‘Oh, come on!’ said Dicky Toolan as we pulled out of New Street, a cheeky goading to his voice and a demonic twinkle to the eyes, ‘You know what they say: It’s never too early on matchday.’
‘Who says that?’ asked Nobby Clarke from across the aisle.
‘We do. Look: they’re open now.’
It was true. Philomena had just opened all five bottles of Ansell’s Nut Brown Ale simultaneously with the fingernails of her warty right hand, which Dicky now stroked in gratitude. He looked deeply into her one good eye and said, ‘Thank you, my pretty bat,’ before exhorting us to drink deeply. ‘There’s plenty more where they came from! It’s like her can just pluck ‘em out of thin air. Like, like…’
‘…magic?’ said Nobby, with strained patience.
‘Ar, like magic!’
He was a different person, Dicky, with a woman in tow. Personally I preferred this version but Nobby seemed equally irritated by both. Or perhaps it was the ladies. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder; I can state with some conviction that Philomena’s lifeless left marble had beheld as much beauty as either of Dicky’s working peepers did when he gazed at her gnarled, disdainful features.
‘You’re teeth are like gravestones,’ he was cooing to her now, ignoring my invitation to a Woodbine filterless, ‘and I can smell the rotting flesh that lies beneath them…’ (Philomena took one of my fags without looking). ‘Philomena, I think I love you; I’ve never felt this way about a woman before.’ That last sentence applied equally to me. I’d felt this way about con artists, belligerant tramps, and illustrations of early mammals – never a woman. She lit her cigarette, drew deeply and let the smoke drift out slowly from her mouth, ‘Oh, misty graveyard!’ enthused Dicky, ‘Oh deep, dark, pleasurable night! Is my pretty cemetary haunted? Are there spirits there?’
‘You’re teeth are like gravestones,’ he was cooing to her now, ‘and I can smell the rotting flesh that lies beneath them…’
‘Bit early for spirits,’ said Nobby, quaffing at his Nut Brown.
‘I don’t know about that!’ countered Philomena, with a cawing voice that would have offered another churchyard simile to Dicky had he been more observant, ‘Is this friend of yours a good host?’
The thought of Philomena and Agnes sharing small talk over sherry and cigars with Szabo and Mosca made me feel a little queasy, but Philomena’s question had far greater implications than that. I flashed a glance to my right, and was caught in the act. Nobby’s face was carmine.
‘What friend’s this, Gonby? As if I didn’t know….’
‘I was going to tell you, Nobby. I totally…’
‘The whole of bloody London at our disposal and once again, two hours in a gloomy back room listening to stories about vampires.’
‘I didn’t know, Nob. I only got his letter this week.’
‘What is it this time? We’ve already had bloodsuckers, werewolves, not to mention the bleedin’ Csendesek!’
‘Shh! There’s one over there,’ said Dicky, pointing to the empty window seat next to Nobby.
‘Very funny,’ I said, ‘but things have moved on a bit since the last time we were in the Smoke. It’s become a bit more…’
‘More what?’
‘I don’t know. More political, I suppose. They’re trying to negotiate some sort of deal.’
In truth, though long, Szabo’s letter was rather vague, or at any rate confusing. I had tried to read it on my lunch break that Thursday, but found myself re-reading paragraphs with no more comprehension, and a good deal more concern. The loops and lines of the copperplate were long, even and elegant, yet still I found it hard to rid myself of the notion that it had been written in an excited state. It spoke of breakthroughs, important intermediaries, clandestine backchannels. It seethed with the possibilities of espionage and ripe betrayal. While, like Nobby, I would rather have chatted about Alan Sunderland’s promise, King John Richards’ hot streak, or the maddening fallibility of Parkes and Pearce in some Fulham Road taproom before the game, I worried for our friend. You don’t want to be heading towards Christmas with too much on your mind, and Szabo seemed to have taken all the burdens of the supernatural world upon his narrow shoulders.
After we’d alighted the tube at Tottenham Court Road and replenished our stock of cigarettes, I appeased Nobby Clarke with a quick pint in the Dog and Duck before we headed to Szabo’s shop on Ganton Street.
The usual gear was still there: Victorian evening wear, shoes stitched by workhouse orphans, shirts by Van Helsing.
