With pictures!
Roberta and Carl ran through down Corporation Street dodging the crowds of shoppers like champion skiers on a slalom run. They made it as far as Marks and Spencers before Carl fell breathlessly onto a bench. “Can’t … go … any … further,” he panted.
Roberta looked back at the Bull Ring Shopping Centre, a mere hundred yards behind them. Fortunately, the security guard wasn’t chasing them, in fact, she could just make out his uniform going back into the shopping centre – you clearly couldn’t get the staff to commit these days.
She didn’t notice the elderly woman scuttling passed shop fronts limping like Egor on speed, or the man standing outside Waterstones Book Store staring at them through binoculars.
Roberta sat pertly on the edge of the bench next to Carl, who had his head between his knees trying to get his wheezing under control.
“How can you be this unfit?” she asked him.
“Easy,” he puffed, “Three takeaways a week, five pints every night, no exercise and a serious addiction to television, chicken kebab meat and chocolate.”
“So, we’re back to the chocolate again,” Roberta grinned.
“Shut up about the chocolate!”
Silence. Roberta stared off into the crowds, slipping the clue into her jacket pocket.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Carl asked.
“No,” said Roberta.
“No?” Carl sat up straight. “Give it to me and I’ll – “
“No!”
Carl looked startled and confused. “Why not?”
“Because,” said Roberta, “I am bloody starving. I’m not reading this clue – “ She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and waved it in front of his face, “ - or chasing after the next one until you and your expense account buy me lunch.”
“What?”
“Feed me!” Roberta hissed. “I have the clue and I’m not sharing it until you feed me!”
Carl stood up. “There’s a MacDonalds just down the road.”
“MacDonalds? Me and this clue are worth more than a Big Mac and large fries!”
“Baquette?”
“A proper meal, Carl.”
“Pizza?”
Roberta sighed heavily. “I want a starter of fresh prawns in hollandaise sauce on a crisp bed of lettuce. I want pasta and chicken and mushrooms in a creamy sauce. I want garlic bread and – “
As she spoke, Roberta held the piece of paper in her gesticulating hand, her eyes glazed, her lips quivering at the thought of all that delicious food. In front of her, a stream of schoolchildren in blue uniforms, all holding hands one behind the other, came marching down Union Street opposite Marks & Spencers. Just as Roberta was emphasising the specifications of a side salad with extra virgin olive oil and parmesan, the children began to walk across High Street in a long, unbroken line.
Suddenly, just before the children cut off the pedestrianised area from one side to the other, an elderly woman quickly limped passed them both, snatched the piece of paper from Roberta’s outstretched hand, and quickly hurried in front of the line of children.
Carl screamed and gave chase, covering a whole three steps before encountering the unbroken train of blue uniforms. He moved left, but the line seemed endless and so incredibly slow. He moved right, and a woman at the head of the snaking children glared at him defiantly. The limping woman disappeared up Bull Street and Carl made a helpless sound in the back of his throat.
“We’ve lost the clue,” he cried back at Roberta, who was frantically searching through her jacket pockets. “We’ve lost the clue! Oh my God, what are we going to do now?” He ran his hands through his wild mop of hair. Tears sprang to his eyes as the children slowly – oh so slowly – marched passed him in a tiny, unbroken formation.
“It’s okay,” Roberta said.
“It’s not okay!” Carl yelled back at her, “We’ve lost the clue! We don’t know where the next one is, we’ll never find the stolen statue, I’ll never get my expenses paid and we won’t get the bonus we’ve worked so hard for.”
“You’ll give yourself a hernia if you don’t calm down,” Roberta said.
“Calm down!” he raged, “How can I calm down when I’ve lost everything I’ve worked so hard to get, including my expense account.”
“You and hard work hardly fit into the same sentence together really, do they,” Roberta grinned.
“Oh, you find this funny, do you?”
“Hysterical, actually.”
“Yes, you would. But will you still be smiling when you lose your job because – “
“I have the clue.”
“ – you literally gave the clue away and with it our chance of ever finding – “
“I have the clue, Carl.”
“ – the stolen stat- … What?”
“I have the clue. It was here, in my other pocket.”
“Then what … ?” He vaguely pointed behind him, to where the clue snatcher had disappeared, behind the still snaking line of schoolchildren. “What did that woman take?”
* * *
Mildred was pleased, very pleased indeed. The clue had almost been handed to her, and now she could indulge in that sumptuous lunch courtesy of Mr Cavanagh without worry.
Oh she was going to enjoy this. Cavanagh, who she’d worked for for twenty odd years, who gave her a cheap box of chocolates for Christmas and nothing at all for her birthday, was going to pay dearly for this.
Checking that the coast behind her was clear (how fortunate and how clever of her to use that line of hand-holding children as her escape route), Mildred made her way towards Colmore Row, towards Sanctum restaurant and her three course meal with wine.
Even more good luck, they had a table free – in fact, the place was almost empty, that’s how expensive it was. Mildred sat down and scoured the menu, choosing carefully. She placed her order – all three courses – and, while she was waiting for her starter to arrive, she rang Cavanagh with the good news.
“I have the clue,” she told him.
“Good,” he said, “Bring it back immediately.”
“I had to chase them through the Bull Ring and down behind the markets,” she lied, “It’ll take me a while to walk back, and my hip’s giving me gip and – “
“Just get here as son as you can,” Cavanagh barked.
