William the Conquered: a Tale of Entwined Lives

By Gareth Bennett

Money worries, a gangster-obsessed wife, one solitary friend and a darkened heart have William Reddy, a failed policeman and private eye, prepared for any opportunity to improve his lot – and it comes in the shape of a letter; the ‘wrong’ letter it would appear. This takes him off to the sun-glittered alchemical city of Seville and into the spiritually uplifting arms of Sophie Lorencz, a multi-cultural lady of the night, and also into the crosshairs of the dangerously wealthy and demonically ambitious doña Rosalva Castilla de las Casas, the intended recipient of the letter.
It is there that he encounters the Magnificent Suit of Many Devils, and the tale starts to eat itself, sending William on a humorously horrific, historical slalom involving slavering mastiffs, conquerors and conquered, Abac and Costec and riches enough to make a Rothschild retch with envy – a tale of entwined lives that can only be ended by death or glory...or aliens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gareth Bennett
• Release date: Sep 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301234400

Book preview

April 4th, 2000AD

William’s eyes whipped open like the roller blind in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. He looked around to make sure he really was where he was.

Hatfield; shit, I’m still only in Hatfield.

Whassermadderhmm... came from the lump next to him, then wheezy snoring

He looked at the wheezing lump that was his wife, puffed out his cheeks, and blew the air out of his lungs. The central heating hadn’t kicked in yet, so his breath left a vapour trail and was joined by the sweaty heat from his body, and clashed with the cold, early-morning air.

His little Jack Russell was sitting to attention beside the bed, giving him the tilted head, I-understand-everything-you-are-saying look. She touched his hand with her cold, wet nose and he nearly fell out of bed in fright.

Oh Jesus, Stella! he hissed.

Whazzermazuuurrumm, the lump protested.

I suppose you want to go w...wa...wal...

Stella lifted one of her forelegs in anticipation of ‘walkies’.

He remembered the Fonz trying to say the word wrong, as in I was... Fonzie just couldn’t do it. He pursed his lips but all he could manage was a wourring sound while Ritchie Cunningham squeaked and wore a college cardigan.

And what if I just decide to stay in bed, eh?

Stella cocked her head to the other side and thought: Yeah right, like you can resist my cuteness; you’re putty in my paws.

He noticed the weather front that was enveloping his body.

Christ, I’m gonna start raining in a minute.

The misshapen mound stirred again and moaned: Wherezzmyteaah...hurrum, then more wheezy snoring.

His pissy morning hard-on urged him to get up so he slid out of bed and flumped into the bathroom. He had a pee, shiddled involuntarily and then farted with relaxed abandon; it sounded like Donald Duck saying party at slow speed. Stella sniffed and backed away, and William sniggered like a schoolboy. He stood at the sink and vigorously splashed cold water on his face. He was now able to focus well enough to make out his features in the mirror.

You’re an ugly git, aren’t you? God, you could drive a bus down those wrinkles. I look like a Shar bloody Pei, don’t I? Shouldn’t I look like a Jack Russell?

He thought again about his dream: Who were those native-looking guys? Why was I with them? What was that all about? He went back in the bedroom and threw on whatever clothes were to hand, including the socks from yesterday. He held them to his nose first, even though he knew he was going to put them on anyway.

That’s it, and now the shoes, thought Stella and she started to pirouette in excitement.

C’mon then, shortarse, said William, as he made his way down the stairs.

Huh! I can’t help being stumpy but you can help being a tubby lump of lard. Stella knew she could wrap her master around her little claw, unlike Norma, the mistress of the household; there was nothing giving there.

William opened the front door and filled his lungs with the chill, early morning air. He loved to get up and out before the masses were about; it was as if the world belonged to him all too briefly.

His mind drifted back to his dream; this was the fourth time he’d dreamt about the dogs and their slavering, ripping, hate-filled fangs. The recurring dream revealed a little more of itself each time, but it never ended - do dreams ever end? He felt the fangs sinking into his upper arm, his thigh, calf...Urgh, stop it.

C’mon, Stel. He started to jog in order to warm himself up. Synchronising various parts of his body was not William’s strong point and he wobbled along the street with the elegance of an arthritic penguin.

He took a breather, the sweat already trickling down his face despite the decidedly parky air. He thought of his appearance, remembering a line from the Zappa song ‘San Berdino’: Oh Bobby, I’m sorry you’ve got a head like a potato, I really am. You certainly wouldn’t have taken him for a fan of the lamented Great Goateed One; a job-threatening rolled reefer habit in his twenties had opened his mind to the humour and intricacies of Mr. Zappa’s music. He knew it was daft, but boredom and untapped rebellion from his teenage years wouldn’t let him give up. Being a policeman made it so much naughtier, too.

