Chapter 11

In which the trail leads to a mansion outside Cannes and Timmy finds himself under pressure from new friends, Suzanne and Marcia in unusual circumstances.

"That was a nice little interlude,' says Sid, 'we deserved that after our abstinence on the plane. I'm glad I didn't succumb to the blandishments of that stewardess tart. What was Gee Gee like? You didn't say nay to her, did you? get it? It's a play on words. You see, there's neigh what horses do and-'

'Yes, Sid,' I say hurriedly. 'Very funny. Actually, I'm feeling a bit numb. This bird only goes down on me with a mouthful of ice cubes, doesn't she?'

'Blimey,' says Sid. 'Sounds more like a snow job than a blow job. What was it like ?'

'I don't know,' I say. 'I haven't felt anything yet. What was Desiree like?'

'Exquisite,' says Sid. 'She did things to me that were so disgusting I will treasure them for ever. Now, let's get this show on the road. Do you want to drive or shall I ? I wish those birds had stopped long enough to show us how the controls work. They were round that corner like a dose of salts, weren't they?'

'And with their fingers in their ears too. Funny, that.'

Sid nods and switches on the ignition. There is a small flash and a 'phut' noise from underneath the instrument panel.

'Bloody marvelous,' says Sid. 'All that messing about and they still can't get it right. Just shows you what frog craftsmanship is like. I wish all those bleeders who buy foreign cars were with me now.'

We get the bonnet open eventually and Sid nods as if his suspicions have been confirmed. 'There's your trouble,' he says.

'What is?'

'No engine.'

"That's in the back.'

'Why didn't you say?'

'I thought you must have a special reason for wanting to get at the boot.'

Sid says something I last saw written in the gents at Finsbury Park Station and we expose the engine. 'We can get rid of this for a start,' says Sid viciously. 'Bloody petrol saver! We're only going to be here for a couple of days.' He rips out the canister and makes as if to throw it into one of the banks of flowers.

'llang on! T say. 'There's no need for that. It probably only needs a simple adjustment. Chuck it in the boot and we'll hand it back with the car. Somebody else can have the benefit of it.'

Sid goes on grumbling but he does as I say and we get back into the car. 'llang on a minute,' I say. 'There's a note here. "Dear fiends"-they must mean friends-"if the-" there's a bit crossed out here. I can't read it. Looks like something, something, something explore.'

'Or explode,' says Sid. 'Except that that wouldn't make sense. It must be something about having a good time exploring. I wonder why they crossed it out? What does it say next?'

'It says "On the way to Cannes, do not use the brakes until you get to the Corniche".'

'What's the Corniche?' says Sid. 'llang on a minute. There's a PS. "The Corniche is the road that runs along the cliffs, full of dangerous hairpin bends and precipitous drops on to the rocks hundreds of feet below".'

'I see,' says Sid. 'They must have just changed the brake linings and wanted to give them time to setde.'

'Oh good,' I say. Sid does have his shortcomings but his mechanical knowledge can be invaluable on occasions.

A few minutes later we are bowling along a mountain road with a fantastic view of the sky-blue Mediterranean far below us. The wakes of speed boats criss cross each other like the vapour trails of jet planes and there isn't a cloud in the sky.

"This is the life!' says Sid. 'Wacko the froggies! Oh I do like to be beside the-'

'Do you think this is the way to Cannes Post Office?' I say. 'You must have to climb a long way to get your old age pension.'

'Don't worry about that,' says Sid. 'Lie back and enjoy it. We're starting to go down now. There's a sign there for "Chaussee Deformee". Ever heard of it?'

'No, but they ought to do something about their roads. They're diabolical.'

"They're big on signs, the frogs, aren't they?' says Sid.

'Look at that one: "Danger! Virages 3km". I wonder what a virage is? Probably some kind of mirage. Fog, most likely. Well, we don't have to worry about that today.' He accelerates happily as we start to go down a steep incline.