Mildred held the mobile phone to her ear, waiting for the Thanks or the Well done or the promise of a pay rise and a decent Christmas present this year. But the line went dead. Cavanagh had hung up without praising her at all.
“Bottle of wine,” she called out to a passing waiter, “Your most expensive.”
Oh yes, she was really going to enjoy this.
She picked hungrily at a bread roll, and then pulled the slip of paper from her coat pocket. Relishing the moment (definitely expected a decent Christmas present this year), she opened it out and read it.
Her heart stopped beating. Her mouth dropped open.
There, on the paper, were written the words, ‘Apples. Milk. Tights. Cat food.’
* * *
“Shopping list,” Roberta grinned, “She took my shopping list. Bit unfortunate as I can’t remember what was written on it, but what the hell, we’re still in business. Now, about this lunch you’re buying me.”
“Where?” sighed Carl.
“Down there.” And Roberta pointed back at the Bull Ring Shopping Centre. “There’s some cafes down there, I’m sure one’s an Italian.”
Knowing he was beaten, Carl followed a now enthusiastic and seriously salivating Roberta. “What about the security guard?” he mumbled.
“Oh don’t worry about him, he’s probably forgotten all about us by now.”
It wasn’t until Roberta was sitting outside the Italian restaurant with her pasta and garlic bread and huge hunk of Black Forest gateaux that she relented to Carl’s demands to read the clue.
She drew breath and …
* * *
Bruce was still standing outside Next where he had a clear view of Carl and Roberta sitting outside the Italian restaurant at the side of the Bull Ring Shopping Centre.
He was well into this surveillance thing, it was turning out to be enormous fun. His listening device was picking up their conversation perfectly (as well as picking up the somewhat heated conversation of a man and a woman sitting at the next table who were obviously having a torrid and illicit affair). Bruce was feeling quite pleased with himself and the way things were going.
Until her heard Roberta start to read the clue.
“Oh bloody hell!” he gasped, and started running.
* * *
“Sue she ate from little dishes,” Roberta read quickly, glancing longingly at her food, “At a place that don’t sell fridges.”
“Don’t sell fridges,” Carl repeated with a frown, “What kind of grammar is that?”
“Bugger the grammar, what do you think it means?”
Carl rubbed his chin for a moment and then, just as Roberta was raising the first forkful of creamy pasta to her mouth, he stopped rubbing and said, “I’ve got it!”
Without saying anything else, Carl jumped up from the table outside the Italian restaurant and ran across the pavement into the Bull Ring Shopping Centre.
Roberta, fork poised, stomach growling, gave a high pitched squeal as Carl disappeared into the crowds of shoppers.
Then, with another whimper of misery, she grabbed the hunk of Black Forest gateaux in her hands and ran after him.
* * *
It wasn’t until Bruce heard Roberta reading the clue that he realised he’d got so caught up with events that he’d neglected to place the next clue. It was a clue that needed placing at the very last possible moment. And he’d forgotten the moment.
Bruce ran into the Bull Ring Shopping Centre.
* * *
It was easy to catch up with Carl, even while chomping on a gateaux, as he wasn’t very fast.
“What is it?” she asked, walking beside Carl as Carl jogged along at full speed.
“Well, it looks like a Black Forest gateaux to me,” he said, grinning at the chocolate melted all around Roberta’s mouth, “But it could be a trick question.”
“No! What’s it mean, the clue?”
“Sue she ate,” puffed Carl, wiping an arm across his sweating forehead, “from little dishes. Sue she ate. Sushi! And a place that don’t sell fridges.”
“Selfridges!” gasped Roberta. “They have a sushi bar at Selfridges.”
“Exactly!”
“How did you know that?” Roberta asked, “You never shop!”
“No,” Carl huffed, “Wife shops, I stay at sushi bar and – “
“And eat!”
“Exactly!”
“So your obsessive greed actually came in useful,” Roberta could resist saying.
“Listen to the cake guzzling kettle calling the pot black,” Carl grinned. “You have a cherry on your cheek, by the way.”
Roberta plucked off the cherry and ate it.
Then she broke into a light jog, leaving Carl far behind.
“Wait for me!” he cried.
* * *
Bruce hurried into Selfridges and the Sushi bar, forcing his arm through the straps of surveillance equipment hanging round his neck as he ran and dropping hold of his backpack containing his (already eaten) lunch. As he bent to retrieve it, a woman who was walking passed with her head turned the other way (looking at jumpers on special offer) tripped over him and went skidding across the floor like an ice hockey puc. She came to rest in a twisted heap against a display of towels.
Several people turned to look sternly at Bruce though, oddly, none of them hurried to assist the toppled woman. Bruce dithered over whether to help her up and apologise or get on with the job in hand, but the decision was taken from him when a couple of security guards rushed over and helped the stunned woman to her feet.
Bruce turned to the revolving sushi bar, looking at the plastic pots of food going round on the conveyor belt. Which one should he choose to place the clue? What kind of food would the man and the woman pick? But then, they weren’t coming here to eat (well, the man probably was, he was like a industrial disposal unit), they were coming to find the clue. Bruce lifted the lid off the biggest pot and popped the folded paper clue inside.
The pot revolved passed several people sitting on stools around the sushi bar. A huge man reached out for the large plastic pot which contained the clue, and Bruce cried, “No! Don’t touch that!”
The man snatched back his hand like it had been burned. The chef in the middle of the revolving bar looked up. Both men stared at him, the customer curious, the chef a bit peeved – he looked alarmingly like a Japanese version of Gordon Ramsey.
