They Win. You Lose. (5-chapter preview)

They Win. You Lose.

by Stan Arnold

Chapter 1

With a supreme effort, Michael Selwyn Barton opened one sensationally bloodshot eye.

In a series of weak, random twitches, it tried to focus on some of the pale, shadowy shapes within the room.

But the sad fact was, the images received on his retina could not be transmitted to what was left of his brain. The power simply wasn’t available. His eye, having performed well above the level that could be expected of any reasonable organ, closed again, pulsating rather violently, as his eyelashes met.

Even a man on a galloping horse, not that there were many of those inside his tiny Soho office, could have seen Mick must have been happier at other times in his life.

The previous evening, there had been a celebration. He had downed three pints in an hour - and this was the apocalyptic result. It was, without doubt, his own fault. He didn’t normally drink sherry.

But, despite appearances, he was clinging to life. A few moments after the eyelid adventure, he began dreaming a pleasant dream, featuring beautiful, soft-focus images, probably shot on HDV Progressive, of the Dan Dare mobile which had once hung over his cot. He snuggled down into the office hammock, and moved to an even deeper comatose level. This was helped, no doubt, by the warmth generated as he began peeing gently, but steadily, into his grey, unwashed, unloved underpants.

Directly below the hammock, was an old oak desk with a green leather embossed surface, across which, lay, face up, another body - pale, semi-naked, unshaven and completely rigid. If this body had not passed through death’s door, it had certainly been fumbling with the keys trying to find the keyhole.

Two things were immediately obvious. The body - which, on more formal occasions, was known as James Redfern Chartwell - had been sick. And it had rolled over in the night. The clues were obvious - twenty plastic-coated, paper clips attached to its face by a thin, encrusted layer of vomit.

The hammock was obviously not designed to be peed into, and, after about 20 minutes, the cotton-polyester blend was breached. Steady drips of urine, no doubt with a similar composition to an illegal discharge from a secret Albanian nuclear facility, began to fall. They fell through an atmosphere polluted by the unsavoury odour of regurgitated lamb vindaloo, stale alcohol and uncontrolled gaseous emissions, and began anointing the head of the body on the desk.

Neither of them stirred.

At least, not for another three hours. It was around midday when, in a voice that came from the bottom of a deep well, Mick turned in his hammock and called out, ‘’Ere Jim.’

There was no reply, but Mick was undeterred. There was important information to impart.

‘Ere Jim,’ he repeated. And, with as much dignity as he could muster, announced, ‘My scrotum smells of kippers.’

What was left of Jim’s intellect must have been stirred, because he responded. His voice sounded as though it came from a mouth stuffed with wet cardboard.

‘Is that Manx kippers or Scottish kippers? When you’re talking personal hygiene, Michael, it’s important to be precise.’

Encouraged by this response, Mick rolled to the edge of the hammock, misjudged his centre of gravity and fell heavily onto his associate below.

Jim gave a short, strangled scream and together they tipped off the desk onto the linoleum in a melange of fill-your-own sherry bottles, paperclips, underpants, regurgitated lamb vindaloo and the copious contents of Mick’s bladder. They curled up together and slept peacefully until early evening.

All film and video companies have their ups and downs. And you could be forgiven for thinking that, for the two directors of Implosion Productions, this was, absolutely, the lowest point of their professional careers.

But you would be wrong.

Things were about to get worse. A lot worse…

 Chapter 2

‘Fuck me!’ spluttered Jim.

His face was contorted with pain, confusion and disbelief. It was the sort of way someone would look, albeit for not much more than a nanosecond, if they’d been a cricket pitch length away from a nuclear explosion.

‘Thanks, but I’ll have to pass on that generous invitation,’ croaked Mick from the battered old sofa opposite. ‘Since our interface with that crate of Woomara, seven-star, unleaded, dear boy, one’s todger has shrunk to the size, shape and functionality of a pickled walnut.’

