The Long and Spectacular Life of Agnes Magnusdottir 22

Chapter 15.

 

The first thing I saw on opening the door of my flat was Russell dressed as Batman. He had on the full outfit, shiny leather boots, fully stocked utility belt, flapping cape, the lot. He even had on the mask. 

    "Our next production," he said, not apparently surprised to see me. "A modern take on the myth of superheroes."

    From the bedroom stepped Catwoman. Zara I presumed although I had never seen her in anything so skintight. 

    She took a step forward and looked quite directly into my eyes, the whiskers of her mask barely inches from my nose. 

    “You're looking better. Much better. I was quite worried about you back then.”

    “Although a shame of sorts.”

    Russell held up his hands. 

    “We were going to ask you if you wanted a walk on part as the mummy.” 

    I had a desire to wonk Russell on the head and then stamp on his body until I felt bones breaking. Instead I took the whiskey I had purchased on the way home and went out to the balcony.

    I was halfway down the bottle when my mobile buzzed. It was a voicemail from my editor although I hadn’t heard it ring. 

    "What the fuck have you been up to? I’ve had Gartree McPhearson in a state of apoplexy on the phone. Apparently you've been asking some very awkward questions about Agnes Magnusdottir. Concerning Nazis of all things! For fucking fuck’s sake. When I said first time novelists I sure as shit didn't mean her. 

    “McPhearson, as you well know, is a major shareholder in our paper so when McPhearson says stop and desist then we stop and desist. Do you understand? We do not shit upon the hand that feeds. Find another muse for your article. I'm serious Harry. It ends here." 

    It ends here... 

    As I finished the bottle a light came on in the living room behind me. Russell and Zara returning from whatever showbiz party they had been to. Twisting my chair around I sat and watched them sure with no light on on the balcony they couldn’t see me. 

    I watched as Russell pushed Zara down onto the sofa, watched as he pulled off his own clothes before removing hers. The penis between her legs was already hard. 

    It was a shock. 

    It was so long since she had let me see it that I had almost forgotten she was, or had been, a man.  

 

Zelig Krüger's Diary Pages 11, 12 & 13

 

Although I had never been there myself it was common knowledge that men of a certain kind met in the grounds of Galileo Park after dark. There they were said to commit unspeakable acts. But who was I to judge? Wasn't it I myself who had done unspeakable things, bringing about the demise of the people who should be most admired in our society? I felt almost that I should drop my trousers and pants, bend over, and offer myself up to all comers. It was no more than I deserved. But that would not help me find Singer. For that I needed to keep my eyes and ears firmly open.    

    Not my arsehole. 

    Having arrived at the park well before its regular closing time I chose a bush that I believed would provide me with the best cover. Then, checking carefully first that I was not being observed I squeezed my body between its thorny branches and, happy in the notion that I was at last doing something to mankind’s betterment, I settled in to wait.

    And wait I did. Oh what long weary hours passed. Night seemed to take an inordinately long time to fall and as I sat there in uncomfortable anticipation I repeated to myself the same phrase over and over.

    "Please come Singer. Please come Singer.”

    I was not altogether unaware of the irony or double-meaning of my words.

   

It was shortly after the striking of ten o’clock that they started to arrive. It turned out I had chosen my position well. I was, as they say, right in the thick of it. From my bush I could see quite clearly both the entrance to the park and several of the pathways that ran through it. 

    The men would go around and around until first by means of casual glances and then more meaningful stares they had chosen their match. They would then, this new pair, disappear into a bush or behind a tree before reappearing a short time later either to leave the park altogether or to start up another circling.   

    I felt a kind of joy that these men could find in darkness what was not available in light. Or I would have done under different circumstances. My obsession with finding Singer was all-consuming. It was only him I had ardent eyes for. 

    And yet still he did not come. There was neither hide nor hair of him.

    After four hours of silent and painful vigil I was hollowed out with despair. 

    Carefully adjusting my position, my legs had gone quite dead, I changed my incantation thinking this perhaps would summon my pray. 

    "Blond hair and moustache. Blond hair and moustache. Blonde hair and moustache. That is all I am after."

    Isn't it a trite adage that just when we have reached the limits of our endurance that which we wish at last comes to pass? Trite it may be but here it was true. 

    Even from a distance I knew it was him. I felt it from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes.

    Hell’s teeth! 

    The bloody fool looked exactly like one of the characters from his books, tall, broad-shouldered, long-thighed and, of course, sporting exactly the kind of blonde side-parted hair and square moustache I had so recently read of again and again. He might as well have put a sign around his neck that read, ‘Here I am. The author. Fuck me up now.’

    I watched, heart beating wildly in my chest, as he took one turn and then another around the park. I was expecting him to start his third, and it was here that I planned to leap discreetly out at him and drag him into my bush with an exhortation to keep shtum, when without even a look back he ducked out of the entrance and started up the street arse wiggling.

    "Oh bollocks!”

    I uttered a sharp curse and burst from my hideyhole. It was crucial I didn't lose him. 

 

I not only had to keep an eye on Singer but also an eye out for any of the dreaded curfew policemen and their deadly nightsticks.

    “And do you know the punishment for being abroad at night sonny-me-Jim?”

    I could smell the garlic breath, see the small mountain range of knuckles. 

    But as it turned out luck was on my side. The pursuit was but a very short one. After a quick left and a brief right we came to a full stop. Singer didn't even look over his shoulder. 

    He shouldered a painted green gate and with a gay hop and a skip proceeded gallantly up an external wooden staircase. Taking out a large brass key he let himself in the door there and went inside. 

