The Icing Man: Chapter 11 Extracts

We hadn’t been arrested – that had to be a good sign, surely? Just the opposite, in fact. Our exit from the Institute had been remarkably smooth. No unscheduled interviews, no detentions, not even the odd suspicious glance. I didn’t like it one bit. For the hundredth time I peered through the rear window of the car, certain that by now there had to be some kind of black sedan carrying a trio of suited dummies hard on our tail.

‘Jerry, will you stop doing that?’ Sandy demanded, on the verge of blowing one of Julian’s famed gaskets. ‘Look, for the last time, take it from someone brought up on Dragnet, The Untouchables and 77 Sunset Strip reruns. If the FBI or any other of our wonderful law-enforcement agencies were after us, we’d be sitting handcuffed in the back of a beat-up Chevy by now with a couple of stiffs reeling off the Miranda.’

Sondra let out a feigned scream. ‘Jerry, I don’t know why I bother. Haven’t you got any idea where the “on” switch is on that relic of a TV set of yours? Oh, just forget it. Look it up next time a New York cop breaks into your apartment and hits you on the head with a Big Mac.’

I was in trouble again. Ah well, I sighed to myself. At least Sandy being upset with me was proof that I still had a handle on reality. After today’s experiences, Lord of the Rings seemed more like a soap opera based on a day in the life of Dr J than a fantasy for students.

Idle banter apart, I was deeply disturbed by our meeting with poor, sweet Rosie. There was no doubt in my mind that the sad, frail and horribly abused figure steeped in her own private world of make-believe was in fact Elena Pascal. How she came to be in such a place, three thousand miles from home, I had no inkling. Equally unclear was how such appalling misfortune could have befallen an innocent woman who probably hadn’t a single enemy in the world. Well, at least we’d found her. I only hoped the wonders of medical science would, one day soon, be able to restore not only her face but also her beleaguered mind. If there were a just God, then perhaps a time would come when Elena and Natalie, set free from their living hell, could once again resume their life together. Who knows? I could only hope…

All of which was fine. The problem was that one helluva lot of sorting out had yet to be done before people had the slightest chance of rebuilding their lives. As Dr Arquette had so succinctly put it, ‘An apathetic society had allowed this malevolent tumour to flourish. If it now wanted rid of it, immediate surgery was the only solution.’

And what of the good-hearted doctor? Definitely more to that gentleman than met the eye. Nevertheless, at no time during our visit had he furnished grounds causing me to doubt his sincerity. After our meeting with Elena, he’d seemed genuinely delighted with the results. Unfortunately, there’d been little we could do to conceal our findings. Nurse Abi made sure of that. It was hard to blame her since it was patently obvious that she cared for her Rosie deeply. But when it came to keeping a lid on things – forget it. The good lady had turned out to be more efficient than the BBC in broadcasting what she described as a miracle. In less than five minutes I wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire junior staff of the Kremlin hadn’t been fully apprised. Left with no other option but to tell the truth, we’d promised Dr Arquette that upon our return to the UK we’d immediately inform the police and allow them to liaise with the Institute directly. As a scenario, that was great – one for the lecture room. In reality, it didn’t bear thinking about. But then Sandy was probably right when she’d said later, as we drove out onto the highway, ‘Was it really likely that Arquette, Stravinsky or any of the other players involved were simply going to sit back and wait for the Old Bill to give them a bell? Hello-o!!’

Still, I wasn’t sure. Was the doctor just a secondee from the British Services interested only in helping the sick? Was the FBI story kosher? And was it reasonable to believe that homely Dr Stravinsky was CIA, MI5, NSA, or any other of a thousand three-letter abbreviations?

Tired of my mounting paranoid questions and theories, Sandy eventually put a cap on the subject. ‘Okay, Jerry, let’s leave it like this,’ she proposed. ‘Since the FBI haven’t picked us up, we’ll assume we’re under twenty-four-hour surveillance. This is good. We’re getting close to the heart of this mystery, and sooner or later the shit will hit the fan by the shovel-load. When it does, what better than to have your own personal cavalry just waiting to come to the rescue?’

I was sorely tempted to pursue the matter by asking how long a jail sentence could we expect following the rescue, but I thought better of it.

Cavalry or no, I could gain no respite from the vivid pictures I’d recorded of four tragic lives, and all in less than twelve hours. Art and the religious madman – dead. Elena – physically and mentally ruined. And then there was the fourth. Quite unexpected, almost like a throwaway line concerning something vital delivered at the end of a long, exhausting speech. Rika.