Despite his speech starting to return, Mick’s eyes were still pulsating from left to right, as if watching a very fast tennis match take place about four inches in front of his face.’

‘Fuck me!’ said Jim, again.

He was clutching a piece of letter-headed paper which, judging from the low-budget logo design, came from a firm of solicitors.

‘She’s fuckin’ divorcing me - and she wants the house, the policies and any cash in the bank.’

‘Which reminds me,’ continued Mick. ‘I once knew a charming courtesan in Taiwan who could do amazing things with a pickled walnut.’

‘She’s fuckin’ divorcing me!’ shrieked Jim.

‘Why so surprised?’ asked Mick, calmly. ‘I mean, who else would she be able to divorce?’

‘Look,’ said Jim, ‘you may be an Emmy award-winning cameraman, you may have been commissioned to video Prince Charles before he went away with the fairies, you may even be a personal friend of Barak O-fuckin-bama, for all I care…’

‘Relax, James old boy,’ interrupted Mick, tilting his head back and speaking as though on intimate terms with the ether. ‘You know my philosophy. It’s stood me in good stead for over thirty years. Essentially, it’s this, “They Win - You Lose”.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Jim.

‘No, my dear fellow, it’s true. Expect the worst from every situation, so you stay cool when disaster strikes. Then, on those rare occasions when it goes your way, you can really celebrate. Like last night.’

‘What were we celebrating last night?’
‘No idea,’ said Mick, ‘but hang on a minute me old compadre, before we kicked off, I wrote it down on a post-it and stuck on the fireplace. Forward planning pays dividends, young fella-me-lad.’

He leaned over, in the general direction of the fireplace, stretched out a trembling hand and broke wind so violently, the sales charts on the wall rippled, and, for a few seconds, the office lost its internet connection.

With a second valiant effort, the post-it was retrieved and Mick began the complex business of focusing his eyes on the small, yellow piece of paper.

‘Ho ho!’ he cried. ‘You’ll never guess what! Well, well, well! Who would have thought it? Lawks a lummy, Mr Copperfield!’

‘And?’

‘The old memsahib is suing me for divorce, too! I’ve been expecting that for the last five years! I knew it wouldn’t last. When we were courting, I took her to see ‘Jaws’ and afterwards, her only comment was “What shark?” Still, I’m glad we went though all that pain last night for something so worthwhile.’

‘But that’s a disaster,’ said Jim, his voice wobbling in the way songs used to slur when you pressed your finger onto the edge of an LP. ‘She’ll screw you for everything, as well.’

‘There’s nothing there to screw, my little chickadee,’ said Mick slowly. ‘We rented the house from Uncle Jocelyn...’ He paused for breath because ‘Jocelyn’ was quite a hard word to pronounce. `…and she’s already stashed the cash in trust funds, or something like that. I was never very good with money.’

‘Christ!’ said Jim, ‘we need a bloody miracle! You any good at turning water into wine?’

Mick winced at the mention of alcohol.

The wince took some time to form on Mick’s bloated face, and took even longer to disappear, during which time, Jim struggled to his feet.

‘We need to have a serious talk, Micky, but first, I got to go to the khazi.’

‘Excellent idea,’ said Mick, ‘and if this is going to be the start of a new corporate dawn for Implosion Productions, I’d try and remove those paperclips from your face. I can distinctly remember from my Useful Tips for Growing Boys Annual 1957 - vomit sets like concrete after about eight hours.’

Jim, took his dressing gown from the office hat stand, made himself un-prosecutable, then slowly and carefully, headed off to the toilet, trying desperately to keep his head level.
Mick was left alone. He occupied this quality time by sitting back in his chair, and directing an unfocused gaze at the polystyrene tiles on the ceiling. The office was silent, and the silence was golden, apart from the faint gurgling and wheezing noises as his lungs started to get used to oxygen again.

