Rant (11 page)

We walk over to where our contacts are waiting, the three of them looking like a catalogue photo for the Sartorial Polyester Man Collection, smiling radiantly and standing sideways on to show off the bulges under their ill-fitting jackets. All heavily armed, as anticipated.

‘Mister Rant I am presuming,' says the smiling man in the middle, whom I recognize as Principal Goon from his telephone manner. ‘How the devil are you being, this finest after the noon?'

His hair is greased straight back from a very high forehead and his face is pink and scrubbed, which contrasts somewhat jarringly with his matching lime green shirt and tie and buttercup yellow suit. He has a fifties-style pencil moustache – which droops down under his jaw line at the sides of his mouth and gives the impression of a ventriloquist's dummy – and white patent leather shoes with crepe soles, above which half an inch of red sock is showing. He looks like a spiv on acid.

Left-Hand Goon (bottle blonde with ginger highlights) has on an electric blue suit and orange shirt, with a white leather tie. Right-Hand Goon (big black quiff complete with kiss curls in front of his ears) has on a pink jacket and black trousers. The pair of them also wear white footwear, though Right-Hand has on winklepicker cowboy boots. Dear God, my wife is being held to ransom by Showaddywaddy.

‘I've been better,' I say quietly.

‘Cheering up!' he shouts. ‘Soon all of this is being out of our behind and we can be going back to doing our business as is usual. Can you be improving who you are?'

Sam mutters something about how there's certainly plenty of room for improvement in my case and I remove the severed finger from my pocket.

‘Ah!' says PG. ‘Is good you are pulling out the finger,' he smiles but it quickly vanishes when he gets no response. He takes the finger from me. ‘I will be returning it. Stephan has been missing this. Is something to put his ring around. Now, to the business, if please.'

As arranged, we carefully open up our own jackets and hand over our handguns – replicas, which are the feint to hide the fact that we also have pocket cannons shoved in socks, backs of trousers, and in Sam's case, taped to the middle of his back. I told him when I was fixing it that there was no need for tape as he could just tuck it into the folds of fat on the back of his neck but he'd cheerfully slapped me on the forehead and when I stopped feeling dizzy I quietly finished the job. Probably using a bit more sticky tape than was strictly necessary.

RHG and LHG give us a quick frisk, but they are too busy eyeing up a busload of Japanese students that has pulled into the car park to really pay attention to what they're doing. Plus the fact that neither of them seems too keen to get close to my coat. It really is the perfect disguise, in some respects.

‘I am having to confess that I am being a disappointment that you are not being here on your only. Why are you bringed this your father, Mr Rant?'

‘It's not my father,' I say, ‘this is the man you intended to recruit for the job in hand. I brought him in case he could give me any useful tips on how to exterminate unwanted…vermin.'

‘And your name is being?'

‘Just call me Mr X,' says Sam.

‘Mr X-Lax might be better,' I can't resist, but nobody seemed to find it funny. I need to work on my international material, methinks.

‘Coming inside,' says PG, ‘We are not wanting to be drawing the attention of the publics.'

You could have fooled me. RHG and LHG step to the sides and we follow PG into the motel room.

The blinds are drawn and the room seems awfully dark after the bright sunshine outside. My adrenaline level quickly dissipates when I realize that Anna is not here, and though I peep around the bathroom door, I know it's too much to hope for. When I look back, RHG and LHG have settled onto the twin beds and are reading comics.

‘Your Mrs Rant is quite being safe, but as you are able to seeing she is not in this place,' says PG, reading my mind. ‘You must be having the patient.'

I am too disappointed to speak, so Sam takes over.

‘We'll be needing some proof that she is alive and well,' he says.

‘Off course,' says PG and picks up his mobile phone. He dials a number quickly and hands the phone to me.

‘Hello?' says Anna's voice.

‘Hello, darling,' I say, my voice tired and cracked. ‘Are you okay?'

‘Who is this?' says Anna.

‘It's me, darling.'

‘Me who?'

‘Me Mike, your husband!'

‘Oh God, hello. I didn't recognize you. What's wrong with your voice? You better not have started smoking again or—'

‘Listen, Anna, please listen for once, for goodness' sakes. Are you okay?'

