Peace on Earth

By Paddy Bostock

Mankind profits from nothing more than war. Hence, rumours about the existence of a disk said to contain the formula to "peace on earth," obtained by a failed actor with a penchant for visions, pose a major threat to the planet. This unleashes a frantic hunt for the disk across continents, involving government agencies, master criminals, petty criminals, and would-be criminals, plus the local population of Pont-y-Pant: the tiny Welsh village on which disparate characters converge as the putative location of the errant disk.
   However, nobody has taken into account the role that will be played by the three-year-old Newfoundland acting as the disk's self-appointed custodian.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092279

Book preview

Part One

One

Since the phenomenal worldwide box-office success of Hollywood’s Mole Smith and the Diamond-Studded Pistol, the days of its real-life eponymous hero had become peculiar—but in a good way. Quite apart from being bathed in media attention, Mole Smith had been promoted from gofer to equal partner in the PI agency founded by his Ukrainian-born wife, Oksana, and become the father of five year-old Igor. All faintly confusing, because for the first time in his life, Mole was beginning to think himself a person of stature as opposed to a twit. Megastar, media sleuth, and paterfamilias. What more could a man want?

Well, possibly not being calling "Tato by Igor as instructed by Oksana, seeing it was Ukrainian for Dad, but Mole didn’t object. Since being christened Molar by his dentist father—his brother’s name was Incisor"—Mole had become accustomed to funny names. And if Igor calling him Tato led to jollity in the resplendent St Mark’s Crescent, London NW1 mansion bought on movie money when A-list pals came calling, so be it. The whole point of being a person of stature was to assume people were laughing with you, not at you, right? Even Mishkin the cat was less likely to piss on his foot when told no, he couldn’t go out in the garden garrotting the pigeons, rats, and mice Mole was feeding bread and biscuits because he didn’t buy into the vermin narrative.

And, breaking with their custom of not speaking to their son for months on end, Winston (Winnie) and Trixie Smith—the hippy dentist and Marianne Faithfull-lookalike duo who had conceived Mole—these days telephoned practically every day to hear how he was getting on now he was so fabulously wealthy. From Incy, however, he hadn’t heard all that much. Unsurprising, seeing as his brother was still banged up in a Trappist/Buddhist monastery in northern Thailand and only allowed to write two emails per century.

Still, peculiar though it had become, life was looking up.

~ * ~

On this sunlit late August evening, Mole was lying, chilled out, in a hammock strung between two willow trees in the garden of his three million pound home, listening to a Jamaican balladeer wailing under one of the bridges across the Regent’s Canal, and gazing idly at the swans, brent geese, and narrowboats drifting by.

Beneath the hammock, on the manicured grass, Igor was playing war with two computerised soldiers, one Russian, one Ukrainian—the latter winning by a margin, given Oksana’s views on recent Russian invasions of her homeland. But not even her insistence the child should learn violence from an early age disturbed Mole’s mellifluous mood. So what if his mother was also teaching the boy rudimentary kung-fu of the kind she had a black belt in? And, okay, plus a little taekwondo. Had her input into the diamond-studded pistol case been crucial, or hadn’t it? And if her son developed similar skills, Mole had no objection. Okay, he had secretly told the boy he could also become a poet if he wanted—but why rock the marriage boat when it was currently afloat?

So it was, when Oksana, dressed in an ochre bikini, stepped out from the conservatory into the garden wanting to know if she could offer her husband a pre-dinner apéritif, Mole said, That would be so great, darling. Possibly a martini? Shaken not stirred?

At which Oksana’s wondrous ash-blond hair tumbled around her face as she slapped at her bronzed knees.

Mole, my darlink, she said once the mirth had subsided, Nice movie got made of our story, but James Bond...you?

She let the question hang while Mole checked out a toenail.

I got the girl though, didn’t I? he winked, once satisfied with his pedicurist’s performance.

Eh? he added, joogling an eyebrow.

"Tak (yes in Ukrainian), you get the girl, Oksana grinned, coming over to rock him in his hammock. Wanna fuck?"

That was the other thing which had radically enhanced Mole’s self-image. In his earlier incarnation of a person only able do "it once a week—in his pyjamas!—such that Oksana had been obliged to employ a New York-based sex therapist, Dr Janet Stronsky, to fix the problem, Mole had magically morphed into a person now able to do it" once—sometimes even twice—per day.