Five minutes later, there was a rattling at the door. ‘Come in,’ shouted Mick. After a couple of minutes, Jim managed to turn the handle the right way and entered the room. That is, if you can call hanging on to the door frame, entering.

His face was raw and bleeding.

‘Good God!’ cried Mick, ‘you look as though you’ve gone ten rounds with my missus.’

Jim wasn’t in the mood. ‘Tried to get those bloody paperclips off with some sandpaper I found in the toilet. What the hell was sandpaper doing there in the first place?’

‘Must have been some masochist from down the corridor using it to wipe his bum,’ said Mick, who was beginning, just a little, to enjoy himself. ‘I went through that phase - all part of one’s sexual development.’

‘So that’s how you became a sex god?’

‘That - and my ability to stick my tongue down the hole in a bicycle pump.’

‘Look,’ said Jim, ‘we need to have a serious talk. I’ll make a couple of coffees…’

At that moment, the phone rang.

If you were prone to gross exaggeration, you could say that Mick was galvanised into action.

As he stood up, his underpants made a faint, crackling sound, and bright blue discharges of static electricity ran across his groin.

The phone continued to ring. Mick bent over and, making a curious series of grunting sounds, managed to retrieve his trousers from the fireplace. It was a monumental effort, which Jim, no doubt smarting from the ‘gone ten rounds with my missus’ crack, applauded feebly and muttered, ‘Well done that man!’ before slumping back into deep oblivion.

But Mick was on a roll. He managed to get one leg into his trousers. Unfortunately, he inserted the wrong leg into the wrong trouser hole, but was so elated by what he perceived as success, he forgot to insert his other leg.

Spurred on by the urgent ringing of the phone, he quickly pulled up his braces onto his bare shoulders. His trousers shot upwards, twisting viciously into what Mick, in his more erudite moments, referred to as his blue-veined flute and bongos.

Mick’s bongos did not appreciate the impact of a pair of twisted, heavy-duty, corduroy trousers travelling at an extremely high velocity. Neither did Mick. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes bulged, and his body kicked in to what one could only assume was a primitive survival reflex. So primitive, it was completely useless.

With one incorrectly trousered leg planted firmly on the floor, he began to hop in a circle, each hop more excruciatingly painful than the last.

The phone continued to ring, and it was only after a good half-minute of agonised gyrating and high pitched whimpering, that he managed to get across the room and grab the receiver.

Unfortunately, the receiver had a fairly heavy coating of lamb vindaloo, and it avoided his grasp three times before he managed to get it to his lips. He drew himself up to what anyone witnessing it would agree was a surprisingly imperious demeanour. He took a deep breath, then shouted at full volume into the mouthpiece.

‘Thank you for calling Implosion Productions, you annoying bastard! Why don’t you fuck off, and fuck all your relatives while you’re at it!’

Immediately he’d finished, the vindaloo-coated receiver squirted out of his hand and clattered onto the floor. The caller’s response was lost to history.

With this unconventional corporate communication at an end, Mick turned his attention to the intense pain in his groin. He slipped his braces off his shoulders, and, miraculously, things became a lot easier. He replaced the receiver and, supporting himself on various bits of office furniture, retraced his steps back to the safety of the sofa, his trousers dragging sadly behind him.

Mick fell back on the cushions and, in a slurred voice, addressed himself to the comatose figure in the chair opposite. ‘You know, Jim, old fruitcake,’ he said, wiping the lamb vindaloo off his hand and onto his underpants. ‘I feel a recovery coming on! You know, if the Queen of England, God bless him, came through that door with a full OB unit, I could go straight into a discussion of the finer points of the British Constitution without any effing and blinding, whatsoever.’

‘Although, as you saw from that last call, I have to confess that my telephone technique leaves a little to be desired, from a customer care point of view. What I need is one of them courses that teaches you how to speak properly on the telephone. Where’s the fuckin’ Yellow Pages?’

