The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(108)

‘Stop ends indeed,’ I snarled.

Before the limousine was out of eyeshot another, even more vulgar black limousine swept up to the kerb – just like they do in the story-books. I gave it no more than a brief and haughty glance whilst I made taxi-attracting gestures to passing taxis. The taxi-drivers did not seem to understand my British gestures. Just as my fears were changing into honest British annoyance, I became aware that respectable-looking chaps were issuing from the limousine – the second, longer, more vulgar limousine, you understand. I recked not of them but continued to beckon imperiously at passing taxi-cabs. It was at that point that I was zonked on the back of the head.

Now you who – forgive me – have nothing better to do than read such tales of daring and true love as this which I now relate, must have read many a description of what it feels like to be zonked on the occiput. Stars burst wondrously, blue-birds twitter, fireworks effulge, bells chime and so forth. None of this is true; none has been written by chaps who have actually experienced such a zonk.

Speaking as one who has in his time received not one or two but several such cowardly buffets, I am in a position to record the resultant phenomena in scientific form, such as any serious medical journal would gladly accept for publication.

(A) The subject feels a distinct zonking sensation at the rear of he bonce or cranium. A momentary agony is experienced.

(B) This causes the novice to say ‘Aaargh!’ or words to that effect, according to his ethnic group. The seasoned chap, who is no stranger to zonks, subsides quietly, lest he receive just such another.

(C) The subject then sinks into an untroubled sleep, more dreamless than he has known since puberty.

(D) He awakes, reluctantly, to find himself infested with a shattering headache and a great thirst. Moreover, he is surrounded by large, ugly men who view his awakening coldly, for they are engrossed in a game called three-handed pinochle. He goes back to sleep. It is now but a fitful sleep.

(E) He is awakened again, this time by one of the coarse, ugly men and in a fashion so coarse that I cannot describe it in a narrative intended for family reading.

(F) Full, now, of indignation, piss-and-vinegar, etc, he launches a death-dealing karate-chop at his tormentor, not realizing how enervating have been the effects of the professional zonk. The d.-dealing k.-chop misses by several feeble inches. The ugly chap does not even smile: he smacks the patient across the chops with a spade-like hand, back and forth and to and fro. In Brooklyn I understand this is rendered as ‘whackity-whap, biff, zap’.

(G) Weeping bitterly with shame and rage, the subject collapses onto the carpet. The ugly chap raises him compassionately to his feet by grabbing a handful of hair.

All these things happened to me in the order named and I have a couple of neuroses to prove it. I was taken to a lavatory or toilet – no wait, it’s called a bathroom in the USA – and was allowed to be sick, wash my face and, as my grandmother would say, ‘straighten my veil’. (In my will I have bequeathed my collection of euphemisms to the National Trust.)

I felt a little better but my indignation was lessened by no whit. I am assured that there is many a chap who accepts a slosh on the brain-pan with equanimity. Some, I daresay, positively welcome such wallops as aids to meditation; others reproach themselves for not having loved their fellow-men enough. I was never such a one. Being coshed or sapped never fails to fill me with a quite irrational annoyance. We overweight cowards in early middle age have few inexpensive recreations left to us: indignant rage – so long as one’s blood-pressure is no worse than 120/80 – is both cheap and satisfying.

It was, then, a furious and unforgiving Mortdecai whose face was wiped and whose trousers were adjusted by large, ugly men and who was half-carried into a darkened room and dumped into a wonderfully comfortable chair. He – I – raged vaguely and luxuriously for a minute or two until sleep slunk up like a black panther and sank its kindly fangs into what remained of the Mortdecai brain. Curiously delicious dreams involving over-ripe schoolgirls ensued – quite unsuitable for these chaste pages. (It has often been remarked that men about to face death on the field of battle or, indeed, the very gallows itself, frantically seek solace in the sexual act. The same is true of the common hangover: a raw egg beaten up in Worcester Sauce or Tabasco is a useful placebo for the hung-over novice; a pint of flat and tepid ale is a kill-or-cure specific/emetic for those with leathern stomachs, while a brace of large brandies marks out your seasoned boozer who knows that he needs an empiric to get him back into the human race as quickly as may be. You may depend upon it, however, that the only sovereign cure for us men of iron is a brisk five minutes of what Jock coarsely calls ‘rumpy-pumpy’. It is positively warranted to scour the cobwebs from the most infested skull; no home should be without it. Try some tomorrow. I shan’t pretend that you can buy it at all reputable chemists but you will find a registry office in most large towns. I digress, I know, but usefully: these words of mine alone are worth the price of admission.)

The curiously delicious dreams of which I speak were snapped off short by a flood of blinding light and a gentle shake or two at my shoulder. I opened reluctant eyes, sat up, turned my gaze first upon the shoulder-shaker, who proved to be the smallest and fattest of the ugly persecutors. He looked unhappy. I eyed him dangerously, then stared to my front across about an acre of black-glass desk towards a set of apologetic features flickering in the mid-distance. When my eyes could focus I recognized the apologetic features as those of Col. Blucher.