“Get away,” said Jack.
“True as true,” said Omally. “Then there’s the skateboarding, the sky diving and the riding of the big surf. Not to mention the North Sea oil drilling.”
“North Sea oil drilling?”
“I told you not to mention that.”
“Sorry.” Jack scratched at his hat. “Do you do any crop spraying at all?”
“Heaps, and Formula One motor racing too.” Omally pulled off his cycle clips and adjusted his socks. “And I’m judging the Miss World competition this afternoon.”
“That must be interesting.”
“Extremely,” said Omally. “As long as you don’t have to sit next to Tony Blackburn or Michael Aspel.”
The bus shuddered to a halt, regrouping its standing cargo at the front end in an untidy scrum. As the struggling passengers regained their feet and began to dust themselves down, the driver put his foot down and they all bundled towards the rear.
A lady in a straw hat fell upon Omally.
“Is this a regular occurrence?” he asked.
“Sometimes we lose one or two at the roundabout,” said Jack. “Although I don’t recall there ever being any fatalities.”
“What about that dwarf the fat butcher fell on last month?” said the lady in the straw hat.
“Oh yes, there was him.”
“And that Zulu who went up in a puff of smoke.”
“That was spontaneous human combustion. That could have happened anywhere.”
“This is my stop,” said Omally.
“It’s very nice,” said the lady in the straw hat. “How much did you have to pay for it?”
“Give my regards to Tony and Michael,” called Jack as Omally slipped off without paying.
The 65 bus swung over the Great West Road and headed south towards Brentford. In its path there might well have been a giant spider of outlandish proportions, its mutated mind set upon world domination. But upon this day, as upon others past, there wasn’t.
But this was to be the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life, although he still didn’t know it as yet.
The Tension Almost Reaches Breaking Point
“Good morning, Jack,” said Jack’s boss, Leslie. “And how is your lovely wife?”
Jack looked at his watch. “She’ll be making the postman’s breakfast about now,” he said. “And how is your handsome husband?”
“Still delivering the Queen’s mail.”
A thought entered Jack’s head, but finding itself all alone in there it left by the emergency exit.
“Now, Jack,” said Leslie, boss of Jack. “We have a very important despatch to make today and it must be handled with great care. We wouldn’t want there to be any more unfortunate mistakes, now would we?”
“No we wouldn’t,” said Jack. “No-skiddly-oh-po-po.”
Leslie, Jack’s boss, smiled upon her subordinate. She was a tall woman, slim, sleek, svelte. Brown-eyed and black-haired and carrying about with her that aura of a woman who knows exactly where she’s going.
“I’m going to the toilet now,” said Leslie, boss of Jack. “And when I get back I want to see you with your shoulder to the wheel and your nose to the grindstone. Do I make myself clear?”
“Well,” said Jack.
Nail-Biting Stuff
The company Jack worked for was called SURFIN’ UFO. As far as Jack had been able to ascertain during his ten years of service, it had something to do with despatching fragile and precious cargoes from one place to another. The UFO part meant United Freight Operations, but the significance of the SURFIN’ bit was lost on Jack.
For company, he also worked on the night shift at the windscreen wiper works.
Jack was the manager of the actual despatching department. He was, in fact, the only employee in this department. There had been some cutbacks. Once there had been lads with hair and tattoos, cavorting about on fork-lift trucks. Lads who read the Sun and smelled of cigarettes and the morning after. But now there was only Jack. And Jack didn’t smoke or read the Sun. His office was a little glass partitioned-off corner of a vast warehouse. A vast and empty warehouse.
Jack hung up his hat and coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. And then he sat down at his desk. It was an all-but-empty desk. Empty but for a telephone, a single package and a single piece of paper.
Jack perused this.
DESPATCH NOTE – DATE: 23.5.97
SURFIN’ UFO 1462 UNIT 4+2
OLD DOCK BUSINESS PARK
HORSEFERRY LANE,
BRENTFORD
VAT REG: 435 9424
TO:
NAME: DR STEVEN MALONE
ADDRESS: KETHER HOUSE
BUTTS ESTATE
BRENTFORD
FROM:
NAME: PROF. GUSTAV BOINEY
ADDRESS: INC TECH
LOS ALAMOS
NEVADA, USA
CONTENTS: ISOTOPES. HERMETICALLY SEALED.
DO NOT OPEN
FRAGILE FRAGILE FRAGILE
Jack picked up the package and rattled it against his ear. Dr Steven Malone was SURFIN’ UFO’s only client nowadays. Stuff came to him from all over the world. From Turin, from Vienna, from Los Alamos and Latvia. Always by the most unlikely route and always under the tightest security.
Jack’s job today would be to call up the local road haulage firm, impress upon them the highly important nature of the package and the need for its speedy and secure delivery, and then await the arrival of the van, sign numerous documents, hand over the package and return to his desk.
Jack picked up the telephone and tapped out numbers. Somewhere not too far away a phone began to ring.
And then a voice said, “Yo, Leo Felix, who’s dis?”
“Hello-skiddly-bo,” said Jack.
“Yo, Jack, my man. How’s it ’anging?”
“The bus was late today,” said Jack.
“What? De ol’ 8.15? That is truly dredd.” A Rastafarian chuckle gurgled in Jack’s ear.
A Veritable Cliff-hanger
“Can you pick up a package for immediate delivery to Dr Steven Malone?” asked Jack.
“Not ’ceptin’ yo’ pay yo’ damn bill, Babylon.”
“Oh,” said Jack, replacing the receiver.
Action All the Way
“Mr Felix says he won’t pick up the package unless his bill is paid,” said Jack to his boss Leslie, who had just returned from the toilet.
“Leo Felix is a thieving nigger,” said Leslie.