Mick looked across to the other side of the room. The Yellow Pages directory was about 20 feet away on top of a filing cabinet. However, distances were still difficult to judge and, as he reached out to pick it up, the efforts of the last five minutes caught up with him. He keeled over onto the sofa, bounced once, and fell into a deep sleep.

During the next hour, the phone rang four more times.

Neither Mick, nor Jim, heard so much as the tiniest tinkle.

This was a terrible, terrible mistake - a mistake, which, not to put too fine a point on it, would have life-shattering consequences.

But, hey, be fair, it had been one hell of a celebration…

Chapter 3

Charlie Sumkins leaned back behind his large, mahogany desk, stared up at the slowly revolving Singapore fan, and sighed.

Opposite the desk, a small weasel-like man, wearing a homburg and a crumpled, black, pinstriped suit, sat on a wooden stool and twitched nervously.

Sighing was not good. Sighing was definitely not good.

‘Fing is,’ said Charlie, ‘them two at Implosion whatever-it-bloody-well-is are taking the piss.’

It didn’t pay to interrupt, so the weasel nodded slowly, unsure of where this was going.

‘’Fing is, I can’t not have that, can’t I?’

Understandably confused by the treble negative, the weasel performed a half-nod, half-shake of his head. It was a tricky manoeuvre, but one which had saved his bacon on more than one occasion.

‘How much are they behind?’

‘Six months - six grand,’ ventured the weasel, relieved he was now, officially, part of the conversation.

‘That’s bad.’

‘It is boss.’

‘Done anythin’ about it?’

‘Phoned ‘em five times this morning - first call got a load of abuse, then ansaphone.’

‘Leave any messages?’

‘No. I just done the silence - made ‘em sweat a bit.’

‘I like it, Aubrey, I like it.’

The weasel glowed with pleasure, and a considerable amount of relief.

‘What we need is a plan,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s Thursday today, so we need to get a result before the weekend.’

Aubrey took out a small notepad and pencil from his inside pocket.

‘This afternoon, I want you to deliver a blackmail note to them nuns at that convent near Hatfield. So it’ll have to be tomorrow. Whip round in the morning, give ‘em a verbal - ask for the cash - then if it’s a non-runner, get Vlad and Vic in.’

Aubrey blanched. ‘Boss, I know it’s six grand - and that’s a lot of money - but Vlad and Vic?’

‘Questionin’ my decision, Aubrey?’ said Charlie, giving him his much practiced, ultra-intimidating stare.

‘No, no, no, Boss - just thinkin’ of what Vlad and Vic - well, you know…’

‘I never give Vlad and Vic’s activities a second thought,’ said Charlie. ‘What they do is up to them. The less I know about it, the better. Anyway, they could do with the practice, they spend all their time down the pub, pumpin’ my money into that bloody jukebox.’

Charlie stood up.

If you had an interest in old films, you could think he was dressed a bit like an extra from an Ealing comedy. You would be wrong. He was dressed exactly like an extra from an Ealing comedy. 1945 demob suit. Black, shiny shoes. Trousers that came up to his nipples, grey braces, a garish, yellow and blue spiv’s tie, a false, but expertly applied, Clarke Gable moustache and excessively Brilliantined hair, plastered close to his skull.

Although he was born some time after what he referred to as ‘the golden age’, his Auntie Violet had sat down with him to watch ‘Passport to Pimlico’ a hundred times. And he loved it. As a young boy, he had even had sexual fantasies about Peggy Mount - which, he later admitted, took some doing.

He loved the Ealing comedies. People were real people. There was camaraderie, honesty, loyalty, innocent romance, good-humoured disregard for authority and an underlying determination to build a better society.

These were values which had inspired the young Charlie, and which he always felt would set the exemplary standards by which he would live his life.

Exactly how Charlie became the leader of an international crime syndicate is a phenomenally complex story. But leader he was. And he knew it.