Mosca heeded the tinkling bell as we entered the shop on Granton Street. He scurried to the counter, nodded, and scurried back to tell his master we were here, and I glanced around in search of some sign of the passage of time in this most static and lifeless of places. To my surprise, I found one; the stock was more varied than it had ever been before. The usual gear was still there: Victorian evening wear, shoes stitched by workhouse orphans, shirts by Van Helsing. But on the far side, Szabo had begun to embrace the times. Lounge suits, safari jackets and high-waisted, wide-cut trousers were displayed, some on modishly bearded mannequins. There was even a little jewellery cabinet in the corner, with medallions and fat gold rings, which Dicky and Philomena were now perusing.
‘Gonby,’ said Szabo warmly, ‘So wery good of you to come. Mr Clarke, welcome. And Mr. Toolan, you’re looking even less suicidal than the last time I saw you. Who is your friend?’
‘Which Coven?’
I braced myself for some vulgar self-introduction, boastful claims, hollow flirtation, crass mocking – none of this came.
‘I am Philomena Bailey, from Coven.’
‘Which Coven?’
‘The Coven Coven.’
‘The Coven Coven?’
‘The Coven Coven, from Coven, Staffs.’
‘The Coven Coven from Coven, Staffs?’
‘Well, it’s more of a Coven Heath Coven these days.’
‘The Coven Heath Coven from Coven, Staffs?
‘The Coven Heath Coven from Coven Heath, Staffs.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m originally from Brewood,’ said Agnes in her gruff baritone.
‘Please, come in: there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
We followed behind Szabo’s tailcoat, into the back room, where a decanter of sherry, crystal glasses, cigars and ash-trays were laid out. Three large maps were spread across the dining table, and, as we entered, a stumpy figure in spectacles suspended his scrutiny of them in order to be introduced.
‘Gonby, this is Doctor Henry Kissinger. Doctor Kissinger, this is Mr Gonby, Mr Clarke, Mr Toolan, Philomena and Agnes.’
‘Loved your work in Laos,’ said Nobby, darkly.
Ignoring the remark, Kissinger squinted at us all in term before asking, ‘And you are from…?’
‘Coven.’
‘Coven?’ said Kissinger irritably.
‘Yes. Coven, Staffs.’
I decided to intervene, ‘They are… witches,’ I found myself saying, with a hand gesture of helplessness, ‘…not quite sure why they’re here, actually…, we’re here for the football.’
‘Her’s my girlfriend!’ boasted Dicky.
‘We’re just here for the football, really,’ I repeated, glancing at the map.
‘My friends will be visiting Chelsea today,’ said Szabo to Kissinger, ‘I thought perhaps their perspective might be helpful.’
‘Zese are matters,’ said Kissinger gravely, ‘Zat ze general population cannot hope to understand. Zey are complex. Zey are multi-faceted. Zey require strategy and experience.’
‘Gonby and his friends have first-hand experience of both wampires and werewolves, not to mention the… other party in this conflict.’
Kissinger looked at him nervously. ‘Are you sure it is safe to talk here, Szabo?’
‘Don’t worry, Henry,’ said Nobby, ‘Yow ay in the Oval Office now. The only tapes round here are the ones he uses to measure your inside leg.’
Kissinger leaned over to Szabo and said in hushed impatience, ‘Vat are zey doing here, Szabo?’
‘They are walued collix,’ said Szabo quietly, before telling Mosca to ‘Bring de insulator.’ At this, Kissenger removed his specs and placed them on the mantel.
Mosca scuttled off to the kitchenette, returning forthwith with what looked like an enormous transparent plastic bag attached to a mechanical device of some sort. We were all invited to climb into the bag, after which time Mosca sealed it and then activated the device. In a sudden panic, I realized that the device was sucking the air out of the bag, and we would soon be shrink-wrapped against each other. Nobby and Dicky looked similarly scared, while Philomena and Agnes used up the last of our oxygen cackling. Szabo and Kissenger looked at us reasuringly, as we approached their faces (one long and patrician, the other smooth and pudgy). Once we were all huddled together in a space no bigger than our combined volume, and dangerously short of breath, air returned to the capsule and we breathed again.
‘De Csendesek are still wery much at large, my friends,’ explained Szabo, ‘Dis device ensures dey cannot hear us.’
‘Going back to…, bottom line, ve need ze Csendesek avay from Sous-Vest London. Antony vants zem out of Vestminster too but – and don’t kvote me on zis – zat’s de Brits’ problem, frankly.’
‘They’re in Westminster?’ I asked.
‘Vitehall, ze Houses of Parliament. Zey even sit in ze chambers on kviet days. Like I say, zats a British problem. As far as ve are concerned, keep zem away Grosvenor Skvare; ve can’t have zem evesdropping round zere.’