"That's a funny sign,' I say. 'It looks like lots of Richard the Thirds raining down on you.'

'Most probably just what it is,' says Sid. 'Beware of blokes having a Tom Tit over the edge of the cliff. Dirty bastards, the French. I'm surprised they bother to warn you. Thank God we're not driving a convertible.'

He throws the jam (jamjar: car. Ed.) into the first bend and we come out of it at about seventy. 'Blimey!' I say. 'You took that a bit fast didn't you ?'

'You have to press hard to get anything out of these brakes,' says Sid, a bit grim-faced. 'llang on!'

The next bend has a truck coming out of it and I think we go under it at right angles.

'Sid!' I scream. 'Are you mad?'

"The brakes don't work!' howls Sid.

'Are you pressing the right thing! ?'

Panic-stricken, Sid jams his foot down and we start going even faster. 'Wh-e-e-e-e-o-o-o-o-wwwww!'

Sid swings the wheel to the right and I am forced to lean over the side of the car and clock a view of waves pounding rocks hundreds of feet below. 'S-i-i-i-id! !!!' I wrench at the hand brake and it comes away in my hand. This must be the end! Farewell to the dynamic duo. Even Denis Healey couldn't get out of this one. We are now heading down a straight bit at about a hundred and twenty towards a right angled bend with a precipice where the pavement ought to be. At the angle of the bend a gravel drive rises steeply, its entrance flanked by high wrought-iron gates.

'llang on!' says Sid. What a bloody stupid thing to say! If I was hanging on any tighter I would be bending the seats in half.

Sid steers the jam straight for the drive and my nut jerks back as we take off as if hitting the up part of a switchback. There is a vicious screech of tyres biting into gravel and a blur of colour as we career past a jungle of exotic shrubs. The drive rises steeply and our speed begins to slacken. By the time a white stucco mansion hoves into view we are down to about forty and when we hit the Rolls parked outside, it is only with enough force to dent the number plate.

'Oh my gawd,' says Sid. He is paler than the winner of the World Wanking Championships and we are both shaking like a couple of highly placed contenders. 'Let's get out of this thing!'

Sid does not need to say it twice. I never want to sit in a car again. We have just scrambled out and are taking a few deep breaths when there is the sound of frog voices approaching from the inside of the house. Of course, we could hang around and explain everything but without Sid's phrasebook there doesn't seem much point. Best to be retire behind a handy bit of trellis work and take a butcher's through the holes that have not been occupied by creepers. First through the door is an old bag wearing a bikini-or maybe it is a hundredweight of compressed prunes wearing a sling. Honesdy, I don't like to be unkind but she should not do it. One look at her could put the mockers on your sex life for ever.

"Vite, vite!' she says. 'Ee eez wilting already. Ooh la la! Fi Fi, get ze splints!'

No sooner have I adjusted myself to this unpleasant sight than a geezer hoves into view. He is stark naked except for a mask and a french letter shaped like Donald Duck-I know, it takes me back a bit as well. Behind him come two knock out birds wearing the kind of underwear-pajamas you would pretend not to look at if you were walking your old lady down Shaftesbury Avenue. Beside me I feel Sid stiffennot in an unpleasant way, I hasten to add.

'Blimey!' he says. 'I think we've stumbled across it.' I examine the soles of both shoes before I see what he means. Another bloke has shown up carrying a camera, and a bird who must be Fi Fi is trying to perk up Donald Duck or should it be Donald Dick? Either way, he is more Wilt than Walt Disney at the moment. 'This is their HQ!' hisses

Sid. 'This is where they take the photographs! Quick! we must inform P.' So saying, he turns on his heel, catches his foot in a creeper and dives into a conveniently placed swimming pool. Froggy warbles rent the air and I can hear Madam doing her nut as I drag Sid out and we scarper through the french windows and into the house. I don't have time to stop and value the stuff we sprint past but there is clearly a bit of money about. Up the marble staircase we go and Sid pauses as we dash round a corner.