On this occasion, however, keen though he was to oblige, Mole nodded over at Igor jumping up and down on the Russian soldier, and said, Not in front of the children, darling.

"Child, darlink! Only one so far, said Oksana, nuzzling his neck and flicking at the bulge in his Stella McCartney Speedos. Maybe we make the girl this time, no? To go with the boy."

~ * ~

Mercifully for Mole, however, that was the moment his iPhone started trilling and he was obliged, along with everybody else on the planet, to say those famous words, Sorry, but I’ve got to take this call, and clamp the cell to his ear.

Yup? he said—transatlantically—given the family now spent the winter months at their Santa Monica condo only a stone’s throw from the beach. Then he said, Stop that! to Oksana, who was stroking the tumescence and grinning.

Huh? said the person down the line.

"Not you," Mole said, flapping a hand at his wife, who gave up the battle but still wiggled her bottom at him before sashaying over to help Igor jump up and down on the splintered, sparking, and clearly dead, Russian soldier.

Sorry about that, Mole resumed. Who is..?

Kyle, said the voice. Remember me?

Mole didn’t.

Um...?

Understudy to Nimo?

Mole frowned. Nimo DiNardis was the star of Mole Smith and the Diamond-Studded Pistol in the Mole role, and now owned a gated villa only a stone’s throw from the Santa Monica condo.

The guy who stood in for him when Nimo was too wasted to hit the set? The guy who did the stunt scenes Nimo was too chickenshit to do himself?

"Ah-hah! So that Kyle," Mole said, vaguely recalling the name. An ex-surfer bum who had worn glasses and looked nothing like either him or Nimo the way Mole remembered it.

Crooz, right?

Kross, Kyle corrected. "Kyle Kross. Like, with a K? Like with two Ks? Like...KK?"

Right. Absolutely, Mole lied. Helluva job you did on the movie, Cole. Bless!

That’s how people spoke in Hollywood.

"Kyle," Kyle said.

"Sure, pardon me...Kyle."

Yeah, so...See the reason I’m calling is...

Mole sagged back in his hammock and sipped at the shaken not stirred. Oksana was dressed in a see-through shift and nothing else. He winked thanks while wondering how many more deadbeat actors—never mind parents—were going to call him wanting handouts. These days they were as frequent as cold-callers trying to switch his gas supply to electricity.

Which was why he then said, Look, Kyle, I’m so sorry I can’t be helpful, only we have this financial crisis still hanging over us in the UK, and...

"Dude, it ain’t money I want. I got money. All kindsa stuff I got involved with since the movie. What we’re talking here is help. You a PI in real life, right?"

Off and on.

Sooo, you take my case an’ you could be looking at a million bucks.

A million b-b... Mole said, sitting up in his hammock and spilling most of the shaken not stirred down his chest.

Bucks. Yessiree. See I lost my memoir, and...

"Memory?" said Mole.

"Memoir. It’s a long story. Okay if I come over and tell you?"

From California?

Nah, bro. I’m just around the corner. In The Engineer pub? Could be with you in five. Okay with you?

Well, Mole said, swinging down from his hammock and planting two feet on the manicured lawn. It’s been a long time since we’ve taken a case, so...

Great talking with you, mah man. Like I said, be wid you in five. Maybe ten...

Then the line went dead.

~ * ~

Who is this on the phone, darlink? Oksana wanted to know as Mole joined her in the conservatory.

Some guy called Kyle...Krooz...KK. Worked on the movie. Remember him? Mole said, twisting his head and shoulders downward and around to make eye contact with his wife, seeing as she was standing on her head naked. Doing the yoga workout Mole kept telling her she shouldn’t do naked in case Igor ended up with the same funny ideas about sex he and Incy had inherited from Trixie flaunting her wares around the Richmond upon Thames Des Res home he had grown up in. How many more times did he have to explain to Oksana it wasn’t healthy for small boys to see their mother upside down with no clothes on?

