|
|
 |
|
10am "It’s the blackmail man" replied my visitor, obviously
in possession of keener hearing than the postman. "You’re a trifle early" I called back. "I know" he said, "but I’d heard you were having a spot
of bother and I thought I’d come round and wait. You know, just in case I
found something out while I was waiting. Something I could add to your
weekly account." "What do you mean?" I called to the front door (and, technically, a few inches beyond it). "My sources tell me you’re trapped in your lounge" replied the blackmail man. "Drawing room" I corrected. "I have a drawing room and a lounge for use at different times of the day and year and am currently trap… situated in the drawing room." "Trapped in your drawing room and will be unable to leave for some considerable time. No trips to the lavatory for secret purposes, no visits to Doctor Flapjack’s surgery for intimate procedures, no private viewings of video cassette tapes of a dubious nature…" "How dare you" I bellowed. "I find such allegations extremely insulting. I’ve half a mind to write to my solicitor and instruct him to begin an action for defamation of character. All my dubious… special interest video cassette tapes were transferred to digital storage media many years ago – I was something of a pioneer in that field. I only keep the video cassette tapes as back up copies and because I enjoy the feel of magnetic tape against my naked… for back up purposes only." "Can I come in and wait anyway?" asked the blackmail man. "No. It would be extremely unwise of me to compromise myself by letting you in." "But my information suggests you’d be grateful for another body in your drawing room. Someone to watch over things. Another pair of eyes. Someone you can always trust to act in someone’s best interests." He’d got me there – with Francois Devine too busy fussing over his paltry personal effects and his new found interest in hedonism, the blackmail man was a godsend. He’d scare off any hoodlums, tearaways, rapscallions and n’er-do-wells and no mistake. I let the blackmail man in and showed him into the drawing room. He took out his infamous black, leather covered journal and licked an expectant pen. That was the book which contained all the secrets in Bendaton and he guarded it with his life. Once and only once had someone attempted to get hold of that book and they awoke the next morning to find their pets had been hypnotised over night and had their personalities shuffled like a pack of cards. It was worse than being alone. At least when I was alone I had no one but the rather severe portrait of my Uncle Gaylord starring at me. The blackmail man’s eyes followed me everywhere as he waited for me to do something which he could use against me. His constant scrutiny took all the pleasure out of sorting books into chronological order. I was being dangerously radical and using the book’s setting as the chronology source when lead to many fascinating mental debates over when certain titles were set. Anyone can read a publishing date or determine when a title was registered by reading its ISBN but it takes real skill to unravel the mass of contradictory dating information contained within the text. I know what you’re thinking – surely such an exercise was stimulating enough to distract me even from the gaze of the blackmail man. Well, he’s the most successful blackmail man Bendaton has ever had and it wasn’t hard to see why. He saw everything, observed everything and you always knew that everything he saw and everything he observed was being processed. I had a calamitous moment when I dropped one of the books and made a desperate attempt to catch it. A paperback copy of the Creature From the Pit (it would be technically incorrect to refer to it by its Story code as that relates to the production process of which the tie-in novelisation is not part) slipped from my grasp and was recaptured half way down my body when I trapped it between my thighs. "Is that sexual?" asked the blackmail man just as my hand slipped between my thighs to retrieve the book. "Certainly not" I replied. "It looks quite sexual." "I can assure you it is not." "There is nothing wrong with being aroused by books" said the blackmail man. "Of course there is" I snapped. "It is wrong. In every way. Absolutely." "Just checking" he said, tipping me a wink. I thought that meant he never thought I had found gratification from putting a paperback copy of the Creature From the Pit between my thighs but when he got out a bottle of a generic brand of white liquid correcting fluid and began retracting something he’d written I realised only my eloquence had saved me from another weekly outgoing. I felt I’d won a small victory and allowed myself a tiny beam. "That looks like a sexual look to me" said the blackmail man. I disguised my beam as a bit of facial yoga and went back to my books. I finished my shelf and looked at it with as much pride as I could muster (which wasn’t much as I’d made one or two courageous decisions which, if the blackmail man saw them, he could hold over me by threatening to tell the Firkinside Doctor Who Circle of my theories). "Do you think" I began, shuffling round the subject in a cowardly way which would’ve appalled Uncle Gaylord, "you could hold the fort here while I pop out for a moment?" "I don’t think so" said the blackmail man. "All you’d have to do is make sure no one comes in and steals things" I explained. "But I want people to come in and steal things" replied the blackmail man. "If I catch someone in the act I’ll be able to put them in The Book and Bob’s your uncle." "You mean you wouldn’t try and stop them?" I gasped. "On the contrary – I’m putting serious thought to getting word out about your hole and setting up some kind of entrapment operation." Betrayed by the blackmail man. Who would’ve thought it?
|