    Looking around to get my bearings, I believed I might have needed to come back there, it was with complete and utter horror that I realised the apartment was above an artisan’s shop. Just as I had predicted in my report to Wolf!

    His men could be here at any moment. I didn't have one single second to lose.  

    The door was opened almost as soon as I had rapped discreetly upon it. 

    "Schubert Singer I presume.”

    I placed the toe of my left foot in the door. 

    "Please, hear me out. I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite. I come from the Ministry of Information and I believe your life is in imminent danger."

    “Danger? My man, whatever do you mean?”

    It took some time to convince the handsome young gent standing in the gap of the door both of my good intentions and the validity of my statements but eventually with a grumble and a sigh I was let in.

    "So what is this all about? Come on, spit it out quickly now. Don't leave me dangling.”

    Sitting on either side of a cluttered kitchen table I told the whole story. Without sparing my own duplicitous role in the affair I explained to him exactly what had been going on, the reports, Wolf and everything. 

    "Bugger me," he said as I finished. "That's quite a tale and make no mistake about it." Then he went a deathly pale and rushed over to the window. Dividing the curtains just a crack he peered out.

    "If what you say is true those assassins might be waiting for me right now."

    I watched as Singer packed, throwing a few meagre and random possessions into a tatty square cardboard case. 

    "What will you do now?" I asked as he closed the lid and placed a large-brimmed hat on his head. "Do you have somewhere you can go.” Then I said, hoping to soften the blow of my visit, “If it means anything. I enjoyed your books. They are quite the adventure stories. I have never read anything quite like them. A whole different way of life was laid before me. One of action and adventure!”

    Singer turned his big blue eyes on me, a change coming over his face.  

    “What did you say?”

    He held up his hands and with both of them rubbed quite fiercely at the moustache under his nose. 

    “I say! Tell me again, what did you say?”

    “I said…”

    “Yes I heard you man!”

    Singer leapt a full three feet into the air and landed back down with a thud. 

    “Adventure and excitement! They are my stock in trade. Action and adventure!”

    Now his whole face was lit up, a bold light seemed to emanate from him. 

    “And why should I?”

    Coming over to me in a rush he gripped my biceps quite painfully with both of his hands. 

    "Don't you see? This is no time to take it up the arse. If we don't put a stop to it they will carry on, writer after writer after writer until we are all dead." 

    Pushing me away he took a deep breath and gave me the full force of his miraculous eyes.

   "I have an idea. I'm a writer, aren't I and isn't this what writers do?”

    The laugh was short and barking. 

    “We are going to destroy those bastards. Me and you together. We'll play them at their own game. Tell me again the whole thing from the beginning.”

    It was morning when I finished and as I did so Singer let out a laugh. 

    "Yes I think it might work. You've got spunk haven't you? Yes, you've shown me that already by coming to that park. Do say you'll help me. No, I won't even ask it as a question. You are in this as deep as me. Your arse is not clean already so how can you fear to dirty it?”

    

Chapter 16.

 

When you are drunk a different perspective presents itself. The world shimmers, slips out of kilter. You are everything you want to be and at the same time nothing. That is the danger. 

    The Batman costume had been left discarded on the floor. It was a sign.

    The utility belt was surprisingly heavy. Clicking it in place I was surprised to discover it was full of all the proper stuff, tools and weapons and grey canisters marked with single words like ’GLUE’ and ’CAPTOR’ and ‘LAUGHING GAS’. The mask, which was the last thing I put on, fitted snugly over my head. It was just as if it was made for me.

    Turning to leave I caught my reflection in the glass above the sofa and for a moment, even though I had just dressed myself in the costume, I was shocked. The transformation was so complete. There could be no doubt about it. I was Batman, the Caped Crusader, ready to defeat the bad guys with whatever force was necessary.

 

It was simply a case of putting one foot in front of the other. Any fool could do that. And I was a superhero. 

    Concentrate. 

    My watch told me it had taken me forty-five minutes to get to my destination. I stood outside it looking up. Cold sweat ran down my back. 

    There had been one hairy moment when I had stumbled into a group of lads on a night out. Their tight t-shirts and matching shorts indicated they belonged to Knockout! a well known boxing and karate club on the edge of the city. There had been a story in local paper only the previous month where two of the members had been arrested for GBH. A publican had lost his left eye and worse. I thought just for the hell of it they might decide to beat me to a pulp. It’s not every day you get the chance to put one over on the Caped Crusader himself! But all they wanted was a photo of each of them in turn as they mimed butt-fucking me, fingers raised to the camera. And one wanted to kiss me. We did it to jeers as my cock hardened. I couldn't even open my mouth. 

 

The building looked as impressive in darkness as it had done in daylight. Checking first that there was no one around I slipped into the alleyway running down one side of it. 

    The truth of the matter was that there were other papers out there much bigger ones than The Bugle. If I got the scoop on Magnusdottir they would all be clamouring for exclusive rights. While they licked my arsehole McPhearson could go hang.

    At the end of the alleyway was a large bin. I pushed at it until it was under one of the first floor windows. Then I clambered up.

    The glass cutting tool from the utility belt wasn't as good as I expected. In fact it was a pizza cutter. I used the wrong end of it as a hammer. 

    The glass gave with a louder version of snow being crunched underfoot.

    As I pulled my arm out of the hole I had made I felt a sharp stabbing pain. At the same time blood began cascading down onto the sill. A single shard of glass remained standing up in the hole.

    If I had been attempting suicide I could not have done a better job of cutting myself. 

 

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