Secret agent X: Pervert, stalker and spy.

Prologue
Britain, England, morning. A typical day, a typical morning, a typical British city. It’s 9.15 am. A bus carrying civilians is making its way into town. On board are the usual suspects: women with toddlers in buggies, old women off to town for the day, a handful of children late for school; and a somewhat irate bus driver attempting to drive his long vehicle through the chaos of the inner city morning traffic. Yet into the mix of this oh so typical scene, this everyday innocent picture of western life, the hands of fate are about to throw a curve ball. The bus stops to pick up two men. The first a young Asian man carrying a rucksack would seem to be student; the second, a slightly older man dressed in shirt and tie and carrying a newspaper, would appear to be some sort of office worker. Both men sit down. The civilians on the bus appear unconcerned by the entrance of these two newcomers; ‘ordinary people’ they say to themselves, ‘it’s no big deal’; perhaps that’s for the better, perhaps it’s for the worst, I don’t know. But the fact of the matter is that onto this ordinary bus, carrying ordinary citizens about on their ordinary daily rounds there has stepped on a very dangerous newcomer. For the man with the rucksack, he who might well be a student, is in fact a suspected suicide bomber.

The bus drives on. In the midst of old ladies gossiping, of the driver cursing, of toddlers bawling and being reprimanded by their mothers; of school children acting up and fooling around; in the midst of all this the suicide bomber silently sits himself down. What is in his head only he himself knows; he hates the people on the bus; hates the children, the toddlers, the mothers, the old ladies too. He hates our culture and every value we hold dear. And he is one up on his innocent victims; they have no idea what he intends; have no idea of their impending doom. The bomber knows all, he is king of the bus, he is the man in control. Is there any hope for the innocent civilians? Is there any glimmer of hope in this bleak picture here portrayed? Well, hang about. One person on the bus knows the true state of play, is in fact one up on the terrorist himself. For the man in the shirt and tie who got on behind the bomber is in truth no office worker: no not at all; he is in fact a secret agent.

The bus continues onwards. The suicide bomber is completely oblivious of the secret agent. The suicide bomber sits on the window seat on one side of the bus; the secret agent sits on the seat directly behind him, but next to the aisle. The situation is incredibly tense. Whilst the terrorist in front looks out the window, seemingly lost in thought, his rucksack lying next to him, the secret agent appears to be leaning over the back of the terrorist’s seat, sort of leaning toward him, he’s not exactly directly looking at the suspect, but he has his hand resting on the back of his seat, raised most peculiarly as if it’s pointing at the suicide bomber; and moreover he has his hand mysteriously up his sleeve. What is the significance of all this? Simple: the secret agent has a gun concealed in his sleeve and trained directly on the head of the suicide bomber: with one straight shot he can take him out.

But the situation is complex. The secret agent has been monitoring the suspect and some of his cell mates over the course of weeks. He believes the suspect will strike at some point in the very near future; it could be today; then again maybe not. However he also knows that the suspect is possibly going to make contact with other cell members today, bigger fish in the organisation perhaps. If the secret agent takes out the suspect now and it turns out he has no explosives in his bag, and that today was not in fact the day, then he’s in trouble; for not only might he then be accused of shooting an innocent man and raising the temperature with the Muslim community; but he’s also lost the trail to which the suspect might have been leading him too. Indeed, if other unknown members of the cell now get wind of what’s happened, that one of their cell has been taken out, then there is no telling what they might do.

So the bus journeys on. In a climax of tension the suicide bomber starts to unzip his bag as if he’s going to take something out. The secret agent, calm of mien though he may appear; casually leaning over the back of the suspect’s chair as he is; lost in his own thoughts as it might appear to the other passengers on the bus, is actually immensely terrified, his finger nervously on the trigger. Should he shoot? Should he wait? He is unsure. He is so, so nervous. What should he do?

The events above are a typical example of the sort of scenario that secret agents like myself face on what is almost a daily basis. Although it is certainly not my intention with this memoir of mine to be in any way alarmist, the situation I have just outlined for you is a very, very common one, and there are nine or ten cities in Britain in which this type of scene will play itself out on something like a weekly basis.

And as a secret agent it’s my duty to monitor suspects and thwart any would be plots. The office worker persona that I assumed above is just one of many such aliases I may assume in my work; an alias I might take on today and have done with on the morrow. For reader, you have entered the shady and secretive world of the double agent and spy; an exciting and dangerous underworld wherein no-one is above suspicion, neither friend nor foe. My goal? My secret mission? In a word protection. Protection of our national integrity, of queen and country, of civilians great and small, of liberty and freedom of speech. I need not say more as to the identity of those who would wish to destroy the ideals of this just and glorious nation. The times in which we live, where terror screams at our faces from anon; where the villains are not soldiers clad in the uniform of our foe, but everyday citizens living in our midst; where individuals may rise from our very own ranks and reek havoc on a grand scale; the times in which we live are indeed fraught with danger and peril; national security has never found itself so high on the political agenda; the nation has never found herself in so much want of protection; to this end am I engaged.

But the face of the enemy being anonymous, and the strategies of our foe lowering to such deceitful depths; their employment of the most advanced and sophisticated technology available; and the evolution of a terror organization that has merely the loosest of hierarchies so that individual terror cells may sprout up anywhere, and where lone assassins may conceive their own ill-thought out schemes and enact them of their own accord with little or no direction from their superiors; these stratagems have made inroads into our kingdom, and though they have not yet brought us to our knees, make no mistake about it, we are in trouble. But do we run? Do we hide? Do we take two steps back every time the enemy attacks? The answer is no we do not. We brace ourselves like men and we stand and fight. And we fight on the enemy’s terms.
Accordingly, so soon as 9/11 took place and the war on terror began, the government commissioned the set up of a new and top secret spy school, specifically geared toward tackling this most recent spate of attacks. Well-funded from the off, its sole responsibility and aim has been to breed individuals, experts in the most advanced arts of espionage, elite professionals dedicated only to their duty, who are able and willing to take all manner of risk to life and limb, in their one pursuit: the busting of those furtive and dangerous citizens who are secretly aiming to do our nation down, and the thwarting of their evil schemes and stratagems that they would fain carry out upon our civilization. Believe me, we are probably the most advanced spies ever trained upon this planet. Our organization sits right at the very top, commanded and controlled by the most important and influential people upon the planet. If you’re thinking we’re some branch of MI5 or the CIA, or that we’re beholden to petty rules and regulations and the laws of government like they are, then think on dear reader. I’m telling you this whole thing goes much higher, runs much deeper, is of the highest import in the safeguarding of civilization: we are the true secret agents of our time, we the real players in the fortunes of man, we the actual big brother of the land; and unlike our lower ranking brethren, those puppet-people at MI5, who often get parking tickets and speeding fines and such like, we really do have license to do whatever the hell we want.

Thus are we trained, by the greatest living experts in this field; rigorously do we apply ourselves to the studies of all and sundry pertaining to espionage and double agency; many hours do we dedicate to studying the traits, practices and whims of our foe; minutely do we examine the information we have so far gleaned on the enemy; astutely do we come to recognize the signs of would be malcontents, do we come to know the ins and outs of the enemy’s network; we are learned in all manner of disciplines from psychology to engineering, from religion to chemistry, from philosophy to computer science, we are fluent in dozens of languages and are masters of performance and impersonation. We are educated in the arts of self-defence, of martial skill, weapon-handling, poisoning and subterfuge. In all our endeavours be they physical or mental, theoretical or applied we relentlessly engross ourselves. The academy is no place for the weak of heart. It is the breeding ground for the most exceptional of agents. Study is constant, training eternal, practice essential; one hundred times over do we go through drill after drill after drill – so that we are as best prepared for the real life challenges we will face from our foe; in due course we are toughened up both physically and mentally, moulded and worked into star secret agents, taught and disciplined to the heights of perfection. Along the way, those not adequately adapted to the lifestyle of the spy, those amongst our ranks who are maladept at a certain skill, those of our brethren not able to ace and thrive in the adversity of the academy pressure cooker; those who are not perfected in each and every essential function of the espionate are thrown out: in this way only the strongest survive, only the cream of the crop come to fruition, only the elite make it into the dangerous and exciting world of espionage. On completion of our training we are released into the general populace, like so many tadpoles from the frog spawn of their parents. And hereafter we set about our mission as solitary individuals, having little or nothing to do with the agency that spawned us, just as the tadpole is disowned by its parents. For the times in which we live call for such extreme measures: the enemy has only loose and weak affiliations; so too then do we. Any link, no matter how tenuous, connecting me to my employers, could seriously jeopardise my mission and cause untold numbers of casualties, not to mention that I might be killed, tortured or beheaded in the process. Therefore is it imperative that we act alone. Our time for release having come, our mission being so engrained upon our minds and souls, we say goodbye, perhaps for the last time to our trainers and teachers, and thereafter we set about our work, diving alone into the murky underworld of the terror network, our prime directive being to safeguard national security at all costs. We have access to funds enough from which to live on, we have access to certain key technologies, and we have access to specific and new bits of information as regards the foe; but otherwise are we alone; totally and essentially alone.

And if your wondering dear reader, what became of the suspect on the bus; the answer is, this time I did not shoot; nor either did the suspect detonate himself. But I’ll lay my cards on the table now: don’t expect that this sets the tone of the book; on the contrary if I happen to believe I’ve got a suicide bomber on my hands in future, then you can bet your bottom dollar, I’ll have no hesitation in firing – it’s my job to.

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Call me X. My real name? I cannot reveal it. Date of birth? Unknown. Place of birth? Access denied. Nationality? XYZ. Parentage? Sorry, I’m unable to answer that. Appearance? Next question. Affiliations? None. Other information? Top secret. Modus operandi? Whatever the hell gets the job done.

So much for introductions reader; now let me get down to business. In writing this brief memoir of mine, I wish to give you a glimpse, albeit a rather fleeting one as it may be, of the exceptional operations of the new breed of secret agent. Anyone whose picked up today’s paper or watched today’s television will no doubt have read or seen something relating to the war on terror and the associated media frenzy over the possibility of a terrorist attack. In many ways the public is much in the dark over this, and doesn’t know what to reject as over-hyped nonsense on the one hand and what to believe as the grave yet undoubtable truth on the other. Are plots thwarted on a daily basis? Are the powers that be working round the clock to stifle would-be terror attacks? Is the government doing enough? Are they well-informed enough? Or are they in the dark? It is with these questions in mind that I write this small note. In it reader I hope you will find some answers to these questions; I hope you will come to see that we do in fact know a lot, and that we are in fact doing much to combat the terror threat; you know hopefully, by the time you’ve come to the end of this memoir, you’ll feel a lot more secure about your future, will be able to sleep soundly at night in the comfort of your own home, and will be glad that such men like myself – individuals, bent only on the safeguarding of the nation – are willing to go to any length, any extreme to ensure that the temperate and peaceable realms of our homeland remain civilized for years to come.

But along the way I also want to debunk some of the myths concerning spies. Needless to say countless volumes of works have arisen over the past decades, claiming to be accurate portrayals of the world of espionage, to be based on documented fact, and to be autobiographical in nature. Such books, when read closely turn out to be nothing but cheesy trash and clap-trap, invented nonsense and lies, and – for those like myself who are real-life spies – nauseating at every turn. The obsession with thrilling chases between enemy agents, with astoundingly nifty devices of espionage and murder, with cryptic clues so cryptic as to be impossibly annoying, with bad guys melodramatically jumping out of every corner, with a plethora of scantily-clad women seducing spies at every possible opportunity and with gratuitous sex scenes filling up every other page – all of this, entertaining as it may be, is complete and total rubbish, and if I was a librarian I’d shelve these books under fiction with a capital F. In this memoir I intend to be faithful only to the truth, to write things only as they happened, and to see things only as they are. Anyone who thinks it’s otherwise should get real. Forget Fleming, forget Le Carre, forget James Bond: this is the real story of a real spy. As such I intend to tell it.

So then to the beginning. Not much can I relate to you reader of my early life or upbringing and education. To cut to the chase: I was four years at the academy. Therein did I so excel myself as to not only make the cut, but also to distinguish myself along the way and graduated valedictorian. Such honours, however nice, held no value for me though: it was in the field that I wished to gain recognition. Thus was I released, set free into the world, to mingle with the populace at large and to fight the war on terror; and so have we arrived at the beginning. One thing I’ll say at this early stage is that you can look forward to seeing me undertake some very dangerous undercover operations; shocking and risky missions, wherein the art of playing the part well is essential for success. Stay tuned for these.

You know reader, perhaps you’ve seen me around, although you would never have known it. Perhaps I was the waiter, who silently and deferentially served you that meal you had the other day with your wife; perhaps I was that man on the tube – the one who sat next to you, who just looked bored out of his brains and desperate to get off. Perhaps I was the mime artist who stood statue like in the middle of Trafalgar square seemingly there only for your better entertainment; or perhaps I was the police officer, decked out nicely in his crisp blue uniform, who paid you a house call last week. You never know reader, perhaps we’re already acquainted. Perhaps you’ll even see yourselves depicted herein.

I
On a warm Autumnal morning I found myself seated at a table, in front of Ali’s Star Bar, a downtown internet-café, taking in some brunch. I’d been carrying out a covert operation here over the past several weeks. The information was good, my sources solid, and the accusations well founded. A plot to blow-up shoppers was in our midst and I’d come here to keep tabs on the suspected ringleader and nutcase who worked here as a waiter. In fact it was he who had served me my coffee just now. Three weeks ago as I was monitoring an internet chat room discussion in which I posed as a Muslim radical, I heard talk of a plan to detonate bombs in major shopping areas around town. Using the information I had so far gathered I was able to trace three members of the discussion group directly to this café. Setting myself up as a coffee swilling internet surfer, and all the while keeping my ear to the ground, I soon got whispers of the plot and identified the potential suspects. And as it transpired the waiter, when I ran his details through the computer, had already been identified on what I’ll refer to only as the ‘black list’: his photo, and other details were there. (Please reader don’t ask too many questions about this ‘black list.’ Needless to say, contrary to any government rhetoric, such lists exist.) In any event his potential for violence had already been noted, and over the past few weeks, fly on the wall as I had been, I’d been given plenty of first hand evidence of his attitude toward the west.

Yet the greatest concern I had at present was the nature of the explosives to be used. Though I’d heard rumours indicating that a plutonium based compound was being prepared, the RNO (a made up acronym for obvious reasons reader) was stating that a shipment of ketrosyl -14, a dangerous explosive, often employed as a ‘starter fuel’ in home made bombs, had gone missing from a Russian ship bound for Britain, and moreover the containers were rumoured to be being shipped directly to this town. But on the other hand it was reported that an Iranian based firm were bringing in shipments of the deadly anthrax, and through a London-based Saudi intermediary were selling the stuff on to local terror groups. Now though the whispers I’d heard were very much to the point that the terrorists were going to blow up shoppers rather than poison them, still I didn’t want to be caught off my guard, and moreover I’d heard mention of the deadly anthrax amongst some of the suspects. All of these ideas were playing in my head when I heard word yesterday that a package was to arrive here today and that we’d ‘soon be in business my brother!’

I sat there in the warm sunshine, tucking into my toasted sandwich, reading the newspaper and affecting to be a man having a relaxed easy morning: but always, I had one eye on the suspect, an IC3 male (an IC3 male is the code we secret agents use to describe a man of Afro-Caribbean origin; I’ll be throwing in various spy terms throughout the narrative to give you a taste of the world of espionage, so don’t be surprised reader if I suddenly make use of some such strange nomenclature). The café fronted onto a street, and as I sat there basking in the sunshine and sipping my coffee, numerous shoppers walked by, minding their own business and engrossed in their own lives. A calm seemed to reign over the morning street scene. How ironic, I thought as I sat there, how ironic, that in the midst of such all-pervading calm, an extremely dangerous attack was being plotted, and an equally dangerous counter-attack, on the part of myself, was being conducted. Those shoppers who walked by, who ignored me, who glanced at me and then elsewhere, had no suspicion that I was a spy; nor either would they have suspected the waiter of being a terrorist. You know, to the average Joe Public, with his untrained eye, the suspect in question, might look just like a normal waiter, a teenage kid just trying to make it in this world, a minor gangster who wore his cap to one side and was predisposed to chill when he wasn’t working. And even for the likes of myself, expertly trained in how to spot the signs of discontent and inured to a breadth of experience in the terror circle as I am, it came as something of a surprise to find this young man, a seemingly happy-go-lucky sort, a real crackerjack at heart. But experience has taught me never to be surprised at who the terrorists are. Really reader, its quite shocking to uncover the true nature of some people.

In general the café catered for regular customers, all of whom the IC3 male was on good terms with and which included in their horde the other suspects. The suspects spent much time in sitting at the tables and talking and the IC3 male often took time out from his work and sat down with them and chilled as it were. There was much bonhomie between the suspects, if you know what I mean reader, they would always shake hands with each other on meeting, embraced each other, slapped each other on the back etcetera. And often the IC3 male would head off into the dark back rooms of the café, a suspect in tow. What they were doing in there I could never find out, unable to follow them in as I was. Anyway, today, events took a turn for the worse. This is what happened: at 10 am this morning a package arrived for the IC3 male. He was quick to take it out back. I kept my eyes open for the re-emergence of the parcel, and kept tabs to see if any of the suspects – there were two of them in the café at the time as well as the IC3 male – might leave the café. Then at around 2 am an IC1 female entered the café; she chatted to the IC3 male for a short while and had a coffee – they were right at the very back of the inside of the café. After some twenty minutes she made to leave and it was then that he handed her a package – a small bundle wrapped up in a carrier bag – which she took, pushing it immediately down inside her shopping bag. In retrospect, now that I think about it, this was a very funny exchange: the IC3 male and the IC1 female could barely look at each other as the package was handed over, nor did they say anything about it; it was simply a quick exchange as if they were embarrassed about it. However at the time I was completely convinced that whatever was in that package was not anything of danger. Because the facts are reader: women are not terrorists. The odds of my having a female suspect on my hands were very, very slim. Accordingly I allowed the female to leave the café which she duly did a few minutes later. I continued to watch the suspects.

Yet no sooner had the female left, then I immediately started having troubled thoughts. For immediately as she had walked off, but the countenance of the IC3 male perked up, he went behind the bar, took out a bottle of some sort of alcohol and walking up to the two suspects who sat playing cards at a table, poured them each out a little shot of the stuff; after which the three raised their glasses in a cheers, drank back and started slapping each other on the back and celebrating. I now realised I’d been done.

Taking to my heels immediately I dashed off in the direction the IC1 female had taken.
With the sure knowledge and uncanny intuition of the man of espionage I censed something dangerous was afoot. The moment was critical. With the adrenaline pumping within me, yet all the while with a steady and sure footing, I ran in her direction and with incredible relief saw her figure walking in front of me. There she was: the IC1 female. Given the nature of the threat it was essential that I get quite close to her. Thus we went across the high street, she in front, I not far behind. As I walked I could see her blond hair falling down upon her shoulders and denim jacket, I could see the red and white striped bag that she carried on her shoulder, and in which was the package, and I could see her tight, jodhpur-like black pants, that were in fact so tight that her peachy backside was shown off to good effect and which also made visible the silhouette of her underwear. Twice as we marched she made to subtly lift up her knickers with her hand. Evidently they were chafing her (they were really quite tight). I couldn’t help think that if her backside was getting clammy, and her knickers cloying her as a consequence, then this might all be due to nerves, and she was anticipating her coming deed. However, truthfully, these knicker-tugs of hers, were probably all complete red-herrings; as I suspected only too well, that the IC1 female didn’t know the contents of the package and was herself an innocent bystander. She was the simple transport-puppet of the terrorists and a victim herself. Thus we proceeded, across the high street, the female completely oblivious of my presence, occasionally a whiff of her perfume coming my way, a sweet pleasant odour. And it now came to dawn on me, just where we were headed. M&S loomed large ahead of us.

We entered through the automatic doors, and almost immediately mounted the escalators. This indeed would be an ideal place for a shopper-hating terrorist to cause unknown chaos and fatalities: M&S being the very vortex of the shopping world. You know reader I’ve got to say there was a time when I just could never enter M&S; I mean the place is so hot and stuffy and I always felt sick, nauseated and with headache as soon as I stepped inside. But in the course of time, having had to track so many terror suspects who’ve made their way in here, I’m quite proud of the fact that I’ve adapted and have no problems now in entering. Indeed I was very familiar with the layout here, and I don’t just mean the layout that Mr Joe Public is aware of. At eight separate locales throughout the upstairs, there were CCTV cameras, so that any misdemeanour committed up here would be caught in the crossfire of cameras. In addition I knew that there was at least one undercover operative posing as an M&S employee, a man of Indian origin, who was stationed here permanently. I knew of his presence here though he didn’t know who I was and didn’t know that I knew just who he was. As we got off the escalators I caught a glimpse of him; he was standing in the men’s section affecting to sort out some shirts. I decided that I might just give him a nod and a wink, in order to try and let him know that something was afoot; but to no avail; he didn’t seem to understand my signal, gave me a slight suspicious look (the irony of being a double-agent: he was suspicious of me!) and then turned around and gave a customer some assistance. In any case he hadn’t caught on and I could see I was going to have to manage things myself. But things then took a most dramatic turn.

After leaving the escalator we’d gone hither and thither for a while, but now the IC1 female had entered the lingerie section. Oh! Curse me for being born a man! There was no way I could follow her in there. Believe me reader I was desperate to do my duty; desperate to follow her in there. And what a huge section as well; it seemed to take up nearly a third of the upstairs floor-space. In comparison the men’s underwear section which bordered onto it was tiny. Yet what an entourage of women’s underwear; what a kaleidoscope of colours and sizes, of silks and cottons and frills. What a range indeed! I couldn’t help noticing that there was a section headed soiled-underwear. What did that mean? Anyhow be things as they may, I could go no further. You know recently there’s been a lot of media coverage illuminating the need for more people of ethnic minorities to enter the secret service; but truly it’s at times like this that you realize that we need more women to join our elite band. As it was I could only pretend to look at the men’s underwear; and indeed I could only pretend since with me – I’ll come clean with it reader – there can only be one choice: the tight, black, short-shaped underpants -- these are a spies favourite. Don’t speak to me of wifronts or boxer-shorts. Don’t try and convince me there’s any benefit to be had in wearing white. I don’t want to know. My minds made up on this score. For all that however it was essential, in order not to arouse any suspicion, to act as though I was interested in considering the different kinds of underwear on offer. Accordingly I played into the roll of an undecided underwear man.

You know now perhaps, as I’m stood looking at men’s underwear, is as good a time as any to touch on some issues concerning the amorous adventures of a spy, that I’ve been wanting to get off my chest since I began writing this memoir. Of course Hollywood would have us believe that secret agents fall out of one bed straight into the next, are ever and anon seduced by a scintillating spectrum of femmes fatales, and are constantly in the clutches of a fresh and gripping passion d’amour. In fact if you sit down with your calculator, and add things up, you’ll find that the average fictional spy amasses such a yearly tally of notches on the bedpost that it runs into the thousands. This is complete ridiculous nonsense and smacks of the utter absurdity and disengagement from reality that some authors suffer from. Honestly speaking reader, hand upon my heart, I’m not sure I can even say I’ve made love to twenty women over the past year, I really can’t.

And another thing which bugs me on this score is the idea that the secret agent is making love to a Russian heiress one day, a Swedish lap dancer the next and Miss Thailand the morning after. The utter absurdity of a spy who gallivants about from one stop off to the next, globetrotting around the planet, and drinking from the cup of lust at each of his staging posts, is quite astonishing to me. Quartered as I am within the confines of our shores, restricted in my movements by the necessity to work locally and to gather local information, how on earth am I supposed to be satisfying miss Thailand? The truth is that you can only make love to what’s in front of you. Accordingly, most if not all the time, I make love to English women, be they blonde, brunette or flaming red, and I have to settle for that, be content with my lot and get on with life.

But to return to the plot. The IC1 female had been in the exclusion zone of the women’s lingerie. Fearing that I might loose her I’d kept a very strict eye on her from my lookout in men’s underwear. She appeared to be browsing. Then at the close of near on twenty minutes she finally selected the bra she wanted – it was a silky-purple one with half transparent cups – and departed the no go zone. My heart started racing again, I felt sure that the time had now come. Call it a secret agent’s intuition if you will, call it a hunch but whatever I was sure, nay I was absolutely convinced that the bomb or poison parcel was going to be detonated any minute now. I once more took up pursuit of the IC1 female; she was headed to the till. Should I intercept her? Take her to one side and question her? That would be very risky if she was in on the plot; but I mean surely she wasn’t? I mean come on, not her, not an IC1 female looking at lingerie. No she wasn’t in on it, I was sure of that now. I decided to go over and question her and hopefully take the parcel from her. But before I could she had already reached the till. When she got there I stood just yards off her, paralyzed with fear for some reason, I had an awful premonition. And then in a terrifying moment my worst nightmare unfolded.

The moment seemed to last an eternity, I mean time just seemed to stand still. She was pulling the package out of her bag. I saw it and I realized I’d been done. I’d failed to intercept the package, I’d been caught napping, and all the evidence I’d gathered over the last several weeks was down the shit-shoot: the bomb would now detonate. I saw my own death right before my very eyes. The package came out and she plonked it on the counter. I’d half turned my back and raised my hands to my face in anticipation of the explosion when lo and behold, I couldn’t believe it! The IC1 female pulled out from the package a different bra – a jaguar skin patterned bra – and gave it to the lady at the counter. I couldn’t believe it! What a bloody let off! Yet how I’d let myself be misled! I’d thought the package contained explosives or anthrax. It had contained underwear in fact! What a total, total and utter fool I’d been played for!
Secretly embarrassed – no-one else knew of my fauxpax – yet quietly relieved I called off the operation and after returning to the café for some few hours went home.

II
The mishaps of this morning and the false leads that I’d foolishly followed had borne no fruit vis-à-vis the plot to blow up shoppers and in being side-tracked by the IC1 female – the tall, leggy, blond whom I’d believed it had been necessary to follow – the terrorists had played me for a fool, and I’d been completely two-four-sixed. Whether or not this was a test of theirs, and whether or not they had deliberately played this trick on me to show me they knew I was watching I did not know; only time would tell on that score. As for the IC1 female, she was surely only a bit part player in the grand scheme of events and had to all intents and purposes no part to play in the dramatic designs and stratagems of the would be ringmaster, the IC3 male, he who would have the audience believe he was no more than an easy going, match-chewing café-hand. At best the role of the IC1 female would be that of unsuspecting puppet, her strings controlled by the manipulative malcontent whom she regarded as a friend. Nevertheless, even though I’d wasted a good deal of time in pursuit of the female, even though I’d been brought to the shores of women’s underwear and there marooned like a fish washed ashore, I had followed, to the letter of the law the doctrines, dictums and decrees of my teachers back at the academy, and had been perfectly in the right in tracking the IC1 female to (what I then suspected) would be a potential scene of carnage. Ultimately her motives for entering the shop had been proven to be nothing more than a mere bra exchange. Nevertheless, in the interests of national security it had been my undeniable duty to follow her, and had the grave and venerable gentlemen, the wise and incorruptible chiefs of operations, the heads of staff back at the academy been privy to my actions they would have awarded them, with an immediate surety and conviction, a straight ten out of ten.

Reader you might be wondering at this point where is the tale headed? My editor himself asked me what the hell was the significance of this first chapter. Following a women into the underwear department of M&S is hardly a thrilling spy story. But the justification of the first chapter is simple. For one thing it is relevant because it actually took place. Secondly it is the beginning of the story. But most importantly I wished to include it out of a desire to show the public just how much in the dark we spies sometimes are. You know I’ll be the first to put my hand on my heart and admit that in following an English women into an underwear department to see her transact a bra exchange, I was incredibly foolish. (And you may even construe the events as being a bit perverted as well, I can see that much reader.) However my point is this: in so many ways we are very much pawing in the dark with the war on terror so that inevitably there are many occasions where we are led up blind alleys and caught up in the most ridiculous of farces. However, that said, with the beginning of this chapter I now intend to pick out from my experience those incidents of more dramatic import. Believe me reader, the heat is about to be turned up in this chapter as I relate a very dangerous mission of mine. And really, if you’re thinking reader, like my editor had the audacity to suggest, that this is perhaps going to be some sort of pervert’s confession thinly veiled as a spy narrative and with a hidden women’s underwear agenda on hand, then you can think on. Nothing could be further from the truth. If your expecting such a tale you should stop reading now, because I’m about to begin a very serious narration.

Returning to my home I set about catching up with the latest information. Connecting to the RNO website I discovered some updated news pertaining to the shipments of anthrax and ketrosyl-14. It was now being reported that a quantity of both substances had been found and pictures of each were now being displayed online. I downloaded both photos. The anthrax was being stored in little red containers, somewhat like smartie tubes that bore the letters S.A.N.C. in white letters on the front. What the significance of those letters were no-one knew, but if you opened up the tube, inside there was a knotted condom containing the stuff. On the other hand the ketrosyl-14 was being packaged in little white, bubble-wrapped parcels, and surprisingly to look at it, one was struck by its immediate resemblance to a drug package, as though it were a little vile of cocaine or heroin or something. This was surprising since it meant the traffickers ran the extra risk of being held up under suspicion of drug-running. Anyway these then were the images I saw. However the significance of discovering the remaining batches of each was now being stated by RNO: earlier on in the day a Saudi man had been detained under the terrorism act for trafficking the ketrosyl-14 packages; as yet however intelligence were unable to link him to his sources or his customers; RNO believed the packages had been shipped out to a terrorist organisation in the town of Z (where I operate), and if the packages could be recovered, the powers that be were hoping to trace them back to the Saudi man and so turn up the heat on him in the hopes he would give up the Iranian firm. Yet so far intelligence had been unable to make the link. Also, in a surprisingly parallel of these events, a young home-grown terrorist had been detained, with intelligence believing him to have been involved in the theft of the Anthrax based compounds. So far he hadn’t cooperated with the security service and again they were hoping that packages of the substance could be recovered with the view to arresting terrorists lower down the food chain and getting them to rat on their superiors. But again no such packages had been recovered, and convinced as the security services might be about who was doing what in the terror network, without any solid evidence both suspects would be walking in the next twenty-four hours.

I made a study of both photos. Reader I should stress again the images before me: the red coloured smartie tube with S.A.N.C. written on it and with a condom of anthrax inside; and then the white, bubble wrapped package of ketrosyl-14 that looked exactly like a vile of cocaine. I really should stress the importance of these articles reader. (Okay I’ll level with you reader, spy though I may be, I’m no good at telling these spy narratives. My editor tells me I should insert some clues early on in the narrative so that later on people can say ‘ah yes we saw that earlier.’ Or ‘A-ha! I knew it was that that he found’ etcetera. All I’m saying is remember these objects because they might just be important later on. You know if you’ve got a bad memory perhaps you should write them down on a piece of paper or something – I don’t want you to be disappointed later on.) (Of course they may not be important at all, so don’t think that by me going on about them I’m somehow spoiling the narrative and giving you too many clues. I could just be putting them in for red-herrings. All I’m saying reader is please, remember these articles!)

That afternoon I made preparations for the evening. Word had it that something shady was going down at a fast food restaurant in town, and I’d heard whispers to the effect that a plot to blow up shoppers was being drawn up, although it wasn’t clear at this stage whether this was the same plot as the one being hatched at Ali’s Star Bar. According to my sources – which I cannot here reveal – the burger joint was a hotbed for a small minority of the city’s discontented youth and I’d been give to understand that malcontents were amassing therein, and supposedly discussing some desperate plan. After all this talk I’d decided to take a look for myself and see if there was any substance to the rumours. (We spies are often given a lot of over hyped information; I mean honestly, if a Muslim burps on one side of the town, you can swear on your grandfather’s grave that via the Chinese whisper rumour mill, you’ll be given leads from the other side of town indicating that a Jihad is in the pipeline.) Anyway I had to check it out and I’d made up my mind that tonight, there’d be one more fly on the wall of the burger bar. You’ve guessed it reader, yours truly would be there in position, a mere civilian chomping on a French fry and sucking milkshake through a straw, a nobody minding his own business and seemingly oblivious to any hushed and excited voices that plotted thereabouts.

In the meantime I recharged my batteries and made myself some secret agent’s special stuff: ravioli on toast. After showering and getting dressed I set out to leave. But just as I was on the verge of crossing the threshold it suddenly dawned on me whether I hadn’t left a hob on? (Please reader, don’t say that a spy would never be concerned with anything as silly as having left a hob on. As I’ve tried to make clear from the off, we spies are human beings like everyone else, and this is a real-life story; if you want fantasies and lies and everything hunky-dory, then for heavens sake go and watch James Bond.) As it happened though, I was worrying about nothing; all of the arrows on each of the six knobs were pointing upwards: the cooker was switched off.

What a perfect November night awaited me outside. It was pitch, pitch black, yet ever so calm and still. I walked quietly and alone through the empty, silent streets; took a ride on the brightly illuminated bus and found myself before long in the town centre. Truly, when the summer leaves us in September and the dark autumnal nights descend down upon us, what magic there is in the air. What a quiet and calm potency, what special secret mystery. I felt excited: excited by the night; and excited by my mission.

On arriving at the fast food joint, and stepping through the entrance, the dark, cold and quiet surroundings of the night gave way to the gaudily illuminated café-interior, its warmth, smell of food and the funky disco tunes. But more so than these changes of scenery, was my attention attracted to one particular person, a girl of some nineteen or twenty years, who sat at a table by herself opposite to the entrance, and who had looked up anxiously upon my arrival inside, given me the once over, and then looked away. My suspicions were immediately aroused. What was the significance of that look? Who was that girl? What was she about? What motive had drawn her here on this dark November night?
Ordering my food and sitting down, I so arranged it that I sat in a corner of the room, adjacent to the girl, so that looking ahead as I did, and appearing to mind my own business, I could all the while monitor her out of the corner of my eye. She sat there angrily and huffily banging away at the buttons of her mobile phone that she held out in front of her; she didn’t seem to be having any food: on the table in front of her lay only her handbag; she simply sat there looking at the phone – evidently reading some message – a silent anger enrapturing her being. Once she looked my way and we made brief eye-contact – she threw me a terse, snarling glance – but I just affected to look away disinterestedly, in the manner of a man who wanted to know nothing of her or her problems. She was dressed up as if on a night out. Thus did things play out for some twenty minutes or so when the introduction to the restaurant of a new dramatis persona, brought an unexpected twist to proceedings and made me doubly suspicious of the wrathful-eyed female.

The newcomer was none other than the IC3 male of this morning, the discontented waiter. I couldn’t believe it! No sooner had he entered, than the female looked wrathfully askance and refused to make eye-contact with him as he hastily swaggered up to her; and she picked up her handbag and stood up as if to go. She was stopped momentarily however by the IC3 male who would fain stand in her way.

‘Hey babe’ he said.

‘Don’t babe me! Where’ve you been you bloody fool? I’ve been sat here like a lemon, for the past two hours,’ shrieked out the female in a loud common voice. She was heedless of all and sundry around her. But so too was the male:

‘I had to work late diden I, you stewpid bloody cow. How the bloody hell am I meant to get here two hours ago if I only finished working five minutes ago?’

‘You could uv messaged me you stewpid sod.’

‘I did message you, you stewpid cow.’

‘No you bleedin well dident, you lying bastard!’

‘Look, do I bloody well need this hassle after a hard days work? I wish you’d bloody well calm down. I is here now isn’t I.’

But she refused to answer and looked away; she was having none of it; and evidently wanted to go.

‘Lets get some food’ said the IC3 male. ‘I ain’t had nuffin since dinnertime. Am starven.’

‘I aint haven nuffin to eat’ replied the female peevishly. ‘I is going straight home.’

‘Oh Diendron! Where the bleeding hell are you goin?’

‘I is goin home, that’s where I is goin, Leroy.’

He attempted to hold her where she stood, but she wanted to be away so badly, she was so forceful in her efforts to get off, that he had to let go his grasp and release her, otherwise she would have screamed and kicked up such a fuss, as to put the male under the accusing eye of all the eaters in the restaurant. Indeed everyone had been taking note of the scene, and the IC3 male, who seemed now to be aware of this, had been unwilling to push his luck with the stubborn and fiery female. She now trotted off in her high heels and exited the restaurant. After a moments pause in which the IC3 male appeared to reluctantly come to the irritating conclusion that there was nothing for it but to go after her – he shook his head from side to side in disbelief and annoyance – he too took to the street and followed her. As for the secret agent, watching events unfold from the sideline as it were; he just calmly remained sitting where he was a few moments longer; nonchalantly swilled back the last of his coffee; rose and carried and emptied his tray into the waste disposal; and then with cool and dignified bearing went in pursuit of the two suspects.

When I exited the fast food restaurant and found myself once more outside, I was immediately hit by the cold, dark, diamond of a night; and the magic of it, its dark potency, added to the coffee I’d just drank, seemed to rouse me to a new level of awareness. Oh what a night! What an exciting night! What a mission lay ahead of me! This is why I became a spy reader, this is why I enrolled in the secret service, this is why I was four hard years at the academy. Some people like to be indoors on a night like this, sat in front of the TV and fire. Not so yours truly. Never would I trade in my 24/7 secret vocation for a more sedate and easy lifestyle. Never till I die. This is what I was made for, this is what I was born to do. Humdrum affairs and everyday cares hold no interest for me; pipe and slippers, home and hearth – these are not my watchwords; the excitement of my profession is what I crave; it is my nico-tonic narcotic, my epileptic-elixir. And now it was essential that those two suspects be pursued. Accordingly, wherever they were headed so too would I follow. To what villainous den would I be led to on this dark November evening? Wherein were the three of us headed? I did not know. The thrilling excitement of the venture lay in the total mystery of my destination. Oh to where were we three headed? To what dark and dangerous shores? Oh mysterious dark night of espionage!

Yet for all this exhilaration I was as cool as a sniper in going about my business. I’d given the suspects a good head start, yet I wasn’t in the slightest bit concerned about losing them, and, with deliberate calm and surety, looked about me from the burger bar street entrance. There they were, yonder: at five o’clock, trooping down a slope in the street; illumined under the bright orange street lamps that shed their light and shone in the puddles; the female in front marching away in her high heels, her handbag carried to the side, in that manner peculiar to women when they’re upset; angrily marching, yet at the same time attempting to retain a dignified bearing; and the male in pursuit behind her, his baseball cap worn with the peak out to the side, trying to catch up and plead with her. They were some thirty or forty metres off. I popped a chewing gum into my mouth and then crossed the road and essayed to make up some ground. Turning a corner they went out of sight. I held my nerve, stayed calm and kept up my pursuit. Turning the corner myself I spotted them – now only some twenty metres off – standing at a bus stop. Slowing my gait, and affecting to mind my own business, I pulled up and waited at the bus stop as well.

Apart from myself and the two suspects there were two other people waiting for a bus. The suspects sat down on the little bench; I stood to one side, my back against the bus shelter. The row had gotten to the stage where the female was keeping her mouth shut; the male was trying to reach her, trying once more to explain the reason for his lateness; but the female was having none of it and sitting there in a huff, shunned his eyes and his entreaties. Standing coolly to the side and apparently gazing at the building in front of me in absent mindedness, I summed up the situation: evidently we were going somewhere on the bus; three buses passed this stop, the R6, the R17 and the 822. If I was to track the terror suspects I’d have to get off at their stop. However it wouldn’t be necessary to know what that stop was called, because the buses in the town of Z, operate a £1.20 for all stops policy; it would simply be a case of putting my money, which I had ready in my hand, into the hopper and then taking a seat. Having said that however, it was usual to state one’s destination anyway, regardless of the £1.20 for all policy. Yet strictly it wasn’t necessary. Nevertheless in order not to arouse suspicion it would be a good idea to repeat the destination, that the two suspects would be stating; and to be able to do this it would be a good idea to get on directly after them. Fortunately for myself I was directly behind then as things now stood.

Time wore on. The suspects continued to argue, the female piping up once more after her quiet spell, because the male had finally opted for a silent approach, and now that he was paying her no attention the female had gotten all vocal, taking umbrage at all the wrongs put her way, and maintaining the argument by herself for a while; the male merely sat there indifferently. Yet once as the argument abated and the female fell silent, her eyes happened to alight on mine once more; she shot me a contemptuous look, but also I felt that in her glance, she was trying to suggest that I was some sort of weird pervert: you see she remembered me from the burger bar and was stupid enough to suspect that my reappearance now was somehow suspicious and didn’t simply pass off my presence here as a mere coincident. Anyway her glance was only momentary – I saw the thought fleeting across her mind – and thereafter she turned away and resumed the row; for my part I affected a scowling, ‘don’t be so stupid’ kind of look, and pretending to be slightly annoyed by this suggestion, I turned my eyes elsewhere and minded my own business.
After some ten minutes the bus arrived. Now I had expected the suspects to be third in line, with myself immediately behind them, and the two civilians who’d gotten here ahead of us in poll position. However the suspects, having no regard for the laws of the land, disrespectfully pushed their way onto the bus first. The two citizens robbed of their rightful positions were incensed by this anti-sociable behaviour and looked at me appealingly; I gave them a sympathetic look in which I said ‘what can we do about such people.’ The upshot of it all was that there was now no way I could get on behind the suspects without upsetting those two citizens further and without arousing suspicion. Accordingly, they boarded before me and I was unable to catch the destination of the suspects. In fact not only was I too far distant, but the lady in front of me, one of the two who had been cheated of their place in the queue, passed some ironic comment to me about this town having gone to the dogs and that there were too many chavs for her liking; and listening to this as I did, I was not privy to the intended stop-off point of the suspects. Those two meanwhile had headed off right to the back of the bus. I stepped on after the lady ahead of me, and, though I could have copied her destination I didn’t, scared that she might then take it as a conversation starter and begin bugging me with all sorts of questions about where I lived; instead I simply made my face look gaunt and tired, my eyes lacklustre and indifferent and placing my money in the hopper gave off the impression of one who doesn’t say much. The driver was just as carefree in fact, speaking not a word and asking of me nothing so that all came off well. I made my way up the isle. The suspects sat right at the back, the IC3 male putting his feet up on the adjacent seat and making himself at home. I sat down a few seats to the fore. The bus drove off.
During the whole journey I sat gazing out the window, lost in my own little world as it were; of course I leant a keen ear to the conversation of the suspects. Typically when I’m tracking people on a bus like this I can go one better, and, by positioning myself both behind the suspects whilst at the same time on the opposite side of the aisle to them, study all their movements in detail under the perfectly reasonable auspices of staring out of the window next to me, when in fact I’m really studying their reflections in the glass. But the suspects had second guessed me on this one and set themselves up at the back. Though naturally I’m not suggesting that they’d sussed me, reader; on the contrary it was as clear as day to me that they were totally innocent of my real identity.
Fifteen minutes of the journey having passed, I started to become extremely anxious and full of nerves. At any minute I expected that we would be alighting. It was like waiting for your execution to be called. Don’t be surprised to discover that a spy can be overcome by nerves reader. This isn’t Hollywood it’s real life; and precisely the sort of person who takes up the profession of spy, the type of individual who hankers after the excitement and exhilaration of a dangerous life is precisely the sort who would get butterflies at a moment like this. Looking out of the window I hadn’t a clue where we were; it was so bleak and miserable, we had travelled along way from the town shopping centre and were evidently in a bad area of the city. Irrationality starting to get the better of me I had to look around to check that the suspects were still sat there and that they hadn’t already got off; but they were there, the female sitting huffily apart and looking out her window; the male, slouching in his seat and with his feet up, nonchalantly and arrogantly staring ahead of himself, like the chief male that he obviously was. I gazed once more out of the window, my heart beating ten to the dozen. And then ‘ping’ it finally happened.
The stop sign illuminated, the two suspects came past me with the female in front, and the bus began to slow. Waiting till the very last minute – I was decidedly wary of arousing their suspicion now – I stood up just as the doors were opening. As I took to my feet my legs seemed to turn to jelly, it was a real effort just to walk and my heart felt as though it would pound out of my chest. I was so anxious. But adrenaline taking me on, I raced down the isle and alighted just in time. The suspects being already ahead of me I now allowed them to double their advantage, by pausing at the bus stop and reading up on the timetable for returning buses. Yet, after a critical period had elapsed, it was essential to get back on their trail as this was no time to lose them. Where the hell on God’s green earth were we come to? It was such a desolate place: tower blocks seemed to rise up everywhere, there was an iron-railed fence enclosing a derelict factory directly opposite me, and as I looked down one pot-holed street that bordered the factory fence, there was, in the middle of the road, a loud gathering of youths; with one kid on a bmx bike circling round and round the others in the centre, who seemed to be burning a fire in a dust-bin. I heard there shouts and cries come to me on the cold crisp air. Jeese-Louise this was no easy neighbourhood that was for sure, and I felt ill at ease and out of my comfort zone here, exactly the opposite to what I’d felt when we were on the streets near the burger bar. And as I stood at the stop taking all this in, I was so overcome by fear and emotion that I almost felt I was going to faint on the spot. I whispered up a little prayer. I was terrified and felt like chucking in the towel. Dear God, what awful mission had brought me here?
But being well-trained and inured to nerve-ridden adventure I continued my mission. The two suspects were some thirty metres in advance of me, but I realized that that distance was now far too big and could potentially jeopardise the entire operation. You see not only were the streets now become very short, and forking at every turn, so that I might easily loose sight of the suspects; but being now residential in nature, if the suspects turned a corner suddenly and went indoors to their home before I could see, they would be lost without trace. Therefore with much haste did I now reduce this dangerous distance down to a much safer fifteen. Thus we walked on, myself edgy beyond belief. And now the pendulum swung the other way: I was far too close, far too close, dear God I was far too close; if they turned round now I’d be sussed straight away, I felt sure of it. I backed off a bit and increased the distance. And truly did I now find myself playing this very dangerous game of cat and mouse, maintaining an optimal distance to my charges, and ever and anon fortune’s weeble wobbling one way then the other. We passed under a railway bridge. It was sheer night underneath; dank and smelly as a sewer; and as I walked through all of a sudden out of nowhere I saw two figures just to the side of me sitting on the dark floor of the underpass – shit! I got the shock of my life; they had only became visible to me when I had walked right up to them; they were either junkies or homeless people – I could not tell; Oh! What a shock! Yet I recovered having made no obvious exhibition of my surprise to the suspects. Exiting the underpass a tower block rose high above us and we seemed to be on the road to it. For some reason I felt sure that we were heading here.
It seemed that we were anyway. However things now became not only critical but they took a terrible turn for the worse as fortune’s weeble decided to wobble over and fall down upon her head. The IC1 female had turned around and seeing me yet again had grown suspicious. She still wasn’t on good terms with her man, but my seeming intrusion into their lives superseded this, and she brought herself to a halt and looked back at me, gently putting her hand on her man as she did so, to indicate that he should stop walking as well. He didn’t know what this was about and was quite angered with her. I walked on attempting to appear oblivious and unconcerned, but my eyes now met those of the female and she wasn’t going to remove them; I looked away and continued walking under the heavy fire of her glance. Secretly I’d realized I’d screwed the mission up. Any second now I’d be level with the suspects; after that ahead. Surely it was all over. The female kept keen eyes on me whilst I looked ahead ignoring her; but as I drew level with the pair, she said:
‘Are you followen us or suming?’
Immediately the male took the most cursory of glances at me – he took me for a complete nobody, but at the same time he was the sort who was respectful enough to care only for his own business and to leave me well alone – and then started berating the female.
‘You stewpid bloody cow! Of course he’s not followen us! What the bloody hell are you on! Fuck me, you are stewpid.’
‘Well how am I supposed to know. Eye fought he was followen us.’ Pleaded the female, full of embarrassment at her mistake.
By this time, having made a show of throwing off the allegations as stupid absurdity, by merely making another of those ‘Dear God, don’t be so stupid faces, I had walked past the suspects; and indeed I now desired to make a show of getting ahead of them so as to refute the allegations of the girl. Although of course in doing this, my only option though it were, I was messing up the mission all the more.
My prospects appearing fairly bleak now, I was almost certain the mission was at an end. However continuing as I did, ahead of the suspects and scarily into the unknown as though in the midst of this God forsaken neighbourhood I was walking the plank of death towards the doom of a bungled operation, I now found myself approaching nearer and nearer the tower block: was it there that the suspects were headed? It seemed a good possibility, yet I didn’t know and sure as hell couldn’t turn around and look to see if they were behind me; no, I had to walk on now and pretend I was not at all interested in them. With fading hope I found myself on the path to the tower. I began to be overcome by the most fearful trepidation. The tower was so, so huge, the inhabitants presumably all bad, and I couldn’t help feel that from all of those windows of the tower block, row upon row upon row of them, set like so many eyes upon its front, there looked down so many unfriendly faces. In the midst of all this fear, in the paranoia of all those imagined eyes scornfully staring down at me, I now had to somehow find the entrance, and then make an entry – a matter which much concerned me, as I expected that I would only be able to enter the building with a key or swipe-card or with the knowledge of a code-lock; and all my efforts to enter would perhaps be in vain; since I was working under the proviso that it was here the suspects were headed.
I should say a little about my presence in this neighbourhood. From my facial features and the clothing I wore it was abundantly evident that I had no business being in this area this late at night. The best alibi or story that I had invented as a standby on my way here was that I was come to visit a prostitute, although this struck me as false as I’d never visited one before and had never really ever seen one: I mean I felt as if I’d fabricated my excuse based on watching too much TV. Moreover I would not, if I had to speak, affect a common accent. This was partly because it would be difficult to do so, but also because, in comparison to my garb and mien it might only arouse suspicion yet further. Thus I was very much a fish out of water as I walked along the outskirts of the tower block. Desperately trying to look confident I headed toward what seemed to be an entrance; yet when I reached it I found it only to be some sort of false-entrance, like a fire-escape door or something, and I foolishly tried to open it but to no effect, making a complete arse of myself in the process, and believing the whole tower block to be watching me as I dithered. Damn I was in a right mess now! My body language was awful and I felt that a million eyes were upon me. However gaining courage and thinking a little I realized that I had nothing to lose now, and that two options lay ahead of me; I could either fumble around the building looking for an entrance, like a little lost lamb looking for its mother; or I could adopt plan B. I decided on plan B.
Immediately pulling out my mobile phone, I dialled an imaginary number and bought myself a few seconds in which I pretended to concentrate and await the person I’d dialled to pick up, but during which time I was actually making a reconnaissance of the surroundings. And at this moment lady luck chose to smile sweetly upon me, and in the shape of the two suspects trundling up the path to the tower, presented me with a gratuitously golden invitation to enter the tower block tenement; a treacherous Trojan gift-horse to transport me inward into the enemy’s lair. You see as I’d dialled up, I’d turned around to face the way that I’d come, and there in the darkness were the two suspects. They saw me again, but now that I had the phone to my ear, it was as if I wasn’t alone, and with this as protection the girl dared give me no more than a cursory glance. (She really seemed crestfallen and peeved by her foolish accusations against me. Yet also confused: since she had believed there was some substance to her allegations – I almost felt sorry for her.)
Now it seemed the suspects – as of course would be expected – were not going to go down this false little path I’d taken. Instead they followed a different one and I knew that they were headed for the entrance and that moreover they’d have access through any security system. At this point I began the mobile phone conversation. Although I’d ruled out the adoption of an accent suited to these parts, I did intersperse my words with much French; it being necessary to act annoyed, angry and altogether upset because for whatever reasons of the human psyche this was the best way to blag it: it was essential to make out that this was the last place on earth I wanted to be. As I began the imaginary conversation I took up pursuit of the suspects.
‘What the fuck is this fucking place!’ I said disparagingly. ‘For Christ’s sake! How the fuck am I meant to get into this fucking shit hole!’
Speaking loudly and with real annoyance, and feigning to be oblivious to everything around me, I was now close on the heels of the suspects – I was deliberately following them and they knew it! – and with the mobile phone and imaginary conversation as my armour I realized I could now get as near to them as I wanted. Continuing to curse and swear and sound hacked off I was right up behind them – up their backsides as they say – and though they turned to look at me, I steadfastly kept my eyes averted, looking strictly to one side as one does when one is on the phone. In this manner did we reach the door, with those two now knowing fine well that I was following them, in order to gain the access to the building that otherwise I wouldn’t have; and the girl in front having typed in the code and released the door lock, she stepped inside the building followed by her man, who now, all because of the imaginary mobile phone conversation, believed me to have legitimate business herein and held the door for me till I took it and entered as well. As he held the door for me he tried to make eye contact with me – I think he felt sorry about the accusation the girl had made (remember reader terrorists are very sensitive people) – but I ignored his glance, didn’t say thanks at all, and continued to angrily berate the imaginary nobody at the other end of my phone. We waited for the lift, which after a few minutes came, and then stepped aboard.
What a turn around of events! Ho! From the doldrums of despair when I’d believed that I’d ballsed-up and bungled the obbo, I had turned proceedings on their head, and hurling fate aside with Herculean bravado, had rescued the mission. Give me five dear reader! Hey ho for secret agent X! And now with ever expanding confidence I decided to pile on the bull shit and make my mission that bit easier. As we were waiting for the lift I had ended my invented phone call. On entering the lift the female had pressed the floor twelve button. Growing increasingly cocky, I had then, as an affected response to this action, dialled up once more and prey asked ‘What fucking floor is it again?’ To which I replied after a brief pause, ‘Hmm, it’s fucking floor fifteen is it. That’s alright then.’
When we arrived at floor twelve those two got out, yours truly still engrossed in his conversation – after ending my first call I’d found that moment at the bottom, stood next to those two, a daunting time indeed and felt naked and alone in the ensuing silence. Though it was foolish that I should hold a conversation with a person I was about to see in the flesh, the suspects appeared unbothered by this; anyway they walked out of the lift; and when they turned a corner and went out of sight, I held back the door that was closing on me, exited the elevator and tiptoed around the corner. I saw the suspects before me along the corridor, and watched on as they unlocked and entered one of the flats. With stealth I approached the door. Thus had I been brought to the foxes den.
There was a smell of cooked food – Indian or Chinese – wafting along the corridor. Kneeling down on my honkers I slightly opened the letter box and peered inside. The brightly illumined flat was in stark contrast to the dingy corridors and dark night outside. As I peeped into the interior I saw a living room ahead of me: it seemed to be the main room; but leading from it was an entrance on the right, not very far from the front door where I now stood; and this entrance connected the living room with another room – perhaps a kitchen – from which I heard the excessively loud voices of the suspects. (The row had rekindled anew since they’d gotten inside, and the female was absolutely going off her rocker.) Though I could hear their voices, I couldn’t see the suspects. If they were tucked away inside that off-shoot room then now would be an excellent time to enter. And as I stood there on the threshold I realized that now was my chance to sneak in; but for the moment something just held me back.
Now was the time to stand up and be counted. If I’d made it this far through this bleak and foreign land, there was no point in now turning round and going home with the runner’s up prize of having reached the dragon’s den but not having entered. Recalling my oath of allegiance to Queen and country and dwelling but just a moment on the countless civilians whom I was sworn to protect, I gained new courage. And presently I heard voices, as if a gang of youths were advancing along the corridor. My fate was sealed. If they saw me thus, loitering in the vicinity, the game would be up. It was now or never; the window of opportunity was set to close and I had to skip to it. Grabbing onto the door handle with an incredibly, tight, tight fist; and with the slowest and slowest and yet strongest of movements, I gently, gently, gently pulled down the handle. Without sound it got to the bottom, and at this point, with just the slightest of clicks, the latch retreated itself so that the door was ready to open. My palms were absolutely soaking, yet even so I grasped tightly as could be onto the handle in order to keep it right down and so soundless, as I now, slowly but surely pushed back the door. At this point of intrusion I acted with authoritative assuredness as if I was doing nothing wrong. If my entry was to be witnessed by one of the suspects or some other inhabitant then I wanted to be caught looking as if I had rightful business herein. Of course in lots of ways it was all academic: if I was caught I was caught. But I didn’t want to appear as though I were sneaking about.
As it turned out however, my entry was anonymous, the occupants in the off-shoot room being engrossed in their row which now blazed in ever-glowing glory. Cautiously treading past the entrance communicating the off-shoot and living room, I delved yet further into the heart of the living room. Though I’d crept along the walls so soon as I’d entered the flat, and though I now found myself hugging the wall of the living room, still I felt myself far too much exposed in here and determined to head for a much smaller room whose entrance was to be found down a little row of steps on the further side of the living room. Thus did I descend and occupy this smaller room, (there were three rooms altogether down these stairs, but this was the only one with an open door). I switched the light on: apparently this was the girl’s bedroom.
In gaining this position my first reaction was to sit down on the girl’s bed, in order to rest my feet for a second, not only after the lengthy walk, but also because what with all the adrenaline, and their predisposition to turn to jelly, they were really quite fatigued. The bed lay against one wall of the rectangular room, and as I sat there facing the opposite wall in which the entrance way onto the stairs and the living room was placed, I could look out and keep watch on the suspects if they left the off-shoot room and entered the living room. For the meantime the row had taken a new twist with the female slapping the male very hard – it sounded so awful that I almost felt it on my face – and then breaking into tears herself, with the male cursing at having been hit. The layout of the room was as follows: on the wall opposite to where I sat and adjacent to the door there was a wardrobe; whilst on one of the side walls there was a chest of drawers come dressing table and on the wall opposite to this were some shelves. In several locations on the wall hung posters of almost naked men, with greased-up oily torsos and mere thongs for underwear; in fact one, who flaunted his clenched posterior to the camera was completely in the buff. All of these men were of Mediterranean complexion and unshaven: evidently she liked a bit of rough.
Spread all over the dressing table, on the shelves and on different parts of the floor were to be found a myriad of girly knick-knacks: hairbrushes, combs, scissors, nail files, little mirrors, little boxes containing I don’t know what; an endless, endless supply of bottles, cans and pots of lotions, perfumes, sprays and all the rest of it; there were dirty towels on the floor, dirty clothes surrounding the little wash basket that stood in one corner, with a hair dryer lying next to it; there were teddy bears and dolls sitting on the shelves, and in general there just seemed to be a whole load of everything, messily dispersed about the room and cluttering up the floor space. Not only was the room messy but it didn’t smell too good either; there was an unmistakable odour of cigarette smoke, and on top of this a scent of perfume; yet though they did their best to mask it, an insidiously foul smell lurked beneath them: a cheesy-yoghurt come fish come faeces smell, the sort that would be best at home in a toilet. She obviously didn’t care to air her room – her cosy little den – that often, if at all, and though it is her right to have it in whatever way she wants it, and though its none of my business whatsoever, still, if I had have been here in any other capacity than that of spy I would have given her a good little lesson in hygiene.
Be things as they may I now availed myself of the opportunity to thoroughly search the room and try and find any evidence that would incriminate the suspects or give clue to any plots they were hatching. Accordingly I set about searching through her things. As I went, I could hear the suspects in the other room. The female had had a good, good cry now, and not only was the argument long since gone by, but also her tears were nearly spent as well. She just kept up a light sobbing, the male was soothing and comforting her, and though she still softly rebuked him for his misdemeanours, it was evident that she wanted to make it up to him now, and return to normal. What a peculiar sound is the soft-cooing and baby like noise of a crying women whose tears are just about spent, and who is now feeling the rainbow of happiness spread through her once more in the light of the sunshine after the rain. What ancient human noise, an animalistic-puppy like sound; running deep, deep, deep through the human-consciousness, as though they were the very same tears of a sobbing cave women.
Meanwhile I’d decided to check underneath her pillows. These lay on her bed along with a small red cushion in the shape of a heart and also a little soft puppy toy. Lifting these aside I held up the top pillow to search for any little keepsake she might be hiding underneath it. The pillow was awash with long hairs – in fact they were all over the flipping room – and as I went about my work they seemed to attach themselves to my hand. Yet on inspection of the lower pillow I could see nothing but a few old snot rags and the girls silky pyjamas. To be sure I lifted up the pyjamas and unfolding them, held them up and scrutinized them – there were no clues to be had here.
Growing ever more dubious over the culpability and involvement in the terror ring of this female (I was even beginning to have doubts about the leads on the IC3 male) I now decided it was necessary to rifle through her drawers. I opened up the top drawer, and although on the surface it contained nothing but underwear, I knew that this would be an ideal place to stash some secret documents or a weapon or a little vile of poison or the like. Desperately I felt my way through the soft satin lingerie, with intensity and heavy breathing did I let my fingers run through all the silks and frills of the drawer. You see I’d suddenly been overcome by the terrifying and stressful, yet all the while very real conclusion, that these two people had no involvement in the terror network whatsoever and that I’d been totally deluding myself in tracking them back to their den. Oh what had I been thinking of in coming here?! Thus I was desperate to find some piece of evidence to allay these fears. I continued searching. And then incredibly, to my absolute amazement – Bingo! I’d found something.
Much to my relief I’d discovered a very illuminating piece of evidence, that more then justified my presence here. Right at the back of the drawer was it positioned, surrounded on all sides and covered by an assortment of knickers. I scrutinized it carefully. Reader, I’ll say this much, you’ve seen it before. By God that made a connection; yes indeedee; holy-hell this was evidence pulled out of the top-drawer. It was very conclusive. I reached in to pick it out. Yet just as I was about to get my paws on it, the hands of fate through a double six, and sent events spiralling in a new and dangerous direction.
The suspects were approaching the bedroom. With much haste I shut the top drawer and sought out a hiding place. I considered getting into the cupboard, but thinking on all that banging of doors that it would involve, I quickly opted against it and decided instead to conceal myself beneath the bed. It was one of those ones with two metal supports underneath; otherwise was there only space between the floor and mattress ledge. I essayed to get myself underneath, attempting to get in through the gap between the two ‘bed legs,’ although this proved difficult as not only was this aperture small, but in addition the female had lined up various pairs of shoes just underneath the bed and blocking this entrance. Nevertheless I made it through and got myself into position under the bed, lying on my back and looking upwards at the strong iron mesh-work, through whose holes I could see the mattress. My first sensation as I got underneath was the incredible quantity of dust present: it seemed to go up my nostrils and to settle at the back of my throat.
The two were now inside. Looking out I could see their legs; they were evidently facing each other and very close.
‘Hey baby.’
‘Hey baby.’
‘Look I’m really sorry for bein late un everythin. I’s real sorry girl. You knows how much I luv yer. You knows your ma little bunny babe.’
‘I knows it babe, I knows it. I is really sorry un all for shouten at ya like that. A knows you couldn’t help bein late. It aint your fault its that geezer you work for.’
‘Hey shush little honey-bun, let’s not talk about that.’
‘Come on then babe… shut the door would ya.’
And with that the IC3 male went to shut the door and the two suspects, after having started some serious kissing, took up position on the bed.
If your expecting, dear reader, a prolonged and detailed description of the amorous amelioration of those two suspects into one; of the grunts and groans and sighs and screams of those two antagonists as they slalomed their way to oblivion; of an accurate account of the ventures of the metaphorical salmon as he entered the estuary and swam upstream, then think on. What people get up to behind closed doors is none of my business, and although I promised at the outset to depict only the truth herein, I would also like to think that upon these pages you’ll find the stamps and hallmarks of honour, discretion and integrity.
Thus did the pack unfold itself: those two love birds atop, gripped in the passions of nature; yours truly underneath dealt a joker, and staring straight up at the bed, the strong iron cross-work bending and bulging at different times as the mattress and its adherents shifted their weight from side to side, now diving up, now diving down. Irrational or not as it may have been, I was terrified lest one of those bulges should prove too much for the iron-mesh-work, and that the mattress, encumberants and all, would come crashing down on my face and crush me. Of course at present the oscillations of the bed were very much at a minimum, if present at all. To speak accurately it was more like a slight shifting of the mattress. Though I had certain sounds and exclamations to indicate the current state of play up top, the mattress in itself, to one who knew how to interpret its signs, provided an accurate and detailed translation of events, and allowed me to deduce the location, around the metaphorical baseball pitch, that those two protagonists were at.
However as I sat there studying the mattress, it all of a sudden came to pass that I desperately needed to sneeze. It must have been the dust. I tried to call it off. My eyes squinted, my nose puckered, my mouth was open and piranha like. I was holding it back. Had I held it back? It seemed to be going away. Yes it had gone away. No, it was coming back. It was coming. I couldn’t hold it back. Desperately I reached my hand into my pocket for a hanky. Damn! I had none. With desperate fervour, I anxiously felt about me for some sort of substitute hanky. Putting my hand just out from under the bed it alighted on some sort of clothes item draped upon a high heel next the bed; it was washed through with a deep seated warmth; yet after this initial sensation the item felt silk-cold to the touch. Grabbing it urgently and taking it up I realized that it, or rather they, must have been a pair of the girl’s knickers; and not just any pair either; that warmth which I alluded to indicated that they’d just been worn; it dawned on me immediately that they were the pair that she’d just been wearing and that, contrary to the practice of leaving knickers on and only slipping them down whilst copulating that I thought was common amongst these people, they had in fact been taken off and thrown aside. Crumbs! They were the last thing that I would wish to employ as a substitute tissue; yet what might not happen if the suspects detected me? What about the evidence in the top-drawer? Honestly it didn’t bare worth thinking about. No, no, no, this was no time to be squeamish; there was no other option but to make do with the materials in front of me; otherwise I would be sneezing my way into the arms of the enemy and almost certain death.
With much haste I desperately stuffed one end of the panties down my throat and held the other end in place over my nose. I bit my teeth gnawingly into the now drool soaked panty material in an effort to hold back the sneeze. I was really clenching my teeth and gnawing into the scrunched up knickers in an effort to restrain the sneeze. As I thus laboured tears started streaming out of my eyes, I mean how can I say it, my face was ecstatic. Yet there was no way it could be held in check. Accordingly, with this makeshift anti-sneeze knicker-device apparatus in place, I carried out two controlled sneezes of minimal impact each. In the necessity of having to thus employ the panties, I’d not only felt their warmth and clamminess upon my face but I’d also tasted them and smelled them to boot. Honestly speaking, from this preliminary taste, touch, smell analysis, I’d have to conclude that they were soiled with the entire spectrum of stains; with the juices of love that may flow out from a girls front side eventually giving way to the residue of that which flows from the neighbouring vent or backside. Of course I’m not complaining about this reader, its all part of my job. Had the successful completion of my mission required that I feed from the toilet bowl of that suspect female, then, you bet your life, I would have done it.
Time began to elapse and the action up top was heating up. We were really getting into the swing of things now. Yet deciding that for a spy there’s no such thing as dead time, I set about looking for further evidence and clues that might be available under here. My hand alighted on a bag directly next to me that was placed in line with the head of the bed, and just upstream as it were from the row of shoes. Putting my hand inside I first of all withdrew what appeared to be a can of hairspray. Evidently this was the girl’s bag. Having another go at this lucky-dip, I pulled out some type of book. Now this indeed was interesting. I well-thought it could be a log book detailing various plans and plots or perhaps even listing contacts in it, names and numbers of other cell members. Yet in fact it turned out to be none other than a school history book. Even so I thought I’d give it the once over, just in case it was secretly the transport of some ill-intentioned note or message. Browsing through though, I couldn’t find anything incriminating. Yet all the same it appeared to be a most fascinating book. It was about world war I and II and the interim between them. Actually you know its really quite an absorbing subject if you get into it, I mean the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the forces of history, the involvement of……Whoa there boy! Steady on up there! The mattress was getting bloody close, we were really going for it up-top there. I returned to my book (the mattress was now undulating with extreme force – I felt we were driving closer to fourth bay – and because I was so scared it would come crashing down on top of me, I tried to divert my attention with the book). To return to my thoughts: truly it is a remarkable and engrossing period of history to study. The book began with the causes of World War I and the assassination of archduke Franz Ferdinand by the black hand. Was that the real cause of the war? Not only historically but philosophically it’s a very stimulating question. I remembered full well having studied it at school. If I recollect correctly I was fourteen at the time, it was a first year GCSE topic. Yes, it was all very interesting at the time……hang on a minute?........The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand?.....The Forces of History?.......a first year GCSE topic? Only fourteen at the time? But this book had come from the girls bag? Suddenly the awful truth had dawned on me. Believe me reader I immediately wanted to throw up and would have happily done so had it not jeopardised the mission. I couldn’t believe it. That girl was fifteen at most; and that male – that monster, that pervert – was molesting and raping her.
Though previously I had viewed their antics through rather easy going goggles, at that very moment my gut instinct was to jump out and arrest that monster, even though it would be compromising the mission to do so. But in the larger picture of national security, rape of a minor was precisely that – a minor crime – and my directive was clear: I had to turn a blind eye. But then no. No, no, no, no, no. Not on my watch it wasn’t going to happen. Fuck the rules! Sod those heartless bastards with their desk jobs back at the academy, those pen-pushing fuck-faces, who would relegate to petit criminality the disgusting assault of that pervert on a juvenile. Fucking sod them! Though it broke the oath of allegiance that I’d sworn to queen and country to do so, such an oath at a time like this was meaningless, and I felt duty bound by my conscience to intercede. There are times in life when we must act according to higher feelings alone and throw all else to the wind. Otherwise are we mere robots, automatons without heart following the letter of the law like so many pawns of inconsequence on the checker board of life. Though I was no sex crimes expert, I knew exactly what was going on. The mattress undulations spoke volumes: the action up top was rapidly running away to its climatic conclusion. It was now or never then. Someone had to play chaperone: fate had bestowed that role upon me. The game was up, it was all over now: it was time to get out and blow the whistle on those two. With one hand on the side of the bed I hurriedly raised myself up and with much haste and in a breathless, enervated state – I was in a right tizzy trying to stop this shocking sex crime – started to make a speedy exit from under the bed. Yet all of a sudden from nowhere: bang! Argh! In my haste to get out I’d cracked my head straight against the side of the bed. Argh you bastard! That hurt! Bloody hell that was hard fucking metal! I lay reeling under bed, clasping my head in pain and rubbing it, after having fallen, after the bang, back down to the ground. And as I lay there in pain, half knocked out and senseless, to add insult to injury, the crime up top was completed in a climatic undulation of mattress and squeaking springs. As I lay there recovering, the after undulations steadily subsided and petered out, as if the life was slowly draining from that beast with two backs that had fought with such ardour yet had ultimately been defeated in a desperate death struggle. All soon gave way to silence. Love’s labour had been consummated up top; her slaves presumably lay there spent and corpse-like.
I had been too late to prevent the rape of that girl. Yet with the crime now committed, there was little point in crying over spilt milk or blowing my cover over sown oats. I lay there angrily, rubbing my head, and waiting on the next move of the suspects. It’s a well documented fact that in the aftermath of love making, one partner will reveal to the other some secret very close to their heart. I now leant an ear fully expecting that the male might give up some info to the girl. However the suspects were silent save for some drowsy murmurs and the powerful and superhuman wind-breaking concerto that the male delivered up as an encore to his amorous acts; which, like one of those musical pieces that stops and you think it cant go anywhere, suddenly plumbs new depths and climbs the musical scale once more; truly his stamina was great and he kept the beat going. Though you know actually as much as I suspected it was the male who’d committed this last atrocity it’s not really my game to jump to conclusions or to stereotype or to fit people up. No, as far as I’m concerned this sort of profiling is not on. Keeping an open mind, that little dirge of dirtiness could well have been carried out by the female.
Some ten minutes had elapsed when all three of us were startled by the arrival through the flat door of some other personage. The suspects up top began to stir themselves, and from their dialogue, I gleaned that it was the girl’s mother. Evidently this was in fact her flat, and not that of the girl as I’d originally thought it to be. Without knocking on the door she entered the room. Though the suspects had roused themselves, though I could see there legs dangling over the bed and though they were in the process of redressing themselves, still they didn’t seem to be in any real hurry to do so and didn’t strike me as at all bothered about being caught out by the mother like this; but equally for her part, the mother, as she stood there at the door – I could see her legs, and hear her voice – was completely blasé as she found the suspects sat upon the bed like so, getting dressed. Clearly she condoned the crimes of that pervert and paedophile. Good God! What den of iniquity was I come to tonight!
I should elucidate briefly the fate of the sneezed-on, drool soaked panties. Though I feared that in replacing them upon her midriff, or even just in picking them up, the female might grow suspicious, yet I feared even more that if I held them back, the female in her search for them might look down beside, and then indeed under the bed: as I didn’t want to be flushed out at this late stage, I’d decided, after wiping off the most gooey parts of the sneeze and attempting to dry out the worst of the drool, to replace the panties in their previous position. However all went by smoothly. The female, though she manifested some minor shock and disgust at picking up the panties and finding them so soaked with my drool and smeared with my warm sneeze residue, appeared only to pass these unpleasantries off as her own doing, as the fruits of her own exhilaration and lust, the sweat of her labours and the sauces of her loins. With one more exclamation of wonder – and a thrill I think too: I got the impression she was quite proud of this bogus evidence of her own state of excitement and womanly prowess – she tossed them to the corner where the wash basket stood, and there falling short of there intended goal, I saw them land on the floor next to the basket.
Those two suspects now exiting the room, the girl’s mother having gone out before them, I heard their voices in the adjacent rooms and from the smell that wafted my way got the impression that they were preparing dinner. As far as I was concerned the mission was over, my work here for tonight was complete. I was keen to get out now and return home. Yet with those three present in the flat, affecting an exeunt would be difficult.
In order to facilitate the successful completion of my mission, I took up the girl’s hairspray – that which was in her bag – and sprayed it repeatedly in quick sharp bursts at the fire sensor that stood up high on the wall. (The spraying noise was not loud enough to be heard by the other three; they were caught up in the din of their meal preparations and conversation.) Within a few sprays, the alarm was going off ten to the dozen in the most incredible outpouring of noise and urgency. Really it was an absolute earache; it made you want to jump out the building head first. And it was much to the angry chagrin of the occupants; the curses and exclamations of those three in the outer rooms, exasperated at having to have their meals interrupted and at having to troop down those interminable stairs and go out into the dark, cold night; but also of their neighbours roundabout: no sooner had the alarm sounded than a chorus of voices testily berating the fates, could be heard in the vicinity. For my own part I knew that I’d acted in good faith. Crime though it may be to set off an alarm like this and call out the fire brigade, it was necessary in the higher workings and greater good of the secret service – bearing in mind the crucial piece of evidence that I wished to carry out of here unhindered; no I was totally justified and national security superseded and excused the wolf-crying crime of setting off the detector.
Eventually, with much reluctance, the mother and the two suspects left the flat and I was free to make my escape. However just before leaving I made once more for the top drawer of the girl’s dressing table. Opening it up, I pulled out from the back, with very safe-handling, that damning piece of evidence that I’d discovered earlier on, that testified not only to the ill-intentions of the suspects, but also proved that my hunches had been 110% correct, and that in following the suspects back here I had not been out of line. Holding the said piece of evidence in my hand, I paused for a second to peruse it. After eye-balling it for a moment or so, I shook my head from side to side in disbelief. I couldn’t believe it! I really couldn’t. Sometimes reality is stranger than fiction. For its safe and effective transport out of here and back to evidence control, I unbuttoned and unzipped my trouser front, and, expanding the elastic lining of my black, tight, short-shaped underpants, popped the piece of evidence in beside my manhood. Please reader, don’t think that this is some sort of perverted party trick on my part. If you’ve got any doubts as to this your obviously very much out of touch with the world of espionage. Every operative, good or bad employs this method of concealing objects, so don’t go thinking I’m some sort of deluded pervert reader; every trafficker, every hustler, hell even the lowliest of the lowest police officer knows this trick of the trade.
Re-zipping my pants I left the flat. Soon I was amongst the hundreds of other residents trooping down the stairwell, in the all-deafening din, and making my way into the dark night outside. The fire alarm had really flushed them all out, and to see the entire contents of the tower spewed out onto show, a dangerous assortment of tough guys, junkies, homeboys, big-butch neo-Nazi skinheads, migrants, drug dealers, hard faced women and ASBO children – scared me just a tad. Nevertheless, keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact, I exited the building and making my way past the chagrined yet excited residents, standing about the building talking to one another, some of them in their dressing gowns, I finally broke free and made it back onto the road that headed out of here.
Oh what a feeling! What a feeling of freedom and release! Oh glorious sensation of being free, of having gotten off scot-free with my act of espionage; and all the while the vital piece of evidence tucked away nicely in my underpants. As I walked on along the street with new found energy, I once more went under that railway bridge and as I came out the other side saw two fire-engines flying my way. As a sign of good faith I signalled to the drivers with my thumb the direction of the tower block, though in sooth I think they knew it; but they just looked at me scornfully as if I was a nobody. Well that’s fireman for you! They think they’re God’s gift to this country! What a bunch of trumped up superheroes they are! Actually they only work about four days a week or something and that’s mainly spent in playing volleyball and lying on a bed masturbating over pictures of naked women. Part-timers! The work of the spy is never-ending; it’s a 24/7 affair.
When I got to the bus stop I found that no buses would be running now until the morning. I would have to walk it. Some four and a half hours after leaving the tower block, and 2:36 am by my watch, I made my way, foot-weary and exhausted, hungry and in need of rest, back into my house, and off the dark, cold streets of the night. Heading straight up to bed, I undressed down to my underpants, and pulled out the piece of evidence. Taking a few moments to look it over in wonder and amazement again I then placed it beneath my pillow for safe-keeping, and with my head then placed above it as lock and key, I switched off the bed side lamp and fell asleep.
Reader your curiosity is peaked? You wish to know precisely what that damning piece of evidence was? Let me put you out of your misery. It was a ladies bra. But not just any old bra. It was a jaguar patterned bra: exactly the same as had been exchanged earlier in the day.