If Charlie had been head of a business, his corporate strategy would have simply involved having all his competitors quietly, or sometimes noisily, disposed of. Or, as a more humane alternative, damaged beyond repair. A similarly direct approach had been developed for his employees. There were severe punishments for anyone who questioned his decisions. And unbelievably severe punishments for anyone who so much as flickered a smile when they saw the way he was dressed.

Charlie knew what he was, and, sometimes, although he couldn’t remember the last time it happened, his criminal activities appalled him. The Ealing comedies were a lifeline. They kept him sane, or, as some people would have it, less insane. A collection of gloriously fuzzy, black and white links to what he might have been.

Putting his thumbs in his braces and pulling them forward away from his chest, Charlie strolled around so he was right behind his diminutive employee. Aubrey was transfixed - staring straight ahead, like a not very bright rabbit caught in a car’s reversing lights.

‘Now,’ said Charlie, ‘you may be wonderin’ why your boss is botherin’ with two toe-rags who can’t cough up their piss-all rent, when he’s got fingers in multi-million pound, illegal mega-pies on five continents.’

Aubrey nodded.

‘Well, it’s like this. You know them TV programmes where the Chief Executive at some rip-off supermarket chain goes on the checkouts for a day. Well, what you’re witnessin’ is sort of the same. I want to remind myself how shitty life is for people like you. Not that you don’t deserve it. But still, I want to know.’

‘So, we gotta plan,’ said Charlie, whipping round and crouching to put his face close to Aubrey’s, ‘and you’re going to kick-start it for me.’

Aubrey stopped breathing - mainly because he caught a good whiff of Charlie’s Brilliantine. Why the fuck did blokes stick that crap on their hair in the 40s and 50s? Back then, women must have had permanently blocked noses, otherwise, the human race would have died out.

By Aubrey’s standards, these were deep philosophical thoughts. As a young man, open to life’s boundless possibilities, he’d become interested in philosophy. He’d once bought a book about Albert Camus. On the title page, it had one of Albert’s most famous quotes. "There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide...." Aubrey read the quote out loud to himself, then thought - Fuck that! - and had never opened the book again.

He had heard, somewhere, probably down the pub, that philosophy was dangerous. Certainly, thinking about philosophy was very fuckin’ dangerous, if you were supposed to be listening to instructions from Charlie Sumkins.

‘Whip round there, ask for the cash, and if they wanna stay on the sub’s bench - Vlad and Vic - straight away.’

Charlie moved back to his desk, and sat on the edge, polishing one of his shiny black shoes of the back of his trouser leg.

‘I’ve sent photos to the V-twins, so they know what the two sods look like. I wouldn’t want ‘em to hand out the treatment to some poor bugger who had nothing to do with this.’

Aubrey winced and nodded. He sometimes wished he was a poor bugger who had nothing to do with this. But it had been a career choice - in many ways what he did now was more compassionate and caring than his previous job as a tax inspector. So, crouching slightly and wiping his perspiring forehead, he backed away, glad to be leaving in one piece.

‘Sure thing, boss,’ he said, closing the door quietly, as he melted into the corridor.

Charlie turned and picked up the video control. A single flick and the large screen TV on the wall opposite burst into life with the opening titles of Charles Crichton’s 1953 ‘Titfield Thunderbolt’, starring George Relph and Stanley Holloway.

This was a film guaranteed to lift his spirits, heighten his emotions and fully gratify his sense of nostalgia, for at least the next hour or so.

His job was to be the boss. It was, definitely, not his job to think about what Vlad and Vic would be doing to those two miserable bleeders at Implosion whatever-it-bloody-well-was.
 
Chapter 4

Neither Mick nor Jim could work out how it happened, but, by mid-morning on Friday, they were both fully dressed and coffee was on the go. The curry, sherry dregs and the contents of Mick’s bladder had miraculously disappeared, and the office was relatively tidy, albeit with a lingering aroma of disinfectant.

