Bigtime

Marc Blake

Description

Its Valentine's day and Andy Crowe has been dumped. He's also driving to Birmingham with his most hated rival, and it's raining. Could things get much worse? Oh yes. Three small-time villains are about to pull off a job, and they are heading for the same motoroway services as Andy and Rob...

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 10 juillet 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781849893138
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

BIGTIME


by
Marc Blake


Publisher Information

First published in Great Britainin in 1999 by
Hodder and Stoughton, a division of Hodder Headline PLC

This digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited 2011
www.andrewsuk.com

The right of Marc Blake to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.


Dedication

For Paul


Acknowledgements

Firstly, a million thanks to Claire.
Then: Carolyn, Jon and Alexandra at Hodder. Chubbs, Pete Graham and Huw Thomas, all at the Banana and any other venues where I had the opportunity of being ‘King for the night.’ Malcolm Hay, Jasmine, Milly (‘Evil Norman) lives), WPC Sarah Masters, Rod and Clare, Tony Thompson (whose book ‘Gangland Britain’ is a great primer on Yardies, Asian gangs and guns), Ben Ward and Zed.


Author’s Note

Since this book was written, Corley services has undergone a thorough refit although the Carmody module remains in place. The use and abuse of pheromones and/or steroids is not recommended to children of any age, nor is the performance of stand-up comedy.


Quotes

‘Nothing in the world can take the place of perseverance. Talent will not; nothing in the world is more common than men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not: the world is full of educated derelicts. Perseverance and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan ‘‘press on’’ has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.’
Calvin Coolidge

‘Never trust a book that starts with a quotation.’
Marc Blake





Chapter One

Rescue, Recovery, Wreck

Andy Crowe pulled to a halt beside the North Circular Road. Steam was billowing from the heating vents and a pool of viscous liquid had oozed out into the footwells. He swatted on the hazard lights, killed the ignition and rolled down the windows. The vapour funnelled away and the temperature inside the car plummeted to that of a Siberian summer. Zipping up his leather jacket, he tugged the door open. The vacuum from passing lorries almost tore it from his hand.
Hoisting up the bonnet of the elderly Polo, he glared at the engine like a schoolteacher entering a rowdy classroom. The greasy components sat smug and silent in their casings, daring him to tamper with them. The only thing he knew about mechanics was how to unsheathe the dipstick. He did so and a nasal drip of oil fell on to the engine block. Replacing it, he noted that the opaque orb which usually contained the coolant was empty.
That’s not a good sign, he thought.
It was barely noon and the spitting sky was the colour of an Etch-A-Sketch. Across the busy carriageway were a Chinese supermarket and the Universe of Leather. In the knowledge that his vehicle consisted of no components made of noodle or hide, he decided to look elsewhere for help. In front of him, the road rose to Hanger Lane and the risibly named gyratory system. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he strode off towards it.
Andy had been up for three hours, something of a major feat for a stand-up comedian. Not that it was intentional: he had woken when the front door slammed and, on thrusting out an arm to find carpet instead of duvet, he’d guessed that there was a problem.
It was then he remembered he was on the sofa bed in the living room.
And something else.
Michelle had dumped him.
Well, not technically dumped -but after intense negotiations she’d demanded a trial separation, which was the same thing.
His first task that morning had been to chain three Marlboro Lites in quick succession while he formulated a way of winning her back. The plan was unoriginal but had the benefit of getting him out of the flat. He would purchase a conciliatory present, then phone her at work to arrange lunch. He went to the florist’s in the high street where the surly teenage assistant showed him a number of laminated pictures of flowers in woven baskets. He felt his interest wane. This was like Michelle asking him to choose a cushion.
‘What I really want,’ he said, ‘is something that symbolises love and respect for my partner . . . along with a measure of guilt and resentment.’
She pointed to the thirty-six pound bouquet.
Back in the flat, he found that Michelle wasn’t taking his calls. Apparently, like the entire population of London, she was ‘in a meeting’. He tried again several times but her PA had the fielding skills of a West Indian cricketer. Refusing to be discouraged, he decided to drive into town to confront her in her office. After an hour spent teasing his quasi-scrapheap into life, he nosed the vehicle on to the A406.
Five minutes later he was marooned under the bruised February sky.
‘Can you describe the fault, please?’
He had located a phone box with a dial tone and enough glass in it to deflect the noise of the traffic and wind. ‘It’s bleeding to death.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘That would be why I’m calling you.’
The incident manager, who had clearly come top in a one day training seminar for public speaking in a patronising tone, fired more questions and then assured him that the breakdown service would be ‘on scene’ within an hour.
‘Are you sure that’s an hour?’ Andy queried. ‘Not a railway hour? Or a pizza half-hour, which is a movable feast -or rather it isn’t.’
A long, uncomprehending pause.
‘Hello?’
‘We’re very busy at the moment, sir. Just call us back if there’s any problem.’
He hung up and returned to his injured vehicle, thinking of how he hated technology and telephones and of the many hassles they caused him. Case in point -the call at seven the previous evening that had precipitated the bust-up with Michelle.