III
The events of the preceding chapter had left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Accepted, in my role as secret agent it had been my undeniable duty to track those two suspects, and I had been obliged under oath to enter into their den of vice. Nevertheless the horrific scenes of rape and paedophilia which had played themselves out not a cat’s whisker away from where I lay, and the revelation of the IC3 male as a fiendish baby-raper, molester and sick-in the-head pervert had shocked me to the core. Though I had attempted at the time to intercede on behalf of that innocent child, and though I was ready to follow my gut instinct and blow my cover and arrest the IC3 male, ultimately I had been too late. To that end did I feel myself somewhat sorry and sobered: where I might have intervened, I’d allowed the victim to be taken; and just as I’d once watched on as a cat attacked a mouse; and just as I’d then considered stepping in and rescuing the mouse I hadn’t; and just as I’d sat back and witnessed the mouse’s demise; and just as come the finish I had been overcome by remorse and sorrow, and my breast burdened with woe – so too did I feel now. Though I hadn’t committed any crime, I could really have prevented one and in sooth I felt myself guilty: for the road to hell is paved with good intentions and ‘he who sleeps whilst wolves devour is hand in glove with Lucifer’s power.’ Though it will shock you to hear it reader, I felt as though I myself were some sort of sick pervert. Though in my heart of hearts I knew I was entirely blameless, still I gave free rein to my gnawing inner conscience and let it accuse me of all manner of sick thoughts. The whole crime lay heavy on my mind and recurred to me in macabre nightmare visions, replaying time and again the sickening seduction of sordidness as the IC3 male stuck two fingers up to the teachings of Plato. Night after night I would wake up panting and anguished, my body drenched in sweat, thinking of that act of sexual perversion, of that innocent, fifteen year old nymph-girl being ridden by the IC3 male to the gates of hell; and in a terrible metaphorical moment for me, as if Satan himself were chiding me for my part in the crime, I found myself on top of the female and inside her body, gorging myself lustfully on Lucifer’s grapes. Oh what shocking visions! Truly was the crime something like a millstone around my neck, my skeleton in the cupboard. I should have interceded, I should have.
In terms of my mission, to a large extent that had been a success. The trawling up of the jaguar-patterned bra, its reappearance in the hideout of a known terrorist was surely no coincidence. True it was not conclusive evidence of any real crime, but it was nevertheless an important link in the whole puzzle of events, an irrefutable footprint in the muddied dirt tracks of the terror network; an alimentary canal linking cell to cell. Moreover it brought back to the forefront of events and in dramatic fashion too the IC1 female – she of the bra exchange – who had heretofore been thought of as nothing more than a mere bit part player or puppet. Suddenly she sprang up centre stage, and the re-emergence of the bra shed new and dangerous light on those surreptitious knicker tugs of hers, originally dismissed as only a natural consequence of wearing tight panties; not so indeed; they’d been dangerously revealed to be symptomatic signs of someone with adrenaline rushing to their backside – in a word someone with a plot up their sleeve.
Yet more than this my secondment of the jaguar bra, was also solid evidence that I’d been present at the suspect’s flat, and if the crows flew south and we failed to pin any terror charges on the IC3 male; if he was able to slither and slip through the net of niceties in the law, and play old Baileys hammer for a whore, then we could use the molestation of a minor – with myself as eyewitness and the bra as testimony – as leverage. In order to quench my anger at that bastard I oftentimes played out in my mind a little scene in a police interview room wherein I questioned the IC3 male. He’d be sat down on one side of a table, slouching as usual; I’d be stood up, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the table, with one foot raised off the floor and my sole resting on the wall. I’d have my arms folded and I’d be saying very assuredly to the IC3 male that he was guilty and that he was going down. For his part he’d just be slouching there, curling his lip, nonchalantly moving his head from side to side saying ‘A don’t know nuffin boss.’ Losing patience with his indifferent attitude and allowing myself to get carried away by disgust at his crime, I’d suddenly burst into a rage and shout ‘stop calling me boss, you little scoundrel!’ And now that he was enervated by my raised voice, I’d quietly calm down, and slowly but surely, withdraw from my top pocket the jaguar bra, saying ‘what can you tell me about this then son?’ I imagined the look of shock and disbelief on the face of the suspect, his unbelievable dismay that I’d borne witness to his act of perverseness; his horror now he knew that he’d been found out.
And I didn’t let my thoughts stop there. Time and again I imagined dishing out a good hiding to that sick pervert, venting my spleen at his disgusting depravity. I envisaged stripping him naked and letting him rot, cold and hungry, in a God-forsaken cell; and with relish I would return between-times to my captive, and, squaring it with the duty-sergeant who knew the full extent of that son of a bitches atrocities, gain an entry and give that monster a good beat down, giving his naked buttocks a good whipping and playing games with him. I even considered giving his a taste of his own medicine. All of this I fantasized in order to assuage my anger and keep my demons at bay.
But the machinations of the terror network being non-stop around the clock; and the lifestyle of the spy not encompassing the concepts of home time and out of hours, I necessarily had to shelve these thoughts and continue with my investigations. As regards the plot to blow-up shoppers, I decided in the interim to let the IC3 male stew a bit, and slackened the reins on this case. In any event I had divers other ongoing operations and sundry other leads to pursue. In particular it turned out that today I could capitalise on the weather and consolidate some surveillance work that I’d been sitting on over the past several weeks. In consequence of this work and as a climax to it, I now found myself standing just across the road from 43 Rose Ashes Gardens, clipboard in hand, dressed in a suit and a long black overcoat, and absolutely soaked to the skin by the rain teeming down from the heavens. An explanation is in order.
A month or so back, it came to light that some very disturbing activities were afoot at the local university. The press was full of horror stories of brainwashing, bamboozling, shit stirrers spreading their propaganda and indoctrinating young students into the evil realms of al-queda. Moreover rumours abounded that several senior lecturers had been implicated in a plot to manufacture home made bombs. The whole story had created quite a stir and caused alarm to the general public. Personally I’d followed its development with avid interest: both BBC News 24 and Sky News devoted much coverage to it, and they’d even been in town to film live raids by the anti-terrorist squad on the houses of known suspects, in which masked men with machine guns jumped out the back of a van and infiltrated a house of terror. It was all very compulsive viewing. In fact, as demanded by my anti-terror training it was necessary that I recorded these live raids; and every night I sat and watched, desperately scrutinizing the images to see if I could detect anything unusual, that the police in their haste – and I might add less well-trained and frankly incompetent powers of deduction – had missed. In addition I bought all the newspapers, and consuming up every last detail of the story, gauged myself on it, as every secret agent aught to. Further, by cutting out all the articles related to the story, I created a little file which I kept in my bedroom at home – this is standard: I do it for all my cases. Yet in the midst of all this very evident terror and obvious culpability of the suspects, the whole thing had turned pear-shaped, and the police had been confounded by the terrorists and were unable to lay their hands on any bomb equipment after the raids. And to rub salt into their wounds the terrorists began proclaiming their innocence and got off scot-free from the accusations, implicating the police as blundering ignoramuses.
Though I couldn’t help but second that sentiment vis-à-vis the police (as a secret agent it’s my duty to despise that Dad’s army of blundering fools – every one of us in the secret service does; you know since time immemorial we’ve had the plodders botching up our secret operations spectacularly – I’ll dish some dirt later reader) still, I was disgusted and horrified by the slickness of the terrorists. In one particular case I remembered that a suspect had refused to submit his DNA for elimination in a bomb-making case. In the eyes of the law that was his right, yet this very act, though it spoke a thousand volumes of his guilt, lead to his release and thwarted the operations of the police. And what really got me gnashing my teeth was that, what with all the media hype criticizing the raids, the police had now less power to enter suspects houses.
All of these happenings spun around in my mind and I was profoundly influenced by them. Yet in the ensuing days the story just seemed to go out the news. You might be surprised reader, but actually some of a spies best information comes from watching the TV. Yet often when I try to access the latest situation on the terror front, by tuning in to say News 24, I find myself thwarted, bored and angered, by a lengthy feature on the markets, a whole load of incomprehensible gobbledygook on the ups and downs of the Dow Jones and the Footsy one index. I don’t know what those fools at the BBC are playing at sometimes, I really don’t; they obviously think these mindless facts and jargon concerning shares are more newsworthy than the war on terror. And precisely this was happening now – the story of the university bomb-makers and the terror raids being displaced by the more absorbing business news. Angrily I connected to the internet to check out the current terror threat to our nation: yet surprisingly we were only on medium alert.
Frustrated as I was by the lack of media coverage on the story, and angered by the suspects escaping the hands of justice, I found myself one night watching the video once more, the one where masked men jumped out the back of a van. And the images left me feeling pumped up and ready for action. Walking up and down across my room, in front of a blackboard on which I’d hung all the newspaper cut-outs related to this case, and on which lay my chalked scrawling, testament to my furious brain-storming on events, I mused on the slyness of the terrorists and the indifference of the media in just letting the story run cold. Then interrupting my walk, I stood still, and, looking into the distance put the piece of chalk to my mouth and stared with concentrated expression ahead of me. Speaking slowly and with that sure confidence that distinguishes a man of espionage I said ‘okay boys so you think you’ve got one over on the powers that be. Well then, I think it’s about time I mounted my own little operation. (I emphasize the word little reader, because I meant it in an ironic sense.)
Accordingly the next day found me undercover at the university and with ear to ground I soon got word – from very secure sources, which I cannot here reveal – that one Dr Rashid Khan, a lecturer in chemical engineering, was running a bomb-making ‘factory.’ Although at first sight he appeared a classic text-book case terrorist, a closer inspection revealed a very shocking truth. According to an informant near to him, Khan was little more than a supplier and the terror ring was being orchestrated by a mystery man known only as ‘the hand.’ I was told by a third party that I would be able to speak to ‘the hand’ in a certain internet chat room. And that evening, logging in under the guise of a Pakistani-born malcontent, I got chatting to ‘the hand.’ And by playing my cards right I obtained access to his website. When I got there I was quite shocked.
The hand turned out to be an IC1 Englishman, Dr Mark Blackmore. This was a real surprise. A white terrorist. Browsing through his website the main thing one was struck with was the anti-war polemic. He gave his views on the invasion of Iraq, there were page after page of his thoughts and I was able to corroborate from running through local archives that he had been one of the chief protesters in the anti-war campaign, had taken part in countless demonstrations and marches, often appeared on local radio discussions, and was generally held in high regard as a spokesman of human rights. There were links from his site to anti-war petitions, petitions to end Guantanemo bay etcetera, and also to groups like ‘Liberty.’ Though people spoke highly of him as a determined pacifist, and though there was nothing in his website to indicate that he supported terrorism, from what I had learned at the chat room and university he now appeared to be employing a more hands on approach to making his point heard.
I very quickly made it my business to learn more of Dr Blackmore. It transpired that he had recently been on a visit to Iraq for a few months purportedly on humanitarian grounds. He was a GP at small town on the outskirts of our city, called Thornley. Reading various reports of him he couldn’t have appeared more of a mild-mannered man, decent, kind and honest yet all the while passionate about his cause. However after having studied him a while I began to see that underneath all his civilised geniality, there lurked an anti-western sentiment, a deep, deep resentment to the ways of the west, and this tied in with what I’d learnt about him from speaking to him as ‘the hand.’ A very well practiced persona did he have, that of an easy-going, eternally nice, forever pleasant and good humoured man with a humane and moral stance against the Iraq war. Yet the real truth was shocking and I couldn’t help shake my head at the sheer two-facedness of this creep. You know reader, if there is a moral to this story it’s that appearances can be deceptive; believe me in my business, I’ve learnt this the hard way over time. The deceitful depravity of this breed of terrorist gives me the willies and truly speaking I often have trouble sleeping at night. What I wouldn’t give to be once more innocent like you reader; you who do not know the dark side of the world, you who perceive only the lighter side of citizens, and not the dark beast of madness that lies within. For yours truly, seeing on a day to day basis, the devilishly perverted nature of everyday people masquerading as innocent goody two shoes – it’s a real shocker I can tell you.
Such then was the character of Dr Blackmore. Logging onto his website, and opening up the link which said ‘Personal,’ I had been able to learn that he had a wife and daughter. My first thought was one of immense sympathy and well-founded concern for those poor women. Dear Lord to have to live with such a madman! His wife was named Eleanor and they had one daughter Eustacia. There was a photograph of the three of them and others of only Eleanor and Eustacia. I printed all of these photographs out and added them to the file. Yet what I really wanted to know was the address of Dr Blackmore; for I intended to pay the Blackmores a house-call, to see if I could find any evidence of bomb-making or the like, while he was out at work at his surgery. But his home address proved an illusive piece of information to obtain. I thought about going to the surgery and then following him home; but there were complications here: for one thing I don’t have a car – we spies are not given sufficient funds to have one. I thought about making the trip out to Thornley. Perhaps I could hire a taxi and follow him home in that? But then he would know we were tailing him on such a long journey, the taxi driver would grow suspicious and I didn’t want to alert Blackmore to the fact that we were onto him. I mean it would be a risky thing to undertake. Nevertheless it was a possible plan of attack. However perhaps there was a simpler way. I fished about for an easier alternative first. I carried out protracted searches on the internet under the keywords, Blackmore, Mark Blackmore, Eleanor Blackmore, Eustacia Blackmore, and even Shilton Blackmore, their dog. But the best contact details I was able to procure were simply email addresses.
Then I had an idea. Contacting the surgery at Thornley, I posed as a patient of Dr Blackmore, who wished to thank him for his kindness in treating me when I had been ill, by sending a bouquet of flowers to his house. Making up a woeful tail of tragedy from which I’d had the fortune to recover, I piled on the bull shit and took the secretary into my confidence. However she told me it was not the policy of the surgery to give out contact details like this and that if I wanted to send a bouquet to Dr Blackmore then I could simply send it to the surgery.
I was going to have to do some hard thinking and some spy work worthy of distinction, if I was to procure his address. Thinking it over, I did have his email address. Surely that was something. Yet how can one convert an email address to a house address? You know perhaps I could sell him something over the internet, send him an email offering him a bargain of some sort, and if he hooked onto it, he would have to mail me his address so that I could deliver his goods. Yet what could I sell him? What do people buy over the internet? What about flogging him a book? Something medically related or perhaps about the war on Iraq. I could offer it to him at an incredibly low price. Yet might he not smell a rat? He was a devious one reader make no mistake about that and he would surely see straight through such a scam. Especially since I would have huge problems in making myself look like a legitimate bookseller. I would have to have credible web pages, names and addresses of people and contacts, information on the company, policies and procedures bull-shit, a logo, a kitchen sink and an old man’s walking stick. Urgh! No, no, no. I would, in essence have to set up a small business in order to make it all look above board and coatia, and I just didn’t have the time or resources for that. And in any case would he really chose to trade with me instead of just using Amazon or another big name? I might sell him stuff at a give away, it’s true, but even so I had my doubts. No, it was all a bit of a feeble ploy really; and as my mind ran over other products I could sell I realized I’d be running into the same problems. To all appearances there was nought I could sell him or them that wouldn’t require setting myself up in a legit business. I mean people are just so demanding and in control when there buying stuff. Whoever it was that said ‘the customer is always right’ was spot on; and probably they meant it not as a rule under which to work but simply as a truism. Huh! The trumped up arrogance of people when they’re buying things. As if they were the queen of Sheba. No I could imagine the arrogant response that would be given to my honest bargain sales – they’d dismiss it. What I needed was to sell them something where there would be no questions asked. And then it struck me. Bingo! That was it. I could sell them something blue, something x-rated.
No sooner had this idea lit up in my head, than my thoughts immediately fell upon the teenage daughter. Given the age she was at, given her lack of freedom in the world, I felt sure she would be the best person to target, the one most likely to respond to the cheap give away of x-rated goods. I would probably be wasting my time with Blackmore or his wife, but the teenager was a worthy target. Yet what was it that I should offer to sell her? What x-rated merchandise could a teenage girl be in need of? It came to me straight away: a dildo. I keenly set about typing up an email to Eustacia offering her a twelve inch dildo for a mere £1.99 and going to great lengths to assure her that it would be delivered absolutely top secret and that there would be no chance that anybody, for example her parents, would find out. Yet halfway through it suddenly struck me that Eustacia might not have a credit card of her own, so that she’d be unable to carry out the transaction. That was ironic indeed, since I didn’t want her money at all. I would be happy to give the dildo away. Could I do that? Just send her an email offering to give her a dildo for free? No, that would be too suspicious. However perhaps I could offer it as a prize for, I don’t know, a completion of a survey or something? I thought it through. Eventually I had the plan thought out and decided to put it into motion. The following is the message I sent:

Dear Miss Blackmore,
Would you like a free twelve inch vibrating rubber penis absolutely free of charge? If so simply send us your address and we’ll send it to you within two working days. Worried that others might find out what’s being delivered? Have no fears. At vibrate.com we have a very strict policy of product confidentiality. All packages are discretely enclosed in parcels bearing the hallmarks of book/record packages. We absolutely guarantee you that nobody will get to know what’s been sent you. Simply mail us your address, and when you’ve received the product – and we hope enjoyed it! – do us the favour of filling out a simple questionnaire concerning the efficacy of the vibrator, e.g. whether you liked it, marks out of ten, how it could be improved etcetera. We’ll send you the survey in due course.

Anyway we hope to hear from you soon, Miss Blackmore, and don’t have doubts, just give it a go! It couldn’t be easier.

Yours Sincerely
The crew at Vibrate.com

Thus did I set out the bait-mail. Yet when I was done and I’d read it over, I couldn’t help but feel as though I were a pervert. Naturally there was no substance to that feeling, and I was simply acting in the greater interests of national security. Still to an onlooker who wasn’t aware of my double agents agenda, it could be construed that I was sending perverted messages to a teenage girl. And how old was Eustacia after all? I really didn’t know. She looked very young. I don’t know, perhaps she was fourteen or fifteen? Perhaps only twelve? Granted, those cold-hearted automatons, my superiors back at headquarters would have tick-boxed the plan without hesitation. But not being a robot myself, I had serious reservations. Saving the email I once more trawled through the personal pages of Dr Blackmore. And with closer scrutiny I deduced that Eustacia must be at least sixteen. Ha! So she was no little innocent after all! I now gave the plan the green light: in sending Miss Blackmore the email I would be doing no more than washing up one more grain of sand on the shores of her corruption.
The email met with a speedy response as the dirty minded Eustacia soon replied me, desperate to get her hands on the x-rated goodies. I now had the address of the Blackmores. In fact now that I had it, was there any real need to send her a dildo? If it didn’t arrive what was she going to do? Complain to her parents? Hardly. In this way, by not sending the dildo, I realised I might lessen any accusations of pervert levelled at me, albeit absolutely hollow ones at that. However it suddenly struck me that the email could well have reached its way to the father; by some sort of filter device, or even by a guilt-stricken and frightened Eustacia herself. In that case it was perhaps he who had replied to the email. Possibly out of the hope of fulfilling his own perverted fantasies, but more likely out of the realization that someone, i.e. yours truly, was attempting to gain information on him (to a paranoid and secretive mind like his the email was a clear rouse to gain the Blackmore address). As such this very request for the dildo could in itself be a test. If I failed to deliver the father might get suspicious. Thus I had no other option but to send her (or him as the case may be) a vibrator.
Of course you’ll be thinking to yourself dear reader, that I’m now going to describe to you some desperately embarrassing misadventure wherein I sally out to procure a dildo. But such a scenario was not necessary: there were two dildos already in my bedroom at home, though of course I’d obtained them in very innocent ways: one was a leftover from a mission as an undercover sex-worker; the other hauled in as evidence in the raiding of a suspect house. As I sat there putting the parcel together, I took up the dildo – the one I intended to part with – and gave it a whirl to see if it was still in working order: bzzzzzz! It made the sound of an electric toothbrush. It was raring to go!

***************************

In the proceeding weeks I had made a reconnaissance of 43 Rose Ashes Gardens, the home of the Blackmores. On weekdays when the doctor was at work, it appeared that his wife was home alone and as I walked past their window along the street, I saw inside Mrs Blackmore sitting alone in her living room, knitting and watching TV. And now I had returned in the guise of a charity worker, equipped with badge and false contact numbers, and bearing a couple of printed sheets carrying the stamp of our registered charity, all of which I’d downloaded from the net. I was already to make an introduction into the Blackmore household some two weeks or so ago; but calculating spy that I was, I’d decided to wait until a day when it chucked it down. And today such weather had arrived. Then let the mission begin. Soaked to the skin I crossed the road and rang the doorbell of number 43.
The door eventually drew back. It was Mrs Blackmore.
‘Yes’ she said pleasantly.
‘Oh hello there, my name is Mark Shilton, I’m calling on behalf of the charity Romanian Orphans: Action Response or ROAR as we like to call ourselves and what it is, is that all we’re basically doing is just knocking on people’s doors and telling them a little bit about the charity. We’re not so well known in fact, but as I’m sure you’ve guessed from the name madam, what we basically do is help out orphanages in Romania. We make runs there, taking over second hand cots, beds and clothes and what have you and we also run a variety of schemes with some orphanages in Budapest whereby you can sponsor a child or even perhaps adopt one. Now I haven’t come here expecting you’ll adopt a child or anything as drastic as that so don’t be thinking I’m just gonna come here and drop a little baby off at your door with a whole load of dirty nappies or anything crazy like that, but basically what we’re looking for is for people to sign up to give, I don’t know, just a few pounds a month, nothing that’ll break the bank or anything.’
‘Oh? Yes of course, you can sign us up for a few pounds a month, I dare say we can afford that’ she said amiably.
‘That would be really excellent madam, very kind-hearted of you indeed. If only there were more like you. Right I’ll just get out my……perhaps I’ll lean against this wall whilst I’m writing, if you don’t mind…..just so as I’ve got something to write on…..there it’s no trouble, anyway I’ll manage…’
‘Look son, why don’t you come inside and write it out, otherwise your sheets are going to get soaking wet; good grief it’s awful out there.’
‘That’s very good of you madam. I didn’t like to ask. Urgh! I’ve been out in it all morning. However before I enter I’m legally obliged to show you my identity card here: (I raised my card up from where it dangled on my waistline and flashed it into her face.) Basically this just says who I am: Mark Shilton. My identity number: IB410; and the charity who I’m with: ROAR; and then here, if you take a look at this form which I’ve got…..hang on, just a second….(I dug out the sheet from my folder)….which I’ve got here, you’ll see there’s a name and telephone number that you can contact if you like just to make sure I’m not some weirdo whose come to burglarise your house or something.’ I said this last bit jokingly. During all the discourse I gesticulated much and kept flashing my badge in front of Mrs Blackmore’s face and then removing it. I think she thought me a bit weird and nervous, but basically a decent guy. She looked at me kindly with the quiet seriousness of a middle-aged women, and smiled kindly on me with one of those sincere sad-smiles that one makes by simply raising the corners of one’s mouth. And in terms of believing me to be who I really was – Mark Shilton – she was completely sure and wasn’t interested at looking in detail at my card. It was obvious to her that I was genuine. And she trusted me implicitly. She was not the sort to play Poiret or Miss Marple, or expect to find a double agent at the door. No she was a very calm and down to earth person, very real, very time-worn and experienced; very Chekhovian in that respect, and as such she didn’t question my identity. This was real life after all not daytime TV.
‘Do come in,’ she said finally, and I followed her into the hallway where I took my shoes off, explaining to her that I didn’t want to muddy her carpets.
Thus did I gain an entry into the Blackmore’s household. As I dallied in the hall removing my shoes I could hear Shilton barking in a backroom. And as I happened to glance up the stairs I thought I saw at the top a pair of dark solemn eyes fixed on me. It must have been the daughter. I had studied her person in the photos: she had a wan face, dark hair, dark eyes with big dark rings underneath; she didn’t smile, seemed always huffy and out of sorts and her body was so skinny that it was tempting to think she was anorexic. She had obviously wanted to see who had come to the door. I felt her eyes staring at me from her hidy hole upstairs.
I proceeded into the dining room with Mrs Blackmore and we sat down at the table.
Mrs Blackmore was a lot like her daughter in that she never seemed to smile radiantly or be happy; but she was more mature than Eustacia, and much more ready to be amenable. I’ve got to say, middle aged women are often very trusting to me and think butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. It’s inherent in their good nature I guess that they’ll open up the door to me like Eleanor had done, and believe me to be an innocent child. But also I think there willingness to be kind to me stems from a guilt complex: if her daughter was anything to go by, Mrs Blackmore had probably been something of a bitch in her youth; so that when time had past and she’d matured somewhat and drank from the cup of happiness that finally came her way, she probably felt herself guilty at having once been a bit of a nasty pasty; and when one such as myself steps up at her door, baby-faced and slightly meek, studious and plain of face, she would immediately grant me a hearing. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt reader, its that people with a guilt complex are easy too dupe; because there so concerned with their own role in affairs that they cant read others true intentions: Eleanor was so ready to believe me the church-going geek-loser she’d once wronged, and exorcise her guilt by doing me a favour, that she had taken her eye off the ball. Of course as a secret agent I’m not complaining about this at all; if people are willing to grant me such easy access to their homes than that’s fine with me. But there are bad men out there, housebreakers, thieves and more especially perverts and it’s worrying to think how easily that sort might gain entry to your house. Warning to middle aged women: be more suspicious!
I explained to Eleanor some more concerning the charity’s aims and we started filling out the form.
‘So if I could just have your name madam.’
‘Oh Eleanor Blackmore,…E L E A N O R Blackmore –you know how to spell that?’
‘Yes I think so.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking but what was your name again?’
‘Oh Mark Shilton.’
‘Oh!’ said Eleanor smiling surprisedly to herself.
‘Why, what is it?’
‘I thought that’s what you said when you first arrived. I was immediately struck by it. It’s just that my husband is called Mark and Shilton is our dog’s name. It’s a funny coincidence.’
‘It is indeed’ I said and laughed pleasantly and philosophically.
‘Well it’s very noble of you to do charity work at your age. Are you a student? I thought you were. And you do this in your spare time do you? Well I wish my children were more focused like you. I’ve go two of them: my eldest John is at university, and then Eustacia is just in sixth form. John seems interested in nothing, barely calls and only comes home once in a blue moon. And as for Eustacia, well the less said about her the better; teenage girls what would we do without them.’
I laughed pleasantly and knowingly as if I appreciated the irony of Mrs Blackmore’s words.
‘No really’ she continued ‘it’s refreshing to come across someone like yourself who has a focus in his life. Young people today seem interested in nothing but drinking, clubbing and goodness knows what. They don’t seem to care about anything. It’s quite reassuring to find that there not all that bad; that there’s some like you who are putting their free time into making a difference in other peoples lives; someone who is caring and kind. And really compared to my son and his friends who don’t care for anything but cars, clubbing and late night drinking sessions it makes a change to find a young man so pleasant and considerate. If only more young people were like you, were as responsible and pure minded.’
Her words reader, not mine.
We continued to fill out the forms. Then suddenly the door burst open. I turned my head over my shoulder to see who it was. It was Eustacia. She’d come down to see who was here evidently. Yet by the time my eyes had fixed on her face, she’d already taken a look at me, and unimpressed, and refusing to make eye contact with me, held her eyes huffily elsewhere. Looking tired, bored and out of humour, she started talking to her mother. She wanted to go to a party tonight though it transpired she was actually taking the day off school through illness.
‘Your not gong to the party tonight and that’s final Eustacia. If your not fit enough to make it into school again, then your not fit enough to go to the party.’
‘Oh but mum! She pleaded.
As they discussed this I looked around the room. My eye alighted on a book shelf, and as is my wont when I enter other people’s houses I always take a look at the books on their shelves. I couldn’t help but notice that there were, amongst others, many Ruth Rendell’s and also a copy of Chekhov’s plays. You know I can’t express more, how it is that the majority of people are so like Chekhov in their outlook in life; I mean there was no way in the world that Mrs Blackmore would have suspected me of being an impostor – she was so inured to reality. It’s the way people are. But I’m not suggesting that movements in the theatre have a profound influence on the behaviour of our society, so that with the advent of Chekhov and the disappearance of Molliere, our outlook on life is modified accordingly. Not at all. To be sure I’d bet my life that that Chekhov book had not been read and that Mrs Blackmore loved her Ruth Rendell’s. Yet in the real world she suspected no-one and behaved with commendable lack of suspicion. You know as where on the subject I might as well state my disappointment that nobody really seems to care about, appreciate, or understand Chekhov. You know plain and simple truth, unrobed from all its wrappings, appears too difficult a thing for people to ‘understand.’ I mean to make someone look simple, simple truth directly in the eye is as difficult as getting them to eat five fruit and vegetables a day; and when all is said and done people want entertainment when they read or watch theatre; forget truth and poetry – these are not the food of choice; people desire writings that are controversial and sick, entertainment that is perverted and beyond the pale, I mean you‘ve got to grab their attention, you know it’s……. Reader you are saying to yourself ‘What is this madmen going on about? What on earth would a secret agent know of Chekhov, of the theatre?’ Well, find out in the next chapter.
Eustacia was a rude little hussy that was for sure. She finished speaking with her mother and exited the room. Shilton continued barking somewhere as we continued filling out the forms. Eventually all was done and I stood up to leave.
‘Well thanks once again Mrs Blackmore, and for inviting me in as well, that was very kind of you.’
‘Oh that’s no problem. Here you’ve forgotten your clipboard’ and she passed me the item I’d accidentally left on the table.
At this point Eustacia re-entered and wanted to speak with her mother.
‘Mrs Blackmore’ I said, ‘I know it’s perhaps a bit presumptuous of me but…it’s just… well…you wouldn’t mind if I just used the toilet quickly would you?’
‘No of course not son, it’s just upstairs, second on the left.
‘Thanks’ I replied and made of in that direction. Eusatcia now took up the argument with her mother; she was determined to bug her about going to the party.
The time for action had arrived. Having engineered for myself a brief one-to-one meeting with the upper portion of the Blackmore household, I had to be very, very quick in probing its interior. The egg-timer of opportunity had already been turned over and it was time to stick the toast in and set the table. My thoughts ran as follows: if Blackmore’s bomb equipment was in the house then his study would be the most obvious place of concealment. My first port of call would be there; after that his bedroom. On reaching the landing, I found that all doors were shut, bar that of the bathroom. Hastily I stepped forward and shut it, stepping back again on the instant. Eustacia and Eleanor continued to argue downstairs. Now I’d been told second on the left; in my guise as nervous and bumbling charity worker, I could be stupid enough to misunderstand that instruction and mistakenly end up in another room; yet could I keep going in and out of rooms until I’d struck upon the study? There was no time to think. Taking complete pot luck I picked the first door on the left. If it wasn’t Blackmore’s study then it would most surely be his bedroom. I entered: it was neither: Eustacia’s bedroom lay before me.
Desperately disappointed though I was, I decided to enter. For not only did I not wish to keep fumbling through all the doors, but also it had suddenly struck me that the father might well be devious enough to hide his equipment here; come to think of it, this had been the last place I’d thought of looking and the father was no fool. Yes indeed, how obvious would that be to leave his stuff lying in his study. I had almost fallen for the sucker punch and foolishly snatched up the golden casket whilst overlooking that of humble wood. Thus I entered the teenager’s bedroom.
Time was of the essence. Breaking almost into a run, I dashed to the most probable place of concealment, her chest of drawers, that which had borne so much fruit in my previous escapade. Opening up the top drawer, it turned out to be full of her underwear. With feverish haste I ran my hands through it all, carefully feeling my way around, squeezing the knickers and bras tightly in the palms of my hands to discover any concealed objects, and conducting a thorough, knicker by knicker, bra by bra, two by four inspection of the girl’s entire draw. Definitely she was more a lady of cotton than a sister of silk: the bulk of her garments being fashioned from the former. As I frantically continued the search, I found my hands alighting on, getting entangled in and even miring in the girl’s hairs; long straight fibres that magically attached themselves to my hands; but also shorter, stronger ones that assuredly had fallen off nobody’s head. What they were doing in a clean underwear drawer I couldn’t fathom. Whatever the case may be, I tell you it was no pleasant mission this. Horrible little hairs! But don’t baulk at it reader; such is the work and woe of a secret agent.
And then amazingly, as my hand probed deeper and deeper into the dark inner reaches of the drawer, it fell upon what appeared to be a gun. It was wrapped up in a pair of panties, stashed at the back, and then buried underneath two or three other pairs of knickers as though it had been deliberately hidden. It was long, bulky and heavy. A colt? A derringer? A 9mm? What type of gun was it? Pulling it out I learnt to my astonishment that it wasn’t in fact a gun, but rather my old friend Mr dildo. Flipping heck he’d been worn down! She’d lost no time in setting him to work over these last few weeks. What slave driver she obviously was. Poor Mr dildo! I switched him on. Nothing. His battery had completely conqued out. He was spent, the poor thing. Well I never! She’d been hard at it, the sly little madam. Huh! And what cheek then had she had in not replying to the survey I’d sent her. And it was no laughing matter either: I’d devoted a good whack of my precious time to compiling that little document, asking a whole host of questions about the dildo and her sensations and generally making it look authentic. And she hadn’t bothered to reply. Yet above all these thoughts, what really struck me as strange was that she’d received the dildo at all. Suddenly I was overcome by a very powerful feeling of disgust and sickness. And as I looked around the room, as I saw her little bed, her little teddy-bear sitting on her pillow, as I saw in short the innocence of a teenage girl’s bedroom spread before my eyes I shuddered at the dark and dangerous thoughts that were racing through my mind. Reader, an explanation is required.
No sooner had I dispatched my original email to Eustacia, than I was immediately struck by the realization that my plan would never work. You see, I was convinced that the x-rated email that I’d sent her would be filtered out by some sort of safety device, that a (seemingly) respectable family like the Blackmores would surely have, and that presumably the email would find its way to Dr Blackmore. Or even, I thought, the daughter might simply show the email to her father out of a fear of being naughty. So there was almost a 100% probability that the email would end up in Dr Blackmore’s hands. That I did receive a response, at first surprised me. Then I thought, well, if it is Dr Blackmore, then probably this is a test, as I’ve already alluded to. Yet the fact that the (well-used) dildo was now in the drawers of the teenage girl, begged a lot of questions of the relationship between father and daughter. As I glanced around the room, I was filled by an awful foreboding; call it a hunch, call it an intuition, call it the uncanny sixth sense of a wise and well-trained spy; but however you like to view it reader, the fact was that I felt sure, I felt absolutely certain, that amidst these four walls of apparent innocence there lay a dark and terrible truth. And then I recalled Eleanor and her evident cooling off toward Dr Blackmore. Yes, I was convinced of it: the father was having the daughter.
However for the meantime I had to toss these thoughts aside. The sands of time were speedily subsiding and my mission gaped fruitless in front of me. With expert and experienced hand I continued feeling my way around the back of the drawer. And then bingo! To my utter amazement lightening had struck twice in exactly the same place: at the very back of the draw, and surrounded on all sides by panties, there lay a ladies bra. It was so charming and colourful, having a bright yellow background across which there flew a little swarm of pink butterflies, neatly spaced out in formation. The pink butterflies had emerald-green wing tips. Truly it was very, very nice. And of the finest silk as well. A real rarity for Eustacia. Lifting this treasure of temptation out from the back of the drawer, I was able to eye-spy the object that it concealed, the object which my hand had first fallen on, the object of massive interest: it was a little jotter, a log book of some description. I picked it out and took a quick flick through its pages. Yes. This was what I was looking for; it bore names, addresses and better still, scores of entries, plans, plots what have you. I immediately pocketed it.
Having combed, probed and conducted a systematic sweep of the top drawer I now shut it. Deciding that the lower drawers were unlikely to yield yet more evidence, I now focused my search elsewhere. Following my instincts I rapidly found myself next to Eusatcia’s bed. Yet just as I was standing over her pillow, and on the verge of raising it to see what was hidden underneath, a ghost of gothic portent ominously loomed large across my sky; a scarecrow from hell popped up on the horizon. Looking toward the door, I got the absolute shock of my life: Eustacia was standing at the entrance, watching me. How she’d got there unnoticed was a mystery. Had she flown her way here on her broomstick? She was slight of frame and light of foot that was for sure. Yet for how long had she been there? Had she seen me appropriate the log book? I turned to face her, smiling. Her dark miserable eyes were fixed on me accusingly. Good God she frightened me; her pale unsmiling face, her piercing unfriendly look. Had she caught me in the act? I didn’t know. Yet as the fates debated my future on high, all I could do was to assume a very friendly, smiling face and simply said ‘I was looking for the toilets. First on the left wasn’t it?’ For response, she merely kept her sinister eyes wrathfully upon me for a moment more; and then pointing her hand back through the door in the direction of the bathroom, whilst at the same time averting her face to one side so that her eyes looked in the antipodal direction, did she thus show me her contempt. She was an ireful female indeed, and by saying nothing and keeping her mouth shut she really scared the shit out of me. Yet all the while I kept up my smiling, bumbling, nervous alias. And as I left her room I tried to smile pleasantly at her as way of apology; and ironically too, endeavouring to intimate that it was just one of those things, quite funny if you thought about it, that I’d ended up in her bedroom, instead of in the toilet. But she held her eyes of contempt averted all the while. She was mistress here directing me outwards; as humble nobody I made an exit.
Luckily however the fates appeared to have favoured me; apparently she hadn’t been standing there so long as to have seen the log book seconded. Rather she was simply annoyed that I’d invaded her quarters. She hadn’t however questioned why I had been in her room. Yet it was as obvious as orange that she didn’t believe me when I said I was looking for the toilet. Not at all. But nor either did she suspect me of double agency. Instead, she’d wrongly concluded me to be some sort of weird pervert who’d come to have a look in her room. That was precisely it: she thought me to be some sick creep who’d wanted to take a nosy in her bedroom for his cheap kicks. As things stood – although there was of course no truth in her miscalculated deductions, and although I don’t particularly take kindly to being labelled a pervert (I’m quite sensitive on this score actually) – still, as things stood it was very much in my interest to play into that role, and just accept the accusations. Provided that she didn’t believe me to be a highly-skilled operative of espionage, come here to clue myself up on her errant father, then all was well. In the grander scheme of national security and world peace I would be willing to live with such ill-founded accusations of depravity, bullets to the arm though they were.
The conclusion of my mission however, had now been determined for me. There was no possibility of now entering Blackmore’s study or bedroom, without arousing suspicion. To that end I would have to abandon the search for bomb-making equipment. Yet still I had one more oil-well of evidence to pump. I was about to get access to the bathroom. Moreover I would be locked alone inside, able to act askance of big brother’s eye, and free to ferret out aught I desired. True I didn’t hold out hope of finding the sought after bomb-making apparatus therein. However, perhaps I could still implicate Dr Blackmore in a more indirect, yet at the same time very illuminating way. My mind ran back to the stories in the paper and the terror suspect who’d refused to give DNA. If I could get my hands on a sample of Blackmore’s DNA, and sneak it out of here, and send it off for examination, then there was a very real possibility that, linking him to the fingerprints we already had, mount with 100% certainty an armed raid on his house. I felt that if I were to do this then my mission would qualify as a success.
Entering the toilet I locked the door. No sooner had I done this than bingo! I saw ahead of me a sure source of DNA. On a shelf overhead the wash basin, stood a toothbrush holder. Eh voila! Dr Blackmore’s toothbrush drenched in DNA; a damning piece of drool-soaked evidence. Walking across to the holder I picked it up. Now I should say that there were three brushes in the pot, yet I knew this to be his – not for nothing was I crowned valedictorian reader; for not only was it blue (a man’s colour) but also the head of the brush contained bristles that were very much sprayed out to the side and gnawed at, compared to the other two, whose bristles stood neatly and politely upwards. Yet the most overwhelming evidence manifested itself in the bristles themselves; for embedded in these well-chewed and abused unfortunates, lay a massive piece of cornflake, very substantial evidence, I think you’ll agree reader. Thus was I convinced I had Dr Blackmore’s toothbrush.
I was on the verge of securing it in my underpants; yet for its better protection, and to seal in the drool DNA evidence and the prime piece of incriminating cornflake, and also to avoid exposing such an awful specimen to the nakedness of my slave to Venus, I thought it best to wrap it up in something. To my side I discovered a wash basket full of the Blackmore’s dirty laundry. A garment of some sort would serve as an excellent container. Throwing my hand in perchance, I picked out a pair of dirty ladies underwear. I immediately tossed them back in, like an angler returning to the water a baby fish. You ask for why dear reader? Let me tell you. It was a reaction, albeit irrational, to the accusations of pervert that Eustacia had silently levelled at me back then. I know what your thinking reader, you’ll be thinking ‘oh come on X don’t take it so to heart’; or ‘come on secret agent X get a grip would you man’; I know only too well reader that those accusations were neither here nor there and that in commandeering some dirty knickers in this way, in order to facilitate the mission, I would only be doing my duty. I know it reader I know. Yet still, call me oversensitive if you will, but I wouldn’t be taking any dirty knickers, not today. In this respect I’m quite unusual for a spy. You know the majority of my colleagues, either as a result of their oversexed natures or simply out of sheer perversity, will not miss a trick or overlook any opportunity to get their hands on women’s underwear. No sir. They’re a right bunch I can tell you. And I’ll even go one further and intimate to you reader, that there are some amongst my calling, who may be out there at this very moment, who abuse their role as secret agent to satisfy all sorts of perverted desires. I’m warning you dear reader, be very, very wary. Keep an eye out the next time your taking a shower or sitting on the toilet! You don’t know who might be watching you! (I’m joking of course.)
In any case I was definitely not going to dirty my reputation with dirty knickers; accordingly I now pulled out a pair of tights – Eleanor’s, Eustacia’s I couldn’t tell, for tights shrink up when they’re not being worn. Wrapping up the toothbrush in one leg I then placed it in my crotch. The tights would serve their purpose well, the closed off nature of the legging, ensuring that if the prime piece of evidence – the undigested cornflake fragment – did dislodge itself in transport, then it would fall harmlessly into the tight legging.
I now decided to beat a retreat. I had the evidence I wanted. It would be sent off immediately to evidence control; and I envisaged the ensuing armed raid on the Blackmore household. However when I thought of armed men entering in the middle of the night; of bullets flying everywhere in the dark, I couldn’t help spare a thought for poor Mrs Blackmore. She was an innocent bystander. Yet the police would simply storm into her house taking no prisoners. I was rightfully concerned for her. She could wind up in a body-bag. Well not if I was going to have anything to do with it she wasn’t. Not if secret agent X saw to it, she wouldn’t. I knew that if I could convince the powers that be that Mrs Blackmore was not in any way culpable, it would be very much in their interests, given the media hype surrounding these raids, to safeguard her person. All that was required was to inform them of her innocence.
To do this I now delayed my exeunt, and returned to the wash basin. I had decided to also acquire a sample of Eleanor’s DNA, so as to eliminate her from the investigation. Although I might take her toothbrush as well (it didn’t come with cornflake, yet that didn’t matter so much) that would never do; two out of three toothbrushes lost without trace would be bound to create suspicion. No, it would have to be something else. My eye now alighted upon a little bin next to the toilet. Perhaps that might contain a used plaster or something. Anyway it was worth a rummage round.
Opening up the bin: hey presto! I’d happened upon a large stash of very suitable evidence: bloodied tampons. Excellent! That would be just the ticket. It would testify to Eleanor’s unsullied reputation. I picked one out – a good one with lots of blood on it – and after stashing it in my underpants, headed for the exit.
Yet just as I was set to open the door, it suddenly struck me that Eustacia might have befouled that tampon: it could be her dirty-work that I was housing; and I had no desire to save that little hussy’s bacon at the expense of Mrs Blackmore’s. Thinking it through however, was Eustacia a tampon user? Honestly speaking, even though I’ve bedded hundreds of women in my time as a spy, I’m not altogether certain what the heck a tampon is or why fore it is of necessity. And prey tell me but what is the difference twixt it and a sanitary towel? Actually, dear reader, you’ll have to pardon my ignorance: when I say a tampon was travelling in my underpants it may well have been a sanitary towel. Though no, I think it must have been a tampon; but you‘ll know better than me reader: it was white plastic tool with blood on its head. But could it have been Eustacia’s device? I didn’t know. I know that you have to be a certain age, in order to become a tampon user. Was Eustacia old enough? Moreover I knew that it was related to pregnancy. Now hang on a minute, for if Eustacia was pregnant – and that was a real possibility given that her father was having her every night – then that would surely mean that those bloodied tampons were hers and not Mrs Blackmore’s; in any case there was a chance that she could have soiled the tampon. No, no, this was not the road to go down. The tampon did not bare the evidence I sought; it was fished out my pants and demoted once more to bin duty. I’d have to get my mittens on something else.
Time was now very much against me. The soldier boys of suspense were being buttered up downstairs and if I didn’t step to it misgivings would arise and I’d be forced to eat my way through horrible hard boiled eggs! If I wanted yoke to stream down the side of this mission then I’d have to unearth some evidence in a flash. There was nothing for it but to appropriate an item of Mrs Blackmore’s clothes. Now as much as I’d have preferred to stow away a jumper or some trousers say, the bulk of such items; the circumstance of them not being particularly endowed with DNA evidence (the academy essentially teaches us that they are useless in this respect); and also the task of judging if it belonged to Mrs Blackmore; not to mention the fact that people always realize if a jumper’s missing – all of these considerations meant I’d have to thieve something else. And I’m afraid to say I could see which way the wind was blowing. Dr Schneider, the forensic scientist back at the academy, always used to proclaim that socks are good, tights are better, but if you could bring him back a pair of knickers or two then you’d made his day. Now as for the tights which I already had, I could use them. Yet stretchy as they were, who was to say whether they were Eleanor’s or Eustacia’s? I could take socks but then I didn’t know the respective shoe sizes of the ladies. However I had made a mental note – as all men do – of their respective bum sizes: Eustacia’s was a very slim, slender and typically teenage derriere; Helena’s was more peachy and filled out, more mature and hefty. Thus it would be a breeze to match up panties to people.
Digging deep, I picked out a pair of panties: precisely it was a thong; and as such I threw it back; for this breed of underwear does not yield enough evidence (and criminals well know this, with many terrorists opting to wear a thong precisely because of their lack of incriminating marks). I recall once that secret agent Y had brought into Schneider’s lab a ladies thong, in the sure confidence that he’d wrapped up the case. Only to find out, from the testily, irate forensic expert, that there was very little evidence he could extract from it. In the end the suspect was released without charge. I wasn’t going to forget that lesson now.
And next I selected a second pair. Eye! Eye! This seemed the ticket. They were a big airy pair of white bloomers. And on the inside? Yes! They bore the full spectrum of stain from backside to front side, a good spattering of bodily fluids. You know taking a closer look, I could see exactly why the wise-old Schneider favoured knickers. They were an absolute gold mine of evidence. Very, very conspicuous. I could see them being held up in court now as prime evidence and with gasps on all sides and the heads of the jury nodding in unison. Yet thinking it over, on many occasions in the past – in the dark old days when I foolishly wore white underwear – I would wash my dirty underpants, only to discover that, though they smelt fresh, the stains were still present. Now although it was unlikely that clean underwear had made its way into the dirty pile, this wasn’t the time to take any chances. If these bloomers had been washed then they were totally useless as evidence. Accordingly, I raised the knickers to my nose. Had they been washed? Decidedly, no they had not. Excellent! I now had my DNA sample.
Yet as a matter of thoroughness, I determined to ensure they were really Eleanor’s and not Eustacia’s. Though I might hold them out and take a gander, to do the job properly I essayed to get into Mrs Blackmore’s knickers (as I thought them to be), putting them on over my trousers of course. If they were too tight they were Eustacia’s; if they were too baggy they were Mrs Blackmore’s. Stepping into them I pulled them up: my hunch had been completely correct – they were Mrs Blackmore’s.
I unzipped my pants and so made safe the evidence. I now exited the bathroom and walked downstairs.
When I reached the bottom, I began putting on my shoes. Mrs Blackmore once more appeared, too polite to pass comment on my lengthy time out in the toilet; and serving up a few closing words to me was about to open up the front door, when it opened up of its own accord: enter Dr Blackmore. He smiled affably at me and then looked questioningly at his wife, as if to ask whom I was? It was the first time I’d seen him in the flesh. He couldn’t have been more the embodiment of good grace; charming, refined and friendly; yet I sensed a dark aura about him as though cloaked in his projected persona there lurked gross evil. Mrs Blackmore made eyes at him to intimate that she would tell him whom I was later. Something was up with Eleanor – she seemed embarrassed and troubled. There was something like confusion in her eyes. She seemed as if she would say something. Her husband couldn’t fathom what was up and frankly neither could I. Yet finally I came to realize what was bugging her. Her eyes had been furtively glancing at my crotch, and looking down I saw my fly was undone and my (evidence stuffed) pants on show! I zipped up and as I did so I made a devilish face at Dr Blackmore. For with my shoes off as they were and with Mrs Blackmore looking troubled and guilty as she did I wasn’t going to let slip an opportunity to wind Blackmore up: I was conspiring with circumstance to paint a picture of just having slept with his wife. Though I was playing Russian roulette with fate somewhat, and though it would have been better for my mission that I simply made a quiet exit, I couldn’t resist winding that greasy piece of terrorist scum up. There’s an unwritten rule amongst secret agents that we should take every chance to taunt our enemy in a sexual sense. Truly it goes against the grain of good solid working practice, but it’s one of the few treats we allow ourselves, along with the seduction of women, in an otherwise Spartan life. It’s just a game we spies play. And I thought I’d played my hand quite well here; I had expected to induce anger and rage in that devious and dastardly old dog. Yet, you guessed it reader; the two faced slime ball was as cool as a cucumber. He didn’t get worked up at all, but just attempted to smile pleasantly at me, somewhat puzzled and confused as if I was some deranged and weird nobody. That’s terrorists for you.
I finally made an exeunt and returned home with my goodies. I should tie up some loose ends. In the first place as regards Mrs Blackmore’s kind donation to ROAR, I transferred her details onto an internet site for that very same charity. As such they now claimed the £2 a month that Eleanor had been kind enough to donate. As for Dr Blackmore’s toothbrush, I decided against taking it to Schneider at evidence control – at the time, heavily caught up in a separate case as I was, I didn’t want to risk any communication with headquarters – and instead wrapped it up, cornflake and all in a well-sealed parcel and posted it anonymously to the police, simply with the words ‘Dr Mark Blackmore’s DNA sample, don’t botch this up boys!’ However, in the end, I decided against similarly submitting Eleanor’s panties for inspection. This was because, on reflection, I was conscious of the fact that they probably bore Dr Blackmore’s handprints. True the Blackmore’s sex life had to all appearances kicked the bucket. But men are men after all, and probably Blackmore’s hands, much to Eleanor’s annoyance, would have been trying to get into those knickers. As such they would bare the DNA fingerprints of a known terrorist. Sending them off to the police now would only drop Eleanor right in it. It would be as good as personally painting a target right across her breast. No, I wasn’t going to set Mrs Blackmore up, not at all. Thus it was best to hold onto her panties for the meantime; they were best secure with me.
As for the log book that I’d found in Eustacia’s drawer, that, in the end, turned out to be nothing more than a teenage girl’s diary. Though I realized this some few pages in, I nevertheless regarded it as my duty to read it through to the end, just in case. She was evidently a young girl unable to cope with the world and her diary bore testament to a very deluded mind with a very deluded sense of the world. Moreover she had some very deep and dark fantasies as well – I’d always fancied that behind her cold and miserable exterior lay a very dark and passionate girl – and frankly I found myself extremely shocked by what she’d written, none of which could I here repeat for fear of causing offence. (I guess this reiterates what I said earlier about appearances being deceptive.) And the dildo, or Thumper as she called it (she’d given it a pet name!) became much involved in recent weeks, and she referred to it excitedly as, and I quote, ‘my lovely piece of cock.’ Further, I found that my hunch had been absolutely correct: she was a tampon user. But in all of these writings of hers I found nothing to indicate that her father was sleeping with her. Obviously she was frightened to say so.
This last issue was what bore heavy on my mind. There was a wealthy body of evidence, indicating the perverse relationship between father and daughter. Yet all the same, was that really any of my business? Surely I just had to forget about it and get on with my next mission. And that I would have done, had not my thoughts wandered to the instance of the fifteen year old girl molested right in front of my face, by the IC3 male. I hadn’t intervened that time and felt dreadful afterwards. Was I just going to turn the same indifferent eye on this case? Spurred on by these thoughts, and realizing that by saving Eustacia I would in some way redeem myself, I gave an anonymous tip off to social services, telling them that at 43 Rose Ashes Gardens, Dr Mark Blackmore was sleeping with his daughter, one Eustacia Blackmore. In this way did I feel myself absolved in view of the incidents of the previous chapter, and did I finally come to exorcise my demons on that score.

