Million Pound Appointments Page 2

  "Sir Roger has spent the last eight years developing and creating this long lasting and enticing…"

  Ken slams on the breaks and the car comes to a screeching halt.

  "Never mind the sodding spiel woman." He shouts. "Open the damn thing."

  Jane twists off the two silver zeros.

  "That must be why we haven't seen him in anything lately." She says as she pours a few drops into Ken's eagerly upturned palms.

  He rubs it on his chin and around his throat. Ken knows what he thinks of it, he loves it, and because he respects Jane's view on most things, he wants to know what she thinks of it.

  "Well?" He asks.

  She takes a few seconds and then slowly breathes in and out. She has him where she wants him. She has this six foot two inch muscular brute of a man in the palm of her hands, and she's loving every second of it.

  "Oh Ken, it's a smell that makes you lose your posture."

  Ken isn't really sure how to take that. 'lose your posture?'

  "Is that a good thing?" He asks hoping it is.

  Jane smiles at him and nods yes.

  Ken's shoulders drop with delight; it's a good thing, and she likes it.

  "I could just whorl." She says feigning a dizzy spell.

  Ken shudders with delight as his grave is trampled over which Jane notices. She carries on...

  "It's like a hundred massages rolled into one." She adds moving in for the kill.

  "Yeah but is it Bondy, is it Bondy enough?" He asks helplessly.

  And like a fine wine aficionado she lifts her nose in the air and smells the aroma of the aftershave.

  "Car chases." She says.

  Ken's eyes light up. Whenever there's a car chase in a Bond film Ken quite literally sits up in his chair and drives the car on the screen along with the Actor. He screams and shouts 'change up change down, look out, go faster, turn turn, turn there' Ken wants more but Jane's in charge of this almost orgasmic experience for him, so she'll take her time. She lingers over another sniff.

  "Martini with an olive; one of those really firm black ones you like." Ken is fast becoming a prime candidate for human combustion and Jane knows it. She also knows that by adding a few swear words it'll tip him over the edge.

  "Wrist watches that can fucking kill a man." She instantly detects the minute changes in Ken's demeanour as she begins to swear. The women in Ken's world aren't really allowed to use foul language; the men don't like it, but Ken can't help himself from being turned on when a woman does, especially Jane.

  "Roulette wheels. Sharp suits. Kicking the shit out of Russian bodyguards. Ejector seats that shoot you high up in the air. Knocking fat sweaty bastards out with a single punch."

  Ken mimes a left hook.

  "Wallop have that." He shouts.

  "Handguns that never run out of bullets. Fighting on top of moving trains." She's on a roll and she's not stopping. "Sex in Lifts. Sex in spaceships. Sex on hot white sandy beaches while warm waves lap over your back…"

  Ken has to stop her before he explodes, and the only way he can think of is by forcefully putting his hand over her mouth, which gives her a tingly feeling.

  "Fucking hell girl. It's the best present I've ever had. I absolutely love it; did you only get one though?"

  "Well yeah." She says with slight disappointment in her voice.

  Ken detects that disappointment and feels really bad now. He feels he's let her down. He's thinking how brilliantly she's done, and now he's gone and stuck his stupid size ten boot in his mouth. But Ken knows how to lift her again. Jane likes upbeat people; glass half full people, as opposed to glass half empty people. With a positive upbeat tone to his voice he say's…

  "Order some more then girl loads. I want a whole row of them in the bathroom."

  "Loads?" She says with her mood still flat on the ground. "Well how many is loads, three, four, five, what?"

  He smiles at her. He has a much larger number in mind.

  "Fifty."

  "Fifty? She shouts. "Ken, they're fifty-nine quid each."

  "So?" He shouts back knowing she's about to be where she was thirty seconds ago.

  "You're mad." She laughs.

  "No I'm not, I love it, and I love you for buying it for me."

  She looks at him and slowly smiles.

  "Ok, fifty it is then."

  Ken smiles a genuine smile; he has a contented wife again and he's happy. He starts the car and as usual floors the accelerator pedal.

  "Fuck it." He shouts. "We're not ordering them it'll take forever. We're going back now. I want them now."

  He pulls on the steering wheel turning sharp against the flow of traffic making oncoming cars brake hard and swerve to miss him. Jane laughs and claps because she loves it when Ken is so in charge of a situation. She looks out of the moving car window and puts on a little coy voice.

  "Oh James. I do hope you're not going to take me into those bushes and have your wicked way with me."

  With man-twinkles in his eyes Ken plays along. It's been a long time since they played one of their little games; too long.