Our wrap-up session with Dr Arquette at an end, we’d been on our way to pay the Director a courtesy farewell call. Arquette was leading the way when suddenly one of the blue-uniformed staff came rushing up to speak with him. The upshot? Could we briefly visit another lost soul before we left, hopefully to conjure up a second miracle? At first Arquette had dismissed the request, but the woman wasn’t to be denied. It was further evidence that news of our works of wonder had spread far and wide. A deep sense of shame had descended on me like a dark cloud as I watched the nurse plead her case. With the strong religious theme percolating through my life at present, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Jesus and the multitudes that clamoured to receive the touch of his divine healing hands. But I wasn’t Jesus and I certainly had no desire to be seen as his disciple. Yet, despite my resolve to avoid being dragged any further along this treacherous road, I couldn’t help but feel great admiration for the dedication and concern shown by the unyielding supplicant. To prevent further distress I’d therefore indicated to Arquette that if he had no objection other than that he believed the visit to be a waste of our time, Sandy and I could at least look in on the patient.

In the event, the victim turned out to be another young girl. Like Rosie, the poor creature had no past and had been subjected to a similar degree of facial surgery. Due to her stunningly classic-Indian appearance, the staff had decided to call her Rika – a name I thought to be well-chosen owing to its regal connotations. Her enormous dark eyes stared sightlessly past us as we entered the room. She was sitting in a chair, humming softly while cradling a small doll. In contrast to Rosie’s case, we were told that Rika had never spoken, spending each day in exactly the same way. The nurse who’d begged our presence explained that the girl had at one time exhibited some signs of recognition while being shown an atlas containing photographs of famous cities. I hadn’t been at all surprised to learn that Rika’s reaction was observed when she’d come across a picture of Cambridge.

For about ten minutes Sondra and I had asked questions, surreptitiously dropping in the odd key word from our recent experiences. Rika hardly blinked. I asked if the girl had ever written or drawn anything, but the answer was no. As a last resort I’d called for some paper and a few coloured crayons to see if I could encourage her to draw. Again, not the slightest hint that anything outside her totally closed and isolated world was being registered. It was only after we’d decided to concede defeat that the tiniest of breakthroughs occurred. I’d handed the pad and pencils to Sondra while I held Rika’s hand and talked. Without my realising, my companion began to sketch. As I was speaking I noticed that the young girl’s gaze had, for the first time, shifted a fraction and seemed to be focusing on something – my partner’s drawing. I’d cautiously attracted Sandy’s attention, and slowly but surely she’d responded by leaning forward so that Rika could see more clearly what was being drawn. As quickly as possible, Sondra dashed off a series of simple outlines – Cambridge, Gogmagog – then, when nothing seemed to be working, a picture of a thin, white woman standing with a large, black man. No result, so the pad was handed back to the nurse who placed it at Rika’s side just within her reach. We made our apologies for our lack of success then said farewell. We’d literally just stepped out into the cool afternoon air when the door behind us had been flung open. There, pad in hand, still breathless from his exertion, stood Dr Arquette. He retrieved one of the pages from the book and showed it to Sondra. It was her drawing of Black and White. On careful examination, however, it was clear the picture had been added to. Above the black figure’s head a crude image of a large book with a cross on the cover had been drawn. Next to it, scrawled in almost illegible capital letters, were three words, JESUS LOVES ME.

‘So d’you think Rika was yet another victim in a long line of Elenas and Natalies?’ I said out loud, prompted by my troubled mind to share the burden.

Sondra thought for a moment then nodded. ‘No doubt of that,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve a nagging feeling that we’ve got ourselves sort of trapped into just a single segment of this whole affair.’

‘Well, I’m pretty sure that we’re looking at a fair-sized operation here,’ she explained. ‘Probably scores of girls are involved if our theory’s right regarding the porno movies. Presumably things generally run smoothly. But when they don’t...’

‘That’s when our friends Black and White get involved,’ I interrupted, stealing other people’s punchlines having recently become my new hobby for some reason.

‘Exactly,’ Sondra exclaimed. ‘Natalie and the other two girls, Twister and Art – problems requiring a quick solution. So when the people at the top require such a service, then who’re they gonna call..?’

‘If it’s true that we’ve mostly been caught up in the problem end of the business – and I agree, it’s looking like a dead cert – then it would significantly aid our chances of finding out what happened to Kathy and why, if we had a way into the mainstream works,’ I remarked.

Sondra patted me on the leg. ‘It would indeed, Dr Clock. And that’s exactly what we’re gonna do, starting tonight.’

I should have known that Sandy was up to her old planning tricks when she’d insisted on driving us back. From the first day we met, if the girl had a problem or needed a plan then she’d drive. Didn’t really matter what mode of conveyance – pedal bike, car, rowing boat. As long as she was at the wheel she’d have a direct line to the ruling deities of strategy and solution.

It took a few more minutes before the captain was ready to reveal her proposal or, to those who knew her, orders. To Sandy’s way of thinking, the most auspicious means of finding out about the elusive business empire we’d been chasing and of accessing the mainstream was to somehow get involved at the grassroots level. From that vantage point, as she so graphically put it, we could look up in safety to see what was happening since those at the top never look down. I had to admit she had a point. All we needed now was access to some grassroots – and guess what? The Way We Were Club, centrepiece of Elena’s crucial drawing, was to Sandy the key to a veritable half-dozen meadows-worth.

