Completely Unexpected Tales Read online

  Like an executioner approaching his victim, the policeman came strolling slowly towards us. He was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on to the helmet, showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.

  We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.

  ‘Watch out for this man,’ my passenger whispered. ‘’Ee looks mean as the devil.’

  The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the sill. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said.

  ‘No hurry, officer,’ I answered.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a woman in the back having a baby and you’re rushing her to hospital? Is that it?’

  ‘No, officer.’

  ‘Or perhaps your house is on fire and you’re dashing home to rescue the family from upstairs?’ His voice was dangerously soft and mocking.

  ‘My house isn’t on fire, officer.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’ve got yourself into a nasty mess, haven’t you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?’

  ‘Seventy,’ I said.

  ‘And do you mind telling me exactly what speed you were doing just now?’

  I shrugged and didn’t say anything.

  When he spoke next, he raised his voice so loud that I jumped. ‘One hundred and twenty miles per hour!’ he barked. “That’s fifty miles an hour over the limit!’

  He turned his head and spat out a big gob of spit. It landed on the wing of my car and started sliding down over my beautiful blue paint. Then he turned back again and stared hard at my passenger. ‘And who are you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘He’s a hitch-hiker,’ I said. ‘I’m giving him a lift.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ he said. ‘I asked him.’

  ‘’Ave I done somethin’ wrong?’ my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream.

  ‘That’s more than likely,’ the policeman answered. ‘Anyway, you’re a witness. I’ll deal with you in a minute. Driving-licence,’ he snapped, holding out his hand.

  I gave him my driving-licence.

  He unbuttoned the left-hand breast-pocket of his tunic and brought out the dreaded books of tickets. Carefully, he copied the name and address from my licence. Then he gave it back to me. He strolled round to the front of the car and read the number from the number-plate and wrote that down as well. He filled in the date, the time and details of my offence. Then he tore out the top copy of the ticket. But before handing it to me, he checked that all the information had come through clearly on his own carbon copy. Finally, he replaced the book in his tunic pocket and fastened the button.

  ‘Now you,’ he said to my passenger, and he walked around to the other side of the car. From the other breast-pocket he produced a small black notebook. ‘Name?’ he snapped.

  ‘Michael Fish,’my passenger said.

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Fourteen, Windsor Lane, Luton.’

  ‘show me something to prove this is your real name and address,’ the policeman said.

  My passenger fished in his pockets and came out with a driving-licence of his own. The policeman checked the name and address and handed it back to him. ‘What’s your job?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I’m an ‘od carrier.’

  ‘A what?

  ‘An ’od carrier.’

  ‘Spell it.’

  ‘H-O-D C-A-…’

  ‘That’ll do. And what’s a hod carrier, may I ask?’

  ‘An ’od carrier, officer, is a person ’oo carries the cement up the ladder to the bricklayer. And the ’od is what ’ee carries it in. It’s got a long ‘andle, and on the top you’ve got two bits of wood set at an angle…’

  ‘All right, all right. Who’s your employer?’

  ‘Don’t ‘ave one. I’m unemployed.’

  The policeman wrote all this down in the black notebook. Then he returned the book to its pocket and did up the button.

  ‘When I get back to the station I’m going to do a little checking up on you,’ he said to my passenger.

  ‘Me? What’ve I done wrong?’ the rat-faced man asked.

  ‘I don’t like your face, that’s all,’ the policeman said. ‘And we just might have a picture of it somewhere in our files.’ He strolled round the car and returned to my window.

  ‘I suppose you know you’re in serious trouble,’ he said to me.

  ‘Yes, officer.’

  ‘You won’t be driving this fancy car of yours again for a very long time, not after we‘ve finished with you. You won’t be driving any car again come to that for several years. And a good thing, too. I hope they lock you up for a spell into the bargain.’

  ‘You mean prison?’ I asked, alarmed.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘In the clink. Behind the bars. Along with all the other criminals who break the law. And a hefty fine into the bargain. Nobody will be more pleased about that than me. I’ll see you in court, both of you. You’ll be getting a summons to appear.’

  He turned away and walked over to his motor-cycle. He flipped the prop stand back into position with his foot and swung his leg over the saddle. Then he kicked the starter and roared off up the road out of sight.

  ‘Phew!’ I gasped. ‘That’s done it.’

  ‘We was caught,’ my passenger said. ‘We was caught good and proper.’

  ‘I was caught, you mean.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘What you goin’ to do now, guv’nor?’

  ‘I’m going straight up to London to talk to my solicitor,’ I said. I started the car and drove on.

  ‘You mustn’t believe what ‘ee said to you about goin’ to prison,’ my passenger said. ‘They don’t put nobody in the clink just for speedin’.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m positive,’ he answered. ‘They can take your licence away and they can give you a whoppin’ big fine, but that’ll be the end of it.’

  I felt tremendously relieved.

  ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘why did you lie to him?’

  ‘Who, me?’ he said. ‘What makes you think I lied?’

  ‘You told him you were an unemployed hod carrier. But you told me you were in a highly skilled trade.’

  ‘So I am,’ he said. ‘But it don’t pay to tell everythin’ to a copper.’

  ‘So what do you do?’ I asked him.

  ‘Ah,’ he said slyly. ‘That’d be tellin’, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Is it something you’re ashamed of?’

  ‘Ashamed?’ he cried. ‘Me, ashamed of my job? I’m about as proud of it as anybody could be in the entire world!’

  “Then why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘You writers really is nosey parkers, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘And you ain’t goin’ to be ‘appy, I don’t think, until you’ve found out exactly what the answer is?’

  ‘I don’t really care one way or the other,’ I told him, lying.

  He gave me a crafty little ratty look out of the sides of his eyes. ‘I think you do care,’ he said. ‘I can see it on your face that you think I’m in some kind of a very peculiar trade and you’re just achin’ to know what it is.’

  I didn’t like the way he read my thoughts. I kept quiet and stared at the road ahead.

  ‘You’d be right, too,’ he went on. ‘I am in a very peculiar trade. I’m in the queerest peculiar trade of ’em all.’

  I waited for him to go on.

  ‘That’s why I ‘as to be extra careful ‘oo I’m talkin’ to, you see. ’Ow am I to know, for instance, you’re not another copper in plain clothes?’

  ‘Do I look like a copper?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t. And you ain’t. Any fool could tell that.’

  He took from his pocket a tin of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers and started to roll a cigarette. I was watching him out of the corner of one eye, and the speed with which he performed this rathe