Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance (24 page)

Mr. Tattoo felt along by his sides to discover what it was he was lying on. His hands encountered nothing but empty space. He twisted his neck and looked downwards, running his hands beneath his body as he did so. Nothing held him in position. He was lying a mere foot above a bed of burning coals which glowed with an intense white heat which make him quickly close his eyes against its brilliance. Then the chanting abruptly ceased. The second it did, Mr. Tattoo descended helplessly into the fiery bed beneath him. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing emerged. He tried to roll away, but was held in position by some force beyond his reckoning. Mr. Tattoo could hear the hissing heat burn angrily beneath him. He steeled himself for the end, waiting for the searing pain to engulf him as he was sizzled to a cinder, hoping that what he was about to suffer wouldn't last too long.

But all he felt was the same pleasant glow as previously. He couldn't understand it, and wondered if this was really happening at all, or was he imagining everything. Then he was taken by the elbows and hoisted to his feet. He looked down. Under his bare feet, the coals still flared, white-hot. He stepped from the glowing bed on to the cold stone of the courtyard without so much as a blister to show for his experience, gazed around in wonderment at the watching monks, then went and knelt at the feet of the gnome whose instructions he'd defied, begging his forgiveness. A gentle pat on the crown of his head assured him he'd taken his first faltering step on the pathway towards humility.

*

How wonderful, Myles thought, to have such a gifted employee as Mr. Tattoo under his singular control. One who was so grateful to him for all that he'd done to rid him of his demons, that when he'd returned after the long period of meditation and learning, he'd solemnly sworn to dedicate the remainder of his life in the service of his benefactor. The best part being that Mr. Tattoo was of the opinion that he had made the choice of his own free will. Myles knew better. Whilst in the monastery, Mr. Tattoo had, without his knowledge, been subjected to an incessant barrage of telepathic auto-suggestion to instil into the depths of his subconscious the fact that there was only one master he could ever serve in the future. Myles smiled to himself at the thought. The large charitable donation he'd made to the monks to ensure Mr. Tattoo's undying loyalty had been a truly sound investment, even if he'd lied through his teeth to them as to the
real reason
he required the pupil to be bound to his will.

‘
Well?' the Superintendent asked, as Danny came in to land.

‘Did you see anything?'

‘It was hard to tell from the speed we were moving at, but there's definitely some sort of building in there under a mountain of bushes and brambles and stuff.'

‘So Ferdinand was right.'

‘It looks like it, Super.'

‘Did you see anyone?' Harrington asked sceptically. He'd been dead set against Danny going in there in broad daylight on the winged goat in the first place. ‘Or more to the point, did anyone see you?'

Mr. Pearson chuckled at this. ‘I don't think they'd have believed it even if they did. They'd have put it down to a trick of the light or something.'

Mr. Pearson was having the time of his life. He only wished Mrs. Pearson could somehow see him now. She'd have a fit. He was dressed in rags, his face smeared with dirt, the soles of an ancient pair of shoes flapping from the uppers to make a nice slap-slap-slapping sound when he walked. He wasn't wearing any socks either, and his grime-encrusted toes were poking out as though striving to see in which direction they were being taken next. He carried a blackthorn stick over his right shoulder with a red and white spotted cloth bundle tied to the end of it, and an old bowler hat with half the rim missing sat on his head. The bundle contained nothing but grass and twigs, though anyone looking at him would have been of the opinion that his life's belongings were being toted along behind him. He realised he was on a serious assignment, that it was extremely important to look the part, and he'd gone to a lot of trouble to ensure that he did. Even though he was enjoying the experience immensely, Mr. Pearson knew that if their mission wasn't successful, he'd be devastated afterwards for this selfish feeling of elation he was deriving from merely being involved in the operation.

They were making their way down the rutted track leading to the huge hedge, and Danny had just dismounted after his scouting trip. ‘It's a chance we had to take, Harrington,' the Superintendent sighed, answering the question Harrington had put to Danny. ‘At least we know now that there's some sort of a building in there. We hadn't an awful lot of options open to us, had we? Eh?'

‘But what if someone
did
see him, sir?' Harrington persisted anxiously. ‘It could have given the whole game away.'

‘Would you have believed it, Harrington, if you didn't know what you do now about Charlie?' the Superintendent asked.

Harrington bit his lip. ‘I don't suppose so, sir. At least not if I was sober.'

‘There you go. Anyway, we're going to make them aware of our presence soon as already planned. Everyone up to speed with their roles to try and flush them out?'

There were nods all around from the motley crew. The four of them were dressed as tramps in more or less the same manner as Mr. Pearson. The Superintendent was carrying all his
worldly goods
in a couple of black plastic bags. He looked a sight. The king of the tramps and no mistake, leading his merry band of
gentlemen of the road
further down the narrow track, ever closer to the forbidding hedge. They'd parked the squad car a safe distance away and walked the rest of the way.