But now wasn’t the moment for such debate, as Oksana pushed herself up on one arm to morph into a one-armed scorpion handstand position she maintained for maybe ten seconds before using the spare arm to press down on the Venetian-tiled floor, catapult herself through a triple twist, and land with both feet firmly planted back on the Venetian tiles. The sort of routine top-of-the-range gymnasts would die for.

Mole readjusted his head and neck, and tried to maintain eye contact so his eyes didn’t roam to the pert, greased breasts and points south.

KK? she said.

So he called himself. Some wannabe probably. Anyhow he’s coming around anytime now. Got a case he’d like us to work on. Something to do with his memory.

"Case?"

Worth a million, he says.

Pounds?

Dollars.

Still, dollars is dollars, Oksana shrugged.

So maybe you could go and put some clothes on?

"Tak, okai," she was saying as the doorbell rang.

I’ll bring him through to the lounge.

Okai.

Two

Smithy, mah man, howya doin’? Kyle said, marching across the threshold and attempting to pull Mole into a street hug of the kind Mole had never mastered. Despite his California days, he still hadn’t worked out which hand he was meant to grab and which shoulder to bump, normally leading, as on this occasion, to him being knocked over.

Ooops, said KK, throwing down a hand to haul the fallen PI back to his feet. Hey, neat Speedos though, bro. Like, designer, huh? You mind I use a bathroom? Kinda full of beer and should’ve taken a leak at the pub only I forgot.

Down the hall and second on the right, Mole said, dusting himself down and then gazing at Kyle’s back as he hurried loowards, unzipping the flies of his purple velvet flares en route.

The bloke looked nothing like the movie understudy Mole only barely remembered anyway. Nothing surfer bum-ish about him at all. And he wasn’t wearing glasses. Also he did look a bit like Nimo. Short and insignificant with mousy hair, the way Nimo was made up to look so he would look like Mole. Weird.

Meanwhile the lavatory was flushing.

"Man, I ever needed that," Kyle said, stepping back out into the hallway and doing the knees-bendy, willy-adjusting thing blokes do after urinating.

Hey, nice house, he added, peering about. Which way?

I thought my study for our discussions, but first I need to change. Maybe in the meantime you’d like to meet my wife, Oksana, in the lounge...and then...?

"Yeah, Oxo. Hey, I would lurve to meet with Oxo again. Just point me in her direction, man."

Mole swallowed hard, hoped Oksana was now dressed in something sensible—better still dressed—and steered his visitor into the newly refurbished lounge, the scene of protracted disputes between the Smiths precisely over its refurbishment, Oksana wanting everything white with hints of taupe, while Mole had stood out for colours... blues, greens, some indigos...also no recessed ceiling lights, which he’d argued were foolish fripperies when old-fashioned standard lamps did the job much better. What if a person wanted to read, for example? How much use were recessed ceiling lights then? No use at all, that was how much use. Practically a marriage buster the negotiations had been, but thankfully a compromise was ultimately reached such that the immense, Living-In-Space lounge was divided into two halves—Oksana’s and Mole’s.

It was into Oksana’s white-with-a-hint of taupe half that Kyle was steered. And there was the lady of the house herself waiting to greet him. Dressed! In a demure little black number which nonetheless exposed far more of her physique than Mole would have wished. Still...

Just leave you guys together for a second. Back soon, he said, heading upstairs for a swift change of outfit.

~ * ~

"Oxo, babe, long time no see, howya doin? said Kyle, moving in for a clinch-with-kisses Oksana neatly sidestepped before sitting herself primly on one of the Italian hand-stitched, taupe-ish leather, aluminium-legged chairs at the white occasional table by the window in her side of the lounge, the part she kept for chattinks."

Okai, she said, as Kyle regrouped and accepted the chair opposite her she had waved him to.

And you? she added, looking him up and down and not much liking what she saw. T-shirts bearing the legend Suck My Big Lollipop were soo passé. And purple velvet flares, well...

Me? I’m great. Well, kinda great. See, I lost my memoir, which is sorta upsetting. Why I’m here, right? Mole tell you about that?

Oksana favoured him with her most elliptical smile, the one that read, Maybe; also maybe not. Perhaps...but then on the other hand...

You do remember me, Oxo? From the movie?

Oksana. And the movie was a long time ago.

Me, the Mole/Nimo lookalike; you the stand-in fighter for the star lady. What was her name again?