Stella looked up at her master and wagged her stumpy tail, wondering if she was going to get another lap out of him. He noticed the look of anticipation and, ignoring his complaining legs and lungs, said: C’mon then, you haven’t tormented that big, black thing yet, have you?

Putty, thought Stella, and trotted over to the portion of the park fence that separated her from the big, black Alsatian/Hellhound cross. She poked her snout through the links and the beastie sat to attention. She started to whine, throwing in a little growl now and then. Sure enough, the brute launched itself at her and she jumped back, yapping away furiously at it. The black thing attacked the fence with such ferocity that William jumped back, his heart pounding: Leave it, Stel, come on. Stella flounced off, her bravado intact, barking out a parting insult over her shoulder.

They arrived back home in time to greet the postman coming back up the garden path. William was one of those people that loved getting mail. In fact, he took it as a personal insult if he didn’t receive any (Moon in Gemini). There was the usual batch of offers for credit cards, insurance, etc. plus the latest Innovations catalogue. He could never resist buying something from it, even though the sundry items he had bought (shiatsu massagers, really camp-looking thermal gloves, foldable walking stick, etc.) had been swiftly buried in the cupboard. One letter stood out; it was giving off a golden, shimmering glow and murmuring seductively: Open me, open me...

Wherezmytea! bellowed out ‘er-in-bed.

On its way! he shouted back, My sweet little baboon. He put the letter in his pocket for later, put the kettle on and went into the tiny back garden to feed the birds. He fed them every day; it gave him an enormous sense of well-being; his little family. He didn’t have any kids of his own. He and Norma had tried for a while but William’s little sperm, like their host, never passed their swimming proficiency test. In truth, he’d never really wanted the, as he saw it, vast responsibility of rearing children. When asked why he’d never had any, his stock answer was: Too many people in the world already. He had wanted to write a funny, little story about their failure to produce a child but only got as far as the title: ‘From Here to Maternity’; the rest had never written itself. He had other titles, too: ‘The Doctor Who Lost All Patients’ and ‘The Milkman Who Couldn’t Whistle’, but they had remained precisely that, titles. He did manage to get a couple going; a jaunty little tale about poetry-writing pack mules in the First World War - he had called it ‘Goodbray to All That’ - and the other about a Glaswegian Nazi called Joseph Gorbals. He did love a pun.

Norma was a fearsome yet vulnerable individual; her aggression was her defence. She was obsessed with mafia/gangster movies and her voice often took on a Noo Joizee lilt. Her conversations were littered with words like ‘punk’, ‘schmuck’ and ‘mook’. Her most recent obsession was with ‘The Sopranos’, and ‘goomah’, ‘schvitz’ and ‘pookyahk’ had muscled their way into her vocabulary.

Where’z mah goddamed tea-yuh? was the shout from upstairs, Norma’s accent lurching into Forrest Gump (seen two nights previously).

Hey, awright, already! responded William. He tried to humour her; life was easier that way. Bloody goodfellas, wiseguys and friends of ours.

Whaddya doin’? I’m dyin’ of toist here! William gritted his teeth and imagined her getting whacked like Luca Brazzi in the ‘The Godfather’; her hand pinned to the kitchen worktop by a sharpened potato peeler as a washing-line is wrapped around her throat. I’m sorry, Mr. Reddy, but tonight, your wife sleeps with the fishes, the police would inform him, as he received his parcel of cod n’ chips wrapped up in one of Norma’s voluminous, winsiette nighties.

He sighed. At 44 years old, his life had assumed a drudging predictability. His sudden and not-thought-through-well career change had done nothing to lift his becalmed life out of the dark, Sargasso doldrums. Sometimes, he wished that a giant meteor was threatening to destroy the Earth; at least things wouldn’t be so bleedin’ boring. He’d read a plethora of books on the imminent Apocalypse/Realignment of the Earth/Coming of a New Golden Age thing, and desperately wanted to believe that it was all true; that the world was in for a vast upheaval that would somehow make human beings stop being so pig-awful to each other.

I could die, though, he argued. Ach, who’d care if I did. Would I? Yes, he would; he’d cling with his last, broken fingernail to the hope it’d get better.

The kettle switched itself off and interrupted his reverie. He poured the water over the two (yes, two) teabags in Norma’s mug, emblazoned with the meaning of her Teutonic name, Mighty battle-maid (true); her character, Proud, headstrong, thoughtless (on the money); She has much beauty and good looks attract her (say what!?). William often wondered what on earth had attracted him to her in the first place. It seemed that after their wedding-day, Norma had overdosed on ugly pills to the point where she could’ve held her own in a Classical Greek legend.

