Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death! Page 5

  For the first time in its dubious existence, credits cards were accepted, although untraceable cash remained the most popular means of payment.

  Among the niche markets hitherto unexploited was that of catering for those in their advanced years. Product awareness classes were, and still are, held at various old folks’ and retirement homes to explain the benefits of modern technology, usually requiring a good supply of long life batteries manufactured by, appropriately, a company using a rabbit in their advertising. Special discounts are given on pensioner days as well as to full-time professional people as an incentive to join the Loyalty Club (something of a contradiction, all things considered), for which no personal details are required, just regular visits or bulk orders. Even coffee, tea and biscuits are provided in a bead-curtained back room so that undecided or confused customers can examine prospective purchases or receive practical and sympathetic advice from ‘our discreet and experienced staff’.

  Once word got around, patrons were soon scurrying along the alley into the shop in their hundreds. Designs for new garments (under the Lady Cynthia trademark) have exceeded all expectations and are constantly being improved following customer questionnaires and personal recommendations.

  There are even plans for developing two web sites, one for the general public (safesexisus.com) and the other (forgottenhowtodoit.com) for elderly surfers. Enquiries are flooding in from all parts of the world and discussions are well under way for clothing production to shift to Taiwan.

  Every customer appreciates Cynthia’s candid approach to business and she enjoys helping them overcome their problems. She doesn’t mind whether it’s a nervous newlywed or a seasoned professional. Ultimately, they all want the same thing; it’s only the means by which they achieve it that makes them different, and being on first-name terms with most of her regulars (although she’s sure a few, like Cassie Nova, are assumed) helps promote a friendly, reliable service.

  Never having had experience of the behind-the-scenes aspects of shopping, Cynthia was intrigued by how purchasers differed. One person may buy a year’s worth of goods to satisfy the needs of a whole battalion of soldiers on active duty. Someone else’s year’s worth may comprise a single condom.

  Others, like that nice shy young woman, used to buy a twin-pack of ‘Buy-me-and-stop-one’ condoms only twice a month. She hadn’t been into the shop for quite a while. The last time she came in, she bought so many condoms that stock ran out; such a catastrophe had never happened before or since; no doubt the local population would witness a mini-boom in a few months time. Perhaps the woman had been preparing herself for motherhood but didn’t want to take the pill for health reasons, and the nylon nightie and matching underwear would have the desired effect when the right moment presented itself. Although it can be amusing to speculate on individual client’s proclivities, Cynthia remains the soul of discretion.

  It was slightly odd that Cedric had never commented on her business interests. He was, after all, a judge of some standing despite, or because of, his advanced years. He also sat on countless official bodies and organisations, a fact which made his disinterest even more suspect. Unless it was because his associates felt uncomfortable discussing such matters as sex in their polite, anal-retentive society. Cynthia didn’t like pompous people with inflated opinions of themselves, especially since most had so little gumption and a surfeit of padding between their ears. The more important they made themselves out to be, the less bearable they became. And so out of touch with the realities of life!

  George Young was a rare exception (I wonder what his wife’s like?). He’s a nice man, discreet and trustworthy. She and Cedric often met him at police events and Cedric, who valued and respected these traits, had arranged (in fact, insisted on) George’s promotion to Chief Inspector by way of a thank you for his discrete involvement in resolving Cynthia’s shoplifting misunderstanding. But even George hadn’t mentioned her subsequent activities at SAFE; surely he had heard something of its vastly improved reputation?

  It begged the question: why? Almost everyone she knew, except Cedric and herself of course, was a parent. Marriages may have failed, but these people were still parents, and children don’t appear without some sort of conjugal activity. Furthermore, the whole business of sex doesn’t go away just because you’ve met your self-imposed quota or society’s requirements. Yes, it was very odd.

  She’d half expected Cedric himself to come through the door of the shop at any moment. But, on reflection, he wasn’t the sort of person to frequent such places as sex shops, or hunt around telephone boxes in search of casual liaisons; it just wasn’t him. What made things worse was that, with all the implements of mutual and personal satisfaction at her fingertips, she hadn’t the courage (some might call it brazenness) to even broach the subject of marital aids with him. He could be such a prude!

  Nevertheless, it was something of a puzzle that she’d seen him waiting at the taxi rank near Market Square quite often on Thursday afternoons when she went for a walkabout break from book keeping. She couldn’t for the life of her think why he should come into Wellingley so frequently after his morning sessions at the Priorton Court: his duties certainly did not extend to sessions in Wellingley; he would have mentioned it.

  Cedric, fast asleep and enjoying a highly interesting dream, gave a long moan of satisfaction. Cynthia looked down at the still handsome, if rather careworn, face nestled in her arms and smiled. Pity about the wasted years. The question was: should she cancel the lunchtime party with the Easons and Youngs next week?

  No. It would do Cedric good to get to know them better on a more personal level. There were other reasons, not least that there had been so little excitement recently in her husband’s life. Nothing significantly out of the ordinary ever happened to him. Or her, for that matter. Or to Priorton itself, come to think of it.

  A mundane life is all very well for some people, but not for Lady Cynthia Foot-Wart.

