smash his brains in now, I can claim the reward and put the money towards a Butlins holiday at Bognor in England.’
Which made me feel rather glad that I had developed those extraordinary sensitivities whilst I’d lain in my God-awful coma. And I didn’t hit the waitress, because hitting women is wrong, but I did make my getaway from that Donut Diner, leaving my latest coffee undrunk and half a donut uneaten. Which was a waste, really, but what was I to do?
And I ran once more through the streets of New York, ducking and diving and dodging. And the late-afternoon sun shone down darkly, casting long shadows of the New Yorkers, some singles, some doubles, and I ducked, dived and dodged.
And presently after much asking and, I confess, some degree of misdirection and requests for alms upon the part of native New Yorkers, I found myself standing outside Mornington Crescent East (discontinued usage) Underground Station. It was ancient, run-down, fly-blown, plastered over with posters. And above it, soaring up into the sky, was a mighty office block of a building. And upon this a mighty sign of a sign that read ‘THE BIG APPLE CORPORATION’. Which rang a distant bell with me, as this was the corporation that Mr Ishmael was supposedly the managing director of.
‘It figures,’ I said to myself. ‘Right here, over this station.’
And a New York bum approached me and enquired whether I might be of a mind to transfer some of my own funds into his possession. He was a rather splendid bum, as it happened, smelling strongly of Thunderbird wine and bodily odours and sporting the wildest hair and beard and the shabbiest clothes I’ve ever seen. What a wretch. It made me feel most superior to encounter such a degraded specimen of humanity.
‘Come on, buddy,’ he said to me. ‘We bums have to look after each other, right?’
‘What?’
‘Knights of the Road, buddy,’ he said. ‘Hobo Chang Ba and all that kind of a carry on.’
‘Hit the road, buddy,’ I told him, ‘or fear the wrath that comes in the shape of a trusty Smith & Wesson.’
‘God damn company man,’ he said. And he spat, as they do, those bums.
‘Company man?’ I said. ‘What of this?’
‘I saw you looking up there at the BAC. I used to work there. I was big in advertising, would have made CEO but for the takeover.’
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘The company was bought up. A hostile takeover. And not by another advertising company, oh no. Do you know who took over the BAC?’
‘No,’ I said and I shook my head. To indicate that I didn’t.
‘The CIA,’ said the bum. ‘That Keith Crossbar had me sacked. Threw me personally out of my office on the very top floor. Said, “This will do me nicely,” and out I went. He had me thrown down the lift shaft. But luckily the lift was coming up from the floor below so I only broke my back and spent ten years in a coma.’
‘Right,’ I said. And who could say ‘right’ much better than me?
‘Fifty dollars will do me,’ said the bum.
‘Take a hundred,’ I said. And peeled one out of my pocket.
‘God bless you, buddy,’ said the bum. ‘And if there’s anything I can do in return, don’t hesitate to mention it and we can negotiate a price.’
‘There is one thing,’ I said. ‘This here station.’
‘The Subway?’ he said.
‘Oh, that’s what they’re called. The Subway, yes. As a Knight of the Road, I’ll just bet you’d know a way of getting in here. Right?’
And I watched as the colour drained from his dirt-besmirched face. And he threw up his hands and he waved them at me and he grew most animated.
‘You don’t want to go in there, mister,’ he said, dropping the less formal ‘buddy’. ‘Terrible things go on in there. Terrible things. They say a train got walled-up in there in Victorian times and that the descendants of the trapped victims of the walling-up have become cannibals and-’
‘Have to stop you there,’ I told him, ‘but thanks all the same. Farewell.’
And on the understanding that no further largesse was to be granted him, he shuffled away, mumbling words to the effect that he would kill again and that it was God who told him to do it.
And I realised exactly how much I had missed New York while I had been all banged-up in my hospital bed. And I realised that perhaps it wasn’t really that much at all.
And I viewed once more the abandoned Subway station and wondered exactly how I was to gain entry to it. And then what exactly I would do when I had. I really needed some kind of a plan. Or some kind of a something. And I stroked my chin and shuffled my feet and wondered just what it would be. And glancing, as if by chance, across the street, I noticed a shop with a great big sign above it. And this sign read ACME Subterranean Expedition Outfitters and Forcible-Entry Specialists.
‘I wonder if they have a phone?’ I wondered to myself. ‘Then I could phone someone for advice.’
Right.
It was a wonderful shop. Never in my life have I seen a more comprehensive selection of subterranean expedition outfittings. I was particularly impressed by the chrome carabiners, the belay devices, the braided cords, cap lamps, caving helmets, chest harnesses, dry sacs, elbow-patches, dynamic ropes, Maillon Rapide screw links and polyester webbing.
Not to mention the shock-absorbing lanyards and the semi-static ropes and the micro-slim emergency cord.
Which on this occasion I did, because I wanted to buy all of it.
I pointed to this and that and indeed the other and told the proprietor, Mr Ashbury Molesworth, that I would have them. And I purchased a really over-the-top-of-the-range sleeping bag, and some special chocolate that gives you energy. And I also purchased some other stuff!
‘Are you going in deep?’ he asked. In a suitably dark voice.
‘Very possibly so,’ I said. ‘Could you recommend a decent torch?’
And he did. The Astra Multi-Beam one-million-candlepower mega-torch. And also an ACME Ever-Lite Varie- Flame cigarette lighter, to light candles once the battery of the Astra Multi-Beam had given up the ghost.
And I took everything he recommended, including a ukulele, which he said was good for relieving boredom when trapped several hundred feet below the surface of the Earth, with little or no hope of rescue. And Mr Molesworth encouraged me to take a telescope and a 26.5 mm Very flare pistol with a telescopic sight. And although I said that I really couldn’t see the point of taking them on a subterranean journey, he assured me that they might prove to be invaluable. So I took them.
‘I’ll take a spare set of strings for the ukulele, too,’ I said, ‘in case once I’ve fired my flares it takes a really long time for me to starve to death.’
‘Well prepared is best prepared,’ said he. ‘Why, I’m really getting quite excited myself.’
‘Why?’ I asked him. Because I wanted to know.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘you’re English, aren’t you? I can tell by your voice.’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘And that makes you excited?’
‘Not as such. It’s just that you Brits never get the hang of American dollars, so you won’t notice just how much I grossly overcharge you for all this specialist equipment.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well, you have probably made a fundamental error there, because I have no intention of paying for any of these items. I have a gun in my pocket and shortly will be pointing it at you.’
And oh how we laughed.
Until I produced the gun.
But eventually we came to an arrangement, which involved him selling me the items I required for a fair price, in exchange for me not holding him up at gunpoint and taking everything for nothing.
I remain to this day uncertain as to which of us came out best upon the deal.
But finally I was all togged-up. And all paid-up. And as night was falling, the proprietor all closed-up. And I found myself back in the street.
Although this time perfectly attired and equipped for the task that lay ahead.