From an early age, Norma had been itching to get married. Not out of some Doris Dayish desire to enter holy wedlock, but because of her maiden name: Organ. She had been Norma Organ. Her parents had named her after her father’s beloved childhood Springer Spaniel. Her father was an odd chap; he died of acute disappointment at 3.50pm on Saturday, 30th July, 1966. What happened to cause this? Wolfgang Weber slid in to connect with a ball that had squirmed its way from the pack of players and heart-stoppingly equalised for West Germany in the World Cup final. So, he never got to know and love Kenneth Wolstenholme’s now immortal They think it’s all over...it is now.

He took the mug of tea up to her and left it by the side of the bed. His spouse had drifted back to the land of nod and was snoring at medium volume. He looked down at her and an overwhelming sigh rippled down his body.

Oh, sod this, he exclaimed, and put his jacket back on. C’mon, Stel, this is your lucky day. His little doggy pricked her ears up and launched herself off the sofa. Let’s go get the papers, get the papers. After four viewings of ‘Goodfellas’, he found it impossible not to say that.

He surveyed the neighbourhood around him: he hated it more than death. Sombre, pokey little houses with a severe lack of windows and any sense of style clustered around a patch of grass and a bunch of parking bays; cars in various states of repair; abandoned jalopies. It was basically a parking lot for the local mechanic, who couldn’t afford/be bothered to get some proper premises. Some of the local kids were already hanging about, trying to outdo each other in how many obscenities they could cram into a sentence. He called the area ‘Shopping Trolley City’; one day, he counted sixteen on the small patch of grass outside his house, together with various other items of dumped household junk. He couldn’t believe people would be brazen enough to wheel their shopping home in a trolley: it was a good 20 minutes’ walk from the super.

A teenager got into his chipped and lowered Nova GTE and took off, tyres squealing and bassline pounding. William gazed at it and imagined it literally falling apart, like a clowns’ joke-mobile, under the strain of so many decibels.

I don’t get it; they put the bloody speakers in the boot facing away from them, so all you can hear is the pounding bass. And an exhaust pipe to make the damned thing even noisier. What the hell is wrong with people? He said that last sentence a lot.

A carhorn started up; intermittently, annoyingly, get-on-your-bloody-nervesily.

He returned home with the Daily Mail. Why he bought that newspaper, he never knew. He always criticised it as a merely snobby tabloid, but couldn’t bring himself to buy a quality broadsheet - too much in there he couldn’t be bothered to read. As usual, his eyes had strayed to the well-stocked top shelf in the newsagent’s. Carnal relations with his wife had withered to virtually nothing; neither could work up much enthusiasm anymore. However, years of taking Ginseng had left William with a licentious libido, and his eyes often strayed, hungrily, over the massage small ads in the local paper. They’d also begun to stray over teenage girls: the film, ‘American Beauty’, had left his mind in turmoil. He thought about going to a massage place, but what if they didn’t offer extra services? What if it was just massage? Do you ask? Do they offer? Too much potential for humiliation. So, he had turned to porn.

William had, incredibly stupidly, confessed his Kevin Spaceyish fantasies to his wife: WHADYANUTZ!!? had been her eardrum-busting reply. When Norma was angry, she turned into Ernest Borgnine with the mother of all hangovers. William had shrivelled under her Bronx broadside: Whassamaddawitchoo, huh? Ya goddam’ pervert! The last word had echoed in his head; shame brought him to his senses but he was aching inside.

He felt like the Boy in the Bubble from ‘Seinfeld’; his whole being was trapped and he was being taunted by a smug, piggy-laugh snorting George Costanza who triumphantly repeats: No, the correct answer is Moops!

After a quick look at his horoscope (he was a Leo, but more of the pussy cat variety with Neptune in the 1st House), he took the newspaper up to Norma. He realised that he hadn’t read his letter and settled down with a mug of tea (Lapsang Souchong with Australian Blue Gum Tree honey) to give it his full attention.

A job! Wey hey, a real job! Dios mío! William’s Spanish roots on his mother’s side filtered through now and again. His father had stifled the speaking of Spanish in the house. He’d never bothered to learn it so why should anybody else? However, when they were alone, William would ask his mother to talk to him in her lovely language, its rolling r’s and vowel endings made it seem so much more attractive to him than English. She had hailed from that lovely city of pilgrimage in Galicia, Santiago de Compostela (from whence came the name of his dog). A brain tumour had torn her away from him a few years previously and the wound was still raw.The last he had heard of his father was that he was living in Australia with his new wife.