Marthe, Oksana hissed, eyes swivelly and teeth grinding. "Who is from Caribbean. How they cast her as star, these dumbtwits, when I am real actor with Stanislavski experience I never know. How is person from Martinique lookink like person from Ukraine?"

Production values, babe. Ratings. Cha-ching. Way it goes. Me, I had the same problem. Changing my damn appearance one day to the next just to get hired. We talked about that on set, right?

Oksana flicked at her ash-blond hair.

We did? she said.

Sure we did. Many times.

You say so. And your name again?

"Kyle Kross. KK. Ookay, so it isn’t my real name, but you can call me that. It’s what goes out to the thriller agencies. What’s on the credits for Mole Smith and the Diamond-Studded Pistol. At number forty-three, if you count down from the top."

When audience already out from seats and goink home. Same with me, Oksana said. "You know my number?"

Kyle shook his head.

Sixty-eight.

Shit, that’s nasty, Kyle said.

Tell me about it. And your real name is...?

"Lincoln. Abraham Arnold Lincoln. No word of a lie, babe. What kinda parents call a kid Abraham freakin’ Lincoln, ’specially seeing as that ol’ prez didn’t even have a middle name. So I kinda change it around depending on the movie role I’m going for. Sometimes I’m Kyle, sometimes I’m Merriweather Morris—Merry Morry—like MM, right? For the comedies. Then other times I’m Ziggy Zanadu—ZZ—for the space flics. And then other times I’m..."

Tea? said Oksana, who had a short attention span when other people talked about themselves for more than ten seconds, which she had found to be always.

Yeah, sometimes T, Kyle nodded. Like for the cowboy roles I can be Tex Tucson—TT—and I can also do a neat WW...

Oksana did her rictal smile and asked Kyle if he took milk and sugar the stupid way the English drank tea, or the proper Ukrainian way. Which confused Kyle.

Huh? he was saying as Mole appeared at the door of the mega-lounge dressed in a white hoodie over faded Levi’s with the authentic cross-stitching on the outer seams, and waved hi.

"Darlink! said a relieved Oksana, leaping from the Italian leather number, crossing the room to her husband, kissing him, and whispering in his ear, This man is loony toons, make him to go away, before smiling back—again rictally—at Kyle and excusing herself saying it was Igor’s bathtime. So have a nice evening, you guys."

Igor? Kyle asked Mole when Oksana had left.

Our son.

"Wow, Oxo is a mom?"

Yes. And I’m a dad. We’re very happy.

"Man, is that so fabulous or is that so fabulous? Never did get to the kids ’n’ weddin’ gig myself. Should’ve, but you know how it goes in the innustry. Parties here, parties there. Babes a billion, but no time to settle down. And, hey, you do tie the knot, next you know you’re lookin’ at alimony payments you can’t make even when you’re dead. Man, I envy you."

Yes, well... said Mole. It’s certainly been a surprise. Some ups and downs...

Ain’t that the truth? Only least you got lurve, Kyle said, rubbing at his eyes with the tail of his Kiss My Big Lollipops T-shirt, leaving exposed a hairless chest and a belly more protuberant than Mole reckoned top directors would be impressed by.

If you’d like to follow me upstairs to my study? he said. Then we can get down to business.

Blow in my ear an’ I’ll follow you anyplace, said Kyle.

~ * ~

Mole’s study—which looked a lot like his side of the lounge and in which he didn’t actually study anything, just fiddled with his computer and took covert naps—was small. No more than a box room, but it was his. Painted maroon with an off-beige ceiling, neither Oksana nor Igor was allowed ingress to this inner sanctum, and Mishkin had been handed a lifetime ban after vomiting mouse entrails onto the sea-green carpet. It was what Mole called A Room of My Own. The Santa Monica condo equivalent was termed a den, which was a more manly word, but one Mole reckoned wouldn’t fly in the London NW1 ambience, hence study.

Ensconcing himself in his red-leather armchair beneath the art deco standard lamp and taking from the Victorian bureau behind him his PI kit—a yellow-paged notepad and blue biro—he motioned Kyle to make himself comfortable on the blue damask chaise longue opposite. Me Freud; you nutter, was how Mole liked to think of the arrangement when dealing with the Mole Smith and the Diamond-Studded Pistol fans who sneakily sought his detective expertise citing matters as trivial as marital infidelity in order to meet the movie’s eponymous hero in person and bum an autograph.