Suddenly there it was again, coming straight at me with no chance of escape – another God-forsaken late night. After the day we’d just had any normal person would have been desperate simply to flake out for a week. But oh no, not Clock and Warwick – or Warwick and Clock – whatever. No, the Mulder and Scully of the amateur investigative world were on twenty-four-hour assignment. Who was it that said, ‘Rest is for wimps?’ No idea really, but it was probably me during one of the annual management meetings at Van der Heijden.

To a chorus of whistles, shouting and fevered applause, the show concluded. True to her word, Marilyn signalled that we should follow her through a narrow door off to one side of the stage. There, we found ourselves in a corridor lined on either side with dressing rooms – some fitted with the stars’ names, others blank. Cher, hardly surprisingly, not only had a personalised door sign but also one of only two large shimmering gold stars as a backdrop to her name. Marilyn knocked and, when called, entered, leaving us outside. Some moments later the door reopened and confirmation was given that we’d been granted an audience.

Being afforded the opportunity to view my new idol at close-quarters might, I feared, prove a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I had high hopes that my rosy impressions would remain undiminished. On the other hand, logic insisted on preparing me for a fall. As it turned out, logic was the only thing taking a dive. If I died and went to heaven at that precise moment, I’d have no qualms in swearing to St Peter that I’d met Cher in person. Even in the less than salubrious environment, away from all the special lighting and fancy sound systems, the person I shook hands with would be the lady herself for the rest of my life.

‘You two cops?’ Cher began unceremoniously. ‘Look like Vice ta me. Well, yer out o’ luck tonight, boys. I’m clean. So if that’s all, why not do me a favour and go fuck yerselves. I’ve got another show in an hour.’

It took some very fast talking and a truckload of assurances to avoid being summarily ejected. A crash dive seemed inevitable when I suddenly remembered I still had my passport with me.

‘Jeremiah Orville Clock,’ Cher repeated, thumbing through the pages. ‘Shit, that’s one helluva name. But ya’re a Brit, so I guess ya could be on the level. Sonny, God rest his soul, always liked the Brit rock scene, so for his sake I’ll give ya five minutes. Talk ta me.’

Sondra took over the reins and very skilfully, I thought, outlined our needs. She explained that I was extremely sensitive and only wanted to commit to a regime of physical reconstruction if the doctors involved were the best. Money, of course, was no object.

While she listened, Cher set about revising her appearance for the next performance. A slight dab of make-up here and there, a change of wig, and the star of the Eighties became the superstar of the Nineties. Incredible!

‘Sounds like a load of crap ta me,’ she concluded. ‘Jeremiah here doesn’t look the type for hormones and titties. Besides, he’s no spring chicken, is he? But you Brits are a pretty fucked-up bunch of jerk-offs. All that cocksucking and ass-fucking at public school, I guess. Okay, here’s the deal. I ain’t sayin’ I’ll do nothin’, but you come back tomorrow about six before the place opens. I’ll speak to some people and see if they’re interested. It’ll cost ya five hundred to get that far. So what d’ya say? Ya in or out?’

We were in, but only by the skin of our teeth. Trying to make it look as if doling out five hundred bucks was no more of an event than breaking wind took some doing. Not having anticipated this kind of outlay so early in the proceedings meant we only had five hundred and nine dollars thirteen cents between us. Nevertheless, some fancy sleight of hand and Sondra succeeded in slipping me her contribution while Cher was preoccupied changing her knickers. I didn’t really know where to look for the best nor had I time to consider what to expect if I did decide where to look. In the end I bottled out, but then by chance looked up to find myself staring at her almost naked body reflected in a mirror. Our eyes met.

‘So, this is what ya want, sugar?’ Cher said, chewing gum. It was a disturbing sight. The face, breasts and body of a female marred – if that’s the right word – by a set of male genitals. I was dumbstruck and only too grateful when Sondra responded.

‘Well people, it’s no picnic, I can tell ya,’ Cher volunteered. ‘All that dieting, liposuction, electrolysis, and that’s before ya start the tablets and surgery. If ya ask me though, the biggest problem’s the pecker. Ya keep it – it ruins the line of yer knickers. Ya lose it – ya can’t change yer mind. A bitch if ya meet some foxy beach bunny ya just gotta fuck.’

I could appreciate the dilemma, but I wasn’t really in the mood to debate the issue. My genitals were already aching just from the thought of being removed to improve a knicker line. It was definitely time to go. I handed over the monkey, confirmed we’d be back by six the next day and literally dragged Sandy out of the room.

‘I’ll be needing another drink before we go,’ I said with theatrical emphasis. ‘That’s the last time I fall for one of your hare-brained schemes. After this lot I’ll probably be mentally scarred for life.’