Wilt on High (29 page)

‘Is baby going to be good to momma now?’ asked Mrs Glaushof, sliding her tongue between his lips. Wilt tried to focus on her eyes and found it impossible. He also found it impossible to reply without unclenching his teeth and Mrs Glaushof’s reptilian tongue, tasting as it did of alcohol and tobacco, was so busily exploring his gums that any move that might allow it to go any further seemed inadvisable. For one insane moment it crossed his mind to bite the filthy thing but considering what she had in her hand the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. Instead he tried to concentrate on less tangible things. What the hell was he doing lying on a quilted bed with a sex-mad woman clutching his balls when only half an hour ago a homicidal maniac had been threatening to plaster his brains on the ceiling with a .38 unless he talked about binary bombs? It didn’t make even the vaguest sense but before he could arrive at any sane conclusion Mrs Glaushof had relinquished her probe.

‘Baby’s steaming me up,’ she moaned and promptly bit his neck.

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Wilt, making a mental note to brush his teeth as soon as possible. ‘The fact of the matter is that I …’

Mrs Glaushof pinched his cheeks. ‘Rosebud,’ she whimpered.

‘Wosebud?’ said Wilt with difficulty.

‘Your mouth’s like a wosebud,’ said Mrs Glaushof, digging her nails still further into his cheeks, ‘a lovely wosebud.’

‘It doethn’t tathte like one,’ said Wilt and instantly regretted it. Mrs Glaushof had hoisted herself up him and he was facing a nipple fringed with pink lace.

‘Suck momma,’ said Mrs Glaushof.

‘Thod off,’ said Wilt. Further comment was stifled by the nipple and Mrs Glaushof’s breast which was worming around on his face. As Mrs Glaushof pressed down on him Wilt fought for breath.

In the bathroom next door Glaushof was having the same problem. Staring through the two-way mirror he’d installed to watch Mrs Glaushof putting on the regalia of his fantasies while he bathed, he had begun to regret his new tactics. Subtle they weren’t. The bloody woman had clearly gone clean over the top. Glaushof’s own patriotism had led him to suppose that his wife would do her duty by cosying up to a Russian spy, but he hadn’t expected her to screw the bastard. What was even worse was that she was so obviously enjoying the process.

Glaushof wasn’t. Gritting his teeth he stared lividly through the mirror and tried not to think about Lieutenant Harah. It didn’t help. In the end, driven by the thought that the Lieutenant had lain on that same bed while Mona gave him the works he was now witnessing, Glaushof
charged out of the bathroom. ‘For Chrissake,’ he yelled from the landing, ‘I told you to soften the son of a bitch up, not turn him on.’

‘So what’s wrong?’ said Mrs Glaushof, in the process of changing nipples. ‘You think I don’t know what I’m doing?’

‘I’m buggered if I do,’ squawked Wilt, taking the opportunity to get some air. Mrs Glaushof scrambled off him and headed for the door.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Glaushof, ‘I think you’re –’

‘Screw off,’ screamed Mrs Glaushof. ‘This guy’s got a hard-on for me.’

‘I can see that,’ said Glaushof morosely, ‘and if you think that’s softening him up you’re fucking crazy.’

Mrs Glaushof divested herself of a boot. ‘Crazy, am I?’ she bawled and hurled the boot at his head with surprising accuracy. ‘So what’s an old man like you know about crazy? You couldn’t get it up if I didn’t wear fucking Nazi jackboots.’ The second boot hurtled through the door. ‘I got to dress up like I’m fucking Hitler in drag before you’re anywhere near a man and that ain’t saying much. Like this guy’s got a prick like the Washington Monument compared to yours.’

‘Listen,’ shouted Glaushof, ‘lay off my prick. That’s a commie agent you got in there. He’s dangerous!’

‘I’ll say,’ said Mrs Glaushof now liberating herself from the bra. ‘Is he ever.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Wilt, lurching away from the bed. Mrs Glaushof staggered out of the suspender belt.

‘I’m telling you you could get yourself deep in trouble,’ Glaushof called. He’d taken refuge from any further missiles round the corner.

‘Deep in it is,’ Mrs Glaushof shouted back and slammed the door and locked it. Before Wilt could move she had tossed the key out of the window and was heading for him. ‘Red Square here I come.’

‘I’m not Red Square. I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking –’ Wilt began, but Mrs Glaushof wasn’t into thought. With an agility that took him by complete surprise she threw him back on to the bed and knelt over him.