William’s parents had divorced after nearly 25 years’ of marriage; the last 10 of which were tortuous and wounding. On a chance introduction, they had been instantly attracted to one another; she being shy, vulnerable and very feminine with a dimpled smile that melted the iciest of hearts, and he being the cocky, I’m-the-leader-of-the-gang extrovert with dangerous eyes. They made the mistake of marrying because of their differences instead of their similarities and these differences eventually began to irritate, annoy, divide and repel. The split didn’t hurt William; it was a relief.

They were both very attractive people, so all the more mysterious why William had turned out a little on the ugly side.

His father had joked. I thought the nurse had gotten you mixed up with another baby.

Was I ugly then? asked the 10-year old, shy and sensitive William

Well, I wouldn’t say that, but we left you on a doorstep on the way home from the hospital.

William bit his lip and managed to mumble: Very funny.

That’s just it; it wasn’t. We would have to go and leave you with someone who could run faster than us...even with a big, chubby thing like you in her arms. Ha ha ha...

Oh Ron, stop it, said his mother, seeing hurt in her son’s face.

It turned into good cop/bad cop; she took William’s side and his father took his resentment out on both of them.

Look and Learn, he said abruptly, remembering the ‘comic’ his sister got. It was the Mastermind of kids’ comics, full of interesting facts and articles. What did she get later? he asked himself. Runty, no Bunty. He used to wake up just before ‘The Victor’ slid through the letterbox on Saturday morning and he’d be out of bed and down the stairs in one fluid movement to catch the prize before it even hit the doormat.

He went back to reading his red letter: This Friday...Holborn...offices...important task...substantial fee...discretion...travel...maintain privacy...delicate...BINGO! A proper bloody job at last!

I should add, at this juncture, that our hero, William Simon Reddy, was a private investigator. And what qualified him to perform this almost legendary profession? After a dismal showing of 4 ‘O’ Levels and a CSE, he bowed to peer pressure and followed his father into the Metropolitan Police, thinking it’d make a man of him. It didn’t. All it did was to make him resent his fellow man - drunken road kills, football hooligan phlegm, sickening domestic cruelty; the sheer hatred he encountered. Even a relocation transfer to the Hertfordshire Constabulary had proved futile and, after 17 interminable years of shallow pretence, both he and the police force were finally put out of their misery when William slipped on a newly-polished floor. He accepted the dodgy back disability payment before he had even found out how much it was...and with his kerchiefed bundle over his shoulder and his little, wise dog by his side, he had stepped off into the abyss of self-employed fretting.

Great, a decent job at last. I can feel things a-changing.

He wasn’t wrong.

Sunny Spain

The Gods of Happenstance deemed that, while William was reading his letter, a Seat Leon drew to a halt outside a bar in Avenida Miraflores in the loud and vibrant city of Seville. The car contained two rather tall and beefy men, almost identically dressed in navy blue, double-breasted blazers and grey slacks; one with tie and one without.

Remember, I do the talking, said the elder of the two, Bartolome Quevado.

I know, I know, I’m the clod who’s bound to say the wrong thing and upset the divine doña Rosalva, replied his companion, the oddly-named Francisco Bazbaz.

Hardly be the first time, would it? You’ve got some fluff on your shoulder...

Ay-yay-yay, what are you, my mother? You always do this.

You know what she’s like. And she is our boss.

Yes, gramps. Can we get a McDonalds afterwards? I’m famished.

Why do you eat that? This city is one of the culinary capitals of the world. We have the best tapas in the country. That stuff...

Francisco rolled his eyes: Blah, blah. Yeah, I know, but I want one, Ok? I like McDonalds. I love junk food. I want to die of additive poisoning; salt clogging up my arteries. Now, can we get this over with?

They got out of the car and headed for the entrance.Their employer looked like she had never smiled in her life. In her sixties but with barely a wrinkle in sight, she sat alone at a table, puffing on a Salem menthol cigarette, with a glass of pale sherry in front of her. She was slim to the point of translucence, and her clothes were so understated that they were barely visible. Her hair was swept back and up in that classic, I’ve-got-money style, making her head look too big for her nail-shaped body. To the disinterested observer, she looked the very picture of elegant serenity, but her eyes? Well, they burned like globules of molten Hell.

You’re late, she intoned, without even looking at the two men.

We’re very sorry, doña Rosal... a wave of her hand cut Bartolome short.