III
Heretofore have I detailed a strict and accurate narrative of the truth. In doing so dear reader I hope I’ve presented you with an absorbing and instructive insight into the current world of espionage. Yet what’s that I hear? Is it the murmur of dissenting voices? Could it be the sound of the critics up on high, sharpening their guillotines? Oh what’s that I hear floating on the wind? Prey tell me your objections reader? Oh! So you find this true narrative too drab and dreary to be of any interest: too much a Chekhovian chronicle of truth than a right good rollicking yarn of Ruth; too much the stoic’s spinach story than the entertainer’s knicker-bocker-glory; pale and stale as a dishwater ale, a green bean, ‘it’s good for you’ unsalted tale. No party, no peach, no sex on the beach, no fun in the sun nor a nefarious nun, a tale of the ordinary and not well-spun, a drip-dreary misery as difficult as Nietzsche. Oh I understand, reader, I understand. But you see it’s not my habit to sauce up the salmon or mustard the beef; sex up the celery or make tasty the leaf. No I’m committed only to the truth, though there’s some who wont like it. Yes, I can see the newspaper reviews before me already: ‘too routine and humdrum: didn’t hold my attention.’ ‘The author makes the mistake of relating every detail, of what is in truth, a very boring story.’ ‘Just another spy narrative.’ Well if the truth is not your beverage of choice, then, dear reader, up sticks and go drink elsewhere. For as landlord of the ‘The Truth Alone’ it is my obligation to serve only real draughts. Humbugs and porkpies we don’t provide. If that’s what your hankering after then you’ll have to go abroad.
Yet hang around reader, for at the ‘The Truth Alone’ we well know the proverb ‘sometimes reality is more interesting than fiction.’ Indeed I shall shortly relate to you a true tale of the most shocking and scandalous nature; believe me the events of which I am set to speak of, the true tale of terror which I hold by the tentacles already to unfurl before your very eyes has been boiled in the most sulphurous of cauldrons; half-baked in the arid air of atrocity; and put out for general consumption with an anti-puke potion as hors d’oeuvre. The foibles of fate were set to turn against me and pawed at, held up and finally consumed by Godzilla’s God I was about to get lurched up in the most sickening of circumstances. The tide of the terror network was set to overrun the land; and in a desperate effort to avert her waters of woe I was to swim out to her centre and be swallowed up in her depths. In my role as secret agent I was to ride head first into the enemy’s lair; straight into the loving arms of my sworn foe. But never would I there venture for all to see; my mission would be in disguise. This chapter then concerns a very, very dangerous undercover operation, in which my skills as an actor would be tested before the eyes of a gun-toting audience.
Reader, I think that before I begin the narrative, I should, since this is the first big-time undercover operation that I’ve mounted thus far, shed some light on how we secret agents undertake them. For starters I should say a little as regards drama’s high regard in the academy curriculum. Given the immense importance of spinning out spies capable of going undercover for weeks, months or even years on end, in the most dangerous and life-threatening of circumstances, you’ll not be surprised to learn about the bulk of time allotted to the thespian arts. Thus a fresher will find that a third of his or her time will be devoted to taking up acting classes, with Stanislavski’s ‘an actor prepares’ being required reading (you see now reader why it is that a spy is well-versed in Chekhov and the theatre); whilst a sophomore will be undertaking a part in the academy production of Hamlet or the Pillars of the community. Finally, in years three and four, undergraduates will be sent out into the real world to perfect their identity-assuming arts. This will involve posing in a variety of roles, for instance a policeman, a banker, a waiter etcetera, in situations which are purely non-critical, so that if the student blows their cover for whatever reason, they’ll land on the safety mat of the classroom.
Yet above and beyond this, some students actually find themselves thrown into performances of one kind or another. Thus a student may well be dropped in at the deep end, and asked to assume, at the very last minute, a role in the latest west end production, the actor or actress that they replace happy to take the night off for once; and this task being something of a major test. Indeed secret agent Z once famously pulled on the mask and played the phantom of the opera one night, being so well-received that the producers would fain keep him on. I was never so fortunate, landing only the part of Shakespeare’s horse in a piss-poor pantomime production of the Bard’s life and works. In addition to this some students will even land bit part roles in current TV shows, minor parts it’s true, but nevertheless you will have seen them – an extra here chatting in the bar of the Rovers Return, another there perusing the vegetables in the market place of Albert square. In fact it’s common knowledge – in spy circles at least – that those in our ranks, who fail to make the grade, who aren’t up to scratch, usually end up in the world of entertainment. The best known of these spy-flops is probably Patrick Stewart. Before becoming an actor he was enrolled as a pre-graduate in the British secret service – I’m going along way back now. But he didn’t make the grade – flunked weapon handling, was out of his depth with intelligence gathering and the like and was kicked out the (old school) academy after the second year. True, he went on to have a brilliant acting career. But personally I can’t ever sit through an episode of Star Trek without thinking of him as a loser. Ironic that he should pretend to be such a hero as Jean-Luc Picard, with all that shirt-tugging bravado of a man of integrity. Actually he’s an academy drop out.
So much then for the academy’s theatrical training scheme. You won’t be surprised to learn that many of my teachers were products of the RSA, and some even TV stars as well. The lecturer who taught us acting theory in semester one had once played a drugged-up psychopathic rapist in Inspector Morse who attacked and murdered young women. He taught us three essential rules needed to pull off a good performance. The first of these was ‘always remember that you’re in character 100% of the time.’ The second was ‘study the role’ and the third was ‘act out of hours.’ For this latter he recommended falling into character at all times; whilst for his second dictum he insisted on a strict regime of research; he told us to go apart and contemplate the role; and to develop a series of drills to be gone through to become your character. He had followed these precise ideas in order to prepare for his role as the rapist. And I mean he was so thorough. The rapist was a dustbin man; therefore my mentor worked for six weeks as a dustbin man before hand, getting up at five o’clock every weekday morning to do so and working overtime as well. Attention to detail was the key he said. And when back in the comfort of one’s own home, then play on said he. What would the rapist have for tea? What would he watch on the TV? Would the dustbin man sleep in his underpants or in the nude? For how long would he brush his teeth? Would he go around checking all the electrical sockets were switched off before sleeping? How would he go to the toilet and so on. In this way did one become one’s character completely. And it had worked out perfectly for him. I mean that horrific and gory opening scene was incredible. To see the two police inspectors discover the blood-soaked chewed up corpse of the former dustbin man and rapist – Good God it was horrific! And my mentor exuded such pathos as he lay there corpse-like, it was marvellous darling. And the moral of the story was ‘study the role.’ You see the secret to his success was that he insisted that one should assume one’s role even when it wasn’t necessary. In this way did one become one’s character completely. Of course some people will pooh-pooh all this and say it’s just method acting, but let them make a snooty face, I don’t care: what is important is that it gets the job done.
And thus did I learn my three basic rules of acting. ‘Always in character,’ ‘study the role,’ and ‘act out of hours.’ And so too do I apply myself. It’s necessary for the success of my missions. All I’m saying reader is don’t be surprised or shocked to see me getting into character, in this chapter or in the future; I might say and do things that might shock; but remember they’re not my words or deeds, and to quote a quote ‘I am not I.’ It’s all simply part of the performance, a necessity of national security.
To return then to the plot. Having put to bed the Blackmore case, and I might say having single-handedly served it up on a plate for my old friends the plodders, I now took on some new cases. Yet it would be a re-acquaintance with an old foe that would spark the astonishing sequence of events that I am about to relay. Villainy knows no rest. Evil springs up eternal. The IC3 male was up to his old tricks again and it was a good job that I’d been keeping him under surveillance. Though I hadn’t been to the devil’s doorstep again, I did keep tabs on him at the café – I monitored him from a café on the opposite side of the street, not wanting to bump into him again. He kept up his persona of café hand homeboy, Mr nonchalant, Mr easy-going, Mr I couldn’t care less. The rape of a juvenile obviously didn’t weigh heavy on his mind. Bastard! Anyway, there was much activity afoot at Ali’s Star Bar. Late night drinking sessions, hushed up surreptitious little chats, plotting and scheming, members of the cell going out back to do goodness knows what. And all the usual suspects were there; people who I’d been watching for a while, players who I’d IDeed previously; yet there was a new kid on the block. He turned up one day and greeting the members of the cell with handshakes, back slaps and other signs of false bonhomie was soon sat down and chatting with them thick as thieves. He was an Arab man, handsome, tall and well-built, with sort of dread-locked black hair and black stubble. He immediately aroused my suspicion.
His name was Auriel. That much I knew. He was a Yemenite immigrant come to this country some twelve years hence and was to all appearances quite anglicised. Otherwise was I in the dark except that he was something of an out-fielder in the homy’s organisation. Though I’d marked his card on his first visit, on the several occasions when he’d re-materialised I’d let him be. He always smiled and laughed a lot, played cards and wagged with his cronies and affected the persona of a happy, relaxed man. Yet in his reappearance today and his suspicious activities I was forced to follow him. This is what happened: as Auriel was set to part company with Ali’s stars, the IC3 male bid him follow into the dark inner recesses of the café; and watching closely I witnessed the IC3 male handing a secret package to Auriel, who stashed it away inside his jacket. Auriel, then leaving the little den of thieves to its own devices, stepped onto the high street and started walking away.
Secretly I took up pursuit. He was a good distance from me and had no notion that I was tracking him. Thus with stealth did we travel. We made a long tour across the town. Trekking first through the shopping area, we now found ourselves walking through an area given up to cinemas, cafés, restaurants and other venues of recreation. Where were we heading then? We departed the entertainment complex, crossed the river over a bridge and mounted a little cobbled back alley leading up away from the river. And now did it dawn on me just where we were headed. We were on course for what might be said to be the city’s mini red light district.
It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. As such it bore a deserted look, sleeping away the hours until it came alive tonight. We walked past some bars – all were just about empty, save for a few hangers on. You know I’d been here before. As part of an ongoing investigation into a terror ring that were fronting as a house of prostitution, I’d been brought to these seedy shores and had had to pay a visit to the dancing girls at Madame La La’s. I’d interviewed a go-go dancer, Peepi, a young girl of Polish extraction. She’d pointed the finger at one Dan ‘the mask’ Madison, a small time wheeler dealer, a second hand car salesman by profession, a would be big time Mafia boss, but merely small fry in the world of organised crime. Although I was sceptical at first, on closer inspection Madison turned out to work for Ali bin Ahmed Al-Fulani, an Algerian born business man owning a string of disreputable night clubs throughout town, including Madame La La’s. In the end Madison had turned out to be doing shady business with the Al-Fulani organisation. And now it would appear that Auriel was about to enter Madame La La’s. This was a very unexpected turn of events indeed. If Auriel was some kind of go-between between these two cells of terror then that suggested that the IC3 male was working for Al-Fulani. Perhaps the IC3 male was a lieutenant in the Al-Fulani organisation. Al-Fulani was then the head of the monster. The IC3 male only a hand. As such I’d now been brought to the dragon’s den. And if that meant heading into Madame La La’s, and getting mixed up in the sleazy world of lap-dancing, and seducing naked women in the pursuit of evidence, then it was my oath bound duty to follow Auriel in and do so. Reader it seemed as though I would be going undercover into a lap dancing bar.
Yet in an incredible twist of events, Auriel didn’t enter Madame La La’s, but walking straight past it, instead entered ‘The Mediterranean boy.’ I was instantly rooted to the spot in horror. I couldn’t believe it. Good God I was shocked. I held hand to mouth to stop myself from spewing up. And then before you could say ‘do you want any action love,’ I had turned around and was walking back through town homeward bound. No way hose was I entering ‘The Mediterranean boy.’ Fuck those rat-faced, lily-livered old men back at headquarters, who would court martial me for not following Auriel in. Fuck them. Those cold-hearted sons of bitches who would have an agent do goodness knows what dark and dangerous deeds all in the name of national security. ‘Well not this time!’ I said bitterly. ‘This is one mission I won’t be undertaking.’ There was no chance of me entering ‘The Mediterranean boy.’ For it was, if you haven’t already guessed it reader, a gay bar.
I’ll state my views here and now regarding these sick perverts reader, and I’ll do so without reservation. In this day and age where everyone seems bent, on mincing their words vis-à-vis homosexuals, where manly love and sodomy are looked upon as a private affair and not the sick, community-violating crimes which they assuredly are, I find myself a rather lone voice in the liberal library of shushed-up opinions. These disgusting bastards, these filthy rats that seem to plague our once great nation, to infest every dirty corner of our land: ugh! How loathsome they are to me. Personally, if I was PM, I’d lock all of these sickos up for life. And I’d deny them their rights and simply strip them all naked and shut them up in a big cell together; and I’d tie them up and go around whipping their naked buttocks; and I’d even make them fight, gladiator style, but only with their bare hands, and all just for my personal entertainment. Honestly I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to them, I really don’t. Yet in this day and age these thoughts are mere dreams of mine.
Speaking of dreams, so diseased has our world now become that I often have homosexual related nightmares. Once I was walking down a street and, I don’t know, but I’m convinced I’m being stalked by a man. Anyway I turn up this blind alley way, when all of a sudden from out of the dustbins at the top a policeman jumps out. And at that moment the stalker appears to my rear in the alley entrance. ‘Officer’ say I, ‘thank God, this man is stalking me. Please help.’ But in a terrible moment for me the policeman just stands there with his hands on his hips and laughs cynically to himself. And then he whips out his truncheon. Clearly he and the stalker are working as a team. And before long those two have put me on the spit roast…..And then I wake up in a cold sweat. And another time I’m walking down a street and all of a sudden a white van pulls up out of nowhere, screeching as it does. And before you can say abracadabra a team of masked homosexuals have jumped out the back of the van and, carrying me off the street and throwing me into the lorry, kidnap me back to their castle residence where I’m tied up naked and thrown in a dungeon, at the mercy of those dirty-minded henchmen of Hades who proceed to practise upon me all their deepest and darkest fantasies.
But my worst and most recurrent vision, is one in which I’m standing on the shores of North Africa all alone save for my Moroccan princess. She’s wearing one of those veils, the sort the Turkish delight girl once wore, and she’s smiling coyly and making eyes at me with a seductive intent. And I say ‘oooh! Your lovely you are’ and then I pull off her dress and find to my utter bewilderment that it’s actually a Moroccan boy. Now though my first cerebral sensation is one of disgust, from somewhere, I don’t know where, I come over all lust insatiable as though the devil is in me and with an excess of abandonment I jump on top of the boy and have passionate sex with him like there’s no tomorrow.
Such a shocking and awful dream! What power it has to so put the frighteners on me. Every time it airs its graces I wake up shaken to the core. And many a night have I spent, after having awoken at that depraved denouement, shuddering and terrified and left begging the question, does this mean I’m gay? Perhaps, you’ve dreamed these demonised seduction scenes yourself reader and have asked the very same question ‘does this mean I’m gay?’ And with sleep now shipwrecked on the shores of shame, and with heavy mind have I hooked up to the internet in vain hopes of finding an answer to my question and of settling my fears. And luckily, thank the Lord, I was able to discover that it doesn’t mean I’m gay.
What these things are usually accredited to are what experts term a lone spirit (some authors say free spirit). Basically it’s a manifestation of a non-corporeal entity (most likely a spirit of the dead) which lives as a pseudo-poltergeist in your bedroom. (For example it could live in a pot or say a dirty tea cup, where it feeds on the sugar water leftovers.) The lone spirit is free to enter into your head and because it can’t have dreams of its own accord it of necessity has to forage into the minds of others and there live out its fantasies. And that these are often gay-related or just in general of a sick and twisted turn makes sense because the majority of lone spirits belong to dead people who were of such a salacious mind as to preclude the possibility of their entering into the afterlife. To be frank though, although it bears out the fact that I’m not gay, and though I admit that often I do feel devil-possessed when I have these visions, I’ve got to put my hand on my heart and say this seems just a little far-fetched. But there are alternative explanations out there. More simply, it could just be a gang of gays doing a Ouija board on you.
Such then being my views on sausage-smokers, I’m sure you can appreciate reader why I aborted the mission to the Mediterranean boy. However when I reached home and sobered up somewhat after the initial shock that Auriel was a scrum-half, I was harassed by nagging doubts and misgivings and I felt guilty for my neglect of duty. Thinking on the droves of citizens whom I had sworn to protect, I envisaged the torrents of terror and carte-cartel of chaos calamitaire that might suddenly sweep fourscore through our realms and bring this nation to her knees. The kingdom all gone to pot, the fish done to a crisp and pepper on the chips, Nelson’s head in the back of a van and halfway to Albuquerque; London bridge aflame and Big Ben’s hands running in reverse! And hordes of barbarians marauding through the land, raping, pillaging and reciting Shakespeare backwards! I foresaw passengers stranded at airports, the entire flight schedule up the crap shoot, planes plying the loop-de-loop, the devil doing the vide I loca, children and parents screaming at each other, the poor souls unable to fly away on their package holidays to Magaluf and Ibiza. I saw the queen, woken up at four o’clock in the morning and given bad news by a grave and venerable old servant. Two of the corgis were down. Poisoned presumably. Rushed off to hospital in a black hack. The queen’s safety hanging in the balance. Her majesty with tired and careworn face, annoyed at having been disturbed in her slumbers, yet concerned for Trixy and Dixy; worried, sobered, grave, being handed a cup of coffee by her servant and watching late night reruns of Countdown and Prisoner cell block H. Was I really just going to stand back and allow all of this suffering? Had I just forgotten the God dammed oath I’d sworn? Had I just dishonoured my badge, and cast asunder my duty and allegiance all because I was too precious to enter a gay bar. Did I think that the role of the spy was to pick and chose the missions that suited him? Was I not willing to roll my sleeves up and get my hands and whatever else dirty in the name of Nat-Sec? I’d made a mistake that was for sure. Accepted. Now how to redeem myself? Get back on Auriel’s case.
Thus would I have to go undercover as a homosexual and sally forth into a gay bar. Yet I immediately calculated that my mission would involve a lot more than just heading to the hideout of the homophiles and playing the role of a chip-pepperer. One of the very first principles that I remember being taught at the academy, one of the most essential dictums that they drill into you, is that to enter into the confidence of the enemy, is to first enter into their bed. Hence the well known phrase ‘sleeping with the enemy.’ Of course by and large it’s believed by general consensus, that this entails male versus female love, with a spy seducing a women, who, in the aftermath of their passion and in the ensuing peace that descends after their amorous embraces, gives up all the details he wishes to know. Principally this idea of romantic fiction has infixed itself on the public’s mind, through the numerous clap-trap spy thrillers doing the rounds that claim to be authentic and in which spies bed women as often as Englishmen miss penalties. But in the real spy world and what those books have a strict mums the word policy on is that sleeping with the enemy can also (and indeed more frequently) mean man on man love-making. As a dedicated recorder of the truth it’s my duty to describe it to you reader, even though detractors will say that horses might join hooves and do the hokey-cokey. Believe it or not, but many a secret agent butters himself up and sets out to seduce terrorists and vice versa, with the terrorists tarting themselves up for a good time in the hopes of pulling an agent and gleaning some info. Of course the notion of sleeping with someone so as to gain the secrets of their heart in the aftermath of passion is well known to all humanity. Yet the experts at the academy were at pains to point out, that in fact something like 90% of all credible evidence is gotten in this way.
Thus it would be essential to bedfellow Auriel. It would be a risky mission, I’d be going to the Mediterranean boy as bait, and there was every chance that amongst all those perverts I would be raped. But I was steadfast in my determination to complete my mission, and come what may I had resolved to sleep with that tadpole-drinker Auriel. Though I might baulk at it, my recent lapse at not initially entering the Mediterranean boy bore heavy on my mind, and I was absolutely determined to brace up and to face up and to do whatever was demanded of me; to do anything to prove my duty to Queen and country. If it meant seducing Auriel so be it. If it meant going back to his place for coffee so be it. If it meant him sticking his cucumber up my backside then I was up for it; if it meant waking up the morning after exhausted, lying next to him in bed, my head resting on his naked, bronzed, hairy chest then so be it. Whatever it was going to take I was going to do it. I would present Aimair with the full banquet; hors-d’oeuvre, main course and desert and say bon-appetit! Whatever he would do with me, I would bend over for him. Whatever the role demanded of me I would yield. Nothing was off limits. And so having made my resolution I now set about getting into character and doing some role-play and rehearsal.
I awoke the next morning at seven. I intended to go to the Mediterranean boy in the early evening and try and seduce Auriel, God willing he was there. In the interim there was much work to be done. At nine o’clock I rang the hairdressers. Goodness me reader! What a piece of luck that was! They’d had a cancellation. I got an appointment to see Tony at eleven. I’d read my stars this morning. They had promised I’d be in luck. Well I never! Fancy that! And they had also said that ‘A fleeting star of fortune flew my way and that I’d be whisked off my feet by a dark and handsome stranger! Ooh! Did they mean Auriel? Fingers crossed! For breakfast I just had half a low fat yoghurt – I was watching my figure. After that I settled down to watch Trisha. But at twenty past nine I suddenly realised I’d have to get a move on. The appointment was at eleven, which meant I’d have to leave at 10.45. That only left an hour and twenty-five minutes in which to shower, do my hair and make myself decent. Accordingly I set about my toilet, singing along to songs as I went:
‘It’s raining men, Hallelujah, it’s a raining men, every specimen, tall, blond, dark and mean, rough and tough and strong and lean, It’s raining men….’ Boy, I love that song!
When I arrived at Antonio’s Salon, I was received by a young man, evidently gay, with a fancy gay haircut and flashy girly-gay clothes. He led me through to a little waiting room. He walked in front of me with a mincing, girly, hip-swinging gait. As I followed behind him I thought that now would be a good time to grab his arse. To that end I now raised my hand and touched his backside, slowly letting my hand run across his derriere. He turned around surprised and a little unsure as to whether his senses were deceiving him. I simply looked the picture of innocence not wishing to reveal that I’d just stolen a fondle of his backside. Somewhat confounded he walked on. He told me to sit down and that someone would be with me in five or ten. In the meantime would I like a coffee?
‘Oooh yes please’ I said. ‘Oh how I like my coffee rich and strong…..just like my men; and big and black if possible!’ said I with smut.
He looked at me rather strangely. You know I was going to have to work on the innuendo. And that arse grab as well, that had been completely out of order. I was really overplaying my character, I was doing a Stanislavski; it needed a more subtle, a more Chekhovian approach.
The hairdresser gave me a very gay haircut: the middle of my hair was up and ran backwards sort of like a Mohican; it was all fancy and permed and had blond streaks in the front. Personally I thought it looked an absolute disaster. Dear Lord what had he done? But this was the fashion I was told and I’d been determined to look the part. I stayed on after the haircut – I was treating myself to the full works. A facial for starters, with the soothing and calm hands of Leonardo buttering up and making lovely my mien: then with face of green paste and two cucumbers for eyes, I was taken to a little bed and there laid to rest by the ever gracious Antonio, who proceeded to rub me in oil and massage me to seventh heaven; later I had my legs waxed and thereafter did I seek to bronze myself Mediterranean by lounging on a sun bed. At two o’clock in the afternoon, sauced up and beautified to a crisp, I quitted Antonio’s, and after stopping off to buy some gay clothes at Next, returned home.
In the afternoon I chanced to iron a shirt. However just two seconds to the bad I felt myself bored, tired and listless and as if I was about to blackout and fall backwards and faint on the floor. I was desperate to quit. Man, I couldn’t take it any longer! Yet from somewhere, God alone knows where, I found the resolve to carry on: I was determined to do the job properly, and to get into character; accordingly, though it pained me immensely, I stuck the ironing out, and, some two and a half minutes later, the shirt was ironed. After that I (or should I say little X-baby as I was beginning to call little old me) rang mother just to see how the poor old dear was and to catch up with all the gossip. Then I surfed the internet for a couple of hours. Finally it was dinnertime – vegetarian lasagne with salad – and I ate and watched the soaps.
As a final warm up I now called ‘gay chat’; the phone rang, my heart pounded.
Though I could have chickened out and listened to recorded conversations I chose to speak motto a motto – the whole point of the exercise was to practice my skills in a non-critical situation.
‘Hello this is Marcel, I want to love you.’
‘Hi I’m little X-baby. Oh I want to love you too baby.’
‘Oh speak to me darling, say the words.’
‘I want to stick a Mars bar in your mouth.’
‘Oh give me it.’
‘Fill you full of fish, lover boy.’
‘Oh please!’
‘I love it baby.’
‘Oh your so naughty.’
And so on. When I was dressed up to the nines I stood afore the mirror. Wow I was stunning. Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the gayest of them all? And as I saw myself there, Mr Lover Lover, all sexed up and spanking, pristine and pan-caked, prickling pour amore, I irresistibly began a striptease. I had, incidentally, been practising my dancing all day in front of the mirror. And now I did some real dirty dancing. Slowly but surely I danced out of my gear. But when I was down to only my underpants I stopped. And half threatening to whip this last garment off, looked into the mirror with a slutty, teasing and coy expression. Would I take them off? Give the men what they wanted? I simply smiled coyly into the mirror and putting my finger to face wagged it from side to side as if to suggest to the men who were watching me that they were having naughty thoughts and that I was no naughty boy. But I did it all in a coy manner, and frankly I was loving it. The pants remained on. But who knows perhaps tonight they’d be coming off. And then at six o’clock I sallied out.
And no sooner was I out on the town, when frankly, in my poncy clothes, with tight black pants that tapered at the bottoms, a white tight t-shirt and with belt dangling about my midriff; and with my ridiculous haircut, I felt the biggest arse walking the streets. Jeese Louise what embarrassing mission was this! I was convinced I looked the very picture of ridiculousness. And people were staring at me, weren’t they? Or was I just being paranoid? I was so self-conscious. How I would have loved to have just gone back home and had a quiet night in monitoring internet chat-rooms. Or even out following suspects. Anything but this. Yet I had to remember all the while that I was merely undercover and that really I was a secret agent bent on safe guarding national security. And moreover, as time wore on and I became more at ease in my outfit I started to think that actually I did look quite good; in fact, thinking back to when I had looked myself over in the mirror before I left home, wasn’t I really quite sexy, quite chic, quite cute? There was a new gay boy out on the lash and I imagined all the admirers that would be drooling over me (even though I wasn’t gay reader).
When I reached the door of the Mediterranean boy my heart was doing the fandango, and I would fain be off at any cost, fain ditch my silly clothes and fain be once more at home. Yet it was imperative to enter, the mission was all important. National Security was sacrosanct. Lives depended on it. And anyway, surely there in the gay-boy bar, nobody would give a hoola hoop just how demented I was dressed. I’d be safe. And moreover wasn’t I being a bit paranoid? Didn’t I cut a cool figure in fact? Come on X-baby you look good. Get in there and strut your stuff, boy. Do the walk baby, do the walk. You know I did rather fancy myself. It was time to pluck up courage and boogie on down into the bar of the bag pipe-blowers. As the new boy on the block, I anticipated that on making an entrance, a crescendo of wolf-whistling would greet my ears. With trepidation, I stepped inside.
Yet when I was through the doors of this devil-den, not only were the whistles not forthcoming, but I didn’t cause much of a stir. The place just swung along as usual as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. True, the bar was not at present well stocked with punters; but from those few fags here already, I received little if no attention as though I were a mere nobody. Fucking Faggots! You’d think reader that when a young man enters a boy-bonkers bar, the least he could expect, the least token of chivalry he might count upon would be to be politely smiled at. Not so in the Mediterranean boy. There were no gentlemen here! What a dump! They should have a big sign outside the door saying ‘we’re all a bunch of stupid fags in here and are a right bunch of toe rags and low life and can’t be pleasant to anybody even if they’ve made the effort.’ Toss pots!
Hurt and saddened by this lack of attention – as if I was a nobody – I decided to cheer my flagging spirits up by buying myself a Bailey’s. Reader, I’ll level with you, I hate the taste of beer, it’s horrible puke, but Baileys – I do love that. Thankfully in the role I was now playing, in which it was essential to abstain from beer, I could have myself as many Bailey’s as my heart’s desire. And if some shit head said that it was nought but a puff’s drink, and chided me to that affect, then R2D2, that meant I was doing my job properly.
The pub being pretty much deserted as yet, I was served so soon as the bar tender, who was going hither and thither doing little chores, and preparing for the busier hours of later tonight, saw me waiting and came to the bar. Although a man, he was half way to having a sex-change, embracing a period of transition on the road to womanhood. He had breasts in place, wore lipstick, and dressed as the ladies do. He was forty and over, very much a man in build, with butch shoulders and stubble in abundance. It struck me as odd that such a man as he – who so assuredly bore the traits of the son of man – should wish to be women. And the road ahead was to be no path of picnics that was for sure. It would be a big task to render him all women. The breast implants were one kettle of fish. Yet it was plain and obvious that there would be trouble in keeping the facial hair at bay, of concealing the prominent apple of Adam, of doing away with the masculine body contours. But he was evidently a very troubled soul and had sad, sad eyes. He was quiet and barely spoke when you ordered. Yet at the same time he was very humble and polite. And when he’d done serving me he carried on with his chores, speaking to no-one, saying not a word and keeping his eyes to himself, and all the while washed through with quiet melancholy. I sat myself back down.
You know about this time last year, the Mediterranean boy had found itself in the media spotlight and in the public eye, as, in a series of police raids, it was found to be a major site of drug-dealing. Since then new owners had taken over and they’d cleaned the place up. Still it was possible that some plain clothes officers might be here undercover, fighting the war on drugs. In fact it was well known that the drug dealers had been busted by an undercover who had installed himself as bartender for a few weeks prior to the raids. Well, I didn’t suspect that was the case here – bunch of perverts though they are, the man in transition was surely no cop. Nevertheless, suspicion is to a spy what spaghetti is to Sicilians and it was worth keeping an open eye. Who knows, an undercover could be useful. Of course personally, if I was to mount a drug busting operation in a pub like this I’d do so in a much simpler way: I’d set up a hidden camera in one of the toilet cubicles. Contrasted to the hassle involved in going undercover as a bar tender – first having to gain the trust of at least one of the bosses, not knowing exactly if they themselves are involved in the drug trafficking; having to work long hours as a bar tender, which might mean weeks of build up; the need to be unknown to the public as a police officer; and then the fact that ultimately you’ve still got to keep your ear to the ground in the hope of picking up some clue – contrasted to going undercover where the problems are aplenty, the act of merely positioning a camera in a cubicle is child’s play. One simply enters the pub, pays a visit to the little boy’s room, and, in the sealed off surroundings and privacy of the toilet booth, one is afforded ample time in which to install the device. No-one except yourself need know about it, the owners are not informed, no-one is tipped off or alerted and it’s labour saving and time effective. You simply return home and, taking up position on a nice comfortable sofa and with food and drinks on hand as you work, watch for crimes to happen. And to be sure, in a bona fide den of vice like the Mediterranean boy, you can rest assured you’ll be watching all sorts of dirty deeds and hanky-panky, every minute till the cows come home. In fact in recent years installation of hidden cameras in public toilets has fast replaced the old ruse of going undercover in many instances. And back at the academy, some of the experts were now saying that at any time something like 30% of all public toilets were bugged in this way. Of course the government, councils, and powers that be would decidedly rubbish this as half-baked shepherd’s pie. As they do all else they wish to hush up. Frankly reader I would never believe a word they say it’s all just so much bull-shit on a plate. National security is the top priority, and if toilet-bugging is an easy means to an end then beyond doubt it will be employed.
I sat sipping my Bailey’s for some while. The place had livened up a bit since I first arrived. There were many men of middle age arrived, non-descript men whom you wouldn’t have down as cock-kissers on the outside world; also quite a collection of little queens, teenage boys, skinny as hell, wearing the tightest little t-shirts and jeans imaginable; and the odd drag queen to complete the pack, a few men with painted faces and lipstick and decked out like whores. Would Auriel be here tonight? I had inquired after him at the bar and the man in transition had told me that Auriel came most nights and would probably be here this evening. I waited and fretted somewhat. Then toward the close of an hour or so, in an amazingly heart-throbbing moment, in walked the man himself.
Wow! He was so cool. He was the chief male. He was as cool as a cat as he sauntered in, forever grinning, Mr cool, Mr happy. He immediately went and joined two other guys stood chatting on the other side of the room. They shook hands with their pal evidently delighted to see him. He had such magnetism. I mean he was the main, main man. Okay the moment was come. It was time to serve up my salmon and pour on the sauce. I was set to introduce myself to Auriel. My heart flew off to the Seychelles. With legs full of jelly I stood up, and, draining back the remainder of my Baileys, made my way to the bar, where hopefully my prey would be heading any second to order a drink. I was so nervous I could hear my heart thudding.
And shortly Auriel approached the bar. As he looked up he saw me there leaning back against the counter and my eyes absolutely glued on him. I was making come to bed eyes. It must have been so obvious to him that I had designs on him as he walked toward the bar with myself looking saucily into his eyes, my whole self facing him, on offer to him as it were. He saw all of this and not knowing what to make of it, averted his eyes. He was holding back a smile. He clearly thought I was being a bit obvious, advertising myself as I was. Yet also I could tell he was pleased, he was flattered. I mean he wasn’t going to say no was he, if it was being served up on a plate to him like this. And moments later he couldn’t help but look his eyes at me again – I’d stubbornly refused to let his eyes go, even when he shunned my gaze – and now looking at me fully, slightly puzzled, slightly pleased – not the greatest of catches he thought but worth a look – a broad smile broke out over his face. He was unsure whether or not to speak with me, surprisingly shy as I discovered him to be, for all the cool cat image he emanated, and first headed for the bar tender and gave him his order. As the bar tender turned away to get the drinks, I decided to break the ice.
‘Hey Auriel, buy a boy a drink would you’ I said pleadingly, making eyes at him. He was somewhat taken aback by the fact I knew his name and was unsure of who I was. Yet all the same he kept up that lovely smile of his.
‘Look’ he said slowly ‘have we met before?’
‘That’s a corny chat-up line’ I said archly. ‘Do you think you’re
going to get me into bed with that old chestnut?’
‘No, no’ he said emphatically. He was a bit taken aback by my saucy and presumptuous tongue, yet he was laughing and smiling and seemingly pleased with this direct flirting of mine.
‘No’ he continued ‘it’s just, I don’t know, you seemed to be looking at me there, I just…well I guess it just seemed…..how do you know my name?’
‘Your name? Pour favour Auriel! Who wouldn’t know the name of the best looking most desirable male about town? Which boy wouldn’t have heard gossip of Auriel, the swarthy, bronzed and dapper gentleman, he of the majestic moustache, the Arabian grace and the eau-de-cologne? Which single and unbetrothed male hasn’t teetered and giggled over your hunkiness, hasn’t gone abed dreaming of your steamy love making, would not take himself out on a night like this in hopes of finding himself enraptured in your strong embraces? Oh the dashing Auriel!’
‘Well’ he said, laughing to himself and somewhat surprised by my words yet flattered. ‘Well’ he said most amiably ‘I guess I can buy you a drink. What’s your poison?’
‘Poison?’ I said archly ‘your trying to poison me are you? Slip a little something in my drink, and the next thing I know the bulls are singing and I’m back at your house being raped and molested? Is that your game plan Auriel, is it?’ I said flirtingly.
‘Look’ he said with a tone as if to deny my allegations. ‘I’m just trying to buy you a drink.’
‘Well provided you know a drinks only a drink’ I said leering at him. ‘I don’t like to sully my reputation Auriel-baby. I’m no easy conquest you know. Don’t be getting any dirty ideas into your head, my little teddy bear. If your gonna bed me it’s got to be done right. I’ll have to learn you Auriel, train you up in the amorous arts, educate you in the language of love. I’m no pushover Auriel, make no mistake of that. I like love-making to be a long drawn out affair. It has to be a real marathon of passion. It has to be done right my man, it has to be perfect. If I am going to come back to yours tonight, I want you to give me a lesson in love making that I’ll never forget. I want you to put on a show for me. Oh! My stallion Auriel, what a night lies before us! Now please baby buy me an extra large Bailey’s.’
We got the drinks, and I persuaded Auriel to come and sit at my table, which he did, after explaining the situation to his friends across the room; who after gaining this information, leered across at me with grinning and one-track minded countenances. When their seedy eyes fell on me thus, I affected to look away haughtily. I was come for Auriel and nobody else. Anyway I thought those two just a little too presumptuous. Auriel took a seat next to me. The conversation calmed down after my ice-breaking intro and I could see he was quite keen on me. We got talking. By the by Auriel asked me if I liked football.
‘Yes of course’ I replied ‘all those fit men running around in shorts, all those lovely bums and thighs and calves. Ooh yeah I love football. But you know I just can’t understand the offside rule.’
‘Can’t understand it?’ said Auriel smiling ‘but it’s so simple?’
In reply to that I simply shook my head mincingly like a girl; but my eyes said it all; they were gazing right into Auriel’s, looking deep into his eyes; and I had such a coy, feeble little expression, as if I was totally helpless and couldn’t understand the offside rule.
‘Look’ said Auriel smiling – he knew this was all part of the flirting, and that he was on to a winner, ‘look’ he said ‘I can explain it to you, really, it’s not that hard. Look here’ and he picked up a newspaper from off an adjacent table and, borrowing a pen from someone sitting nearby, commenced to drawing a football pitch.
‘Okay’ he began. ‘Look at this. Now let’s suppose that these four dots represent the defenders of the defending team and this round thing the ball…’ and so he went on. He went to real pains to explain me the rule, during which time I affected a very concentrated expression looking down at the paper; yet in-between times I stole a glance at Auriel and our eyes made contact; sometimes I gazed into his eyes questioningly, a little perplexed; another time with more of an open, serene and amiable look as if I was examining his eyes; and all the while Rico kept explaining the rule – I could see it was really important to him, he did enjoy playing teacher like this. We were sitting, by the way, very snugly together on a bench, and our legs – my right, his left – were warmly touching, and I was sort of leaning into him. He had dared to raise his left arm so that it rested on the back of the bench above me, though as yet it wasn’t around me. As he explained I affected to try and concentrate very hard, and I gave serious glances; and as he explained I nodded between times as if I was understanding; but towards the end as the explanation became more involved I started to throw cunning little glances into his eyes; my eyes were full of mischief as though they would fain burst into laughter. When he got to the end, Rico was quite pleased with himself, for, according to the nods and yeses I’d given him, it would appear that he had succeeded in teaching me. He said ‘do you understand now?’ I was just thoughtful a moment and sort of unsure of myself; and then biting my bottom lip, as if I was naughty and would he forgive me for being so dim?, I made coy and sorrowful eyes at him and threw an arch glance deep into his eyes and said ‘No.’ Upon which I broke into a little giggle which I stifled by raising my hand to my mouth. Rico somewhat angered, though not deeply, threw down the pen and said it was hopeless. And just to placate any anger I’d aroused in him, and also to hide my embarrassment and at the same time show how hopeless and feeble I was, I nestled my head into his arms and chest as though I would fain lay down and die there forever in his arms. Naturally all of this was just a rouse of mine and I well comprehended the offside rule, which is of course exceedingly simple. Yet my scheme had worked wonderfully. (That last passage was not about the offside rule! Read between the lines reader!)
I felt myself on the precipice of achieving my aim, and that any moment now, the moon would rise and Auriel and myself would be in the back of cab heading home for a night of nonce-passion, succeeding which he’d cough up any information he had. I was really surprised at how easy it had all been. Making signals to Auriel that I was popping off to powder my nose, I stood up and having walked halfway around the table, bent over it – so that I displayed my cute little ass to the cast and crew of the Mediterranean boy – and grabbed his cheek and playfully tugged at it a second, a reminder of my intent. The whole pub saw the spectacle and as I walked with womanly dignity away to the toilet, I knew the eyes of the Mediterranean boy rested upon me. Yet I affected not to notice, to look ahead with a haughty, mysterious visage and too resent the attention afforded me. All was swimming along nicely then, or so would the fates have it appear. Yet in the time it took me to urinate away some excess Baileys, the script-writers upstairs had upped the dramatic discotheque beat, and, introducing a new character to the plot, swept story arc and all away across the stage with myself left a mere spectator.
As I came out the little-gays room, the most dreadful scene unfolded before my eyes: in the seat I’d just vacated sat some ponse with his tongue down my Auriel’s throat. The bitch! How dare that little man-eater steal Auriel from my loving arms like that! Yet I had to concede they were going for it quite badly. Auriel as well. He was no passenger that was for sure. And I watched this nightmare unfold itself, watched the man-eater reposition himself so that he straddled Auriel, watched as he grabbed Auriel’s face lovingly and, consumed by a tornado of passion, went about applying himself to his lover’s lips with redoubled ardour and total abandonment of inhibition. I walked a few paces over to the bar, and asked of the man in transition, whom the mystery boy was.
‘It’s Rico, Auriel’s boyfriend’ said he simply. Though it pains me to admit it reader, Rico was better looking than me. In fact he was a stud-muffin sail away stunner. I was miles out of his league. He had a gorgeous face, strong shoulders and chest, and a peachy backside. And the worst horror of all was that not only was he kitted out in garb similar to mine, which he wore with such amazing ease and grace, unlike moi, who looked like ‘an ape in a harlequin’s jacket -- a jay in borrowed plumes,’ and whose clothes seemed to hang from me as if they were embarrassed to be associated with me (his clothes hung back off his body, as if he commanded their respect); not only that, but his haircut was exactly the same as mine, with his looking precisely as it should do, precisely as the model sported it, when the hairdresser at Antonio’s had shown me the photo of the kind of style we were aiming for. And he was that very model. Whereas my interpretation of the haircut was more in the fashion of a duck’s backside. Bastard! Oh Lord! What a position I was now in. How was I to compete with that bitch? And guess what reader, he was younger than me as well. Oh so young! How was I to steal my way into Auriel’s heart now?
Looking over at Rico and Auriel tongue tied and gripped in love’s fever as they were I became somewhat philosophical about it; and at the same time I talked over my shoulder to the bar tender, who had his back to me preparing drinks.
‘Rico’s certainly a piece of hot stuff. How long have he and Auriel been an item?’
‘For six months’ said he, not turning round.
‘It must be love’ I said, fatefully resigned and wistful.
‘Tell me bar tender’ I continued a little later ‘have you got any little bits of dirty tittle-tattle on Rico, anything that might cheer a boy up? Does he cheat on Auriel? Is he perchance lousy in bed? Does he squeeze the toothpaste from the middle?’
The bar tender turned around to face me; he had two drinks in his hand; he was about to take them down to the other end of the bar; but he stopped behind me just a second and became thoughtful; and whilst I stood in front of him gazing on the amorous engagement ahead of me and at the same time looking back over my shoulder to the bar tender, he said to me
‘Well, he does have quite bad acme if that’s any help. Not that I notice such things. But you see he wants to be a model. Only, at least for the meantime, he can’t get taken on, not at least until his skin clears. And people say he’s non to smart either.’ He went off with the drinks. And now that I looked closely, I could see that he was a bit of a pizza face, although his good looks still shone through. And none too smart either? Hmm? Auriel did seem to be an intelligent guy. Perhaps he’d want a more stimulating lover a la yours truly. And it was also true, now that I thought about it, now that I’d seen one little chink in his armour, that Rico, despite his evident good looks was of a much squatter build than myself, I was taller and slimmer than he, more the effeminate fairy. It might be that Auriel would prefer my figure. And if Rico wanted to be a model? Ha! Well he certainly looked good, but shouldn’t models be tall and slim? Not squat – good looking as he was. True, my features best described me as a plain Jane at best. But I had clear complexioned skin, which might just be a cause of envy with that little bum boy.
Well things were brightening up a bit. I now had an ounce of ammunition in my arsenal. And the key to seducing Auriel, would be to upset that little hussy Rico. Auriel was more than happy with him, that was as plain as Jane. Though he’d happily flirted with me, and though he might not say no if I sat down on his knee and love-made him, Rico was his first choice lover, his Christmases all come at once. No, if I played the game of simply trying to outdo Rico by ignoring him and appealing directly to Auriel, I’d never win my man. But Rico was clearly quite the queen, quite the high-strung, precious little madam. I felt that if I could just have a go at him, wind him up a tad, I might be able get to him, and thereby stir up the shit bag with him and ‘his’ Auriel. Yet as I contemplated my next throw of the dice the sands of circumstance were shifting at my feet, and I was about to be sucked asunder and spewed out upstream, only to find myself fished at from a new and irritating angle.
Two men who had previously been propping up the bar around the corner had made the bold step of coming to chat me up. Evidently they had had to pluck up the courage. They introduced themselves. In response I merely looked annoyed and huffy, but said hello anyway in a half-hearted attempt to be polite. But I couldn’t help being irritated. I was annoyed to be thus courted by these two losers, these ‘also-rans’ so to speak. I wanted to get my hands on Auriel, I was single-mindedly engrossed in my mission to bed that bit of bronzed up buttercup, and now I was being courted by two plebeians who thought they had a chance with me. How presumptuous! I could see they did genuinely believe they were in with a shout. You know I knew it only too well that they would never have dared approach the handsome Rico or some such other belle of the ball. But they had approached me! What a cheek! I could see it, it was written all over their dirty and miserable faces, in their body language, and in their conversation that the only thing on their mind was getting me into bed. And they thought I was easy as well! An easy conquest, a cheap bit of sex with no personality, a mere sex toy that could be had if they wanted! I’d never been so insulted. This was a disaster. I was being pulled into the league of also rans, dragged away from the sexy world of Rico and Auriel, plunged into the miserable underworld of the leery-eyed losers.
Both men were forty and pushing, neither particularly handsome or having anything to recommend them. Only one of the two spoke to me while the other kept stum and looked in another direction as if he wasn’t interested. But the first one talked non-stop to me and didn’t let me get a word in. Nor would he make eye contact with me, but always looked askance. He was so nerve-ridden with all his stupid talking, that I felt like punching him in the face. But it was in not making eye-contact with me that I felt myself suffering the greatest of insults; it suggested that deep down he despised me, or despised his own desire for me; and I very much got the impression, that although pulling me would be something of a coup for him, he still considered me a plain Jane, thought me not so good-looking; I was never to be the rent-boy he dreamed of; rather, and much to my chagrin, he held me for an easy lay; a nobody he might satisfy his dirty lust with, and that said and done, when morning came and he regretted his actions, dump me without a second thought. And this really riled me, oh how it riled me! Since, how fucking stupid was he to not see that I had no intentions of sleeping with him whatsoever – that would be ridiculous!
I’d never been so angered. And it was an absurd situation. Here I was politely talking with people who I’d rather have nothing to do with; and yet he, the talkative also-ran, couldn’t seem to see the bleedingly obvious reality of events that in no way in the this lifetime or any other would he and I be getting it on; he just persisted with his dull and boring rambling – I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up! – never looking me in the eye, and all the while it was so transparent through all his verbal diarrhoea, that all he had in mind was to have me and that he didn’t particularly like me, he just regarded me as an easy lay. Ugh! The piece of low-life crap. I was so put out and infuriated by all of this and frowned my contempt and annoyance at him; but these gestures as well were wasted on him. He just couldn’t interpret or even see them: he just could not read the signs. So convinced was he that he was going to have me, and so caught up in his own feeble and hopelessly meandering chat up drivel that he was unable to see what was clear as day. I just couldn’t believe it. What could I do with a man like this? He just couldn’t read the signs. I felt like screaming and shouting ‘go away you pervert!’
As for the second guy, he had originally kept his mouth shut and looked away, and as such I had not minded and even quite liked him, as he evidently wasn’t as pathetic and of a one-tracked mind as his friend. Yet unbelievably, he too was ill-intentioned, but simply shy. From time to time I caught him trying to make eye contact with me. I would look at him back, questioningly, puzzled as I was, and he would then look away. And then again he would steal a glance at me and try to make contact, and then look away. These irritating little eye-balls of his were then cast into new light, when, in trying to talk sensibly and seriously to the stupid and talkative also ran, I happened to mention that I lived in a small house, when the man who’d so far been silent then burst in with ‘I bet it’s a nice cosy little house you’ve got eh? I’d love to see it’ with the obvious and smutty undertone, suggesting that we were going to go back there for some hanky-panky. Stupid and false sentiments! What pathetic little remarks! I really felt like going over and slapping his stupid face. He was so shy, so contemptible. I simply scowled at him. What coarse and feeble lines. Why couldn’t he just speak normally? Why was he so nervous? They were both so nervous, so out of themselves, whereas conversely I’d never felt so myself, so at home, so at ease, so in control. I could see the entire game plan, the big picture. They could only see the move in front of them, the run to first bay. Those two were slaves to something, I the free man. And I was happy to talk to them, but seriously; all of their words were mere hot air designed to cover, yet blatantly revealing their intentions. I felt like the master of the universe, with the key to the castle in my hand, puzzled by the arrival in my midst of two non-entities way down the ladder-rung of life who strangely believed they had control of me. They were so, so ridiculous, but they would never be able to see it, never in a month of Sundays.
Having had my fill of these imbeciles I tried to ram it into their thick skulls that I wanted nothing to do with them. And now at this point, Rico and Auriel had stopped kissing, presumably to come up for air. And shortly Auriel stepped outside to have a fag. Meanwhile did the man-straddling libido-lover Rico make his way to the bar. This was my chance to have it out with him.
‘Rico’ I said. He glanced around at me surprised. And casting the most scornful and contempt ridden of cursory glances at my face and across my whole figure, returned his eyes to in front of him. At which point he said with irritation, as though I were a bad smell, ‘what?’ He clearly was not impressed by me and a smirk of derision had fleeted across his face.
‘Hello Rico baby’ said I unperturbed.
‘What the fuck do you want dick-head?’
‘That was quite a performance there – straddling Auriel for all to see.
‘Yeah? So what. You want to masturbate over it go to the fucking toilets. If you want some of that sort of action, you’ll have to pay.’
‘Rico, Rico, Rico, you deranged dip-stick. I don’t want to suck your dick. I’m already sucking on a big fat one. In fact that’s what I’m here about. Auriel didn’t have the balls to say it to you, so I’m going to have to do it myself. You’re dropped. Auriel’s had enough off you, and he’s moving on to pastures new with me now. We’ve been at it these last few weeks behind your back, but yesterday after he came in my mouth I said to him, ‘you know honey it’s time we went public. Auriel darling please give that brain-dead Rico the axe. I’m sick of tasting his leftover lip-spit on your monster cock.’
‘Fuck you!’ said the dip-shit. ‘What a load of bull. Ha! As if Auriel would drop me for you. Fuck off you deranged cunt.’
‘Alright Rico baby, if you don’t believe me that’s fine faggot. I’ll get him to tell you himself. In fact just ask him. He’ll tell you how he’s sick of having sex with you, wants to taste some of the other dishes on the table, wants a boy whose got a brain. He’s been sticking his big juicy sausage up me every night now for the past couple of weeks. Oh it send shivers down my spine just to think of it. We’ve been shagging like there’s no tomorrow. That stud just cant get enough of my arse. You know I said to him, ‘Auriel my stallion, I don’t mind if you want to go to that rent boy for cheap sex, I don’t mind at all. Spiritually I know I’m yours, I know we’re solid as a rock, I know you’ll keep making love to me. And as a reward for your love to me, for constantly ripping my clothes off and making a women of me, I’m gonna let you go to that floozy once in while, just for some fun.’ But ‘no’ says he ‘I’ve screwed that pizza face enough and now he’s gone stale; and anyway he was lousy in bed to start with.’’
‘Oh piss off! This is total rubbish. I’m getting out of here. As if Auriel would waste his time with an ugly piece of shit like you.’
‘Then ask him sweetheart. Don’t take my word for it. I’m not here to cause trouble between you two, not at all. If you don’t believe me that’s fine. It’s not true. I don’t mind what you think.’
‘Fuck off faggot!’ said he and he departed and went and sat down with Auriel’s posse on the other side of the room. I watched him go and watched him be seated, and watched him talk to the boys and tell them of me, and saw as he pointed and they looked at me. I kept up a nonchalant indifferent attitude. That was the way to play it, though this was a big ask, and I didn’t really believe that Rico had taken anything I’d said seriously, but rather took me for a psycho. Nevertheless I might just have sown a seed of discontent. In the meantime to try and further get up his nose, I seated myself at one of the tall stools at the bar, and, with much coquette, got chatting to a charming man in a suit of some two score and ten. I flirted with him most pleasantly and gave him coy little girly slaps on the arm and touched his person flirtatiously; knowing that Rico and company would be watching all this.
Time went by and Auriel returned inside. I stood alone now Bailey’s in hand, watching as he walked up to Rico. No sooner had he done this than he was turning around trying to see who Rico was pointing at. And finally his eyes alighted on yours truly, and I saw that little group of Auriel, Rico and the boys staring at me as though I was a deranged madman and shit-stirrer, a psychopath and demented fool. Their eyes remained on me some seconds or so it seemed, when eventually Auriel turned to explain something to Rico – presumably who I was – and after that they all settled down to chat and ignored me. Though I could see I’d done some damage, clearly nobody was believing what I said. But Rico was disposed to be a bitch and have a cat fight if it came his way and was a bit out of sorts tonight; whilst Auriel I felt, couldn’t be bothered to refute to his lover such wild allegations that I’d made. He was clearly annoyed by having to explain who I was to pizza face and shortly set out alone to go and play a fruit machine. The model wannabe remained, and annoyed, scowled at me with contempt. I raised my glass in return with the most happiest of smiles.
Yet these signs were not of any portent. I let that pot stew somewhat, waiting for another chance to corner Auriel, or hoping that he and the bitch Rico might have a quarrel; but the reverse seemed to happen, and as the night kicked on and the funky beat of the disco pumped out, those two sausage suckers took to the dance floor arm in arm. And worse was to follow. As I stood on the sidelines, I saw them make off to the toilets. By this time I should say, they had completely forgotten about me to all appearances. My plan had not worked. Or at least not yet. I needed to get under Rico’s skin yet further.
Surreptitiously I followed those lover boys into the gents. When I saw them both head into a cubicle I stole inside the one next to it. Standing on the toilet rim, and holding a bog roll in my hand, I peered over the side a few seconds. Those two oblivious, were in the early stages of sexual intercourse of the third kind, with Rico crouched down before the standing Auriel, playing the role of the woman.
After a few seconds had elapsed
‘You don’t need some of this?’ I said impertinently and waving the bog roll around; and the unwitting Rico, sucking on Auriel’s sausage like a child on his dummy, spun his head around in confusion and didn’t know what was happening or where the voice came from; at which point I let the toilet roll fly from my hand and it hit the sucking Rico smack on the head. ‘Bullseye!’ I screamed and started laughing.
‘Fuck you, you shit head!’mumbled the testy Rico, engaged as he.
‘What’s that pizza face? You shouldn’t speak with your mouthful!’
Shit was Rico in a rage! Fuck what had I done! Auriel however remained ever calm and sedate and packing his equipment away, the fun and games now over, he ignored me and tried to sooth Rico. He did so to some extent. Clearly Auriel couldn’t be bothered with me and indeed he didn’t even look me in the eye anymore; but he was also annoyed with Rico for even bothering to get worked up by me, when I was clearly no threat, and all my words were pure lies and my antics just babyish. But Rico wasn’t so indifferent as Auriel. And he was not to be messed with and would get his revenge on me. My intercession having put an end to the shenanigans of these two gay boys next door, and with Auriel realising that he couldn’t completely placate the bitchy Auriel; and being sick of his lover’s bitchiness toward me and more especially being sick of me and my intrusion into his life, he made off, telling Rico he was going out for a smoke. Now though that faggot Rico had at first calmed down after his initial outburst to me; though he’d haughtily ignored me and passed only a few words with Auriel; now that Auriel had gone he remained and as I stood down and made my way out of the cubicle, he came at me. He was hacked off and went straight for the jugular.
‘Fuck you, you little cunt’ he screamed whilst grabbing my throat and with force pushing me back inside the cubicle. Though I was really frightened, though he was really worked up and was well-built, still I couldn’t help but laugh and think of ways to wind him up the more.
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! What’s this Rico, are you trying to shag me or something! I thought I had to pay!’
‘You shut the fuck up. I’ve had just about enough of you, you deranged psycho.’
He had me supremely by the throat and he so forced me backwards that the back of my legs hit the toilet seat rather unceremoniously, and I stumbled and fell back over the toilet where he held me in position. Crumbs, was he going to flush my head down the bog? Yet as we thus ‘embraced’ and at such close quarters as we were, I couldn’t resist squeezing his backside, and having a good grope of him and saying ‘Uh! Uh! Uh!’ in his face, in mockery as though we were having sex. Though he wasn’t much impressed he just held me there, the contempt gleaming in his eyes; what was he going to do with me? As he held me in place I chanced to get a hold of the bog brush down at my side. As I picked it up I saw that it came out of a pool of the filthiest, shit-infested, urine water, and I laughed to myself as I now took this brush and pushed it in the direction of Rico’s pretty face. I said half in jest and half hoping it would make him back off ‘do you want some of this do you.’ And I burst into hordes of laughter to see his precious little face squeamishly being pulled away from the offensive shit-harbouring brush.
I was enjoying this wind up, in peril though I was and at the mercy of that man who had good reason to strike me. Yet suddenly all anger seemed to vanish from him and in its stead he appeared to become calm and supreme as though he wasn’t bothered any longer and didn’t care. I wasn’t sure what this meant but was slightly worried. I had a presentiment something bad was going to happen. His anger had suddenly subsided. He seemed pleased with himself. He wasn’t going to hit me then? So what then? And then suddenly he picked up the bog brush-holder, from down next to me and even though I saw immediately what was coming my way I was like a person on the sidelines of time, and the next thing I knew he was pouring its contents all over my face! Oh fuck me! ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ he laughed to himself. Oh fuck it was all over my face, over my hair, down my clothes, running down my neck, down my back and chest, in my ears! Argh! It felt as if he’d thrown a bucket of the stuff. That filthy piss-shit juice, cocktail concoction! Oh Fuck!
‘That’ll teach you to fuck with me you stupid prick. Let this be a lesson to you. Coming in here making up bull shit about you and Auriel. You fucking well get out of here you piece of shit. You are such an arse. Not only are you a dog to look at, but your dressed like a total arse. I’ve never seen such a ridiculous clown. If I was you I’d commit suicide. And dear God what kind of a haircut is that? What did you ask for a duck’s backside? Now you get the fuck out of here you little ponce.’
And with that he left me, deflated on the toilet floor as I was, my night ruined, my face clothes and all covered in toilet juice. And he’d said that my hair looked like a ducks backside! Bastard! I was distraught and just lay there and started crying. What a fool I had been to come here and try and win over a stunner like Auriel. Plain old me. What a fool, what a fool. And I’d thought everyone was looking at me. That I was the new boy in town. And I’d flirted so openly with Rico, and he must have thought I was a weirdo as well. And all of them, they all must have been laughing at me, at my silly clothes and at my duck’s backside! I just lay there sobbing.
Eventually, still tearful, I exited the toilets. I saw Rico with the boys all look at me from where they sat across the room; Rico appeared hacked off rather than smug, as if he just wished to be rid of me and he bemoaned something to his mates, obviously about me and my antics; and for their part they all looked at me as though I cut a sorry figure. I went out for some fresh air.
When the smoky, alcohol fuelled noisy environs of the pub instantly gave way to the dark, cold and quite of outside, I felt somewhat happier. And then looking to the left I saw Auriel smoking white smoke into the street-lit night air.
‘Oh! Ho! Ho! Auriel’ I began crying. ‘Oh! Ho! Ho! That bitch just poured toilet juice on me!’ and I fell to the cold damp ground at the feet of my fancy man and started sobbing uncontrollably.
‘He said my hair was like a duck’s backside’ I cried.
Auriel I felt, despite my psycho style antics still liked me somewhat, especially when we were alone together.
‘Auriel baby, I never did anything wrong, I just couldn’t bare to see you and Rico get it on like that. I was jealous of Rico. I love you so. And I don’t know why Rico has it in for me. When I learned that you and he were a couple, I went over to him to shake his hand as it were. I said to him, ‘Rico my dear you’re a beautiful boy and perhaps worthy of the love of that fine man Auriel. You’re very, very lucky, I’d love to be in your position. I’ll come clean my friend I fancied the pants of that stud myself. But now that I see he’s yours Rico, that there can only be one winner; well I have to accept that. But perhaps we can all be friends. You couldn’t introduce me to some of your little group’ said I amiably. But he just scowled at me and says ‘fuck off! We don’t want losers like you in our gang, you ugly fuck. You’ll never get a boyfriend, you’re an ugly pig. Auriel wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole. Now fuck off you disgusting piece of crap!’
‘And I know he told you a pack of lies Auriel, I know it. But is it true Auriel? Do you just go in for stunners like Rico. Am I too ugly for you? I thought you were the sensitive type Auriel?’
‘Look. I am’ said he reluctantly, I could see he didn’t really want to be bothered with this, but being but a child as I lay there, and remembering how I’d flattered him earlier, how we’d been friends, he seemed to feel some compassion.
‘Why don’t you get to your feet and go home’ said he. ‘Look I’ll pay for a taxi for you.’
‘Will you come home with me Auriel baby? Just to see me home that’s all.’ I said making puppy eyes at him.
‘I cant do that’ he said somewhat irked.
I stepped forward and putting my hands around his waist rested my head on his chest and started sobbing. He was at a loss as to what to do.
‘Aureil, I love you my darling I want you so much, let’s go home together baby.’
‘Come on’ said he ‘you know I’m Rico’s boyfriend.’
‘Don’t say his name.’
And now pulling my head out of his chest, I looked up at him. The street light shone down on us in the cold dark air. Ooh! How warm and cosy to be in his arms on a biting winter night like this. I looked lovingly into his eyes and in a moment that I can barely remember, so rushing were my thoughts, I found myself with my tongue down his throat, kissing away.
What a passionate beautiful kiss. Such warmth, as I nestled my way into his arms. But it didn’t last for long and he soon broke off.
‘Look’ he said ‘I have to get back inside.’
‘Shush’ I said putting a finger to his lip. ‘Don’t spoil it with words’ and I attempted to reengage him in a kiss.
But this time he was more determined and physically got hold of me and put me aside.
‘look it’s not going to happen. I’m sorry but I’m with Rico. Now go home please’ and with these words he left me and went back inside.
I was disappointed. I knew that some part of Auriel genuinely liked me and that moreover I had the power to seduce him. But still, on the other hand I just could never be a match for Rico, and Auriel appeared very loyal to him. However I wouldn’t give up yet. I entered the bar once more.
Some twenty minutes or so elapsed during which time I just sat alone in a corner watching the Auriel-Rico group from afar. They paid no attention to me whatsoever. Then after twenty minutes I saw that Auriel was going to get up and, hopefully alone, go to the bar or the toilet or something. And now it was that I decided to go out on a limb and chance my hand on a rather desperate plan of action.
Making eyes at Auriel whose attention I had caught – he was looking my way as Rico and the others were engrossed in a conversation – I made it plain through my come to bed eyes and my momentarily pursed lips – as though I was blowing a kiss at him – that I meant business; and when I believed he’d got the message I then set off walking towards the toilet. When I got to the door, I stopped for a second, and glancing over my shoulder once more made eyes at Auriel, their intention being unmistakeable. The last thing I saw before entering the toilets was Auriel -- looking me in the eyes with a serious countenance as if he understood my offer -- drink up and stand up.
I entered one of the cubicles. I had made my intentions obvious to Auriel. He would hopefully be here any minute to get his reward. I hadn’t locked the door, but merely leaned my body against it. And I kept my head tilted and my ear on alert awaiting the magic knock. I had already stripped off my shirt; my naked torso would be waiting to receive the kisses of the ever-amorous Auriel. As I stood there and waited my heart pounded to the dozen. I was so nervous! So full of anticipation. I knew it was now or never. And the least Auriel would expect, the length I would have to go to, to win him over and get the mission back on track would be to give him a blow job. And I’d have to make it a good one as well (of course I’d never done it before so was nervous). I waited in semi-silence, the noise of the bar dimly making its way into the toilets. And then it happened, he entered the toilets, and by pressing on the cubicle door, persistently, made it known to me that it wasn’t just someone wishing to toilet, but rather someone who knew I was in here waiting for them, and who desperately wanted to join me in the passion of love making. And now I decided to let the door ajar. I was so nervous about my coming encounter; so beside myself. But oh! Come in, come in, my dear Auriel, let us make love together in this seedy little love chamber.
Yet in a dramatic twist of events, as I opened up the door I saw the face of none other than the talkative also ran. The irritating pervert had obviously watched me enter, and coming in to try his luck knew exactly what he was come for. He tried to make his way into the cubicle and the pervert touched my naked breast. But I immediately started shouting at him and slamming the door, trapped and justly injured his breast-groping arm. Annoyed and thwarted I put my top back on, and exiting the cubicle started berating that stupid fucking pervert.
‘What are you doing you dirty paedophile!’ I shouted, venting my anger on him. He was besides himself intimating to me to shut up, but I kept up my outburst. ‘I don’t know why you can’t just get it into your head, I don’t like you. I came here for Auriel, it’s him that I fancy’ I said slowly and patronisingly. ‘I wish you would fuck off you dirty old perv’ and with these words I now took the rather satisfying liberty of smacking him across the cheek. It really stung him, and he was left there confounded and confused and stroking his sore face. With dignity I returned into the bar.
When I got there I found that fate had added insult to my injury. Rico and Auriel were back on the dance floor, dancing slowly in each others arms. (By this time of night the disco-end of the bar was alive, and the music was pumping.) The happy couple! I was so irate; the mission was completely going to pot, and not only was Auriel’s love looking like a long lost memory, but I had to put up with those pesky also rans, like midges on a summer holiday.
The night wore on. Rico and Auriel on the dance floor as I sulked around the sidelines not knowing what to do with myself. The goal of the mission seemed illusive now, and bedding Auriel a long shot. Yet when I thought it over, I had made some good progress with Auriel, especially when he was telling me about the offside rule; he hadn’t just thought me a weirdo; perhaps I shouldn’t let all that Rico had said get to my head. He hadn’t seen me with Auriel earlier on. What did he know? My confidence renewed itself. I had gotten close to Auriel. I had even kissed him and I had nearly rattled Rico. If I kept up my good work I might just complete my mission after all. And as luck would have it I was about to be presented with one final bite of the cherry.
It happened thus; as the party proceeded and the disco kicked in, Rico, who was now totally oblivious to me, got carried away and decided to make an exhibition of himself; on one side of the room there was a mini cat-walk type platform, upon which, on some nights in the Mediterranean boy, a dancer was hired to strut their stuff back and forth. Now tonight no such dancer had been hired. However the excitable Rico decided that he was fair substitute and mounting the board walk began a sexy dance. His good looks and funky rhythm soon attracted a large audience about him; and as he boogied his way along the catwalk the guys roundabout began to clap him; and then he started unbuttoning his shirt. Soon it was off and thrown aside into the crowd, who were egging him on in this little game. His beautiful naked chest was visible, but he wasn’t stopping there; the striptease continued much to the pleasure of his piers.
I watched all of this from behind the crowd at the back of the dance floor. And soon Rico was down to his underpants – white ones, and to all appearances unstained. What his secret was I could not say, but anyway it was at this point that he called it a day, and the onlookers ended their clapping with a big cheer, to which Rico made a bow, and stepping down from the catwalk fatigued, now retired into the loving arms of Auriel. Auriel now held him, still undressed as he was save his wires, around the waist. And Rico in turn held Auriel around the waist. And it was now that I decided to unleash my own little onslaught. My confidence had zipped up over the last twenty minutes or so, and I felt sure that a bit of dirty dancing on my part would win over the affections of my beloved Auriel. And when I thought about how I had more the physique of a model than the squat Rico, and how I had more right to be up there on that catwalk flaunting myself, I took courage; and reminding myself of Auriel’s affection for me during the ‘offside rule talk’ I mounted the catwalk and began my striptease.
But it was a complete disaster. Though it seemed to begin well as I executed a graceful little twirl like a ballerina, as I got down to the dance and striptease, all I received were ghastly looks of horror for the most part. People were shocked to see someone embarrass themselves so completely. There were a few men of good will, who were keen to egg me on: a little group of no-hopers, who would be going home alone tonight; seedy old men, in a word also-rans, headed up by that irritating old perv who’d tried to chat me up earlier on. Bastards! It only compounded my misery. As I stood there dancing my way out of my clothes, the confidence draining from me by the second, ghastly looks coming from all sides, I felt such a fool. Yet I remembered the rule ‘always in character’ and as such I knew I had to keep going. So did it continue, yours truly trying to look sexy, and soon I was down to my underpants – the tight black short type. I should say that whilst I was humiliating myself, the Rico-Auriel group were not really watching, but were ignoring me and having a little discussion. Yet now that I’d got down to my underpants I decided to stick things out and see my plan through to the end. If I was in for a penny I was in for a pound. Accordingly I now upped the anti and the underpants were removed. And this last bit did at least attract the attention of Rico. He looked at me contemptuously. I waved my underpants at him and blew a kiss. And this just roused him a bit.
In a flash he was back up on the catwalk. And in a cruel and humiliating fashion, he now mimicked my wooden and awkward dance moves and some people began to laugh. I was absolutely livid. I’d never been so humiliated. And now in mimicry of me and as a treat for the audience, he took off his underpants, to the wild cheering of the onlookers. And with that he bowed and turning round to me, gave me one final contemptuous look, and raising his middle finger at my face, said decidedly ‘now fuck off!’
With that he turned around to go. I was so angered, so enraged. I could see his proud naked buttocks in front of me. With a rush of adrenaline I ran forward and pushed him. He fell over the side of the catwalk and caught his head, accompanied by the most horrible banging noise, right on an angle the catwalk made with a crossways running platform. The next thing I knew he was like a devil possessed, and jumping up and turning on me, all I saw was a boy with a blood stained face charging at me. He attacked me and embraced me. The fight was on.
So had it come to this: a naked wrestling match. Actually it wasn’t as yet a wrestling match as such, but I was about to make it one; and what Rico didn’t know was that I was an expert in Greco-Roman wrestling – the academy champion in fact. Well my pretty little Rico, if you want to start a fight son, I’ll damned well give you one! I was determined to have him. And my blood was really pumping now and I was up for the fight. However he came at me with fists and it was my first intention to check these. Accordingly, with lightening reflexes, I managed to catch hold of both his arms in my hands; and though he struggled to release them, I had him; to now minimise the risk of being hit by a flying punch, if he managed to free one of his hands, which he was threatening to do so at any second, or by a kicking leg, it was now my aim to get my body very close to Rico’s: I wanted to get right on him and so grapple with him and make it a pure wrestling match as it were. With my hands still restraining his arms, I now took the risk of very quickly relinquishing my grasp of his hands and replacing my hands on his shoulders, whilst at the same time trapping his hands, and keeping my body at close quarters to his, so that he was unable to swing at me. He struggled but I had him now; and so as to build on my advantage and double my gains, I now decided to let gravity assist me; accordingly I charged him downwards to the floor.
I was now on top of him. He was lying on his back on the catwalk floor, and I took pains to spread both his arms to either side of him and pin him as it were. I was on top now, and we were – for want of a better phrase – in the missionary position. Whilst all of this fighting was going on, quite a crowd had gathered to watch it. But I was too engrossed in teaching Rico a lesson that I didn’t much notice it. Pinned as he now was I had an advantage; yet with my hands in place restraining his fists, how was I to make it count? I decided to use my mouth and plant some bites on Rico. I went for his neck. Yet I feared biting him too hard – it could be dangerous, after all I didn’t want to seriously injure him. Thus I didn’t bite too hard, but kept it softish, just pecking at him. And when I’d done with his neck I moved onto his shoulders and his chest and quickly set about biting every single spot I could; and finally remembering how once when eating chocolate I’d bitten my lip and it absolutely pained me, I decided to do the same to Rico’s lip.
Through all of this that little hussy was rustling and wriggling about but I was determined to pin him and have my way. We were both making grunting noises, were both so possessed by animal passions, and as we grappled and struggled we both groaned for breath. I could feel Rico’s cold naked body beneath me and my groin fell right on is. Yet in a moment of desperation Rico got one of his hands free and I was now in a spot of bother. However to stop the possibility of him throwing a punch I immediately threw my body at him, and got our bodies even tighter together. I was really on top of him, desperate to keep him pinned down with my body and tried to hug him for dear life to stop him using that loose fist. Rico, with his new found free arm, clasped this over my shoulder and around my neck in an effort to control me. I essayed to keep him down, yet he now, with superhuman strength from somewhere, managed to so get the better of me as to spin me over and get on top of me. Thus I found myself underneath Rico, his weight pressed against me, my naked buttocks pressed down on the cold panels of the catwalk floor. We were very much tight together, I was hugging him around the neck and shoulders, very, very tightly for fear that if he broke lose now, he would be able to punch me, and would altogether be in a very strong situation as I lay prostrate on the floor. And now the situation became critical. My arms were tiring, I felt Rico was going to break himself, back first, out of my embrace, I could feel his back and shoulders pressing upwards against my arms that I desperately held about his neck and upper body: I was losing strength in my arms, he was gaining strength and breaking free. I had to do something.
The worst of the situation was, was that holding Aimairs neck and shoulders as I did, I was not embracing him at his centre of gravity. Not at all. In fact as he struggled out of my embraces I was fast only holding onto his head, whilst the whole of his lower back and lower torso was totally free to do as it pleased and force his body out of my embrace. It was necessary to correct this bad positioning of mine; accordingly I allowed one hand of mine to let go of his back and placed it further down across his naked buttocks. Don’t baulk at this reader. My wrestling coach back at the academy always used to tell us that the best way to control a protagonist, the region in which his centre of mass seems to be concentrated, is his buttocks. And my plan was working: he was trying to free himself, as such his buttocks was moving outwards, away from my body on the floor. But with superhuman effort, I desperately brought it back in, pushing it, pushing it, pushing it so that it came right back in, so close in fact that our groinal regions were touching. I felt greatly relieved by this; I had a much tighter grip on him; one arm over his shoulder, the other on his backside; and I wasn’t going to let go either. No sirree. Though his bottom wriggled and moved up and down in my hand I firmly held it in position. That soft peachy bottom of his.
Of course reader, it hasn’t slipped my attention that in all of this touching of naked flesh, all this grasping of bottoms, all this body to body communion, all this groin on groin action, it hasn’t slipped my attention that that sick perverted homosexual Rico was getting his cheap kicks. Actually it pained me to think that this was probably his idea of a good night out. And as he grunted and panted and got aggressive, I really believed that he was probably just going through with all this just to satisfy his depraved and disgusting dreams.
And this sort of thing angered me, and spurred me on to new feats. No sooner had I got that little faggot back under control, but a few minutes later, I’d turned him and was back on top. Now it’s a well known fact in wrestling circles – anyone whose ever participated in the sport will immediately concur with me – that if you are pinning your opponent it’s a hundred times better if they’re lying on their stomach than on their back. (They can’t hit you except with a back hand in this position.) And this was the position I now had Rico in; I had grappled him into it with the sort of manoeuvre a professional would have been proud of, the likes of which had seen me crowned academy champion. And now as I lay on top of his naked body I felt very pleased and satisfied and in control of things. How cold and naked was his body.
Yet Rico was no push over and with incredible tenacity attempted to wriggle free. Primarily he did this by raising and wriggling his backside. (His upper body was totally pinned by mine lying atop of his, so that my head rested in the back of his head, and I had his perfumed, silky hair in my face, and my chin in the nape of his neck). But through his butt he was trying to effect an escape. I had my groin over it, and with this I was desperately trying to steady it – my arms were up top pinning down Rico’s – as it moved from side to side and up and down. You know he was really generating some power with it and thrusting it into my groin. But my groin was equally ready for the fight and would fain force his buttocks back down firmly into the floor. The ensuing fight was desperate: but eventually I won the day, my groin pressing his naked buttocks down flat against the floor. And in this position did we now lie, both of us exhausted and taking a rest for a second, that homosexual Rico momentarily conquered and the feel of his cold, naked body satisfyingly beneath me, my groin lying on his hairy backside.
I now had a chance to look around the room. There were quite a lot of people anxiously looking on, but plenty of them seemed drunk and appeared to be getting gratification from the fight, the sick perverts. I couldn’t see Auriel though. In any event, I decided that as Rico now lay beneath me, it would be a good idea to carry out a little test that I’d wanted to do all evening. I should explain.
It hadn’t failed to escape my suspicions that Rico might well be an undercover police officer. Presumably that was why he was mixed up with Auriel – he was investigating him. Now if this was true then I would be able to order him to relinquish his mission, and let me have Auriel for the night; leastways he could cut me into the action, and we could go back home for a threesome. However I couldn’t broach this subject to Rico without revealing who I was; and if it turned out that Rico was just a ponce after all then I’d have blown my cover for nothing. However I had designed a test to see if Rico was a true gay boy or not. And now as he lay there recovering, it seemed a good time to carry out said test. Accordingly, I momentarily removed one of my hands from his, pressing my body hard against his back to keep him pinned down. Then furtively placing my hand underneath his groin, and touching his hairy and humongous testicles, I put my hand plonk, right on his manhood. I held it in my hand momentarily.
But the response was positive: it grew in my hand. So he was a gay after all. He wasn’t an undercover. There was no possibility of collaborating with him. Yet in fact later on, when I thought about it, I soon realised that this was a stupid test. Because if you think about it reader, even if he was an undercover police officer that wouldn’t rule him out as a gay; the two are not after all mutually exclusive; in fact thinking it over, there’s a definite correlation there.
And now Rico seemed to regain some strength. As I looked around I saw Auriel. So he was still here. And now I was suddenly struck by something. Ever since the fight began I’d been trying to win it. Why fore had I done that now? Had I thought it would impress Auriel? Of course it wouldn’t. I was completely forgetting myself. We were in a gay bar for Heaven’s sake. If I wanted to gain Auriel’s love from this affair, I would have to be the loser of the fight, the helpless victim. Accordingly I now let Rico get on top. He did so with relish. I still had a hold of his arms but otherwise I gave him free reign. I simply lay there on my back on the floor and just let that man on top of me do as he pleased. I started moaning and groaning to try and pretend that I was hurt; and I shut my eyes as if I was scared; and I started panting as if I was out of breath; I even started screaming. And all of this play acting I thought Rico would never fall for – I’d thought he’d see straight through it. Yet incredibly as he was atop of me and grappling to get his arms free, he actually took all of these little signs for real; he was completely convinced of all my moaning and groaning and screaming. (I was just faking it!) He was such a fool. He truly believed it and started making grunts of pleasure as if he was finally winning. I couldn’t believe how easily I’d duped him. And from time to time I opened one of my eyes and coldly inspected his face. He was so engaged in his animalistic passions, he had no idea I was duping him like this. A malicious little grin came over my face. This was so easy. And as I lay there on the floor, the devil got up inside me, and I just wanted to moan and groan all the more, he was such a dupe; and I piled on the fake screams as though I was in agony. What a fool Rico was to believe it all.
I had hoped that all this screaming of mine might attract the attention of Rico. I was sure he was going to jump in and save me at any moment. Yet in a dramatic turn of events I’d let things go to far, and Rico managed to free one of his hands. The next thing I knew bang! I took it on the forehead; and with my head banging against the catwalk floor, the lights went out.