“I … “ said Bruce, “Er … I wanted that one.”
“There’s several of those on the conveyor belt,” snapped the chef, “Just wait for the next one to come along.”
Another customer was now reaching for the plastic pot as it passed in front of them, and again Bruce shouted, “No! Not that one!”
“Listen, mister,” said the chef, coming over to stand as close to Bruce as the encapsulating conveyor belt would allow, “What’s your problem? You’re disturbing my customers! Are you eating or not?”
Bruce flopped onto a stool and whimpered, “I want that one.” He pointed at the plastic pot that was now coming back towards him, watched by several customers who weren’t sure what they were allowed to touch any more. “It looked the best.”
Bruce reached out for it, but the chef snatched it up. “You want this one?” the chef asked, “You pay first.”
Bruce fumbled through his surveillance equipment straps and thrust a hand into one jacket pocket, then another, and another, unzipping and unclipping and rooting around for some money. He brought out a five pound note and held it out to the chef. The chef glanced at it and said, “£10, mate.”
“£10 for a bit of raw fish!” Bruce cried.
The chef pursed his lips and held the pot containing the clue at shoulder height, like he was withholding a bone from a dog.
“I don’t think,” spluttered Bruce, “I don’t think I have £10 on me. In cash.”
“£10. Cash. Or leave,” demanded the chef.
Eventually, after much jacket pocket searching and counting out of change on the counter, Bruce managed to pile together £10 in cash. The chef scooped up the money and slammed the pot down in front of Bruce. Bruce looked at it as the chef looked at Bruce. Bruce didn’t like fish. He didn’t like it cooked, and he certainly didn’t like it raw.
“You going to eat that now, after all the fuss you made, disturbing my customers?” the chef asked menacingly.
Bruce looked up. The chef didn’t look at all happy. He now had his arms crossed over his not inconsiderable chest, glaring down at him. Bruce tore his eyes away, and looked straight at a couple running down the middle of the shopping centre towards him.
It was them! They were here! And he hadn’t placed the next clue yet!
Panic surged through Bruce’s body. He quickly turned back to the chef. “Listen,” he said quickly, tearing off his watch (Sekonda) and holding it out, “I don’t have any more cash, but keep the sushi and the £10 and take this watch. I need you to give that couple … “ He quickly nodded towards the man and the woman coming towards them (the man in sweaty slow motion), and opened up the plastic pot of sushi which contained the paper clue.
“You’ve opened it now,” the chef barked, “You have to eat it. Can’t sell it to anyone else because of health and safety reasons.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Bruce snapped back, as the man and the woman came closer and closer. “Take this watch.” The chef looked at it but didn’t take it – in fact, he gave a frown of disapproval. “I need you to give this piece of paper to that man and woman coming towards us.” He tipped his head. The chef looked.
“You want me,” said the chef, “To give that piece of paper to that couple?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s … it’s an office … treasure hunt,” Bruce spluttered. “We need to win. Will you do it?”
“Give that piece of paper to them?”
“Yes!” screeched Bruce, thinking ‘no wonder he’s a sushi chef!’
The man and the woman were almost upon them now and the chef was just dithering. “Will you?” Bruce snapped, rather snappier than he would have wanted, making the chef frown again. “Will you?” Bruce said again, quieter this time.
The chef took the watch, looked at it, turned it over, and handed it back. “No,” he said.
“No?”
“No. But I’ll take those binoculars you’re wearing.”
“My binoculars?”
“Yes. Give me the binoculars and I’ll give them the treasure hunt clue.”
“But … but … “ Bruce’s mind whizzed frantically. He couldn’t give away his binoculars, he needed them to keep an eye on the man and the woman as they raced round Birmingham city centre looking for the clues. “Take this instead,” he said, pulling something out of his jacket pocket.
“What is it?” asked the chef (and Bruce though ‘what is this? 20 questions? They’re nearly bloody here!’).
“My mobile phone. Just bought it. Worth … oooh, forty quid?”
“Hmm,” said the chef, inspecting the phone as Bruce inspected the increasingly close proximity of the man and the woman bearing down on them, “Nokia!”
“Just take the bloody thing!” Bruce hissed, “And give this to them.”
Bruce thrust the folded piece of paper into the chef’s hands, leapt off the stool, and went to hide behind a nearby display of jumpers. The chef watched him. Bruce waved his arms, hissing, “Don’t look at me! They’re not supposed to know its me! Treasure hunt rules!”
The chef reluctantly looked away, just as Bruce noticed that everyone sitting at the sushi bar were all staring straight at him.
* * *
Carl and Roberta were at the sushi bar in Selfridges.
Carl immediately threw himself across a bar stool, panting frantically, his body rising up and down in rhythm to his laboured breathing. Roberta scoured the plastic pots of food rolling passed them.
“Where is it? I can’t see it!”
Carl lay draped across the stool like a discarded duvet, gasping.
“I can’t see it! There’s hundreds here! Where are we supposed to find the clue?”
“Clue?” said a man wearing a white apron standing behind the conveyor belt of sushi, “Are you looking for a clue?”
“Yes, do you know where it is?”
Carl lifted his bright red, perspiring head. Before the chef could answer, he gasped, “Why is everyone looking away? Is it us? Is everyone deliberately ignoring us?”
Roberta turned to him and snapped, “You lie there like a wet flannel and have your little paranoid seizure and I’ll just find the next clue, shall I?”
“Yes,” said the chef.