  "Money-Penny." He says with one eyebrow raised. "I don't think I can help myself."

  Jane takes the aftershave and holds it up next to her cheek as though in a cheesy commercial, and using the same coy little voice asks…

  "But James, what's come over you?"

  Ken doesn't want to fluff his lines, not when he's being Sir Roger Moore, but he doesn't have time to rummage around for his glasses, so he moves his head backwards and squints hard at the bottle and the name of the aftershave comes into focus.

  "I'm wearing 'Dapper' licensed to thrill." He says.

  Ken leans across Jane and unclips her seatbelt and opens her door. She looks at the speeding road whizzing by below her. It's dangerous, very dangerous, but she doesn't care. The thrill just adds to her womanly tingles. Ken lifts his eyebrow a little higher, and in his best Roger Moore accent continues the game.

  "Money-Penny, make your way into that thicket there's a good girl."

  They both roar with laughter. Jane pretends to be a playful cat jokingly biting and scratching at Ken face. Suddenly an arm shoots out from the back of the car and reaches for Jane's open door and pulls it shut.

  "Sorry boss, but its fucking freezing back here."

  Craig (26) Ken's right hand thug, has had to sit through Ken and Jane's little game. He took it for as long as he could. Luckily for Craig, Ken and Jane find his irritation to their game funny, so Ken won't leave him on the hard shoulder with a fat lip. Craig settles back in his seat and looks at his own reflection in the car window. A pissed-off-get-me-out-of-here reflection. Ken has a smile on his face as he concentrates on his driving, but inside he's still troubled… "I now have to find four million quid thanks to Larry."

  Two weeks earlier…

  Tommy Rae (60) a diminutive five foot four inches tall. Daz (44) six feet four inches tall, are both seated behind a large antique desk. A full sized portrait of Princess Diana hangs on the wall in the background behind them. Fresh flowers and burning candles give it a shrine appearance. Clearly feeling uncomfortable at the sight of two men squeezed in behind a desk designed for one, Larry nervously, and with great effort, places an open suitcase full of cash on the desk and sits back. Tommy Rae ignores the suitcase and looks at Larry.

  "I thought you were going to ask me if you could move in when I saw you struggling up the drive with that thing, Lawrence Lawrence." Larry hates his surname almost as much as he hates his Christian name, and Tommy Rae knows it, which is why he always calls him by it. Tommy doesn't really like doing it though. It started off as a silly joke and somehow just carried on, and now he feels that if he suddenly stopped doing it, he'd lose face. So it's an annoyance to both of them really. He leans forward and whispers.

  "You don't want to move in with me do you Lawrence Lawrence?"

  "Huh? Erm… No."

  To a multi-millionaire like Tommy Rae the sight of a suitcase full of used fif
ty pound notes means nothing; he could easily fill ten of them. All Tommy Rae is trying to do, is work out if the suitcase is a Church's suitcase or a piece of tat from Argos.

  "It's money Mr. Rae. Cash."

  "Yeah I can see what it fucking is thanks I'm not stupid Lawrence Lawrence."

  "No of course you're not Mr. Rae." Larry quickly agrees.

  Tommy runs his hand over the suitcase. The stitching is refined; he nods with approval. The smell coming from it is just right; another nod. But all of a sudden he recoils as only Tommy Rae can. He's spotted the word 'Chanel' embossed in the leather. Tommy Rae hates brands no matter how expensive they are. Unless it's English, made in England, by English people, then to Tommy Rae it's just cheap rubbish.

  "If that thing scratches my desk Lawrence Lawrence so help me god, I'll get Daz to break both your arms."

  If there's one person you don't want to piss-off, it's Ken. If there's one person you don't want to piss-off with bells on, it's Tommy Rae.

  "It's two million quid Tom."

  Daz flares his nostrils. If there's one person you don't want to piss-off it's Ken, if there's one person you don't want to piss-off with bells on its Tommy Rae, if there's one person you don't want to piss-off full stop end of story, it's Daz.

  "Mr. Rae to you not Tom. Mr. Rae." Daz snarls.

  Larry doesn't need telling twice. Before Daz became Tommy Rae's minder he was an illegal fight promoter, an illegal bare-knuckle fight promoter. Larry attended countless fights over the years (as a punter not a participant) and he's all too familiar with Daz. Larry swallows hard.

  "Sorry Mr. Rae." Says Larry.

  Tommy gives Larry a reassuring half-baked shrug.

  "Tom's fine Lawrence…" He pauses. "Lawrence. Tom's fine." He's finding the double Lawrence a bit of a pain now. Daz grunts his disapproval.