‘Andy?’ The voice was marinated in whisky with a gravel chaser.
He fumbled with the tagliatelle of flex by the answering machine.
‘Yup.’
‘It’s the Agency.’
He almost dropped the phone. Despite never having had any direct dealings with them, the Agency ruled Andy’s life. What was this? A friendly call to assure him that they’d be ignoring him for another three years? He had become convinced of late that when he began his career in comedy he had unknowingly ticked the box marked ‘No Publicity’.
‘Wanna do Birmin’ham tomorrow night?’
He agreed nonchalantly as he skipped round, gleefully punching the air.
Andy had always hoped they were studying his progress. He and his colleagues spoke of the Agency in reverential tones, knowing that if a blessing were bestowed then success would surely follow. Initiates were like deflowered virgins, half bashful at first but soon boasting of their exploits with a newfound confidence. As soon as they were accepted into the fold, they became like concubines to these mysterious men in big suits and small offices. They were pampered and showered with trinkets: the warm-up work, the TV game-show guest slots and the criminally underpaid radio series. Andy wanted it: they all wanted it. And when one of them got it, there was an abundance of fresh envy, bitterness and bitchery to fill their absence on the comedy circuit.
Only a handful of comics dared to criticise the Agency; warning of the strip mining of talent, hidden financial responsibilities and contracts so inescapable that even Houdini would have tutted and stormed off in a huff. These views were discredited, and anyone allying themselves with the dissidents achieved refugee status quicker than a Bosnian in a blanket.
Andy reckoned his chances of becoming one of the Agency’s golden boys to be slim. To gain entry there were no required qualifications, no interview board and no need to pump your CV with imaginary sporting prowess: it was simply understood that when your time came, you would be called. He never had been -until now.
‘One fifty on the night. You driving?’
‘I’ll be wrestling my car, yeah.’
‘Gillen’s going up with you. He’s got the details. You can give him a lift.’
‘I, er . . . haven’t got his number,’ Andy said, warily.
The voice was replaced by the sound of a keyboard being pummelled into submission. Andy flashed on images of fame: the adoring crowds; Gaghags; his own Channel 4 series; appearing with balding chat show hosts; forcing a corkscrew into the eye of balding chat show hosts. The baritone returned, read out a mobile number and rang off. Andy scrawled it on a bit of paper and hurried into the front room.
Michelle was spread out on the sofa in her trackie bottoms and an old charity T-shirt. She was watching telly.
‘Guess who phoned?’
‘Your parents? No, you wouldn’t be smiling.’
‘The Agency.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘That’s brilliant.’
She sprang to her feet and hugged him. He slipped a hand round her waist to the small of her back and threaded the other through her short black hair. They kissed hard until their teeth bumped together. She pulled away, planting a final peck on his cheek.
‘So what did they want?’
‘It’s an out-of-towner. With Rob Gillen.’
‘You hate Rob Gillen.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’
‘But you’re always going on about him.’