“Yes, what?” said Roberta.
“I have the clue. For the office treasure hunt.”
“You do? Oh that’s great. I thought I was going to have to eat some of this crap.” As soon as it fell out of her mouth, she regretted it. The chef eyeballed her murderously.
“Sit,” he barked, “And eat. £10 each.”
“£10? For raw fish?”
“As much as you can eat,” said the chef.
“Well, that won’t be much,” Roberta muttered, looking at the uncooked flesh rolling before her eyes, “Think you’re onto a money-winner there, mate.”
“Sit!” demanded the chef, so she did. Carl forced himself into an unsteady standing position, still gasping for air, and plonked himself down on the next stool.
“Pay the man,” Roberta said to him.
“Why me?” Carl whined.
“Because you’re the one with the expense account, and he’s the one with the next clue.”
Carl reluctantly handed over a £20 note. The chef snatched it from his hand and replaced it with a folded piece of paper.
“What’s it say?” Roberta asked excitedly.
“All in good time,” Carl replied, getting comfortable on his stool and licking his lips as he eyed up the potential feast in front of him, “Just need to stoke up the old body machine first.”
“Stoke it? It’s about to blow. Read the clue, Carl!”
“Hey, I’ve just paid out twenty quid of my hard earned expense account, and I’m going to get what I paid for!”
Roberta lashed out with a stiff arm, and Carl toppled off his stool, falling like a sack of mashed potatoes onto the floor. “Read … the damn … clue!” she snarled.
Carl staggered to his feet again, looking offended and pained. “How do we know if this is the clue, anyway?” he mumbled, rubbing his shoulder, “This could be anything, shopping list, receipt, blank gas bill for the non-existent cookers.”
“If you read it, you’ll know if it’s the clue or not, won’t you.” Roberta had to resist the almost irresistible urge to throw herself at Carl and pummel him to the consistency of pastry. Carl turned away from her fury and looked at the chef, who was still standing there, arms across his huge chest.
“Where did you get this clue?” Carl asked. “Who gave this to you?”
“Carl!” Roberta growled, “What does it matter?”
“Well,” Carl drawled with a malicious grin, “If we know who gave this clue to the chef, we might be able to find out who the thief is, and then we wouldn’t have to race all around Birmingham city centre looking for stupid clues, we could just ask him. So,” he said, turning back to the chef again, “Who gave you this clue?”
The chef raised an arm and pointed towards a display of jumpers next to the sushi bar, as did every other customer who had been staring after the man who wouldn’t let them touch anything. “He’s over there,” said the chef, as all the customers chanted as one, “There!”
Carl and Roberta looked towards the display of jumpers. At first they couldn’t see anything. And then, very slowly, the top of a head rose above a red jumper, and a pair of extremely wide eyes peered over the surface of wool. It immediately dropped down again. Everyone continued to stare as a hand rose up and pulled a jumper down off the display. Everybody watched as, a few seconds later, a man suddenly stood up straight with the polo neck of the jumper completely covering his head. The man strode off, straight into a concrete post. Turning his woolly head away from the onlookers, he pulled the polo neck beneath his eyes and made a run for it.
“Maybe we should chase after him,” Carl said, almost poised on the edge of his seat as he tucked into some raw fish.
“You?” Roberta drawled, “Chase? As in run?”
“Yeah, okay,” Carl snapped, opening up another plastic sushi box, “He’s probably miles away by now anyway.”
“Are you going to read the clue?” Roberta said.
“Yes, when I’ve finished eating.”
“I think the end of the world is predicted before then.”
Carl deliberately popped a large piece of raw flesh into his mouth and ate with his mouth open.
“You know, of course, what that is, don’t you?” Roberta grinned.
“Yeah, sushi.”
“Yes. And that particular sushi is called squid.”
Carl spat it out immediately, to the horror of the chef and all the other customers, who had by now had more than enough and were starting to leave en masse – they just wanted a quick lunch, not be intimidated by mad people. “What?” spluttered Carl.
“Squid. Now read the clue before I make you eat some octopus.”
Carl, still spitting into his plastic pot, grudgingly opened the clue.
And frowned.
“Can’t read it,” he said, “Handwriting’s appalling.”
“Give it me,” Roberta said, snatching it from his hands.
Roberta read it.
And smiled.
* * *
“What do you mean?” drawled Cavanagh, “You don’t have the clue?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Abbreviate it.”
“Snatched clue, escaped using children, clue is … shopping list.”
“Where are they now?” Cavanagh asked abruptly.
“Er … not sure.”
“Why aren’t you sure?”
“Because I can’t see them,” said Mildred, standing outside Sanctum Restaurant and looking up and down Colmore Row. “I lost them when I ran off.”
“I see.”
He will see, thought Mildred. He’ll see the bill Sanctum were going to send him for the very expensive bottle of wine she’d only half drunk. The restaurant had insisted on charging her for the food she’d ordered but hadn’t eaten before they’d let her leave too. Cavanagh wasn’t going to be pleased about that, and he sounded pretty pissed off already.
“Find them,” he said.
“How?” asked Mildred.
There was a long pause, and then Cavanagh said, “I think you’re in luck.”
“Am I?” Mildred smiled. Luck usually meant money, maybe a pay rise or a bonus for the exceptional work she was doing. Maybe she could forget all this chasing and snatching nonsense and go home, that would be nice, she could -
“I can see them,” said Cavanagh.
“Who?”