‘But what’s that got to do with…, I thought, from what I remember…,’ I checked myself, feeling suddenly that I shouldn’t mention the letter, ‘… didn’t you encourage the werewolves to attack the vampires in the first place?’
Kissenger looked at me with suspicion. ‘Vell, ve vanted zem out of ze City of London,’ he explained, considering for a moment. ‘Looking back zat was rarzer a hopeless battle. Ve cultivated ze zerevolves to attack zem from ze nors in order to veaken zem in ze east. Also zay’d been feeding in London Zoo vich got a bit unpleasant. Sings have changed now, zo.’
‘Mr Kissinger is over here to broker peace,’ said Szabo, with a proud smile.
The witches cackled at this, until offered another sherry by Szabo, which they accepted with grace and humility. Szabo then remembered that the decanter was outside of the Insulator so the hags would have to wait.
‘Ze time is right for a ceasefire. It has to be now. Zere is somesink of a stalemate at zis time between ze Csendesek and ze vampires. However, ze verevolves’ attacks from ze norzs have become much more violent lately, and much more successful. Zere was a full moon on Monday and ze carnage in Knightsbridge, oy vey! Any more of zat und zere vill be nozink to stop ze Csendesek from moving into Grosvenor Skvare und all ze embassies, for zat matter. Zis cannot happen.’
‘How can you control it? You say they’re in Westminster already…’
Szabo nodded at this and spoke, ‘De Csendesek are undetectable to you and me. De werewolves cannot detect dem eider. But dey are wisible to de wampires.’
‘Ve actually use some as security consultants, to check ze embassy for Csendesek,’ said Kissinger.
‘Dey are de only ones who can stop de Csendesek,’ said Szabo.
‘And what about the werewolves?’ asked Nobby, reaching for his Senior Service.
‘And what about the werewolves?’ asked Nobby, reaching for his Senior Service.
‘Precisely my concern, Mr Clarke,’ said Szabo, ‘Please do not smoke in here. Doctor Kissinger, you are, of course, wery experienced in these matters, but de werewolves are our allies. Are we really going to…, what is the expression in English, hang dem up to dry?’
‘Out,’ said Dicky, his arm around Philomena’s neck. They looked like Richards and Gould returning to the centre-circle after scoring a goal.
‘Fock ze verevolves if zey can’t take a joke,’ said Kissinger, ‘Ve’re not doing missionary work here.’
‘Which is a shame for the werewolves in more ways than one,’ Dicky Toolan pointed out, ‘All them crosses would have come in handy, I’m sure.’
Szabo’s point was perhaps more salient, ‘If you stop supplying garlic to de werewolves now, de wampires will destroy dem in a matter or weeks. Please, Henry…’
‘My friend, I came here only as a matter of courtesy. Ze decision has been made. All zat remains is to dot ze i’s und cross ze t’s viz Crosland und zer Vampire Delegate. Thank you for all your help and advice. Und zer lift, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Szabo, signalling to Mosca to release us from the Insulator. ‘‘Mosca, bring the landau round,’ he said after we were all breathing the comparatively fresh air of the dingy shop, ‘My friends,’ turning to us, ‘I have agreed to give Doctor Kissinger a lift to Brompton Road. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘You know vot fuel prices are like, zese days…’ smiled Kissenger.
‘And who’s fault’s that?’ said Nobby.
‘We’ll make our own way to the game,’ I said, relieved at the chance to be heading to a pub. Szabo’s was never a particularly upbeat pre-match environment, but today’s visit had left us all feeling low and frustrated. We followed Szabo and Kissinger out of the shop, and watched them head to the carriage parked up on the corner of Marshall Street, while passing around those long-awaited Woodbines and taking turns with Nobby’s lighter.
There was a tapping sound. I looked around. A man in a dark blue uniform was knocking at Szabo’s door.
‘He’s out, mate,’ I said to him.
‘Telegram for Gonby?’
‘Oh, that’s me.’
‘Who knows you’re here?’ asked Nobby.
‘No-one,’ I said, tipping the boy. I took a draw on my Woodbine and opened it.
IF KISSINGERS DEAL IS BAD I SHALL GET VAMPIRES TO STAMFORD BRIDGE STOP DO WHAT YOU CAN = SZABO.
‘Let’s find a pub,’ I said, burying the telegram in the right pocket of my overcoat.