There is a long pause.

‘Anna?' I say into the silence.

‘Am I supposed to be listening now or talking?'

I can't help but smile. She's fine. ‘I love you Anna.'

‘I love you too. Now you listen. Did you phone work like I asked you to?'

‘Oh, er – I…er—'

The phone is taken from my hand during the barrage of abuse that follows and PG smiles at me. ‘Is lively wife you are having. She is full of the sperm.'

‘I hope you mean
spunk
,' I growl.

RHG and LHG snigger until PG snaps at them in a language I don't understand and they go back to lounging like the lizards they are.

‘What you are thinking of our rooms?' asks PG, indicating the cheap plastic furnishings and the garish flock wallpaper that looks as though it was stripped out of a seventies Indian restaurant and painstakingly transplanted here, complete with stale scents of grease and curry.

‘Is nice, no? We are not having such nice hotels where I am coming from. These is nice decors, like on
Changing Rooms
, no? Please! Do not be sitting on the bed.'

This last is to me, his nose wrinkling at the thought of sharing his sheets with my filthy attire.

‘And so to the business,' says PG, holding out a file with a photograph pinned to the top.

It shows a fairly nondescript, kindly looking middle-aged man in a very nice wig. The photograph must have been taken on a windy day as the aforesaid hairpiece was standing up like a meerkat on a boulder. ‘This is your…how is it said…taggart?'

‘Target?' I suggest.

‘Ah yes, target. Thanking you. He is a kind of a compatriot of mine and very bad man. He is being over here on business venture. Buying some buildings for the conversion into flats or some such rubbish. When he is at meeting you must take him out and his mens also. And you will brings to me the briefcase which he is having with him.'

‘How do you know he
will
have it with him?' asks Sam.

‘Is too worth much money for him. He keeps with at all hours.'

‘And what's in it?' Sam asks, innocently.

There is a long pause.

‘I cannots am telling you this or otherwise I am having to kill you.' He smiles at us indulgently. ‘But I will doubling payment already given to you for safe delivery of this items.'

‘Do we really have to kill them,' I ask, ‘couldn't we just…knock them out or something?'

‘Is up to you,' says PG. ‘But it is not being easy, and I am reassuring they will not being happy at you. They may come look for you and make you wish you had never been bored.'

‘Believe me,' I say, ‘I already miss being bored, and I'm looking forward to being bored for many happy years to come. Probably at Her Majesty's pleasure.'

He stares at me for a second, obviously wondering what the hell I just said, then says, ‘Oh ha, ha, ha, is being good joke, yes? You Englands you are liking the sarky, no? But towards the point. You are better killings, for my sake and your. I am knowing that for one, I am not liking thought of him and his significant others coming upon my backside. But see, our gender is being very loose, and we are needing the bump quickly to making the rest develop.'

Sam and I stare at him as he frowns, and then has a rapid, quiet discussion with his colleagues.

‘Excusing,' he says to us, ‘Our
agenda
is being very loose, but we are needing the
hit
quickly to making the
perogies.
'

RHG and LHG are giggling again. ‘Progress,' whispers RHG. In a flash, PG whips out a cane from under the covers of the bed and whacks RHG twice across the knuckles with it. RHG makes a noise a bit like Scooby Doo when he sees a Scooby Snack disappear down a drain, and the room goes quiet.

He looks closely at Sam and me to make sure we are taking him seriously and lowers the cane to his side, still swishing. As he lowers it he catches himself on the calf.
‘Aiiee.'

Somehow I keep a straight face, but I don't dare look at Sam.

‘So,' says PG. ‘We must tighten our shit and get to the rooting. Barbu is in England for short time only and must be done now. Details are all in file. You can be doing with it?'

‘Well—' I begin.

PG cracks the cane on the bedside table, making everyone jump. It sounds like a gunshot.
Please,
I think,
don't come running in here to rescue us, please.

‘Is yes or no answering,' shouts PG, going even pinker. ‘Do not be pulling on my conkers, little shitty England or your Anna will be swimming with the fishes and you are having had the chips. You can be doing with it or no you can be doing with it?'