‘Choo choo, baby,’ she moaned and this time there was no mistaking her meaning. Faced with this horrible prospect Wilt lived up to Glaushof’s warning that he was a dangerous man and sank his teeth into her thigh. In the bathroom Glaushof almost cheered.

‘Countermand my orders? Countermand my orders? You’re telling me to countermand my orders?’ said General Belmonte dropping several decibels in his disbelief. ‘We have an enemy agent infiltration situation with possible bombing implications and you’re telling me to countermand my orders?’

‘Asking, General,’ said the Colonel gently. ‘I am simply saying that the political consequences could be disastrous.’

‘Having my base blown apart by a fucking fanatic is
disastrous too and I’m not standing for it,’ said the General. ‘No, sir, I am not having a body count of thousands of innocent American service personnel and their dependants on my conscience. Major Glaushof’s handling of the situation has been absolutely correct. No one knows we’ve got this bastard and he can beat the shit out of him for all I care. I am not –’

‘Correction, sir,’ interrupted the Colonel, ‘a number of people know we’re holding this man. The British police called in enquiring about him. And a woman claiming to be his wife has already had to be ejected at the main gate. Now if you want the media to get hold –’

‘The media?’ bellowed the General. ‘Don’t mention that fucking word in my presence. I have given Glaushof a Directive Number One, Toppest Priority, there’s to be no media intervention and I am not countermanding that order.’

‘I am not suggesting you do. What I am saying is that the way Glaushof is handling the situation we could find ourselves in the middle of a media onslaught that would get world coverage.’

‘Shit,’ said the General, cringing at the prospect. In his mind’s eye he could already see the television cameras mounted on trucks outside the base. There might even be women. He pulled his mind back from this vision of hell. ‘What’s wrong with the way Glaushof’s handling it?’

‘Too heavy,’ said the Colonel. ‘The security clamp-down’s drawing attention to the fact that we do have a problem. That’s one. We should cool it all off by acting
normal. Two is we are presently holding a British subject and if you’ve given the Major permission to beat the shit out of him I imagine that’s just what –’

‘I didn’t give him permission to do anything like that, I gave him … well, I guess I said he could interrogate him and …’ He paused and tried the comradely approach. ‘Hell, Joe, Glaushof may be a shitass but he has got him to confess he’s a commie agent. You’ve got to hand it to him.’

‘That confession’s a dummy. I’ve checked it out and had negative affirmation,’ said the Colonel, lapsing into the General’s jargon to soften the blow.

‘Negative affirmation,’ said the General, evidently impressed. ‘That’s serious. I had no idea.’

‘Exactly, sir. That’s why I’m asking for an immediate de-escalation of the security directive intelligence wise. I also want this man Wilt handed over to my authority for proper questioning.’

General Belmonte considered the request almost rationally. ‘If he isn’t Moscow-based, what is he?’

‘That’s what Central Intelligence intend to find out,’ said the Colonel.

Ten minutes later Colonel Urwin left the Airbase Control Centre well satisfied. The General had ordered a security stand-down and Glaushof had been relieved of his custody right to the prisoner.

Theoretically.

In practice getting Wilt out of the Glaushof’s house proved rather more awkward. Having visited the Security building and learnt that Wilt had been taken off, still apparently unharmed, to be interrogated at Glaushof’s house, the Colonel had driven there with two Sergeants only to realize that ‘unharmed’ no longer applied. Ghastly noises were emanating from upstairs.

‘Sounds like someone’s having themselves a whole heap of fun,’ said one of the Sergeants as Mrs Glaushof threatened to castrate some horny bastard just as soon as she stopped bleeding to death and why didn’t some other cocksucker open the fucking door so she could get out. In the background Glaushof could be heard telling her plaintively to keep her cool, he’d get the door undone, she didn’t have to shoot the lock off and would she stop loading that fucking revolver.

Mrs Glaushof replied she didn’t intend shooting the fucking lock off, she had other fucking objects in fucking mind, like him and that fucking commie agent who’d bit her and they weren’t going to live to tell the tale, not once she’d got that magazine fucking loaded and why didn’t shells go in the way they were fucking supposed to? For an instant Wilt’s face appeared at the window, only to vanish as a bedside lamp complete with a huge lampshade smashed through the glass and hung upside-down from its cord.

Colonel Urwin studied the thing with horror. Mrs Glaushof’s language was foul enough but the shade, covered with a collage of sado-masochistic images cut
from magazines, pictures of kittens in baskets and puppy dogs, not to mention several crimson hearts and flowers, was aesthetically so disgusting that it almost unnerved him.