Harrington had a filthy Hessian sack slung over his shoulder, containing several items which were necessary for future use. He'd sewn the pockets of his dirty falling-apart jacket with strands of strong thread. After all, it wouldn't do to lose the handgun he'd been issued with if it slipped through the shredded lining, especially should it be needed if fireworks erupted in the course of their mission.

The Superintendent held up his hand, halting their progress. There was only about another seven hundred yards or so to their destination. He turned to Danny, giving him a questioning look and a wrinkle of his dirt-stained nose. ‘Don't you think you should do a little something before we get any closer? If you
were
spotted in there, we don't want to confirm it for them, now do we? Eh?'

‘I was about to suggest the very same thing myself, Superintendent,' Mr. Pearson said in his quiet way. ‘After all, we don't want to give the impression we're part of a freak show altogether.'

Charlie couldn't believe his ears. He skidded to a stop, even though he hadn't been going at more than walking pace beside Danny. A look of hurt came over his shaggy face. His lip trembled, and tears began to form in his big brown eyes. Mr. Pearson immediately realised his error. ‘I'm sorry, Charlie,' he said, going over and cuddling the goat's neck affectionately, trying to make up for his unfortunate gaffe. ‘Please forgive me. That came out the wrong way, I'm afraid. You know I've nothing but the utmost respect for you. You're an exceptionally gifted animal, and I do apologise.'

Charlie sniffed back the tears. He was still a bit miffed. Coming from anybody else, apart from Danny, it would have been water off a goat's back, but he held Mr. Pearson in such high esteem, it took him a while to get over it. But deep down he
did
understand. Mr. Pearson hadn't really meant to refer to him as a freak. By the time Danny had cupped his hand and whispered into his ear to transform into a typical tramp's dirty-coated mongrel, Charlie had forgotten all about it. He pranced along beside the four bedraggled looking members of the team, snapping at the empty air, giving a splendid performance altogether.

The Superintendent halted them again fifty yards away from where they knew the gate was concealed behind the hedge. ‘This is as good a spot as any,' he said softly. ‘All right, everybody. Action stations. Let the cameras roll.' He then commenced to shout at the top of his voice. ‘Here, boy, I'm not tellin yah again, yah spankin pup yah! Get that billycan boilin, or I'll break yar flamin neck!' With that, he grabbed Danny by the collar and pretended to shake him like a rag doll, before flinging him away with simulated roughness. ‘And you pair!' he yelled at Harrington and Mr. Pearson. ‘Get out them vittles, or I'll have yar guts for string beans, I will. I'm flamin famished, I am!'

Harrington upended the contents of his sack. A blackened billycan together with a number of greasy brown paper bags fell out on to the ground. Danny scampered around industriously, looking suitably scared as he foraged in one of the black plastic bags and extracted a large bottle of water, a box of matches and a small primus stove. He lit the stove, filled the billycan with water, placed it on the stove, then delved in the bag again for four chipped enamel mugs and a handful of teabags. As Danny waited for the water to boil, Harrington picked up one of the greasy bags and handed it to the Superintendent, who stuck one huge paw into it which came out holding a cooked chicken. He sat down on the edge of the track and began gnawing at it as though he'd never seen food before in his life.

‘Is that flamin tea not ready yet, boy!' he roared in between mouthfuls. ‘Yah don't get a move on and quick about it, I'll chop yah up for kindlin, so I will!' He tore off another mouthful of greasy chicken meat with his teeth and chewed on it with gusto. ‘Yah're worse nor useless with the slow carry on of yah! Yah'll find yahself back in that orphanage if yah keep me waitin much longer! And yah, Bonzo!' He jabbed a finger in Mr. Pearson's direction. ‘Get yarself busy there and start buildin the makins of a dacent fire. We're campin here for the night!'

Mr. Pearson had been waiting for the order. He went to the second black plastic bag and fumbled around in it before taking out an old car tyre and a can of petrol. Then he began searching around to find suitable rocks with which to build a circular grate in the middle of the track. Once fashioned to his satisfaction, he shook out a few bundles of firewood from the bag and crisscrossed them at the bottom of the makeshift fireplace. He placed the tyre on top, was about to sprinkle petrol on his handiwork, when the Superintendent let a yell out of him to stop him in his tracks.

‘Not yet, yah stupid frogspawn! Yah don't want to be doin that till we've done eatin! Were it in a home for monkeys yah were brought up or what?'

Mr. Pearson tried to look angry, but wasn't making much of a job of it, though he did manage to prevent himself from actually smiling. He was sure that this was exactly how things must be on a film set. He gave a grimace and shot a look of what he hoped was one of annoyance at the Superintendent, letting him know that the reference to his ancestry was anything but appreciated. ‘I'm no monkey, yah hulkin great ape!' he retorted, leaving down the can of petrol, hoping his performance was acceptable to the non-existent director. ‘I'll not be talked about like that by yah or anyone else, or I'll be takin meself off to wander the roads alone for the future.'