Sit down, pour yourselves a drink, and listen, she ordered. Francisco managed to spill the sherry. Her nostrils flared ever so slightly.

You two are to go to London tomorrow. There, you will visit a lawyer by the name of Richard Collum. He will give you a letter, a very important letter. You will not lose this letter; you will not damage this letter; you will return here with this letter, and you will hand this letter to me in person. You will not, I repeat not, give this letter to anyone else, open it or lose it. Is all this understood? They nodded their heads vigorously. Francisco sipped his sherry to hide the sneer forming on his mouth.

Of course, doña Rosalva, consider it done, replied Bartolome.

Here are the airline tickets and the address of the lawyer. His offices are in Central London, so it’s just a matter of taking a cab from the airport. There are sufficient funds to cover your expenses, including the hotel. It’s all arranged for you.

We’re staying the night? asked Francisco.

Of course. Her tone of voice carried an unsaid you oaf.

Great, thought Francisco, Rocio won’t be happy about that. His fiancée was small of stature but had an interstellar temper.

Have a good journey, gentlemen, said the Doña, with a hint of irony in her voice. Until Saturday.

Bartolome puffed his chest out and barked: You can count on us.

God, you’re such a woosified lickarse, aren’t you? said Francisco, after the doña had left. You almost sat to attention.

I...she...look, we’ve got a free trip to London.

You’re impressed by all that snobby bollocks, aren’t you? She farts and craps just like everyone else.

Oh, I doubt that. Anyway, you’re the snob. If she were some illiterate goon, you wouldn’t resent this so much, would you?

Oh, that’s just...psycho bull.

Bartolome shook his head: You’re just a big baby in a blue blazer. Suck it up or do something else.

Francisco pulled a face and looked at the ground: Can I drive?

Yeah, but I want to arrive home with my kidneys intact.

After the MacDonalds.

I prefer a Royale with cheese.

Oh don’t start that Quentin Tarantelli stuff again.

Hatfield, My Hatfield

The words substantial fee had burned themselves into William’s brain: How much is ‘substantial’? I mean, it could be out of my league. What do I do? I can hardly turn it down. I need the money...enough for something sportier? It wouldn’t be hard to find something sportier than his Austin Montego Turbo Diesel Estate - nought to sixty in around half an hour, with a tailwind. He’d once heard Jeremy Clarkson say about a car: I’ve seen faster moving glaciers. There it was; the glacier of automobiles. It was frugal on petrol, but it handled like a canal barge and had the build quality of a Space Shuttle.

Why me, though? Did he get my name out of the Yellow Pages? Maybe it was someone in the force.

Private detective; yeah, a private detective. What was he thinking of? As soon as he’d gone through all the farquar of setting himself up and he’d put his first ad in the Yelps, he’d thought: Why am I doing this? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He just thought it was what ex-coppers did.

I blame Callan and Rockford, he said. They were TV private eyes: Callan lived in a grimy, 1960s black-and-white world of drab, British sadness, while full-colour, 1970s Rockford drove a Pontiac Firebird along the Pacific coast highway. He had his dad as a sidekick while Callan had the aptly-named ‘Lonely’ - a Don Quijote and Sancho Panza for the Cold War period of class-ridden, Coronation Street life and foggy walks to school in the morning.

In William’s youth, big-block American muscle cars were the thing: Mercury Cougars, Dodge Chargers, Chevy Camaros, Gran Torinos - a Starsky and Hutch slide across the hood and belted wraparound cardigans. He’d wanted something flash; it would be less of a prick, more a personality extension. He developed a Mk. 2 Jaguar obsession; the name was so apt for the muscular, feline, sloping curves of the bodywork. He was seduced by those majestic wire wheels, the oooh-yesss walnut and leather, the push-button start in the centre console and the rhythmic rolling roar of its straight-six 3.8 litre engine. Raging bull at a gate, he bought the first one he could find from a couple of Pikeys who might have well have had the words WE ARE RIGHT DODGY BASTARDS tattooed across their foreheads. All through his life, he’d said ‘yes, ok’ when the alarm bells were ringing out ‘NO!!’ Why did he do that? Why couldn’t he say no to people?

S’ok, mate we’ll bring it round to your house for you, they’d said. This was from a couple of shady geezers, furtively pacing around a house with very little furniture in Greenford.

Oh, right. Thanks, William had replied.

