Geoff Nicholson - Street Sleeper

♦

Money, freedom, power, the old trinity — the power and freedom to buy friendship, status, sex, to jump queues, to buy the ‘better’ things in life. If you’ve got it…

What did Ishmael spend his stolen money on? The basics. He bought Volkswagen performance parts, modified engines, paint, old wrecks of Beetles that needed complete restoration, welding equipment, bullet-proof glass.

Fat Les set up a kingdom in exile in the outbuildings of Fox’s Farm. He could be found there most hours of the day or night, welding and tuning, stripping down and rebuilding, modifying and reconditioning.

♦

Rupert says, ‘It’s not just the money, though God knows Range Rovers don’t come cheap, it’s the thought of being beaten by a rabble, a few oiks, yahoos. That’s what really hurts.’

‘There were more than a few. There were twenty or thirty at least.’

‘And we weren’t beaten exactly. We gave as good as we got. We ran them out of the valley after all.’

‘Don’t talk rot, Colin. They left when they heard the police sirens. We were thrashed. We were trounced and piddled on.’

‘So they must have had military training — probably a bunch of renegade ex-marines.’

♦

In October 1948 K-d-f savers formed an association to battle with the reconstituted Volkswagen company over the reclamation of their lost contributions. It would be thirteen years and a few days before the legalities were settled by the German Supreme Court. Savers who still held their completed cards could receive six hundred Deutsch Marks off the price of ‘a new Volkswagen saloon (about £50), or they could take a hundred Deutsch Marks in cash.

Nina takes the money and buys a few bottles of wine. Tonight she is seeing her new boyfriend who works in the construction business. They will drink a bottle or two and go driving in his Opel Kadett.

♦

Every day Davey would go out shopping and return with heavy-duty shock absorbers, fan shrouds, oil coolers, forged crankshafts, state of the art performance heads, ductile iron rocker arms, titanium racing valves, sidewinder exhausts, unswept extractors, manifolds, sway bars, roll bars, and chain-link steering wheels. It was money well spent.

♦

‘If nothing else, I hope it teaches that wife of yours to keep the back door locked in future.’

Marilyn’s father has been staring into his malt whisky. He has been silent till now, though not subdued, more possessed of an unearthly calm. He has been savouring the memory of his one-man attack on Fat Les’s kingdom.

Now he says, ‘I don’t know whether she’ll learn or not. For some people it may already be too late. But for those of us with eyes to see, it all gives a pretty clear picture of the state of things.’

‘Sorry, not sure I’m quite with you.’

‘Those who aren’t with me are against me. It’s a beginning, only a beginning. There are forces abroad in this great country of ours, they go by many names — the working class, the unions, the media, blacks, feminists, anarchists, militants, Jews…’

‘Oh come off it, some of my best friends…’

‘Well perhaps not Jews then, but certainly the rest; they’re on the move, they’re at battle stations and we’re their target — the solid middle class, the decent folk, the entrepreneurs, the backbone of England.’

‘Thank God we’ve at least got the students under control these days.’

Marilyn’s father continues, ‘They want us. They want to spit on us, to crap on everything we stand for. It’s time to get fit, to arm ourselves morally and physically. There’ll be fighting in the street, rivers of blood I shouldn’t wonder. There’ll be winners and losers. I know which side I intend to be on.’

‘Well, I suppose you ought to know.’

‘Yes I did. I do. So, are you with me or are you against me?’

They all agree that they are provisionally with him.

‘All I can say,’ says Robin, ‘is that I’d like another crack at them, whoever they are.’

‘I’ll say.’

‘Hear, hear.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

They all agree that they’ll drink to that.

‘I think there’d be a very different outcome if it ever came to a rematch.’

‘There will be a rematch,’ says Marilyn’s father. There will come a time. I feel it. I know it. And I’ll be ready.’

‘Rather.’

‘I’ll say.’

They agree that they’ll be ready. Shooting practice and keep-fit sessions are arranged, along with cross-country running, weight training, and research into survival techniques. Pipes are filled and relit. Another round of drinks is ordered. They decide they need something a bit stronger this time.

♦

And then, one day, The Plan was ready to sweep into its final phase. That was when Ishmael made his fateful phone call to Marilyn’s father.

‘Be gentle with him,’ Marilyn said. ‘But not too gentle.’

Ishmael made the call.

♦

In August 1955 Heinz Nordhoff holds a jamboree to celebrate the production of the one millionth Beetle. Journalists arriving at the Wolfsburg factory receive a dupliacted copy of his speech. It runs to twenty sides and concludes: ‘Hard work and determination has always been the strong point of the Germans, for we enjoy working if we know for what purpose, and I should think that everyone who has lived through the last fifteen catastrophic years really does know for what purpose.’

‘Oh really?’ thinks Ivan Hirst.

♦

The last time Ishmael had seen Marilyn’s father he had been standing in the drive of ‘Sorrento’, wearing a dressing-gown and Wellingtons, carrying a shotgun and surrounded by walls of flaming petrol. How strange to think that Ishmael had once hoped to ‘communicate’ with him, and how much stranger to think he was now about to do it by telephone.

The phone rang for a long time before Marilyn’s father answered.

‘Yes?’ he said at last, his voice sounding distant and high-pitched.

‘Hello,’ Ishmael said.

‘Who is that?’

‘I think you know who this is.’

‘No I don’t. Stop playing silly buggers.’

‘Call me Ishmael,’ said Ishmael deliberately.

There was a chilled silence at the other end of the line.

Marilyn’s father said, ‘I knew you’d be in touch eventually. I’ve been preparing myself.’

Ishmael said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be prepared enough.’

Marilyn’s father said, ‘How prepared do I have to be to deal with vermin?’

Ishmael said, ‘If you think you’re dealing with vermin then you’ve already lost.’

‘I don’t lose.’

‘This time you do.’

They went on like this for a while longer, talking like villains in a comic strip, both believing themselves to be the good guy, occasionally laughing harshly, or bitterly as the situation demanded. It was a bit stilted.

‘And what of Marilyn?’ her father asked at last. ‘Is she with you?’

‘Yes she’s here,’ Ishmdel said. ‘She’s fine.’

‘Wasn’t that all you wanted? Didn’t you ought to be satisfied?’

‘No,’ Ishmael snapped. The game has changed. It’s no longer a game. The stakes are higher, and they’re no longer material. Now they’re spiritual.’

‘I know that,’ Marilyn’s father said.

Ishmael said, ‘We want to meet you, all of you, all the Crockenfield Blazers. We want to be at the centre of the cyclone. We want to be at the heart of the cancer, to be face to face with the heart of darkness. We are many and our hearts are clean. We are coming to pluck out the disease. We will arrive soon. We come with the best possible intentions — to destroy you.’

‘We are ready,’ said Marilyn’s father. ‘Now and for ever.’

The phone went dead.