Breakfast on Pluto (13 page)

And so each night, jangly-bangly, whiff of No. 5 (‘Gosh! You like your perfume!’ often he would say), in knee boots she’d come tripping, Aubrey-bob lacquered in place. So high
was she, what pray is that so many miles below – ‘Why! The city of London it is, methinks!’ all winking with its signals trying to reach sweet Pussy and say: ‘Come back to
earth!’ But no – ‘Methinks I’ve had enough of that!’ she cries – then when words with Charlie on the phone she did swop – it never quite dawned on her that
Irwin was dead. Although she’d heard it many times, for Charlie couldn’t stop repeating it. As she’d been doing since he died, having really gone quite mad!

‘I’ll see you, darling!’ was all Puss said. ‘I’ve got to go – a client! Toodle-oo!’

You would have to ask – was Puss gone too, to that nutty no-rule place? The question must be asked!

As it was by dearest Terence (Bastard! Go on – leave me! No, I don’t mean that!) who said: ‘So to all intents and purposes you were living as a woman now?’

‘Well, I didn’t have any yucky briefs if that’s what you mean, my sweet!’ said Puss and chuckled in her chuckly way, her head as light as air.

‘Sometimes they’d ask me to do my Dusty.’ She’d smile and roll her eyes, wondering was it something Tersey too did fancy. ‘I’d dance for them and husky-coo
until they could take no more. And other times—’

‘Other times?’

‘Why I’d be a right old whore!’

As Tersey’s cheeks went pinky. Yes! They truly did!

And gave me courage! I went over to him and stroked his cheek. Then dropped my eyelids and sexy-whispered: ‘Before I became a bomber, of course!’

It was hard not to laugh – because he took it so serious! Which he had to – as indeed
I
ought to – after all, people lost their limbs and eyes!

But I couldn’t. Pussy as a bomber – I simply had to clutch my sides!

It is four o’clock in the afternoon in the Earl’s Court Hotel School and Dr Vernon is not pleased. ‘I distinctly told you to be here at three
forty-five!’ he says to Mandy – his pupil, of course – who now she hangs her head in shame.

‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘I know that. I know that Dr Vernon. But—’

‘No buts!’ he hisses and he looks so cross, it has to be for a split-second considered he might well be another Silky String. O no, please, no!

Fortunately, however, not the case! As he peremptorily intones:

‘You are perfectly aware that punishment for tardiness at the Earl’s Court Academy is strangling by ligature, are you not . . .?’ O no! But not to be—

Dr Vernon is much nicer than old Silks could ever be! He just makes you do one hundred lines. And paces around as you write them:

Then, what does he do? Brings you off to the restaurant for a great big yummy din dins!

And then to Harrods to buy you hundreds of frou-frou fluffies – including an explosion of white fur with the shortest black dress ever – not to mention the fabbest Chanel-y suit,
Saxone shoes and a delicious white satin shirt! Oh, how you exult! How one squeaks with pure delight!

Then making a silly mistake – moving in with old silly Vernon! ‘I want to be your husband!’ The great old idiot! I couldn’t stand him after a while! ‘Shall we go to
Sainsbury’s? That should be quite exciting! Or perhaps I ought to wash the car! Yes – that’s what I shall do!’

O and did I become a broody bitch! Which was why I left! Went running out the door – again! – in fact, the minute I got the chance!

O and why would I not be a happy girl walking around this glitter-night in London’s glorious West End – ‘
Oh
,
Calcutta! Now in its fourth
year!
’, ‘
The Exorcist!
(Your mother cooks socks in hell – ha ha!’), ‘
Carry On London – At Last! They’re carrying on – live on
stage!
’ (Ooh, matron! Distinctly said, ‘Prick his boils did you? I am sorry!’) – and I am not going back to my husband Vernon because you see I don’t love him any
more and I don’t see why you should have to live with someone you don’t love. One day soon I will write him a letter and say, dear Vernon, darling, I am sorry I have not come home. You
are a very sweet man and I love you dearly but not in the way that a wife should love her husband so I think it is only fair and honest to tell you this so that you can find someone to love and
care for you the way you deserve. I want to thank you too for all the beautiful things you bought me, especially this lovely ice-cream pink mohair sweater and black pleated skirt which goes so well
with my black suede knee boots. I am sure you can imagine how good I feel as I swing my Gucci shoulder bag (bought by you too, sweetness, I’m afraid!) and let myself be swallowed up by the
flashing console colours of this most wondrous city. There are parties on tonight, my darling. As you might expect, considering it’s coming up to Christmas. If she looks into this restaurant,
through this frosted glittering glass, what does Patrick Puss-divorced-from-dearest-Vernon now see? A sea of shining faces and glasses raised on high. ‘
And I said to her, I said – if
you expect
me to –
’, as girls flick back their hair. Not really listening! Having too good a time!