“The people you’re supposed to be following! I can see them from my office window. They’re running - or rather, the woman’s running, the man is staggering quite a lot and appears to be crying - across Victoria Square at this very moment. Get after them. Call me when they find the statue.”
Mildred hiccoughed and wondered if she wasn’t maybe a little drunk – that wine must have been stronger than she imagined. The whole world seemed to be wavering slightly. But she felt extraordinarily happy as she lurched off down Colmore Row towards Victoria Square.
* * *
At first, Bruce couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d stolen the statue of Bolton, Watt and some other bloke from its plinth on Broad Street, had driven around for a while desperately trying to find somewhere to hide it, had braked sharply to avoid a collision with another car, and the statue had fallen off the back of his lorry straight on top of a Volvo.
It just wasn’t going as he had planned at all.
Bruce’s first thought, upon witnessing the statue disappearing off the flat bed truck behind him, had been ‘argh!’ His second thought had been, ‘bollocks!’ His thoughts scrambled entirely after that as he staggered out of the cabin and walked on jellified legs towards the now crushed Volvo.
Just as he reached the back of his truck, he saw seven tall youths wearing baseball caps and hoodies uncoiling themselves from the flattened wreck of the car, each staring in amazement at the statue on the concertinaed roof. Bruce heard one of them shout, “I told you to take the souped-up Metro, didn’t I!” before running off up the embankment at the side of the road. Another, seemingly unable to tear his eyes off the statue, yelled, “I thought Volvos were supposed to be safe?” to which another youth, already scrambling up the embankment, cried, “It is safe. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
One by one, the tall youths disappeared over the embankment, and were gone.
Leaving Bruce standing there, at the side of the road, with his empty truck and the now abandoned and flattened Volvo, not quite knowing what to do next.
* * *
Mildred saw them straight away, as soon as Victoria Square opened out in front of her.
The man and the woman. Only there appeared to be four of them, sort of merging and wavering into one another. Mildred brought her hand up to cover her mouth as she gave a little burp. She was definitely drunk.
Hey ho.
Without considering what she was going to do, she hurried over to the couple. They were standing underneath the statue of Queen Victoria, the man bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing somewhat erratically, the woman next to him, shouting rather a lot.
“Honest to God,” Mildred heard the woman say, “I’ve never known such a useless, unfit, overweight, chocolate gorging, food guzzling human being in my life. Get some regular exercise, you slob. You’re holding me back! You’re – “
“Just tell me … where we’re … going?” the man gasped.
“I can’t,” said the woman.
“Why … not?” gasped the man.
“Because the distance involved will upset you.”
“Oh God.”
“Eshkews me,” said Mildred, lightly touching the woman’s arm to get her attention.
The woman called Roberta turned to glare at her with furious eyes. Mildred was too drunk to care. She wished now she’d stayed in the restaurant and finished the rest of the wine. She quite liked being drunk.
“Eshkews me,” she said again, “Have you got a light?”
“A light?” Roberta snapped irritably.
“Yesh, a light. A lighter. An implement that setsh fire to shigarettes.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she asked suspiciously.
“No,” Mildred said, shaking her head for emphasis and making the world wobble a lot.
“I definitely recognise you,” said the woman, “Weren’t you at the museum earlier?”
“What museum?”
“The Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery by Chamberlain Square, over there.”
“Never heard of it. You got a light or not?”
“A light for what?”
“A shigarette.”
“But you don’t have a cigarette.”
“No, not yet, but I will have soon.”
"Then why do you need a light now?”
“I’m planning ahead.”
“I don’t smoke,” the woman said irritably.
“Oh,” says Mildred, feeling herself wavering on the spot, “Can you shpare shome change then?”
“What for?”
“What is this, the Spanish inquisition? I just want some change!”
“You don’t look destitute. A bit scruffy, perhaps, and that coat really does nothing for you, but certainly not destitute.”
“Lishen, lady, I clearly have some sort of ... what do you mean, this coat does nothing for me?"
"Well, its a bit bulky," Roberta said, looking at it, "And a bit baggy. You could do with something a bit more tailored."
"You mean, pinched at the waist a bit," said Mildred, pinching her coat at the waist.
"Yes, like that, much better, makes you look thinner."
Mildred was just about to smile, then remembered why she was there and what she was supposed to be doing. She coughed and said, "Enough of the Trinny and Suzanna, I clearly have some sort of mental imbalance that forches me to ask strangers for change because I shure as hell wouldn’t do it of my own free will, sho can you spare shome change or not?”
The woman tutted loudly and thrust her hand into a jacket pocket. She brought out a handful of change covered by several pieces of screwed up paper. Mildred quickly snatched one from the hand and limped hurriedly towards the Floozie in the Jacuzzi, cackling in triumph. The woman didn’t give chase.
* * *
“You … haven’t … lost it … again … have you?” Carl gasped.
“I’m sure I know her from somewhere,” said Roberta, staring after the limping woman and frowning.
“Never … mind … that,” Carl panted, “She’s … got … the clue!”
* * *
As the woman didn’t appear to be chasing after her, Mildred felt comfortable enough (and drunk enough) to sit on the edge of the water around the Floozie to read the clue.
She opened up the slip of paper.
* * *
“It wasn’t the clue,” said Roberta.
“What was it then?”
* * *
Mildred looked at the piece of paper for a while until the writing stopped dancing in front of her intoxicated eyes and slowly came into focus.
“Damn,” she said.
* * *
“Receipt,” Roberta said, “From Dorothy Perkins, I think.”