V
The mission to the Granby had gone absolutely pear-shaped. I’d gone there with the intention of bedding Auriel in order to gain the secrets of his heart and I’d ended up giving a master class in Greco-Roman wrestling. Yet in forfeiting the fight not only did I fail to elicit the sympathy of Auriel, but I’d also been hospitalized with a near life threatening blow. I had been knocked unconscious and had woken up in a hospital bed. (Some policeman came to visit me; I told them I’d been a victim of a gay bashing and though they were keen to press charges against the culprit, I insisted, not wishing to reveal my true identity, that I didn’t want to take it any further.) Although at first the doctors had feared I might suffer some sort of brain damage, that I might in consequence be one musician short of an orchestra, that I might loose my marbles or become deranged, mad or even deluded, I knew that mentally I was absolutely fine – completely compos mentis – that the wounds were only physical, and in due course the doctors came to realise this and discharged me. However the pain that Rico had afforded me was very real, and I was much disgusted at the violent nature of his conduct.
Yet the worst horror of all was not the physical beating; the scars would after all heal themselves. Worse were the psychological scars I’d suffered, the humiliation, the depravity I’d been witness and subject to. In the name of national security I’d gone to the Mediterranean boy. And I’d thrown myself without reserve into the role of homosexual, and gone to extremes and suffered incredibly in the midst of filthy perverts, and all to no avail. Let’s be clear about this. I’d gleaned not one bit of information vis-à-vis Auriel’s involvement in the terror ring. Not a sausage. If the big chiefs upstairs at headquarters learned of my ill-fated mission and got wind of my desperate, yet ultimately pointless acts of depravity, there was a good chance I would loose my badge. I’d seen people kicked out for a lot less. And to this end was I much chagrined. For it wasn’t as if I’d shirked my responsibilities. On the contrary I’d embraced my mission and fully played up to what the role demanded of me. And to think what I’d let myself go through: I’d been eyed up and hit on and had my breast groped by aged perverts; and I’d found myself stripped naked and accosted by the insufferable Rico, who under the guise of wrestling with me made untold assaults upon my person; caressing my backside, feeling my chest, my back, my groin – in short that filthy animal had lustfully attached himself to me and stopped at nothing to gorge his perverted thirst and satisfy his sexual appetites. And not only had he touched every part of my naked body and fiendishly fed thereon, but during all of this, in the sickening den of depravity that the Mediterranean boy was, I’d had to endure the trauma of aged and drunken perverts leering at my naked body, gorging their seedy and sin-ridden little eyes on my naked buttocks, and some of them going so far as to take the opportunity, as I lay down prostrate on the ground, of having a secret grope of me. Thus had I found myself, a well-respected secret agent, an inestimable pillar of the community, a clean minded man of integrity bent only on safeguarding the citizens of this nation, leered at, groped and abused – in what frankly amounted to rape – and treated as though I was a mere sex toy. Is this how people repay me for my devotion to queen and country? Sick perverts! What filthy rats they had been to so treat the cream and pride of the secret service. You know my hatred towards homosexuals had doubled, if that was possible, after the events in the Mediterranean boy (I’m sure you can appreciate reader just how it is that one’s bad experiences lead one into prejudice); and frankly I felt no real obligation to safeguard the lives of those odious, sub-human filth that dwelt there; and frankly, if in some deluded moment of madness, that madman and sicko Auriel was to bomb the Mediterranean boy, then I’ll admit to you reader, I would be the first to cheer.
Yet the worst offender of all had been Rico. And ironically, though I’d completely recovered from the physical beatings he’d given me, and was as sound as a pound vis-à-vis my mental health, the sickening acts of depravity that he’d enacted on me came back to haunt me night after night. For in testing his true identity – gay or as I’d then hoped, straight undercover cop – and in placing my hand on his manhood to verify his true person, that dirty minded ponce had taken the opportunity to titillate himself and had immediately ‘lit up’ in my hand. The horror of that incident was like a heavy cloud upon my sky; night after night I woke up having relived in my dreams that awful, awful moment in which his penis had excitedly inflated and started throbbing like a little bird come to life in my hands. It was so consistently in my mind and time and again I lived out the moment when I held it in my hand; and no matter how hard I tried it was always in my hand and it became harder, and harder and harder to focus on something else. It was always in my dreams and no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t seem able to shake it off. I really thought I was scarred for life. You know I’ve got to say that, supposing I was a homosexual – an untruth if ever there was one – but just supposing for a second I was; well if someone tested me like that, some stranger that I didn’t know, I would never allow myself to get carried away like that, never ever. Yet that depraved faggot Aimair had no self-control and got his cheap thrills in any way he could.
But time’s river swept me along and to new shores did it bring me. And soon were my energies directed into negotiating new and exciting missions. Reader I should commence this next episode by first offering up an apology for the chapter just gone by. The sickening and shocking acts of depravity described therein are not at all to my taste either, as I’m sure they’re not to yours. Yet in my oath bound commitment to the truth – I promised you at the outset a true narrative – I had to put it into print; for there is many a twisted pervert out there, and, just as a natural historian cannot sweep under the rug the savage acts that go on in the darkness of the jungle night, so to I, as guardian of the truth, cannot skip over the actions of that diseased part of our society, homosexuals. However, it may gladden your heart to know that the narrative I’m about to begin, is, in content, a lot more light hearted.
It all began when I was drinking a cup of coffee in the basement floor café of Bhs. I was actually just recharging my batteries on route to an obbo I was mounting in the Flora-Didcot district of the town. Yet it was whilst thus revitalizing myself that I became caught up in a totally different plot altogether. This is what happened: a few tables away from me a couple, man and wife, were sitting down having a bite to eat. Twenty or thirty-something’s it seemed, average people just like you or I reader, who’d obviously been out shopping on this Saturday, and were now recuperating at the café. Pleasant, everyday citizens going about their business. Yet some people cannot tolerate the happiness of others, cannot incur the pain of being ignored by them and barred from their world; and whenever they see happiness spring up their immediate desire is to cut it down. I’m talking of course about the terrorists. For in the midst of those two innocents, and though they did not know it, there was an ill-scheming terrorist at work.
He sat a few tables away. He was of Asian origin. And if you think I’m ‘profiling’ to so suspect him of terrorism reader, then your absolutely spot on. Don’t believe any police propaganda or government chit chat; don’t swallow any lies that the media serves up. Everybody profiles. Hell, even a traffic warden’s cat knows how to profile. Yet above and beyond his ethnic identity, I had overwhelming evidence of his ill-intentioned designs. For his eyes which were dark and very suspicious kept glancing over full of hate towards that happy couple. He was very cunning as well: he didn’t look continuously at his intended victims; but spent long intervals looking away; yet from time to time he stole a glance at them; and in his eyes I saw disaster for the couple; in fact I was completely convinced he was going to kill them. Dear God what an age we live in. It sends shivers down my spine to think of all the terrorists out there. What hordes of murderous scum bags there are out there, lurking in the dark. And I knew fine well what that bastard was thinking. He hated that couple, hated them. He was cut out of their world. As I sat there I simply shook my head in disgust at him: he had come to a café all on his lonesome and was drinking coffee by himself. What a loser! He was evidently on the fringes of society, unloved, disliked and to all intents and appearances a rank and file no-hoper with women. And he evidently had problems with those two love birds. He was really put out. He had major jealousy issues with them. Ha! How these terrorists hate it when two people kiss in front of them. Ha! How consumed by envy they are! And I could see he loathed the female. Ugh! He couldn’t stand her at all. She was anathema to him. Of course it’s well documented that these terrorists have got major problems with women, especially our western women. I felt desperately sorry for that poor girl; really, really sorry for her. And I didn’t know what that loner-loser terrorist scum might do to her and her husband.
Accordingly, as he got up to go there was no other option left me but to follow him – my obbo would have to be put on ice for the interim. As we walked off I said to myself dramatically ‘here we go-go.’ It seemed strange that the terrorist was heading away from his intended victims. But the minds of these people are so cunning, pernicious and difficult to scrutinize, in fact so completely crazy and deluded, that I could only conclude that he had some elaborate scheme in mind. It was my duty to pursue him and so I did. Yet as we went up a level on an escalator and entered a shopping mall, huge crowds of people, mainly football fans who were being spewed out of the nearby stadium and heading to the underground bus station, came walking in the direction opposite; unable to ride the wave of these people I was pushed aside and in doing so I lost sight of the suspect. I couldn’t fight my way through, I just couldn’t. The last view I had of the suspect was him mounting an escalator on the other side of the mall.
Eventually I broke through the crowd. Yet not only had the suspect given me the slip, but he’d also gained valuable time on me. Damn! Damn it X you fool! You should have gotten closer man! Should have tracked him with greater care. I’d seen him disappear up the escalator; then let’s get a move on in that direction! Accordingly I broke into a run across the floor of the mall.
Reader, I’ll level with you, this chase I was now involved in – this is one of the most exciting events in the world of espionage, one of the reasons I signed up. And it’s not really about the thrill of the chase. It’s more about all the people who are watching me and wondering who is that mysterious man? What on earth is his business, they’ll all be saying to themselves. And so too now as I found myself racing at break neck speed, my jacket flying back off my body, my face bearing a concentrated and serious expression, my whole being bent on my mission of catching up with the suspect. And as I thus ran, in the midst of numerous shoppers, some in the mall, some on its escalators, all of whom were just ordinary citizens, going about their ordinary, everyday lives, I felt myself really special and important. I knew that the eyes and attention of all the shoppers, going about their shopping routinely and unexcitedly would be on me, though I did not deign to look them over, but rather focused on my mission. I knew they’d all be asking themselves ‘what on earth’s going on here?’ ‘Who is that man chasing?’ ‘What is afoot in our midst?’ ‘Who is that man? He looks so important. Is he a secret agent?’ And I knew that especially the women would be thinking to themselves, who is that man? He leads such an important and exciting life. Wow isn’t he dashing! What a mysterious man!
Thus am I forever pleased to be caught up in such a chase, to show off just for once my incredible athleticism and Hollywood-style heroics, to give the average Joe Public, and more especially the ladies a glimpse of my true self. As I ran up the escalator, there was an elderly lady standing on the left side and in my way. Now I’ll tell you dear reader, I’ve seen policeman in their chases literally run into, bump over, and frankly leave for dead, old ladies who stand in their path. Not so with yours truly. I never forget, no matter how exciting events may be, my courtesy and honour. And so it was now. As I approached the old dear I slowed down, and putting one hand authoritatively on her shoulder declared ‘Madam, please, allow me to pass.’ She seemed a bit put out by it all and looked at me strangely. I do get some bad reactions like this. The general public are never so courteous to me as I to them. Nevertheless I ran on.
When I reached the top I first ran one way and when I could not see the suspect, I skidded dramatically to a halt and set off in the other direction; eventually skidding once more to a halt, on the slippery mall surface, when again I could not see the terrorist in that direction either: he was gone! Damn! He’d gotten away. I’d lost him completely. ‘Holy shit’ I shouted to myself. ‘The fucking terrorists!’ The son of a bitch had slipped through the net. What was I to do now? What might that villain not do to his victims now that I’d lost him? Without hesitation I immediately decided that the terrorist was escaped, and now proceeded with haste to retrace my steps. You see this is what we’re taught at the academy: if you loose the suspect, your first duty is to safeguard the intended victims; your first thought is to them, and in any case, since they are the target of the terrorist, by sticking close to them you’ll soon be back on his trail. Thus with speed did I run all the way back to the café, and there panting and out of breath, I saw much to my relief, the happy couple, uninjured and still at their meal, totally oblivious of the true situation of events.
They sat there having their dinner. Thank God they were safe. Thank God. And they looked so innocent; so oblivious to the fact that some strange man had ill-designs on them. I resumed my seat. Under my watchful eye were they now very safe indeed. I wasn’t going to let them out of my sight; wherever they went so to would I. For tonight and for the meanwhile they were to be treated to – as they fully deserved to be and were entitled to – her Majesty’s royal protection. If only they knew I was going to keep an eye on them; if only they knew! How pleased they’d be. Yet I had to recognize that I’d be an unsung hero yet again.
Some twenty minutes later we left the café, and headed to the bus stop. From their conversations, I had learned that we were heading home – they were both quite tired, and just wanted a cosy, relaxing night in together in the privacy of their own home. It would just be the three of us then. Honestly reader I feel like that oftentimes myself you know. Some days it’s all you can manage to just have a quiet night in by yourself. I could really appreciate where these people were coming from. Thus I’d be in for a spot of house-sitting.
When we reached the bus stop I started to think things through. Was it really very likely that that terrorist was going to come back and get them? Hardly! Yet there was a possibility. As such I was oath bound to protect the victims. However small the odds might be, I wasn’t going to chance having two dead bodies on my hands. No sir. I had to stay with and escort them, it was my duty to do so. Yet it would be a long and probably uneventful night ahead of me then. It would be a real bore. I was desperate to be back out working on the dangerous and exciting obbo I was mounting. I didn’t want to be wasting my time away on house-duty, it was such a chore. Yet as I looked on the innocent and happy little faces of that couple, I shook my head wistfully; there was nothing for it but to protect them, the poor little souls. If ever they found out that I’d shirked my duty to them, I knew they’d never forgive me. Ultimately I had a responsibility to them and as such I had to go home with them. It was what, had they known what peril they were in, they would have wanted.
Yet house-sitting like this is such a bore and every secret agent knows it. We always have a joke about it but honestly it’s the pits. In an amusing anecdote, secret agent Z had to house sit for a couple who were decorating their house, so that he literally had to watch paint dry. But the worst of it was, was that he was there for three whole weeks! And in the end it turned out that nothing happened. Such stories are numerous. I wondered what was in store for me tonight.
By this time we were seated on the bus, yours truly insinuating himself behind and to the left of the happy couple. By listening into their conversation it transpired that we were getting a film out for the night and having a takeaway. Well it might not be so boring after all. I should say that in tracking the couple thus far, I had very much held myself back. Obviously they weren’t a flight risk; they had nothing to run from. The female had clocked me once at the café, but only in absent-mindedness I thought. And principally the couple were caught up in their own affairs and took no heed of me. I hadn’t been eye-spied as I trailed them to the bus stop, nor at it either. And in order to avoid being silently clocked by the female again when I walked onto the bus, and indeed to cast asunder any conceit that I was ‘stalking’ them, when the bus arrived and I saw those two stand up and ready themselves to get on it, I then deliberately and with seeming oblivion to aught else, played the part of an antisocialite bent only on getting himself onto the bus and out of the cold; and jumping the queue, and overtaking my charges, I pushed my way to the front. A few good citizens complained, but for reply I merely mimicked them and shouted ‘get a life granddad!’ and made them out to be boring stooges. I don’t know whether the happy couple witnessed this; but if they did it would surely show that I was in no way following them. And I wanted to get my shots in early; because I knew that when I left the bus I would find myself all alone and unprotected and indeed I would then be following them. And when that time came I would need to rely on such antics as I’d just performed, a clear indicator that I was in no way following them, in order to dismiss as dip-shit any suspicious looks I might receive from the couple, particularly the female.
Of course you might well ask it reader, but for why since I’m only providing them with protection, could I not just inform the couple of my presence. The reasons for this are manifold. Supposing I was to tell them. I’d then have to tell them the whole truth and nothing but; there would be no chance of spinning a yarn and serving them say a half-truth explanation for my intrusion into their lives, because then they’ll probably just suspect that I myself am some weirdo whose doing strange and suspicious stuff to them. So I tell them the truth. What’s their reaction? They have a panic attack. They go absolutely mental. Moreover I can’t just tell them on my own. Again because they’ll suspect me. Instead I’m going to have to phone my boss up and get him to come out here, perhaps with yet another colleague in order to explain the situation. That’s wasting the precious time of superiors so important, men and women who are busting a gut, working around the clock to prevent terror attacks. And believe me they’ll be there all night explaining: for the shocked couple want explanations; they want to know what the hells’s going on, they want answers; and then their curiosity being peaked, they want to know every bleeding detail of foiled terrorist attacks and the secret service. And I’m going to have to have a team of trained councillors on hand to help the couple cope. And one way or another it’s leaked, perhaps by the couple themselves or their family and friends, but whichsoever way the devil dances, before you can say scoop, the media’s on the door step. Suddenly we’re surrounded by camera crews, reporters etcetera, yours truly has got his face all over the papers, my cover’s blown, everyone knows I’m a secret agent, and the media are going cock-a-hoop and doing the funky chicken. There’s national hysteria – an innocent couple to be attacked in their own home by a terrorist – is this an isolated instance or is it a regular occurrence? I’ll tell you the answer to that reader, with a very alarming statistic. One out of every ten people has been watched like this in their lives, with secret agents visiting one household in every average street in a period of less than a month. Have you any idea then of the national panic that would ensue if each and every one of these cases of potential terror plots came to light. There would be pandemonium. Not to mention the horrific costs in time and manpower that it would throw down the shit-shoot. Clearly the best tactic is to do things in the dark, utilizing only the resources of one secret agent.
I should say a little also about the rules and regulations set up by the secret service that govern these house-sitting expeditions. Simply it’s a remark about the eating requirements of the spy and the lore of ‘scrumping.’ Spies are not expected to take along their own food, and, in the case that a spy is forced to spend a ‘lengthy and protracted period’ at the house ‘he or she may (academy lore, article 371 b) proceed to acquire, without fear of charges of criminality, any such portions of food and drink that they deem necessary to maintain themselves in a healthy and productive state of operation, provided said morsels will not be easily seen to have been taken by the house occupants, or to arouse suspicion in any way shape or form.’ Thus would it be tonight. I was in for a fairly long stay and therefore might expect to feed myself at my charges expense. And it seemed we were going for a take away. I might be able to scrounge some of the left-overs. It wasn’t as yet clear what they had in mind, but personally I fancied a Chinese.
The bus stopped and we alighted. We were in a fairly respectable middle-class neighbourhood. I need have no fears tonight. As we began to walk along the street I kept some twenty metres or so to the rear. It was dark and that was a help. When we had gone some few hundred metres to the good, the couple crossed over the road and entered into a brightly illumined shop: it was the movie-rental store. I waited outside. Ha! I wondered what they were going to get? I hoped it was something good. Something to while away the wee hours. I popped a chewing gum in and waited casually. But after a few minutes had passed it struck me that perhaps I should really be in there big-brothering them. However were I to make an entrance into the store, I would risk blowing my cover to some extent. But then hang on, maybe the terrorists were in there waiting for them? I suddenly had a presentiment of something, a sinking feeling. And now that I looked up at the shop owners name it said ‘Said bin Salman Al-Thani!’ Shit, I’d been caught napping. That was it. The terrorist knew who his people were and that was why he’d let them go earlier; he knew where they lived for he resided in their neighbourhood! Shit, I’d better get in there.
However when I entered the couple were fine. They were perusing some films on one wall. At the counter, and watching on was a young man of Asian origin. We eye-balled one another and then I took to looking at the movie selection. So did we proceed, the couple searching on one side and yours truly stood behind them looking at those on the opposite wall, with his back rather foolishly turned on both his protectees and the shop owner. It was a mistake and I was going to realise it. For in an incredible French kiss of fate the most dramatic events were about to take place, and the evening was set to plunge into a terror of terrors.
The male picked up a film case and said ‘that’s meant to be quite good.’
‘What is it?’ said the female questioningly. ‘Queen Elizabeth I? With Helen Mirren?’
No! Oh please God no! Spare me! Oh my God what a horrible twist of events! It was so, so boring. Was I going to be forced to sit through that? Argh no! No! Please save me! Aaaaaaargh! I was overcome by a black cloud of listlessness, lethargy and despair; my face scowled in pain and I truly thought I was going to lose consciousness, fall backwards on the floor and blackout just as when I’d had to do the ironing. Argh my God no! That was too much punishment. Man it was too much. I would never survive it. No sirree. What on earth was I to do? Yet in the depths of the deepest darkness, riding through the valley of death as I now was and stunned by my horrific fate, my spy’s aptitude for quick thinking had already conjured up a counter attack option, and before I was fully conscious of it, I already found myself fighting back.
Desperately I scoured the DVDs around me. But nowhere was I able to see what I so feverishly sought. What the heck kind of movie store was this? There were seven of them made. How on earth could the proprietors not stock one Police Academy film? Fools! They were missing out on a little gold mine there. I kept searching. What could I find now? And then Bingo! Ah ha ha! That was it. Come to daddy my little pickanniny. I picked it down.
In the meantime the couple had just about decided on Queen Elizabeth I and getting dangerously close to the counter, the wheel of fortune was spinning ominously away from me. It was now or never. ‘Then let’s do it,’ I said silently to myself. Walking over to them, I immediately burst in, and gesticulating excitedly said ‘have you seen this? This is the best film ever. Honestly it’s just so good. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. It’s the ultimate feel good film. I’ve seen it thirty-seven times. It’s simply wonderful.’
The happy couple were somewhat taken aback by my little intrusion and were unsure of what to make of me. But they could see that I was insisting; and out of politeness they had to listen to me. (But I had no scruples on this score; for I was doing them a favour by recommending this film.) The male now took it from my hands, the female standing behind him and not daring to take her eyes off me; she was scared somewhat and scrutinized me as if I was strange.
‘Cool Runnings?’ he said. ‘What’s that.’ And I explained to him that it was the true story of the first ever Jamaican Bobsleigh team. He seemed unsure of himself. Yet happily I thought he might bite – you know he was a really reasonable man, and listened to what I had to say. That was unusual. For once I was being treated as if I wasn’t a complete nobody. They were unsure. The female had reservations. They talked it through. Hummed and Hahhed. I stood there like a salesman eyeing them expectantly. And then finally I broke in and clinched the deal.
‘That Queen Elizabeth I is the most boringist rubbish, I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Honestly I struggled through ten minutes and then fell fast asleep.’
And with that Queen Elizabeth I was dumped unceremoniously back on the stack. They were going to give Cool Runnings a whirl. Mission complete! Give me five reader! I think though it wasn’t so much the substance of my sales-pitch that had got the evening back on track but rather my intrusion upon their lives that had made up the minds of the couple; they evidently regarded me as a weirdo. Especially the suspicious female who eyed me warily. And I think in the end they’d just wanted rid of me; but they knew I was going to insist on Cool Runnings; and not wishing to hurt my feelings and not having any definite idea of their own but wishing me gone, they’d snatched at the bait. And then to intimate that they wanted rid of me the male had said ‘cheers mate’ and stuck his thumb up at me and put on a false, clenched teeth smile. Even so I thought them – and particularly him – quite nice people.
Nevertheless I waited in-store to see them hire it: for if they saw me leave they might take that as a signal that they could re-choose according to their own ideas; however with yours truly present and correct, they’d be morally obliged, sensitive, educated, middle class people that they were, to hire Cool Runnings in order not to upset my feelings.
On leaving the DVD store, I gave them ten seconds or so and then went in pursuit. And within a few hundred metres of the store we arrived at the couple’s home. I watched them go inside some thirty metres to their rear. It was a semi-detached with a little front garden. How then was I to make an entrance? I continued walking and strode past the house noting its number and keenly but calmly looking for aught that might be of service to me. Already an upstairs light was on. I sauntered on down the street. What was I going to do? The most important thing was to act casually. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Many thoughts ran cerebral. My ear had been privy to much talk of tonight’s proceedings: the female wanted to take a bath; they were going to have a take away – would one of them pop out for that or would it be delivered? They were looking forward to watching ‘Dancing on Ice’ before they watched Cool Runnings and they both had lottery tickets. Now if they were occupied in these activities I might be afforded an opportunity to enter. I kept thinking.
I guess I should once more reiterate the fact that in a middle class neighbourhood like this you can very much count on the residents to be respectable and to curb any suspicions they might harbour. It’s well known in spy circles that if say a neighbour was to see me entering the couples home, 99 times out of 100, said neighbours would let me be, and simply chide themselves for being so fantastic, for trying to play Miss Marple and what have you. In this respect people are very Chekhovian and in terms of their behaviour in real-life, they can be relied upon to be discrete and honourably unsuspicious. Very down to earth. And that’s a bonus for us spies; because it allows us to go about our business unhindered. I mean people just don’t believe in intruders, burglars or secret agents, in the same way they don’t believe in ghosts or UFO’s; such are the mere fancy of television. Reality is a lot more dull. And as a secret agent I could now take advantage of this situation. Ignore the neighbours, don’t believe they’re watching you – that is the delusion of the guilty man or the conceited big-head. No, no-one would be watching me. Let’s be down to earth about this. I’m nobody of importance. And to keep my mind calm and on other things I took up the drill of simply running through every world cup since 1930 and recalling the winners, host and top scorer. Thus thinking did I turn in my tracks at the next possible opportunity – a second street intersected the one I was on – and affecting to be a bit puzzled and lost, and reading the street names with perplexity, and looking up and down the roads, then turned back towards the couple’s house.
My aim was simply to look assured and, provided there was no obvious pitfall of being caught, with confidence walk into the couple’s house. If you appear as if you’ve got rightful business going in then people will think so; thus did I intend to enter. Their front door of course was of the variety that open from outside; and indeed it’s no coincidence that these front doors are the standard nowadays. In days of yore, secret agents were often left flummoxed and locked out, unable to enter suspect’s houses because of the old-style doors that only opened from inside. Which was why the government so arranged it as to make it a policy to have in place these modern doors, that open from outside and allow access to citizen’s houses. My plan was to enter through the front door and acting casually, hope that nobody was there.
That would probably be the case – so has experience taught me. However what about waiting to see if one of the two would pop out for a takeaway – could I not take advantage of that somehow? Yet fortune favours the bold. As I approached the couple’s house once more I saw through the window that they were sat down watching TV. This was a decent window of opportunity: with those two engrossed in that I could make an entrance. I was fairly sure the front door did not lead straight into the living room where those two sat. What about going round the back? Might not the back door still be locked? No. Let’s go in through the front. I was slightly tempted to walk on by the couple’s house and turn around again and come back – but that would be foolish. Instead, calmly and with assurance I entered the garden – out of sight of the couple in the living room – and casually stopping before the door to wipe off the mud from my trainers on the front bit of grass, I then entered the house.
By this time I was onto Mexico 1970, Brazil, Jairzinhio, and then em,…er, let me think, it was Germany, West Germany of course, yes that’s it West Germany, West Germany and Lato of Poland, and pull down the handle and slowly, slowly, Argentina, Argentina,…it’s escaped me….em Mario? Mario? I couldn’t think…..I entered the house. No-one was about. I heard the two next door and the telly and I was immediately overcome by the bright-lit interior of the house and the smell of foods gone by. I was in the hall, the stairs were before me and treading carefully I went up and sat at the top. This was a good vantage point. I would wait here for the interim. If the terrorists came through the front door I would be in a good position to deal with them. The same applied to an upstairs entrance. A backdoor entrance I wasn’t so prepared for. But then I needn’t be overprotective. For the minute I held my position. I would look to get closer to the couple in future.
And in time, after one or so more of our earth hours had been consigned to the annals of history, the male went out to get the take away and the female came up for her bath. I stepped aside her when she did and hid myself in one of the upstairs rooms; and when she was locked inside the bathroom proceeded downstairs and entered the living room. Of course if you have to ask reader why it was I wasn’t going to sally out with the male and protect him as he went for food whilst leaving the female home alone then ye obviously know nought of the rules of chivalry.
I had a look around. Such a lovely house and a lovely sitting room in particular. Everything was so finely decorated. They had a beautiful white leather sofa; a homely artificial fire-place, bookshelves, a flat-screen TV – in short it was a most charming little pad, I was really quite envious. On the mantel piece stood a photograph; I walked over and took it up: a wedding photograph of the happy couple. So they weren’t living in sin after all. I was quietly pleased about this, so many couples dispensing with the marriage vows these days as if it were only madman’s mumbo jumbo. But this pair were well-bred. You know I was really taken by them. And as I stared wistfully at the photo and around the living room I was slightly tinged by regret that I’d never chosen to marry. Damn, I’m so hopeless at relationships! Don’t get me wrong reader I was born to live the life, as we spies say, and as such I’m wed to my profession. But every once in a blue moon I’m just that bit touched by regret. I mean they seemed such a happy couple; and contrasted to my life with all its countless one night stands, shallow affairs with women I barely know, the sheer loneliness of sleeping with strangers, so that it’s one girl one day and another girl the next, the joyless and numbing sensation of constantly having sex, sex, sex, sex, sex – at times I do feel a tad envious of those in married wed-lock, regretful that I never chose to enter into the sanctity of domestic bliss.
I had a butchers in a second room, a kitchen that adjoined the living room. I should say reader all of the three rooms on floor the first, the hall, living room and kitchen, each of these communicated with the other, so that if you were in one room you were so to speak only one throw of the cluedo-dice away from being in any other. In the kitchen brooded a big bowl of red grapes; so many were there in fact, that surely to goodness my hosts would be none the wiser if a few went AWOL; accordingly I helped myself. Mmm! They were lovely. I had a few. I had some more. You know that’s the thing about grapes, they exploit man’s improvidence so, like oil or gold: there just so morish. And boy were these good ones. Amen to that. Yet now I was in danger of plundering the lot. A barren twiggy patch had arisen where once there’d been a bounty of grapes. Slow down! Slow down! I said to myself. To help me achieve this last aim I made a game of throwing the grape air-bound and catching it cool as a cat in my mouth. Then here we go! Would you launch the grape please! And then with eyes heavenward and mouth agog I tried to take it. Drum roll………Yes! Success! Give me five reader. It went straight in. Direct hit! A hole in one!
I grew cocky. Taking up grape two, I braced myself. I released the grape. Here it came. Nope! Not this time! It was an undignified moment for the secret agent as it hit my bottom lip, fell onto the floor, and rolled away across the linoleum. I went to retrieve it. Urgh! It had picked up a hair on its dirty travels. I didn’t fancy eating that. Popping it back in the bowl I took up another. I was determined this time to recreate the form I’d shown in my first, successful, grape catch. Once more I braced myself. I threw. And this time? Nope, it just bounced of my lip once more. I picked it up, returned it to the bowl and took a fresh one. I was determined to make the grade this time. The skill had eluded me twice now, and my confidence draining away, that first cirque-de-soleil catch seemed a long lost memory. Had it been nought but a fluke? I was determined to quash such talk. So I waited nervously to throw. Yet suddenly, in an incredible twist of events, the front door opened. The male was back. I could smell the food. He shouted upstairs to the female. It was time to take up position. Yet I just had time for one more throw of the devil’s dice: I was determined to prove my grape catching skills. But I’d have to step to it; the male was coming. It was now or never. Accordingly the grape was tossed. I looked up with face intent. Drum roll please……. Here it came! But the trajectory was all wrong – I’d rushed my throw and had had to scuttle a bit across the floor to try and catch it. Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope. It bounced miserably off my lip and rolled across the floor. Bastard! I didn’t like to leave things on that sour note. But there was nothing else for it. The male was entering the kitchen. There was no time to pick up the grape. Reluctantly I departed and scampered into the living room as he came into the kitchen.
I sat myself down, in the position I’d spied earlier, sitting with knees crossed behind a chair on the far side of the living room. It was a good position from which to operate. I was hidden from view from any wandering eyes in the kitchen; and hidden also from the greater part of the living room. Only if one of my charges chanced to come up close to this unappealing corner of the room would I be betrayed. And on top of that it was dark in the living room with only the lamp atop the TV switched on. Was that pizza I could smell? Yes, it seemed we were having a pizza. (Although I’d fancied Chinese that would do me fine.) It smelt delicious! Hmm! The couple entered the room and with pizza on the coffee table set about serving it up. I think I’ll stop referring to them now as the ‘couple’ or the male and the female and start making use of their names, that within the course of the evening I learnt. The female was called Tinka (equally Tinky, Tinks and even Tinkabell or my little bit of Tinka-totty, or the rather rude Tinka the stinker). Now that Tonka (Tonks, Tonka-baby, Tonka-truck, Tonka-the-Stonka,) had come home pizza-laden, Tinka was back downstairs. She had indeed been bathing, as her wet hair and rosy cheeks, as well as her scented strawberry bath oil odour bore testament to. And she was changed into her pyjamas. She was really so lovely: the pyjamas were cute as kittens, being silky in composition and bearing row upon row of little yellow teddy-bears waving and smiling at you, and set upon a blue background; charming and eloquent were the little slippers that befitted her tiny feet: they were pink and affected to be little baby-hippos; and her hair, her yellow curls, wet from her soaking, really became her. Indeed all dressed for bed as she now was, tired and with a sleepy little face she looked a perfect picture of an adorable little housewife. Not even a sultan himself could have demanded more. The contours of her body, her backside and her breasts were shown off to good effect by the tightness of her pyjamas. Don’t get me wrong reader, she was no oil painting, no glamour model, no perfect ten; she would not have been every man’s cup of tea; her nose was somewhat too large; her cheeks were a tinge to rosy; her ears stuck out like those of a rat; and her hair was a tad too course; probably I’d have rated her at something like seven out of ten, or perhaps even push the boat out to a seven and a half, when pyjama-clad as she now was; but to one such as myself who likes a women not to be perfect, but to offer a few flaws, and to one such as myself who appreciates just what kind of a magic-crystal-gem of a princess the fortunate Tonka had on his hands; to one such as myself, Tinka was the picture of loveliness.
Tonka for his part was tall, more so than Tinka, and well built as well, with broad shoulders. Generally he seemed quite an easy going man, nice, polite and courteous when it was expected of him, silent and non-communicative when he was relaxing. He didn’t smile much – nor either did Tinka, in fact during the whole evening they neither of them were given to smiling a lot – but he was well-mannered and pleasant, just as when, at the DVD store, he’d had the decency to listen to what I was saying. With the pizza home and Tinka downstairs we settled ourselves down for the evening. Tinka and Tonka sat themselves upon the two seater settee, at the other side of the room. The pizza was laid out on the coffee table in front of them, and it smelt absolutely delicious – finger’s crossed they’d leave me some. It was a twelve inch, deep pan, all-star selection pizza, with twelve slices each different, one a Margarita, another ham and pineapple, another pepperoni etcetera. To wash the pizza down there was a bottle of coke with two glasses and for nibbles a bowl of salted chipsticks – I would make several successful raids on these throughout the course of the night. The DVD was soon readied and with yours truly in position behind his chair, able to see both Tinka and Tonka and the TV screen, we all settled ourselves down for an enjoyable night in, myself keeping one ear to the ground in case of any attempted terrorist intrusion.
The film began: Cool Runnings. This would be my 38th viewing. Yet still there would be surprises. Throughout the whole film I sat there with an expectant happy face; ready to laugh, ready to cry. As each scene played out I kept wanting to turn to the couple and make sure they were concentrating; I kept wanting to say to them just watch this next bit; just see what happens here. This next bit coming up is so funny. You’ll not want to miss this. Pay attention now. And I kept wanting to give them little explanations, concerning things they might not understand, things which I myself had not understood on earlier viewings. And as different actors and actresses made their appearances, I kept wanting to tell them in what other films and programmes they had previously been in. To say ‘oh, that’s such and such out of XYZ.’ All of this I wanted to do but tonight I would have to take a vow of silence. I’d have to content myself with simply glancing over at those two to see if they were following; and I was desperately hoping, I was besides myself in anticipation, I was just about dying to hear them laugh and really enjoy themselves and get into the spirit of it all; after all I’d recommended the film to them; at the end of the night I wanted them to say of me ‘well, thank goodness we bumped into that chap in the shop. He knew what he was talking about. I really like him.’
The early scenes played out, those two with face-full of pizza. In contrast to many films of its era Cool Runnings stands out for both its hard-hitting, gritty depiction of everyday Jamaican life and its steadfast commitment to the truth. In storyline and scope Cool Runnings is an action packed and adventure orientated tale, peppered here and there with some well-timed comic moments. Though it contains brief scenes of violence and nudity one of the films strengths is that it works on two levels, and is therefore suitable for a younger audience, carrying a twelve certificate as it does. But beneath its action packed and humorous exterior, Cool Runnings is at its heart a story of courage and of strength, a story of hardship and endurance, a real coming of age film, and in its moral message – that newcomers should be welcomed with open arms and embraced as brothers – is both a heart wrenching tale of human perseverance and a tragic depiction of mans inhumanity to man. It is a tale rich in metaphor and carries a dire moral warning, a warning from history, but also is testimony to successful endeavour through belief in self. The directing is snappy, the acting first class. Watch out for a tour-de-force performance from Leon, as the quietly impassioned, track-tripping, sprint-losing would be Olympic champ, whose dreams are crushed early on as he crashes out of the Jamaican sprint trials, and who then has to face up to the reality of life as a bobsleigher. Or from Rawle D. Lewis, as the psychologically scarred youngster Junior, who shuns his Jamaican identity, but in the end learns to be proud and passionate of his yardy-heritage. Incidentally, at its core, Cool Runnings is a subtle commentary on the, then current political strife in Jamaica, and carries strong political overtones, so that Cool Runnings, which is, by the way, an allegory of the Christ narrative, was banned after its first airing in Jamaica.
Yet it is in its dogged depiction of the truth that Cool Runnings wins the day, and its director Jon Turtletaub, was rightly given much credit for not giving in to Hollywood theatrics. Of course if the big cheeses at Walt Disney had have had their way, the film would have been rewritten according to sentimental tastes, and in true fairy-tale style, Jamaica would have won gold in world record time, that racist Nazi would have been struck down by lightening, and John Candy would have been miraculously exonerated as a bobsleigh cheat. In its depiction of the truth did Cool Runnings win so many admirers; and I would like to believe that in penning this short memoir I’ve managed to capture that same spirit of reality herein. In short a five-star, highly recommended watch, though purists will want to brace themselves for some rather bizarre, albeit comical misuse of the English language.
Yet some ten minutes had elapsed and those two hadn’t once laughed and simply sat there with miserable faces eating their pizza. I was really quite annoyed by this. And I was hungry too. Good Lord I wouldn’t have minded a slice of pizza. Those two horses had already scoffed nearly three slices each. And they did they’re eating accompanied by some of the most disgusting noises known to man – that’s all I could hear, it so drowned out the talking on the film. Horrible, horrible noises; really loud chews, like horses, absolutely disgusting, like two pigs quaffing up porridge, inhuman slobbering noises. I was so incensed by this loud eating, so irritated by these revolting sounds, that in an uncontrollable burst of anger, I started mimicking them, but exaggeratedly and really loudly. ‘Slop-plop-plop!’ I mimicked in a dog-style voice, and angrily spitting drool out of my mouth as I did so.
‘What was that?’ said Tinka.
‘What was what?’ said Tonka.
‘It sounded like someone chewing, over there.’
‘Over where?’
‘Over there in the corner.’
‘It’s just us eating our food,’ said the lazy Tonka. He was too engrossed in his pizza to care.
They waved away as nothing, the noises that I’d made. They couldn’t really be bothered and lazily sat on the couch, straight-facedly engaged in quaffing up their pizza. Events wore on. Still Cool Runnings had not invoked a single laugh or smile. Then Tinka finishing a slice stood up and hungrily grabbed a new one from the table. Taking only one bite however, ‘ugh!’ she exclaimed ‘what’s that?’ The offending piece of pizza was taken up calmly by Tonka who scrutinizing it calmly declared ‘it’s an anchovies slice. Leave it, it’s horrible.’
‘Your telling me’ said Tinka. ‘That was revolting’ and she replaced the pizza slice, bitten as it was, back in the box, trying her hand at another piece, which this time proved to her liking. As the evening wore on and those two became stuffed and sated, the eating came to a full stop. At the end of play there remained but two full slices of pizza in addition to the bitten into, much maligned anchovy slice. After feasting those two now adopted a new, more cosy position on the couch. Tonka remained seated where he was; but Tinka now lay down and rested her feet on the couch or more exactly on Tonka’s lap; whilst her head fell back on a cushion which she had placed atop of the settee end. She was clearly fatigued. And her slippers that were now dangling from her raised and stretched legs, wouldn’t stay on her feet; so that they were removed on her request, by the ever sedate Tonka, as he sat there with her feet in his lap. The pair were now cosily snuggled up together, and with the ceasing of the eating noises, I felt we were all ready to start afresh watching the movie. We sat still and listened.
But some five or ten minutes later those two were in a conversation. It started with a kiss, as Tonka leaning over, planted a little peck ‘smack’ on Tinka’s lips. Actually, though I was annoyed by this interruption, it was a beautiful little kiss. They were such a lovely little couple. It was a very loving kiss with both parties, once the deed was done, staring for a moment deeply into each others eyes, and touchingly and thoughtfully examining one another. Then this brief bout of affection gave way to conversation.
‘Shall we try again tonight?’ said Tinka.
‘Yeah’ said Tonka indifferently and casually, now resuming his seating position after having leant over for the kiss, and staring at the TV. But Tinka’s eyes remained on him with a thoughtful womanly look. It was so typically a women’s look. What was she thinking? What was she going to say? There was a silence. Tonka looked at the telly, not at Tinka. Was he in trouble?
‘We’ve been trying for three weeks now’ said Tinka,
‘It’s not that long’ said Tonka, with just a hint of guilt in his tone.
‘It is!’ said Tinka decidedly, who then staring foxily and saucily into Tonka’s eyes – who now had turned to face her as if he was in trouble, like a little boy – broke out into a subtle and arch smile and said ‘it’s you Tonka-boy; you’ve lost your spunk. It’s too much beer and pizza that’s what it is. You’ve gotten lazy!’
‘How’s that?’ said Tonka defending himself . ‘It takes two to tango, that’s what my mother always used to say, it might well be at your end that things are faulty.’
‘It’s not me!’ said Tinka adamantly.
‘Why not!’ said Tonka raising his voice (but the whole argument was in good humour).
‘Because’ said Tinka, half giggling at her own ego-driven, illogical argument.
‘Oh because. I see’ said Tonka sarcastically. ‘That’s women’s logic for you.’
‘Hoy!’ said Tinka rising from her lie down and giving Tonka a little girly slap on the arm. She resumed her position. The conversation came to an end. There was a silence. Both watched the TV. Tinka grew thoughtful. And some few minutes later: ‘Tonky-babes?’ she said slowly and subtly, half smiling. There was an unmistakeable tone in her voice that indicated she was going to ask Tonka to do her something that he probably wouldn’t want to do.
‘What’ he said as if harassed – he could see she was going to request something of him.
‘Why don’t you wear the mask tonight darling?’ she said saucily and looking fruitilly into Tonka’s face.
Mask, dear reader! What kinky device was this! What saucy shenanigans played out under this roof? Hey I’ll tell you, you do get to learn some interesting things as a spy. What a nice little couple these two seemed to be to the outside world; yet what devious little devils they were behind closed doors!
In response to Tinka’s request and as she looked mockingly and archly into his face, Tonka merely remained focused straight ahead at the TV, not impressed and refusing to listen to Tinka. ‘No’ he said emphatically ‘I’m not wearing that.’ He was very final in his statement and remained sedately watching the TV. Tinka kept up her arch smile, keeping her mocking and loving eyes on Tonka.
‘Go on!’ said Tinka encouragingly, ‘Just give it a try!’
‘No!’ said Tonka emphatically, and very, very adamant, not turning to face Tinka. ‘I’m not wearing that stupid thing, and there’s an end of it.’
As Tonka steadfastly refused to turn and face Tinka on the matter, she decided to put her little demands to a halt. There was no way in this world that Tonka was going to be moved on this score. Make no mistake about it, he wasn’t going to wear the mask. And that was final. And it wasn’t up for discussion either. He kept his eyes fixed on the TV, somewhat aggrieved by Tinka’s demands. And slowly she, realizing that it was hopeless, sank back into her lying position and watched the TV. But dear me reader, what kinky little games was Tinka thinking of. The dirty minded little madam! Yet still I did like her a lot.
Some few minutes later Tinka piped up once more.
‘It’s so funny’ she said ‘now that we’re trying it seems impossible. To think how much I used to worry when I was younger…..do you remember the ‘week of agony?’
‘I’d forgotten about that’ said Tonka slowly, and coming to recollect the incident.
‘It was like the end of the world’ said Tinka, ‘it was sheer hell, and what relief in the end. Do you remember I got an E in my German exam on the same day and my mother couldn’t understand why I was so happy. And we went and had a drink in the back garden of the Ox and Cart, and it was so pleasant just to sit out there and relax in the May sunshine. Like we were free again, like at the end of a bad dream. And then we set up those rules! Do you remember, to govern all future intercourse! Ha! Ha! Ha! What stupid rules!…..it seems like such a distant memory now, like another lifetime ago.
‘Yeah.’ said Tonka wistfully, not looking at her. ‘God that seems like an eternity ago.’
‘I think I might go and see the doctor?’ said Tinka some five minutes later.
‘Why?’
‘To see if he can tell me what the problem is.’
‘I don’t know what your getting so worried about; we haven’t been trying for that long; in fact I’d forgotten that we had been trying.’
Tinka was not best pleased with this last comment. You shouldn’t have said that Tonka! She blew a little huff out of her mouth and sitting up and setting herself apart from Tonka started scolding him for not listening to what she had been saying for the last year or so, for not caring, for not taking an interest. But it didn’t last for long. And soon she piped down, though sat apart huffily.
The evening wore on. In time those last two bits of pizza were eaten up. Bastards! And to be honest I don’t really think Tonka and Tinka needed to eat them; they just ate them because they were there. Ironically it was shortly after this that they both left the room, letting the DVD run on as they did so. They each went upstairs to use the toilet, Tonka first going into the kitchen. I found all this really annoying. For they had left the film – which frankly they weren’t watching very intently – right at the point where John Candy, who had lined up a little row of snowballs for himself, with the intention of snow-balling the reggae boys, finds himself, much to his chagrin, second guessed by that little posse of homeboys who ultimately end up snow balling him. What a brilliant scene! And those fools were going to miss it. Well hell, not if I had anything to do with it. Accordingly I stood up and going over to the TV, pressed the stop button on the DVD player. Hopefully they’d just think it was a mechanical fault. Whilst I was up my eye fell upon the coffee table and the food thereon. Damn! I would have loved to have had some pizza. But that was no more. Except that bit of bitten-into Anchovy slice. Could I take that? I’ll level with you reader, I love anchovies they’re absolutely gorgeous. I can’t understand why everybody hates them. Yet surely if I took that slice of pizza they’d get very suspicious. But then I was so hungry, I hadn’t eaten since dinner time. And it was affecting my mood as well. I’d been irritable earlier on when I’d gotten angry over the loud eating. That was no good. No, I had to have something to eat. But I couldn’t just take the slice. They’d know. Hang about though. There was a bite already in it. And conceivably that bite could get bigger. True I’d be getting a taste of Tinka’s saliva into the bargain as well; but I didn’t mind that – at least it wasn’t Tonka’s. Thus I set about taking a bite of pizza; but I got carried away – it was just so delicious – and by the end it bore a very large bite indeed. Oops! Would I get away with that? I didn’t know. We’d just have to see and find out. I scrounged a handful of chipsticks and returned back to my base behind my chair where I tucked into them.
But they were so salty, and what with those salty anchovies as well, I had to get up again to get a drink of coke. Yet when I got to the table I didn’t know how I should drink it. There were two empty glasses on the table. I was happy to share a glass provided it was with Tinka; I didn’t want any of Tonka’s horrible spit on my glass. But I couldn’t work out which one was Tinka-baby’s. As I was thinking it over, my hand involuntarily picked up some more chipsticks and put them in my mouth. That’s the thing about chipsticks: there so morish. Yet as I was doing so I heard the unmistakeable noise of those two returning down the stairs. Throwing caution to the wind I simply picked up the coke bottle, whose top I’d already unscrewed, and took a direct swig. Hastily I resumed my position.
The two returned and, though they demonstrated some curiosity as to why the DVD had stopped and though they said to themselves that they each thought it had been left running, they nevertheless brushed it aside and sat down once more, able to see the hilarious snowball scene that I’d saved for them.
However some short while later Tinka burst out and said
‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’ said the uninterested Tonka; he just wanted an easy life. He was watching the TV half comatose; and sometimes Tinka got a bit too overexcited for his liking.
‘That!’ said Tinka emphatically pointing in front of her.
‘What!’ said Tonka a bit irate.
‘That! In the coke bottle. It looks like a chipstick floating on the surface. That is minging. Tonka you are such a pig.’ (Tonka was summarily slapped quite hard.) ‘I’ve told you not to drink out of the coke bottle. That’s just so disgusting. You men are horrible.’
‘I haven’t been drinking from the bottle!’ said Tonka adamantly and quite worked up now. He was desperate to protest his innocence. ‘I haven’t been drinking from that bloody bottle! Don’t blame me!’
‘Argh well was it me was it?’ said Tinka sarcastically.
‘Well it wasn’t me! That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Horrible. Absolutely horrible’ said Tinka with disgust.
During this conversation I somewhat sank into myself and involuntarily tried to hide my guilty person, even though of course I was not visible to them.
‘Go and fish it out’ said Tinka continuing.
‘No, I’m not getting it out.’
‘Well is it just going to stay there?’ said Tinka irate.
‘Well I’m not going to fish it out’ said Tonka
‘Well is it just going to sit there all night’ said Tinka testily ‘because I’m not going to do it.’
And then in an outburst of energy, Tonka, deciding that he wasn’t going to get any rest unless he dealt with the offending chipstick, stood up and took the bottle out to the kitchen. He had tried to brush off Tinka’s whinging; but in the end there was nothing for it but to submit.
Some few minutes later he returned and placed a chipstickless coke bottle on the table. Tinka from where she lay her head on the couch looked up at him with loving eyes; but Tonka pretended not to notice and slightly huffily sat down on the sofa and looked straight at the telly. But Tinka was pleased with him and wanted to reward him for his duty and melt his huffy heart. With loving yet saucy eyes fixed on him she slowly repositioned herself and with little girly strokes of her hand on Tonka’s person, contrived to snuggle right in beside him and with arms around his shoulders and neck, started pecking at him. Tonka for his part was at first unmoved by these embraces and looked stubbornly ahead; but soon he yielded to those soft kisses of Tinka’s, and in a short while the couple were very intimately arranged indeed, with Tinka sat crossways on Tonka’s lap. And so a passionate bout of kissing took place.
But this last was really horrible. It sounded disgusting. You know I hate it when this happens, when your trying to watch a film, when people who also should be watching the film start kissing right in front of you. And what horrific noises. Slop-plop-plop! It was the eating of the pizza all over again. I was so irate.
Yet in time it died down and the happy couple somewhat sated, were left restful and at peace in each others arms, the lovely little Tinka still sitting on Tonka’s lap. They were watching the film again. And now it was that I suddenly thought I heard a banging noise upstairs. I didn’t know what it was. Those two didn’t seem bothered by it. Perhaps it was just the wind blowing in through an open window or something. I resumed watching the film. Oh excellent! We were just coming up to the fight scene in the bar; where Junior realizes what it is to have pride and passion, what it is to be Jamaican; and then determinately heads to the bar to attack those Nazi bastards. Oh! What a scene! Yet hang on a minute, what was that banging upstairs? Was that really just the wind? Tinka and Tonka seemed unconcerned, sitting there cosily in each others arms. Yet it sounded more than just the wind to me. Could it be the terrorists? Perhaps I should take a look? Yet I was happy just sitting here watching the movie; and I was desperate to see the fight scene. I didn’t want to miss that. If it was the terrorists, they’d come at the wrong time. I was torn between my duty and my love of Cool Runnings. Those two didn’t seem worried at all. No it was nothing. I was worrying myself over nothing. Wasn’t I? Well I’d better keep an ear out all the same. I strained my neck and listened. I listened intently. And then in the most disturbing and frankly awful occurrence the most dreadful and disastrous of sounds broke out on my ear.
In a loud, unchecked, and violent outburst Tonka broke wind. ‘Pfpfppfurgh!’ Argh! That was horrible! What a rude and unflattering accostation of the senses. What a foul noise. He’d executed it with complete freedom and lack of consideration for those of us around him. And he simply remained sitting there, half-comatose as he was, his unmoving face watching the TV; he didn’t care to apologise nor either did he make any acknowledgement of the crime he’d just committed; he obviously thought it just par for the course; whereas Tinka to her credit, sitting on his lap with her arm around him as it were, as soon as the noise was made, immediately burst out with womanly complaint at him, and reprimanding him with the words ‘Hoy! That was not nice!’ proceeded to give him a girly slap on the arm. And then, after the two or so elephants it took, for the first wave of toxic gases to reach her nostrils and enter up her nose, after the initial explosion, she then resumed her censoring with redoubled ardour, now that she realized the full horror of the detonation, and the fallout with which she would have to live with.
‘Argh! That is horrible’ said Tinka.
Tonka, in response to this, merely twitched his nostrils thoughtfully a second, and then concurring with her, said matter of factly and without smiling
‘Yeah it is.’
I was really quite shocked by all this behaviour. You know it was one thing to do what Tonka had done. And you know if he had have apologized for his actions, or even just burst out into uncontrollable laughter, I might have been able to forgive him. But the way he just sat there stubbornly, unsmiling, half-comatose watching the DVD; as if it was his right to just do such things without explanation or apology; such a graceless and uncharming act as that, as if it was his God given right and in front of a lady – well I wasn’t very impressed by these goings on at all; and Tinka, though she’d immediately censored Tonka with womanly dignity for his ill-conceived acts and dirty pleasures, and though she’d shouted at him and slapped him, and recensored him anew when she got wind of its dirty impact; still she hadn’t made any effort to remove herself from the vicinity of Tonka’s lap, and remained thereon lazily reclined in his embrace, and, dare I say it, exulting in the forbidden pleasure of the glorious aftermath of Tonka’s emission? I was quite disappointed in her. Really I was. Though she vainly protested, she hadn’t put up much resistance, and remained lying there in the hefty fumes. For my part, I at least had the decency to move myself a few paces further still from the point of explosion, and, pinching my nose between my thumb and forefinger, made a face. You know I was really beginning to go off this couple.
Some twenty minutes later, the room in a really breathless state, so that I wished I’d have brought my gas-mask with me on this mission, Tonka stood up and went upstairs to the toilet. That was long overdue as far as I was concerned: the room smelt like a petrol station. Tinka remained alone on the couch, now lying flat out on her side so that she still faced the telly. You know I was glad to have this little bit of time alone with her. Just the two of us, with the antisocial Tonka having now removed his offending person. You know I was tempted to just get up, go over to Tinka, tell her how nice she was, tell her how much more I appreciated her than Tonka did, and tell her that I was much more civilized than he and that I would never – never ever – commit such horrible acts in her presence if I were her husband, even if we were married for one hundred years. I had so much respect for her. Not like the incorrigible Tonka. I felt sure she would have exchanged Tonka for myself in a heartbeat. Yet I could not blow my cover. Fate had outlined an alternative destiny for me; never would I get to meet the charming Tinka. But to be sure she was a lovely girl, and please dear reader excuse any unflattering allegations that I may have levelled at her a few paragraphs ago.
She was ever so charming as she lay there. She was really tired and sleepy. And she had a way of pouting and expressing her unhappiness, that far from being obnoxious, was very winning in the way that she did it. I studied her as she lay. She scratched herself a bit. Well, that wasn’t so pleasant. But on the whole she was a lovely girl. She scratched herself some more, with intensity. Evidently she was quite itchy. But anyway she soon gave it up. You know she was really a very charming, charming girl, the sort that…… hang on. What was she doing now? Her nose was twitching. And then she started to pick her nose. She started by making an initial reconnaissance with thumb and forefinger, the latter positioned outside her nose on the skin, the former travelling inside; she carried out some initial feelings. Grasping about at different locals, testing the waters, and surveying the potential bounty; and then having decided on the best point at which to quarry it, her thumb settled itself into position and the plunder was removed. She gave it the once over with her tired, unsmiling and unimpressed eyes, lying on the couch as she was, and toying it around in her hands to better inspect it. Then growing tired of this, she then proceeded to roll it about in her hands to disenable the stickiness of it, just as one can so do with a scrunched up piece of cellotape in order to de-sticketize it; and then working it toward the end of her thumb, then flicked it, subuteo-style onto the carpet. But these misdemeanours aside, she was a lovely girl.
We continued to sit and watch, whilst Tonka remained upstairs toileting. Yet as we were silently engrossed in watching the DVD the most incredible and truly shocking twist of events was about to occur, events that would send utter terror and mayhem through the souls of the sleepily reclined Tinka as well as the caught-off-his-guard secret agent who sat complacently akimbo in his hidy-hole. The evening had so far flown by without incident and lay before us tranquil as a lake. Yet the fists of fate were determined to mix it up and hurl into sleeping beauty’s bosom the most murderous of missiles whose terrifying impact, I can still hear to this very day. The walls of Jericho were about to come crashing down.
I should say that I had very much ceased thinking of the terrorists and was much engrossed in watching Cool Runnings. For her part, Tinka, though she wasn’t particularly engrossed, looked at the TV; and lying down as she was, the doorway behind her lay very much in her blind spot, so that should a terrorist enter, they would be able to sneak right upon her, and catch her unawares. And now indeed someone did enter. Now I thought that was a bit odd, because I hadn’t heard Tonka come downstairs; yet someone was entering. However watching Cool Runnings as I was and becoming foolishly complacent about my house-sitting duties I simply brushed aside this peculiar fact, told myself not to be silly, and presuming the newcomer to be Tonka, sat and continued watching the DVD. I should say that in any event I couldn’t have really looked up at the entrance from my position without giving myself away. At best my view away from the telly, encompassed the couch on which reclined Tinka, and a little of the hinterground. Now, in retrospect that is where I should have been looking, at that hinterground; in that way would I have seen the intruder just before he reached Tinka; and in addition I should have readied myself for action; yet I did neither of these things, and assuming that the footsteps merely marked the return of Tonka, sat complacently watching the TV. I should have known better.
In the most ear splitting shriek, and the loudest of girly screams, the downstairs lights – with the exception of the TV lamp – went out and I was soon horrifically shocked into the knowledge that Tinka was being attacked. Momentarily all hell seemed to break loose. I didn’t know what was going on. My immediate gut reaction was to jump out, blow my cover and arrest the terrorist before he could kill Tinka. However, highly trained as I am, I made, before springing out, a momentary eye-clock of the situation. And the most shocking and enervating scene met my eye. Tinka, still lying on the couch, her screams going nine to the dozen, was being attacked and throttled by the terrorist. The terrorist was giving no quarter, he was almost on top of her and frankly it looked like, as well as wanting to kill her, he was going to molest and rape her. But the most terrifying sight of all was the terrorist himself. Believe me in my time I’ve seen some frightening things. I’ve seen men in balaclavas rape and kill terrified women. I’ve seen teenage girls bound, gagged and sodomised by men dressed as elephants. But this took the biscuit. The terrorist had so arrayed himself, he was so fantastical, that he seemed to have stepped straight out of your worst nightmare. It was so macabre; and truly when I first caught a glimpse of him, I didn’t think it was a terrorist, but genuinely believed it was a mythical and demonesque half man-half bull creature. It had the legs of a man but the head of a bull, with huge horns on it. And it was careering into the screaming Tinka, and it was making mooing noises and going absolutely bezirk and crazy as if, in some nightmare moment for the poor girl, it was going to have her. I was so shocked and overcome by these nightmare visions, that at first my courage failed me, and I was terrified to step out and try and tackle the half man-half bull creature. Good God I was terrified. I hid behind my chair in fear. I’ve been charged by bulls on several occasions in the past and have nightmares to that effect. In fact in one powerful and recurring dream, I find myself running across a desolate farmer’s field at twilight, chased by a bull; and as I begin to loose my breath and my feet become quagmired in the mud and I just cant run anymore, I find myself stumbling and falling over; and then painfully and horrifically the bull, who’s now caught up with me, proceeds to sit astride of me and sets about satisfying his bodily lusts. Oh Lord! Yet I got a hold of myself, gained courage and decided to save the helpless Tinka.
Yet just as I was about to jump out with the words ‘No! Terrorist bull-man!’ the whole thing was revealed to be an elaborate hoax, a kinky sex game between Tinka and Tonka, as Tinka, suddenly bursting into loud tittles of laughter, escaped the clutches of the evil bull-man-terrorist, who now, Scooby-doo style, removed the mask and revealed himself to be none other than the flatulent Tonka. Ah ha! So that was what all this was about. Tonka looked pleased with himself. So it had all been a rouse; he did like wearing the mask after all. He had fooled Tinka. Nice one Tonka! And Tinka was absolutely beside herself with laughing. What a shock she’d had. Oh! What a shock! She recovered from it, panting, extremely excited, thrilled to the core and laughing. Oh it had been a good one. What a fright she’d had! What an adrenaline rush. She was so grateful to Tonka for it. So, so grateful. She felt thrilled and alive. And Tonka knew it. He knew he’d gotten into her good books now. He’d worn the mask. And Tinka was so delighted. Stepping over to him she put her arms round him as if he was really special, and gave him a long and passionate kiss. You could see how bright and alive her eyes were.
After a few moments of this kissing, Tonka said
‘Shall we go upstairs?’
Tinka considered. She’d been so thrilled by Tonka’s little ploy, so, so thrilled. She obviously felt quite in the mood now. And Tonka deserved a reward as well. Yet with typical womanly anticlimax, she just said
‘No, I’m too tired actually’ and resuming her previous sleepy and sedate bearing and her tired facial expression, sat down with the words ‘let’s just sit down and watch the rest of this. We’ll go up after that.’
‘How long’s left?’ asked Tonka
‘I don’t know’ replied Tinka, ‘have a look would you?’
Tonka went over and examined the box.
‘There must still be half an hour left yet’ he said.
‘Well let’s just sit it through to the end’ said the disciplining Tinka, ‘I don’t want to have wasted our hard earned money.’
‘No’ agreed Tonka. He sat back down.
Tinka now made an effort to concentrate on the film. Yet after just a few minutes, she blew a huff and said ‘this is absolute crap. I told you we should never have hired it. I don’t know why you let yourself be pushed over by that weirdo at the DVD store.’
‘What was I meant to do?’ protested Tonka. ‘He wasn’t going to let me not take it. And anyway’ he continued ‘you didn’t have any suggestions to make.’
‘He was a right weirdo. Gave me the creeps’ said Tinka making a face. ‘It makes you wonder what kind of people are living around here? Who do you think he was?’
‘I don’t know’ said Tonka watching the TV ‘some sort of weirdo or deranged nobody. I don’t know. He was probably on drugs.’
Bastards! That was the final insult of the night. So that’s what they thought of me then was it? Huh! Tonka thought I was a nobody after all! What the hell had I been protecting these stupid fucking people for? Ungrateful rats! Not only had they quaffed up all the pizza by themselves, but they’d also made disgusting eating and kissing noises, scratched themselves, picked their noses and broken wind with utter freedom, played kinky sex games, accused me of being a weirdo and a nobody, and in the worst insult of all, not only had they not enjoyed or laughed once at Cool Runnings, but they’d also slated it as crap! Frankly I would have liked to have gotten out and boxed their ears. Ungrateful scum!
Yet as the film wound to a conclusion, and the Jamaicans with broken bobsleigh and shattered dreams carried their bob, coffin-style, over the finishing line, to the spine-shivering clapping of the, now repentant, chief-Nazi bobsleigher, and just as a little tear came into my eye in response to this beautiful little scene, I decided to give this couple one more chance to redeem themselves. However when I looked over the couch to see if they were moved by this touching scene, I saw them both with eyes shut and mouths agape, fast asleep and looking like a pair of stupid goldfish. Well, with some people I just give up. There’s nothing you can do for them.
To cut a long story short, we were soon heading upstairs for bed. I let those two go up first, heading into the kitchen myself to get something to eat. I scrounged an apple, a bag of crisps and from a biscuit tin, hidden in an inner recess of a high up cupboard – I had to use a chair to stand on – I picked out three fancy-patterned, albeit slightly stale party rings. Not satisfied with this measly bounty I made a protracted search of all cupboards and carried out a routine sweep of the kitchen, finding within minutes a barrel of speciality Belgian chocolate biscuits. However, though the picture on the box promised much I discovered to my disappointment that the top-most layer was fairly threadbare, there being only three dark chocolate pretzel shaped horrors and a stale looking digestive; moreover when I dared to break the etiquette of processional biscuit eating by proceeding unlawfully to the second layer, I found myself second guessed, presumably by the naughty Tonka, who had already launched an earlier and presumably surreptitious mission of extracting all the white chocolate based biscuits, from this reserve selection. Fortunately though, I later stumbled upon a tin of newly opened Quality Street; and taking pains to remove all the caramel barrels and all the toffee pennies so that the cracknels and coconuts were much in the ascendancy, I was able to thereby get some revenge on my hosts for their earlier meanness with regards to the pizza. Moreover with this thought still strongly in my mind I made a point of eating some ice-cream directly from the tub and when I’d had my fill licked the surface of the remainder before refreezing it. With my ration in my pockets I headed upstairs.
Now, I’ll tell you dear reader, I’ve known spies who wouldn’t have thought twice about getting into bed with those two, and planting themselves right between the sheets. Not so yours truly. As far as I’m concerned what people get up to behind closed doors is none of my business. Accordingly I entered, through a shut door, a room on the opposite side of the landing to that occupied by the couple – I could hear them snoring – and with good fortune discovered it to be a spare bedroom. I’d be kipping down here for the night.
I had some difficulty in getting the television set to work; it had something of a dodgy aerial; yet in time all was well, and, lying back on the bed with the remote control in my hand, I flicked through the channels. In the course of things, at around midnight, NEWS 24 came on. I watched this for a while, now standing up with concentrated expression to see if there was any news vis-à-vis the war on terror. I kept watching. And then in the most dramatic piece of news reporting that I’ve ever seen, the most incredible and amazing story broke out on TV screens across the country.
Reader, I cannot describe the astonishing and adrenaline-pumping events and my reaction to them without a shudder running down my spine. Reader you’ll never guess the utterly incredible and absorbing, gob-smacking news that was breaking. Brace yourself for a shock. In a dramatic and protracted bulletin – it totally consumed the whole news output – it was reported that the Dow Jones had fallen by ten points on the FTSE 1 index. Oh my God! What amazing and incredible news! What a dramatic twist of events reader! Clutching at my heart in mockery as if I was having a heart attack, I collapsed backwards onto the bed in pantomime style. What a bunch of fools there are at the BBC. The Dow Jones fallen by ten points! The FTSE 1 index! My God reader! My God!
Growing wearied by this I decided it was time to get some shut-eye of my own. Yet, after drinking all that coke I was desperate to relieve myself. But I couldn’t go and use the bathroom, without fear of waking the couple. Accordingly, I fished around for a container of some sort in which to pass water. What could I find? You know often when secret agents are caught out like this, they’ll water the plants. Another oft used receptacle is a cat or dog litter. And that madman secret agent Z – God love him, the fool – says he always relieves himself in a fish tank if possible. But there were no such devices here. I looked on the shelves. Bingo! There were some mugs. One of those would do. I took one up and began urinating therein. Yet as ever when I’ve done this in the past, I completely under estimated the volume of urine I was producing. It’s because we’re, I mean humans, not used to collecting it like this. The mug was getting dangerously full, and not only did it threaten to overflow, but its ever increasing weight, held up precariously by my aching and wobbly left hand (my right was directing the show) was a dangerous burden to live with.
Switching to automatic pilot (possible because the supply was strong) I freed up my right hand. And then in an incredibly adroit manoeuvre I was able, without spilling a single drop, to pick off from the shelf another of the mugs and placed it just on the periphery of my cascading waterfall, so that it was waiting in the wings as it were; and then in a second deft movement, I now completed my exploits by pushing the substitute mug into the line of fire so that it superceded the first mug and stole from it, diverting the urine from its intended projectory.
This latter task accomplished the second mug now started to fill, and I had some concern that it too might fill up. Yet in the end the source dried up, and, much relieved, the two mugs together were sufficient receptacles.
With care I placed them back on the shelf. I did consider drinking my urine as way of eliminating any evidence of my presence. But I’d done that once in the past and ended up sicking it up all over the walls and carpets of the house of the people I was then protecting. However I wasn’t really worried. Judging by the dust in this room I got the impression it wasn’t much used by Tinka and Tonka. It could be ten or twenty years down the road before they ever discovered the urine in their vessels. By that time all would be long forgotten. Stripping down to my underpants, I bedded down under the sheets and instantly went to sleep.
At 5.30 am in the morning, the first dim light of day beginning to appear through the curtains, I awoke, still heavily drowsed, and made my way sleepily downstairs. I stopped to brush my teeth for four minutes in the downstairs sink and with my travel toothbrush, not liking to venture abroad with the night’s bad breath. My work here was done – I’d house sat for the mandatory twelve hours – and convinced now that the couple were safe and would face no terror attack after all, I exited the house and walked back along the deserted streets, all the way to my home.
I arrived there at approximately 8.30 am and when I got there gave myself a pat on the back. Thanks to my diligence in duty, Tinka and Tonka were still alive and well.