Of course, they’d swapped the battery for a duff one just around the corner from his house and he couldn’t get the damned thing started after they’d disappeared with the money. It was such a wrong car to buy. He never driven an automatic before and wasn´t used to the power. The first time he used the Jag, he put it into reverse, hit the accelerator and shot off the drive at whiplash speed, catching the edge of the bumper on the gatepost. There was an agonising wrenching of metal and the bumper parted company from the car. Not long after that, the engine began to misfire which eventually blew the exhaust apart. William had bought the car to attract attention to himself, but deafening north-west London wasn’t in the plan.

Military stuff; God was he mad for all things military - as a boy he got bows n’ arrows, toy guns, hat’s n’ helmets, Airfix soldiers, Airfix kits, the whole nine Trooping the Colour yards His father shared his interest and had a lot of books, including all eight volumes of Purnell’s ‘History of the Second World War’. William read them over and over, plus the entire military history section of Rayners Lane Public Library. Uniform books; he could describe the uniform of Napoleon’s Chasseur a Cheval de la Garde Imperial, a Pavlovski Guardsman, a Bavarian Lieb Grenadier, a Fusilier of the Line of Lippe-Detmold...not to mention a Landsknechkt Halberdier, a Persian Immortal, a Boetian Hoplite, a Polish Winged Hussar. Bit of an anorak, our William. A reasonably aggressive anorak, though - he’d thought about joining the army but a short time in the cadets dispelled that notion: he’d enjoyed the target shooting, the exercises, the ‘war’ bit, but the endless cleaning, drilling, polishing, drilling, cleaning and practising how to friggin’ salute for two bleedin’ hours? Fuck that for a game of soldiers.

.

Thursday dribbled along for Norma just as all days did. She worked a few hours in the mid-mornings at Tesco’s, but for her that was like building the Pyramids. And, it interfered with her viewing time. She was a year older than her husband and their failure to procreate had left her more or less disinterested in life, so she’d hopped on the Magic Roundabout to Tellyland. Her slack-jawed descent into staring at the flickering screen had irked William, and he’d wanted to shake her and shout: For God’s sake, do something apart from sit there glaring at the TV! He never did, though. Scared? Of course, but he also was happy to be left to get on with his hobbyish life, so best let couch potatoes lie. Norma’s Saturday mornings were devoted to scouring the Daily Mail TV guide and planning out her viewing strategy for the week. William listened to the radio while he pottered around doing whatever.

Yeah! Freekin’ A! she exclaimed. Hey! D’ya know whass on on Monday?

I don’t bloody care, he said, not loud enough to be heard. By then, I’ll be... he had visions of himself hot on the trail of some Cary Grantish jewel thief, or propping up the bar in a Puerto Rican-style nightclub, with an impossibly gorgeous Bulgarian double agent slinging martinis down his neck.

Ah, who was he kidding? William was okay when it came to doing some basic tracking-down investigation work, but the idea of any personal danger uncaged that swarm of butterflies in his stomach. "Well, I don’t have to take the job. I can just go along and see." Half of him cried out for danger while the other shrivelled like a little willykins in an open-air, unheated swimming pool in November.

Who you talking to?! bellowed his beloved. Is that Fred from next door? Ask him for our lawnmower back.

No it isn’t.

Well go ask him anyway. Goddamned mameluke’s had it longer than we have. And make me a cuppa, will ya?

He didn’t know it but William plugged the kettle for the 50,000th time in his life. 50,000 bloody times. Nothing flashed up on the big screen, though. No prize for Willy-Boy.

That woman’s bladder is the size of Liechtenstein, isn’t it Stella? His little doggie looked up at him and pricked her ears up.

What’s Liechtenstein? the Jacqueline Russell asked herself.

Here, have a carrot, said William, throwing a piece to her. Stella loved them, along with pretty much any vegetable you care to mention. She even ate oranges. She was one healthy pooch.

He and his neighbour, Fred, were on the same wavelength and enjoyed frittering away their time with silly conversations.The other night, the subject of nationality had come up:

William: Imagine if you’re from Alsace or Lorraine.

Fred: Do I have to?

Wiliam: They’ve been French, German, French, German...must be confusing.

Fred: Must be confusing to be an Alsatian. Start rounding up sheep or attacking postmen for no reason.

William: Hah yeah...is there a difference between an Alsatian and a German Shepherd?

Fred: Yeah, the German Shepherd will get the sheep penned up on time.

William: What’s Lorraine famous for? The cross...

Fred: What are they called - Lorrainians?

William: I suppose so.

Fred: Lorraine in Spain stays mainly on the plain.

William: If she worked in the USA without a green card, she’d be an illegal Lorrainian...ha ha.

Fred: What a punner you are...a punner wallah.

William: The loneliness of the long-distance punner.

Fred: You’re a punner bean.