The action had the opposite effect on Glaushof. Less concerned about the likelihood of his drunken wife murdering a Russian spy with a .38 she had been trying to load with what he hoped was 9 mm. ammunition than with the prospect of having his entire house torn apart and its peculiar contents revealed to the neighbours he left the comparative safety of the bathroom and charged the bedroom door. His timing was bad. Having foiled any hope Wilt might have held of escaping by the window Mrs Glaushof had finally loaded the revolver and pulled the trigger. The shot passed through the door, Glaushof’s shoulder, and one of the tubes in the hamster’s complicated plastic burrow on the staircase wall before embedding in the tufted carpet.

‘Jesus Christ,’ screamed Glaushof, ‘you meant it! You really meant it.’

‘What’s that?’ said Mrs Glaushof, almost as surprised by the consequences of simply pulling the trigger, though definitely less concerned. ‘What you say?’

‘Oh God,’ moaned Glaushof, now slumped to the floor.

‘You think I can’t shoot the fucking lock off?’ Mrs Glaushof enquired. ‘You think that? You think I can’t?’

‘No,’ yelled Glaushof. ‘No, I don’t think that. Jesus, I’m dying.’

‘Hypochondriac,’ Mrs Glaushof shouted back, evidently paying off an old domestic score. ‘Stand back, I’m coming out.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ squealed Glaushof, eyeing the hole she’d already made in the door near one of the hinges, ‘don’t aim at the lock.’

‘Why not?’ Mrs Glaushof demanded.

It wasn’t a question Glaushof was prepared to answer. In one final attempt to escape the consequences of her next fusillade he rolled sideways and hit the stairs. By the time he’d crashed to the bottom even Mrs Glaushof was concerned.

‘Are you OK, Glausie?’ she asked and simultaneously pulled the trigger. As the second shot punched a hole in a Liberace-style bean bag, Wilt acted. In the knowledge that her next shot might possibly do to him what it had already done to Glaushof and the bag, he picked up a pink furbelowed stool and slammed it down on her head.

‘Macho man,’ grunted Mrs Glaushof, inappropriate to the end, and slid to the floor. For a moment Wilt hesitated. If Glaushof were still alive, and by the sound of breaking glass downstairs it seemed as though he was, there was no point in trying to break the door down. Wilt crossed to the window.

‘Freeze!’ shouted a man down below. Wilt froze. He was staring down at five uniformed men crouched behind handguns. And this time there was no question what they were aiming at.

‘Logic dictates,’ said Mr Gosdyke, ‘that we should look at this problem rationally. Now I know that’s difficult but until we have definite proof that your husband is being held at Baconheath against his will there really isn’t any legal action we can take. You do see that?’

Eva gazed into the solicitor’s face and saw only that she was wasting time. It had been Mavis’ idea that she should consult Mr Gosdyke before she did anything hasty. Eva knew what ‘hasty’ meant. It meant being afraid of taking real risks and doing something effective.

‘After all,’ Mavis had said, as they drove back, ‘you may be able to apply for a court order or habeas corpus or something. It’s best to find out.’

But she didn’t need to find out. She’d known all along that Mr Gosdyke wouldn’t believe her and would talk about proof and logic. As if life was logical. Eva didn’t even know what the word meant, except that it always produced in her mind the image of a railway line with a train running along it with no way of getting off it and going across fields and open countryside like a horse. And anyway when you did reach a station you still had to walk to wherever you really wanted to go. That wasn’t the way life worked or people behaved when things were really desperate. It wasn’t
even the way the Law worked with people being sent to prison when they were old and absent-minded like Mrs Reeman who had walked out of the supermarket without paying for a jar of pickled onions and she never ate pickles. Eva knew that because she’d helped with Meals on Wheels and the old lady had said she never touched vinegar. No, the real reason had been that she’d had a pekinese called Pickles and he’d died a month before. But the Law hadn’t seen that, any more than Mr Gosdyke could understand that she already had the proof that Henry was in the airbase because he hadn’t been there when the officer’s manner had changed so suddenly.

‘So there’s nothing you can do?’ she said and got up.

‘Not unless we can obtain proof that your husband really is being held against …’ But Eva was already through the door and had cut out the sounds of those ineffectual words. She went down the stairs and out into the street and found Mavis waiting for her in the Mombasa Coffee House.