  "That's five hundred grand on top of what you paid." Says Larry.

  Tommy Rae holds Larry with his eyes, making him feel very uncomfortable indeed. Tommy Rae moves his head slightly to the left and slightly backwards. This triggers Daz to talk for him. Although Tommy Rae knows he has the presence to make anyone sit up and pay attention; all five foot four of him, he also knows that you might, just might, pay that little bit more attention to Daz and his steroid-fuelled muscles. So when Tommy Rae wants to make a particular point, or just can't be bothered to explain the mundane to the mundane, he'll do the head movement and Daz will take over.

  "Do you know what that horse meant to Mr. Rae?" Daz bellows.

  Having Daz bellow at you isn't nice. If this man was softly reading Wind In The Willows to his own grandchildren (if he had any, and he doesn't) around a cosy open log fire, dressed as Prince charming, with a six week old fluffy puppy on his lap and father Christmas standing behind him waving, they would still wet themselves with fear. The man's a hard bastard. End of subject.

  "Its two million pounds Tommy. Two." Says Larry.

  "Everything that's what." Shouts Daz.

  With over one hundred fights and one hundred wins, Daz was one of the best bare knuckle fighters ever. Bare knuckle fighters all have one thing in common; being able to give and take a seriously hard beating. Bare-knuckle fighting is hard-core. No rounds. Two men, four rock hard fists. Most fights are between two evenly matched men and when the 'match up' is just right, the pair of them will end up falling to the ground totally exhausted almost at the same time. When the first one goes down, no matter how much the other one wanted to stay on his feet and bask in the adulation of the two hundred strong crowd, he was going down too. Listening to two hundred men singing in unison 'ohhhhhhh' until the winner fell down on top of the loser, was the sound that all champions would ever forget. Only one bare-knuckle fighter ever managed to stay on his feet and listen to two hundred men singing 'ohhhhhhh' until it ended and that was Daz. 3rd December 1996. NCP Saville Row London, when he took on and beat Tommy Rae's then minder, Harold Gunt, aka 'Brutal Vicious'.

  Daz's outburst at Larry has made Tommy Rae wince, it was just a bit too loud and just a bit too close to his ear.

  "Yeah I realise that Daz and so does Kenny, that's why he's stuck half a million on top."

  Tommy Rae sits back and starts smiling; smiling at some distant memory.

  "We used to talk to each other you know." Says Tommy.

  Puzzled by Tommy Rae's comment, Larry screws his face up which Tommy Rae notices, and because he can't be bothered to explain the mundane to the mundane, he does the head movement again and Daz takes over.

  "Not verbally you idiot, telepathically." Explains Daz. Explaining nothing at all.

  "Although to be fair Daz, occasionally we'd talk, or rather I would." Adds Tommy Rae. "And he'd just listen. He was good like that."

  Larry is becoming increasingly confused.

  "We'd be out for a trot." Continues Tommy.

  Larry unscrews his face; he now realises what they're talking about, the trot gave it away. They're talking about the reason he's there. A bloody Horse. "And he'd look back at me and say Tommo, I'm fucked and I wanna go back to the stables."

  "Telepathically." Daz quickly adds.

  "Oh right." Says Larry. "I get it now."

  Daz shoots Larry a look and is about to ask Larry what he means by 'I get it now' not realising that until Larry heard the trot he didn't have a clue what the pair of them were talking about. Tommy leans across Daz and turns a computer on.

  "I've trained a hell of a lot of horses in my time." Says Tommy. "Including 'Prime Candidate' the Queen Mother's horse; God rest her soul."

  "Hallelujah." Daz adds solemnly.

  Tommy Rae drops his head in his hands.

  "It's Amen Daz, not fucking Hallelujah. How many times do I have to tell you that?" Tommy Rae sits up and looks at Daz.

  Larry isn't quite sure where to look.

  "Sorry Tom. Mr. Rae. Says Daz. "I always get them two mixed up."

  "Yeah I've noticed."

  Tommy turns to Larry and continues.

  "And every now and then you come across one. A special one; one you just click with. It knows instinctively what you want and does it." He stops and turns to Daz. He's still annoyed with what he sees as an insult on the Queen Mother's memory.

  "Are you English?" He asks Daz.

  "Eh?

  "Are you English?

  "Yeah of course I am."

  "So you're not a Muslim?"

  "A Muslim?"

  "Yeah a Muslim."

  "I don’t think so. I mean no. I don’t know what you want me to say Mr. Rae."

