Robert Rankin - Web Site Story

'Yes,' said Kelly, straightening up. 'But you wouldn't have expected otherwise. I'm well aware that this entire building is fully monitored by CCTV, including the games suite. You saw and heard everything that went on in there.'

'Of course,' said Mr Pokey.

'And I trust you were rightly appalled by Mr Bashful's cowardice and lack of company ethics. The man was a security risk. He was an accident waiting to happen.'

Mr Pokey nodded again. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'What are you? Internal security?'

'I'm just a student,' said Kelly.

Mr Pokey shook his head. 'You're much more than that,' he said. 'But whatever you are, / cannot access it from your file. Which, I suspect, makes you of a higher rank than myself.'

Kelly said nothing.

'Neither confirm nor deny,' said Mr Pokey. 'I get the picture. So what do you want from me?'

'Security stinks around here,' said Kelly. 'If you wish to keep your job, then you and I will have to work together closely on this.'

'And?' said Mr Pokey.

'And now you can take me out to lunch,' said Kelly. 'On my way here I noticed a pub around the corner that does a rather interesting surf and turf. Shall we dine?'

Derek dined alone in the Shrunken Head. The Space Invaders machine popped and pinged away behind him, but Derek ignored it. His attention was focused upon the computer printout that lay before him on the table, between his half a pint of large and his cheese sandwich. It was utterly absurd. Just look at the thing. Derek looked at it once again, then turned away his face in disgust. The requests, requests! Demands more like. The demands were utterly utterly absurd.

Four crad barges. A fleet of Morris Minors. A cinematic SFX holographic system programmed to project the Brentford Griffin onto Griffin Island for the newly named Fantasy Island experience. Derek's eyes travelled further down the list. 'Prophet of doom,' he read, doomily. 'They want a prophet of doom to carry a placard around, oh yes here it is on the list. repent the end is nigh. Hardly original. They'll string me up. The locals will string me up. They'll tar and feather me first and probably lop off my wedding tackle. Not that I'll miss that. Well, I will, but. Oh damn, this is utterly absurd. Oh…'

Derek's eyes travelled further down the list. 'Five miles of perimeter fence. Oh, electrified perimeter fence. I'm doomed. Doomed. I might as well apply for the prophet's job. I'll bet I could do that really well.'

Derek sighed and shook his head and then slowly and surely a great big smile spread over his face. 'Well,' said Derek to himself. 'That's got all the whingeing and conscience out of the way.' And he patted at his jacket. And he lifted the lapel and peeped into the inside pocket. It was still in there. Right where he'd tucked it after Mr Speedy had handed it to him. Ten thousand quid in cash, 'to be going on with'. Ten thousand quid! It really was there. It wasn't a dream. And it was only a down payment. All he, Derek, entrepreneur and aspiring rich kid, twenty-first-century yuppie, had to do was find the right contacts and do the business. No questions asked. And you can get anything, if you have the right contacts. And where do you find the right contacts? Where is everything you wish to know waiting for you at the touch of a keypad? On the World Wide Web. Of course.

Nah. Of course it's not.

It's a bloke down the pub!

'Jah save all here,' said an ancient Rastafarian voice, 'Exceptin' Babylon, that be.'

The voice roused Derek from his Midasian musings. 'Hey Leo,' he called. 'Over here.'

Leo Felix, octogenarian used-car salesman and scrap dealer (at times the two were indistinguishable), turned his old grey dreads in Derek's direction. 'Yo,' said he. 'That be yo. Show some respect, Babylon. Don't go callin' me name all over da place. I ain't yo goddam dog.'

'Sorry,' said Derek. Leo sidled towards him and then leaned low, engulfing Derek in his dreads. 'Yo an' yo call I an' I on me mobile,' whispered Leo. 'Say yo got big deals to speak of…'

Derek fought his way out of the hairy darkness. 'Sit down,' he said. 'Please. Would you care for a drink?'

'I an' I would like a triple rum.'

‘I’ll get you a single,' said Derek. 'And we'll see how things go on from there.'

'Ras,' said Leo, the way that Rastafarians oft-times do.

Derek went up to the bar and returned with two single rums. Leo was by now rolling a joint of Cheech and Chong proportions.

'Yo get me out of me bed,' said Leo, licking the paper and deftly twirling the splifF between his brown and wrinkled thumbs. 'Yo rustled banknotes down de phone. What yo lookin' to buy, Babylon?'

Derek turned the computer printout in Leo's direction. 'Only this,' he whispered. 'And there's three thousand pounds in cash in it for you.'

Leo tucked the splifF into his mouth, delved into the pocket of his colourful Hawaiian shirt and brought out a pair of golden pince-nez. Plonking these onto his nose, he perused Derek's list. 'Jah Wobble!' went he, pointing. 'Yo want a steam train. Blood clart! There ain't no steam trains no more!'

'I'm sure you could find one, if the price was right. Say another five hundred pounds.'

'Say another thousand.'

'Seven fifty.'

'Eight hundred.'

'Done,' said Derek, offering his hand for a shake.

Leo gave it a smack. 'What all dis for anyhow?' he asked, taking up his Lion of Judah Zippo and offering fire to his splifF. 'Yo setting up a museum, or someting?'

'Yes,' said Derek, nodding his head. 'That's exactly it. A sort of folk museum, here in Brentford.'

Leo nodded his dreads in time to Derek's noddings and drew deeply on his ganga rollie. 'Damn biggun,' said he. 'Need five miles of perimeter fence. Where yo think I get dat?'

Derek shrugged. 'I'm not asking any questions,' he said, giving his nose a significant tap. 'Where you get it is of no concern to me. I'll pay cash.'

'I see,' said Leo, blowing smoke of de 'erb all over Derek. 'What de significance of that nose tap, by de way?'

Derek rolled his eyes. Leo offered him a puff. 'No, thanks,' said Derek. 'But do you think you can get all the things on this list?'

'Babylon,' said Leo, leaning close and grinning golden teeth. 'If it can be got, I can got it. Got me? But I'll want sometin' down on account.'

'On account of what?' said Derek.

'On account of I don't trust yo and I get damn all without the money up front.'

‘I’ll give you one thousand to be getting on with,' said Derek.

'Two thousand,' said Leo.

'Fifteen hundred.'

'Seventeen fifty.'

'All right,' said Derek. 'But I want all this stuff fast. Like by the weekend.'

'Haile Selassie!' went Leo. 'By the weekend? Includin' dis? One feral tomcat?'

'Two thousand up front then,' said Derek, pulling paper money slowly and carefully from his inside pocket. 'But I want it all by the weekend.'

Leo watched the money keep on coming. Certain thoughts entered into his old grey head, but he kept these thoughts very much to himself.

'We gotta deal,' said Leo, pocketing the loot and smacking Derek's hand once more. 'All cash and no questions asked.'

'No questions asked at all,' said Derek.

'No questions you wish to ask me?' asked Mr Pokey as he watched Kelly tucking into her surf and turf.

It was a rather de luxe surf and turf, consisting as it did of a fourteen-ounce T-bone steak, twelve Biscay Bay long-tailed langoustines, double tomatoes, grilled mushrooms, baked beans, curly fries, garlic bread, and a side order of cheesy nachos.

'No,' said Kelly, filling her face.

Mr Pokey leaned close to Kelly. 'You don't really need to ask anything, do you?' he said. 'You know everything.'

Kelly dipped a curly fry into a ramekin of crad pate dip and popped it into her mouth.