That old Mrs Hathaway was a treasure - the last of a breed - they must get round to paying her some day.

‘You know,’ said Jim, leaning unsteadily on the coffee machine, ‘our Mrs Hathaway is like that flying landlady from that film.’

‘What film?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Mary Poppins?’

‘Yeah, bloody brilliant! Sorts you out with a flick of the wrist.’

At that point, Jim stopped. Getting into serious double entendre territory, with Mick around, was never a smart move.

Jim had been dressed in a tweed sports jacket with leather elbow patches, grey flannel trousers, suede shoes and a pale brown check shirt with a green sports club tie. This was the outfit he wore when they pitched video concepts to engineering companies. No point in looking out of place amongst all those green walls, fluorescent lights, propelling pencils and pipes full of mixed shag.

His badly sandpapered face was covered in an assortment of plasters and creams. He looked in the mirror. ‘God what a state! Do you think my lips look as cracked as Clint Eastwood’s in the “Good, the Bad and The Ugly” - you know, when Eli Wallach makes him walk through the desert?’

‘The only way any part of Clint Eastwood is going to resemble any part of you, my dear chap, is if he falls head first into a fuckin’ threshing machine.’

Jim turned with half a smile. ‘Was that a blinder, or what!?’

Mick lay sprawled back on the sofa. ‘I can categorically state, for the Christ-knows-how-many-eth time, that I shall never touch a drop again, I don’t care how many times my wife divorces me.’

‘Any grub?’ asked Jim. They hadn’t eaten for the two days they’d been in orbit.

‘Nothing my old beanpole, that’s what tends to happen when you’re skint.’

Mrs Hathaway had dressed him in a hacking jacket with more or less matching plus fours, a floppy collared, cream shirt and a red and green spotted bow-tie – finished off with a pair of brown woollen socks and stout, hill-walking brogues.

This was Mick’s favourite outfit. He felt it said, I’m an international-class video cameraman and I’m so good, I don’t have to give a shit about looking trendy for you bastard advertising types.

‘Maybe I should change my image,’ said Mick. ‘Maybe go for a pair of Aviators, leather bomber jacket, blue jeans and white trainers, with perhaps a pony tail. You know something that says “I’m one of you.” We’ve got to get some work in somehow.’

Jim didn’t mention that Mick would need to lose two stone and have a full head of hair before going for the pony tail look. Instead, he started off on one.

‘Christ knows what’s happened to the jobs,’ he said, darkly. ‘I blame the bloody telly, wanking off all day to millions of punters saying that a recession is coming - so people think, “Oh, maybe I’ll not buy that sofa, or that new car…”’

‘Or spend a bundle on that new video,’ added Mick.

‘And before you know it,’ continued Jim, ‘there’s a fuckin’ stonking recession. And those slimy bastard telly pundits say, “See, we were right all along - we experts predicted it.” No you fuckin’ didn’t - you fuckin’ caused it! I mean, for the last recession, they even had a “Downturn” logo - is that marketing a shit-awful, fuckin’ idea to millions, or what! Same as those bleedin’ radio DJs. They forecast a song is gonna be a hit, then they play it a zillion times a day, and then, when it’s a hit, they brag about how they can spot the winners. Why can’t anyone see…?’

‘Well we can see alright, my old geranium,’ interrupted Mick. ‘Our order intake over the last three months can best be described as three-quarters of fuck all, and possibly, as much as seven-eighths of fuck all.’

‘Well, at least, seven-eighths is more than three-quarters,’ said Jim.

Their brave attempt at laughter was cut short by a loud banging on the door.

Mick moved carefully across the office and opened it, mug in hand.

In front of him, stood a small man with a face that was thinner than anything he had ever seen. It looked as though his head had been regularly squeezed in a vice. Given the company Aubrey kept, that observation was, really, not too wide of the mark.