VI
Thus far reader have I treated you to a select choice of isolated episodes, typical everyday adventures in the life of a spy and admittedly fairly run of the mill stuff at that – well done if you’ve got this far! (and a slap on the wrists if you’ve been skipping the boring bits.) However the commencement of this chapter marks something of a turning point in the tale; from here on in all the subsequent chapters are building toward the climax of the dramatic conclusions that would seal my fate and send shock waves across the nation. Reader hold onto your hat; for with this chapter we kick off the most astonishing sequence of events and begin the treacherous and nerve-thrilling descent into the maelstrom. I’ll warn you now reader, if you don’t want blanched locks get off now. The adrenaline filled and enervating scenes that follow may be too much for some spectators and as such this final instalment of this small memoir comes with a severe warning. The nation’s pots were set to boil and bubble and a fever pitch was to grip the homeland; and in the fires of terror and endemics of panic and hysteria that followed, and in the midst of media hype and frenzy, and a nation all gone to pot, I popped up centre stage. So then to make a start; a beginning. The beginning of the end.
Each and every citizen of our nation and indeed divers others abroad will well recall that fateful day on which a terrorist plot to fly planes into the houses of parliament was thwarted at the very last minute. There was an absolute media bonanza. The story was given top priority. There was blanket box round the clock coverage. News was on every channel; bulletins overran; the timetables were completely disrupted; Neighbours was cancelled. Without let up, every TV and radio station dedicated themselves to non stop news and all concerning the thwarted terror plot. BB2 became NEWS 24; and even they tossed aside the boring business news and concentrated solely on the war on terror. I looked on the internet: it was the same everywhere. The thwarted plot. How many planes were involved? Were there really ten or eleven? Some commentators were suggesting fifteen. My God! What terror! I checked the government terror alert warning; and in an amazing thrill of excitement, I realized we were on the highest state of alert: an attack was imminent; we’d never attained that level yet. Good Lord things were hotting up.
The papers were full of it as well, with cleverly extrapolated pictures showing the planes flying into the government buildings in a mass of flame and explosion. I bought all these papers and read avidly; I watched non-stop news on the telly. I couldn’t get enough of it. There was so much speculation. And there was national hysteria. There were talks of a nuclear dirty bomb being driven in a van into the city of London; of a plot to release poisonous chemicals into the water system; and of a fresh wave of attacks on the London underground. Everyone was going crazy for it. I watched the coverage day and night. London seemed to be where it was all at. I wanted in on the action. I knew I had to go there. It was my duty. To all intents and purposes the citizens were giving into panic and hysteria; armed police were patrolling the streets; everybody was on tender-hooks. And not only was there danger on the part of the madmen who would fain attack the city; but a more subtle yet very tangible threat came from the citizens them very selves; they were so edgy, nervy and overwrought, that they might, with only the slightest provocation, panic and cause a stampede; this is the very real danger of terrorism; its precise goal in fact: to make ordinary people so terrified that out of nervous agitation they’ll cause their own deaths. You see, with all the coverage terror gets in the news, there are some people out there who get all worked up and excited by it: they are the real danger. Thus did London find herself surrounded on all sides by madmen on the one hand and excitable fools on the other; it was an absolute chaos; it was an accident waiting to happen; a mere straw pull away from a devastating Kerplunk! It would only take one more imbecile to upset the apple cart now. Accordingly I had to get there, and position my calm and stabilizing influence in the midst of all that chaos.
Yet how did all the goings on in London connect to the cases I’d already been investigating? I just couldn’t see the link. It was one o’clock in the morning. I had the TV on in the background. I had my third cup of coffee in my hand. I marched back and forth excitedly in front of the blackboard, which was covered with all my furious scribbling, all my thoughts as to the plans of the terrorists. Yet what did it all mean? I paced around the room. On the bed in front of me there were numerous newspaper articles and clippings, photos of suspects and the evidence I’d thus far gathered: the jaguar patterned bra; Mrs Blackmore’s soiled bloomers. How did they fit in with the foiled terror attack? It didn’t make any sense reader! I scratched my head in bewilderment. There was other evidence as well: a pair of suspect’s false teeth; the most God-awful and foul-stenching soiled nappy that I’d taken from the home of a known terrorist; a balaclava that I’d pulled off an escaping suspect; and other things beside. Yet as I looked over all these clues and thought about the goings on in London, I just couldn’t seem to see the link. And then in an outburst of anger I threw my coffee cup at the blackboard which duly smashed sending coffee and fragments of crockery flying all over the place. ‘God-damn it’ I shouted. ‘I haven’t slept in days.’
Recovering myself, I braced up and began soliloquising. ‘Right get a grip and start thinking. What do we know? Okay. The IC3 male he’s the key. A known terrorist. A lieutenant in the Al-Fulani organisation. The son of a bitch is up to his neck in it. Yet what have we got on him? A jaguar bra? A lousy jaguar bra? Huh! If you take that into court a jury will just laugh at you. No, no, no that’s not the way to go. Al-Fulani’s the key. We need to work Al-Fulani. That piece of scum-fuck’s been pumping his drugs out all over this God-damned town for God knows how long. Now he would have us believe that Madame La La’s is nothing but a strip joint; he’s even testified to that effect. But that mook Madison says otherwise. He says Al-Fulani’s dirty. Yet Peepi says it’s Madison that’s pulling the strings. Now who you gonna believe; some low-life wannabe mob character or a bimbo coke-fiend show-girl who lifts her skirt for a dollar. No, no, no both those punks are bull-shitting. It’s a total dead end. We need to get to Al-Fulani by working the Auriel angle. Now a fortnight ago in Chinatown, a man drives up in a car, enters a Chinese restaurant, pulls a gun on the owner, shoots the poor son of a bitch dead, and then drives off in a black Lexus. Yet two hours later said Lexus is crashed over on Highland town and guess what? Two Latinos get out hauling a bag of stolen cash. Who the fuck the first Latino is I don’t know. But the second was none other than Diego De Sanchez a.k.a. El Nino. And guess what? He’s got previous. Served two years up at Stantonville for armed robbery, but that’s not all. His then partner in crime, all those years back was one Auriel Abdullah Salih! But listen to this it gets better. Two nights later a prostitute is attacked and left for dead on a side street up on Claytonside. The next night another prostitute, this time a crack-fiend Porto-Rican immigrant is left for dead up over on Bonnington Heights. And then the next night same story. Hooker left for dead. The same M.O. In all three cases a black Lexus was seen fleeing from the scene of the crime. Now all three women distinctly remember that the last three letters of the registration were REX. Now I got onto my friend over at Auto. A black Lexus with registration number 77J3 REX was stolen some weeks back. The suspect? None other than our old friend the IC3 male.’
‘You think the IC3 male’s playing us?’ I said questioningly to myself.
‘Most probably he is. But that’s not the point. Whatever’s a foot now in London the IC3 male must be involved in it. I’m just sure of it. I ’ve got a hunch. And that would tie in with the Ludovic case.’
‘The Ludovic case?’ I said questioningly.
‘Yeah, three weeks back at Kings Cross station a toilet attendant discovers a bag with two million dollars in it. The next day Scotland Yard detectives trace a receipt left in the bag to a Turkish restaurant over on the east side. The owner is arrested and taken into custody, but soon implicates his second cousin, one Tal Allal Abduk as the likely money launderer. It turns out that the kid was moving the money on for an Al-quaeda operative attempting to get hold of a dirty bomb, and that the money was in fact a bag of forgery’s, with the real stash already secure in a Swiss bank account. But interestingly enough, as the police continued to question Abduk, the kid starts breaking into tears; he can’t handle the stress you see; and before long he’s shouting his mouth off talking about a Jihad in the making; and soon the details are coming pouring out and he’s implicated a crew of home-grown British terrorists in a new and dangerous attack: a plot to carry snakes onto a plane.’
‘Snakes on a plane!’ I said to myself in shock. ‘Yes… that’s it damn it. That’s what the terrorists are planning, there gonna release a bag of snakes on a plane. Holy Fuck!’ I was momentarily shocked by this thought. And the more I considered it the more I became convinced of it: the terrorists were going to put snakes on a plane.
‘But’ I said, some few moments later, walking over to the bed and picking up Mrs Blackmore’s dirty knickers. ‘What have these got to do with it all?’
For the time being that was a mystery. Yet reasoning as I had, I was very much getting a clear picture of what was going on. The various pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were gradually falling into place. I looked at the evidence on the bed: the jaguar bra, Mrs Blackmore’s panties, the false teeth etcetera. I could almost see what it all meant. I just couldn’t quite bring my thought into focus; couldn’t quite pull it out from the murky volcanic waters that are our subconscious intuition. It was staring me in the face damn it! I went over and switched the TV on. A reporter was standing outside Oxford Circus; it seemed a fairly usual bulletin. The newsreader was asking him about the current state of affairs; the reporter responded that all was returning to normal. And yet as these precise words were coming out of his mouth, in an incredible soul-shaking moment I was about to be given the final clue that would connect everything together.
In the background, in a momentary appearance, a figure walked behind the reporter. At first I didn’t really take much notice or exactly see this figure. But for some reason I decided to stop recording as I was, and, rewinding the tape a few seconds, intensely watched it again. There was a moment of silence and tension. I could cense that something important was playing out before my eyes; yet I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I rewound once more and watched it anew. What was it? I watched it again. I could almost see it. I watched it once more. And then bingo! With much haste I scrambled toward the TV set. There! There it was! Right in the top corner of the screen. I pressed the pause button. There, right behind the reporter in the top left hand corner of the screen. I couldn’t believe it. It was the IC3 male, walking from right to left across the street. I took a closer look. Yes! It was definitely him. Although it was difficult to make out his face, there was a very, very subtle clue, that wouldn’t have been obvious to most people, but which a well-trained spy like myself saw all too well, and which made it clear that it was in fact him: the baseball cap on his head was worn with the peak to the side and not to the front. Now how many IC3 males wear their caps like that! Suddenly everything made perfect sense.
My mind was completely made up now. I had to get to London. My business was there. In her hour of peril my nation needed me at her heart and soul. The end was nigh. Doomsday had arrived. The apocalypse was coming just as Nostradamus had predicted it. I was so excited. I decided to go the following morning. Accordingly I set about packing up some belongings in a suitcase. As I thus laboured, I played on my CD player ‘the Final countdown’ (the Eye of the Tiger CD had been over played and kept slipping). I played it at full blast, over and over again all night – I had it on repeat – and thus did I come to get really pumped up. ‘It’s the final countdown da da der der, da da der der der, da da der der…..’ Oh what uplifting, awe-inspiring music! ‘It’s the final countdown.’ It truly was the final countdown. The world was coming to an end. I was so excited about going to London and foiling the terror plots. I was going to be a hero. I packed up into the suitcase all of the evidence I’d thus far collected. It was going with me. Yet when I’d finished packing I was in no mood to sleep. I was just so wound up. I watched that video again – the one where the masked men jumped out of the back of a van and raided a suspect’s house – and feeling so inspired by it I took out the balaclava from my bag, and putting it on, and holding a cardboard cylindrical tube in my arms as a substitute rifle, walked around the house shouting ‘Armed Police! Armed Police!’ Finally at five o’clock I got to sleep.
I awoke at eight. By 9.30 I was on the train headed to London. I was immensely excited. London here I come. In times like this the nation expects much of her secret agents: so was I readied. Yet in an amazing anticlimax, I found the train on which I was travelling not only fairly empty, but those few citizens who were on board seemed quiet and sedate, and acting calmly and indifferently were totally unexcited about the war on terror. Didn’t they know the end of the world was coming? Was I the only one who felt excited about it? I had expected to be engrossing myself in a conversation with eager fellow travellers, excitedly talking about all the possible outcomes and speculating about what the terrorists were going to do to our nation: would there be a dirty bomb? A poison attack? I had expected that we would split up into groups and go around searching the train for terrorists. And what about the snakes? For God’s sake could there not even be some snakes on the train? It was probable that there were terrorists aboard the train: that was certain. And they were intending to destroy us Kafirs in a Holy War. Had these people on the train not been reading the papers? Had they not followed the news as I had? They were calling us the infidels and speaking of our deaths as blessed to Allah. The terrorists were everywhere and it was very likely they had snakes. People should have been bothered. Yet instead, as I looked around the train carriage all that met my eyes were passengers quietly engaged in this and that: some reading novels and magazines, others typing away on their laptops, others looking calmly out the window. I felt really put out. I was so excited and didn’t want to read a book or anything else so boring: I wanted action. I felt as if I were the only person alive, as I intently watched other people absorbed in their own little worlds, working like robots or reading without a care. I was really very, very disappointed. What a boring anticlimax.
I was so fidgety and after sitting in my seat for some three or four minutes I became so bored and beside myself that I had to get up and walk around, and made a little excursion to see if there was any action going on, on the train. You know I’ll level with you reader, I’d gone to bed the night before in the quiet knowledge that there would be many women on the train, who seeing that I was a secret agent, would be desperate to try and seduce me. In that way had I hoped to pass the time of the journey. Yet as I walked along the carriages, the women didn’t even deign to look at me but in fact were just sedately, with indifferent faces, reading their books or their gossip magazines or hammering away typing things on their mobile phones. Why weren’t they looking at me? Why weren’t they excited and thrilled to see me? Didn’t they know I was a secret agent? Did they not crave some excitement on this otherwise boring journey? I couldn’t work them out at all. I walked back and forth repeatedly through the carriages and not once, on any of the many times I passed them, did they bother to look up from their magazines and make eye contact with me, or give me any indication that they wanted to make love to me. It made no sense whatsoever. Were they all lesbians or something? I couldn’t work it out.
You know actually reader, you might well be asking yourself what a man like myself, a real life Lothario, is doing hankering after some action. And in truth it’s a fair question. Believe me in my time I’ve gotten rather sick of women falling in love with me and rather fed up with riding old Randy’s red horse. Yet fate is cruel and it’s hard for a player like me to escape amorous advances. You know some days I can’t even walk down the street and give a girl a smile without her reading a whole lot more into it; deluding herself that it means I love her; reading all sorts into an unconscious action I never thought twice about; inventing a love interest when none such exists. Truly it happens all the time; one day you might accidentally look in the direction of a woman, and the next day she’s round at your house, talking about ‘us’, talking of our relationship, crying that you’ve treated her so badly and begging you to marry her. Honestly it’s no joke to have strange women who you’ve never met suddenly enter into your life; constantly throughout my time I’ve been harassed and bugged beyond belief by the fairer sex; had women stalking me, women watching me, women breaking into my house at midnight; I’ve come home to find crazy females sitting in my seat, wearing my clothes, reading my books, and making up stories of my love for them; had women ringing me up at midnight; women superimposing my face on their wedding photo and then showing it to their friends; women in cafés talking about me and pretending they’ve slept with me; women having a secret rifle through my underwear draw! Honestly reader you might well think that this is all so much strawberries and ice cream, so many strolls in the park, but it soon drives you up the wall; having to have stalking orders put out on woman; constantly having to look over your shoulder to see if a lady’s in pursuit; the sheer stress of arriving home and having to check that all seventeen pairs of underwear are still in your draw – honestly it’s no picnic, no picnic at all. All that said however, if I’m in the mood I’m in the mood; and if love’s passion steals upon my heart then I always look to consummate it.
But what a bore this journey was. What sheer sterility seemed to shroud my very being. I looked out of the window. Fields went by in fresh fecundity. Cows munched the grass morosely. A solitary crow circled assiduously. A row of houses flew past, with windows enflamed in morning glory. A horse watched wistfully. Inside the train a man typed repeatedly. A wasp buzzed incessantly. The drop-down tray, trapped in its latch on the seat in front of me, rattled relentlessly. A mobile phone rang rhythmically. A watch signalled the hour abruptly. A man read a book absorbedly like a bee with his head in a flower. A drinks trolley was wheeled through, squeezing its way down the isle like an Indian running the gauntlet. As it moved, the glass bottles on its top chinked and sang ceremoniously like birds in the treetops. The trolley wheels squeaked in chorus. Another mobile phone announced itself annoyingly. The electronic door at the end of the corridor opened obediently and zipped back shut robotically. The toilet sign lit up engagingly. A girl walked the corridor staggering as if she was on board a ship at sea. The train quietly roared onwardly. Outside a flock of sheep eyed us sheepishly.
A mountain rose majestically. A cloud crowned it respectfully. The mountain seemed proud and fierce as if it eyed us passengers hungrily. A rain cloud rose threateningly. A cloud flew by shaped like a grand piano. Another cloud flew by shaped like an Indian elephant. The sun shone shimmeringly. The door reopened robotically. The wasp droned on droningly. A noisy silence seemed to permeate the corridor; outside a cloud rolled by in light-darkness; it was such a foul yet fair day; the train ran on with speed yet getting nowhere.
Oh! I was so bored! Where was the excitement I craved? I couldn’t sit still any longer. Jumping up I decided to walk from one end of the train to the other, to see if there was any action going down. I left my carriage and entered the next. Anything going on here? Not really. A handful of passengers, some reading books and magazines, some typing and others looking out the window, all very boring and sedate. I entered the next carriage. And then unbelievably, just as I’d expected to find another uneventful carriage full of robotic nobodies, the most heart-stopping and breathtaking scene presented itself to my visage. It truly was a sight for sore eyes.
As I was about to enter the carriage, a female who was sitting down reading a gossip magazine looked up at me, and giving me the once over, then returned to her magazine. Why had she given me that look? It had been especially for me; it had been a surreptitious communication meant solely for yours truly. Yet who was that girl? What did it all mean? For a few moments I couldn’t work it out. And then I realised who the girl was and fathomed the meaning of her glance to me. I was dumb struck and stood rooted to the spot. My heart melted and my mouth gaped. For reader the lady before me was none other than an old flame of mine. What bizarreness! Here I was in the midst of the most incredible acts of espionage, on my way to London to counteract the terror threat and become a hero, and just when I’d least expected it the hands of fate had so arranged it as to reunite me with an ex-lover. What were the chances of that! Destiny is certainly a funny one, I’ll say that much for her. So too had she now decided to lay on for me an amorous engagement to while away the hours. There in front of me she sat: my former bedfellow. Reader, I should sketch our back history.
It all began, some five years back, when I was stationed in Paris. My arch-nemesis, a Russian by the name of Alexo Dimitrievich Voronin and better known as Dr Death was planning to blow up the world with nuclear missiles. HQ had sent me to the French capital in order to thwart his plans. Along the way, as it soon became evident to me, it would be necessary to bed his mistress, Sasha, a charming little women, half Russian, half French; a sassy yet very well educated madame, with long black hair and dark features. Naturally was I well up for such a mission. The key to cracking Dr Death and to gaining knowledge on his evils stratagems would be to get Sasha onside, in short to make a mistress of her. Alexo daunted on her. She was his everything, his little sweetheart and therefore his Achilles heel. In sooth Dr Death was much of a match for me in regard to his skills of espionage, quick thinking, weapon handling and the like. But in one certain quarter was he lacking, and was he no match for me: he was hopeless in the bedroom – the very place where I excelled. He couldn’t satisfy Sasha. Thus seducing her would be no great problem.
Yet at first she was rather cool to my advances. Thought me to upfront and presumptuous. I harassed her day and night with protestations of my love; sent her chocolates, flowers, jewellery round the clock; even serenaded her at midnight. Eventually she warmed to me and began to quite like me. And then she went one further and fell hopelessly, head over heels in love with me.
And now I eased off a bit and played hard to get. Partly because I enjoy doing that and partly because I intended to double her ardour, and so double her love for me, so that when I did finally relent and we went to the bed chamber hand in hand, I would, will all of my extensive foreplay, multiply her satisfaction and so multiply the information that her heart would reveal.
Paris, night time, the British embassy. A function. Ex-pats dressed sumptuously. Large ballrooms, splendid furnishings, grand interiors. Lackeys circling with wine and hors-d’oeuvres. Ladies and gents talking excitedly. Musicians playing in the background. I entered in my tux. As I took a glass of wine from a humble waiter a very scantily-clad women approached me and making come to bed eyes at me began caressing me and kissing my neck; ‘perhaps later’ I said, removing her; she desisted and moved off, though still smiling coyly at me. I sipped my wine slowly and standing alone, glanced around. I saw Sasha on the other side of the room. Never have I seen such ardent eyes fixed on me. That girl was so in love with me. Her sad puppy eyes looked lovingly into my face as if to say that she’d give up her whole life for me, there and then. But all of this I affected to find irritating and nauseous, and I shunned her. Walking up to a little group of persona grata standing some ten paces off, I entered into their circle, and so mingling, made it clear to Sasha, with this cruel display, that I couldn’t be bothered with her.
In the little circle of acquaintances that I now found myself with, were one tall, blond and handsome lady, a young and handsome man – a secret agent whom I knew from the academy – an old and venerable serviceman and a few other nondescript characters who I won’t bother to describe. They were all very pleased to see me, especially the blond lady, and I immediately began entertaining them with a rather savage impersonation of the pro-councillor, a bumbling and dithering old man, who spoke horrible French, and whose eye sight was so bad and who was such an all round fool that he’d been caught in flagrante delicto with a teenage lady-boy who he’d mistakenly picked up as a prostitute. ‘Mesdames, Mesdames, Je’en aye veux, Je’en aye veux!’ I kept saying in mock savagery. Everybody was in stitches of laughter. With eyes full of glee and merriment they watched me avidly as I mimicked the pro-councillor, who stood at the time at the opposite side of the ballroom. And the blond lady was especially enraptured with me, and egged me on in all my cruelty.
Meanwhile on the other side of the ballroom stood Sasha, alone, regarding me no doubt. I knew she would be standing by herself watching me; I knew that she would be looking over to our little clique, the blond lady laughing, the young secret agent laughing and in the middle of them all, the centre of attention, feigning to be heedless of her, yours truly, loudly and demonstrably doing a savage yet perfect impression of the pro-councillor, so that anyone who saw, though they would feign hold their tongue, had to burst out into uncontrollable laughter. And I knew Sasha saw all of this – this act of mine – knew perhaps that it was all an act, and that truly in doing it, though I paid no attention to her, it was for her eyes only, only for her, as though she and I were the only two in the entire ballroom. And I knew that she watched. Knew also that she disliked me so much when I acted thus, when I did such impressions – she preferred it when I was sensitive – and knew also that she hated the blond lady, felt herself intimidated by her and her coarse healthiness, and wouldn’t dare enter into our little soiree. To wind her up the more, I from time to time stood close to the blond lady, and with a very straight face, whispered something into her ear, at which she burst out into hordes of uncontrollable, smutty laughter. I maintained my straight face throughout. Yet on one such occasion, just as I’d finished whispering some dirty minded joke into her ear, so that as things now stood her face looked over my shoulder and mine over hers, I darted a very quick glance to the rear of the blond lady, in the direction of Sasha who was stood watching all on the other side of the room. It was a passionate and earnest glance and said a lot about my true intentions, and that it was her whom I wanted; and again it was as though only her and myself were in this room alone.
Some time elapsed and I left my little circle of friends, the blond lady beaming at me as I went, and, alone, departed outside onto the terrace. It was a beautiful, still summer night. The heavens were alive with stars. The air fragrant and the evening shot through with that joie de vive that one inevitably feels on a tranquil August night in Paris when you’ve downed a few glasses of red wine. There was a terrace which eventually led down to a large garden. But I did not enter the garden but rather made my way down to a little fountain and pond at the bottom of the terrace. The soothing, soothing splash of the cascading water now peacefully lulled me, a much needed break, I have to say, from the heat, noise and din of the interior; the music and chat of the ballroom being now, only a distant sound. I was all alone. The Eiffel tower, lit up in the night-sky, rose majestically away in the distance. I sipped my wine and contemplated.
Some few moments later Sasha appeared. She was a lot smaller than me, very petite in fact, but beautiful with her dark hair and dark features, shot through as they were with all the emotions that overwhelmed her – her deep passion for me, hurt at my cruel behaviour and terrible, terrible heart-wrenching trepidation in case I slipped through her grasp and rejected her.
‘Monsieur X, you are so cruel to me tonight’ said she in the most seductive voice (she spoke with a half French half Russian accent) which was yet melancholy and sorrowful in the extreme. She looked at me intently, but I didn’t meet her gaze. Instead I looked ahead stonily into the distant horizon, smoking a cigarette as I did so, and blowing the smoke arrogantly into the night air. She grabbed my arm.
‘Monsieur X, don’t you know how you hurt me so? Is zhis anyway to treat a lady? I love you so, so much. I really do. Never have I loved a man so much. Never. Can I say with hand upon heart zhat I have ever loved another so? Can I even say zhat I have ever loved before? I cannot. Truly I cannot. I find, since I met you, zhat all my previous loves were mere shallow affairs with men whom I did not know. You X, you have taught me love. Emplanted in my heart, in my breast, transfused throughout my whole being a new and rapturous feeling, a feeling of what it is to be alive, to be in love, to be content; a feeling to die for. You understand women X like so few men do. I would do anything for you X, give up my life for you. Really any women would if only they knew you. But you treat me so cruelly, don’t respond to me. Pourquois pas my darling?
‘What’s the time?’ I demanded, affecting to ignore her.
‘Il est sept heures et demi.’
‘It’s about time I was going then. My train leaves at 8.15, I should get to the station.’
‘Leave me monsieur X! oh please don’t do zhis to me I beg you!’ she said pleadingly.
‘Look, I really don’t have time for this’ I said irritated. ‘Your hanging round me like a lost little puppy.’
‘Monsieur X, please don’t hurt me so, please don’t hurt me so, please don’t say such cruel zhings. I repeat, I love you X. I love you. More zhan any women has ever loved a man do I love you. You are zhe one for me X, it is meant to be. Without you my life is empty. If you go I will poison myself rather zhan face a lifetime wiz zhe insufferable Alexo. X do you know how wonderful you are? Truly you are God’s gift to vooman. Never have I met a man who so understands a vooman. Knows her heart and mind, knows how to speak to her inner self, can touch her innermost feelings. I have never had such satisfaction in the bedchamber as viz you Monsieur X. Truly you know how to satisfy a vooman, you understand her needs. X if you go now my life is over. I could not bare to be wizout you again. My heart would break and shatter if you go. Please X, I beseech you wiz all my heart please don’t go! Stay here wiz me. Come to my bedroom please X. Stay zhere wiz me, just you and I alone, detached from zhe rest of zhe world, locked in a room alone together, making love wiz each other till doomsday come and zie Heavens fall. Oh please X, I love you so much.’
‘Broken record, broken record!’ I replied with annoyance.
‘Oh X how can you say zhat to me!’
‘Look, I’m sick to my back teeth of all this’ I said. ‘I’m off.’
And with that I marched away across the terrace, and re-entering and crossing the ballroom, made my way to the front entrance, all the while Sasha, whose legs were a lot shorter than mine, scuttled after me in a desperate attempt to keep a hold of me. I reached the front entrance.
‘X please don’t go!’ she pleaded, pathetically grabbing my arm with both her hands as if to stop my progress. She leaned into me, put her head on my chest and started crying and screaming for me not to leave. But I shifted her aside and hailed a driver. A few moments later I was in the Mercedes heading for the station. I’d allowed Sasha to come and see me off. We drove through the busy streets of Paris. The driver in front, Sasha and I sitting on the backseat. I affected to be annoyed and looked irritated out of the window, whilst Sasha, her eyes glued on me – as if she was the puppy and I the irate master – sat next to me, getting as close to me as she dared, and all the while protesting her love to me and begging me not to go.
‘Please X, I will poison myself if you go. Believe me my life is not worth living without you.’
‘Damn it man!’ I broke out angrily, addressing the driver. ’Can’t you get this thing to move any faster’ (we’d come to a complete standstill).
‘Yes sir. So sorry sir. I’ll get her moving Monsieur X’ said he humbly. I simply frowned in response.
And now Sasha broke out into tears. She couldn’t control herself any longer.
‘Please X’ she wept ‘if you go now I will stand in front of the train. If you leave you will kill me not only in heart and soul but physically as well. Could you live with yourself after that?’
But I didn’t respond and just sat there annoyed and looking out the window. In time we came to the station and alighted. I walked across to the platform where the train stood, Sasha following behind me. She was becoming desperate now, seeing that I was really going to go, that at any moment now I would board the train and be gone forever, leaving her all alone with a horrible, horrible sinking feeling in her stomach, the pain of which would be too much to bare.
‘X don’t leave like zhis. Please!’ she begged, scuttling after me and grabbing a hold of me to try and thwart my progress.
‘Look’ I said growing angry ‘I’ve had just about enough of this. If you don’t give up your womanly whining, I’ll personally see to it that you are poisoned.’
‘Oh ho ho X!’ she cried ‘how can you be so cruel to me, my darling’ and she burst into tears.
‘This is sexual harassment’ I said in response. ‘If you don’t stop stalking me and making demands on me, I’ll have no other choice but to call the police.’
‘Oh ho ho X!’ and with these words she simply buried her head in my side and began crying. By this time we’d reached the train. I stood before the entrance, on the platform, with Sasha grabbing tight a hold of me, her head buried in my side, crying and screaming – she was in hysterics – and begging me not to go. Strange little creature. A little bag of emotions, a little fountain of tears. Just like a frantic little animal did she bury her head in my chest, her beautifully soft black hair falling on my hands, so too her warm tear drops, so too her little kisses. She was like a fierce little animal in the way she clung on to me. Just wouldn’t let go. Just like a little child, desperate to hold onto its mother, when she leaves it on its first day at school.
‘Sasha please detach yourself from me’ said I commandingly. But she wouldn’t let go.
‘Guard please!’ I shouted, addressing a nearby train guard. ‘This woman is harassing me. She’s aggressive and violent. Please remove her from me.’
‘Certainly sir. Yes sir’ and now addressing Sasha ‘Please madam, your not wanted here. Don’t trouble the monsieur.’ And stretching out his arms he removed Sasha from my person. I entered the train. The guard held Sasha back. She was absolutely in hysterics, screaming and protesting her love for me. I now moved out of sight by standing in the gangway behind the toilet. Sasha remained outside held back by the guard. And now I set about putting the next stage of my plan into motion.
Getting down on my hands and knees, I crawled along the carriage aisle, so as not to be visible, through the windows, to Sasha. Thus crawling I made it to the end of the carriage. I now stood up, and walked through the next two carriages, at the end of which I then exited the train, cautiously looking back down the platform as I did so, and seeing some sixty metres off the hysterical Sasha, wriggling and squirming as she was held by the guards who kept her from getting onto the train, totally oblivious that I was watching her. With haste I now walked across the station and positioned myself on a bridge over the railway line some forty metres or so away from where Sasha squirmed and wrestled. Some few minutes later, the train doors slammed shut, the whistle blew, and the train chugged off, leaving the desolate Sasha, now abandoned by the guards, all alone and angst to the point where she simply collapsed in a heap on the floor, and putting her head to the ground, wept uncontrollably.
I stood upon the bridge, leaning against the railing and watching the gut wrenched Sasha abandoned on the floor. Some twenty minutes later she finally picked herself up and made her way slowly, zombie-like out of the station. I followed her. Evidently she was walking home.
So we went through the warm Parisian night. As we walked down a busy rue, heaving with people and nightlife, I saw a women approaching in the opposite direction, selling roses. I bought one. Then commandeering a little Parisian girl of about eight, smartly dressed in a very fetching beret, who was playing out on the street with some playmates, I gave her the rose and offering her ten euros told her to run up to that lady in front (I pointed to Sasha) and to hand her the rose with the words ‘pour vouz madam.’ She duly did it. Sasha was somewhat taken aback by it. Who was it from? Yet momentarily were these questions put to one side: she couldn’t help but be joyous by the sight of the rose-wielding little girl. She thanked her, patted her on the head, yet before she had time to ask her the question ‘from whom was it sent?’ that little waif had skipped away hastily, just as I’d instructed her to. Sasha now remained rooted to the spot, unsure of what the rose symbolized. She had a presentiment of what it portended – she knew how romantic I could be – but dared not think the unthinkable, defeated and infinitely depressed as she was. Her feelings had been crushed enough to last her a life time: she dare not hope for fear of having them crushed yet further. So she walked on, head down and despondent.
Some half an hour or so later she stood sadly and alone on the banks of the Seine. I stood on a bridge just above her, watching her absorbed in her gloom, as she looked into the peaceful and night-silky river. I now took out my handkerchief, a special kind I always use that bore my initials, sewn in, in gold silk. And I let it drop from my hand and watched it sail, helter skelter like downwards until it landed right at the feet of Sasha. I immediately ducked down behind the bridge wall. I had a small vantage point. Sasha saw the falling handkerchief. At first she seemed disinterested. Yet, after staring at it a while, she seemed struck by something, and ever so slowly – not daring to hope – she bent down and picked it up. She held it up to the lamplight and inspected it. She knew what it was. She saw my initials. Her look expressed puzzlement and wonder. She looked around her, up to the bridge, clearly trying to fathom from whence this missive fell. Surely it must have come from her favourite secret agent, surely? Yet she dared not hope. Instead she seemed to look Heavenward, at all the stars, and murmured a soft prayer. She was so sobered, almost remorseful after her sorrows. When the prayer was said she held the handkerchief to her face, and smelling it and giving up her face to the pleasant feel of it on her skin, then kissed it, before placing it beneath her bra, and next her breast. She walked on.
When she arrived back home, she entered silently and morosely. Slowly she took of her coat and scarf and walked forward through the hall and into the kitchen. When she got there she got the shock of her life. She saw me sitting at the table – I’d ran ahead of her and let myself in – sipping a glass of wine, and looking very suave, sophisticated and at ease, but also now looking concentratedly and lovingly into Sasha’s face.
‘Bonsoir ma chere’ I said raising my glass to her.
‘Oh X!’ she said seductively and running forward she embraced me. I embraced her back and we began kissing. We broke off. She said she loved me once more. I said that I too loved her, loved her as the frozen brook loves the advent of spring, loved her as the burnished brass butterfly loves to bathe and flicker in the golden sunlight of summer, loved her as the sacred buffalo had once loved the freedom of the plains. I said that I loved only her, wanted only her and would never in my whole life make love to another women (I had my fingers crossed as I said all this). We looked into each others eyes and I said passionately ‘I love you , I love you, I love you.’ Such insincere words yet how she took them to be so sincere; surely a part of her knew how insincere the words were; yet another part of her totally felt them to be sincere; truly if one is to understand an oxymoron it is here: ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ What sincere insincerity, what insincere sincerity. Sasha believed these words, believed in them totally; yet at the same time I sensed that deep down she also realised how totally insincere they were; but that if I had have been sincere, she would not have taken my words as such; what funny thing is the male of the species when he’s on for one; what funny contradictory language he spouts. We went arm in arm, tongue in mouth to the bedroom.
It was a night of deep satisfaction for Sasha. Truly were her deepest desires sated, her sexual thirst slaked and quenched, her every need taken care of, on that eventful night. Repeatedly did she make love to me. Time after time did I wake up in the middle of the night, only to find myself lying prostrate on the bed with the sex-hungry Sasha straddling me, sitting on my manhood and projecting at right angles to me, pounding her way to high heaven and climaxing on a crescendo apocalyptic. How many times we made love that night I cannot say. God endowed me with only ten fingers on which to count. It seemed to go on an eternity.
‘Oh, oh, oh X! I love you X, oh! Oh! Oh!’
She screamed my name ecstatically, orgasmically. She sounded almost pained. Truly her noise was that of a dying animal, an animal so pained, so thrilled, so in ecstasy, that to die now in full glory would be a God-send, to escape the death-life after-existence that would succeed this night of electric passion for her. She was like a trumpet swan, trumpeting its last as it died in a nerve-thrilling death climax.
So the night went on. The moonlight entered our little boudoir. Sasha ground on relentlessly. Had an onlooker outside looked across to the window, they would have seen, silhouetted against the white blinds, the erect figure of Sasha, upright and active, grinding her way forever onwards to satisfaction, to death, on the ride of her life. So too did she labour till the wee hours of the morning, when sated, she finally lay down and rested in my arms.
Some hour or so later she told me all the secrets of her heart. She told me the madman Alexo’s hideout, his plans and exactly what I needed to do to stop him and save the world. Besides this, she told me also of how she was frightened of Alexo, how he had terrible mood swings, would often be overcome with melancholy, how he would brood and become morose, how he wouldn’t say a word for weeks on end, and frankly terrified poor Sasha. Also she told me of how he snored in bed, ate biscuits without a plate, drank milk straight from the bottle, left the toilet seat up and urinated on the floor. Also he was completely hopeless in bed – his penis was only six inches long! – and yet all the while he thought that he satisfied Sasha, who had to fake her orgasms. Learning all this as I now had, I decided to make an exit. At 5.30 a.m. I left Sasha asleep in bed, and departed the house to conclude my mission. Since then I had never laid eyes on her again.
And now there she sat on a seat in front of me, reading her magazine. Was it really her? There was a resemblance that was for sure. Yet her features seemed quite different in lots of ways, and her hair was no longer black but blonde. That was a puzzling non-sequiter? Ahah! So she’d died her hair. Obviously. And it had been five years since I’d seen her, so that, she was bound to look different. No it was definitely her, I was convinced of that. Why else had she given me that mysterious look? Call it spies intuition, call it the sixth sense of a former lover, but to be sure it was definitely her. I was convinced of that. Yet why did she now glance at me as I stood watching her, and scowl at me and give me a suspect look as if I was just some strange weirdo she’d never met? It made no sense whatsoever reader. And why did she affect to not know me, to ignore me and read her magazine? Ah ha! So that was it! She was deliberately ignoring me. She was in a huff with me. Now that I thought about it, it made perfect sense. After our night of passion she had expected that I would have stayed with her, married her in fact. In her deluded little view of the world she had envisaged herself and I a permanent item, wedded and betrothed, set up for live together, a union unto the grave, till death do us part. Oh how she flattered herself! Ha! Strange deluded women! As if I would have given up my freedom for her. And obviously, since I hadn’t even stayed until the morning, but stole away in the night, she must have been, at the time, incredibly angered and resentful. And now she was reaping her revenge and trying to get her own back, by ignoring me, by huffily looking away from me and reading her magazine. She was not going to acknowledge me. Well my dear, two can play that game. If that’s how you want to play it sweetheart, that’s fine by me. I don’t have time for such nonsense you silly little girl. I returned to my seat and sat down.
Yet the tortoise of time trod onwards. Still she made no appearance. I had expected her to have given up her little protest by now, to have seen that, huff herself to eternity as she might, I would never go and yield to her little whims, would stonily sit here and ignore her; and I had expected she would have come to me, unable to resist me and started making love to me; I’d expected the seduction to have begun at Peterborough; yet we were now at Stevenage and there was still no sign of her. What was she playing at?
I decided to take matters into my own hands. Walking back through the train I came to her carriage. Still she sat there unresponsive, reading her magazine. I stood staring at her. Eventually she looked up at me and shot me a contemptuous glance. Oh! What wrathful eyes. She wasn’t best pleased that I was staring at her. Oh! Mrs Huffy-head indeed. She was well pissed off that was for sure. Looked at me as if I had no business staring at her. I had really gotten to her, obviously. And now she looked away again, resumed her reading, and in the way she went about it, her attitude was as if to imply that I was just some weird pervert whom she’d never met. Oh what contempt was I treated to reader! Ha! Ha! I was really scared (not).
Anyway if she wasn’t going to kick off the action then I was. Gentlemen if you’re reading please take note. On many occasion I’ve seen a wrathful female, wronged by her husband in some way, taking revenge on him by ignoring him and going in the huff. And so many times have I seen the husband or boyfriend reduced to utter misery by said behaviour of their beloved, distraught to be so contemptuously treated by their princess upon the pedestal, and reduced to tears and whining, begging and pleading, all to reclaim that love that they so mistakenly wronged. And I’ve seen men pile on the pleading, the begging, I’ve seen them desperately ply their womenfolk with flowers and chocolates, I’ve seen them wait on their mistresses hand and foot, I’ve even known men who’ve done the ironing for their loved one. And to all of this grovelling behaviour, nine times out of ten, have I watched on as the women, totally unimpressed by all this sincere apology and affection, merely prolongs the torture of her man, heightens her huff, acts all unreachable and above, and in lots of occasions seems genuinely annoyed by this limp-wristed lackeyish behaviour of her man. No, as far as I’m concerned this is not the way to act at all. In my opinion there are two ways to tackle such a situation: there’s my way, which is the spy’s way, and then there’s the wrong way. Those men amongst you who are in the grovelling class play close attention now. You’re about to be given a lesson in how to treat a huffed up, wrathful women.
So too did she want to play it. If she was going to say nothing then neither would I. Actions speak louder than words. If she thought I was going to play her game she could forget it. I didn’t have the time or the interest. I was the master, she the pupil. By the time I was finished with her she would be thanking me. I well knew that. Woman want a man who’s sure of himself, who knows what he wants, who knows what’s best for a woman, in short a leader, a man who’ll force a march through life, commanding and head strong, leading the woman in tow, whose heart-glad to be swept off her feet, ordered about and given something to live for. What she doesn’t want is a man whose afraid of her, a man who dares not approach but who compliments and praises her from afar. All such offerings are but bile to her. She cannot stand it. She wants a man who thinks nothing of her, treats her uncivilly; what she hates most of all is a frightened man, the sort that cries and apologises when she huffs. No. Not for a second would I play the distraught lover, the hopeless and weeping mummy’s boy begging to be back in her good graces. Not for a second. I was going to stand up and be a man, show her I wasn’t to be toyed with, remind her, by force if necessary, of my love for her, and satisfy and delight her by my mastery and bull-like ability in the bedroom.
Accordingly I got up and waited in the gangway just outside her carriage. My plan was to wait for her, until she (hopefully) used the toilet, and then seizing on her, and not letting her get a word in, so make love to her as to leave her sated and exulted and glad of my love.
I waited in the gangway. Would she come to the toilet? The train journey still had an hour or so to run. I peeped my head around the corner, and looking through the glass door saw her there, reading her magazine very calmly and sedately. I continued watching her. As I did so she stole a glance upward and made eye contact with me for a moment. Blowing the most huffiest of puffs and moving her eyes away with utter contempt and an angry scowl did she thus react to finding me once again stood staring at her. What a huffy woman Sasha was! She was really trying to make me feel dreadful by so ignoring me and acting all irate. What a wrathful woman she was. I was so terrified. Ha ha ha ha ha!
I went back into the gangway next to the two toilets and started thinking. I wanted to give Sasha a real treat. Musing to myself, I suddenly recalled how Tonka had thrilled Tinka by wearing that bull mask. Now hang on a minute, didn’t I have that balaclava in my bag? Might I not employ it now, when I seduced Sasha, to good effect? I went to my bag and fetched it and then returned to the gangway outside the toilets. Yet I didn’t put the mask on. It would have seemed strange to the other passengers. As I stood and waited I was quite in trepidation. Lots of things worried me about my plan. For one thing Sasha might not use the toilet. For another, what if a passenger went by as I went into the toilet after her? You see given that I was going to surprise Sasha and take her from behind, and given also that I intended to do it wearing a mask, she was bound to get the shock of her life and start screaming. Even if a passenger wasn’t present outside the toilets, still she might be heard further away. Moreover it was likely, given the domestic tension between she and myself, that she would cry rape when I thus accosted her: this is an oft used little ploy of women, when they’re in the middle of a domestic and fancy getting a bit of revenge on their man – believe me I’ve had this one levelled at me on several occasions before, by women who I’ve scorned – and I well imagined her calling to a passer by, telling them I was assaulting her, so that I would have to relinquish my amorous embraces. That would spell disaster. Sasha would have only more contempt for me then. No I was determined to carry out my plan successfully. I waited. I waited still. And then in an adrenaline rushed moment, Sasha appeared in the gangway and I set about my mission with incredible success.
I saw her coming down the aisle. Except for myself, the area outside the toilets was free of other passengers (there were so few on the train). As Sasha came into the vestibule I had my back turned to her and gazed out the window. When I heard the toilet door open behind me I instantly made my move; and no sooner did she sense that I was entering the toilet behind her, then I’d already whipped on the balaclava and pounced on her like a lion, and with one hand firmly over her mouth to still her screams, and another wrapped around her upper body so that I kept in check her left arm with my left, and her right arm with my right, I bungled her forcibly into the train toilet, back-kicking the door shut when I was inside.
She’d got the shock of her life. She was desperately trying to free herself from my embraces. She writhed in my arms but I held her. Her muted screams came puppy-like from her mouth and I found my hand wettened by the condensation of her hot breath. She was absolutely unyielding as if she’d turned to stone in my arms. And now with an incredible alacrity of manoeuvre, I momentarily let go my grasp, removed my hand from her mouth, and quickly spinning her around, put two arms around her upper body, so that I pinned her arms, and, allowing her only an instance in which to get off a light scream, placed my mouth forcibly on hers. I now had her in the position I wanted her: a perfect octopus-style death-grip. My role was now dual: with my arms I had to so enwrap her body so as to still her and force her to yield; yet at the same time my arms, and especially my hands, should act as instruments of love. Thus as I held her, and forced her to yield, so too did my hands run across her back, her hair, her backside, caressing and groping her, as I turned up the funky frisk factor and gave in to the age-old beat of the love-fandango.
It was poetry in motion; a pure act of amore, as I felt my way around her body, touching every sacred part and electrifying her by my moves. Yet in terms of mouth to mouth action I was somewhat thwarted; for she steadfastly refused to open her mouth and let me in; the fort would not allow itself to be taken: the drawbridge would not be opened. So in an effort to improve this situation I now allowed my arms, whilst still doing their job of holding down her arms, to take up new positions: I so placed my left so as my left hand could tug at her hair; and my right so that my right hand could wrench open her jaw. Thus labouring did I finally get her mouth open, and immediately did I force my tongue down her throat. At last I was in a position to truly make love to her; and though she still adamantly resisted, I knew it was only a matter of time before she yielded to my embraces. Truthfully it was what she wanted.
She was going to have her voluptuous consummation. I was going to give it her.
She was the daughter of men, the flower of the earth-soil, she was the apple of Eden, the bambi snow-drop, the Lilly of the valley waiting to be plucked. He was the dark star, the potent, infinite dark star of eternity, the guiding ever-forceful love-stallion, the love-emancipator, the love orchestrater, the passionate life-bringer and love curator. He was the instrument of love: the love conductor. She was the light star, the moon possessed nymph-lover, and she wanted his dark, dark potency, to swoop upon her soul and to drown her in ever eternal night. She wanted the electric passion of his will: she wanted it to drench her moon filled being, to capture and snow-shake her, to feed her the riches of the passion Christ. And he was the bringer of life, the heraldic Taurus, the love-flamed horseman of the apocalypse: with his flaming arrows would he shoot her in her heart, in her bosom, in her soul: in her very seed-grain of womanhood. In her seed-grain of womanhood, in her infinite fertile moon-like fecundity did his dark electric passion touch her. In his very will did he transfuse her, transfuse her very soul, her seed-grain femininity, her love-phallic womanhood. He was the life-giver, the Christ redeemer: through his passion did she taste the eternal snow-drop, the dark magnetic ice of the Christ redemption, the dark blood of Christ, the living embodiment of His life-blood. Otherwise would it all have been the cardboard cut-out of the old-Judas love-lore. Truly did she now resent the old Judas love-lore. It so enraged her. It was but a dead letter. A nothing passion, a dead-wood, worm-infested machine-like love practice. It was all dead to her like so many stale sentences. She had been touched by the old dark force of the phallus, the infinite magnetic passion of the old, old dark soul. Never would she return to the dead way, the way of the light.
So did we get down to it. When I first entered her mouth there was a lot of banging of teeth. And it soon became evident that she’d just eaten a bag of cheese and onion crisps. What a horrible taste reader! Ugh! Fortunately for her, I was willing to overlook this. But oh what a disgusting taste. And more than that, she evidently was very lazy in the application of the toothbrush – her mouth seemed full of drool, just like a dogs, and truthfully reader I considered backing off. But it was love that she wanted and as such I intended to service her. Yet still, as my tongue probed her tonsils, there alighted on the tip of my tongue a soggy-feeling, cheese and onion tasting, drool-saturated crisp fragment. Further, I got the rather awful impression that she’d eaten eggs for breakfast.
Nevertheless I kept up the amorous onslaught. She by the way, was still unyielding. Still did she make herself like a stone. Still did she try to writhe her body free; still did she try to disengage her mouth from mine. She just would not submit, but was like a little wild animal desperate to escape its captor. She tried tirelessly to scream through her mouth but I kept mine firmly over hers giving her the kiss of life. I held her jaw down for fear she might snap her teeth shut on my tongue. Still I probed, still I caressed, still I made love. Still she resisted, still she panicked, still she seemed fearful and desperate to get away. But I held her, held her and I forced her, forced my love upon her. Tongued her, caressed her hair, touched her derriere. Yet still was she like a stone unyielding! Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned! Oh what true words did the bard once speak: I was learning the truth of that little nugget of wisdom now. Yet what a strange curious little creature. Like a wild animal, she would not yield. She was whimpering and murmuring like a crazed, almost deranged and frightened little animal. She seemed almost to be paralysed with fear. Her body was like a stone in my arms. She whimpered like a lost little child.
I decided to up the anti; so far I’d restricted myself to touching her back, head and booty; now I decided to get down to it. Oh come on baby! Let’s do it! Let’s make love my darling. Yet just as I’d moved one hand to just above her knee all set to slowly raise it upwards, in the most dramatic and curious of instants, the life seemed to be withdrawn from her and she fell, seemingly inert, like a tree to the floor; luckily caught in my arms as she was, so that I sort of lowered her to the floor as she fell.
She had fainted. I had broken her fall and lain her out on the floor. She lay their prostrate on the floor. Her unconscious face looking up at me, her eyes vacant, her mouth gaping open. I checked her pulse. She still had one. Good, good, good. Truly this was a revolting place to make love in; for as she lay there her head was on one side of the toilet, right next to it in fact, and her blond hair rested in a puddle of urine on the floor, as too did the back of her jacket. She lay there passed out. She had fainted. Good Lord I was good. She had swooned on me. It had all been too much for her. I was so overpowering; my love so strong, my mastery of women so complete. I thought this sort of thing only happened in books. Honestly reader I’ll level with you, in all my amorous adventures, with all my spy thrilling female seduction techniques, never have I had a woman swoon on me. Never ever. But I’d evidently been too powerful for Sasha, she had been so excited and soul-shaken by me, that the poor girl had lost consciousness and blacked out.
I knelt down on the floor beside her, checking her pulse. ‘Sasha my princess, Sasha?’ I called to her. But there was no response. I wiped her brow lovingly. My first reaction was to call for help, ring for an ambulance or something. But then I imagined the following scene. I imagined walking into hospital, a bunch of flowers in my hand, a happy smile upon my face, and, entering a room where Sasha lay, now awake after her unconscious bout, and sitting up in bed; and I imagined presenting her the flowers and saying warmly ‘Sasha my darling, it’s so good to see you back to health.’ And then I imagined the scowling Sasha, irate once again, looking at the flowers and tossing them aside, a veritable picture of a wrathful woman, and huffily asking
‘Why didn’t you make love to me X? You’re so Lilly-livered, I want a real man. A man who knows what he wants. Not a man who half makes love to me. A mincing man who doesn’t go all the way. Don’t smile at me! You dammed fool! And get rid of these flowers! I hate flowers. I want a real man. A man who will bully me and force me. Not some limp-wristed fool. ‘How are you Sasha?’ ‘How are you my darling?’! As if I cared for such mummy’s boy affection. You’re a fag you are X. Get out of my sight! I want a real man, a man who goes all the way.’
So thinking did I decide there was only one way to go. We were going to go all the way and that was final. She lay there prostrate before me. Well Sasha my darling it’s what you want. Let us climax to high Heaven together. She would wake up, be brought back to life, like the princess who slept for a thousand years, by the hot cascading juices of my throbbing manhood pumping into her body, and warmly crashing on the shores of her womanhood. I stripped my self naked except for the mask. Although I had a condom in my pocket, I wasn’t going to use it. I’ve had plenty of feedback from lovers in the past, who’ve complained it’s insensitive and deprives them of pleasure. I wasn’t going to deprive Sasha. In terms of position I’d decided to start with the missionary; and if after that she still wasn’t conscious, then I would flip her over and take her from behind to see if that did the trick. I now lay down next to her on the floor and cosied into her. It was time to strip her naked. I began to unbutton her jacket. I was now free to speak, so accordingly ‘oh Sasha, my little princess, my darling, I love you so much, I want to be with you. Let me give you some sexual healing, my love.’ So did I talk as I unclothed her, kissing her brow and lips in between times. Yet just as I was removing her jacket, I was suddenly given a glimpse, a birds eye view if you will, of the true position I was in, the true situation of events.
Sometimes there are moments in life when we seem to almost step outside of our bodies and from a corner of the room, look down upon ourselves like a distant observer. Such a view of things did I now have, sort of like a presentiment, a strange seeing of reality, like a premonition, that all of a sudden just came upon me. As I watched myself lying naked on top of Sasha, removing her garments, I suddenly saw the true horror of the situation I was in. That girl hadn’t fainted because of me. She’d been poisoned.
Any momentary embarrassment that I might have felt – after all I’d made the admittedly deluded and flattering conclusion that she’d fainted due to my sexual prowess – gave way instantly to feelings of apprehension of the peril we were in. Good God these terrorists were dangerous. They’d struck down my darling Sasha and I had been completely heedless. I have to admit it, experienced though I may be, I was absolutely terrified. Reader they really scare me the terrorists do, they really, really do. I could barely take it all in. Good Lord, they’d poisoned poor Sasha! I’d been caught napping. Had never expected a terrorist attack on the train. Never. Truly reader I had lost my cool. I was sweating and out of control. ‘God damn it you fucking terrorists!’ I screamed rather irrationally, banging on the door like one demented. I tried to regain my composure and keep calm. The terrorists had poisoned Sasha. They had taken out my darling princess. Had they poisoned everybody on board? Had they poisoned me? Or had they only targeted Sasha? If they had then most likely this was a personal vendetta against yours truly. Jesus Christ! Shit man! Not only were there terrorists on board, but they also knew who I was. Oh! Good Lord. Right in the middle of love-making my worst fears had unfolded; the terrorist plot to takeover London had begun. And they’d made a start by targeting the nearest and dearest of a secret agent. Good God, if the terrorists could attack the secret service with impunity, what did that say for the fate of the nation? If this sort of thing became public knowledge there’d be pandemonium. Oh Shit! I’d been caught well and truly napping.
Hastily I redressed. By this time we were pulling into Kings Cross. I was desperate to get off the train and flee. The terrorists had done all they could to Sasha – there was nothing more I could do for her. But they were probably going to kill me if they got the chance. I had to flee the scene on the instant. Slowly I opened back the toilet door and looked out. Other passengers were right outside the cubicle, lining up next to the door, waiting to get off. To all intents and purposes they appeared in perfect health. So they hadn’t been poisoned. The terrorists had targeted me personally, by proxy as it were. I closed the door and went back inside. I waited till the train came to a standstill. Then giving the other passengers some time to alight, I opened up the door slowly once more. However prior to leaving I knelt down over Sasha again and kissed her little gaping lips, and rubbing a hand warmly over her death-cold brow said sweetly to her
‘Come what may, the terrorists will never destroy our love, my darling Sasha. They will never succeed in keeping us apart. True love always prevails. Though fate and circumstance may strive to separate us, we will meet again some day, in happier times, believe me, my princess.’
And with these words I exited the toilet cubicle shutting the door behind me and walking warily along the corridor. Although I had feared that a terrorist might jump out on me, I made it unharmed to where my bag lay and, picking it up, hastily left the train. With much haste I walked out of the station and across town. In a forced march, using a deliberately circuitous route to try and loose any enemy agents who were on my trail, I covered some five miles in the hour. By this time I was beginning to feel somewhat safer, though truth be told, I knew fine well I was being secretly stalked by the terrorists.
An hour having elapsed I picked up a public phone and dialling 999, and disguising my voice with affected gruffness, stated to the operator that ‘a young lady had been poisoned by terrorists and lay prostrate and unconscious in one of the train toilets of the Edinburgh to London service that had arrived into Kings Cross at 13.03.’ With these words I put the phone down.
I now resumed my march. Truly I was panicky. I intended to set myself up in a hotel in Marylebone. As I walked I became harassed by the thought that I too may have been poisoned, and as yet I might just not have succumbed. Informed by this, I periodically checked my pulse throughout the day, terrified lest it should start dropping and reveal to me that I too was a victim. And always as I walked, and even when I set myself up in my hotel bedroom, did I have the very real sensation that I was being watched, that a terrorist lay in wait for me. So had the new and terrifying attack upon our nation begun and I was caught up right in the middle of it. London was burning.