William: Baby, I was bor-orn to puuuuuun, dah-din-dan-darr-dah-daah!

Preamble in Treacle

Friday flomped onto the doormat and William was up with the lark, unable to contain his excited agitation at what might lay ahead. He shaved meticulously, even those little hairs on the end of his large, spring-onion nose. He put on his best, least-shiniest-from-wear suit and polished up his shoes to a mirror finish. By the time he was ready to leave, Norma was engrossed in ‘Kilroy’. William couldn’t stand him: He’s an obnoxious, smartarse prat. I hate the way he does that long pause thing and then starts shouting like a...

Will ya shaddup ya putz, I can’t hear him. Where you going, anyway? asked Norma.

I’m off to London to see about a job.

What, you’re gonna pack this gumshoe crap in?

No, I’ve been offered a job; an assignment.

An assignment is it? Does that pay more than a job, huh?

William smarted at the snide remark: Yeah, I know I haven’t exactly...

Too right you haven’t exactly. I’m startin’ to think you pay your clients to take their cases. There’s bills to pay, y’know.

Well, you could help a bit more. You...

Norma’s face scarletted: Whaddya mean? Listen, douchebag, I bring in more than you do, and I only work part-time.

William knew he was sinking in quicksand, but his mouth was off and running: Well, that’s it. Couldn’t you see your way to working full-time?

What? With my back? It’s a wonder I can get out of this chair at times.

It just came out: Yeah, with all that tea n’ biscuit mix slopping around in your...

GETOUTTAHERE! Why I oitta...you waste all those freakin’ years with the cops to go off on some wild goosechase fer yer ballz! Yer’ll never goddamned find ‘em!

William withered under the hail of verbal shrapnel and slunked off.

Sheesh; I really ought to know better by now.

He had a sudden moment of sinking panic. He half-wished the phone would ring and a voice tell him that it was all a mistake and his services weren’t needed after all.

I can always turn it down, can’t I Stel?

Break a leg, said the pooch.

What a schlemiel, said Norma.

She was right though; his most challenging case to date had been tracking down a champion-bred Bloodhound puppy that had been stolen from a breeder in Harpenden. The irony of it; tracking down a Bloodhound.

William encountered his tall, gangly, lazy-eyed, Liverpudlian neighbour on his way out: She wants the lawnmower back, he said.

As long as I can send the Lawnmower Man with it, said Fred, in his deadpan, Scouser twang.

Watch it, she’s got bat hearing, replied William. Looks a bit like a bat actually.

You chose well there, kidda, said Fred.

I did have a choice, too. There was a girl I was seeing, but she...

...wanted to wait and you were a randy git who wanted to cock his leg. So, you chose the Betamax.

William looked blankly at Fred.

You, know Betamaz and VHS, cassette and 8-track, Sodom and Gomorrah.

What on earth are you talking about? ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’?

Yeah, I mean, when was the last time you were gomorrahrized?

William shook his head: You’re a strange man.

Not as strange as an old flatmate of mine. He used to bite his nails all the fookin’ time.

What’s so strange about that?

His toenails?

William spluttered with laughter.

You want to get that renewed, y’know. I saw the bizzies sniffing around the place last week, said Fred, eyeing William’s speedmobile.

Renew my car? Well, I would if...

Your tax disk, you pram-head.

Oh, right.

No matter how many times he’d spoken to Fred, his lazy eye still made him wonder what his neighbour was actually looking at. The eye was so lazy, in fact, that it would sometimes just stay in bed all day.

William took on an indignant air; one of his favourites: And what about all these old bangers that whatisname has got all over the place. It’s like Walford Motors around here. Keep expecting to see Fat Barry waddling around. Gotta go, Fred. How about a beer tonight?

Can’t. Going to an S&M party.

You’re going where? A sudden, spurting yearning leapt up inside him like a spawning salmon.

Y’know, a bit of bondage and humiliation, like.

Are you pulling my leg?

I’m not but someone else might. Fred waited for William to get the joke but his slack-mouthed expression told him no. Yeah I am, but you’re game for a laff, aren’t ya?

No...no...

"Look la, I’ll let you into a little secret, contrary to what they’d have you believe, women can’t tell when men are lying. They‘ve just convinced us that they can. And they don’t want us to tell them the truth."

What? Worked for you, eh, Mister Divorcee.

Fred grimaced. Touché tosh.. Look, you gorra have some joy in your life.

Yeah well... William knew that but he didn’t want to be told it. Would he have really gone to the S&M party? What would he have worn? He didn’t want to be dominated; he’d had enough of that from Norma, but dominating someone else? That might be interesting.

