night before and was quite impressed by the large framed photo prints both signed by the stars of motor racing and motorcycling. The other Peter must have been very proud of them, but right now I was registering one fact: I was sitting naked with my bollocks out on the floor in the same room as a fucking lunatic who called his sawn-off shotgun, Millicent.

“Put some clothes on you little toe rag. You're off to see Harry the Pocket,” he continued.

“Who in hell is Harry the Pocket? Why would I want to see him?” I said.

“What's your game? Who the hell is Harry the Pocket? Mr Graves, and if I were you, sir! He wants to see you… Harry thinks you're trying to cross him!”

I didn't argue. I got dressed while he watched my every move. Also watching was the ever eager Millicent looking on with her two dangerous black eyes.

“I can't kill yer! Harry wants to see you first! Besides, I'd upset Vicky your lovely fiancée, or perhaps the lovely Samantha would miss your soft touch?” he said.

“My lovely… fiancee?” I was surprised. I was more than Vicky's boyfriend!

“She's going to find out about you and the old girl. Then you're really in the shit. Of course that's if you're still alive!” David was nothing but cheerful.

He hit me around the side the head, not too hard, but round the side the head with his hard brass knuckles nonetheless. It hurt and I still hadn't quite managed to get my trousers on. Overbalancing I was on my arse again. This must have been a metaphor for something.

Dave gripped my arm with a delicate touch. No he didn't! He had an iron grip on my arm and led me down the stairs, through the car park, passing my very new, very low-lying Ford Cortina GT. The car looked particularly sad. I felt sadder than the car. All four tyres had been slashed causing the car to settle on the wheel rims. It was going nowhere and inside was chaos. All the seats had been cut open with the back seat lying upside down at a peculiar angle. I was walking the slow pace of a condemned man all the while looking at the remains of my car.

“We thought you might have the hidden stuff in it so we checked it out. Harry says he don't want you running away,” Double-Barrelled Dave whispered in my ear.

“I could catch a bus, or the train.” My stupid response earned me more grief.

Dave slapped me around the head with his huge bearlike paw.

“The train and the bus are not quick getaways. We are watching you! Harry wants his cut, his bit of sugar icing. Worst for you is your Nazi twin has come over from the city because you owe him big time, and he thought you was a mate. Then you go shit on him.” David explained these facts to me, and who the hell was my “Nazi twin”?

Waiting in the street was the large purple Ford Zephyr V6 coloured to kill, driven by the one and only Smiggy. For a brief moment I was surprised, then not surprised at all. Smiggy had always been a dodgy bastard, and now it seemed he worked for people who shared the same persuasion. The only worrying aspect was up until the point where I crossed some invisible line, these dangerous people seemed to be former colleagues, my mates until I'd done something unspeakable, which I assumed with these people, and I was correct in this assumption, concerned money. I'd somehow managed to short change them. Whoops! The gracious Mr Hartley Sparrow pushed me hard down into the back seat of the car.

“I don't wanna hear the sob stories. Save that for Harry the Pocket. Oh, and by the way, he's so annoyed he doesn't want any of your usual matey first name crap, so nothing but Mr Graves. You can call him sir if you think it will help. I'd be grovelling big style!”

I wasn't worried. No, I was terrified by everything I didn't know. I didn't have the slightest clue what these people were expecting. They could have told me I owed them £500 and I would have to believe them. I was to discover that I'd underestimated the depth of the deep dirty water I was trying not to drown in.

I got the impression that if I failed to deliver some of the payment would be in blood. I was expected to return all the stuff, whatever that was, and avoid giving them my blood as payment. I think Millicent was looking forward to tasting my blood group. Dave impressed me with the seriousness of the situation the other me had got the new me into.

“He must be well angry with you! Harry and Baby Doll don't normally have you people to the house. Too close to home. He likes to keep business outside the family home, away from the prying eyes of the filth, so he likes all his business to be in his High Street antique emporium. He doesn't want any connection to some of the merchandise your boys sell. Good face for the general (public).” Dave said.

I couldn't work out if Mr Hartley Sparrow was a genuine Londoner or somebody who took on the affectations to sound menacing. Whichever way it was, it worked!

We arrived at this rather magnificent three-storey townhouse standing with a quiet elegance in its own grounds. Very grand indeed, all very private and the kind of place where nobody could hear you scream. I was very worried…In the drive stood a two-door Rover 3.5 L coupe, all dark blue and chrome. As I was being led past the front door towards the tradesmen's entrance, Dave, the lovely Mr Double-Barrelled, grinned at me.

“All the nights out you had in that car, all the times your Nazi mate praised you up, and now you might be going for a long ride in the boot.” Dave chuckled, and I could feel Millicent pushing against my leg through the fabric of his overcoat; at least I hoped it was Millicent!