The Superintendent gave a cavernous chortle of amusement, at the same time tossing the remains of the chicken carcass in Charlie's direction. ‘Yah'd get lost before yah'd gone a crow's mile, Bonzo, and well yah know it. Now hand me me mug a tay there, and no more talkin outa turn, or I'll put me hand down yar throat and pull yar inside out.'

Charlie sniffed at the chicken carcass, but wasn't all that keen on chewing on it. There wasn't a scrap of meat left on the bones. As Danny made the tea and handed around the steaming mugs, Charlie discreetly nudged the remains of the chicken under the nearest bush. Personally, he'd have much preferred a bowl of cornflakes. Danny, Harrington and Mr. Pearson threw him scraps of bread and cheese from the doorstop sandwiches they took from the other greasy bags. He supposed it was better than nothing, even if the cheese tasted like it was a good bit past its prime. He realised that the set-up had to appear absolutely authentic if the kidnappers were to be fooled, but if all five of them died of food poisoning beforehand, what was the point? But even while thinking like that, Charlie realised he was probably letting his imagination run away with him. The Superintendent certainly didn't look any the worse for wear after demolishing the chicken. In fact, he seemed in high good humour altogether now.

‘Here, boy,' he said amiably enough for someone who'd been ordering everyone around like toe-rags not long ago. ‘Gimme out me auld squeezebox there and I'll play yar all a merry tune.'

Danny fished out a battered old piano accordion from one of the bags, handed it to the Superintendent, who strapped it on and commenced to make the most appalling discordant racket, which resembled a banshee being stretched on a rack. He closed his eyes in concentration, humming along with the sounds of torture emanating from the instrument, striving for the impression of a concert pianist giving a recital at the height of his powers. Charlie ran off up the track as far away as he could go to lessen the sound of the awful playing, but the rest of the team were stuck to listen and pretend to be impressed by the performance. They suspected they were already being watched on CCTV monitors from within, which, of course, was the core of their plan, so they had to sit there and endure it, even at the risk of their eardrums exploding at any second.

When the dreadful cacophony finally ceased, the Superintendent opened his eyes and glanced from one to the other of them without so much as the shadow of a smile as he watched them give him an enthusiastic round of applause. ‘Ah, me buckos,' he said dreamily, ‘wasn't that only like a little bit of heaven altogether? Sure I missed me callin. It's in Carnegie Hall I should be playin instead of out here in the back of beyonds with nobody but yarselvses to appreciate me nimble fingers.' He turned his gaze on Harrington. ‘How about givin us the pleasure of a song there, Bingybang? Sure yah've a voice would coax tears from a turnip.'

Harrington wasn't prepared for this. It hadn't been part of the plan. So far, everything else they'd rehearsed had gone like clockwork, now he had the distinct feeling that the Superintendent had slipped this part in to add a little spice to the occasion. As if things weren't spicy enough already. But that was the Superintendent. You never knew what was coming next, despite all the preparation. He probably wanted to make whoever might be listening from inside suffer a bit more. ‘A noble call!' Mr Pearson declared solemnly. ‘Bingybang has the floor. Sure there's nobody sings
Silent Night
like yarself. Away you go!'

Harrington stood up from where he'd been sitting by the side of the track. He could have joyfully strangled both the Superintendent and Mr. Pearson, yet managed to carry on with his performance for the good of the cause. He commenced caterwauling at the top of his voice, making a complete contradiction of the of the hymn's title, for it was a safe bet that he could be heard for miles around. Doing his duty, he grimly thought, with this extra piece of melodic endeavour. Danny was finding it extremely difficult to remain composed, and when the Superintendent started to accompany Harrington on the squeezebox, he was forced to bury his head in his hands and pretend to be taken with a fit of coughing. By the time Harrington had finished, the coughing fit had turned to severe convulsions, and Charlie had disappeared in a cloud of dust into the distance. He only reappeared when he was certain Bingybang's party piece had concluded.

‘Well, if that don't take the jar of biscuits, Bingybang, me lad, I don't know what ever will!' the Superintendent bellowed, ‘That there was the sweetest bit a croakin I ever heard in me natural. Sure a lark itself couldn't have done it prouder.'

‘Get off with yah outa that,' Harrington replied as modestly as he could under the circumstances, after having nearly disgorged his tonsils, his throat raw from screeching, and still not altogether pleased at how he'd been called upon so unexpectedly. ‘It wasn't nearly a patch on yar squeezebox playin.'

‘True enough, Bingybang, true enough,' the Superintendent conceded, slipping out of the piano accordion's straps, letting it dangle in his hand for a few seconds, then handing it to Danny to replace in the bag. ‘Time to light the fire there, Bonzo!' He shouted in his best king tramp's commanding accent. ‘And make it right snappy while yar about it!'