VI
The poison attack on Sasha had left me shaken and stirred. The terrorists had stolen a march on me, and come to London as I had to alleviate the terror threat, I’d actually been caught with my pants down, my darling Sasha first victim to their evil deeds. And if they had have wanted to have wound me up they had succeeded. A wave of bitterness – the like of which I’d never before experienced – swept across me and I was very much a man out of humour. Surely to goodness there are standards, surely for Heaven’s sake there are rules, rules of engagement that one must adhere to no matter what war one is waging. Of course war is war. But still…..aren’t there at least some codes of honour that one should never violate? Some feeling for humanity that one must not forsake? Perhaps not, I don’t know. I don’t know. What do I know about anything…… And yet I’m sorry but there are rules and there are codes of honour. Whilst I accept that danger to oneself is part and parcel of my profession, this targeting of one’s loved ones, is a really devastating and nerve-racking not to mention soul-destroying experience and I was suffering an agony of angst, worrying about who else of my kith and kin they might now attack; the terrorists – dishonourable scum that they are – clearly had no compunction in putting me through this ordeal. It was an incredibly callous yet successful tactic on their part, and any belief systems that I had previously held, any notions of honour among foes, had now been utterly smashed. The terrorists had attained there end.
And for my own personal safety I feared greatly. That afternoon and evening I remained locked in my hotel bedroom not daring to go out. I felt myself watched. Was the room bugged? Perhaps through the mirror on the wall I was being monitored by an operative? I didn’t know. I was terrified of the hotel staff. Indeed as I was shown to my room by a young man, I dared not turn my back on him for fear that he would smack me across the back of the head and that I would fall down unconscious. I trusted no-one, was constantly suspicious, and when I descended for dinner in the evening, I ventured only to drink a small glass of water – from a communal jug – and also a few slices of cheese, which the other guests were stuffing themselves on. I got very little sleep during the night and was up and about, somnolently drinking coffee and inspecting the room for bugging devices. Yet I should say that during all of this stressful period I didn’t lose my sense of humour. As time went on I became more and more convinced that I was being monitored through the mirror. But baring this last danger with much bravado I dared, when exiting the shower, to deliberately wave my naked buttocks to the mirror, in a nod and a wink to the terrorists that James Bond himself would have been proud of. I know that such antics may appear ridiculously Holywood at a time like this reader, but sometimes the real spy world can be just as much fun as the films, and in any case such shenanigans help maintain one’s sanity.
By the next morning I was beginning to feel a lot safer, and I felt sure that if the terrorists had followed me from the train they would have struck by now. Accordingly I ventured out into town.
I should mention that, for the better protection of my person, and also with the safety of the good citizens of London in mind, I was armed. I had a revolver down my pants, which weapon I had bought bit by bit across the internet and then constructed at my home with ease. I felt a lot safer with this in my locker; and given that there were now terrorists everywhere – they’d come to infiltrate the city – madmen at every corner and crazy fools running amuck, it was vital to possess said weapon.
Yet I wanted to learn more about the poison attack and the fate of my beloved Sasha. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Passing a newsagents I saw the headline for the London Daily. My worst fears were confirmed. It read: ‘Woman attacked by masked man in Kings Cross train toilet.’ I went in and bought the paper. The following is an extract:
‘Yesterday dinnertime a young lady – who for legal reasons cannot be named – was attacked and sexually assaulted by an unknown masked assailant on the 13:03 GNER Edinburgh to London route. The assailant, who accosted his victim and then forced her into the toilet cubicle where he attempted to rape her, is believed to have been frightened off in the midst of his crime and to have fled the scene on arrival in Kings Cross. The motives for the assault are unknown though police believe it was a random attack and that the victim did not know the assailant. Officers were first alerted to the lady – who lay unconscious in the toilet cubicle – by an anonymous tip-off. Police are keen to speak to the informant, and are requesting that he come forward in order to eliminate himself from the enquiry. As yet police have no further information on the assailant, though he is thought to be at large and dangerous. Chief inspector Chris Armstrong said that women should be cautious and take care when out and about, though he stressed there was no need for panic. Members of the public with any information on this event should call 08.…..’
The full horror of yesterdays events had thus descended upon me. If the police were going to such lengths with this elaborate rape-assault story, if they were setting up a hotline for members of the public to give information on, then good God, the poison attack was truly a very major one. The powers that be wanted it covered up – they obviously thought it would cause hysteria if it got out – and accordingly they’d fabricated this rape story. My friends upstairs were surely part of this; for realising that one of their own – the cream of the academy – had been targeted, they would have gone hammer and tong to sweep reality under the rug. The statement that the victim didn’t know her assailant, the words of chief inspector Armstrong, and the idea of a rapist at large – all of this spoke of a very elaborate hoax. A good deflection indeed. Who knew what exactly, I could not say. Were the media incohoots? Possibly. Yet it was very likely that only a few select personages at the very top knew the real truth. To be clear then the poison attack had been a very, very dangerous event, and I wondered if there wasn’t something bigger in the pipeline, some desperate scheme to poison the whole London water supply or even to release snakes on mass as the press had often speculated.
In terms of the rape story and the accusations of rapist and assaulter that were now being levelled at me, I was happy to accept these. For they bore no truth in them at all: they were purely fictitious. The big cheeses upstairs had decided to take this lead – so too would I now follow. It wasn’t my position to question the tactics of headquarters. If I was to be (temporarily) a fall guy, then so be it. Ultimately the allegations would be revealed to be pure nonsense, and I imagined myself receiving a commendation from the Queen for taking such a bullet in the chest for national security, and for my heroism elsewhere, and being surrounded by my superiors, who would pat me on the back and say ‘well done X, well done.’ A real sense of espirit de corps pervaded me. Ironically, the Tonka inspired balaclava that I’d worn played perfectly into the notion that I was a rapist: it was a Godsend no doubt to the ‘writers’ back at headquarters, desperate to put an alternative spin on events. Truly those spin-doctors had spun well, although I think I gifted them a golden opportunity, by wearing the mask (though I’m not trying to gain any credit for that reader – don’t credit me with being so longsighted that I foresaw that the mask would play an ideal role in the rape-deflection story, I didn’t).
Yet for all my good will in accepting the allegations and for all my professionalism in playing along with the powers that be, still there was a small part of me that couldn’t help being upset by all this slander. I know it’s silly reader, I know. But I am after all human. To be labelled a pervert, a rapist, a monster (some of the tabloids were really going to town on it and calling me all sorts – scum, sicko, animal, paedophile, you name it they said it); and commentators were crying out to have me hanged or destroyed for my sick crimes. Truly I felt myself victimised. Anyone whose ever found themselves at the mercy of the press, on the wrong side of a reporter whose going to print lies to sell papers, knows how lonely and isolated I now was. To have one’s actions and proceedings misconstrued, misrepresented and frankly blown out of all proportion; to be seized upon and bad-mouthed, abused and falsely portrayed by the media; to find oneself maligned, ill-treated and accused of all sorts, and to have false and evil tales made up about one, and dark shadows and aspersions cast upon one’s character and integrity, all so that the media can whip up hate and hysteria toward one individual, guilty of any crime the public wishes to imagine – all of this leaves one feeling depressed, lonely and isolated, one’s soul destroyed and wondering if life is worth living. I was really losing the will to live. Believe me, this little taste of media misrepresentation that I’d experienced left me feeling sorry for all those unfortunate people who’ve been slaughtered by the press. How defenceless is the lone individual against the media mob. And after everything I’d been through with the poison attack and now this! Huh! I couldn’t help, as I sat down on a bench reading the papers, removing my glasses, rubbing my eyes wearily and taking a long, long sigh. And shaking my head I said to myself ‘what a world we live in.’ And I couldn’t help but cynically recall to myself Hitler’s famous words: ‘the bigger the lie the more people will believe it.’
But life goes on. I was here in London and intended to get on with my mission. As such I headed to Oxford Circus. According to the RNA website a trusted informant was making noises about a plan to blow up shoppers there, even going so far as to name a specific date – it was tomorrow – as to when the planned attack would take place. Even prior to this however Oxford Circus had already become the focal point for much speculation in the press: according to rumour police had only two days earlier foiled a bomb attack there. At the very heart of the shopping scene in London, teaming with hordes of westerners, these attacks made perfect sense, and my sighting of the IC3 male at the very same location spoke volumes. Moreover rumour ran riot over the threat of a new wave of strikes on the underground, and again Oxford Circus station had been named as a potential target. At present teams of armed police were deployed at every major tube station; and at Oxford Circus too, where they spilt out onto the streets above. Given then all this hype, and given also the specific information on the RNA website, I made it my business to get there and see what was afoot.
As I made my way across London, the following incident occurred: I was walking along with my head down somewhat, as is my want, when looking up I saw a women in front of me, with her back to me, walking along. Now it’s a fact of life that I tread with almost soundless step. And now as I found myself unintentionally walking behind this woman, she suddenly turned around and looked at me. She seemed a bit shocked, presumably because of my inherent silent approach. And she gave me a quick glance as if she was scared of me; and I rather got the impression that she assumed me to be some kind of pervert – all based solely on my appearance; and I couldn’t help feel that she thought I was stalking her. Anyway she turned round once more, carried on walking, and now with incredible illogic she decided to increase her pace. Now why had she done that? So as to outrun me? Honestly I don’t understand. If she did think I was stalking her, why not just stop and let me get past? She’d only buggered up the situation the more now. Because her legs weren’t as long as mine, so that by walking faster she merely kept in front of me. (If she’d have kept at normal pace I would have gone past her for Heaven’s sake!) And now the situation got even worse as I saw her turn down the side street I was going to take. Thus did we find ourselves in quite a deserted little by way, with myself ‘stalking’ her as she seemed to think. I was so annoyed with her – for conceiving such stupid thoughts, and for walking at pace as she did – that I was staring with anger at the back of her figure ahead of me, when lo and behold she looked around to see if she’d shaken me off yet. What a look she gave! Desperately I tried to look aside, sheepishly did I look elsewhere, which ironically only made me look more guilty. She gave me one more haughty and contemptuous look and then turning her head round again, stepped up the pace once more. Sick of this nonsense I decided to turn around and find an alternative route.
Any single man whose ever found himself in this silly position with a single female out alone, will know how annoying it is. Why do women always believe your stalking them? Anyway it’s not my intention to digress and pepper up this memoir with complaints against the opposite sex. Nor either do I wish to transform this tale into some kind of male chauvinistic crusade peddling the idea that everything evil in this world can be blamed on the fairer sex. So to return to the story. In time I reached Oxford Circus and there began my reconnaissance. What hordes of shoppers traversed this vicinity. And the cars and buses too: it seemed there was a never ending flow of both. And I saw the armed police, inside and on the periphery of the station.
Given what was planned for tomorrow, I’d come to the decision that I wanted to be here. It was known that a terrorist was going to try and detonate a bomb at this very precise location, and my hunch was that it was the IC3 male himself, who no doubt intended to culminate the plan to blow up shoppers. It seemed obvious to me anyway. And so I wanted to be here to keep tabs on affairs and to tackle a terrorist if he tried to detonate a bomb. When the terrorist(s) arrived, I wanted to be here to counteract his or their operations and deal with any explosives. If it were the IC3 male, then, from what I knew of him, the most likely MO was that he would leave a package with explosives inside, rather than blow himself up; but even if that were his plan or, (and more likely) if I was dealing with other unknown suicide bombers then I would be on hand to tackle them. In all cases it was therefore essential that I be here all day tomorrow to keep a very keen eye on things. So too had it become my intention to take up position at Oxford Circus. Yet I couldn’t just stand here as I was and wait and watch. That would be far too obvious. Any terrorist would see me a mile off. I smelt an undercover operation in the offing.
How could I blend into the background of Oxford Circus? There was no chance of acting as a shopper without arousing suspicion. For if I was to stay in the vicinity I would just have to walk in circles. No, that would never do. Then I had an idea. I’d seen it once on Crocodile Dundee II: I’d go undercover as a hot dog seller! I looked around. Well there wasn’t really any vans near the underground exit. There was one a little further up. It was quite a way off actually. Nevertheless it would probably do. Accordingly I mocked up a fake CV, in which I detailed my previous employment as a fast food worker, and took it up to the man in the hot dog stand. He didn’t know what I was giving him at first, and gave me a very strange and perplexed look. He read the CV. And then coming to terms with me, he simply said ‘sorry mate we don’t have any jobs going here.’ ‘But I’ll work for free’ I said. ‘Sorry mate’ he replied, ‘there’s just not enough room in the van.’ And with that I returned to the tube entrance, disappointed not to be taken on as a hot dog seller, and unsure now how I would go undercover.
I looked around. Now, there were some musicians about: a guitarist, a flute player and a trumpeter. Could I go undercover as a musician? If truth be told I’m hopeless at music. Surely to God I could never busk myself through an undercover operation? Yet it was a possibility. And frankly I didn’t see many other options available. I looked around once more. There was one other person who stood permanently at Oxford Circus, a man. In fact as soon as I’d got here I’d been struck by his presence. I don’t really know how to describe him. A religious nutter? A sandwich board man I guess. He stood on the street side, a sandwich board across his body reading ‘Jesus saves,’ and with a megaphone in his hand he berated the passing shoppers with the news that they were all going to go to hell, had forgotten God, were soulless and sinful and the like, and would enter eternal purgatory on the second coming of Christ. I took stock of him. Could I really go undercover as one such as he? Hardly! I was better of trying my hand as a musician. Honestly reader I just cannot understand such people at all. They’re like a foreign land to me. And as a spy, as a solid and well-rounded citizen of this country, as a much respected member of society, loved and admired by men and women alike, I’ve got massive contempt for such fools, such losers, the dregs of life’s leftovers, the unwanted waifs on the fringes of society. I now stood not far off from this man. As he talked and the other shoppers went by I simply stood rooted to the spot with my arms folded, staring contemptuously at him, trying to understand him, but totally failing. There was merely a look of shock, incomprehension and disgust on my face. What on earth makes such people tick? Honestly I have no idea. He shouted through his megaphone ‘you’re all soulless. You’ve forgotten the true meaning of life. You shop on a Sunday, the Lord’s day….’ And as he said all of this hordes of shoppers went by. The majority quick-stepped it as they went past, and wouldn’t look him in the eye, but just hurried on by. Others shot him a contemptuous glance. I noticed that he didn’t particularly like women. And for their part I saw that most of the ladies were scared of him, although a fair few as well gave him haughty, arrogant looks. I wrote down a few of his phrases in a little notebook. I was studying the role. Yet after half an hour of this I gave it up for hopeless. I’d never be able to play the part.
Accordingly, I set about becoming a musician. I’d have to get myself an instrument, and so headed off to a music store. ‘Doe, Ray, Me, So, Far,’ I sang as I went, trying to get into character. But it was no good, and as I walked I thought back to my school days: FACE, every good boy deserves football, two beats in a bar? What the hell did it all mean? I had no idea. This was never going to work. No, no, no I wasn’t going to be a musician. I walked back to Oxford Circus and looked around. Was there truly no other option than to be a religious nutter? It was evening now. I had to be in position by tomorrow morning, there was no time to lose. Yet I was totally at a loss as how to blend in. I couldn’t be a musician or a religious nutter. Desperately I looked around for further options. But there were none. Unless. What about becoming an armed police? But then that would never work. The other officers would clock me immediately. True we could collaborate. I could let them know a secret agent was on hand. But then reader, you just don’t know which side some of these officers are batting for, you really don’t. Probably, if I got into contact with these officers, I’d only be blowing my cover. No I could see there was nothing for it: I’d have to pretend to be a religious nutter.
It was late already. I’d have to be quick if I wanted to buy a loudspeaker. I headed off to the shops and got one. Then I returned to my hotel. Frankly reader I was very depressed. I was tired and hungry after my day out, and tonight I would have to prepare for a role, which I so didn’t want to do, and then tomorrow get out on the street and act up. I can’t describe the nervousness and anxiety I felt. Anyone whose ever given a talk or a presentation they didn’t want to give will know how I felt now, the night before. Like a child with a part in the school play that it doesn’t want to do, or like an adult going for an interview for a job they’re not that keen on, this was how I now felt. I was so nervous. Yet I had to be there. National security depended on it. Accordingly I attempted to ‘get into character.’
But it was no good. I was like a fish out of water. I read through the few notes that I’d scribbled down and stood before the mirror saying ‘Jesus saves….er, er…..love good…..hate evil…’ But it was no good, my heart was just not in it. And then I had an idea.
I’d heard it said before that there are some buskers out there who don’t really play an instrument but rather pretend to with the aid of a machine – a bit like karaoke. Could I do that? It was a possibility. I took out my laptop and going on the internet, started browsing for the necessary equipment. So I searched. Yet I had real difficulties in finding what I was looking for. It was some sort of amplifier device? I really didn’t know exactly. Getting nowhere with this, I began pricing karaoke machines; and these were very expensive – we were talking thousands of pounds. I certainly didn’t have that sort of cash to splash. This idea wasn’t going to work either, was it. And you know moreover now that I thought about it, I’d really have to have a busker’s license or else I might get moved on. I now became resigned to becoming a religious nutter for the day. I mocked up a cardboard sandwich board on which I wrote ‘Love Good, Hate Evil,’ and standing in front of the mirror, tried to get into character. But it wasn’t working – nothing at the academy had ever prepared me for such a role.
Disheartened I went to bed, and, anxious and apprehensive as I was, slept badly. At seven o’clock I rose and too nervous to eat breakfast, I set off to Oxford Circus downcast and unhappy. It was a beautiful spring morning, the sun shone and London was already a hive of activity. As I alighted the tube at Oxford Circus, I was overcome with trepidation. My palms were sweaty, my legs wobbled as I walked, my stomach churned. I deliberately chickened out at first by going of for ten minutes to the toilet. But I knew I had to get out there soon, whether I liked it or not: the IC3 male could be here at any moment.
At last I arrived at the point where yesterday the religious nutter had stood. Would he come again today? I didn’t know. In any case I was here first. In the throng of people around me I now ceased walking, and, desperately trying to act calmly, laid my bag down on the ground and started to set up. I was overcome with complete stage fright. Sheepishly I pulled out from my bag the cardboard sandwich board. As I did so, kneeling down on the floor, I tried to hide it from view, mortally embarrassed as I was. Yet when I’d finished getting it out and saw that it was time to put it on and start berating the people, I realised that I would just have to face up to the crowd. I was here and I had to get on with things. I put on the sandwich board and turning to face the passers by, now revealed to them what I was about. Everybody was staring at me when they went past – they were quite shocked and wanted to see what I was up to, what I was going to say. I know that my face bore the expression of one who’d thought up some clever scheme – like a wannabe playwright or singer or entertainer – and now, now that they arrive on stage and see the audience looking remorselessly at them, wishes they could go and lie down in a dark room forever. Despite all my experience I had stage fright: the reason being that I didn’t understand the role and was totally ill-prepared.
There was nothing but to begin. ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three,’ I said, trying to sound confident but clearly belying the fact that I was terrified. Everybody was staring at me. I thought back to the guy yesterday – everybody was scared of him; the majority of people dared not look at him but hurried on by. Yet with myself nobody was afraid to look at me. Most gave shocked, puzzled looks as if they couldn’t understand what I was about. Others were truly horrified; presumably out of embarrassment for me. Anyway I made a start.
‘Love good’ I said reading from the script. ‘Er……em…Hate evil……er, em……er Jesus saves….er….don’t be a sinner…….er….’ and so I went on repeatedly reading over the four or five set phrases I’d heard from the guy yesterday. ‘Love good…’ I said once more and so on. But I was giving an awful show. And for the most part I didn’t look up as I read. I wasn’t engaging the audience. And on those few occasions when I did dare to glance upwards all I saw were the eyes of the mob fixed on me. They were absolutely shocked; they were aghast, embarrassed for me. Yesterday when that guy had been saying his piece I’d noticed that the women either walked by terrified or shot him arrogant contemptuous looks. I too was receiving two kinds of looks from the passing women yet they were both bad: the majority of females were giving me a sympathetic smile – the sort where you don’t show any teeth but simply raise the edges of your mouth – and in their eyes they expressed sympathy for me, as they saw me now making a fool of myself. Yet other women wore a look of absolute shock and incomprehension at what they were seeing, truly they were horrified, and went past with mouths gaping at me. Both of these responses were bad. They were not the responses given to a true religious nutter. If a terrorist turned up now, I’d be immediately sussed. It would be patently obvious I was not who I pretended to be. I just had to get into character. I read once more. ‘Hate evil….er…em, er….love good…..er, em…Jesus saves….er, em.’ But it was no good. I was dying on stage. The crowd was ruthless and I was no match for them. Despondent, after twenty-five minutes of sticking this out, I called a time out and went to a café to get some breakfast.
I ate my meal and drank my coffee. ‘Look’ I soliloquized to myself, ‘this mission is going completely pear-shaped. The God-damned terrorists could be here any minute. If they see you they’ll know you’re an undercover. You might as well write ‘I’m an undercover secret agent’ across your chest. Your performance is woeful. Is this the same man who won an academy award for his role as the Misanthrope in the play of the same name? Is this the same actor who so successfully realised the part of Soliony in the Three Sisters? Is this the same person who claims to be a master of the undercover arts? Heavens above you need a kick up the jacksy. Now listen you have got to get into character. There’s no two ways about it. You have got to, absolutely got to, blend in. Now come on, make an effort.’
Yet could I do it? Surely not. However when I got back out onto the street, I don’t know what it was, perhaps my full stomach and the brought-back-to-life, inspirational effect of the coffee, but suddenly I felt completely up for it. I looked at my notes. Did I really need the script? It seemed a bit hammy in truth. A bit basic and old hat. Rather hackneyed to put it bluntly. Why not just ad lib? Surely I could be a bit more imaginative, a bit more original, a bit more up to date. And truly when I reached my position, set myself up and turned to face the crowd, I felt newly revived and with incredible confidence I started playing into the role. Looking at the crowd with amazing assuredness, looking them directly in the eye, I now began talking through the megaphone:
‘Alright people, listen up. Okay. Hands up everybody who believes in God? What nobody? Nobody believes in God? Alright then let me put it a different way. Hands up everybody who doesn’t believe in God. What? Nobody either? So what? You’re all undecided as yet on the God question? You’re a bit unsure? Or maybe you just don’t care? Yeah that’s it you don’t care do you. Go on, that’s it ladies, you just walk on by and pretend not to care, just ignore me and all that I say. I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t. You people, you people. You’re a right lacklustre bunch, you really are. Well I’ll tell you, don’t come crying to me when your life falls apart and you need salvation. When the apocalypse comes ladies and gents I’ll remind you all of your complete indifference now. ‘Oh we were too busy shopping to go to church Lord, to engrossed in our material lives to care about our souls or anything as boring as that. Please Lord forgive us, let us into Heaven anyway.’ ‘No!’ He will crieth, ‘I’m not having it. Go and find salvation in your mobile phones and credit cards, they’re your real Gods.’’
I was very much doing the business now. Perfectly undercover. The people – the women especially – were really scared and hurried past. If the terrorists came now they wouldn’t suspect a thing. With one watchful eye looking out for them I continued my rant.
‘Shop, shop, shop, shop, shop. That’s all you people do isn’t it. Don’t you have any desire for a higher, more fulfilling life, don’t you have any nobler ambitions, than just shopping? How spiritually undernourished you people must be. Don’t you care about anything? Don’t you have souls? Go on people, that’s it, you just walk on by and pretend to ignore me. You just haven’t got the time have you. You’ve got places to be, people to see, money to spend. Oh how important are all your material, everyday cares. I don’t know how I can reach any of you. I might as well be talking to myself. Hello! Am I still here? Can anyone see me? Hello! Can anyone hear me? Testing. Testing……. Let me tell you people, let me say it to you loud and clear, just so as you can’t say later that you weren’t warned; the day is coming when He will return; and on that day the unbelievers will be destroyed. I’ll be there folks waiting in the wings, all ready to see the look on your faces then, you indifferent cabbages. When your burning in the fires of hell I’ll bet you won’t have such an indifferent face then. Oh delightful day. I cannot wait. I cannot wait to see you all suffer. To see justice meted out to the sinful; to see the righteous inherit the earth. To see the stupid indifference removed from your faces; to see you punished for your arrogance. You know I look around and I’m not impressed people, I’m really not. I look at your lives and I’m shocked and disgusted. So you don’t want to go to church. What it’s too boring? Still you might have time for God? Oh sorry is that not cool. Oh well then forget it. Forget God that’s right. He’s not cool is He. Yeah that’s right boys, you just go ahead and mock me. Pretend you don’t care about anything boys, that’s it, go on you have a good laugh at me. A deranged fool that’s all I am isn’t it. Been out shopping again lads eh? Bought some new trainers have you? How much did they cost you? This weeks dole money was it? Why not go and get another girl pregnant boys? That’ll bring in another fifty quid a week won’t it; that’s a new pair of trainers every two; go on get on with you, you amoral scum. You Godless sinners.’
But I knew that it was with women especially, that this type of religious nutter has problems. Accordingly,
‘Well women, here we are. What have you got to say for yourselves then? Hmm? I put you on trial accused of the crimes of vanity, shallowness, selfishness, immorality and deceit. How do you plead? Defend yourselves ladies. Defend the indefensible. Hmm? Honestly, I watch you all go by girls, I see you all caught up in your shallow little affairs, tootling around town without a care in the world; I see you out shopping everyday, with nothing better to do with your lives, with no spiritually-orientated desires infecting you, spending money on fancy clothes and jewellery, on perfumes, lingerie and luxury items, whilst other people in this world are starving; I see your avid and shallow interest in the hollow and spiritually empty lives of celebrity imbeciles, see you’re obsession with all that glitters and gold, your infatuation with all the falsity and fakery of fashion, glamour and vogue; and when I see all of this I really am disgusted that God ever created such empty-headed, shallow-minded, vanity-obsessed creatures. How indifferent you all are to the important things in life. How self-centred you are, how unconcerned about depth or inner beauty or what truly matters. There are people out there who are suffering; from poverty, starvation, from incurable diseases; helpless, hopeless, dejected people and to all of this you either turn a contemptuous and arrogant look or ignore it with blissful blindedness; to any interest in self-development, spiritual nourishment or good works you cast only an indifferent and disinterested eye. Soulless, Godless creatures. Charmingless, arrogant robots. How God ever created you I do not know. I think he must have ran out of souls when you lot came down the production line. Forgot to add in that vital little ingredient in His apparent haste to create so many of you. Truly there’s a never ending supply of you dressed-up, made-up, brain-dead bimbo dolls. You’re like a swarm of loathsome ants the way you go about your shopping. Probably you’ll be the first creatures to emerge after a nuclear holocaust; I’m absolutely sure of it, you cack-headed cockroaches; twenty minutes after the explosion you’ll crawl out of your caves and go shopping like nothing’s happened. Ugh! Sometimes! Sometimes I feel so angered, so outraged to see you all passing by me with your indifferent faces, engrossed in your shallow affairs, consumed by half-wit interests, comatose by sterile gossip. I feel so irate, so alone, so utterly depressed to find myself caught up in this mob of Godless people, this horde of shopaholics. People please, can we just get one thing straight, just so as to cheer me up a little in my depression. You don’t believe in God do you? I mean come on, you really can’t now can you. If you could just admit that to me it would be a start, a small mercy. I’d feel a little better. I mean surely you don’t? How could you? Let’s face it people there’s no God is there. There can’t be. And yet when I ask you this you all just walk by me and ignore me, treat me as if I’m some sort of weirdo. All I’m asking for is that you admit that you are Godless and soulless. That’s all I’m asking. But will anybody respond to me? Will one person admit that actually, yes it is true, none of us believe in God and yes we are all mindless sinners. No, the answer is no. There you go ladies you just give me an arrogant look, as if I’m some sort of oversensitive loser who can’t cope with the world. Go on, walk on by, walk on by. Walk straight past me and don’t give a damn. Walk straight past all the homeless people you pass on your way; men and women who’ve got no homes to go to, who are starving; you just walk on by; don’t give them any of your money, don’t even give them any recognition as human beings; just give them a snooty, haughty look and walk on by. And go out and shop till you drop ladies. Spend, spend, spend, spend, spend. For it is said in the Bible that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than for a rich bitch to enter the kingdom of Heaven. And that’s why your spending so much isn’t it. You don’t want to be rich. Yes I understand now. It’s so obvious. That’s why you spend all that money on clothes and underwear and perfumes and haircuts and beauty treatment. Oh! The endless obsession with making yourselves look good. Oh! Haven’t you women ever heard of the notion that true beauty is on the inside, that outer beauty is only skin deep? Don’t you understand that vanity is not a virtue? When I see you all obsessed with your appearances, having haircuts for hundreds of pounds, making yourselves up with endless bottles of mascara, lipstick and blusher; sun bedding at the risk of getting cancer; having your legs waxed, your armpits shaved, your pubic hair pruned; having facials and massages, being cosseted and coddled, indulged and humoured, hampered and pampered like the most precious of poodles; dressing up in fancy clothes and knick-knacks and strutting about town in high heels; showing off your lingerie to every man and his dog; wearing false eye-lashes and false nails; decorating yourselves in diamonds and gold, sporting necklaces, earrings and bracelets; splashing on perfumes like there’s no tomorrow; dressed up to the nines, swanning around town, nonchalant and oblivious, utterly unconcerned for anybody but yourselves; lazy, indolent, self-centred, uncaring robots bent on spending other people’s money and sitting at cafes and restaurants quaffing up meal after meal and gossiping and back-biting till your heart’s content; debauching yourselves with food and drink, chit-chat and cheating, sex, lust and affairs. Go on that’s it ladies, you just scowl at me like I’m some sort of weirdo. Go on with yourselves you arrogant cows, you just mock me that’s it. Yes we all know what my problem is don’t we girls. I’m not getting enough sex am I not? Is that my problem? Eh? I’m just jealous because I’m not getting it on with all these women? A few acts of immorality on my part and that’ll soon shut me up will it? What’s that? I should button my lip and start having some sex of my own instead of concerning myself with other peoples morals? Well it’s not true ladies, it’s not true. Your eternal obsession with vanity will be my eternal cross to bear. You women need a spiritual makeover; you need to wake up to the true meaning of life; you need to see the light. I get so depressed to see your never ending acts of selfishness and vanity. So, so depressed. But let me say this; all of your ceaseless lust after fine clothes and shoes, after jewellery and decoration, after lingerie, perfumes and make-ups, haircuts, knick-knacks and accessories, false tans, false nails, false eye-lashes: all of this I could forgive; all of these I could look upon as mere minor acts of vanity. But you don’t stop there do you women? No sir. Like the vainglorious, self-centred, despicably cold-hearted creatures you always promised to be you just had to go that extra mile; you just had to step over the mark and prove to the whole world what monsters you creatures really are; you just had to emblazen, in scorching letters across the sky your final and soul-destroying, heart-crushing acts of depravity: I’m talking of course about plastic surgery.’
‘Don’t get me started women, don’t get me started. You revolting, despicable, soul-destroying animals. How can you go to such horrifically unnatural lengths just to look good? Ugh! Soul destroying feats of humanity! No, nothing has the power to so destroy the human spirit than to see women lining up to get their breasts enlarged. Ugh! Is that all that matters in life ladies? Breast size? Is there anything more unnatural and horrific? Do I have to look on as you shallow-minded, looks-obsessed, vain and disgusting rats, with complete unconcern for the important things in life, go under the knife, are anaesthetized and sawn apart, chopped into bits, butchered and bludgeoned, plasticized and silicone-implanted, and then sewn together and stitched back up, all so that a day later you can strut around town with extra breast-enhanced arrogance? You revolting…………..’
IC3 male at three o’clock! IC3 male at five o’clock! IC3 male at seven o’clock. Suspect appears to be carrying a package! Suspect heading for underground entrance! Suspect reaching for his pocket! Time to blow the cover! All units go, go, go!……..False alarm! False alarm! False alarm! Do not blow cover! Repeat do not blow cover! Suspect appears to be buying newspaper and heading back into town. False alarm! False alarm! Resume undercover. Where was I now?
‘Er…..Er… Jesus saves, er…..’ I was completely struggling to recall where on earth I had gotten to. I racked my brain. Er, em ….oh yeah, breast enhancement, that was it. I took up the crazy rant once more: ‘Oh you soul destroying Godless creatures! Believe me plastic surgery is right up there with all the Godless and civilized brutality of the gladiator fights of ancient Rome. Oh dear Lord in Heaven! Is there anything worth living for now? To see a women, a soulless, Godless women, ready to part with thousands of pounds; ready to be cut up and cauterised and have unnatural junk stuffed down her breasts; to see soulless, mindless, robotic surgeons carry out operations; trivial, stupid and pointless operations all in the name of vanity and raking in the cash for this much beneficial service to humankind. Soul-destroyers! Whatever happened to the Hippocratic oath! Oh! Disgraceful blot upon humanity. Oh let me curl up and die right here and now.
‘‘Mrs Vain-Selfish, before you have the operation it’s my duty to point out to you that for the same money that will enlarge your breasts, and therefore make you a lot happier, you could actually feed an entire African village for three years. Feed the orphans as it were. The starving, crying orphans.’
‘Doctor, forgive me. What’s Africa?’
‘Oh it’s a continent of the world madam. All I’m saying is that instead of giving the money to me and allowing me to get that new Lexus I always wanted, you might think about alleviating poverty in the third world.’
‘But it doesn’t sound like much fun does it doctor? No I want big boobs! I want big boobs! I want! I want! I want!’
‘Right you are madam that’s that then.’
‘No, you women are soulless, absolutely soulless, that’s my conclusion. Ha! Perhaps that’s it! You people need soul surgery. You need a surgeon to fit an artificial soul inside you. Oh and a heart as well. That would be nice. No, pointless to dream of such impossibilities. Forever soulless, forever soulless. To see teenage girls desperate to get their breasts enhanced, their one and only desire in life. It would take a medical miracle to artificially implant them with a soul, a medical miracle. And have I not tortured myself, lain awake at night trying to save my soul, trying to find some reason in all this madness, preying to God for an explanation for such depraved acts of humanity? Have I not beseeched him to enlighten me as to why he created such Godless creatures? Have I not preyed to him on many a nerve-exhausted and depressed ridden night and asked the almighty to destroy and send asunder these very same Godless, self-centred females? Indeed I have. Yet with what cruelty have I been mocked. Hath He mocked me. A women shot at with a direct hit in the chest, saved by the armour of her sin-ridden, soulless implant! Oh dear Lord in Heaven. Is there any justice in this world? A decent women, a soulful women would have been killed. Oh let me lie down in a dark room forever.’
So I went on into the afternoon. Truly I’d tapped into the mindset of this kind of complete weirdo, reader, and was enjoying myself engaging in the role and piling on all the bull shit. As yet there’d only been the one (false) sighting of the IC3 male. I kept a look out and continued ranting. Later:
‘There you go people, shop, shop, shop, shop, shop. Satisfied with yourselves are you? What a day! Going home now are we people? Shopping finished for now is it? Where are you going to then? Off to church is it? Going to do something worthwhile, something spiritually nourishing? No you’re not are you. You’re going to go home and watch the telly! Gorge yourself on foolish junk. Mindless people. Who needs a soul when you’ve got a telly, eh? Ah yes! The Television set! The magic box! The sheer joy of sitting in front of it and vegetating like a corpse. Despicable people. That’s it, go on you mock me, that’s right. I’m not cool am I, because I don’t have a TV, because I’m not a slave to that good for nothing, mind-sapping, brain-drain. You mindless, soulless garbage. I’ve seen how you worship TV; I’ve seen your Gods, the people you adore: brain-dead, vacuous, talentless TV superstars; glitzy-glamorous, superficial and shallow, one-dimensional actors and actresses; debauched imbecile celebrities. Ugh! You people, how obsessed you are with celebrities; they are your Gods. Ugh! What you people wouldn’t do to be a celebrity. A talentless, spiritually dead celeb, a good for nothing waste of space, a jack of no trades, a no-brainer, a time-waster, a non-living organic pile of horse-shoot, with your picture all over the papers and the gossip mags, wagged about, hated and despised, doing nothing, rotting like a vegetable, in and out of alcohol rehab every week, oh that’s the life you all want to lead people isn’t it? Oh yes indeed. The sheer thrill of leading a worthless, depressing existence, chased by the paparazzi, constantly worrying about ones looks; make-upping, sun-bedding, manicuring; hair-dressing, fanny-waxing, and being poodled round the clock; getting cosmetic surgery as and when, having a nose job, a tummy tuck, a face lift and a breast enlargement; being as rich as you like and not giving two shits about the camel and the eye of the needle; having the tabloids gossip about you: Oh! What a delight: ‘Celebrity X had sex with celebrity Y.’ What incredible news! ‘Celebrity in three-way sex romp with lap dancers.’ Oh what a brilliant story. Oh please I want to read about it so much. It’s just so fulfilling. Truly reading all this is so spiritually nourishing. It’s better than reading the Bible or War and Peace. Yes, what are these celebrities doing? Oh never in the world! ‘Miss celebrity stupid person last night showed off her cosmetic breasts.’ Incredible news! I cant get enough of it. Oh let me see the picture of the cosmetic breasts. Oh hurray! What spiritual satisfaction. Oh and what’s this? A footballer’s had an affair with a lap dancer, and now she’s stripping naked in the tabloids. Oh joyous story. Testimony to the human spirit. What a pure joy it is to be alive.
‘Celebrities, celebrities, celebrities. Oh what Gods they are. The Holy Trinity: cosmetic surgery, TV, celebrities. Oh but to be a celebrity. Oh what an aim. What a feat to attain. Yet not everyone can be a celebrity. People, people, people hear me now: not everyone can be a celebrity; the good majority of you will have to face the awful, awful reality of being a nobody. It’s true people, it’s true. Yet listen to me my children, there is an alternative. Oh fear not my little children, there is yet hope. Take courage my little angels, brace up and have joy in your hearts, for there is help at hand for those of you even too talentless to become a celeb; there’s salvation yet. Listen, I’ve got a remedy for you:
‘Look Mr BBC commissioner, I’ve had this excellent idea for a show.’
‘Oh?’
‘Look, we’ll take ten completely boring, talentless, brain-dead imbeciles who don’t have a soul and we’ll put them in a big house and record what they get up to.’
‘What?’
‘Believe me, it’ll be really entertaining watching stupid people come up with stupid ways to waste their time. It’ll be spiritually satisfying to see petit bickering amongst the comatose, brain-dead, wannabe celebrities. It’ll be so entertaining, please Mr BBC commissioner you’ll be onto a winner with this one.’
‘Oh please, don’t waste my time, I’ve never heard of such rubbish. Really, you underestimate people if you think this sort of thing will be popular. Believe me the general public is a lot more intelligent, a lot more sensitive, a lot deeper than you give them credit for. No, this is a complete non-starter.’
‘Well then I’ll take it to channel four.’
‘Ha ha ha! Good luck! They’ll never accept it! Now what was this other idea you had – you told me you had two.’
‘Yes, well my other idea was to put a cart-load of vegetables in a room, set up a video camera and record them all rotting. What do you think?’
‘Sounds like a good idea actually. Yes I’ll have a think about that one.’
‘Oh Big brother. How I absolutely love it. Watching wannabe celebrities crap away their boring little lives. Oh did you see it last night people. Oh what a treat. Nobody X had sex with nobody Y. Oh what a pleasurable little scene that was. Hurray for the human spirit. It lasted all of one and a half minutes. Oh what passion! What passionate people these are. Giggling and flummoxing under the covers, consummating cupid’s calling on live TV. Oh joy! I thanked God at that very moment for such beautiful scenes. Oh Lord in Heaven thank you so much for these pleasurable scenes, thank you so much for bringing us to these marvellous times; after all that the human race has endured in its long history; struggling as a primitive primate to drag itself out of an animal existence and to comprehend a higher way of life; all the while physically and mentally pained by that tough taskmaster evolution, not sparing them all the aches and pains of the animal existence, ruthlessly dragging man out of the mud, and pushing him to the limit of his endurance; suffering starvation, privation, drought, famine, pestilence and disease; the tragedy of holocausts and nuclear bombs, of large scale massacres and killing fields, and yet… and yet I knew that one day we would make it, one day we would come of age, that one day we would invent the television set, and be able to watch imbeciles honking and bonking, spunking and spanking, having a quickie come-splat in the comfort of our own living rooms. Oh Lord above thank you so, so much.
‘Oh what God-fearing, soulful people there are on Big brother. What a delight it is to watch them. Oh did you see it last night people did you see it? Nobody Z got their cosmetic breasts out live on TV and nobodies A and B had a boring conversation; whilst nobody C masturbated herself with a dildo. Oh I cant wait for tonight’s episode. What’s going to happen next? I’ll best buy all the tabloids and read all the gossip. Wait there’s a story here. Apparently nobody X did have sex with nobody Y. What! I just cant believe it! Isn’t that incredible now! And nobody B has had his penis pierced. Oh joy, joy, joy. And listen to this. Nobody C gets sloshed every night and fulfils her spiritual life by having one night stands. Oh thank the Lord we’re alive people. Thank the Lord we’re alive.
‘Do you not care at all people? Are you genuinely satisfied with all this soul-sapping, mind-numbing media circus; this constant brain washing of the senses with the most amoral, despicable, tabloid trash. To live in a world so impure where nobody seems to give a damn about anything. Am I the only one who cares? The only one who has a soul? I feel so depressed people, so depressed – go on people you mock me, mock me for saying it, walk on by, walk on by – but I feel so depressed to see the papers full of utter trash. To see women taking off their clothes on every other page, to hear the sordid details of pointless, joyless celebrity sex. Oh what total garbage. Let me fall down a dark well forever.
‘Is there a God? I begin to doubt it sometimes. To read a story of a man, a poor man stabbed to death as he worked in his shop; to read the story of this man gone to his grave forever, leaving behind him a wife and two children; to see a photo of this man, knifed in horrific circumstances; and to see that the press has no qualms in printing this story, to let it share a page with a picture of a naked women, with cosmetic breasts, smiling for the camera. And guess what? According to her she just loves having sex in a Bentley with two men at the same time. Oh joy to hear it. Joy, joy, joy. Oh tabloids how thou hast captured mine imagination. I cannot wait to read thee and find revelation in thine scriptures. How soothing thy words are. What pure divinity ist hidden in thy pages.’
‘People how can I reach you? How can I save. How can I get you to contemplate the spiritual side of your life? Hmm? How can I get you to come to church? Oh there’s an idea. Right, everybody who comes to church this Sunday gets free plastic surgery. That’s it people. That’ll get you in in droves.
‘Roll up, roll up, come to church and get free cosmetic surgery. Jesus saves. His healing hands will fill your breasts up with silicone. Miracle! Miracle! Shock horror miracle! Jesus transforms ailing A women into double D stunner! Incredible! Plastic surgery for all, for each and every one of ye humble sinners. A free face lift for everyone who enters the kingdom of Heaven. Come all ye faithful through the Pearly Gates. Let the Lord nip and tuck you, let Him face-lift and breast enhance you and lead you to eternal life. Eh? How about that people. How about that.’
So I went on, no-one suspecting that I was just an undercover secret agent. Still the terrorists hadn’t turned up. I kept an eye open and kept up the rant.
‘Well boys there you go. Been out shopping have you? Wey hey! It’s the lads. Wey hey! Aren’t we cool eh! Pull your pants up boys, pull your pants up. I’m sick of staring at your underwear. I don’t want to see your Calvin Klein’s thank you very much. And what wonderful lives you lot lead. You’re moral garbage. Go to work in your fancy cars. Earn lots of money. Go to the pub. Have a laugh. Take a girl back to your seedy little shag-pad. Have a one night stand. Any time for God in your routine? I didn’t think so. No, you soulless, mindless creatures really revolt me. And reading your lads mags. Well excuse me! But am I the only one who knows that looking at glossy magazines crammed full of naked women is immoral. Oh! What a horrible culture is the lad-mag culture. What a sleazy, fake, soul-destroying culture. Oh how soulless you are to gorge yourselves on pictures of naked women with over-inflated cosmetic breasts and then reading dead-end stories about footballers wives and cars and about drinking and being a lad. What total bilge. And look at the front cover of the magazine. Next to the naked women sprawling on a Mercedes are the amazing words: ‘inside this months magazine: win a boob job for your girlfriend!’ Oh joy, oh spiritual God-filled moment. How about that lads ‘win a boob job for your girlfriend.’ Oh you disgusting dogs. You soulless, depraved, farm-yard animals. Whoever wrote those words should burn in Hades for eternity. Hey I know. Come to church and win a boob job for your girlfriend. Oh life, life, life it’s a wonderful, wonderful thing. What beautiful and Heaven sent words, how humanity has advanced: ‘Win a boob job for your girlfriend.’
I stopped at lunchtime to grab a quick bite to eat. Yet I knew the terrorists could be here at any minute. Accordingly I got back out.
‘And in opposition to all this self-centred, egocentric, breast-enlarging philosophy to life, in contrast to the vain, indulgent, luxurious lives of arrogant unbelievers, we have the third worlds. Hundreds upon thousands upon millions of desperate people; starving, aching, uneducated human beings; struggling to make a living, doing the most God-awful, back-breaking, soul destroying jobs for peanuts, whilst you lot wallow away in opulence and indolence. Good Lord, to the suffering, disease-ridden, malnutritioned, ignorant third worlder, trapped forever and anon in the most inhumane of conditions, what anger, what incomprehensibility must he or she feel towards the west, toward you lot out shopping without a care in the world. What ultimate, ultimate human iniquity. To slave and suffer for a crust of bread while a bunch of shameless westerners with all of their animal needs long since taken care of, live a life of luxury, and find pointless and stupid ways to waste their time, behaving like revolting and silly little children, totally oblivious of their wealth, education and good health, spending money willy nilly on all the must have accessories of the petit bourgeois, obsessed with celebrities and cosmetic surgery, out on the town getting shit-faced, bumping themselves up with boob jobs, wasting their money on wine, women and song, pissing their lives away with drink, drugs and rock and roll and not giving a shit while their third world brothers and sisters die of famine and disease; knowing full well that they are Godless and spiritually dead; indifferent to the fate and welfare of others, contemptuously mocking their third world relations, sticking two fingers in their face as they idle away in riches and debauchery. Huh! What an act of mercy it would be if the poor third-worlder could see in the behaviour of the westerner some small semblance of God; some such characteristic as would explain to them the reason for their difference in wealth. Yet no such mercy is at the ready. For the third-worlder sees only that the godless and shameless westerner is rewarded without respect to any moral value; that the people up above his or herself in the food chain are no decent, God-fearing people; but arrogant, indifferent, selfish, Godless imbeciles. Oh what an awful world we live in.
‘Hey Momma, why we Africans have to live in such poverty while the white man live in luxury?’
‘Don’t ask such questions little Mullegeta.’
‘But Momma please, why I have to dig all day in dirt, with empty stomach, looking for these little stones, these die-mans?’
‘Because za white women need to look good. What a stupid question little Mullegeta.’
‘But momma it’s not fair. There’s no sense in it. We live in hut. We get paid peanuts. We eat nothing. And what we work for? To make za white women beautiful? Where is zie justice in dat?’
‘Don’t pester me with al dese questions little Mullegeta. My body ache, my legs are sore. I feel ill. Go and ask your pappa.’
‘But pappa is dead mamma. He died of dysentery. Why was zhere no doctor to treat him mamma? Why do we have no hospitals here? Why do they have hospitals in the west where women can get larger breasts momma. Surely that’s not as important as treating dysentery.’
‘Don’t keep asking me about za large breasts, little Mullegeta. If zie white women wants za large breasts zhen die white woman must have za large breasts. Now go. Run off and find me a diamond. If you can, you trade it in for some magic beans.’’
And later:
‘Was I the only one who knew the invasion of Iraq was an illegal war? Huh! Was I the only one who cared. You indifferent bastards! Swanning around, shop, shop, shop. You couldn’t care less could you. So indifferent. What were you lot doing when the war was announced? You were shopping, you were watching TV, you were out partying. Couldn’t care less. You should have been trying to stop it. Read my lips people, read my lips. It was an illegal war. It is an unjust war. How dare you all be so callous and indifferent as men, women and children, innocent Iraqi civilians are slaughtered on a daily basis. What a mess, what turmoil has that nation fell into since our invasion. People killed without relent. Suicide bombers everywhere. Bomb after bomb after bomb after bomb, death after death after death after death. I am sick to my back teeth of hearing about casualties. Every fucking day, in every fucking news bulletin, ‘70 people killed in Iraq’ ‘today 120 people killed in Iraq’ ‘up to150 people were killed today in Iraq.’ Good Lord what a disgraceful war. Children blown to bits, families destroyed, the maimed and injured cluttering up the hospitals, look me in the eye people, look me in the eye and tell me that this doesn’t bother you? That you don’t care. And what was the war about? For what important reason did we invade a nation? Oil! Hah! Oil! What human iniquity: all of that inhumane barbarity in the name of oil. Huh! That treasured piece of black liquid, oil! Is there anything worth living for in this life? Next time your filling up your car with petrol you just remember what it cost: ‘Well sir, that’ll be £12 exactly. Oh and a dead Iraqi child as well.’
‘Barbarous, inhuman man. War is never justified, never ever. To see papers full of pictures of war victims, a man desperately carrying his injured wife from a bomb hit building, their little children running around crazy – what horrific images. And what is this they’ve been printed next to? Oh how lovely. It’s a naked women. Oh joy! When the Iraqi civilian looks at what we have done to him or her – bombed them with the right hand and photographed them with the left – will they believe us to be creatures of God? I don’t think so people, I don’t think so.
‘Hey mammy, why has the west invaded our country and left us in this awful mess, where bombs go off on a daily basis?’
‘Don’t ask such stupid questions little Nura.’
‘But mammy please, why has our house been bombed and my fathers arms been blown off?’
‘Because the westerners need oil stupid.’
‘But mammy surely oil isn’t that important.’
‘Look little Nura, if the westerners don’t have oil, they can’t drive their cars. And without cars how are they going to go shopping?’
‘But shopping isn’t that important mummy. And in any case if they all went on public transport, that would use a lot less oil and stop global warming.’
‘Don’t be smart with me little Nura! Now go and collect some stones. We’re burying your brother this afternoon.’
‘For God’s sake will I ever be able to tune in for the sports news without having to hear of the days casualties in Iraq; every freakin day to hear a meaningless, meaningless statistic of the numbers dead and wounded; news reporters mentioning with indifference, that which has become an everyday occurrence; the deaths of innocent civilians falling down the pecking order as time goes by. ‘A great day for England’s footballers, they beat San Marino 2-0 in a friendly; elsewhere ninety people were killed in Iraq.’ ‘…the Big brother star had denied sleeping with miss cosmetic breasts; in other news one hundred and fifty people were killed in Iraq.’ ‘…if the plan is implemented it could mean that hundreds of consumers will be left without fresh marmite for a week; and finally bla bla bla bla bla killed in Iraq; that’s all from the ITN team, have a good weekend.’
‘And what is it with all these wars people? Does no one remember history classes when we were taught that war is wrong, when we chastised our forebears for all there bloodshed? War is wrong and yet time and again this stupid country enters into a new one. Is it just to spice up the history curriculum or something? We need to revise our philosophy on wars:
‘Exam question: Explain the causes of world war one (thirty marks).’
‘Answer: Man always has wars: it’s his destiny to. Some fuck heads at the top decide to have a fight and innocent people get blown to bits in the middle. Next question.’
‘Imagine you are a soldier in the trenches in world war one. What are your thoughts?’ ‘How the fuck did I end up in the middle of a fucking war with people being blown to bits all around me. We used to say that war was wrong in history class and criticize older generations for their propensity to shed blood and now somehow we’ve ended up in one ourselves. Bastard! I’ve just thought. In eighty years time, smug, snot faced little school children will be sitting around writing essays saying that we loved war, that we were totally stupid, that we went off to battle crying ‘hooray we’re going to kill people.’ Oh I’ve been whored by history! Well I’ll tell you something, those same snot faced school children they should stop being so judgemental, and start concentrating on avoiding their own wars.’’
And so I went on in a similar vain. The people seemed genuinely scared of me. They were walking past me very hurriedly. I was playing the part to perfection. It was an Oscar winning performance. Truthfully reader I was just talking completely out of my backside, laying it all on, just as these people tend to do. By four o’clock the IC3 male still had not shown. In all likelihood if the terrorists were to have struck today, it would surely have been earlier. The crowds were beginning to dwindle now. Nevertheless I held my position and continued to undercover.
‘Friends, Romans, countrymen lend me your ears. What chaotic, senseless world we live in. Where in the comfort of our own homes we watch the most horrific and disastrous scenes play out, where we watch innocent civilians die the most awful deaths; where we see aeroplanes carrying ordinary people, men, women and children into skyscrapers populated with unwitting bystanders; to know of civilians desperately messaging their loved ones, telling them they are going to die; of a seven year old girl sitting next to her mother flying into the jaws of death; of men and women blown away in a heartbeat whilst sitting at their desks working; of petrified souls not knowing what’s hit them, surrounded on all sides by fire and pandemonium; not sure as to whether to jump out of a skyscraper and plunge to their deaths or submit to the flames and chaos; terrified, terrified people, screaming for their lives – and all the while being watched in their final tragic and horrific moments by the eyes of the entire world. The twin towers collapsing in devastation for the poor people inside; a mere cinematic moment for the rest of civilisation. Or the Tsunami. The entire subcontinent overwhelmed by a nightmarish, all encompassing wave; hundreds of coastal villages simply swept away; fisherman drowned; natives and tourists alike racing from the beaches desperate not to be swept away by this awful natural calamity; children the largest victim of all, because they have shorter legs and can’t outrun the tidal wave. And too all of this nightmare apocalypse unleashed once more upon the third world, be sure, you can bet your life on it, the westerner’s cameras are there ready to beam back the whole dramatic spectacle to the comfort of your own living room. Don’t go away folks. Coming up after the break a mother and her children clinging for dear life to a pier are swept away. Oh soulless, soulless man. To record on camera the final and terrifying moments of a defenceless, voiceless, third world women and her children; to just stand there like a heartless robot and record her and her children’s agonising final moments, when she’s screaming for help and her children are being swept out one by one – ugh! You fucking bastards! Shame on you westerners! Shame on you.’
‘The Bali bombings, the Madrid bombings, the London bombings. People of London will there ever be any sense to this chaos. Will there ever be an explanation. Ordinary citizens on their way to work as usual, blown to smithereens in a heartbeat; in the flicker of an eye there lives taken from them, never to be returned; and all of this on what should just have been another usual morning, another uneventful day; men and women killed and blown to pieces, the more fortunate amongst them crippled, scared and maimed for life. A son, visiting London on a job interview, never to return to the loving arms of his mother; a women on a trip to London for a course forever lost to her dear family back home; a Nigerian man, a million miles away from his native land dying in utter, utter horror; a girlfriend simply on her way to work never to be reunited with her boyfriend ever again. A brother a sister, a husband a wife, an aunty an uncle, a child a parent, a friend and a lover, all gone. Obliterated instantly or burned most excruciatingly. Oh sad, sad scenes and tragic days. Innocent lives, civilian lives, ordinary people of London wiped out in a heartbeat; destroyed whilst underground in the dark; the awful carnage of the tunnels of death. Oh what tragic, tragic scenes. And then the accidental shooting of a Brazilian man thought to be a suicide bomber. To be accidentally shot dead. Oh! He’s gone in an instant as well. Goodbye to you all, you poor, unfortunate souls; may the Lord be with you, may He bless you; may peace and serenity be yours in the next life, my poor, poor souls. Is there any explanation people? Any sense at all in any of this? Any crumb of meaning to which the relatives of the dead may grasp on to; is there any sense to life?
‘What chaotic, senseless and awful world we live in people. Imagine how our great grand children will look back on us. Imagine the judgement of history bestowed upon you:
‘Well today children we’re gong to study world history 2000-2010. Can anyone tell me what this period of history is often referred to as?’
‘Please miss, please miss, I know.’
‘Yes little Johny.’
‘Please miss was it the period of gross hypocrisy.’
‘No, no, although I can see where you’re coming from. What was it called class? Yes little Sarah.’
‘Please miss was it the period of barbarity, cruelty and gross evil?’
‘That’s a good guess little Sarah, but not quite what I was looking for. In fact this period of history is often referred to as the period of man’s inhumanity to man. Now shortly we’ll take a look at the oil wars and the conquest of Iraq. But let’s begin by looking at what everyday life was like for the typical ancient westerner. Who can tell me what the Holy trinity were? Yes Katie.’
‘Please miss was it er, em was it TV, mobile phones and plastic surgery?’
‘That’s two out of three little Katie. Let me say mobile phones weren’t part of the Holy trinity.’
‘Please miss, miss, please miss, miss, please I know.’
‘Yes little Toby.’
‘Please miss was it celebrities.’
‘That’s right Toby, that’s right. Now what I’m handing out now to you is a sheet with some key words on that relate to this period of history: selfishness, brutality, murder, inhumanity, poverty, plastic surgery, suicide bombers… the list goes on….okay class. Now, who can tell me what did the ancient westerners do when say a plane flew into a skyscraper and men and women stood at the windows of the flame-infested building screaming for their lives; what did the ancient westerners do? Or when a women and her children were being swept to their deaths by a Tsunami, what did the ancient westerners do?’
‘Please miss’
‘Yes little Suzy.’
‘Please miss did they switch on their video cameras and start recording the whole event.’
‘That’s right Susy. They recorded these events on video cameras, thereby allowing all the people of the world to sit back and enjoy the spectacle in the comfort of their own home. You see children the ancient westerners loved death, they loved watching people die. They went crazy for video tapes of people being beheaded. Now if you look on the sheet I’ve given you, there’s a homework question children. Were the ancient westerners any more civilized than the ancient Romans. Discuss.’
‘Oh people. I hope you feel ashamed. Watching videos of people being decapitated. Are you any better than the fucking bastards who commit such evil, if you watch the spectacle itself? After a hard days shopping, to go home and find yourself bored. There’s nothing on the TV you see. You need a high. You need a lift. Something to entertain you. I know, why not download a video of some poor soul having their head chopped off. Go on, go and get the popcorn out. It’s a disgrace people, a shameful disgrace.’
Thus did I go on. I have to say I’d really managed to frighten the people with my words. You know they truly weren’t at all indifferent, as these sandwich board characters always believe them to be. I was making them all feel very guilty and depressed, and for things they weren’t to blame for. I felt like a right bastard. You know I wanted to say to them, I’m just an undercover agent, don’t take any notice of anything I’m saying. There’s no sense in it. I’m just talking a load of crap. Pure nonsense. Its all just a load of bull. I’m really here to catch terrorists. Honestly people, don’t take it to heart. If there’s any truth in what these religious nutters say I’ll be going straight to hell that’s for sure. I saw the twin towers fall, watched the tsunami on the TV – it’s just human nature. And how these people go on! I mean as if it were a crime to be happy, to have fun, to spend money! And going on about homeless people and what have you as if rich people are to blame: how one-sided these sandwich-board characters are; how little they know reality; what a load of cod-philosophy they spout!
At six o’clock I decided I could take a half an hour break. In truth the terrorists were very unlikely to strike at this time of day. Nevertheless, after I’d eaten, I decided to get back out there. As evening came on, the shoppers were gradually replaced by young people dressed up for a night out. Hordes of women, scantily clad in little tops and skirts, showing lots of bare legs and cleavage and trotting along in their high heels walked past me. I knew where my discourse was headed.
‘There you go ladies, out for a night on the town is it? Have you girls not got any sense of sin and immorality? Do you not have any fear of God? Huh? Do you not have any ounce of decency? Of course you don’t. You’re nothing but vile harlots. Godless sex-mongers. Whores of Babylon! You might as well be wearing nothing. Going to have a one night stand are you. The cheap thrill of a lousy one-night stand. It’s all very easy isn’t it, you bunch of slags. Ah! You girls are an absolute disgrace. You make me absolutely livid. Drive me absolutely fucking crazy! Showing of all your bits. Dressing yourselves up like sex-dolls. Drinking to excess. Dancing around like a group of slags, consumed by lust and vainglorious in your shallow and empty little lives. What moral filth you are. What complete trash. You’re animals. Drunken, slutty, harlot queens. Filthy, lust-filled, debauched come-sacks. Oh you make me sick. You will rot in hell you bunch of slags. Do you hear me! Rot in hell, burn in the fires of Hades! Bah! Argh! How you infuriate me! That’s it girls you mock me and walk on by, go on you mock me. Tell me I’m a loser. An angry little man. I know what you harlots get up to. One night stands, three way sex, swinging, orgies and all the rest of it. You’re nothing but prostitutes who do it for free. Sluts! Sluts! Sluts! Slags! Go on, there you go you bunch of slags. Slags!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs as they walked past. ‘Slags! Slags! Slags….I’ll blow you all up you amoral scum. You people so disgust me, you make me so angry. I’ll blow you all to smithereens as you dance your lives away in amoral seediness without a care for anyone but yourselves.’
And so I continued into the evening. You know I felt really bad for all this vitriol I was throwing up at the opposite sex. True it was all just for show, a mere act to hide my real identity, and there was no real thought behind my words. Yet still it did feel a tad hypocritical. For womanising spy that I am, on another night I could well have been out seducing these very same women. And all that obsessive talk about women’s breasts and plastic surgery! Why are these characters always obsessed with women’s breasts! Personally, I’ll level with you reader, I go crazy for women’s breasts. I absolutely love them. And these sorts of characters should really follow my lead and start getting there heads down more often, should start getting their hands, on regular basis, on women’s breasts. Moreover rounding up all women into one and criticizing them as a whole seems wrong to me. These people always paint women as the devil incarnate, they always make generalisations about the opposite sex based on one or two rich bimbos who they’re obsessed with, whilst ignoring the good majority of decent women, and at the same time, completely washing over there own sins as men. The truth is that these characters are never getting enough sex, are total losers in every way shape and form and that this sort of act is all just a desperate cry for help. Anyway, anyway, anyway. At eleven o’clock, satisfied that the terrorists were not going to come today, I packed up and headed back to the hotel. With my uncanny knack for tapping into the minds of the diverse people of our society I’d once more played the part to perfection.