'We'll have to split up,' he says. 'It's our only chance. Keep your pecker up, old bean, and if you get back to Blighty before me, give mater a real plonker from me.' I have never heard Sid talk like this before and I can only put it down to all those old war films they show on the telly. Like I say, he is very impressionable behind that stupid exterior.

'OK,Tsay. 'Good luck.'

I don't stop to see where he goes but dash down the corridor and try the fourth door on the left-I was fourth in The West Clapham Wolf Cubs' egg and spoon race when I was a kid. The door opens and I find myself in a large bedroom with a verandah and built-in wall cupboards. I move towards the verandah but I can hear someone running by underneath so I duck back and open one of the cupboards. It is stuffed full of clothes-OK so I wasn't expecting banana skins. Shall I get inside it? I hear the sound of footsteps approaching down the corridor. I will get inside it. I press back into the deliciously ponging threads and slide the door to with my fingertips. No sooner has the darkness enveloped me than I hear a door opening and a long drawn-out female sigh. There is a pause and then the unmistakable sound of a zipper being unzipped a zipper being zipped never has quite the same abandoned note about it. Another pause and the rusde of dress material. I hold my breath and wait-it is too cramped in the cupboard to hold anything else. Thirty seconds go by and I expel my breath. At the same instant, the door of the cupboard slides back and a hand presses a dress against my chest. I peer out to see one of the chicks who was at the session on the terrace. She is naked except for a tiny pair of scarlet panties and her enormous knockers heave like a couple of fenders hitched over the side of a vessel moored in a choppy sea. If she gives the game away I am lost. A mixture of panic and bravura grabs me.

'OK,' I say, advancing from the cupboard and jabbing one of my digits at her. 'This finger is loaded. Open your mouth and you get it straight between the eyes.'

Just the way I say it should terrify the bird out of her mind but she looks at me like I am collecting for a jumble sale. 'I'd rather open my legs and get it straight between the entrance to my you-knoxxhat,' she say. 'Followed by something long, strong, and rhyming with sock. Marcia! Come and see what I've found.'

'You're English!' I gasp, taken aback by this strange turn of affairs.

'Of course I am,' says the bird. 'Leicester-and I wish we'd never left it.'

As she speaks, the adjoining door to the next room opens and the other half of the delectable duo on the terrace comes into the room. She is obviously naked beneath her housecoat, a fact better concealed when she draws the garment across the wide expanse of flesh revealed between pubes and boobs.

'What's up Suzanne?' she says. 'Ooooooh!'

'You're traitors!' I say. 'How could you betray your country in this shameful way? Those photographs are undermining the self control of the whole nation.'

'What is he on about?' says Marcia.

'Search me,' says Suzanne. 'I hoped he was some halfcrazed rapist who was going to make brutal love to me while I made a show of putting up token resistance-amongst other things.'

'You know what I'm talking about!' I say. 'Those pictures of important people doing naughty things to each other.'

'You must be off your chump,' says Suzanne. 'We don't have any important people in Countess Hardon's Handbook of Sexual Happiness.'

'Countess Hardon's Handbook of Sexual Happiness,'' I say.

Even as I repeat the words they begin to ring a bell. Now I come to think of it, I have seen the withered crone in the bikini somewhere before.

'Oh you must have had it,' says Marcia. 'Everybody in the country has. "How to achieve true sexual happiness with the aid of forty-four different vibrators, french letters shaped like garden gnomes and a range of ointments guaranteed to increase the sensitivity of your bank manager if no one else.'

'I know!' I say. 'It's a catalogue. It comes in a plain envelope so your mum won't find you with it. My mate tried one of those french letters and his bird ran out of the room screaming.'

'I know,' says Marcia. 'The only sensation they increase in me is one of disgust.'

It is dawning on me fast that Sid may have been guilty of jumping to the wrong conclusion. These birds clearly have less complicated thoughts in mind than the destruction of the British Emuire.