  Something exciting needed to happen before her clock stopped ticking.

  V

  Police Constable Bud Blossom propped his 1957 regulation-issue Raleigh Superb police bicycle against the double yellow-lined kerb outside Hardman’s (Ironmongers of Priorton, established 1923) in High Street. It promptly fell over.

  Undeterred, he rested it against a nearby No Parking sign and removed the clips from his trousers before entering the store. The bell hanging from a bracket above the door jingled merrily to announce his arrival. A head popped up from beneath the counter.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Constable Blossom,’ said Isaac Hardman with the slightest hint of dismay. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever,’ replied Blossom, affronted. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong. I uphold the Law, not break it. You oughta know that by now.’

  Isaac sighed. Try again.

  ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I need a grinder thingy for me `lectric drill. Got one?’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Grindin’ of course.’

  ‘What did you want to grind? Knives? Cast iron? Wheat?’

  ‘Didn’t know there was a difference. Show me what yer got.’

  Isaac dutifully obliged by reaching a selection of blister-packed grindstones from the shelves behind the counter. PC Blossom, never one to throw money away, chose the cheapest.

  ‘That’ll do. How much?’

  ‘How much does it say on the back?’

  ‘Two shillings. Been here a while, then.’

  ‘Let’s call it ten pence.’

  ‘New or old?’

  ‘Do you have ten old pence on you? No, I thought not. Then it’ll have to be ten new pence.’

  Uncertain of whether he’d bagged a bargain, been diddled or would pay the correct amount, Blossom removed a coin from his flip-open leather purse and handed it to Isaac.

  ‘Much obliged, Mr Hardman. Goodbye.’

  A car had parked near his bike. He was about to apprehend the driver for parking in front
of a No Parking sign when fifty-something Chief Inspector George Young, clutching a bunch of flowers, left the florist’s next door to Hardman’s and headed towards him. Blossom jumped smartly to attention and saluted.

  ‘This your car, sir? Just keeping an eye on it, sir. Can’t be too careful these days!’

  He leapt off the kerb and opened the driver’s door. George nodded to Blossom and got into the passenger seat. George’s wife Hilda was driving, not George.

  ‘Thank you, Blossom, very considerate, I’m sure,’ muttered George, slamming his door shut. God, that man gets on my nerves!

  PC Blossom, never one to miss an opportunity to ingratiate himself with a higher-up, closed the driver’s door, bent down, and pushed his face through Hilda’s open window.

  ‘Ma’am, pleasure to see you. Mind you watch how you go.’

  Hilda needed no second bidding. The car shot off, the rear offside wheel bouncing over Blossom’s left foot.

  Still saluting, he hobbled back to the bike and popped the grinding wheel into its front basket. He couldn’t wait to get back to his rented police house at Hemlock. He had something very important to do. It couldn’t wait any longer.

  PC Blossom was a strange character. Everyone who had met him came away with pretty well the same impression, although their carefully considered conclusions (usually formed within two seconds) varied from ‘idiot’ to ‘bloody mental’ and all points in between.

  No great surprise, then, that Bud was a loner. Not from his own choosing, but most people have at least some sense of self-preservation in the presence of an accident-prone oddball and take active and very quick steps to distance themselves from potential harm whenever possible. No one could be absolutely sure how he managed to enlist in the Police Constabulary in the first place but it had become something of a major public relations exercise to ensure he was kept as far away from civilisation as possible.

  The main problem with Bud was that he was keen. There’s nothing worse than an incompetent who is keen, but the Force had to steer clear of any possible case of victimisation brought against it. Consequently, his superiors were obliged to allow him to take part in every course for which he applied. The upside of this was that they maintained well documented reasons why he inevitably failed.

  His application to become a police marksman was a good case in point. He’d turned up at the indoor shooting range a day before the course began ‘to get in some practice’ dressed up as Rambo, complete with sleeves ripped off his shirt and camouflage streaks of orange lipstick (Poundstretcher didn’t stock brown or black) smudged all over his arms and face.

  The fact that he completely destroyed every target with a sub-machine gun in a matter of seconds did not make for an auspicious start. The additional fact that cleaners were picking up splinters and digging bullets out of the gallery ceiling and walls for several weeks afterwards was also noted in Bud’s thickening personnel file.

  The dog handling trials lasted little more than five minutes. Every one of the seven German Shepherds in the training arena took an instant dislike to him. Returning home with his clothes in tatters after receiving a tetanus jab was just one more minor setback.

  The requirement to enrol on a course in speed driving depends, primarily, on having a valid and unblemished full driving licence. This, above all else, is Bud’s main ambition. He relishes the idea of whizzing around country lanes and major roads in hot pursuit of criminals. It’s difficult giving chase to a high-powered BMW when all you have is a Sturmy Archer three-speed X bicycle, even with off-road tyres. Night time pursuits are even worse; the dynamo stops power to the headlamp whenever the ceiling comes to a halt, like at junctions.

  Bud has already sat thirteen driving tests and is ever hopeful of passing. He doesn’t mind paying for incidental damage caused to traffic signs, bollards, other vehicles and the occasional unwary pedestrian; it’s all invaluable experience.