Ready? he asked, after Kyle had draped himself across the couch and was staring at him bemusedly.

With?

Anything that comes to mind, Mole said, remembering Dr Janet Stronsky’s words on their first sex-therapy encounter. How about your memory, for starters? The one you said you lost.

"Memoir," Kyle stressed, adjusting himself along the chaise longue.

Mmm, Mole said, sucking at his biro before jotting a note. And this memoir is of...?

"My life. Well kind’ve. What else are memoirs of? Mind if I smoke?"

Feel free. In this room, Cole...

"Kyle."

"Sorry. In this room, Kyle, you can do what you want. No health nazis here."

Mercy, mercy, Kyle said, taking from one of his purple flare pockets a crushed softtop pack of Marlboros and shaking one out. You want one?

Sure, said Mole, repressing Oksana’s odium on tobacco issues. This is my personal space.

"Man, you so lucky. To have a personal space. Me, I’m..." Kyle was saying as Mole leaned in to take the proffered cigarette and then fired them both up with his gold Mole Smith and the Diamond-Studded Pistol zippo.

So...this memoir... he said, snuggling down in his chair, blowing smoke at the ceiling, and then treating Kyle to his most professional PI look—the oddball quizzical one. Where’d you lose it?

"Man, if I knew where I’d lost it, I’d’ve gone right back and found it, right? So it’d never have been lost and I wouldn’t be here today. You sure you done this kinda work before?"

Of course, many times...

The movie logline wasn’t just made up?

Certainly not! Based on a true story, said an irritated Mole, stubbing out the Marlboro in the ashtray on his armchair’s side table.

Ookay. Kyle nodded. "You say so. Anyhow, way I got it figured, it ain’t so much lost as, maybe...stolen."

Ah-hah, Mole said, jotting delusional on his PI notepad. "A crime, eh? Now we’re getting somewhere. Three questions I have for you, Mister Kross. Question one: What was so valuable about your memoir that somebody would wish to steal it? Question two: Who do you think might have stolen it? And question three—I hope not too intrusive: What did it contain?"

Well, that was a lot of questions all at once for Abraham Arnold Lincoln aka Kyle Kross, who was sucking hard at his Marlboro in contemplation of possible answers, when, blanking Mole’s withering stare, banned-from-the-study Mishkin crept through the open door, jumped on the chaise longue, and took to rubbing himself against the purple velvet flares lying invitingly on it. Mishkin liked purple velvet. Reminded him of mouse fur. Not the color, the texture.

Mishkin, out of here! Mole was on the verge of shouting, but stopped himself the moment Kyle’s right hand took to kneading the cat’s coccyx, and then moved up to the rear of the ears and sides of the eyes, which caused Mishkin—what with the purple velvet and now targeted stroking—to roll on his back in a paroxysm of feline delight. If Mishkin needed a new best friend, this velvet person with the knowing fingers was surely it.

And, as Mole watched on astonished, out of Kyle’s mouth—as if in some improbably lucid hallucinogenic moment—came the answer to his third question.

Three

Surprisingly, given global warming meant it mainly rained in North Wales these days, the evening temperature in Pont-y-Pant was nigh on the same level the Smiths were enjoying down in London. Which, sitting out on the veranda of his newly acquired hotel/restaurant built into the hillside overlooking the Lledr valley, émigré Liverpudlian and retired bank robber, Jimmy O’Reilly, was enjoying. The unexpected warmth and the view across his very own trout stream to the forested hills beyond, plus the bottle of iced Foster’s he was sipping at, had Jimmy thinking life might at last be taking a turn for the better. Or, at least, not for the worse.

Okay, the currently unstarred "Lledr Loisir" hadn’t had any guests yet—either eaters or overnighters—and, also okay, it needed a coat of paint. Fine, so, six or seven coats of paint—inside and out. And yes, it could do with a rebuild here and there, but Jimmy wasn’t in any hurry. So what if his only potential clients so far had turned down his offer of a free night’s stay protesting the place stank of dog—Betsy, his three-year-old rescue Newfoundland—and they