Free Sprout Mask Replica by Robert Rankin Page B

Fangio. ‘But the question is, brim or no brim?’
    ‘No
brim,’ said I. ‘Peak at a pinch, but no brim.’
    ‘So, a
fez, you think?’
    ‘Fez,
pill box, brimless fedora, beret if you’re travelling the continent, balaclava
for mountain wear, cloche for cross-dressing parties—’
    ‘But a
cloche has a brim.’
    ‘But
nothing to write home about.’
    ‘Ah I
get your point.’ And I saw that he did.
    ‘Busby,
turban, puggaree, tarboosh, tam-o’-shanter, coonskin Davy Crocket—’
    ‘You
sure know your hats,’ said Fangio.
    ‘You
have to in my business,’ I told him. ‘In my business wearing the right hat for
the job can mean the difference between cocking the snook or kicking the can,
if you catch my drift, and I’m sure that you do.’
    ‘So
tell me,’ said the fat boy, ‘how come you always go hatless?’
    ‘Why is
cheese?’ I replied.
    We
chewed some more upon the fat and I saw that gleam come into Fangio’s good eye.
I’ve seen that gleam before, plenty of times in plenty of places. And here it
was again, right here.
    ‘Why
the gleam?’ I enquired and we both laughed again. ‘To be serious,’ said Fangio,
when at last we had done with the mirth, ‘there’s something else I’ve been
meaning to ask.’
    ‘Ask
away.’
    The
barman sucked air up his nostrils, causing ears to pop about the bar, and blew
it out of his mouth. ‘I was just wondering why it is that you have five
matchsticks Sellotaped across your forehead.’
    I
stiffened inwardly but maintained my composure. In my business maintaining your
composure can mean the difference between laughing like a drain or howling up a
gum tree. As for stiffening inwardly, I just don’t know. ‘I have to use the
lavvy,’ I said and made away from the bar.
    I
crossed the dance floor at the trot. It was a fox trot but I was in no mood to
tango. This was the week of The Brentford Bee Festival and most of the dancers
wore insect costumes. I felt for those guys, if only they’d known that the
posters were supposed to read BEER instead of BEE.
    Such is
life.
    I felt
odd as I moved between the dancers, curiously out of place. A stranger in my
own back passage, you might say. I entered the Gents and found my way to the
wash-hand basin. Above it the mirror. I peered into the mirror.
    I did have five matchsticks Sellotaped to my forehead.
    And
that wasn’t all.
    My left
eyebrow had been dyed lime green and I had two paperclips attached to the lobe
of my right ear. Looking down I spied for the first time the blue nail varnish
on my left thumbnail and the purple on my right. About my neck I wore two
school ties. A number of watch springs had been sewn to the lapels of my riding
jacket. My shoes were odd and I wasn’t wearing any socks.
    A
dress code thing? What had happened to me? Was I
hallucinating or just seeing things? Had I passed out at a party and fallen
prey to merry pranksters? That seemed the most probable.
    Embarrassment!
Oh, the shame.
    I
rooted about in my pockets for a hankie to wipe off the eyebrow dye, but turned
up an assortment of incongruous objects instead. Chicken bones, glass marbles,
bottle tops, several biros bound together with pink ribbon. A half-pack of
playing cards. A dead mouse.
    Someone
was definitely having a pop.
    ‘Who
did this to me?’ I asked the mirror.
    The
mirror had nothing to say.
    ‘Come
on, speak up!’ I told it.
    ‘You
did it to yourself.’
    I all
but soiled my underlinen. But the voice came not from the looking-glass, but a
chap at the cubicle door.
    He just
stood there looking, and very well he did it too. He was tall and lean and
frocked out in kaftan and sandals. It was hard to say just how, but he exuded
charisma as others might aftershave. One of those people who can strut while
still sitting down. As I didn’t want to waste time later, I hated him at once.
    ‘Did
you do this to me?’ I asked, reaching for the gun that I might have carried if
I did carry one. Which I didn’t.
    ‘No.
Not me.’