  He still holds a grudge against Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart for revoking his provisional licence for six months (‘That should give your latest victim a chance to get back on his feet and jump out of the way when you’re next behind the wheel’); the sentence was rather harsh considering the man was walking the wrong way down a one-way street. Sir Cedric had insisted the sign applied to vehicles but Bud was adamant it applied to people as well.

  But Bud was not a quitter. His early childhood had taught him to make a stand against injustice, an opinion confirmed by the number of times he’d struggled back home after school barely able to see through blackened eyes. He strongly believed becoming a policeman was the only job for one so dedicated to uphold the Law and protect the weak. The weak may get injured in the process occasionally, but collateral damage has a habit of occurring when you least expect it . . . unless Blossom happens to be in the proximity.

  His name didn’t help. Bud was a cruel name to put in front of Blossom. He’d once asked his mother why she’d chosen that name when there were so many others available and offered to show her those in the Chambers English Dictionary.

  ‘You’re named after your father,’ Rose Blossom had told him when he was old enough to understand. ‘He was an American, stationed near here during a NATO exercise in the mid-seventies.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Probably back in America.’

  ‘How long was he here?’

  ‘About thirty minutes. Look, if you really want to know, we met at the Majestic Ballroom at Wellingley. We had a few drinks and he came back home with some cans. I don’t remember much detail, except that he said his family was one of the main brewers in the States. In fact, he gave me a can with his name on it: Bud Weiser. Said it was named after him. That’s how I knew what to call you when you arrived.’

  ‘Did you ever hear from him again? Did you tell him about me?’

  ‘No. Some things are best left alone.’

  Fed up with constantly being picked on at school as a namby-pamby mother’s boy with a stupid name, Bud spotted an advert in a Batman comic. If anyone could stop the bullying, it was Charles Atlas. It took him a while to save enough from his newspaper delivery round (there were only two dozen cottages scattered around his village, Hemlock, so pay was minimal) to purchase a Bullworker body building kit.

  It rapidly became a fixation. Bud embarked on a harsh training regime which successfully developed muscles in places where there had previously been goose pimples. The children at school no longer bullied him: in fact, he was able to repay, with interest, every single one of the harsh treatments meted out on him, some going back to his days at junior school. Unfortunately, the headmaster didn’t hold the same opinion and refused permission for him to return to the premises after he’d taken his GCSEs.

  His mother died before the results came out. They were just enough to satisfy police entrance requirements. Somehow, much to management’s surprise, he survived the probation period and was stationed to Priorton where, it was thought, the locals who knew his background might cut him a bit of slack.

  After a while, during which the potential costs between sacking him (and being subject to a wrongful dismissal appeal) and building a police house especially for him at Hemlock (with the proviso that his duties did not extend, and never would be allowed to extend, beyond a two mile radius of the property), were compared, it was recommended that the latter course of action be followed; the crossroads by the Watch Oak mark the eastern extent of his jurisdiction.

  There had, inevitably, been several occasions when PC Blossom overstepped the mark and prosecuted innocent people in Priorton (well outside the inclusion zone), his defence usually being that a policeman is never off duty. Even taking account of the cost of compensation to hush matters up, it was still reckoned to be cheaper than dismissing him.

  Bud fitted the grinder into the end of the Black and Decker electric drill, tightened the chuck and began the long, slow process of sharpening the edge of his old enamel scout camping dish. Splinters of white and blue paint flew in all directions ove
r the kitchen floor. Little by little, the safe, blunt edge became transformed into a lethal, sharp blade.

  Happy with the way it balanced perfectly in his hand, he sanded the flat surfaces with wet-n-dry sandpaper ready for painting with quick drying shiny aluminium paint. Just the job!

  While resting his swollen foot under a pack of frozen peas and enjoying an ASDA chicken curry Ready Meal washed down with a Bud Weiser beer, Bud Blossom absorbed the finer points of combat in a Xena: Warrior Princess video film. After dumping the remains in the bin and dirty crockery in the sink, he changed into a track suit, tossed the now-dry lethal plate into the handlebar basket and set off on his bicycle. He knew just the place to practice.

  It was a secret he’d managed to hide from everyone in the village, let alone distant colleagues in the force. Bud was a Dark Age junkie on a mission to destroy every one of the baddies in his vast collection of fantasy films. His rusty bike became a trusty steed, a broken washing line a whip and the police truncheon a mace. But what he desired most was a shakram, or the nearest thing to one he could make. That’s where the chipped enamel plate had come in useful. Regrettably, he’d never paid much attention in school metalwork classes so didn’t have the skill to make one with a proper shape, but the plate would do for now.

  The ancient Watch Oak stood, twisted and storm-damaged, behind a hedge near the sign post on the crossroads at the end of a narrow lane leading to Home Farm. Out of sight from prying eyes, Bud made the first tentative moves to transform the plate into a fully-functional shakram.

  The first effort, ejected from his hand like a frisbee, landed a mere two feet away. His second attempt was more promising, although it sliced through the front tyre of his bike. Good job the puncture repair kit was, as always, in the little leather bag dangling from the seat. He’d fix that later.