IIX
Time’s arrow flies forever onward. The forces of history, in eternal antagonism, vie with one another to shape her flight. The wheel of fortune rotates, the soldiers of empire march on, the seasons come and go, and the earth, moon and sun grind onwards and around-wards in the eternal waltz-dance of the heavens; the will of the masses or the rule of the king – which will force the hand of history I cannot say. The birds fly south, the wildebeest migrates, and the tides are brought in and back out again to the unrelenting rhythm of life’s lute. The DJ’s of destiny are playing the tune of man, the whores of history enter the dance floor and high five the Lords of the dance; we are ready, we are braced, it is now or never: it is time for the players of history to step forth and come of age.
Ladies and gentleman, a hush has descended and the arena is set. The world is waiting. Humanity holds her breath. The eyes of the entire human race are watching. In the tunnel, the players of history are all ready to run out and grapple with destiny. Upstairs in Heaven too, the whole of mankind looks on, the past players of history standing shoulder to shoulder and watching the fate of humanity unfold. They are all up there, we are all down here, there are more of us and less of them, but no matter; we are ready as one, ready to embrace our destiny, waiting hand in hand for fate’s outcome. The stars in heaven look down upon us. They too are poised and waiting. The galaxy is grinding to a halt as everywhere activity ceases and the fate of man is hashed out. And in the sky a star is born: a lonely comet, isolated and ice-laden, locked in the barren and empty banality of space, streaks infinitely onward, a messenger of the sky, an illumined herald. And in eternal glory, in the heart-stopping, light bringing moment of conception, the comet achieves its fate, and, colliding with a black sun, a star is born. Illuminated, glorious, regenerated night star: the first manifestation of the new way, the heraldic emancipator and new saviour. It is the signal, the bright, bright new star, the signal for the drama to begin.
Reader the end is nigh. The four horsemen of the apocalypse are galloping towards us. I can see them now on the horizon, as they thunder with ever growing rapidity towards us, their hooves engulfed in a cloud of dust. The threads of this tale are rapidly reaching their rollercoaster conclusion. The bridge has been burnt: there is no way back. To the end, to the end, let us head bravely for the eye of the storm, let us drive doggedly to the vortex of the maelstrom. Let us achieve a climax. So to narrate the shocking and angst-ridden final instalment of this true narrative; the dramatic conclusion of ‘Call me X: the true story of a real-life anti-terror agent.’
To cut an old lady’s tongue in half: the day after setting myself up as a religious nutter, I got wind that a strike on the underground was imminent. Accordingly I threw caution to the wind, and, leaving my post at Oxford Circus, ventured straight to the Lion’s den and started patrolling the underground. Buying an all day ticket I rode random tubes in the central London area, taking the circle line, Victoria line etcetera and keeping my eyes open to any suspicious activities. Of course you might say reader, what good can one agent do if a suicide bomber wishes to blow himself up; and the truth is that I would be able to do very little. Nevertheless, this is what we’re taught at the academy. Despite the fact that, if I did spy the suicide bomber before he committed his atrocity, there was a 99 percent chance I would be blown to pieces as well; despite the fact that by setting myself up on random tubes I was unlikely to come into contact with him; despite the slim chances of success and high probability of death, I had to be here. It was the least the nation could expect of me. If the underground was to be bombed once more it was my duty to be one of the victims. With certain death looming round the corner I should have felt nervous; yet I felt only excited. I was ready, ready, ready for the terrorists. And if I spotted one I would have to grapple with him in a desperate death struggle; fighting for my country, fighting for democracy, fighting for humanity. I had my gun. With one accurate shot to the head I might even thwart his evil operations.
The nation had no idea that there was a secret agent on the underground, with a gun in his pocket, ready to shoot terrorists. If they had they would have felt much safer. In fact there were many such as myself now patrolling the underground. However I should point out that I was very much in disguise and undercover, for various reasons which I will shortly go in to. In the interim let me spunk straight up the shit-shoot and tell you the score. In the evening I travelled out east and bought my costume. I returned to my hotel, and putting it on, stood before the mirror. Dressed as I was I was an everyday London citizen. My eyes could look where they liked without people believing I was spying on them. In fact in my new outfit I might even elicit the sympathy of a suicide bomber. For I was, dear reader, a burkha wearing Muslim women.
The reasons for this undercover mission were twofold. Initially, as I sat there on my seat, undisguised, and kept an eye out, I began, towards the close of the first day, to feel myself a bit obvious. You see, I’d been sitting on train after train after train, and constantly looking about me, and looking into the eyes of all and sundry who got aboard. This was no way to proceed; another day of this and people would start to suspect me of secret agency. What I needed was to blend in somehow with underground life, I needed a disguise, I needed to be able to stare at people without them knowing it. It didn’t take me long to come up with that most perfect of undercover guises.
But in addition to this I didn’t want my face to be recognised. Partly by the terrorists who I would be fighting with, for that would give me an advantage, but more so by the general public. Reader, I think I made it clear at the beginning of this memoir, that the links between myself and the secret service are tenuous at best, for reasons of the better facility of our operations; and that if an agent is caught in flagrante in any way shape or form, the chiefs back at headquarters will often disown us, and pretend to have no knowledge of us, dismissing us as deranged madmen acting on their own accord. This is what had happened now. For reasons which I am still unable to fathom, the chiefs of staff had seemingly given up on me, to the point where they had released my photo, into the general public, as the suspected rape assaulter. True that didn’t blow my cover as an agent – in fact I wondered whether the big cheeses weren’t trying to give me an alternative alias to help facilitate my operations – but still it meant I would be hounded by police, press and public. The papers bore my face, people were on the look out for me, and already I’d heard reports that I’d been recognised yesterday as the religious nutter at Oxford Circus. And ‘the Sun’ really went to town on it, with the headline ‘where’s Wally?’ A reference to the fact that I wear glasses and bear a resemblance to that cartoon character. In any case, why fore they had done it I could not say, but it made me doubly determined to sport the burkha. Wanted by the authorities I might be, sold out for whatever reason I had been, but, there was no way on earth I was going to shirk my duties: my nation needed me.
I lost no time in studying the role and getting into character. Given my poor preparation on my previous undercover operation I was desperate to study hard this time. The part to be played came in two flavours: in the first place I’d have to learn to be a women, adopting all their manners and customs, skipping to the beat of the maiden’s moon dance, singing a song of roses and hanky-waving the flowery effeminate flag of the ladies; in the second I’d have to honk the tonk and learn to be a Muslim; jumping to the beat ditto as regards their manner and customs, walking like an Egyptian, sailing like Sinbad, head-butting like ZZ and spouting the Arab vernacular to boot. But this last didn’t worry me. For I’ve got a knack of picking up languages in a very short space of time reader. I’d bought ‘Learn Arabic in three months’ earlier in the day and I intended to consume that small volume later on tonight. But in the first place I was concerned with becoming a women; and to that end I’d come up with a series of drills designed to get me thinking and acting like one.
I began with some physical tests. Firstly I stood at one end of the room, holding in my hand three pieces of scrunched up paper. A bin lay at the opposite end of the room. The aim of the game was to throw the balls of paper into the bin. I got off to the most miserable of starts, as with a flowing movement of the shoulder I released the balls, which, describing perfect parabolas through the air, landed, all three of them, straight in the bin. Yet I soon improved on this lacklustre beginning, as on my next set of throes, swinging from the elbow I scored only two out of three. By my tenth go I was prefacing my throw with a little run up, and, totally failing to transfer the momentum I’d gained by the run to my arm, swung from the elbow and scored nil out of three. But the drills ahead were a lot harder.
I next entered the toilet and did some seat-lowers. Standing in front of the toilet I lowered the seat. Then raising it to the starting position again, once more lowered it. It was difficult but I got through it. In all I did six sets of ten repetitions with a minutes rest in between. Next was target practice. Drinking large amounts of coke I now attempted to urinate into the toilet bowl without shooting wide. But it was madness to even attempt such a feat. I returned and tried several times throughout the day, yet it was impossible to control the flow and each time I ended up hosing down the carpet. However in the end I assumed a ladies urinating position and found, by projecting my manhood downwards, that the task was easily accomplished in this manner.
Next I borrowed a hover from reception and began hovering the room. The noise was awful. I felt like jumping out of the window. And it made no difference whatsoever: the hovered and un-hovered carpet looked exactly the same. I felt myself ailing at the helm. Yet determinately I hovered on. I had a headache, my mouth was dry, I felt faint, I was so bored. Yet I fought on. The noise was unbearable. And then in an awful, earth shattering moment I blacked out and fell backwards on the floor.
In my efforts to become a women, I had pushed myself to the up most limit of physical endurance. I lay prostrate upon the floor. There was a time when I thought I would never recover. Yet some two and a half minutes later I was on my feet again and getting on with the next drill, this time a test of skill: I was attempting to plump a pillow. Yet the art was a complete mystery to me. No matter how I struck the pillow, instead of plumping up, it only seemed to get flatter and flatter and flatter. I moved onto a final skill drill: wetting my hair in the shower I now made every conceivable effort to wrap a towel over my head in that way women do when they sit down to watch a soap opera in mid-preparations for a night out; but this task – seemingly an innate female skill – completely alluded me as well and I had to give it up for hopeless.
My womanly drills being completed, I now opened up ‘Learn Arabic in three months’ and began the first lesson: there were fifteen lessons in all and I’d have to get moving if I was going to get through them all tonight. It was nine o’clock already. Nevertheless I was determined to do the job properly, and as such began by reading the preface and introduction, the notes on grammar and pronunciation. I read each bit thoroughly and carefully. Yet I couldn’t understand: what was a diphthong? What the heck was a glottal stop? I tried to do a glottal stop. Ach! Ach! Ach! I sounded like a witch cackling. What the heck? Al? Ach? Argh? Argh? What? It made no sense whatsoever.
At 9.45 p.m. I was on to lesson one. ‘Aperitifs.’ Mr Smith, miss Boukili and Mr Hussein were meeting for an aperitif and to exchange business cards. What the bloody hell was an aperitif? And was any of this really relevant? I felt bored to tears. And my concentration levels were down after all that glottal stop business. I fast forwarded ahead and took a peak at chapter two: ‘On the train to Tunis – tickets please!’ Oh good God! It looked just as bad. I turned back to aperitifs. In this chapter I would learn how to order an aperitif, greet someone in Arabic, say one’s name in Arabic and exchange business cards. I put on my earphones and listened to the conversation on CD. What? What on earth was that? It just went past in a blur, a slurge of nonsense. What complete incomprehensible gobbledy-gook. I was never going to be able to learn Arabic. Never in a million years. As I listened to the conversation rush past, my concentration levels down, I started drawing moustaches on the stupid little cartoon pictures of Mr Smith and Miss Boukili. This was going nowhere. I stopped the CD and switched on the wireless.
Tonight, on the radio show I was listening to, they were discussing the rights of women to take maternity leave, also the role of men as nannies and child-minders, the rights of men to take maternity leave, and the prejudice experienced by women in the workplace when coming back after childbirth. Perfect. If I could get myself on to the live phone in discussion that would be an excellent way to hone my impressionist skills and test out my female character. I’d already acquired a female voice – it was a lovely, flute-like, chirpy little bird noise, and I’d named myself Layla. True I might not get through. Nevertheless it was worth a try. I dialled up and waited. As I sat on my chair, the phone to my ear, I was really quite impatient and annoyed. That stupid Arabic course was rubbish – I’d expected to be fluent by now – and I couldn’t be bothered to look at one more page of it. I was so annoyed and worked up. I sat and waited testily on the phone, huffing and puffing as I went. I listened to the discussion: the guests included a professor of child-rearing who was propounding the view that women shouldn’t be in the workplace when pregnant, and also a young man Tim who worked full time as a child nanny. Incredibly, much to my surprise I got through to a researcher; and when I told them my opinions and viewpoint they told me I would be on in a short while. I waited nervously.
‘Well, we’re going to take some of your calls now on this subject,’ said Anita, the presenter, ‘so let’s first of all go to Layla in south London. Hello Layla.’
‘Hello Anita. My point is that that stupid professor person you’ve got on who’s meant to be an expert in childbirth – what would he know about being a women?’
‘Well you can speak to him directly Layla’
‘Right I’ll speak to him directly. Hello professor no brains. I want to know who the hell you think you are to be telling women they shouldn’t be in the workplace prior to childbirth. Excuse me! We’ve got rights you know. If we want to work we bloody well will. This is the 20th century for Heaven’s sake! Men like you are stuck in the middle ages. You want women to be chained up as slavish little housewives. I’ve met men like you before. I know you like the back of my hand. ‘A women’s place is in the kitchen’ and all the rest of it.’
‘This is completely absurd. I won’t have this’ replied the professor angrily. ‘Young lady, you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. I’m on the side of women. I was advocating the point that it’s the right of women to have time off from work when pregnant. Now listen, you said just now that I’m stuck in the middle ages, is that right?’ and I could see he was going to try and explain to me that he precisely wasn’t stuck in the middle ages. But I simply responded:
‘Look, I’m not going to get into an argument with you, you silly man. I don’t have the time for such petit squabbles, I’m incredibly busy.’
‘You’re the one who started the argument!’ said the professor in real anger. ‘Listen young lady, you need….’
‘Listen young lady! Listen young lady!’ I mimicked in his pompous tone.
‘How dare you be so rude to me’ said he angrily. ‘I’m all for women’s rights. Do you hear me?’
‘Why are you getting yourself all worked up for Prof’ I responded calmly and superiorly. ‘You’ve got yourself into a right tizzy.’
At this point Anita interjected. ‘Okay I think we’ll leave it there for a minute. I don’t think you quite understood the professor’s point their Layla but never mind. Can you feel the love people? Can you feel the love?’ she said sarcastically.
‘Anita I’ve got one final point to make’ I said.
‘Go on, but make it quick love.’
‘I just wanted to say I think that professor – he’s obviously got problems with women. I never trust men like him who are advocates of women’s rights. I’m very suspicious of them. And as for that childminder Tim: he’s obviously a ponce. But I’ll tell you Anita as one women to another, I wouldn’t trust him with my children, that’s all I’m saying. There’s paedophiles out there, strange men.’
Tim broke out in angry defence and there was a right brouhaha in the studio. But I’d already put the phone down. I couldn’t be bothered to listen to any of those whingers. I’d had my two pennies worth and played the part well. I was half-way to being a women. And feeling in a much happier mood now, after having had my say, I felt more confident about the Arabic; in time it would surely come. I now set about making some final preparations concerning my clothes.
I had my habit and I had my burkha; my ordinary shoes would suffice – they were somewhat unisex. So too my socks. In terms of underwear I had of course the jaguar patterned bra; but for knickers was I somewhat at a loss. Only Mrs Blackmore’s dirty pair were on hand. Of course you might say reader that it really didn’t matter – I could get away with wearing underpants. But attention to detail is everything. I once remembered, back in my student days, during an exercise in which we trainee spies had to write a love letter to an imaginary French mistress, a young undergraduate had addressed her in the familiar ‘tu’ form and not ‘vous.’ Though he had an otherwise perfect record, he was kicked out of the academy immediately. I wasn’t going to forget that little lesson now. Could I get away with wearing Mrs Blackmore’s dirty knickers? Possibly. I could wash them, but then I didn’t want to lose her evidence. The irony of the situation was, was that whilst I had only one pair of dirty knickers, I had four clean bras – taken in similar raids to the one I described earlier on. Perhaps I could buy some knickers by order. I went on the internet and going to the Argos online catalogue, spent a good half hour perusing the women’s underwear section. Yet all to no avail. For when I thought about it, they wouldn’t arrive until two days at the earliest. I would have to wear the soiled pair.
I awoke the next morning at seven a.m. I was nervous but excited. The first thing I noticed when I looked in the mirror was that I had a big red spot on my nose and a horrible cold sore on my mouth. Normally I wouldn’t venture out on such a day. Yet by wearing the burkha it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t help cynically thinking to myself that perhaps this was the real reason so many women were desperate to have the right to wear the veil.
In my bra and knickers, my habit and veil, I stepped out into the bright, fresh London morning. For the first ten minutes I kept thinking that people could see through my outfit. I had to keep telling myself to relax, that nobody suspected a thing, but that if I did act tense and peculiar people would be suspicious. I affected a mincing, girly walk and swung my hips as I went. After about twenty minutes or so I calmed down: I had got used to the fact that people took me only for a Muslim women – there was nothing extraordinary in my spectacle.
And no sooner had I calmed down than I began to enjoy playing my new role. Honestly reader as I crossed the streets of London that morning in my close hugging bra and panties I never felt more comfortable or at ease. And undercover as I was I felt really excited and, my true self disguised from the world, I felt thrilled and able to do anything. And as a women I felt liberated; felt free to do what I liked. It was all a very pleasant experience: I had tricked the world into a fresh identity, and had been born anew as a women.
On my way to getting into position on the underground, I decided I just had to go to the lavatory. Heading into M&S I walked toward the toilets, hoping to have a quick pee, when unbelievably what was this? There was a ten women tail-back coming out the ladies. As I stood inline I watched the men come and go as free as they liked. I’ll tell you reader, I was dying to get inside to see what the hell was in there, that would create such a queue. And as I stood there in the barely moving line, next to all the other women, I couldn’t help thinking of one of my former teachers back at the academy, old Huckleberry, who, during the second world war, whilst stationed out in North Africa, had dressed up as a Berber, and in a bid to steal their camels, entered their camp. I couldn’t help think that if he could see me now, decked out in Arab regalia, all ready to go behind enemy lines, he would have been very proud indeed.
Yet in an incredibly shocking anticlimax, I found when I did finally enter the ladies toilets, that they were essentially the same as the gents. Although the burden of explanation, should necessarily fall upon the shoulders of those few brave men who’ve entered these un-chartered waters, I can find no reasonable explanation to explain away the anomaly of the queue for the ladies lavatories. It is my sad conclusion, that to this very day I can make no serious hypothesis as to justify the mysterious manifestation of the ladies queue. In comparison to the gents next door, the three urinals have been removed and replaced by one extra toilet cubicle; each cubicle contains a sanitary towel bin or ‘tampon box’ as I call it; and there are no puddles of urine on the floor. Otherwise are the two toilets identical. My observations that follow relate to my toilet experiences today and throughout the time I was undercover: as a rule women would appear always to use a piece of toilet roll, even if just urinating; shit stains on the toilet are less frequent than in men’s toilets though still common. The same applies to toilet paper shreds and bits of Bolognese on the bog brush. Breaking wind is widespread during urination and carried out with utter freedom. After toileting of the second kind it is common (though not certain) that a women applies some deodorant or perfume. And lots of time is spent at the wash basins looking in the mirror so that a second queue forms here as well. Yet the most incredible and unbelievable of my discoveries deserves a paragraph to itself.
In an absolutely shocking and gob-smacking piece of research, I found that a whopping 84% of all toilets that I entered were left with the seat up. This is an incredible yet true and authentic statistic and smacks of the gross hypocrisy of women. It is an astonishing revelation. Yet the reason behind it again seem unfathomable. Like the Loch ness monster or the Marie Celeste, there will always be some things in this world that are shrouded in mystery.
One final note. I found it impossible to go to the toilet in my habit, the strategy employed being simply to take it off all together and to defecate in the nude. However this is a serious point and raises the question of just how a women wearing a habit, be she nun or Muslim lady, manages to relieve herself. Unfortunately, I was able to ascertain little on this score, secluded as I was whilst toileting, and in truth the whys, ways, and wherefores of how Muslim lady’s toilet and the more wider ranging question of how the ordinary woman in a dress defecates is beyond the scope of this book.
When I finally left the toilets, I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock already – I’d spent a good twenty minutes waiting for a pee. I’d better get a move on to the underground. The terror threat was very real. Yet hang about, whilst I was here, couldn’t I just spend ten minutes shopping? Of course! With new found liberation I headed to the women’s department. Oh how lovely just to be able to browse lady’s clothes at leisure! And I could try them all on as well. Oh happy days! I made a start by looking at women’s dresses.
What variety, what utter variety! Blue satins, pink laces, scarlets, greens, purples; all the colours of the rainbow. Such lovely patterns, such lovely silks and flashy fabrics. I made a point of touching all of them, slowly caressing my hands across their surface, the cool, seductive, silky ones being a real treat. I picked out the ten that I loved the most and headed off to the changing rooms to try them on. But I was told I could try on only three at a time. Crestfallen I went and replaced seven and came back to try on the remainder. My absolute favourite was a silky pink dress with a very, very short skirt so that you could almost see my knickers. I stood in front of the dressing room mirror. I looked absolutely stunning. I felt incredibly, incredibly sexy. And I was so ecstatic about my appearance that I involuntarily started moaning as if I was going to have an orgasm. And I stared into the mirror, pursed my lips, made foxy eyes and with a slutty expression, lifted up my skirt and flashed my knickers mischievously. Truly I’d never been happier.
Though I would have loved to have bought all the dresses I couldn’t afford them. Yet hang on a minute? This was M&S. I could just buy the dresses now and bring them back in a weeks time and get my money back. Oh thank the Lord for M&S!
I now continued my shopping. I was like a kid in a candy store. I was having a ball. I looked at all the lovely nighties and pyjamas; all the shoes and high heels; all the jumpers, scarves, jackets and jeans; and all of these things I tried on. My especial favourite were the dressing gowns, and I took a horde over to dress myself up in. They were so luxurious, bouncy and padded and I felt so happy, so cosseted when wearing them. I was so at home in my women’s clothes, felt myself so safe, sexy and at ease as if I’d finally found true happiness. My favourite dressing gown was white with red hearts on it. It was so nice. And I tried on slips, delicate, lacy little things that became me so well; and skirts, shirts, and hats and all sorts besides. Yet I’d saved the best till last. After all these dresses and nightgowns, all these pyjamas and shoes, all these slips, skirts and what have you, I was about to enter the holy sanctum of women’s lingerie.
Heaven on earth! Heaven on earth! What a big, big section. Oh! What a delight to roam freely within, to be able to browse at large. Truly if I had not found Shangri-La in the women’s department as a whole I had found it right here and now. I felt like dropping on all fours and thanking the Lord for here delivering me. Oh I cannot explain the electric thrill that seemed to run through my fingers as I went along touching every single piece of women’s lingerie; bras, knickers, panties, thongs you name it, they were all here stretching away to infinity. As far as the eye could see: Bras, knickers, panties, thongs, bras, knickers, panties thongs, bras, knickers, panties, thongs, bras, knickers ….. Oh what joy! What happiness! Every colour of the freakin rainbow and more besides; silks, satins, cottons and laces. Oh what joy to touch it! I picked out my three most favourite bras and my three most favourite panties, (it was a tough, tough selection process) one of which was a thong, and went to try them on. And even though your meant to try them on over your underwear, I cheated reader and put them directly on, exposing my naked groin to the thrill of those fancy, silky-electric, thrilling and tight fitting knickers. I stood in front of the mirror posing in my new lingerie. Looking at myself, making foxy eyes, twirling and blowing a kiss. And I went to the counter and bought these items, and once I had, I went to the toilets to put on my new panties in place of Mrs Blackmore’s dirty knickers. And I bought a tampon and a sanitary towel and went back into the toilets to see what they were. And I bought some false nails, false eyelashes, lipstick, mascara, blusher, false tan and also a handbag, a necklace and some perfume. And what with all these knick-knacks I thought myself now finally a real women. I had it all. What else could I possibly need?
Yet holy cow! What time was it? It was ten to three! I’d wasted nearly five hours shopping. Good Lord I was meant to be on the underground. With a horde of shopping bags in tow – I had three in each hand – I now ran, ladylike to the nearest underground station and got on the tube. Honestly it was a real challenge to run past the other shops – Bhs, John Lewis etcetera – without going in and trying on more women’s clothes. However with firm resolve I walked on by, and got into position on the underground. Admittedly reader, if I do have one fault, it’s that in my efforts to play my roles to perfection I sometimes get so carried away and engrossed in my character that I forget the real purpose of my mission.
I toured the circle line. From the other passengers my presence elicited a mixed response. Many citizens were indifferent to my presence and took no notice of me at all. Others however shot me not so very nice looks; nothing overt or anything I could lay my finger on; simply subtle little glances that made me feel somewhat unwelcome. And these came in equal number from men and women alike. And I rather got the impression that they were eyeing my bags of shopping and wondering to themselves what are in those bags of that Muslim women? A small minority were audibly perturbed by my presence, and though not directly aiming their petty grievances specifically at me, nevertheless took the chance as I stood vulnerably and isolated in the carriage, to give vent to their petit grumbles: ‘Tut. I cant stand these people, I really can’t. They give me the willies. Fucking terrorists.’ ‘Hey there’s too many fucking terrorists in this country now, they’re coming in in droves.’ ‘These Muslims think they’ve got rights to do what they like. You know I’ve got no problem with Hindus and Sikhs. But Muslims hey they really get me.’ ‘Don’t let yourself get so worked up about it.’ ‘Why do they have to wear their stupid veils. As if we were going to perve on them. Honestly it’s a total insult. And how are they ever going to assimilate?’ And so on. All of these comments I knew were intended for my ears personally. And though I knew they were essentially harmless, that if I had have gone and sat down next to these people and chatted to them, they would have soon been friendly and befriended me, and have been overcome with shame; still I felt intimidated by their talk and somewhat threatened.
Yet there was a handful of abuse that went beyond this – from teenage boys mainly. I heard the words ‘Packie! Packie!’ shouted a few times and very loudly for all to hear; also the well known Indian expression ‘Goodness gracious me’ said in an Indian voice; and a mob of teenage boys standing with me in the gangway started staring at me intently and I didn’t know where to look and felt intimidated. One of them came over to me and asked threateningly ‘what time is it?’ I was glad when they got off. And another bunch of boys, this time more cheeky and less harmful, kept calling me Darth Vader and when they got off to leave they all said ‘may the force be with you.’
Riding various tubes did I thus patrol the underground and discovered as yet no suspicious activity. At seven o’clock I called a halt to things. It was unlikely an attack would take place in the evening, and I wanted to get some rest and so be ready and fresh for tomorrow morning. After my hard days work I felt like taking it easy. Yet at the same time I was determined to stay in character and so perfect the role. How would a women relax on an evening? I guess I could go and unwind by having some beauty treatment. But then I wanted to do something Arabic as well. Then I had the perfect idea. Yes, that was it: I’d go for a Turkish sauna.
Reader, I wont bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that after paying my money, I entered the women’s changing rooms and had a nose around, though I didn’t undress and have a sauna but simply pottered about. In this little ‘mission’ of mine (I use the word ironically) I did do a lot of what you might call ‘spying.’ Come on reader, you would have done the same in my position. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pervert, but which man wouldn’t have used the opportunity to see the opposite sex dressed down and naked? And this being London, rest assured there was every colour of the rainbow on show.
I returned to my hotel bedroom late at night and stripping down to just my bra and panties, lay down on the bed. I felt really, really sexy in my lingerie, especially the new thong, and I also tried on my other new garments, my little panties, my new dresses and nighties and dressing gowns and had a fashion parade in front of the mirror. And I lay on the bed in my underwear and spent a good twenty minutes just contemplating how sexy and beautiful I was, and I ate a Mars bar, although ate isn’t really the right word exactly, more so I just slid it in and out of my mouth, toying it around my lips; and as I did all this I became quite aroused and started to fake an orgasm. Later on I took out a women’s magazine I’d bought, and filling out a questionnaire, found out what sort of women I was. Apparently I was the sort who couldn’t hold down a relationship, slept with men on a first date, was insecure and in need of understanding and would seriously consider having cosmetic surgery. Well what would they know?
The next day I found myself once more in the queue for the ladies toilets. As we all stood there watching the men come and go, I turned around to the lady standing behind me and said with ironic humour ‘there they go! Honestly what strange creatures they are. It’s all very simple for them isn’t it. There like a little batch of robots: in, out, in, out – as easy as you please. There’s some days I’d just love to be a man. What easy lives they’ve got.’
I made a quick visit to Harrods before getting into position on the tube, as I was determined to make a visit to the painted ladies and get my nails varnished for free. And a nice job she made of them as well. For sitting next to a middle-aged English man on the tube, and spreading my hand out in front of me as though it were a starfish, in order to better admire my beautiful little fingers, with their false nails painted a damask red, the stranger next to me dared to comment that they were very pretty. I said ‘oh thank you!’ and started giggling coyly to myself. He grew confident from this reaction of mine, and started asking me where I was from. I told him I’d always lived in England, had been born here and regarded myself as English, though my mother was Syrian and my father from the Yemen; and that I wore traditional dress out of respect for my cultural background – it had been the way I was brought up. As we got into conversation the chap grew evermore loquacious and started telling me that he didn’t have such a high opinion of English women; thought them too arrogant and presumptuous; and that he much preferred a modest Muslim women; preferred their humble and respectful ways and moreover considered our garb more elegant and our features more beautiful. And he even was so bold as to say that if he was somewhat younger he would dare to propose to me and make me his wife, and that he wouldn’t swap me, no way on earth, for a hundred English girls no matter who they were. As I listened to all of this I just coyly laughed from time to time and encouraged him in his discourse. But frankly I was very relieved when this stranger had gotten off. He was evidently a complete weirdo, the sort who’s got problems with women. Ha! Ha! Ha! Wouldn’t swap me for a hundred English girls! Muslim women more modest and humble and better dressed. Ah! You stupid, silly little man. Thinking such false thoughts. And doing down English women in an attempt to seduce a Syrian Yemenite. Ha! You fool!
Yet it was in the afternoon that things were going to take a turn for the worse. Thus far had my time as a Muslim women progressed without incident; the biggest concern that I’d so far faced not coming from any terror related incident; but rather from the diverse and varied tasks I’d had to so do to maintain my round the clock undercover persona. So far had it been knickers and bras; thongs and veils; perfumes and nails; it had been tresses and curls, roses and pearls, peppermints, hop-scotch and curtsies. It had not been terror and chaos. As such I’d had an easy ride of it. But events were soon to take a most dramatic twist and leave me faced with a desperate predicament.
Reader I should point out that by this time I was fairly fluent in Arabic. Yet to better improve it I thought it a good idea to try and make contact with various Islamic peoples as they got onto the tube. And such an instance presented itself today, when one veil and habit wearing Muslim lady, looking very beautiful it has to be said, alighted at Piccadilly station. Bracing myself I walked up to her and presenting myself said pleasantly ‘aslam-u-alikum’ (peace be unto you – I’ll do the translations for you reader, so don’t worry about getting lost). Yet, in a shock horror moment for myself, the lady so addressed merely turned her face and body away from me and rudely offered up no response. Clearly she didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I was most taken aback and felt really upset. You know it was as if, by not acknowledging me, I felt myself outcast and friendless; as if I wasn’t a real women like her, but just some loser; as if I was a nobody. And her haughty, better than thou attitude towards me, her way of behaving as if I was the lowest form of scum, really upset me and got me down. And for all of this I felt really depressed. Yet the worst thing of all, the most heart-crushing issue about the whole case; the true, deep reason as to why that women thought herself better than I, thought herself more a women than I was because she had huge, beautiful breasts.
Call me paranoid if you will reader, but I felt myself so inferior to that buxom, haughty queen. I could in no way match her in that regard, I was completely flat chested and I felt small, unwomanly and unlooked at as I sheepishly walked away from the woman back to my seat in a walk of shame. And all of a sudden the truth seemed to dawn on me: I saw all the men look eagerly toward that large-breasted bitch; saw how she cared not for their glances; came to realise how none of the men were eying up me. When I thought back now to that Englishman who’d tried to chat me up earlier, I wondered whether I hadn’t been a bit of a fool in thinking that he’d been interested in me; I couldn’t help think that he’d only been giving me a sympathy vote.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to others, I left my underground post and went home early. True that was a bit naughty, but I was just too downcast and gloomy to care. I made for Hyde park, my favourite of the London parks, and there, isolated in solitude, I strolled slowly around the lake in my habit and veil. Other similarly dressed Muslim women were there too; but I desisted any further interaction and sought only to be alone.
I strolled around the lake and tried to collect my feelings. I knelt down on my honkers at a corner of the lake and stared at the little ducks as they went about their daily business. And then finally after a few hours of this, I found a secluded little spot in the parkland, and sitting down gave myself up to a few hours of melancholy indulgence.
That women had thought herself better than me only because she had larger breasts. That I was sure. Yet I couldn’t help chide myself, and say that it was in fact me, who was at fault, that I was being paranoid, that I had an inferiority complex. But all of that was no good; I simply felt angered and enraged by that haughty women’s antics and how all the men looked at her breasts as if she was a goddess and how they didn’t look at me. And when I thought back to the previous nights in which I’d spent trying on different bras in front of the mirror; where I’d wasted hours in contemplation of myself, feeling really, really sexy, I simply felt embarrassed: I’d been kidding myself to think I looked good. I didn’t have any breasts. I had no cleavage whatsoever. I didn’t need to wear a bra at all.
I continued contemplating like this, relaxing in the fresh spring evening and watching a little squirrel in front of me who ran around hunting for nuts. You know I felt as if I just wanted to give up being a women, give up playing at being a women: I felt somewhat resigned to who and what I was. That women had larger breasts than me, she was the queen of the crop, and there was nothing I could do about it. And because of that I just felt like I didn’t really want to play at being a women anymore. I would never be a real women, and just wanted to give up my bra and knickers and have away with all this dressing up and styling and what have you. Truly I was sick of it.
There are always going to be some people who are more glamorous than ourselves, better equipped so to say in the assets of embodiment, and it is a measure of our capacity as human beings, that we should simply accept this and realise that there is a lot more to life than good looks or big breasts. In all things of this nature, it is very much inherent in our human make-up, that we should crave the endowments of sexual voluptuousness, even though we may not have them, and even though this may arouse in us feelings of jealousy towards those lucky few who have. But it is a testament to our status as sentient beings that we are able to look beyond such imperfections in our organism and to perceive the limelight of the higher things in life, in short to realise that God made us how we are and that in accepting this and living humbly and with modest dignity do we serve his will and heart. I was depressed by my physical inadequacies it is true; but at the end of the day, we must accept our bodies for what they are.
With a heavy heart, yet beginning to feel better, I slowly trudged my way back home. You know why not just have a cosy night in by myself, away from the world, watching the telly and having something nice to eat. Accordingly I entered Tescos. Now what did I fancy? How about a Thai-style chicken curry? Or perhaps a nice juicy steak. Yet just as I was passing through the fruit and veg section, my eye alighted on a cartload of oranges and I had the most brainstorming idea. Why not stick two oranges in my bra and thereby give myself a lovely, big, firm-feeling bosom. Oh what an idea! Suddenly I felt so uplifted, so happy, so delighted to think of my new breasts. And it would be so easy: buy two oranges, stick them down my bra, and gallivant about the place like the haughty queen I always imagined I was. And nobody would ever know. Oh yes! What a lovely idea. But just as I had gone over to the oranges and was feeling them in my fingers, letting my hands slowly run across their surface, my eye fell on something further up the aisle. It was the cart of Savoy cabbages.
Holy cow, with two of those babies in my bra, then flipping heck I’d be the bees knees. Oh what a stunner I’d be then! All the men would be dropping down on the floor for me, begging at my feet like little dogs. Yet come on, I was getting a bit carried away wasn’t I? No, the oranges, they would be more than sufficient. They would do me absolutely fine. And I was desperate to put my plan into motion now. Accordingly, forgetting to buy myself any dinner, but purchasing only four nice firm oranges (two for reserve) I headed home almost running, consumed by one single happy thought of my new breasts, my spirits buoyant now and feeling very, very happy.
Though I had some difficulty in settling the oranges in the bra, I eventually got them into place. And I now took the decision to ditch my habit and instead opt to wear western clothes, and in particular a nice tight fitting top to better show off my new breasts; whilst at the same time retaining my veil and so my disguise and Islamic identity. With the jumper off it looked as though I wore two oranges in my bra; but with the jumper on it looked as if I had a pair of perfect, big, firm bosoms, if a little too perfect and unnatural, but nevertheless a lovely pair of knockers. With my top I chose to wear a new pair of jeans I’d bought and with these in place I thought it would be a good opportunity to showcase the new thong I’d bought the other day. I mean what is the point of spending good money on fancy lingerie; of wearing beautiful, highly-coloured, silky-textured thongs, if no-one is going to see them? I couldn’t fathom it out. Accordingly I wore my pants somewhat lowered, so that a good portion of my thong and my tight little ass were on display.
I went to bed extremely excited. On the morrow I would set out for the tube with my new assets, a proud, sexy women and all the men would be dazzled by me. You know truly, I was deeply, deeply happy, so, so happy with my new equipment; felt finally fulfilled and as though a real women; and I felt just deep seated happiness in lieu of all the angst, tension, worrying and bitterness that were my usual wont. And I didn’t think of getting any sort of revenge on the lady – she of the big breasts – who’d disrespected me earlier. Not at all. I thought of no such thing. I simply wanted to swan around town, a happy, contented girl, and viewed by my admirers on all sides.
I awoke at six, and watched the dawn descend. Oh beautiful dawn. Oh how happy and contented I felt. How I seemed finally at ease with the world, as though I were queen of it. Beautiful, beautiful, springtime dawn, blessedly fresh and wholesome. Oh deep seated joy. I dressed hurriedly and was soon ready to go. But I stopped once more to admire myself in front of the mirror. And what a stunner I was; I was absolutely perfect.
I set out into the sun shining day. I had so arranged my oranges so that super-gluing them to my bra I need have no fear of them falling out. Thus I went forth happily into the bright new day and wearing thong and veil as I was, oxymoronic incarnation of the ying and yang of human contradiction; the thong and the veil: the two opposing extremes of human behaviour; excitement and display versus modesty and inhibition; revealed versus hidden, sensuality versus spirituality; east versus west; chaos versus order; freedom versus restriction.
Anyway as I thus made my way through town the results were predictable: the men were mesmerized by me. How easy it was to fool them, to fool everybody. I simply had two oranges in my bra. Such a trivial little thing, yet what profound changes it wrought, to myself and those around me. And it was so easy to pull off – exactly as it had been to dress up as a Muslim woman. As I stood on the tube, I felt that I was very much the centre of attention. All the men were casting looks at my oranges; some openly and honestly, others more furtively; and yet others, unsure as to what they’d caught a glimpse of first time around, returned to gaze at me with gaping jaws. Oh that lovely feeling! Of being worth a second look; of having men absent-mindedly snatch a dull-witted glance at you; only to have them review you a moment later, this time with excited intent to see if they had really seen what they had thought they had. And that lovely, lovely, well-rounded sensation of knowing that they won’t be disappointed and that you’re in charge of them, that you’re worth it. Oh how lovely was that first morning, all those men clamouring to know me, to make eye contact with me. Yet I desisted from returning their looks; rather I kept up – through my veil – an amiable, smiling and respectful look, all the while glancing aside and looking at no-one; though it was probably clear to them by my happy eyes and body language that I knew they were watching me.
Thus was life throughout the morning. So pleased was I with myself that once, when the tube was fairly empty, I stood right in the centre of the carriage and holding onto the central pole, exhibited myself somewhat, by engaging in a semi-lap-dance around the pole; which little titillating scene I had seen yesterday performed by two attention-seeking school girls. Another thing I couldn’t help doing was this: I became obsessed by looking at other women’s breasts and got a lovely, though rather cheap, thrill and satisfaction from seeing how measly they were in comparison to mine. And I know it was a rather bitchy thing to do but I just had to go over to these women, stand in their vicinity and pout my chest proudly. And time and again throughout the morning I got off the tube and went to the toilets, though not with the intention of there relieving myself; rather I wanted to look at my person in the mirror. And always there stood before me in the glass the image of a beautiful buxom lady; and my favourite game was to view myself from the side and to pout my chest to maximum voluptuousness.
Yet amidst all this happiness there lurked a small dark cloud upon the horizon. As the afternoon began and the day which had begun so long ago, wore on, I found myself becoming tired, bored and listless of having to sit on the hot, stuffy tube all day and more especially I was sick to death of perverts staring at my breasts. Added to the fact that I was tired from having so little sleep last night; to the fact that I was exhausted by all the excitement of the morning and the attention that I’d received; and also to the fact that I now was left with a headache and that my oranges were rather heavy to carry around and so burdensome as to really drain me – added to all of this was the fact that men whom I didn’t want to attract thought it their God given right to eyeball my tities ad nausea. I was really irritated by all this unwanted attention and began to get stroppy and started pouting and blowing a huff. Stupid bloody also rans! Men so unkempt and dishevelled – to think that they had rights to look at my bosoms! Huh! What an insult. Truly it was, and I felt myself devalued, as though I was mere cattle to these men, as though I had no face or other bodily parts; as if I had neither brain nor personality nor spiritual side; as though I was simply a piece of meat; simply a pair of breasts. No I was thoroughly outraged by these leering perverts and sickos who looked at my breasts as if I wasn’t there. I was really quite enraged.
And worse was to follow. As I kept retreating to the ladies toilets for my usual hit of looking at myself in the mirror, the magic of the oranges seemed to be wearing off. The sight of myself with full bosom, no longer excited me so much, and I seemed to have got used to the effect. No matter how hard I looked, no matter how many times I returned to the mirror to view myself, always my memory anticipated me, and expecting too much, I was left to ponder an image of myself that fell somewhat short of expectations. Truly the effect seemed to have lessoned, and to keep lessoning every time I took a look. Each time as I returned to the toilets in the afternoon, addicted as I was to these viewings of myself, my breasts appeared to be getting smaller and smaller, and I was growing evermore dissatisfied by the minute. I was so angry and annoyed with those leering perverts, and so dissatisfied with my bosom and everything else that as I stood on the tube I felt I could not hide my anger and dissatisfaction, clad in veil though I was. Yet perhaps there was a remedy to all this woe, a real cure. For I could always bump up to become a savoy cabbage girl. I thought it through.
That evening, troubled at heart and sick of leering perverts as I was, things took a turn for the worse as I attracted some unwanted attention. I happened to be in M&S looking at some dresses when all of a sudden I felt a presence behind me. I looked around. Walking behind me, some few paces off, was a rather dishevelled looking man. Had he snuck up on me or something? I hadn’t heard him approach. As I turned around to look at him I saw his beady little eyes looking at my backside and thong, and, as I turned, my oranges. I blew a huff and marching forward turned into an aisle selling lingerie. I was just walking around looking at the items in the soiled ladies underwear section, when again I turned around and saw that man behind me, looking at me. What was he doing in the ladies lingerie section? I was convinced he was stalking me and that he was going to rape me. Marching straight up to the security guard I told him that I was very certain that that rat-man back there was following me. ‘Are you sure madam’ said he thoughtfully in response. ‘Look I’m absolutely convinced of it’ I said ‘I’d be happy to repeat all of this to the police. Please help me kind sir, I feel really scared of that rat-face’ and just as I finished saying this, I eliminated any doubts from his mind, concerning the veracity of my tale, by just moving my body that bit closer to his and pressing my oranges into his chest. ‘Okay madam’ he said, and with this the security guard walked over to the stalker and accosted him. That dishonourable rat face had the insolent cheek to protest his innocence, and looked sheepishly as if he hadn’t done a thing. And the more the security guard questioned him the more he got all worked up and almost violently protested his innocence.
What funny creatures men are. That security guard, when I’d first seen him in the shop as I looked through the ladies lingerie – he hadn’t looked very kindly at me, and I’m sure he’d even mouthed the words ‘bloody terrorist.’ Yet just by going over and talking to him, and making a request of him; and more especially by pressing my oranges against him, I’d set him into action – like a clockwork robot man – and he’d gone to that other man and treated him like he was the lowest form of scum upon the planet. What funny creatures they are thought I, as I watched the little scene that I’d created unfold before my eyes. And the stalker was getting really worked up now, and denying the allegations and shouting and swearing. And then the security guard had simply said in that neutral English tone ‘I’m going to have to ask you to please leave the store now sir,’ to which the rat man had responded angrily, getting evermore worked up. The funny neutral security guard tone, that neutral tone of asking the chap to leave yet in a pleasant manner; that stupid, stupid, typically English, false, smug, superior attitude of politely treating someone else like their scum. Yet as I watched this scene unfold before me; saw the rat-man get evermore worked up; saw the security guard call for back up; saw two other guards arrive, and, behaving like a little team of Rambos, physically remove the man from the shop; and saw the crowd of passers by, ladies especially, stop to watch all the fuss and commotion; as I saw all of this I simply shook my head from side to side in disbelief at that rat-faced pervert.
And it wasn’t long before a group of English ladies had surrounded me and started asking me what had happened. I immediately broke into tears and through my sobs said ‘he was stalking me – it happens to me all the time. I didn’t know what he might do’ and as I said all this the other women gave me much sympathy, shook their heads, looked shockingly in the direction of the stalker who was being carried away, and generally I felt we had closed ranks on that pervert, and I felt really happy and glad, as we ganged together in womanly union. And as I continued to sob I said ‘I don’t know why men do this to me, I really don’t, but they’re always stalking me, I’m so terrified…’ and with that I burst into tears and putting my arms around the women next to me, nestled my head in her bosom and had a good cry. ‘There, there’ she said in sympathy, a bit taken aback, but nevertheless assuming her role as mother that I’d put upon her. Yet as I was thus recharging myself with head in her bosom, a small group of other women, who’d also seen some of the incident and who seemed quite angry and worked up by it all, dared to suggest that I had fabricated the story, had bad-mouthed an innocent man in an attempt to seek attention, and that my antics were really disgraceful. Looking them over I realised immediately what their problem was reader: they were all white. ‘Racists! Racists!’ I barked back at them.
I made immediate inquiries into equipping myself with a rape alarm. Luckily – thanks to a spate of rape attacks that had taken place in the London area – I was able to obtain one for free by standing in line and collecting it from a nearby police station. As I stood in the queue I chatted to the women next to me and said it was disgusting that there were all these perverts and sickos out there, and we had a lengthy chat on all the dangerous men on the loose who were simply lusting after our bodies. I knew given the widespread interest men were showing in my new boobs that I was very much a likely target, and I chatted to the lady and said that I long ago got used to the fact that men only think with their penises, and she quite agreed. Said they were a mere dick-orientated creature, controlled by the whim and will of their willies and that she feared she’d be the conquest of their lust. Though I agreed with her in the main, and though I seconded her sentiments in general, I couldn’t help think she flattered herself a little in thinking she would be a rape victim; truly I thought her well past it in fact, and she probably hadn’t been up to much in her hey day either. She had neither my skinny little booty nor my well proportioned bosoms; nor either my veil: which contraption would have well improved her…..but then I shouldn’t get too bitchy. Anyway, I couldn’t help think that in standing in line like this, queuing up to get a free rape alarm, she was merely seeking attention: it was just a stunt on her part, an activity to while away the otherwise banality of her life, a statement to society that she was a woman. It was stunners such as myself that these masked rapists were targeting and as such my place in line was very much justified. And as it turned out, it was very, very lucky that I obtained my rape alarm.
Later that night, I happened to be walking alone down a dark alley. I don’t know what it was but I had a presentiment that somebody was following me. Turning around though I could see no-one. Were they hiding? I was convinced I was being stalked. Terrified lest someone should jump out on me. And where the bleeding hell was I? Jeese-Louise this was a God-forsaken place. Like a dead end dark alley. I was absolutely terrified. And then suddenly – argh! Argh! Argh! I screamed in absolute horror as I heard a dustbin lid crash onto the ground and a cat meow quite awfully. I lost no time in setting off the alarm. Woo-a-woo-a-woo-a-woo-a-woo-a-woo-a-woo. What a powerful shocking noise! It was deafening beyond belief. A-woo-a-woo-a-woo! I simply collapsed in a heap on the floor and started crying. The rape alarm continued at its most dramatic and it took only a few minutes before a single police officer arrived. As I heard him turn down the alley and saw him run towards me, I stood up and immediately ran toward him; and when I got to him I simply embraced him, and putting my arms around his neck and nestling my head over his shoulder began sobbing. ‘Oh my hero!’ I cried ‘oh how you saved me!’ He tried to put me down and to free himself but I just wouldn’t let go and held onto him as for dear life; and I made sure I pressed my oranges right into him; and in return I could feel his throbbing manhood in my loins. ‘Madam what happened’ he enquired. ‘I was just walking and ….(I paused between sobs)…I was walking down this…..huh-huh….down this alley….and a man…..huh-huh….he tried to rape me.’ With this last sentence, which my weak voice was barely able to get out, I trailed off into a flood of tears and wailing and I snuggled into the officers arms; who – though it’s completely against protocol, and not a very clever thing to do – decided to put two arms around me and hush me and tell me it was alright. Anyway, I have to admit it reader, he was rather handsome and looked really splendid in his uniform.
I told him though that I didn’t want to make a statement; that I was safe now – with him as my guard – and that I just wanted to forget about the whole incident. He walked me home in the most gentlemanly manner and when we got to my hotel, I invited him in for coffee. But he was incorruptible in that respect, and simply said that he had to get back out on duty. Ah! What a real life hunk and gentleman. Just as he departed, I ventured to go up to him, and dropping my veil ever so slightly, pecked him on the cheek.
‘Goodnight officer’ said I smiling.
‘Goodnight’ said he.
After all the excitement of the day I was glad to get back to the comfort of my hotel room; and after soaking in a bath for some hour or so and putting on my lovely knickers, nighty and slippers; and also wrapping a towel around my head in the time worn fashion of women (which skill I was now master of) I turned on the radio to discover that tonight on the show, they were going to have a big discussion on the issue of Muslims in this country, and more specifically of Muslims in the media; I immediately dialled up the number; not only as I felt like getting some things off my chest; but also because I’ve always thought – anti-terror agent though I may be – that Muslims come in for a lot of flack, that there’s an anti-Muslim sentiment out there and that this would be a good chance to set the record straight; but more especially since I was now a Muslim, and had had some first hand experience of some of the things they have to suffer, I could now speak with some authority on the subject. Yet would I get through? I’d already been on just a few days earlier. Surely they would chose someone else this time. Nevertheless I dialled; and in the end they were happy to have me on the show again. I couldn’t think why they should let me on twice in succession like this?
‘Well, we’re going to take some of your calls on this subject now, so let’s begin by going to Stuart in Leeds. Hello Stuart?’
‘Oh hello there Anita, how you doing. My basic point is this. I live in Leeds. There’s what, I don’t know, a very large proportion of Muslims in the community. Now living amongst them as I do, I can tell you they’re totally normal people like you or I. Not at all like the media meks them out to be. They’re just as relaxed and chilled as anybody. They go to the footy, they’re out shopping and what have you, hell they even go to the pub. But it’s the media, it’s you lot who are always mekin them out to be a bunch of repressed whiners, whinging about their rights and getting worked up about everything. Really it’s a media conspiracy just to sell newspapers.’
‘Well, let’s welcome now Hussein from Dewsbury. Hello Hussein. Am I right in thinking you are a Muslim?
‘Yeah, Hello Anita, that’s right I am. In fact the previous caller Stuart’s just stolen my thunder somewhat. Actually I’m surprised I got through at all. You see what it is, is that it’s precisely as Stuart put it, there’s a media conspiracy. I’m a normal British citizen like anybody else okay. I consider myself British. And even though I might have been against the war in Iraq and what have you, still, by and large I’m a regular kind of guy, I’ve got a regular job, I go to the footy, I’ve got a wife and family, the children are completely integrated, I share the same concerns as any other parent. Yet time and again the media, and the tabloids especially make us out to be a bunch of disgruntled, beard-wearing, holier-than-thou religious nutcases who want to do down western civilisation. You see that’s why I was surprised that I got onto the show. Because usually the only Muslims you allow on the radio are whinging, small-minded, holier-than-thou egotists, people who are self-opinionated and think they’ve got rights on everything; in a word deranged madmen who are not in any way representative of the Muslim population.’
‘Well, lets see what Layla in south London has to say about that. Hello Layla.’
‘Yes hello Anita. Well frankly I’m absolutely shocked to hear a fellow Muslim talk like that. Listen, as far as I’m concerned this is the anti-Muslim show. I’ve never heard such racism on a grand scale. Time and again I have to suffer abuse as a Muslim. We’ve got no right whatsoever. It’s a total disgrace. I’m not allowed to wear my veil. Excuse me! I’ve got rights you know! If I want to wear my veil I’ll damned well wear it. I suffer racism on a regular basis with English people abusing and taunting me; I’m at a disadvantage at a job interview; I’m discluded from mainstream society; and I’ve got perverts staring left, right and centre at what I’ll euphemistically refer to as my oranges. What a God-awful country this is! It’s not liberal at all. You English, you British, you westerners you’ve got no respect for the Muslim community – we are the most discluded, disrespected Diaspora of this country; in a word we’re nothing but slaves of the English, and frankly I’m absolutely fed up with it.’
‘See this is exactly what I’m talking about’ said Hussein getting all worked up. ‘Listen you stupid bloody cow, what on earth are you going on about, saying we’re slaves..’
‘How dare you call me a silly cow, how dare you’ I retorted in anger. ‘What my own people, my brother of Islam turning against me like this? You’re a traitor you, your not a real Muslim.’
‘Not a real Muslim? Well hang on, what do you mean by a real Muslim?’
‘Well have you read the Koran?’ said I.
‘Not from cover to cover I haven’t but that…’
‘Well your not a Muslim then’ said I ‘so don’t go misrepresenting us please, if you can’t even be bothered to read our Holy book. I’ve read every word of it and therefore I’ve got rights to come on here and give my opinion.’
‘You should shut your flippin trap, you silly cow, you’re doin nout for the Muslim cause are you’ said Stuart.
‘Excuse me!’ I said angrily. ‘How dare you suggest that. There’s freedom of speech in this country you know and if I want to have my say, even though I might just be a Muslim women in your opinion, not entitled to her say, not entitled to any rights whatsoever, even so I’m going to say it.’
‘Oh shut up you silly cow!’ said Stuart
‘Oh here we go’ I said. ‘Typical chauvinistic, racist remarks of a Leeds man. I wondered how long it would be before you started going on like that. Hey, I’ll tell you, I know you Englishman like the back of my hand. You’re all racists…’
‘How dare you accuse me of racism you silly…..’
‘Look I’m not going to get into an argument with a racist’ I said superiorly.
‘Look Layla love, listen, listen, listen’ interjected Anita, ‘I don’t think you’re being very fair here on Stuart and Hussein, you haven’t really been listening to what they’ve been saying. Look Layla, I think your obviously a very passionate girl – I think you were the girl we had on a few nights ago? – but look love you’ve got to…’
‘Don’t call me love Anita! How dare you! I’m highly educated you know, I know my rights. I’m not love or pet or sweetheart. I’m Layla.’
‘Okay Layla, but I don’t think you’ve been very fair on the boys there now have you?’
‘Listen’ I said ‘the other day I was in a café and I sat down for a nice meal – just a one off treat because I only get £57 dole allowance every week – how is anyone supposed to live on that? But anyway I just went out for a nice meal, a chicken curry, when all of a sudden as I’m half way through, I suddenly think ‘is this halal chicken we’re eating?’ Anyway I put my fork down and march up to the counter and ask the woman ‘is this halal meat.’ Anyway she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, so I demand to see the manager. Anyway he comes out and says ‘no it’s not halal meat.’ And I said ‘how dare you serve us infidel chicken, can’t you see where Muslims! This establishment is racist, it discriminates against the Muslim population. Now give me a refund, you’re lucky I’m not going to sue.’ And then at Christmas, oh don’t get me started. The neighbours sent us a Christmas card! Excuse me but we’ve got rights you know! I was round there in a flash. ‘How dare you send us a Christmas card, this is racist against Muslims! How dare you! And take down those decorations as well they’re insulting to Allah. As far as I’m concerned you’re all racists and Christmas should be cancelled!’
There was commotion amongst the callers and in the studio.
‘Shut up’ cried Hussein infuriated, but I was determined to have my say.
‘I’m absolutely sick and tired of Muslims being represented as nothing but self-opinionated, whining do gooders, I’ve absolutely had my fill of it. I ring up onto this show to try and put the record straight and all you lot can do is bicker amongst yourselves. Really you should be ashamed to hear how you go on. There are real problems out there people, real issues. And to hear you lot whining it just really makes me sick. I myself suffer from real problems, I’ve got real issues to deal with. And I’m sorry if I’ve come on here tonight and got all worked up and I’ve lost my rag and got carried away and what have you. It’s just sometimes I think I’m going to crazy. But I don’t let it get me down. Not at all, I get on with things. Despite my depression, despite suffering from SAD, OCD, Attention deficiency syndrome, and acute Asbergers, I get on with my life. And all you people can do is squabble amongst yourselves and make Muslims out to be self-important, neurotic, precious little whingers. Well I’ve had enough of it!’ I shouted finally and put the phone down. It was the last straw of a very, very long day, and I felt thoroughly exhausted. I immediately lay down on the bed and fell into a deep repose, totally oblivious of everything.
So much for getting into character. Reader we have reached the end. I shall shortly describe to you the most dramatic conclusion – and I’m not lying this time either. Only one further interlude is required.
Anyone whose ever attempted to balance a manhood in a thong will well know that it’s better to station the phallus crossways rather than attempt to place it downwards like an arrow in a bow. But the situation is further compounded when one also has to garrison in one’s knickers a revolver. In this case the best strategy to adopt is simply to remove the gun altogether from the groinal region and slip it in between one’s oranges. Finally I should mention that I also wore in my loins a sanitary towel, having earlier on figured out the difference between it and the tampon (which tool I once a day tomato-ketchuped and placed in the ladies toilet bin, in order to avoid arousing suspicion). The sanitary towel was slightly difficult to fit since the presence of the male genitalia means that one can’t wear it straight on, but must position it so that it circumvents one’s privates. However once fitted, the contraption is rather snug and comforting, and having worn it in place for something like a week, I feel myself well-qualified to digress a little and speak knowingly of a sanitary towel; the use of which I will now venture to hypothesise on.
I think I mentioned earlier on that oftentimes throughout the day, in attempting to break wind, I am worried into thinking that, unable to carry out said operation, I’ve accidentally gone to the toilet in my pants. Although 99 times out of 100 this is not the case, still the constant worry of it and the one time out of a hundred when things go wrong, means that a device to capture any escaping excrement is a must for the worried minded. It is therefore my firm belief that the sanitary towel is exactly such a device, and though women may argue this point and pretend that it is a contraption so in place to counteract mysterious problems known only to women, the very fact of it being composed of the same material as a nappy, nay in short being nothing but a down-sized nappy, speaks to me of it being precisely for the purpose I’ve suggested it, and smacks of a conspiracy amongst women to hide this fact and to propagate the myth of it being a womanly-related device. Moreover this hunch of mine is to a large extent supported by one of the key statistics I obtained during my time amongst women (in the toilets). For I found, counter-intuitive though it clearly is, that at the five percent level of significance, women on average break wind twice as often as men. I hereby end my toilet findings.
***************************
The people of London were tense. An attack on the underground thought imminent. Though at present we had dropped down to the second highest terror threat, everybody was on tender hooks. You could have cut the tension with a knife. Still I patrolled the underground. And in this climate of tense, tense fear extreme diligence was required. I need not speak of the boobed-up operations of the police in targeting suspected suicide bombers; in targeting and killing the wrong people; in stereotyping those of Asian origin and rudely and roughly treating them, which is not only an injustice in itself but antagonises them into joining the enemy’s ranks; in short the bullish and brutal ways in which the armed forces and those purported to represent the western powers have manhandled supposed terror suspects so that as one commentator put it they have become ‘al-queada’s greatest recruiting agent’; in short the bumbling treatment handed out to innocent bystanders which has not stopped at sexual humiliation; all of this is well beyond the pale and only swells the enemy’s ranks. No, even amidst the greatest tension one must act with extreme diligence and care; otherwise you’ll have another John Charles De Menezes situation or an Abu Graib incident on your hands. Needless to say, as a member of the uppermost echelons of this nation’s secret service, I am extremely well drilled in this particular.
It all began one morning as the tube entered Piccadilly. I was standing in the aisle next to the door, when in a shock horror moment, a veil and habit wearing Muslim women stepped on board and stood next to me with the biggest bags you’ve ever seen. My first gut reaction was ‘Argh! Argh! We’re all going to die! Argh! Argh!’ The tube headed out the station. Desperately I looked around at the citizens on the seats, who all looked comatose and unconcerned. Was I the only one who’d seen the Muslim women with the bags? She was obviously a terrorist. I was convinced of that. Though I stated previously that all terrorists are men, I did not contradict myself now; for I was also convinced that this was a man dressed up as a women. Yet just as I was pondering what to do, the most soul-shaking, nerve-shocking noise exploded loudly in my ear, I got the shock of my life and my hunch was proved completely correct.
In the most alarming, stomach-churning, terrifying noise, my mobile phone started beeping. I immediately jumped up on the spot and screamed. Everyone looked around at me to see what the matter was. In the meantime I looked at my phone: my worst fears were confirmed: it was a message update telling me that the nation had gone to highest alert: an attack was imminent.
Without arousing the attention of the terrorist, who seemed to stand there lost in his own little world – he leaned against the glass and had his back facing the rest of the carriage – I now moved into the centre of the aisle and started gesticulating wildly to the passengers to get off at the next possible opportunity. You’d have thought that if a citizen goes all crazy like this, starts acting up like the devil possessed, imploring the people on the tube to get off at the next opportunity, points his finger crazily in the direction of a veil and habit wearing Muslim, they might just get the idea that a suicide bomber was in their midst and that they should evacuate immediately. Yet they thought none of this. Rather they simply believed me to be an over-excitable nobody trying to seek attention. Ultimate iniquity! How dare they think such thoughts, when I was trying to save them. Well people, you left me with no other option. I’d have to force them off.
Pulling my pistol from my bosom as we approached the next station platform, I raised and fired it smashing the lights, some of which went out, and to the screams of women in the carriage, boldly announced in high-spoken English ‘Secret Agent X. Everybody get off the tube. I don’t wish to be alarmist, but there’s a suicide bomber on board.’
‘Argh! Argh!’ the whole carriage erupted into pandemonium as the shots were fired and they heard my words in the semi-darkness. As we came into the platform all hell broke loose as screaming citizens attempted to alight, and running like a herd of cattle, bumping and tripping, stampeding each other, sprinted away in panic and terror, with loud screaming and utter pandemonium. As the people in my carriage got out and ran away yelling excitedly, the passengers on the other carriages seemed to get the idea and they too made a quick exit and sprinted away up the escalators. The train would have appeared to have stopped as well. And as I saw all the citizens run away, fleeing in absolute terror, stampeding one another, I just shook my head in disbelief at the sheer shock and hysteria that one lone deranged individual could cause.
Meanwhile was said individual still to my rear, slow to react to what had taken place, and unable to flee as I had deliberately impeded his path. Why had he not detonated when I’d made my attempts to evacuate? Why had he tried to run off? Why had he not attempted to suicide himself when I blocked his path? It made no sense whatsoever reader. He simply stood there pretending to be unsure of what was going on and taking in the scene. He realised that I was impeding his path, saw me standing there alone with the gun, saw that everybody else seemed to have fled, looked at me with mistrusting, nervous eyes, and then made a final desperate attempt to get off the tube.
‘Oh no you don’t terrorist!’ I shouted and running bravely up to him, hit him, shouting ‘take that terrorist!’ I then wrestled him to the ground and pinning him, held a gun at his head. Reader I’m sure you know the routine. If you’ve got a suicide bomber in your midst and you are 110% certain it is a suicide bomber, which I now was, you fire first and ask questions later. Yet in fact just as I was about to fire, I suddenly had second thoughts. Seeing that the platform had essentially cleared of people now, I bravely decided I could take the chance of allowing the bomber to suicide given that it would only be myself who would be a victim. This was an extremely bold and noble deed on my part and though I was convinced of the ill-intentions of the bomber, and was not at all concerned that I might shoot an innocent person, I wished to keep the suspect alive with a view to questioning him a little further. He could be useful. It was a gamble that was for sure, but hey, I’m no stranger to danger reader, not at all. I’m always up for a risk or two and if it’s in the name of national security, I’ll be damned if I don’t put my life on the line.
‘Your lucky’ I shouted heroically. ‘You’ll find us Brits a tough nut to crack. We’re not like the Americans you know, we don’t just shoot first and ask questions later. We’re pretty damned reasonable people in fact. But if you terrorists think you can steal a march on us well you’d better think on.’
‘Now listen terrorist, you’ll also find us Brit’s the very embodiment of fair play. And for that reason I’m not going to shoot you, deranged, psychopathic individual that you may be? Tell me terrorist what were your plans?’
‘Please let me go’ he murmured. It was a very good impression of a women. He even screamed and sighed like one, and his body, pinned underneath mine almost felt as if it were a women’s.
‘I want to know about this bomb equipment your carrying,’ I said.
‘Please, I don’t know of any bomb equipment, please let me…’
‘Liar!’ I screamed and pistol whipped him across the head. I was sick to my stomach with all this denial. Reader I knew fine well he was carrying explosives across his chest – I could feel the strap through the back of his dress. I started tugging wildly at this strap. ‘What the hell’s this then?’ I shouted angrily.
‘Please let me go, please…..’and he broke into tears.
‘Crocodile tears!’ I shouted angrily.
Just then a little gang of men approached the station entrance and from around a corner looked in. Behind them were some people who were recording on their mobile phones the scene of myself on top of the terrorist.
‘Just put the gun down and let the women go’ said one of the men.
‘Get out of here now’ I screamed. ‘This is no place for civilians. I’ve got complete control of the situation’ I shouted in anger. Attention seekers! Argh! You know what it is reader, but this is typical of men. In an emergency, in a chaotic scene like this, there will always be some men who want in on the action, want to show off what heroes they are, want to impress the ladies; in a word wannabe secret agents and James Bond types who try to pull off heroic stunts to gain attention.
I now got rid of this little posse of men and the camera crew behind them by firing my gun; the shot took down the tube window which smashed into smithereens and the camera crew scattered abruptly, as too did the men, though a little more reluctantly.
Now that I was left alone with the terrorist I decided to get down to business. Lying on top of him as I was – it was the wrestling match all over again – I was beginning to come around to the idea that the terrorist was in fact a women. That was certainly a shock. For heretofore it’s always been my experience that they’re men. Anyway it’s the day and age we’re living in I guess.
I now decided to commence a hands on search of the suspect. Reader there are two main areas of the body where a terrorist will hide their weapons of destruction. This is what we’re taught at the academy. The first is that they’ll strap something across the chest; and the second is of course that they’ll stick something down next amidst their genitalia. I now dropped my revolver and freeing up my hands decided to make a direct test of what weapons were on hand. Accordingly…………. ………………………………..yet just as I was about to get my hands on her equipment, all of a sudden out of nowhere, an elbow or a heel – to this day I’m not quite sure – struck me right on the Cameroon’s. Oh! Argh! I wheeled backwards in utter paralysis. Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! That had hit the bloody spot, I can tell you that. These terrorists – they certainly hit their targets that’s for sure. I was learning that the hard way now. And as I reeled backwards on the floor in that utter, utter agony known only to boys, I saw the terrorist stand up and run away, heard a rape alarm going off ten to the dozen, and slowly I tried to recover myself and get to my feet.
I picked up my gun and exiting the tube, went in pursuit. As I ran I thought of the commendation I would receive from the queen for my heroic devotion to duty; and pumped up by the excitement of it all, I sang the James Bond theme tune, as I ran revolver in hand, veil upon face, oranges upon bosom, thong upon ass. And then in an incredible, totally unforeseen and dramatic twist of events, the most shocking, utterly ironic and farcical scene was played out.
As I entered the Kings Cross vestibule area and began to run up the escalators, a team of armed police officers came running down. ‘Armed Police! Armed Police! Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon! Now! Now! Now! Drop the weapon!’
‘Oh you bloody fools!’ I shouted ‘I’m not the terrorist you bumbling pillocks!’ I was absolutely amazed at this turn of events. Reader they were arresting me! They though that I was the terrorist! Oh final irony! Honestly! ‘I don’t believe it!’ I shouted. I was having one of those awful Victor Meldrew moments. Honestly reader, on another day this could have all been very, very funny, I mean I could have seen the funny side to it. Seriously there are some days when I think I could right a sitcom, I really do.
‘Drop the weapon!’
‘I’m dropping the weapon officer’ I said adamantly, now resigned to this farce.
‘Now get down on your hands and knees and take your clothes off!’
‘What!’ I screamed. ‘Take my clothes off! Huh! You damned officers. Can you just take a deep breath and a step back and look at what you’re doing. You’re forcing a veil-wearing Muslim women to strip naked at gun point. You stupid fools!’ I shouted passionately. ‘A veil-wearing Muslim women is the ultimate symbol of Islamic sanctity. The Muslim women is sacred. And you bastards think you can just hot-headedly mishandle her, and strip her naked at gun point. Perverts!’ I screamed.
‘Take your clothes off!’ shouted an officer.
‘Is this the only way you can get a women to undress for you officers’ I said cheekily. Reader you know fine well what us secret agents think of the police. When my colleagues back at HQ found out about all this I wanted them to have a good laugh at all the cheek I’d put the officers way, and have them say bravo X, bravo. Accordingly:
‘Okay officers I’m going to strip down for you!’ And I began a striptease, with their guns surrounding me in a circle and I the centre of attention. ‘Na, na, na, na, na, na’ I said teasingly as strippers do and pulled off my top to reveal my oranges. ‘Well boys this is kinky isn’t it? Is that your rifle sir, or are you just pleased to see me?’ And so on. It wasn’t long before I’d shaken my little booty out of my pants. Finally I removed the veil. And as I stood there, oranges in my jaguar bra, manhood crossways in the thong and sanitary towel beneath it, one of the officers said, slowly, in disbelief,
‘What the fuck is going on here?’
‘Officer’ I said ‘there’s a perfectly rational explanation for all of this.’