As she spoke, the woman by the Floozie stood up and began limping towards them. She came and stood in front of Roberta, who still had her hand held out with the change and the screwed up pieces of paper. The woman picked one, turned, started to walk away, then opened the piece of paper, sighed loudly, and walked back to Roberta, handing it back.
“Receipt from Debenhams,” the woman said wearily. “You want to keep that shafe in case you need to return anything.”
“Thanks,” said Roberta. "You can pick up a nice tailored coat at Debenhams, I'm sure they have a sale on at the moment."
"Oh good, I might pop in. What’sh that?” the woman asked, pointing at another piece of paper in Roberta’s hands. Roberta opened it. “Receipt from Next,” she said, "They might have a nice coat to suit you, too."
“You do a lot of shopping, don’t you?” Carl puffed.
“No!” Roberta snapped. “Well, sometimes I’m bored at lunchtimes. And sometimes I’m a bit miserable – “
“I’ll say.”
“ - and need to cheer myself up with something nice.” As Roberta spoke, the woman rifled through the remaining scraps of paper in Roberta’s outstretched hands, saying, “Boots receipt. Marks & Spencer. Bhs. Woollies … oh, for the new Meatloaf CD, I was thinking of getting that myself, is it any good?”
“Yeah, I really like it.”
“I’ll get it then. And what do we have here?” the woman grinned, “A receipt from Ann Summers, eh?”
“Really?” gasped Carl, suddenly interested.
“Er, for a mate’s hen party,” Roberta snapped quickly as blood rushed into her head, turning her face puce, “For a … chocolate willy or something.”
“Says vibrator on here,” the woman said.
“Give that back!” Roberta snatched the receipt from the woman’s hand and firmly thrust everything back into her jacket pocket. “When you’ve quite finished rifling through my personal belongings, thank you very much! What do you want, anyway?”
The woman stood there for a moment, biting the inside of her lip before saying, “Have you got a light?”
“We’ve been through that once.”
“Oh. Well can you shpare some – “
“Done the change thing as well.”
“Oh. Well. That just about covers my repertoire then. I suppose I’d better go.” The woman turned as if to go, then seemed to change her mind and turned back. “I don’t shuppose,” she said, “I could just see what’s in your other pocket, could I?”
“No. Go away. You’re annoying me now.”
“Just a quick look?”
“Go away!”
“I have shtarving children!” the woman suddenly cried, shaking her fists dramatically.
“Go!”
“Starving pets?” the woman shrugged.
“Go!”
“Hungry dogs to feed?”
“I’m warning you.”
“10p to phone home, only from that pocket there, the one I haven’t been through yet.”
“GO! AWAY!”
“Oh alright,” the woman muttered, and sloped off unsteadily down the steps towards New Street looking really fed up.
“What was that all about?” Carl asked, standing upright with his breath back now.
“Nutters,” Roberta tutted, “I always seem to attract the nutters.”
“A case of like attracting like if you ask me.”
The sound of a resounding slap turned the heads of several people.
* * *
“Can I see your driving licence please, sir?”
Bruce had been pulled over by the police on the Bristol Road, just outside Selly Oak. He was driving the now considerably flattened Volvo with the statue of Boulton, Watt and the other bloke still on the roof.
Bruce looked up at the policeman with his right cheek pressed against the crushed roof, his head at an acute angle. “Did I do something wrong?” he forced from his twisted larynx.
“Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?”
“Well, no, but you might have to help me a bit, took me ages to get in.”
Bruce creaked the concave door open and forced out a leg. “Would you mind?” he said, holding an arm out towards the policeman. The policeman rolled his eyes, sighed, and took hold of Bruce’s arm. He pulled, but Bruce didn’t move. He held on tight with both hands and gave a firm yank. Bruce still didn’t move.
Eventually it took both the policeman who had asked to see his driving licence, the policeman in the car, a bus driver who’d got out because he couldn’t overtake, and two other passers by to extricate Bruce from the car. By the time Bruce stood, cricking his neck, on the pavement, everyone was red and breathless.
“Is this car roadworthy, sir?” one of the policeman asked.
“Oh yes,” said Bruce, “Passed its MOT with flying colours.”
Both policemen looked sceptical. “You appear to have a rather large statue on your roof,” said one, accusingly.
“Ah, yes,” Bruce spluttered, rolling his head and stalling for time, “I can explain that.”
Silence followed, broken only by the bus driver overtaking the flattened Volvo to the sound of several irate car horns who’d had to suddenly slam on their brakes.
“We’re waiting, sir.”
“Well, you see, there was a bit of a cock-up.” Bruce grinned and rolled his eyes in what he hoped was a bit-of-a-cock-up expression. He added a tut just for good measure, while his brain screamed ‘how the hell are you going to get out of this?’
“What kind of cock-up, sir?”
“Well.” Bruce gave a little laugh. “You’re never going to believe this.”
“Try us.”
“Well, what happened was, this statue here.” Bruce rested his hand on the statue on top of the car roof, nodding slowly. “This one. Here. Well, it’s a really funny story, actually.”
“If we could just have the facts, sir.”
“The facts. Yes. The facts. Well, the facts are … “ Bruce couldn’t think of a single thing to say to explain away the fact that there was a bloody great statue on top of a car that didn’t actually belong to him.
“Would you mind stepping into the police car, sir,” said one of the policemen, moving towards him.