‘Hello,’ said Mick. ‘If it’s about that timeshare condo in Slough, I’m afraid we’re fully committed.’

‘You got the rent? Six months, six grand,’ said Aubrey in the sinister voice he had perfected during his days as a tax inspector. He held out his nicotine-stained hand. ‘Want it now - right here, in my mit.’

‘Aren’t you a bit old for a rent boy?’ said Mick, leaning rather jauntily against the door frame. ‘I mean, a gnarled old bastard like you wouldn’t get much in the way of trade, unless you hung around the emergency entrance at Moorfield’s Eye Hospital.’

‘I’ll take that as a “No”,’ said Aubrey. ‘So now, it’s my duty to remind you that your landlord is Charlie Sumkins.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Mick, ‘his name’s on the rental contract, signed in his own blood, as required by the Vampires’ Union.’

‘So the next thing is to arrange a visit from Charlie’s senior negotiators.’ Aubrey paused for effect - ‘Vlad and Vic.’

‘Ah yes,’ smiled Mick, ‘the boys! Of course, I’ve seen their pictures in the paper, from time to time. Are they still doing those bodybuilding courses? I think it’s so nice when people have a hobby. Let us know when they’re coming and we’ll get a pot of tea ready - Earl Grey without milk I believe, if the Old Bailey transcripts are correct.’

Aubrey flicked open his phone and hit a speed dial number. ‘How fast can you get round?’ A pause. He shut the phone and looked Mick straight in his bloodshot eyes.

‘You’re in luck. They’re available. Ten minutes. Have fun!’

And with that, and a rather creepy smirk, he turned and walked off down the corridor, with the trace of a spring in his step.

‘Good oh! Look forward to it,’ shouted Mick after him. ‘We’ll get the kettle on.’

He closed the door slowly, so that it shut with just the faintest click.

Once inside the office, the transformation from Mr Cool to Mr Demented could have not been faster, or more dramatic, than if he’d been reading a compendium of 17th century metaphysical poets and accidentally fallen into a vat of molten, high carbon steel.

‘Fuck!’ he shouted at Jim. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

Jim remained calm. He’d had enough drama in his life during the last 48 hours. ‘I presume there’s a problem,’ he said, quietly sipping his cappuccino.

‘A problem?’ screamed Mick. ‘Fuckin’ Vlad and fuckin’ Vic will be here in this fuckin’ office in ten fuckin’ minutes!’

It was patently clear that the ‘stay calm when disaster strikes’ element of Mick’s ‘They Win - You Lose’ philosophy had been temporarily abandoned.

Jim had never subscribed to ‘They Win - You Lose’, but he knew all about the V-twins. If he’d been inspecting the sharp end of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and accidentally pulled the trigger, he couldn’t have moved faster. Wide-eyed and mouthing, ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit!’ he shot across the room, hurdled the sofa and began frantically gathering up pieces of equipment.

Mick shouted instructions, his voice cracking occasionally into an ultra-high falsetto. ‘The camera’s in its flight case, grab a fuckin’ tripod and some fuckin’ tapes - yank that fuckin’ iMac out of the wall - let’s get the fuck out of here!’

Jim suddenly turned. ‘What about the picture of Bette Midler in that tight-fitting rouched dress?’

‘Fuck Bette Midler!’ shouted Mick.

They both paused, and, for three silent seconds, shared similar, rather pleasurable mental images. Then it was back to full-scale panic.

‘Get the Final Cut Pro back-up disks - and the fuckin’ ProTools set up as well.’

‘Stills camera?’

‘Wallets and passports - filing cabinet, top drawer!’

‘Right!’ said Mick, his eyes swivelling round the room at a speed that, a few hours earlier, would have resulted in a major brain haemorrhage.

‘That’s the lot! Let’s go!’

Given the amount of gear they were carrying, and the degree to which they were hung over, they moved extremely quickly down the corridor. They were just a few paces from the lift, when Jim spoke, one can only suppose, out of habit.