The rear entry of the house led straight to the sumptuously decorated farmhouse style kitchen solely devoted to great food and entertaining. It was all about enjoying life and all the finest things, and one of them was standing in the middle of the room. A rather striking young woman except not that young. This was Harry's wife or, to be precise, Harry's second wife, Baby Doll! This of course wasn't her real name or what we called her. At that moment, of course, I didn't have a clue. Entering behind me Smiggy assisted. “Hi, Miriam,” he said.

Miriam, it seemed, wasn't as young as she appeared. She was Harry's more glamorous second wife. They'd been together for many years. Why they called her baby Doll was simple. After a few visits to Los Angeles she now appeared to be in her thirties. Somewhere hidden behind all the expensive surgery was a woman who would never be a forty again. It turned out she was keeping herself in remarkable shape in the home gym, and all this work had paid off. She had every attribute of a woman of thirty-five. Close-up you couldn't see any clue as to her real age. Being married to Harry kept her on her toes and when around the great man she had a habit of acting like a lisping teenage nymphet. Harry evidently liked this weird simpleton baby doll act.

Miriam walked over to me and grabbed me by the ear. She pulled me rather painfully to one side, telling me that she wanted a word with me. She dragged me out of the kitchen and into large half-glazed pantry type conservatory full of fridges, bottles, everything her super kitchen needed.

I was expecting the third degree, the full questioning with recriminations and accusations. I thought the dragging by the ear was just an indication of things to come. If this thing with the stuff was on her mind she never mentioned it.

We were out of sight of my guardians and any prying eyes, or so I thought. Miriam grabbed one of my hands very firmly, placing it directly onto her very well rounded, firm buttock.

“You've been a naughty boy, and I don't want them breaking you.” Miriam said this in a voice that was low and earthy. This had me more than slightly worried. I knew straight away I was up to no good with the head honcho's wife. Baby Doll was my little non-teenage, teenage queen. She had a quick glance over her shoulder looking at something. I figured she was making sure the henchmen were out of sight though I'm sure they knew what was going on. Surprise was going on. She started licking my face.

“I haven't got any knickers on. You can't touch. You'd better please Harry, then I will please you some other night.” Miriam told me these revelations in the moments after she finished licking. I can't imagine what the look on my face must have been like. Sexy and shocked? Appalled? Surprised I would guess!

I realise Miriam worked out when I met her husband (businessman) Harry Graves. He was sitting in an almost throne-like leather chair in a lavish fully-mirrored, fully-equipped gymnasium. It didn't take long to realise Miriam's firm bottom was manufactured in America and honed in this very room. Harry looked like a very dapper Humpty Dumpty, right down to the handmade snakeskin shoes. Somehow his skin though suntanned looked cold and oily. His eyes pale and myopic gazed at me with snake-like coldness. The oddest thought struck me: perhaps his shoes were just an extension of his body and not shoes at all. And to my surprise he confirmed what I thought about Miriam's wondrous body moments later.

“You know what my favourite thing at home is? Sitting here watching Miriam sweat, watching her pumping the iron, watching her lithe naked body trapped inside machines.” He paused for a moment, staring at me. He continued,

“Of course you wouldn't know that would you? Unless you're privy to the things you shouldn't know.” He said this with an air of menace, almost as if he suspected his wife of having an affair. I knew nothing, so thankfully my face stayed blank.

“This is your first time at the house, and this is my wife's gymnasium. As you can see it's filled with lots of interesting machines. These pieces of heavy equipment could be very dangerous to someone uneducated in the ways of the gymnasium… You could find yourself severely injured. There's someone here who might like to give you some “instruction”. He thought you were a mate. Now he's really annoyed with you. You should hope he doesn't want to educate you!”

The shock was profound, and it came without any warning.

Out of the dark shadows in the unlit back corner of the gymnasium stepped my almost twin brother. I was totally taken aback. It was like looking into a mirror, but the image reflected was of a slightly more muscular more athletic self, the kind of image you hope for when you look in the mirror, but reality never plays ball, and leaves you with the normal disappointments associated with your sorry carcass. I knew by instinct this was my Nazi twin, whatever that meant.

“It'll be interesting when Mr John Smith spoils your deep kinship, when Mr Smith smashes your teeth in!” Harry said, continuing with, “Of course I'm all about business, and the bottom line, which for me is three grand. So if you boys make it up that'll be interesting for my pocket. Know what I mean?” No words. I didn't answer, because I was dumbstruck that this man wanted three thousand pounds!

The man himself strolled across the room into the bright light, I realise the whole coming out of the shadows thing was for dramatic effect adding a hint of mystery, and if he was trying to convey a dark menace he was succeeding.

John stepped towards me smiling in a quite non-false way, and this in itself was disconcerting. I thought he was angry with me, very angry with me, but now he approached with a jolly smile, and then I realised he might enjoy the prospect of smashing my teeth in! He was after all my Nazi twin. If we'd been twins we must have been very similar in my previous life. Was it only twenty hours ago that I came back to being good old Peter Jackson? This group of friends and associates were a grim lot making me realise that in my previous life I'd been a bit of a bastard. This thought turned out to be wide of the mark and a lot of understatement!