“No, no, no need for that, officer. Really. I can explain.” Inside, Bruce started screaming. “It’s … this … well … the thing is … “
“If you’ll just follow me, sir.”
“No, wait, really, I can explain.”
And then it happened. Words just seemed to fall out of Bruce’s mouth. He didn’t know where they came from, certainly not from the quivering remains of his terrified brain. Divine intervention, perhaps? He didn’t care, at least the mouth was attempting to prevent his arrest, even if he wasn’t fully in control of it.
“I’m from Birmingham City Council, from the Department of Well Known Birmingham Statues,” Bruce said, taking out his wallet and showing them the security card with his full name, job title and department printed on it. “This statue was being stored in a warehouse in Longbridge and was supposed to be transported to … to the … er … stone masons. Yes, that’s it, the stone masons. They’re going to clean it up a bit, its very old and needs a bit of tender loving care to restore it to its former glory. It’ll look pretty snazzy when its had all the pigeon crap chiselled off, don’t you think?”
Bruce waited for an answer, but the policemen were silent and, ominously, they both had their arms crossed in front of them, a sure sign if ever he saw one that they really wanted him to accompany them back to the police station and take his fingerprints. The mouth, completely unaided, immediately went into overdrive.
“Well the lorry that was supposed to transport it from Longbridge to the stonemasons didn’t turn up, and the people at the stonemasons rang and said if it wasn’t there today they weren’t going to have the time to chisel all the pigeon crap off if we didn't get it there pronto and they had 12 other statues to look at before Tuesday next, so I offered to deliver it myself.”
“On top of a Volvo,” one of the policemen drawled.
“Yes. Yes. Not as ridiculous as it sounds, actually.”
“Really,” drawled the other policeman.
“No. Because this car.” Bruce patted the top of the squashed car underneath the statue. The car gave a metal crunching screech. Bruce whipped his hand away. “This car here,” he said, pointing at it, “This is a special car. It’s specially reinforced for this particular job. This car,” he said, absently patting it again, only stopping when the car began to creak quite loudly, “Is often used to transport this statue. We … er … we take it round schools to show the children, and I regularly transport it to … er … art schools and colleges so the students can draw it. We take it to art shows and use it for advertisement purposes, you know, just driving around making sure everyone in Birmingham gets a good look at a really good Birmingham statue.”
“So this car isn’t actually crushed then?” one of the policemen asked.
“No, no, its supposed to look like this, to draw attention, to the statue. I drive it round all the time. Sometimes I even take it home just so I can stare at it. It’s a … really … good … statue”
Inside, as well as the screaming and the exploding ball of panic and the major adrenaline rush which made him feel a bit dizzy, Bruce was now desperately trying to stop his mouth from running away with itself. He eventually brought it to a halt by stretching a huge smile across his face so he couldn’t talk at all.
“I see,” said a policeman.
“And you have the relevant documentation to corroborate your story?” asked the other.
“Oh yes, yes,” Bruce said, smiling even broader while his brain cried ‘shiiiiiiiiiiiiit!’ “I do. Only it’s back at the warehouse in Longbridge. Didn’t have time to pick it up before I had to dash out the door after the stonemasons called and said they wanted it immediately. I can drop them off at the police station later, if you like.”
Bruce could hardly believe how calm he sounded, how believable and convincing. He'd never imagined he could lie so well, under such pressure. It was like playing a character in a film, some hard action hero, some articulate saviour of the world. He deserved an Oscar for this performance. Maybe he should taking up acting as a career.
“Do that, sir,” a policeman said.
“And,” said the other, “Drive carefully.”
“Yes, yes, I will, I will. Thank you, officers. Nice to know you’ve got the safety of every motorist uppermost in your minds.”
And the policemen walked away, back to their police car, and drove off.
As the police car disappeared down the Bristol Road, Bruce finally succumbed to the screaming panic and slid down the side of the Volvo, crying.
* * *
“Read it,” said Carl. “Tell me where we’re going or I’m not taking another step.”
As Roberta reached into her trouser pocket, the drunken nutter lurking miserably by the Floozie cried, “Argh!” and rolled her eyes.
“It’s green,” Roberta read, and then she stopped. The drunken woman by the Floozie was hurrying towards them again. “Oh no.”
“What’s it shay?” the woman cried, “Ish that the clue?”
Up on the top floor of the Council House, a man slapped his hand hard against his forehead and muttered, “She’s useless. She’s fired.”
“If you don’t stop bothering me,” Roberta told the woman, “I’m going to call the police.”
“No need to get all aerated,” the woman huffed, “I was only asking.”
“Go away.”
“I’ll just sit here,” the woman said, struggling to lower herself onto a step, “Underneath Old Vic, minding my own. No law against that is there? It’s still a free country, isn’t it?”
Roberta tutted and turned her back on the woman, leaning towards Carl, who was still panting quite heavily. “It’s green,” she breathed.
“I can’t hear you,” Carl said.
“It’s what?” shouted the woman.
“It’s green,” Roberta hissed in Carl’s ear.
Carl laughed. “Stop it, that tickles.”
“Can you just stop your laboured breathing, then you might be able to hear me,” Roberta snapped. “Hold your breath or something.”
Carl inhaled and held it. Beside them, on the floor, the drunken woman leaned back.
“It’s green,” Roberta began again, “It’s lumpy – “
“It’s what?” cried the woman on the floor.
“Do you mind!” Roberta wailed. “I’m trying to have a private conversation with my fr-“
Roberta glanced at Carl. Carl, still holding his breath, raised an amused eyebrow.