‘I can be doing with it,' I mutter.

I notice a shadow on the blind and try to catch Sam's eye. I try to subtly twitch my head toward the window and wink at him at the same time.

‘What is?' says PG, irritated and flicking his cane back and forth between us. ‘You are getting the fit?'

‘No, no,' I say, ‘just a bit stiff after all the driving and running around I've been doing.'

‘Maybe you think somethings is being funny, hmmm? Somethings you are wanting to share with rest of class? I am meaning group.'

Suddenly there is a commotion outside. A
twang
and an
oooooh!
and a
nyah, nyah, nyaaaah
. Like Mr Magoo laughing.

RHG, still sucking on his knuckles and wiping his eyes, runs outside, and returns seconds later.

‘Is sleeping policeman sleeping outside window there,' he says, very calmly under the circumstances.

‘You have bringed police here?' shouts PG, raising his cane. Gunfire begins to crackle outside the window. ‘This is being serious error on part of you. Your Mrs will not be the thankful wife for this.'

I pretend to crumple from the waist, weeping, when he says this (let's face it, it isn't hard, I have all the motivation and emotional memory an actor could need right at the moment), then burrow into my sock and pull out the gun that Sam had given me.

‘Alright,' I say, ‘Enough of this. Just tell me where she is, you bastard.'

The two goons go for their bulges, but Sam is way ahead of them. He casually reaches behind him and, with a loud ripping sound and a wince, he pulls out the very large gun I'd attached there. Everyone freezes.

‘Is mistake,' says Principal Goon, in a voice that lets me know he's not bluffing. ‘I am issuing warning. Shooting me is death certificate for the lady. Do not be asshole, Mr Rant. Same is going for you, Mr Rant's friend.'

PG is right. It's a stalemate. A Mexican standoff, or whatever they call them in the movies. All we can do now, all
I
can do now, is follow orders and hope that they live up to their end of the bargain.

I begin to back towards the door, pushing Sam along behind me.

‘Okay,' I say, ‘We'll do as you ask. But I am issuing warning too. If you harm one hair on my wife's head I will hunt you down and I will pull on your conkers so hard that the hairs on your head will disappear and sprout out of your arse.
Capice?'

PG gulps and nods and when I take a quick peek over my shoulder even Sam looks impressed.

‘Bring her to London,' I continue. ‘Tomorrow. I will phone you and arrange a time for the swap. Be ready. And remember what I just told you.'

He nods. ‘I am think that maybe you are right man for job after all, Mr Rant,' he says, extending his right hand to shake on our agreement. I pointedly ignore it and turn away from him.

There is the constant din of more and more people running and shouting outside. I risk a quick glimpse through the half-open door and I spot Joshua in his wheelchair firing off handfuls of firecrackers with a catapult. They travel quite a way. An armed response unit keeps popping up from behind various parked cars and I see one of them duck as a firecracker bounces off his helmet then skips off the roof of a car and hurtles off towards the petrol station. They seem to be uncertain whether they are allowed to shoot at ancient men in wheelchairs bearing fireworks.

I'm sure they will have no such qualms when it comes to me, so I duck back inside, lift the burnt orange plastic blind and gaze out of the window towards the petrol station.

Which promptly vanishes.

It is replaced by the biggest fireball I have ever seen.

The entire hotel seems to jump up into the air and settle down, somewhat broken and rearranged, with an almighty thump. The glass from the window is gone but luckily most of it is in the blind, which is now an even more burnt orange.

PG and the others throw themselves to the ground, screaming. I'm a bit of a sheep when it comes to situations like this, so I promptly join them.

Sam drags me to my feet, tutting.

We both look out of the gap where the window used to be and suddenly there are police and Japanese tourists everywhere.

Agents Smith and Smith are happily shooting them where they stand.

I understand by the amount of time it takes them to fall over (and the fact that they stand there like Ecstasy ODers at a rave, looking at their hands and smiling), that they are not really shooting them, merely knocking them out with some kind of tranquilizer darts. But I'm not sure if this will make anyone feel particularly better when it comes to explaining things in court.