As merry crowds now surge through streets of white cut-stone that vibrate in the night, past Piccadilly railings opposite Eros and near the Wimpy where they expect to see young Puss tonight.
Except, she isn’t selling! Too soft and frail, and fragile maybe too! Wants it all over, I’m afraid! Just wants to settle down, safe and snug beneath an arm so big and bearlike. Silly
Puss-Puss, Max Factor Miss with lots of men who want yum yum! But not the way she does! The way they do in
Loving
magazine! O! she sighs, if it could only be!

Sweet he is, but for Puss it cannot be. Rock stars catching planes will only make you weep. Her man to be loved for ever and ever but only by Pussy catkins Swing-the-Bag!

—Only by me and no one else!

‘Sigh!’ thinks Puss Puss, wondering aloud:

—What can the future hold? What, what, what can the future hold, now my tootling days are at an end?

Not knowing that right at that moment, that very second, somewhere deep in darkest Cricklewood, moves were already afoot to send her flying towards it, with some gusto!

(Terence said: ‘Did you imagine all this, Patrick? Or were you actually at some point involved with these bombers?’

I ought to have played him along a little – it would have been fun just teasing him! Instead of saying, all coyly like I did: ‘Oh, Terence! Don’t start pretending my writing
skills are
that
good!’)

But you could still see him looking at me –
Pussy! Mad Bomber!
Could it be true?

O Terence! Honestly – for heaven’s sake! Sometimes I wonder how I ever fell for you!

It was six o’clock – 6th November, 1974 and Big Joe Kiernan from Offaly was smoking a Player’s No. 6 cigarette and simultaneously humming ‘My Ding A
Ling’ by Chuck Berry as his nicotine-stained fingers doubled the end of a piece of copper wire from which he had removed the plastic coating and inserted it through the hole he had made in
the glass of the pocket watch, flicking the cigarette away as he taped the wire into place. His companion, the man everyone called Mayo Jack, although it wasn’t his real name, was humming a
tune too but was completely unaware of it, absorbed by the photo story which he was reading in a copy of
True Detective
magazine. Every so often he would read a little bit of it out and the
third man, who had only recently arrived from Belfast, would say: ‘Och, you’re away in the head, Jack!’ and then go back to frying his chops on the pan. His name was Faigs –
because he was always asking for cigarettes, of course, as in: ‘Have youse any faigs?’ and it was his job to plant all the bombs from now on because Tinker – who had been doing it
up to now – had gone back to Dublin. Now that the six sticks of gelignite were taped down and the parcel more or less ready, there wasn’t very much else for Big Joe and Jack to do only
play darts until Faigs was ready. They were in a hurry to get going and tried to chivvy him on a little bit but it was no use. Until he was good and ready, you just wouldn’t be getting Faigs
McKeever going anywhere. ‘Away and give my head peace!’ was the only response their coaxings received from him. ‘Oh, go and fuck yourself then!’ Big Joe said as a
green-feathered dart sailed expertly towards the measled corkboard. In all, they managed to have three games before Faigs actually declared himself ready. ‘Took your fucking time!’ said
Jack as he picked up the leatherette holdall they’d just put the bomb in. ‘Don’t forget your magazine,’ Faigs chuckled as he winked at the
femme deshabillée
on
the cover and grabbed his friend between the legs, Mayo Jack hitting him with two well-aimed jabs and laughing: ‘Fuck you!’ as Big Pat opened the door of the brown Mark 2 Ford Cortina
and climbed inside.

Pie-eyed though she was (Camparis in Soho all day!) Pussy knew she was being very cheeky indeed when she got it into her head to pop into the disco-pub which was jam-packed
full of soldiers. But she didn’t care – so what if she’d had a few drinkies and if anyone as much as said boo to her, why she would just laugh in their faces. ‘Oo! So
I’m a man, am I? Full marks for observation, sweetie!’ she fully intended to say if that proved to be the case – big tough soldiers or no!