'You were talked into it, were you?' I say.

'Oh yes,' says Suzanne. 'Utterly. When we answered the advertisement we thought it was the kind of thing the

Sunday papers warn you about. You know, working as waitresses in a club and then finding that you have to sleep with the customers.'

'And being in the south of France we imagined that it would be just a step to Marseilles and the white slave trade,' chips in Marcia. 'We thought we'd end up in a brothel south of Suez servicing the unspeakable desires of hosts of over-developed camel dealers.'

'But it didn't work out like that?' I say.

'No,' says Suzanne. 'It was ever so disappointing. Nothing exciting has happened at all-except when one of the electric vibrators ran amok and destroyed a summer house.'

'But that man,' I say. 'The one with the thing on his thing on the terrace. Him and his mate. They must put it about a bit?'

Marcia shakes her head sadly. 'I think they keep it to themselves if they do anything with it. I tried to get Marcel going when we were doing the cover of One Thousand And One Exciting Love Positions and he got quite uppity. Said I was smudging his body make-up.'

Marcel is not the only one who is getting uppity. Down at crutch level percy is getting an attack of the instant rigids. This is becoming the kind of case he likes to work on. Suzanne gives me a look that strips me down to the Y-fronts and then rips them contemptuously aside.

'Who are you, anyway?' she says.

I take a deep breath. 'Would you believe that I'm a C Man?' I say.

Suzanne and Marcia exchange glances. 'They don't come round here very often,' says Marcia. 'What precisely are you working on?'

'I can't reveal too much,' I say. 'But it's to do with someone who's been taking pictures of orgies and-'

'Orgies! ?' interrupts Suzanne. 'Ooh! Now you're talking ! You had a friend, didn't you ?'

Marcia lets the housecoat drop from her shoulders and takes a step towards me. 'We haven't got time to wait for him,' she says. 'It's every girl for herself!'

"Talk dirty while you're doing it,' says Suzanne. 'I love that.'

'Ladies!' I say. 'Girls-please-!' My back hits the bed like it is attached to it by strong elastic and Suzanne launches herself on to my cakehole while Marcia rips my trousers down to ankle level. My Mad Mick rears into the air like the Lone Ranger and as Suzanne swamps me with knocker I feel two pairs of hands getting to grips with my growth sector.

'Ooh! Warm your hands on that,' squeals Marcia. 'That's the thermostat my system's been waiting fori'

'First served, first come-I hope,' pants Suzanne. She peels off her panties and nudging Marcia aside, scrambles astride my unprotesting body. 'Now you see it, now you don't,' she says. 'Ooh, that's heaven. I'd forgotten what it was like.' She starts to bounce up and down and that old jungle rhythm starts throbbing through my loins. It is in situations like this that I always wish I had more parts. There are so many things you could be doing to birds, aren't there? So many places to touch, so many places toI read the look of desperate need in Marcia's eyes and my heart melts-only my heart you will be glad to hear.

'Ding, ding!' I say. 'Room for one more on top.'

After that things got a bit confused and there are moments when I feel like a boodace in a can of worms. I keep scratching my leg and finding that it belongs to someone else. One thing about working for Countess Hardon, it clearly keeps you up to date with tricky dicky positions. It also helps if you are double-jointed. I am not when we start but at the end of our session I am not so sure.

The late afternoon sun is slanting past the open shutters when I eventually he back without either of the birds on top or underneath me. It has been a good afternoon's work by any standards and I think that P would be pleased with me. Sid, too. I wonder where he is? Ah well, I will have a little snooze and find him later. Marcia and Suzanne-nice girls-are asleep on either side of me and I close my mince pies and prepare to join them.

But I do not join them. Hardly have I become vaguely aware of a sound like that of a doorknob being turned stealthily than something hard is jammed against the side of my temple. I open my eyes and see a sight that strikes terror into my jam tart.