Epilogue
I was taken into custody and eventually interviewed by two Scotland Yard detectives.
‘Well Mr X – so you like to call yourself – you were arrested by armed officers at Kings Cross station today in the possession of a revolver and dressed up as a Muslim lady wearing bra and panties, and also I’m informed, a pair of oranges in your bra. You fired the revolver several times, caused panic and hysteria on the underground, and it appears, held a gun to a woman’s head. I’ve just got one question for you X: do you like dressing up as a women?’
‘I was undercover’ I said in reply.
‘So you’ve told us. Well, there’s no laws against dressing up as a women, is there now detective inspector Price.’
‘No, not at all governor’ said Price.
‘You know I’ve even known some police officers, worked with them my very self, who liked to dress up as women. Isn’t that right Price.’
‘It is indeed gov. In fact cards on the table time, I’ll even admit that I’ve dressed up as a women once or twice in my time and really quite enjoyed it.’
‘I don’t know where this bullshit’s going detectives, but it’s not very clever.’
‘X, X, X, secret agent X’ resumed the governor. ‘We can’t do you for dressing up as a woman; we can’t do you for that; but possessing a fire arm; firing a fire arm; causing panic and hysteria….. And what else now? Oh yeah, molesting a Muslim women at gun point – we can certainly get you for those. Heavens above X, do you know how much trouble you’re in son?’
‘Officers’ I said cockily, ‘you’re beginning to get on my nerves. I’ve told you already that I’m a secret agent. I had good reason to believe that the Muslim in question was a suicide bomber; to that end I was simply doing my duty. I don’t know why you people can’t just get with it – all of my actions were justified.’
‘X are you a terrorist?’ said Price.
‘What’ I said flabbergasted. ‘Of course I’m not. I’m the exact polar opposite of one. I’m a secret agent. Why would anyone think that?’
‘Oh no particular reason’ continued Price ‘it’s just your actions on the tube this morning were, how shall we say it, somewhat erratic, you certainly put the fear of God into all those passengers, firing your gun and what have you. And then we’ve also got eye-witness accounts telling us that a few days ago you were stood at Oxford Circus denouncing western culture?’
‘Uh! How totally mistaken some people can be? In both instances I was undercover, carrying out missions. This is sheer stupidity detective. Me a terrorist? One of those attention seekers on the fringes of society, who can’t stand western culture. I don’t think so. In fact nothing could be further form the truth.’
‘That’s fine’ said Price calmly ‘I believe you.’
‘X, have you got problems with women? Do you have problems relating to them,’ said the governor.
‘No’ I said ‘of course not. And anyway what would that have to do with anything? In fact I’ve had hundreds of women in my time if you must know. I’m getting as much sex as I can get through.’
‘But you’ve admitted to my detective here that it was you who attempted to rape and assault miss Heather Stanton in the toilet cubicle of the13.03 Edinburgh to London train service.’
‘No! I didn’t attempt to rape her at all. That’s total bull-shit! I simply told the detective, when he asked me about that incident, that I was the man in the mask; the rape story was a deliberate fabrication on the part of the secret service.’
‘Mr X, are you sure you don’t want a lawyer? You’re making this very very easy for us. You’re confessing to the attempted rape of Heather Stanton.’
‘I’m doing no such thing’ I said. ‘I’m merely trying to help you people get with it. If we all team together we’ll save ourselves a lot of time. Now listen boys, technically I’m your superior, so if you’d shut up and let me speak, we can all save ourselves a lot of hassle; that whole frigging incident is a fabrication. It’s a government conspiracy. This is what happened. One way or another the terrorists managed to poison Sasha, then…’
‘Hang on, who’s this Sasha?’ said the gov.
‘Sasha – the girl who was poisoned’ I said getting irritated by his slowness.
‘Hang on now, I’m getting confused. This Sasha – this is miss Stanton?’
‘Yeah, if that’s what you want to call her. Miss Stanton is clearly an alias assumed by Sasha in the whole made up story. Now look, me and she were making love together in the toilet cubicle – I know you think it’s seedy officers, but live and let live that’s what I’ve always said – anyway she was just screaming my name and saying how much she loves me, when all of a sudden she says the terrorists have poisoned her and she falls down almost dead on the floor. I fled in panic of the terrorists and then later made the phone call to you lot so that you could rescue her. Then the powers that be – my lot upstairs – get word of what’s gone on and quickly spin out the rape story. Have you ever heard of deflecting bad news boys? Really I can see why you two never got promoted into the secret service. You’re absolutely clueless. You wouldn’t last five minutes as a secret agent.’
‘X, we know that only too well. Isn’t that right Price?’
‘It is governor. We’re not secret agents. Never have been, never will be. We don’t have the brains and we don’t have the looks boss. We’re no film stars.’
‘It’s true Price, it’s true. We don’t look like James Bond. We’re not mega studs like secret agent X here. You know when I first saw you X, do you know what my first thoughts were? I thought that man’s a secret agent, I’m just convinced of it. I mean look how dashing he is.’
‘Thanks’ I said smiling.
‘I can see why you’re getting all those women. They like your sort, secret agents and spies and all that. But tell me special agent X – is it special agent X or secret agent X? – yes tell me secret agent X, saviour of our nation, if all of what you say is true, why is miss Stanton – or Sasha as she’s really called – why is she saying that she was assaulted? Why is she saying she doesn’t know you and has never met you before?’
‘What?’ I said shocked. ‘Is that what that bitch is telling you? Of course she bloody well knows me, the fucking lying cow’ said I heatedly.
‘Uh-uh’ said the governor. ‘She’s never met you at all.’
‘Well I see what she’s doing detective. She’s clearly playing you. For whatever reason – I don’t know what I’ve done this time – but that cow is pissed with me and is making this shit up just to get back at me. You fools gentleman: you’ve gotten yourselves caught up in the middle of a domestic and you’ve swallowed her rubbish hook, line and sinker. Listen to me boys, go ahead and press charges, say that I’m a rapist, a pervert, a sicko what have you, let’s have a day in court and go through the whole proceedings, and I’ll tell you officers, I’ll bet my bat and balls on it, that just as the judge is about to pass sentence on me, just as he’s summing me up as a thoroughly indecent young man and about to condemn me to life imprisonment; just at that very moment Sasha’s countenance will dramatically change, and instead of being the pitiful victim of a rape, she’ll suddenly start screaming and shouting, and run across to where I’m standing; and embracing and kissing me, she’ll say ‘No! No! Please don’t send him down your honour! I love him so. I love him so, so much. He’s my secret agent.’ And turning to me she’ll start kissing me passionately and she’ll say ‘I love you X. I always have done. I just wanted to punish you for being a cheat.’ There officers, that’s the explanation.’
The officers started to laugh good humouredly at this for a few minutes. Then with a smile on his face the gov. said
‘X, I really am ready to believe you – I mean this tale of love between you and miss Stanton or Sasha as you say she’s called. But can you prove it? I mean you may have convinced me and Price here, but what about a jury? How will you convince them?’
‘I’ll warn you X’ interjected Price, ‘I’m telling you she’s going to stick to her story in court. You’d better have something up your sleeve to catch her out in her lies.’
‘That won’t be hard gentlemen, it’ll be no problem at all. If she says she doesn’t know me, I can prove her to be a liar. I can prove we’ve been intimate before.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. I mean if we’d never met before how would I know she’s got a tat on her left breast.’
‘A tat? Don’t you mean a tattoo X? They only say tat in America; or least ways on American cop shows.’
‘I mean a tat gentlemen or a tattoo; have it as you please, but the point is I’ve seen it and kissed it a hundred times before and if she has to get her tits out in court to prove my statement then so be it.’
‘Is that right X? Hey I’ve never heard of this before have you Price. It sounds like something out of an American cop show. You know Price, where the detectives investigate the murders of a series of lap dancers, and they have to go to all these strip joints and it turns out all the victims had tattoos on their private bits and only those who slept with them would know it. But anyway tell me X’ said the gov changing tack, ‘if you two were just making out in a train toilet, why were you doing it with a mask on?’
‘Because Sasha likes me to do it with a mask on’ said I. ‘All day long she’s been nagging me ‘arrh! Wear the mask X, wear the mask, it’s such a turn on for a girl.’ And I’m like ‘Oh give over girl, I’m not wearing any silly mask’ and she’s saying ‘oh go on!’ And I’m like ‘No it’s not happening and there’s an end of it.’ Well anyway Sasha’s really disappointed, but actually this is all just a little ploy by me and later I slip the mask on and Sasha’s like ‘Argh! Argh! A masked man is trying to rape me!’ And I’m making growling noises and molesting her and she’s screaming her head off but she’s really thrilled and then suddenly she realises it’s just me and in a moment of deep, deep emotion for her she says in this really grateful voice ‘oh X thank you so much, oh that’s so lovely. I love you X, you’re the best.’ There officers what more do you want me to say.’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ the officers chuckled. ‘Secret agent X, I don’t think we need to know anything further in this case, do we now Price.’
‘No gov, not at all.’
‘Then let’s move on. Secret agent X I wanted to personally thank you for telling us precisely where you lived.’
‘I’ve got nothing to hide gentleman’ said I.
‘I know, I know X, and for this reason I wanted to thank you for making my life very, very easy, and telling us where you lived. Now a couple of officers along with myself and Price here had a look around your house this afternoon, as well as your hotel room, and well, there’s just one question that we’ve got to ask you about X.’
‘What?’ said I
‘Tell him Price.’
‘Yes gov. Secret agent X we found a stash of what I’ll call soiled ladies garments under the bed of your house. In full a total of 43 ladies bras, 30 pairs of ladies underwear (of which twelve were identifiable as thongs); also what appeared to be used sanitary towels and tampons. As well as, I have to say, a total of seventy-eight porn magazines stuffed full of photos of women with naked breasts.’
‘It’s not against the law to look at pictures of women with naked breasts’ I said guiltily. For some reason they were making me feel guilty about this.
‘Okay X it’s not. But the dirty knickers and bras, the soiled tampons and sanitary towels? X what is this all about?’
‘Sorry detective but I don’t understand the relevance of the question’ said I.
‘X, let me explain’ said the governor. ‘As soon as I saw the piles of ladies underwear, my first thought was evidence. Isn’t that right Price.’
‘Absolutely Gov. You said to me ‘Price, secret agent X has collected so much evidence here – that’s what all these bras and knickers amounts to – it’s evidence.’
‘Precisely’ said I. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Well it’s just some people might not see it that way, X’ he said suggestively. (Reader he was suggesting something.)
‘I’m sorry but I don’t understand’ said I questioningly.
‘X’ said Price ‘some people might think you’re a pervert – a knicker thief.’
I was slowly coming to realise what they were suggesting. I just sat there in silence a few moments, abstractedly thinking and trying to come to terms with what they were saying. Reader, they were suggesting I was some sort of bra thief, that I went round stealing women’s underwear. A little tear began to form in my eye. When I thought about how I was out 24/7 saving the asses of these two butheads I felt really quite angry that I should be thus accused. I mean after all the hard work I put in, after all the dangerous missions I undertook to gather these vital pieces of evidence in order to safeguard the nation, Joe Public and stupid sods like these – and now these dirty slurs against my name? Yet the truth was that, when I thought about it, I could genuinely see it from their point of view; I could genuinely see how it might look like I was some sort of dirty women’s underwear thief; how it might appear that I was some deranged weirdo who loved sneaking into women’s bedrooms, and groping around in their underwear drawers and fondling all the frills and laces and then running off with all their dirty panties, all those dirty, dirty panties, which I loved to put my head into and kiss – and all to give myself a cheap and dirty sexual thrill. I could really see it.
‘Look gentleman’ I said reasonably, ‘I’m going to be honest with you because I don’t want to waste your time. I can genuinely see that it would be easy to get the impression that I’m a knicker stealing pervert; but nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘Secret agent X, I hope you don’t mind me asking’ said the gov, ‘but when was the last time you had a girlfriend. In fact let me scrap that question and ask you a simpler one. X have you ever had a girlfriend.’
‘Lots’ I replied. ‘I’ve had hundreds of women in my time.’
‘X you stud’ said the governor. ‘Putting my hand upon my heart X, I’ve got to admit I’m quite envious. I’ve never made it past double figures as far as women are concerned. So tell me something about your amorous adventures X.’
‘I don’t kiss and tell officers’ I said smugly.
‘You’re a man of honour are you X?’
‘Sure, I don’t take part in men’s room gossip. Not me. Look’ I said finally ‘I love women and I’ve had loads of them – all the colours of the rainbow.’
‘Well that’s certainly true’ said the governor. ‘You’ve had an ‘amorous encounter’ with both an English girl and a Muslim women. You certainly like to sample all the dishes on the table. But X you know there’s something that doesn’t quite fit in all of this. You’re not exactly handsome X, I mean you’re no looker now are you, so why are all these women so attracted to you?’
‘Price said I was a dashing secret agent and stud before’ I said angrily.
‘I know kid but he was lying. Now I don’t think women would be very interested in you X, real-life secret agent though you may be.’
‘You obviously don’t understand women then detective. If a man has a certain magnetism about him – well bob’s your uncle, you can seduce women at will.’
‘Shall I tell you something secret agent X’ said Price. ‘Do you know what my first thoughts were when I saw your face? Do you want to know X? I thought, oh here we go, we’ve got an honest to goodness pervert on our hands here. Look at him would you – he’s a class A pervert.
‘How dare you call me a pervert’ I said standing up and shouting ‘how dare you make such allegations.’ I was really incensed.
‘Pervert!’ cried Price ‘wearing those John Lennon glasses, you’re a sicko son.’
‘How dare you judge people based on looks’ I said. ‘This is an outrage. This is profiling and it’s wrong. Next you’ll be saying that a Muslim in a veil and habit is a terrorist. You disgust me detective, you disgust me.’
‘Pervert!’ taunted Price.
‘Alright, alright Price’ said the governor. ‘Lay of the poor lad would you. Sorry X, sorry that was out of order. Now come on sit down X; and you Price button it – is that any way to treat one of our secret agents?’
‘Detective can I get a smoke’ I said downheartedly.
‘Against the regulations I’m afraid son. Do you want some gum? Price give the secret agent some gum. There you go son you get stuck into that.’
I took the gum and chewed awhile; they did likewise. After a few moments
‘Officers I’ve had enough of this. I want you to call my boss.’
The detectives looked at me slowly and then at each other a moment, and then the governor slowly took out his mobile phone; I typed in the number saying ‘I think that’s the number chaps – it’ll get you straight through to head of operations – I’ll be out of here in a heartbeat.’
‘Who should I ask for?’ said the governor genuinely curious.
‘Ask for 713’ I said smugly ‘he’ll get me out of this.’
They rang the number. We all three of us listened. But nobody answered. Was 713 not carrying his mobile? It didn’t make any sense whatsoever.
‘Well’ said the governor finally. There’s no one at home. Perhaps in the meantime you can tell me what happened on the tube. Now I’ve got reports that you opened fire and were in hysterics; and I’ve got a tearful Muslim lady, who barely speaks a word of English, telling me that you held a gun to her head and attempted to rape her.’
I shook my head at all this.
‘You disagree X?’ said the gov. ‘Well then perhaps you’d like to explain.’
‘Officers’ I said ‘you know me, I don’t lie. I’ve got nothing to hide. I always tell it how it is and I’ll do the very same now, even if in your view and in the view of others it appears that I was at fault and that I was the dangerous one.’
‘Listen’ I said ‘I was in position patrolling the underground – I’ve got word that a strike is imminent. Anyway a Muslim women wearing veil and habit gets on with big bags containing I don’t know what. Anyway I think to myself that’s just a Muslim women; some people would immediately jump to the conclusion that it’s a terrorist, but I don’t go in for any of that profiling lark, and I’m just standing there minding my own business. Anyway we’re pulling into Kings Cross station and all of a sudden that Muslim lady runs to the centre of the aisle, takes out a gun and fires it, and announces ‘I’m an al-queada agent. Everybody off the tube. I don’t wish to be alarmist but I’m a suicide bomber.’ This last was said really cynically and he started cackling ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ really evilly. And I’m like, ‘shit this is crazy man,’ and all of a sudden I’m running up to the terrorist and I’ve flawed him and we’re wrestling around on the floor. And as we’re fighting he’s saying ‘Jihad! Jihad! I hate the west, you’re all vermin.’ And I’m saying ‘no-ooo terrorist, you’ll never destroy us.’ And he’s saying ‘English women are all slags, they’re all just getting their breasts out for the cameras all the time.’ And I was really shocked by these words and said ‘that’s shocking to say that terrorist. How dare you insult our English roses. You’re just a women hater.’ And anyway we’re wrestling around on the floor and I’m starting to think to myself is this terrorist not just getting his cheap kicks out of fondling me like this, when all of a sudden he drops the gun. The next thing I know his hands are on my privates – he’s feeling them and then all of a sudden he’s punched them or something and I’m out for the count. Anyway I recover and pick up the gun with the intention of bringing it to you guys. Yet just as I’m running I suddenly think ‘shit! I’ve been done by the terrorist. He’s fitted me up. Because he’s wearing a veil like me, he’ll say that I fired the gun and harassed him. My finger prints are on the gun and I’m thinking to myself oh-no!…..’
‘X, X, X, X, X’ said the governor getting impatient. ‘Dear me that’s a load of bull. X for Heaven’s sake it was a women whom you ‘wrestled’ with, we know that. Why are you saying it was a man?’
‘It was a man dressed up as a women’ said I growing confused. ‘No hang on it was a women dressed up as a women but putting on a man’s voice. Anyway the point is that she molested me – she touched my privates. I was raped.’
‘Oh X this is really pitiful’ said the gov. ‘Do you know how serious this is? We’ve got a Muslim women downstairs crying her eyes out, traumatised and in shock, an Iranian women, barely speaks a word of English, been here for two weeks visiting her son, on her way back to Iran tomorrow, and she claims that you held a gun at her head and started groping at her. Now please try and understand the serious nature of the incident X. That women is not a terrorist, nor either is she a man, though we haven’t checked that out thoroughly as you did; but either way X this is serious. We’ve been inundated with all sorts of phone calls from the press, my officers are being accused of stripping down a Muslim women at gun point, I’ve got the Muslim council of Britain on the phone wanting to know what the hell’s going on, I’ve got Iranian translators and diplomats here. But most of all I’ve got a terrified women. Now she says that you molested her at gun point. Why the disparity in story?’
‘It’s simple officers’ said I ‘there’s always two sides to every story. Haven’t you ever heard of that? Look’ I continued ‘as far as I’m aware the whole thing was caught on camera. Study the tape chaps. It’ll show her on top of me pointing her gun at my head.’
‘X, you’re a liar.’
‘Not at all’ said I calmly. ‘In fact I’ll be happy to take a lie detector test. I mean don’t get me wrong detective, no doubt my description of events is not perfectly the truth of what happened, I’ll have subconsciously glossed over some things in my favour it’s true; but still, by and large my account is accurate – and if she’s saying otherwise, well, she’s either a good liar or a deluded psychopath.’
‘I’m getting sick and tired of all this. You son have molested a Muslim women at gun point and that’s done nothing for relations with the Muslim community.’
‘Can I ask you’ said Price ‘have you got something against Muslims?’ said he accusingly.
‘Absolutely not’ said I, ‘I’ve got hundreds of Muslim friends; they’re just average Joes like you or I – I don’t see why you have to keep regarding them as one homogenous group.’
‘Name one of your Muslim friends’ persisted Price.
‘I’ve got hundreds of them’ said I. ‘Lots. There’s the family that runs the newsagents round the corner – I don’t know their names, but they like me…… actually perhaps they’re Hindus? I don’t know…. look, I’ve got hundreds of Muslim friends. Loads.’
They looked at me accusingly.
‘Look’ I said ‘I’m not prejudiced against Muslims.’ And then thinking awhile: ‘would I like Zinediene Zidane if I was a Muslim hater as you’re suggesting?’
‘I think we’ll leave that one there’ said the governor. ‘X do you mind if I start calling you by your real name now?’
‘You don’t know my real name: it’s top secret.’
‘Your real name is Anthony Hughes’ said Price ‘and from what we can tell you’re a piece of dole scum.’
‘How dare you call me a piece of dole scum’ I said angered.
‘We had a good nosey around your flat Anthony’ said the gov. ‘We talked to some of your neighbours as well. They said you were the nicest man in the world. ‘That boy’s got such a sweet little face’ said one woman. It was then that we knew you were a deranged, psychopathic pervert. But Anthony tell me, why do you hate the police so much, what have you got against us?’
‘I don’t hate the police.’
‘It seems to us you do.’
‘I’ve got a theory’ said Price.
‘Oh yeah?’ said the gov.
‘Yeah’ and he pulled out a little document.
‘What’s that?’ said the gov.
‘It’s an application form to join the police force from one Anthony Hughes a.k.a. secret agent X.’
‘What does it say Price? Read the personal statement.’
He cleared his throat mockingly. ‘I have always wanted to be in the police force since I was young because I love chasing people and arresting them and wearing a uniform and firing a gun, and I want to join MI5 and be a secret agent and fight terrorists and I always watch police dramas on the TV like ‘The Bill’ or ‘the Shield or ‘CSI’ and I’m always way ahead of the people and can solve the mysteries really faster than them. And once I was in a shop and a woman says that man over there’s stole a Mars bar and I said which one and she said the one with the naughty face and the earring and I said I’m gonna go and arrest him and she said eeh don’t son he’s a real nasty pasty and I said a crimes a crime and ran up to him and said did you steal a Mars bar and he said no of course not I don’t need to steal and then I said so what’s that then and picked the Mars bar out of his pocket and he started running off and then I rang the police and they came and the officers said I’d been really clever and was like another Poiret.
‘And another time a dog was swimming in a lake and a man shouted a ducks drowning over here and I jumped in and started to try and save the duck and anyway I picked it out and it was just a carrier bag and then I ran after the man and I caught him and he said I thought it was a duck drowning honestly and I said I’ve got wet pants now and he said I was just testing you son, in case there’s an emergency – honestly kid you’re gonna go far, you’re a real hero.’
The detectives burst out into laughter.
‘Price, I cannot understand how secret agent X here, slipped through the net. Reading that I’d say your officer material son.’
I had also been laughing alongside the detectives.
‘Please gentleman, I’m a lot more sophisticated than that. If you want to think I’m some sort of failed wannabe police officer that’s fine. You people are so easy to fool.’
‘X are you suggesting’ said the governor in mock archery ‘that this was only a rouse on your part; it was another one of your undercover aliases?’
‘Precisely’ said I. ‘If I remember correctly it was all in aid of a mission I was trying to mount. If you want to think I’m simple so be it. It’ll be your funeral.’
‘Anthony can I ask you’ said Price ‘were you abused as a boy?’
‘No’ I said guiltily – I wasn’t sure why I felt guilty.
‘Are you sure about that?’ said the governor. ‘It’ll work well in your defence X, you’re looking a bit fragile at the moment I’m afraid to say. You could do with a sympathy vote. And according to this, you spent several years in foster care and children’s homes, your parents having died when you were two, before you were eventually adopted by Ted and Jessica Hughes.’
I burst into tears.
‘X, were you abused as a boy’ said the governor gently.
‘I’m no pervert’ said I through my tears.
‘No of course not, but did nasty people do nasty things to you? Talk to me X. Tell me about it.’
‘I wasn’t abused’ said I, suddenly shaking off the tears and recovering myself.
‘Look, I’m getting sick and tired of this detectives. Any minute now my boys up at special branch will call in here, explain the situation fully and I’ll be going home. I’m sick and tired of your questions.’
‘Okay’ said Price. ‘We’ll leave you alone. But just let me ask you one final thing X. Just one thing? Do you genuinely believe you’re a secret agent, hand upon your heart?’
I took a long hard look at Price before finally blowing air out of my mouth in impatience. Finally I shook my head, giving up on him and said to the governor ‘I’ve had enough of this now.’
‘X, I genuinely believe you when you say that. You honestly do believe you’re a secret agent. Hmm? I don’t know whether you’re a fool or a clever one, whether you’re dangerous or harmless; all I can say with certainty is that you’re quite simply mad.’
‘We’re all guilty of being a bit mad from time to time’ said I wisely and philosophically (the detective, despite his years, had not my wisdom in this particular).
‘What one person considers as mad another may consider as seine’ said I pursuing the subject. ‘If you want to say I’m mad detective so be it, you’re entitled to your opinion; but in my walk of life, in my profession, when you get to spy on people on a daily basis; when you study people and watch how they live from day to day you get to see that in lots of ways they’re all mad. In short, that the entire human race is.’
‘You know X your obviously quite an intelligent, well-informed and thoughtful chap.’
‘Of course’ said I ‘remember detectives I was four years studying at the academy.’ ‘What academy?’
‘The academy of the secret service; the one especially set up to counteract the new terror threat.’
‘Hmm?’ said the gov.
‘But you know detective’ I said ‘going back to you’re discussion on madness, well, what do we really know? I mean when I see blue you could be seeing red and vice versa; but how will we ever be able to tell? There’s a Chinese story – I don’t remember what it’s called – about a police inspector who has to work out the truth of events, by listening to their accounts, of an incident between a man and a woman in which the woman claims to have been raped and the man said otherwise. And in the end the policeman comes to the conclusion that he’ll never know the truth. That in fact truth is something almost ethereal that is difficult to capture and which escapes one. Like a vapour, which once given off, quickly diffuses throughout the air. That truth is no more than an abstract concept and that two people, neither of whom may be deliberately lying, will give totally conflicting accounts of the same events.’
‘No I haven’t’ said Price thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know what to make of you X, I really don’t.’
‘Come on, let’s get out of here’ said the governor and saying the words to the tape recorder, terminated the interview. Standing up he said finally to me
‘You know X on another day I could have really liked you. I mean honestly I could listen to you all day, you’re intelligent, interesting and amusing. But as things stand you’ve molested an Iranian women and caused a right brou ha ha with the Muslim community; and you’ve assaulted miss Heather Stanton, who is by the way still in hospital, shocked and traumatised by what you did to her. You have a think about that Anthony. For now it’s goodbye. And one final piece of advice. Sex offenders aren’t that popular in prison; but sex offenders who attack Muslims – well they’re gonna love you in there X. My advice son – get yourself a nice big chastity belt; you’re gonna need it. Alright Price shake hands once more with the secret agent.’
‘Gentlemen’ I said, standing and shaking their hands ‘we’re on the same side here you know. In the fullness of time you’ll come to see that.’
‘Cheers X’ they said and went out. I was taken back to my cell where I waited some fifteen minutes when I heard a knock. It was the governor with a man in a beard.
‘X’ said the governor somewhat shocked and taken aback. ‘I…I…I don’t know what to say’ he stammered ‘I owe you an apology…… you truly are a secret agent. I’m sincerely sorry. 713 is here to see you.’
‘Secret agent X what on earth have you been up to old chap? Fondling females again? Aye boy? Tut! Tut! Tut! You should be concentrating on doing your duty. This has gone tits up my son. Anyway when we got word of what had happened I flew here directly to get you out of the situation. I’ve spoken with the chief inspector here; I’ve cleared it X, we’re ready to go – the choppers on the roof.’
I walked over to 713.
‘713’ I said ‘why are you just detective Price with a beard on? Gentlemen this is really feeble’ said I dryly. ‘Go on get out of here and leave me in peace to do my meditations. You people think it’s all a game don’t you.’ They departed.
***********************************
From what I later learnt, at the time of the tube incident the media and general public were very much in the dark as to what had happened, though believe me everyone was going crazy for it. The most central thing that everyone knew was that a Muslim women had been forced to strip naked at gun point. To that end Muslims were (reported to be!) up in arms. Other people spoke of a Muslim women firing a gun on the tube and several people said that there were two shots fired whereas others swore that there were three or even five. No one really appeared to know, eye witness accounts varied, people were saying two Muslims took control of the tube and were going to blow themselves up; others claimed it was a terrorist dressed up as a Muslim women who for some reason was targeting another Muslim women; and yet others insisted that a secret agent had been there; that in fact he was dressed up as a Muslim women and that a terror attack had been thwarted. Amateur and rather sketchy and inconclusive videos of the events appeared on the internet soon after and it seemed to show two Muslim women grappling with a gun and shots being fired. No one seemed to know who was doing what and to who, whether these people were a secret agent and a terrorist or terrorist and innocent bystander. And MI5 and the secret service had been asked ‘was this a special operation with a secret agent in place?’ and they denied it all, and this made people only the more suspicious, and everyone was speculating on conspiracy theories and the secret service.
Yet events seemed to take a spin for the worse and to start focusing in one direction, when a man – presumably a police puppet – claiming to be the son of the terrorist I’d tackled came out saying that his mother had been molested at gun point by a mad man. This was the day after. And eventually that same evening, the police issued a statement giving more details of what they believed to have had occurred, desperate to kill out the stink of bad publicity they’d received for stripping naked a Muslim woman at gun point and to end all the speculation as regards the internet videos.
Reader to this very day, I have been unable to fathom why the powers that be decided to go the way they went, why they sold me out so completely even to the extent of releasing my photo once more. For whatever reason it was however, I accept it; for it is my duty. There are greater things in this world, such as the well-being of a nation, than my very own life, and saddened though I was to see the shocking lies printed about me, I saw the bigger picture and accepted my fate. Reader, though I didn’t much like it at the time, I can now relate it to you with somewhat comic indifference. The general story went that I was a deranged psychopath, who liked dressing up as a woman – please don’t laugh – and in a bid to seek attention fired a gun on a tube train, and then proceeded to assault, molest and hold at gun point an innocent Muslim lady who I claimed was a terrorist. Needless to say, with a story like that, the media had a field day. A photo of me appeared on the front of all the newspapers and on all the news stations, looking, I have to admit, more like a total pervert than a secret agent, and when it was aired on the TV as headline news it was accompanied by the most dramatic and shocking news music. I’ll give you some of the headlines from the time.
The Daily Telegraph: ‘Veil wearing lunatic sparks diplomatic row with Iran.’ The Independent: ‘PM to fly to Iran to make public apology.’ The Guardian: ‘Madman causes hysteria in crowded tube train.’ The Sun: ‘Muslim molester kicks off world war three with Arab nations.’ The Daily mirror: ‘Psycho transvestite to get life for molesting Iranian woman.’ The Washington Post: ‘Even Bush outraged by antics of the London Muslim molester.’ The Daily Star: ‘Big Bruv star in three way sex romp with Chuckle brothers.’
And the Sun really seemed to have it in for me. There was a campaign by them to hand me over to Iranian custody. Their columnists were saying I should be beheaded, and there were headlines such as ‘send the sicko to Iran to be hanged.’ And as well as the pictures of me on the front page looking like a perve, if you turned to pages two and three there were images of me all over it looking very dodgy and plonk next to a women with naked plastic breasts smiling for the camera. And her little contribution was ‘I think sickos like that should be locked up for life.’ And in the ensuing days, once the photos had done the rounds, lots of women came forward and sold their stories to the papers in such headline hitting news as ‘I was stalked by the Muslim molester’ or ‘I got perverted poison pen-letters from the Muslim molester.’ And with all these articles there was a picture of the girl in question. Some of these I recognised as people I’d followed in anti-terror raids; others I’d never seen before and were simply attention seekers; and of all these women quite a few were good enough, in the interests of the better understanding of the story, to take of their clothes and bare their breasts for the camera.
And in addition to all this I’ve been receiving poison-pen letters myself and also some death threats from people purporting to be from Muslim groups. White people seem to hate me just as much if not more for my antics, and reader, if there is one piece of good news to come out of all this, it’s that everyone, Muslim and non-Muslim alike seems to have united against me. The Muslim council of Britain denounced me as an ‘outrageous pervert,’ politicians came out calling me deranged and sick, women’s rights groups were quick to bad mouth me and a procession of some three hundred or so Muslim women marched through the streets of London in protest; and in rank and file, their arms linked with their English sisters and indeed by other women of different races all come to show their support, these women marched forth and asserted their rights, and believe me all the colours of the rainbow were present; and as they marched hand in hand, they bore signs reading ‘we hate the Muslim molester’ ‘The Muslim molester is evil: women be warned!’ and my personal favourite, the rather simple but effective ‘kill the Muslim molester.’ And next to these placards there was my picture, and they also carried little effigies of me which they burnt. And by and large everybody seemed to have it in for me, and as I left police custody and was taken to a cell a large crowd had gathered to jeer and spit at me and denounce me as a pervert; a few of whom were Muslims, but by and large these people were white English.
Yet not quite everybody was against me. There is an ever growing movement of people in this country and around the world who believe that this whole thing was a government conspiracy and that I was sold out by the powers that be and the secret service; a growing movement; though nevertheless I have to concede that it’s mainly made up of deluded sad cases who’ve got nothing better to do with their time.
When I got to prison they wanted to shove me in with the sex offenders. I was having none of that and told the officers there was no way in this world I was going to spend a night with those sickos, and I moved into the general prison population. From the start I was treated like a sex toy, with every prisoner having a feel of me and beating me besides; and though the Imam there said I was a harmless fool and should be forgiven for my actions, later on out of his sight, two naughty Muslims held me over the railings of the second floor; they held me by the ankles and shook me and I really thought I was going to fall head first onto the floor; and as they thus suspended me they told me that if I ever messed with a Muslim women again I’d be history; and since when I told the guards about this they refused to listen to me, I decided enough was enough and moved back in with the sex offenders.
So I moved there and am there till this day. And in order to fit in with my surroundings, it’s been necessary to dress up as a women and live in a cell with a man I met, who was very kind to me from day one. We started living together and we get along so well. And I mean…. well…..look he’s not exactly what you’d call handsome but…..look I don’t know…..it’s just….well….how can I say it…….reader, I married him! In a small civil service with just a few guests did we thus tie the knot. And you know it seems like the perfect union. And he’s always telling me how much he loves me, how I’m better than his wife and that he’d never go back to her. And I love to hear this. I really do. Yet people have been whispering in my ear telling me he says that to everyone and that he’s still seeing his wife behind my back. I determined to have it out with that bitch; to tell her to back off my man, that she’s hopeless in bed and that he doesn’t love her and never has. Yet each time I’ve picked up the phone to say this to her, I simply haven’t been able to get the words out and I merely remained on the phone line saying nothing and just breathing heavily.
But of course all of this as you well know it reader is a mere act of mine in order to fit in with the surroundings and as each day goes by I’m working on ways, legal and otherwise, by which to get out of this place and return to active duty. For the world at present is in great peril, we live in terrible times and my sort are very much required out there. Yet do not have fear my friend. Trust me there are many of us out there, many like myself, out there at this very moment doing the exact same secret surveillance as I have described to you here in this brief memoir. And incidentally I should say that it was never my intention with this memoir of mine to try and paint a one sided account of events in my favour, as some people would have done; rather I simply intended to give you the bare facts and let you make up your own mind. And the queen if you are reading maam, you’ve been a bit lazy with the telegram. But anyway.
Believe me reader no matter what it takes I intend to get back out on patrol; and there, with my hard work and diligence to duty I intend to make a better, safer world for all; a world where people need have no fear of madmen and lunatics; a world where citizens can sit in the comfort of their own homes without worry; a world where women can walk the streets alone at night without fear. Adieu for now reader. X.