Free (2008) Mister Roberts by Alexei Sayle

was the Humphrey Lyttleton of Derby’ they would
say of some bore they hung around with or ‘they were the Ted Hughes and Sylvia
Plath of Luton’ which was their way of describing a pair of librarians they’d
met on holiday in Crete. Of course Donna didn’t know who the originals were of
any of these people but she diligently looked them up afterwards on Google.
Still, she was confused by somebody Monty and Dawn described as the ‘Graham
Greene of Berkhamsted’ once she discovered that the real Graham Greene came
from Berkhamsted.
    After
three months and all the work she put in, the couple abruptly stopped paying
rent on the house citing a long list of non-existent faults and refusing to
move out until these non-existent faults were rectified. It drove Donna crazy
that she had been played by these wizened old chancers but when she cut off
their water and electricity they denounced her to the Guardia Civil. Because
tenants’ rights are very strong in Spain and because the Guardia were always
happy to inconvenience one of the Comunidad Ingles they forced her to
restore the services, which made Donna even more crazy.
    The day
after Boxing Day and Monty Crisp lay sprawled across the cheap and grimy
plastic sun lounger on his roof terrace basking in the warm winter sun and
revelling in the same view over the mountains, thinking that it was about time
he re-henna’d his thinning hair and ponytail.
    Suddenly
there was a ferocious pounding on the front door, Monty levered himself up from
the lounger and peered over the parapet. Looking down he saw a familiar sight —
the top of Donna’s angry head. Beside her stood a dark-haired man.
    Monty
smiled to himself, the door was made of sturdy Spanish oak; its solid iron
bolts had survived attacks from the Moors, Visigoths, Falangists and Donna
running her four-wheel drive into it.
    He
stepped back from the parapet. Since they’d stopped paying rent Monty and Dawn
always made sure they never went out of the house together —this morning his
partner had slipped out at 5 a.m. to drive to the hippy market in Orgiva
where she had a stall selling fusewire butterflies of her own creation. As long
as one of them was on the premises any forced reclamation would be illegal.
    The
potter’s confident smile faded a little as he heard a tearing sound and again
peering into the street saw that the big man had somehow torn the door from its
hinges and was now in the process of stacking it neatly against the wall of the
house opposite. Next he saw the pair enter his house.
    Rushing
downstairs Monty found Donna and her companion standing calmly in the living
room waiting for him. Seen from ground level the man was much, much bigger than
he’d appeared from above. None the less, Monty’s ponytail bobbing about with
righteous indignation at the invasion of his home, the older man shouted, ‘What
do you think you’re doing? You’re going to have to pay for that door!’ and
reaching for his mobile phone said, ‘I’m phoning the Guardia about this right
now!’
    Quite
gently the big man reached across, took the phone out of Monty’s hand and
crushed it as if it were made from balsa wood and silver paper.
    ‘Now,
Monty,’ Donna said. ‘You’ve had a good run, but you really need to pay your
back rent for the last six months. Of course, you could denounce my friend
Mister Roberts here to the Guards, after all it was him that did all the
damage, but Monty, I want you to look deep into Mister Roberts’ eyes and I want
you to tell me if you really feel like upsetting a man with eyes like that.’
    Trembling,
but unable to stop himself Monty looked up from the wreckage of his ancient
Nokia scattered on the tiled floor and stared hypnotised into the dark orbs of
Mister Roberts. He’d never witnessed such blankness in the gaze of another
human being. Yet there was still some core of stubbornness or ingrained
meanness in the old hippy which made him gasp out. ‘No, you’re not getting