‘Mick - I gotta have a quick “nervous”.’

‘This is not a shoot James,’ said Mick, with a powerful mixture of venom and hysteria in his voice. ‘This is not, “Oh, I’m a fuckin’ professional, I must go back and see if we’ve missed anything.” This is Vlad and Vic round here’ - he checked his watch - ‘in six fuckin’ minutes! While you’re pissing around thinking about a “nervous”, they’re sitting in the back of a fast moving limo, oiling the threads on a specially designed set of bollock screws. Get in the lift!’

This argument seemed to resonate with Jim, and, within seconds, they were in the underground car park. It was dark and dank, but their car was there. Sure, they had had to sell the Porches as times got tough, then the Audi TTs when times got even tougher. But, now, despite its shortcomings, this car, at this given moment, was the most welcome sight in the world.

They loaded up quickly and it started first time. The car park’s automatic doors opened and let in a dazzling blaze of light from the leaden London skies.

‘The good thing about a Morris Traveller,’ said Mick, ‘is that it won’t attract a lot of attention.’

‘Except from classic car enthusiasts,’ said Jim.

‘Gangsters, enforcers and hit men are not interested in classic cars, you twonk - at least, I fuckin’ hope not.’

The car struggled slightly up the steep, concrete ramp into the grit and daily grime of Greek Street.

‘Shit!’ said Jim. ‘There they are!’

And sure enough, two huge, Crombie-clad men wearing crew cuts and black Wayfarers were on the steps leading up to their building. They were carrying a pale brown suitcase with ominous dark stains. Fortunately, they were busily engaged trying to fathom out how to work the security phone system.

‘Get your head down! Right down!’

Mick had never driven a car with his head between his knees, but now seemed a bloody good time to start learning.

They moved slowly out into the street and turned left. After a few seconds, Jim felt brave enough to turn round and look back. He was just in time to see Vlad rip the security phone off the front door, while Vic produced a jemmy from under his Crombie and started on what would, no doubt, be a faultless demonstration of forced entry.

The image of the V-twins rampant receded into the distance as they moved slowly south, down Greek Street, then turned left along the A401. After a few hundred yards, they turned south again towards Trafalgar Square - and phase one of the Great Escape was complete. But it had been a sudden and shattering experience, particularly on the back of their celebratory excesses. If they’d had the option of a McQueen-type, motorbike jump over a barbed wire fence, while being fired on by German guards, they’d have gone for it like a shot.

Thankfully, it was one of those moments where Mick’s philosophy of ‘They Win - You Lose’ had come massively unstuck. Heart rates decreased to the more acceptable level of rapid palpitation, and they began, slowly, to recover.

Jim leaned forward, checked his blood-stained plasters and creamed abrasions in the vanity mirror, and took some long, deep breaths.

Mick sat upright in his seat for the first time and peered out through the Traveller’s grimy windscreen.

Sheets of drizzle were starting to sweep down from a graphite sky, the roads were packed with cars, taxis and buses switching lanes and honking furiously, traffic wardens were getting into fights, high moral ground cyclists were jumping the lights and the odd drunken pedestrian swayed dangerously through the traffic.

But to Mick and Jim, joint directors of Implosion Productions, the Charing Cross Road had never, ever, looked more beautiful.

 Chapter 5

Nona Sandringham-Smythe heaved herself over the pristine shag-pile and answered the Trimphone in her beautifully appointed foyer.

‘Hello, who’s this?’ she said, while trying to pick a small piece of liver from between her teeth with an elegantly manicured, false fingernail.

‘Sorry! I can’t hear you proper?’

‘Who?’

‘You one of them perverts?’

She paused, and her face became even more annoyed, so much so, that little cracks began to appear in whatever she had layered onto her cheeks.

Suddenly, her mouth fell open. The liver would have to wait.

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