Chapter 25 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

25

Civilization is a conspiracy. Modern life is the silent compact of comfortable folk to keep up pretences.
John Buchan

They’d taken a taxi into town, not realising the Dog & Duck was only a 10 minute walk away from the Village until they’d passed it. The person most annoyed by this was Wilf; he felt it showed him in bad light that he’d forgotten something so elemental so soon in the campaign. He was hiding his embarrassment behind a mask of ill humour. They were gathered in a loose group round the corner to the pub; standing about disconsolately. At Wilf’s gruff command they looked at each other blankly; nobody moved.

"Fuck sake, Bill, you go," said Wilf.

"Why me?" asked Bill. He’d put on his best suit for the expedition and was reluctant to go into the pub; seedy being his immediate judgment on the place. "Why not send one of them?"

"Because I picked you," said Wilf, not to be gainsaid, "now get to it."

"You can’t boss me around," said Bill, clearly nervous, "Just because you've got some crazy name, I could be tough from the old days as well, you know." They all stared at him; Wilf snorted. "Well I could," Bill drew himself up to his full height, lower back pain be damned, "and in fact, the guys in the darts team called me 'Crazy Bill'."

"No they didn't," said Johnno. He would put money on this being a lie.

"They damn well did," said Bill, "Crazy Bill they called me."

"Why?" demanded Pete.

"What?" Bill looked uncomfortable, not expecting to be pinned to this level of detail.

"Why?" repeated Pete, "Why did they call you Crazy Bill?"

"Was it 'cause you ate someone?" asked Ron.

"Oi," snapped Wilf, "you promised not to mention that again."

Bill was fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Why?" pressed Johnno.

"Okay, okay…well, not everyone can put three Cadbury's crème eggs in their mouths at once, that's all I'm saying."

"Bloody hell's bells, Bill," snapped Wilf, "just get in there and scout the bloody place out. Then nip out here and tell us who’s in there."

Bill frowned, and recognizing that he’d seriously lost face, conceded he had no choice. He pushed out his chest and walked off. As soon as he was out of sight he slowed down and if he could’ve gone somewhere else without having to meet any of them again in his whole life then he would have done. He crossed the road and approached the pub, consumed with deep dread. Wilf had been adamant that his contact would be in the public bar, this was part of the reason Bill had been reluctant to go; he far preferred the saloon atmosphere. He gave the door a hard push. It gave more easily that he expected and he entered with a flurry, almost falling into a bare and squalid looking room.

Behind the bar was a big busted blonde with a heavily wrinkled face, stage make up and a space in her thin mouth where he could imagine a dangling cigarette. He scanned quickly round the room; two suits in the corner drinking fruit juices, and three young girls giggling down the other end of the bar.
He turned and left before the barmaid noticed him.

He approached his friends feeling quite chipper; he’d been on a reconnoitre and he’d come back with Intel.

"Good," said Wilf, on hearing his report, "we're here first. That will give us the upper hand if things get nasty."

"Eh?" Pete’s voice rose, "What does that mean?"

"You can't always tell with these blokes, sometimes they want the trade, sometimes they just want your money.” Wilf looked behind him, squinting, “we need to be careful, so look tough when you walk in, okay."
They stared at him and then at each other. "Show me your mean faces," he ordered.

Bill closed his eyes, how had he got involved in this? Ron had previous close knowledge of Wilf and what he knew did not lead him to think he could avoid complying; he frowned heavily and hunched his shoulders. Johnno followed suit. Pete managed a sneer.

Finally Wilf was satisfied and leading the way, walked across the road with a strut that had faded to a hobble by the time he got half way over.

He struggled the rest of the way, finally leaning up against the door jamb to catch his breath. He waited until the others joined him then pushed the door, almost falling in and Bill cursed himself for failing to give him the heads up.

Wilf recovered quickly, scowling and cracking his fingers, and then he patted his pocket, hoping to create the impression of a concealed gun. He rolled his shoulders then crossed the room to the bar, followed by Pete, swaggering and sneering, doing his Elvis roll. Ron, came up behind, frowning and snarling audibly. Johnno had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing and was walking quite naturally. Bill had adopted a cross between John Wayne and Robert Mitchum; not a good look.

The girls at the end of the bar fell silent, the suits in the booth both stared and the barmaid sprung into life, "What can I get you, darlin'?"

"Whiskey and ice," said Wilf.

"Same,” said Pete, even though he never touched the stuff.

"Beer," said Ron.

"Guinness," said Johnno.

"Orange juice," said Bill. They all stared at him. He looked blankly back. Ron made a face, such that Bill felt like punching him and then he got the picture, "Oh, Scotch." He said it with a swagger, adding, "on the rocks," for good measure.

They took their drinks and seated themselves at the back of the room, "Always keep your backs to wall," said Wilf, "You never know in this game."

In the corner the suits went back to their conversation, the girls went back to their giggling.