By now the Dog and Duck was packed with Wolves fans; we dropped lucky and found a table in the corner that was about to be vacated. Dicky got the drinks in while I scanned feverishly over Szabo’s letter, like a schoolboy cramming for an exam (if only I’d started earlier!). Evidently Kissenger’s diplomatic tactics were unethical, but why exactly was Szabo so keen on saving the werewolves? The scenes of carnage I’d witnessed at Highbury in ‘73 hadn’t fostered much sympathy with me.
‘Vampires are soulless creatures,’ he’d written on the third page of parchment, ‘a collection of hollow mannerisms which allow them to pass as human while being bereft of any of the emotions, values, needs and functions which we recognize in our human selves. On the other hand, werewolves, while terrifying when the moon is soli opposita, are entirely reasonable during the rest of the month. They can be productive, creative, compassionate and stylish. Their diet is varied and cosmopolitan, ideally suited to an international city like London.’
Dicky arrived with the drinks. I took a long sip of Courage, thoughts rising in me.
One word had jumped out: stylish.
One word had jumped out: stylish. If, as I had long suspected, Szabo’s business revolved around tailoring the undead, the new, more contemporary stock I’d seen in the shop surely marked an attempt to break into a new market; it was impossible to imagine vampires wearing high-waisted flares, broad lapels and medallions. And what better market to court than werewolves? While vampire fashions hadn’t changed since the days of Vladimirescu, wolfmen would be constantly reinventing themselves after every plenilunary rampage, replacing rent jackets and blood-spattered ties with the very latest trends from Britain and abroad. Living for the month, their wages would all go on suits and haircuts, and the current fashion for beards and exposed, hairy chests would allow them to assimilate all the more successfully in the booming West End Disco scene.
After some discussion, it was decided that, although Szabo’s motives were clearly commercial, that didn’t mean we shouldn’t help the werewolves. The last decade and a half had made all Wolves fans more sensitive to the plight of the underdog. But how to help? Clearly, we couldn’t hope to replace the funds the US had been pumping into arming them with garlic, wooden stakes and sun-lamps.
‘Any ideas, ladies?’ I asked, lighting a Woodbine.
‘There’s an incantation we can use,’ said Philomena, ‘Creates an unbreakable forcefield to keep out vampires.’
‘Right. Does it involve nudity?’
‘Yes.’
‘Burning our clothes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks girls. As helpful as ever.’
‘Oh, shut up and get us a drink,’ cackled Philomena. I noticed she’d lost a tombstone since the last time she’d laughed.
‘You’re so pretty when you’re vulgar and loud,’ said Dicky, flicking the mole on her right cheek affectionately.
The cosmopolitan sophistication of the werewolves was our greatest weapon in fighting the isolationist vampires.
With no funding to speak of and no magic that had any chance of working, a social programme was our only hope. The cosmopolitan sophistication of the werewolves was our greatest weapon in fighting the isolationist vampires. To avoid detection, they should try not to leave their scent everywhere; garlic consumption would both help to cover it up and actively repel the undead. After dark, you never know who might be a vampire, so they should stay clear of beings they didn’t know. Thus, foreign food, good hygiene and social distancing would provide the greatest protection available. But how to get that message across to the wolfmen?
Some glam rock on the juke box would provide the answer. By the third round the whole pub was singing:
Allium, Allium, Health and Lie Low, Health and Lie Low, Allium, Allium, Health and Lie Low. Health and Lie Low,
This chant continued, on and off, throughout the journey to Fulham Broadway and the match itself.
Much like our ad hoc social programme, the match would be worthwhile but ultimately frustrating. Three horrible defensive slips cancelled out three excellent goals by Richards (2) and Gould, and Wolves had to settle for a point, though they’d appeared to be cruising and scant minutes had separated them from being the first team to win away at Stamford Bridge that season. The vampires arrived after sunset for the second half, and Kissinger watched on impassively from the huge new East Stand as they levitated for a better view, showed their fangs to the Wolves fans and goaded the Csedensek at the front of the North Terrace. Come the final whistle, we’d all had enough of West London, and decided to head back to the West End for a bite to eat – some beef chow mein at Lee Ho Fook’s, washed down with the cold lager that had become so popular that summer and, to my surprise, didn’t go down too bad in the freezing winter, either.
All in all, a decent day out and a welcome chance to contribute to world peace, though Philomena broke up with Dicky on the way home, and he was back to his usual miserable self by the time we visited the Den on New Years Day.