  "A Muslim. You're not a Muslim then?"

  "I don't understand Tom." Realising Larry is still in the room he quickly corrects himself. "I don't understand Mr. Rae. Why would you ask me if I was a Muslim?"

  "Why? I would have thought that was pretty obvious."

  "Is it?"

  "It's what Muslims do isn't it? Scream and shout Hallelujah all over the place."

  "I only said it once Mr. Rae."

  "You shouldn't have said it at all. It's the wrong word. The wrong religion. The wrong country."

  Larry's scratching his head thinking, 'isn't it in Gospel churches where they shout Hallelujah?"

  "It won't happen again Mr. Rae."

  "But you said that the last time at Bobby Dixon's funeral. Everyone standing around his grave saying Amen when the vicar finished, and you said halle-fucking-lujah."

  "Oh yeah."

  Tommy Rae slowly turns back to Larry who sits up straight. Tommy types on the keyboard and positions the computer so they can all see the screen. The 'You-Tube' website opens. Now if there's one time you don't want your syndrome to pop its ugly head up over the parapet, that time would be now, especially if the said syndrome is about to shout out loud and slowly…

  "What the fuck is this shit?"

  Daz and Tommy Rae look at Larry. The poor man isn't sure why and he's not about to ask either.

  "Give me a fucking chance." Tommy shouts at Larry.

  Before Larry can ask
Tommy what he means by 'Give me a fucking chance' he clicks the mouse and we are at a Foxhunt. It may have taken twenty-one centuries to ban foxhunting, but it only took twenty-one seconds to find a loophole. If you pretend to the authorities you'll be chasing a dead fox around the countryside, then the loophole has done its job, and the hunt is on. So while one of your lackeys rides off upwind of the pack dragging a dead fox behind him, the pack-master is letting his dogs sniff a rag which has been inside the cage of a captured fox for the past three days. It's that fox that will be released back into the wild downwind of the dogs. Unlike the hunt dogs that can continually run for four to six hours, a fox will collapse with exhaustion after as little as one and a half hours. This particular fox will only last half that time; it hasn't been fed whilst in captivity.

  It's pre-hunt. Men women and children on horseback dressed in colours, drinking Ports, Whiskeys, and smoking fine cigars. A mixture of elected officials, dignitaries, minor royals, A-class criminals, casino owners, wealthy builders, and black celebrities, all engaged in polite conversation. It isn't a proper event unless they have at least one black man and one Asian man in attendance, although as it stands today, a black man carries far more kudos than an Asian man does. Sorry, but it just does. Minor royals seem to like black celebrities for some reason; 'Do you know what? That coloured chap is actually quite good on a horse' you'd often hear being whispered behind his back. Black or Asian women are never invited on their own merits though. It just isn't done. If one of the wealthy builders, or gangsters, just happens to have a black or Asian girlfriend that's fine, come on in, welcome welcome welcome. If the relationship fails however, no matter how much fun she was, how intelligently she spoke, how successful she is in life, she'll never be asked to come back. The invited women always split into two separate little cliques. The Mayor's dignified wife, the Conservative MP's self-important wife, the Labour MP's salt of the earth wife, and the Liberal MP's timid little wife being one clique. The criminals, minor royals, and wealthy builders wives, being the other. They don't really mix though, not when the latter only ever have one topic of conversation on the go; namely 'Can you imagine being fucked by that'? Referring to the black man. Larry gasps as he suddenly realises what he's looking at. On the screen, Ken is having trouble staying on Silver-Lining; Tommy Rae's magnificent Arabian thoroughbred racehorse. Using a mobile phone the person filming the proceedings runs over to Ken just as his horse raises its feet in the air throwing him to the ground. We hear a girlish laugh, too close to be in the distance. It's obvious that a small girl is recording the scene on her mobile phone. Furious, Ken gets up and takes out a handgun. The mobile phone turns sharply and zooms in on Tommy Rae; this little girl knows her central characters well. Tommy Rae does a double take when he sees Ken with a gun in hand aimed at Silver-Lining. The mobile phone swings back to Ken as he fires the first of five shots; the second of which turn Silver-Lining's legs to pipe cleaners unable to support his half tonne bodyweight. We hear the hunt gasp in horror. The mobile phone swings back to the hunt. The gunshots have caused the dogs to panic and fight amongst each other, and the horses to bolt unseating their riders. We hear the girlish laugh again as she films the Mayor's wife falling from her horse and rolling down a stinging nettle filled hollow coming to a sharp and sudden halt as she hits a large tree stump.