Which it probably would, of course – as well in her heart she knew, for it seemed as if every squaddie in the country had decided to do some shaky-bootie in London town tonight! Perfectly
fine by Puss! O but yes and more than fine! For, who knew – perhaps she might meet Sergeant Rock or Captain Yum Yum Be-My-Girl-For-Ever! And if the risk was not worth that, then life, she
whispered to herself, it simply was not worth the living.

In any case, there was a strong chance he might not know the truth. An hour in the hotel loo had seen to that, with her long brown hair now so gleamy and her glossy lips a-shining! Then,
straight through the door to watch those swooning soldier boys!

As the strobe lights swept across her, Barry White was smooching: ‘You’re The First, The Last, My Everything!’ and tingle-tingly went Puss down in the groin, the short-haired
squaddie whispering in her ear: ‘You fancy a drink or summat?’ Puss coughing a little to summon up the courage to whisper, squeaky-voiced: ‘Oh, yes!’ and look into his eyes
when one part of his head went to the left, the other part to the right and the brains which were inside to the floor pouring like scrambled egg – or so it seemed to Puss. The squaddie was
definitely dead – I mean, there was blood all over his face, and he was lying on the floor. It was as if it never at any time occurred to Pussy to move. Standing there as if still waltzing
with an invisible soldier, where she had been she compliantly remained.

At least a minute had passed before it dawned on her that she wasn’t dead too. ‘I’m not dead,’ she said, and touched her lipstick with the tip of her tongue. She
couldn’t taste anything. ‘Strange,’ she mused to herself, ‘I can’t taste anything at all.’ It was only then she noticed her Christian Dior tights were torn to
ribbons. All around her, she slowly began to discern, lots of things were flying. There were particles of sawdust, grit and scraps of paper. If anyone had been observing Puss, they would surely
have said: ‘Why is she laughing, for heaven’s sake? Doesn’t she realize she ought to be dead?’ Which, if they’d asked her, they would have soon found out that that was
precisely the cause of her thin, protracted laugh – the fact that it was dawning on her that she must have been practically beside the point of detonation. What she was doing there –
standing up, fingering her gold neck chain and thinking: ‘I must be practically beside the point of detonation and my tights are in ribbons. I must get a new pair! I really must!’ It
was while Pussy was repeating this that there was another explosion nearby and a dazzling flash of blue light through which white faces rushed before being engulfed by a wave of intense heat. As
she played with the necklace, Pussy continued to be oblivious of the proceedings – a motorcyclist blown off his machine as static spurted into the shattered night: ‘
Priority!
Priority!
’ A strip of nylon from Puss’s tights had become detached and looked for all the world like a scorched piece of skin hanging from the cheek of one of the dead soldiers. It
wasn’t the one Pussy had been dancing with. It was someone else. There were lots. Puss shouldn’t have laughed when the first policeman on the scene tugged at a woman’s leg only to
find it coming away in his hand. But because she had gone sky-high giddy again, she couldn’t help it. She kept thinking of the bobby in the childhood comics and that at any moment he was
going to scratch his head, then shake it and say: ‘Well, blow me, sarge! They’ve gone and scarpered again!’

Which of course attracted no end of attention to her, as if she was taking pleasure in the poor man’s misfortune, still doing it when they were dragging her out and calling her ‘a
facking cow!’ and ‘Irish bitch!’ and God knows what else because they were, understandably, furious!

Even more so when in the hospital they discovered her little secret, Puss of course not doing an absolute thing to explain the situation, not even bothering to raise a blackened (well, actually,
it wasn’t – that bit is fanciful – as Terence duly spotted!) finger and say: ‘No! You don’t quite get it! You see, what I am is an ordinary transvestite prostitute,
not the slightest bit interested in politics at all!’ Far too worried about her lovely ice-cream pink mohair sweater and gorgeous black pleated mini-skirt to be even bothered in fact. Which
was a very serious mistake indeed, as it turned out, for after two or three conversations with her, nothing would convince them that the baby-faced male bomber they now had firmly in their grasp
was anything other than a wicked little fucker who would stop at nothing in his determination to mutilate and maim, even going so far as to disguise himself as a tart, a piece of information which
they had no hesitation in giving to the papers who by now of course were screaming to high heaven for a conviction.