"What time will they be here?" asked Bill.

"Soon," stated Wilf, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

"I need to know what time,” this from Pete, getting agitated. “Only I promised Fiona I'd go to shopping with her."

Pete’s voice was quiet but firm, fear of Fiona outweighing fear of Wilf. She'd been furious when they'd waited for over an hour in the ornamental shrubbery for Alb and the others, who failed to turn up. She'd been convinced Alb had agreed to the meeting she'd suggested and it had been very hard to persuade her against seeking him out and to use her exact words,' giving him a piece of my mind'. The shopping trip had been arranged as a bribe almost.

"I said soon," snapped Wilf.

One hour later they were still sat in the same places, with the same drinks in front of them.

"What time did you agree they’d be here?" asked Bill.

"Soon," Wilf’s voice was a low growl. Ron shivered.

"I think it's pretty clear they’re not coming," said Johnno, bravely.

"It's all part of the game," said Wilf, "maybe something spooked them, sent them running, you never know in this business."

"Spooked them?" questioned Bill, "like what?"

"Like the pigs," Wilf spat out the word, "tricky bastards, always snooping around, could've been listening in on our confab."

"Really?" questioned Ron, disbelief in his tone. "How will we know if that’s what happened?"

"If Butch don't turn up then I'd say it's a sure bet that the filth rumbled us, he could be banged up right now for all we know."

Bill flashed a look at Johnno; Wilf was turning into someone else before their eyes. All this talk of guns and pigs and filth was quite out of character. Or at least out of sync with what he’d been presenting to the outside world.

"Cripes," said Pete, reverting to boy's own language.

“You lot sit put, I'll use the pay phone," said Wilf, "try to make contact again, see if I can work out what's going on." With that he slouched off in the direction of the pub pay-phone.

"Do you boys need another drink there, darlin'?" asked the bar maid, hailing Wilf as he passed by, obviously only waiting her opportunity, clearly irritated that they had only bought one drink each.

"Do you mind," snarled Wilf, lurching into the bar as he passed, "this is business."

"Okay deary, keep your wig on."

Wilf fiddled with his hair, and then dropped his hand with an aggrieved "fuck off." He dug out his dog-eared piece of paper and dialled.

"Butch?" said Wilf, responding quickly to the voice the other end, "Why ain't you here?"

"Who is this?"

"Flippin' 'eck Butch, it's me, 'Mad Dog', why ain't you down the 'D & D'?"

"'Cause I ain't a fuckin' prick like you, what the fuck do you think this is, Dog? Eh?"

"Butch," said Wilf desperately, "I need some....."

"Yeah I know, you need some stuff, you need some kit, 'cause you're gonna go play mercenaries in the jungle all over again, you're only eighty fuckin' four aren't ya', so no problems, I can see you now, charging around, 9 lb rifle, 60 lb pack blasting away at the Mau Mau in temperatures of fuck knows what...."

"Butch," snapped Wilf.

"No, you shut it, Wilfred."

"'Mad Dog'," corrected Wilf.

"'Mad Dog'!" yelled Butch, "Fuckin' 'Mad Dog'? Who the fuck you tryin'ta kid? An' stop callin' me Butch, I'm not the Butcher, anymore, am I? So get it fru your fick 'ead, my name is Warren. Warren fuckin' Tucker so fuck off. An' stop bloody phonin' me."
Wilf had the phone clamped to his ear; the slam as Butch hung up echoing down the line. He looked across the pub to his co-conspirators, smiled, then carried on talking into the dead phone.

"Why's he smiling?" asked Pete, "I thought we were meant to be looking mean."

Wilf carried on his imaginary conversation for a good ten minutes before hanging up and returning to the table, "They're not coming."

"Why not?" asked Pete, already unfolding his legs, seized up from sitting so long.

"Busies rumbled us," said Wilf, "We gotta get out of here."

"What? Straight away?" asked Johnno, he usually gave himself time to adjust to movement, and planned excursions and forays with great care.

"Place will be crawling with pigs," said Wilf, "leave your drinks, we gotta make a run for it."

"Running is not an option," said Bill, speaking for all of them.

They exited the pub, using their normal walks now that no-one was there to impress, and made their way to the bus stop. No thought of hiring a taxi now.

"When's the next one due?" asked Pete, mindful of Fiona’s promised shopping trip.

"5 minutes," said Johnno, peering up at the board.

"Is it our bus, though?" asked Ron.

"Don't bloody worry about that," said Wilf, maintaining the pretence, "we’ve gotta make as much distance between ourselves and this place as possible."

The pub door opened and the two suits strode over to their blue car, "You going to call it in Sarge?" asked the shorter of the two.

"Waste of time, I dunno where they get their info these days but this one was bollocks, fuckin' terrorists buying guns, who dreams up this shit? That's what I want to know."
 
Cheers

Arun






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