“My work colleague who I don’t know that well,” Roberta finished.
The woman huffed. Carl pointed frantically at the clue with puffed up cheeks – he looked very much like a hamster about to explode.
Roberta sighed heavily and leaned towards him again, whispering, “It’s green, its lumpy, it looks like a giant poo - ”
“Poo?” cried the woman. “Did you just say … I mean, I couldn’t help but overhear you say the word poo. As in excrement? Are you sure that’s what it says? Poo?”
“Yes! Now will you please stop interrupting!”
“It just seems like a strange word to use,” the woman said. “It’s not often you hear the word poo, that’s all I’m saying.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say anything at all,” Roberta snapped irritably, as Carl leaned against Queen Victoria’s plinth, his face puce. He suddenly exhaled and began panting even louder than before. Roberta gave an exasperated cry and said, “Here, read the clue for yourself.”
Carl took the slip of paper and looked at it. The woman on the floor struggled to her feet and peered over his shoulder. “What’s that word say?” she asked, pointing at the scrawled handwriting.
“Symph … Symph,” Carl struggled.
“Oh don’t tell her!” Roberta cried.
“Is it sympathy?” the woman said.
“No, that’s definitely a ‘h’,” Carl said, “Symph something.”
“Symph,” said the woman.
“Symph,” said Carl.
“Symphony!” Roberta cried, “It says symphony.”
“She’s right,” said the woman. “It does say Symphony. It’s green, it’s lumpy, it looks like a giant poo.”
“Outside the Symphony,” Carl finished, “The clue waits for you.”
Without another word, the woman scurried off. Roberta watched her moving quite quickly towards Chamberlain Square, pushing people out of the way and shouting, “Let me through, I’m on a secret mission.”
“The Symphony Hall?” Carl cried.
“Yes, and I think we should get a move on before that mad old biddy gets there first.”
“But, the Symphony Hall? That’s bloody miles away. We’ve already ran from one side of town to the other, now we’ve got to run through the library and across Centenary Square to the Symphony Hall? Oh, this is ridiculous!”
“Have you quite finished whingeing?” Roberta asked.
“No! I haven’t. I’m fed up with all this running around. Do I look like a bloody marathon runner to you?”
“More sumo wrestler, I’d have said.”
“Exactly!” Carl snapped. “Not an athlete. Not a long distance bloody runner. The thief clearly hasn’t thought this whole thing out properly if he’s making us run from one bloody side of town to the other, and we’ve already been here once already!”
“Are you done now?”
“No! I – “
“Oh bugger this,” Roberta said, turning and stomping off towards Chamberlain Square. “I’ll do it on my own.”
Carl watched her disappear into the crowds muttering about albatrosses and the uselessness of men in general.
“Bollocks,” he eventually said, and hurried after her.
* * *
Once Bruce had coiled himself back into the Volvo, he sat there for a while, his cheek pressing against the roof, his body an agonising Z-shape over the wheel.
He’d had a lucky escape, but there was still the rather urgent issue of the statue.
Where on earth was he going to take it now?
* * *
Meanwhile, back in real time, Bruce was hurrying up New Street, still wearing the red polo neck jumper. There was a rather large bruise in the middle of his forehead.
His surveillance equipment rattled heavily around his neck, pounding painfully into his chest. People kept getting in his way – how come the whole of Birmingham seemed to be coming towards him, hindering his chase.
Even worse, because he was wearing the earphones for the sound equipment in order to trace the man and the woman, Bruce was assaulted by the conversations of every person around him. ‘And I said to her, I said … “ “I think I might buy that dress I saw in the first shop we went in … “ “I’m just saying, I think I deserve a bit more housekeeping money than … “
Then a familiar voice rang in his ears. “The thief clearly hasn’t thought this whole thing … making us run from one … town to the other, and we’ve already been here once already!”
They were close.
Bruce struggled up the steps beside the Floozie in the Jacuzzi, just in time to see the man pushing himself away from the statue of Queen Victoria. The word, “Bollocks!” rang in his ears.
He’d almost reached the top of the steps when, out of nowhere, a small child ran straight in front of him. Moving too fast to stop, and not wanting to mow down the child or damage any of his equipment, Bruce lurched to one side.
And slipped.
And toppled.
And fell painfully to the ground, his equipment crashing all around him as the small child stood next to his prone body staring gormlessly. Bruce raised his head and witnessed the man disappearing round the side of the Council House.
Damn.
A young woman came towards him, glaring furiously as she took hold of the small child’s hand and led him away, muttering, “Some people are just in too much of a rush!”
Bruce struggled to his feet, gasping for air as the heavy equipment now hanging down his back threatened to strangle him. He took a step forward and winced in pain. His knee felt like it was shattered. He hobbled forward in agony, his equipment swinging wildly from his neck.
He’d been injured! He was in acute pain. He could hardly walk. He’d never catch up with them like this, dragging his leg behind him like a zombie. He had to be there when they found the clue, had to.
Moving slowly and wincing with every step, Bruce did the only thing he could think of to slow down the man and the woman before they got to the clue.
He had to stall them.
* * *
Will he stall them? Has he broken his knee? Who will get to the next clue first? And will all the small children running wild round Birmingham city centre EVER be rounded up? And you'll NEVER guess what happens to the statue.
All will be revealed in the next exciting episode of DA BRUMMIE CODE, coming soon to a computer screen near you.
Until then …ta ta. D
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