William blurted out: Do you have joy in your life? Why do you always have to be so spurious?

Spurious? Do you even know what it means?"

I know what it means. Do you know what it means?

I do but you don’t. Go on, tell us, then, Mr. Encyclopaedia Fookin’ Britannica.

It means that...you’re always saying crap to wind me up...n’ I don’t know if you’re being serious...and it pisses me off. Even with Fred, this outburst was truly revolutionary.

I’m just havin a laff, protested Fred. You’ve got a big pot of stroppy stew on the boil today, haven’t ya?’

"A big pot of what? You just made that up." William was conscious that he was dragging Fred back into childhood but he couldn’t stop himself.

Fred staccatoed the words You-can’t-use-words-if-you-don’t-know-them, with his finger stabbing William’s chest.

William retorted in the same rat-a-tat way: "Why-the-bloody-hell-not? People-do-it-all the-time.

William shook his head and snorted slightly: Honestly, Fred, listen to us. Bickering like little kids.

Well, you started it!

I did no such thing; it was you who had a go at me and...

Fred clapped his hands and began to crow with laughter.

William raised his eyes to the sky and moaned: Ok, you got me; don’t milk it.

He unlocked the door of his cobalt-blue barge and got in. The Montego wheezed and coughed and complained: Do I really have to? I was having a nice snooze.

Come on, you bastard, ordered William, don’t let me down now. Not today of all days. He thought about walking up to the station and taking the train, but the Montego gave in and its engine spluttered into life. Thank you. He pumped the accelerator and the exhaust hiccupped and rasped: Ok, ok, give me a chance.

William looked at his wind-up, Rotary watch. He actually had loads of time, but wanted to get up there early to have a look around, pop into a pub for a swift half and ogle the office girls.

Why does Fred always have to wind me up? He thought about a conversation he’d had with him one time; it went something like this:

.

Fred: ‘Ere, you met the new neighbour yet?

William: What about him?

Fred: He’s Polish.

William: Yeah? Well I know he’s a French Polisher.

Fred: No, he’s Polish.

William: Yeah, but what I’m saying is that he’s a French Polisher.

Fred: How can he be? He’s Polish, so he’s a Polish Polisher.

William: Polish Polisher? Don’t be daft; there’s no such thing.

Fred: Course there is: he’s Polish and he’s a Polisher.

William: No, you twallop. He’s a French Polisher who’s Polish.

Fred: How can he be both? He’s Polish, not French...you twannock.

William: I know; you told me. I’m saying he’s a French Polisher; it’s not a nationality.

Fred: French isn’t a nationality? Who’s the twallop now?

William: I know it‘s a bloody nationality! So is Polish! But he’s not a Polish Polisher; it’s a French Polisher...well, he’s a Polish French Poalish...I mean a Froalish...bollocks, a Polish French Polisher.

Fred: He’s a Polish French Polisher? What, he’s got dual nationality?

William: Oh, for God’s sake! Don’t you know what a French Polisher is?

Fred: Yeah, course I do; it’s a Polisher who’s Fre...

William: No it isn’t! NO IT ISN’T!

Fred: Alright, alright, calm down...

William: It’s a profession; it’s a style of polishing.

Fred: But he’s Polish, though.

William: Yes, I know he’s Polish! He’s from Poland; the country the Germans invaded, I’ve got that. Poland; home of Roman Polanski and the Pope...and Prince Poniatowski.

Fred: Lot of p’s in there. Who’s the last one; the perfume guy?

William: What? No, that’s Prince Mabelline or something...no, Machiavelli. And the union guy with the big moustache...Lech...

Fred: What are you going on about? He’s a Polisher, and he’s Polish; we’ve established that. So, what about him anyway?

William: What do you mean what about him? You brought him up in the first place.

Fred: Yeah, I said he was Polish, but he isn’t French.

William: AAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

.

William didn’t feel comfortable with most people; why did he feel he had to please them? Fred had said to him: You smile too much; it looks like you’re hiding something. Tell people what you really think.

Yeah right, like you can do that, he’d replied. "Actually, you are pretty clever sometimes"

"I’m pretty and clever: I’m a pseudo genius."

Pretty? Hah! If you can call a cross between a human and a meerkat pretty.

Even the normally deadpan Fred had to smile at this.

They had long, hash-fuelled conversations about the world and all its ills. One night, Fred had declared: "As long as money dominates the world, there’ll be wars; military wars, trade wars, wars between...I don’t know...two beauty salons in the same street. Money sets us against each other. It creates resentment and hatred and crime. It’s in its