[Brenda & Effie 03] - Conjugal Rites Page 4

  ‘Well. Never mind.’

  Now Effie was looking closely at her friend, and realising that she too was in her outside clothes. ‘How come you’re all togged up? Where are you off to this late?’

  Brenda smiled fondly. ‘Aha. You can always tell, can’t you, when there’s some investigating going on?’

  Up went Effie’s eyebrows. ‘What? You were going off alone? Without me?’

  ‘Not quite alone. I’m meeting Robert. I didn’t think you’d want to be involved in this affair. We’re going to the studios of Whitby FM. I’m going to have a word with this precious talk-DJ of yours.’ Brenda was fiddling with her keys, as if impatient for the off.

  ‘You’re going to see him!’ Effie looked thrilled.

  ‘Well, you needn’t sound so alarmed. He’s just a man. Just an ordinary person.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said Effie firmly. ‘You’re not leaving me out of this.’

  Brenda never said a word. She simply stepped out into the passage and locked her door behind her. The shadows were gathering, and by the time they stepped into the sloping street with their arms linked, the baleful blue darkness was almost complete.

  The first thing they did was bump into Robert, down on the sea front, as Brenda had arranged. He was in his fleece-lined flying jacket and thrumming with anticipation at their adventure.

  ‘Evening, Brenda, Effie.’

  Effie surveyed him with her usual mistrust. ‘Good evening, young man. I see you’ve managed to involve yourself in our business yet again.’

  He gave a happy shrug. ‘Whatever, Effie.’

  Now Effie had turned her attention to the passers-by on the harbour. Various brightly coloured promenaders had drawn her incredulous gaze. ‘Will someone please tell me who all these funny-looking people are? There are some atrocious sights wandering the town this evening.’

  Brenda told her, ‘They’re retired superpowered heroes, Effie.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ There was a whole gaggle of them outside Cod Almighty and the amusement arcades. Effie peered closer.

  ‘They come from some kind of do at the Christmas Hotel,’ Brenda added.

  ‘There’ll be more to it,’ Effie said darkly, ‘if Mrs Claus is behind it.’

  Robert chimed in: ‘Quite.’

  Brenda was amused by the whole superhero thing. And she was still amazed by her elderly guest in the cat ears. She told Effie, ‘It turns out that Mr Timperley, who’s staying at mine for the week, he’s one.’

  ‘Heavens protect us. This town gets stranger by the day.’

  Now it was time to get on with their own business. Brenda turned to Robert. ‘Where are the studios, then? Robert, you said you knew.’

  ‘Not far,’ he said, tugging up his collar against the brisk sea wind. ‘On the harbour front. The redeveloped bit. With the luxury apartments.’

  ‘Up the swanky end of town, eh?’

  ‘Where else?’ said Effie. She experienced a little flutter inside at the very thought of visiting Mr Danby at Whitby FM Towers. It wasn’t that she was starstruck at all. She wasn’t sure what it was. But she was all agitation, just thinking about seeing him at work. At the very centre of his web of chat.

  Succumbing

  The studios were something of a let-down. The three adventurers had followed Robert’s directions all the way through a bleak industrial estate, and now they were gazing at the side of a one-storey building with matt-black windows.

  ‘Looks like a pretty ordinary office building to me,’ Brenda said. ‘Or a warehouse or something.’

  ‘What do you expect it to look like?’ asked Effie, who, truth be known, was the most disappointed of the three. She had expected something rather more glamorous.

  ‘No one’s about,’ Brenda observed. She led the way to the dark doorway. The only doorway they could find. It seemed a very obscure entrance. She buzzed the entry box and called into the speaker: ‘Hello? Can we come in?’

  A very distant, tinny voice replied, ‘Yes? Hello?’

  ‘We’d like to come in, please. We’ve . . . um, got an appointment with Mr Danby.’

  Robert shook his head. ‘This’ll never work.’

  The security guard sounded irritated. ‘He’s on the air! You can’t see him now!’

  Effie sighed and clutched Brenda’s arm. ‘We’ve gone about this the wrong way.’

  ‘But we must see him!’ insisted Brenda. What did they have to lose by causing a scene? ‘I demand to come in!’

  ‘Go on, Brenda,’ urged Robert. ‘You tell him.’

  ‘Will you open these doors? Or do I have to get my shoulder behind them?’ She was quite prepared to. Brenda had knocked down a fair few doors in her time.

  ‘Look,’ squawked the man from security, ‘who is this?’

  ‘My name’s Brenda, buster, and my dander’s right up.’

  ‘Here we go.’ Effie smiled, at her back.

  There was a pause, and then, to their amazement, the tinny voice told them, ‘I’ll buzz you in.’

  Effie couldn’t believe it. ‘What? They’re just letting us in?’ When she had gone to Leeds to appear in the audience of Nancy! - that dreadful talk show - there had been all sorts of security measures. But here were the metal doors giving a sharp buzz and swinging open freely before them.

  ‘Here goes,’ Brenda said. ‘Seems the direct approach pays off.’

  Gallantly Robert stepped through the dim doorway first. ‘Huh. Looks pretty dark inside. I can’t see where—’

  ‘Ouch!’ yelled Effie. ‘You watch who you’re shoving, young man. Oww!’

  ‘Keep still!’ hissed Brenda. ‘Don’t move! I don’t like this!’

  ‘Neither do I. I think it’s a—’

  ‘Do you think it’s a—’

  Now that all three were standing in the dark interior, the door gave a huge clang as it slammed behind them.

  Brenda howled, ‘A trap! Yes, I do!’

  ‘We’re shut inside! Oh help! Oh no! I’m—’

  ‘Keep calm, ladies. Let’s not get in a flap yet. Let’s—’

  Robert stopped abruptly. The three seized each other as another noise - a terrible hissing noise - filled the dark room. It was getting louder, and more insistent.

  ‘What’s that?’ Brenda cried.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gas! It’s gas!’

  ‘Noooo! They can’t! Let us out!’

  ‘Ooh, Brenda,’ said Effie, swooning nastily. ‘I do feel a bit funny . . .’

  ‘Effie!’

  There was a petite, demure thud in the darkness as Effie dropped to the concrete floor.

  Robert was coughing and choking. ‘Brenda, I . . .’

  Brenda raised her voice, railing against their unseen enemy. ‘Where are you, Danby? You can’t do this to us! You can’t . . .’

  But it was too much even for her. She heard Robert collapse close by her, and then she started to see luminous spots in front of her eyes, blotting out even the blackness. She felt herself slipping, and succumbing to the foul-smelling gas.

  As the hissing grew louder about her, and she felt the rough concrete against her face, Brenda lay there clinging to her consciousness for just a few moments longer than her friends.

  And she could have sworn she could hear the mocking laughter of that toad Danby issuing poisonously into the room.

  The Punch-Up

  Mr Danby was precisely as Brenda remembered him. He was a dapper man with an eerily broad skull and a conniving manner. He wore evening dress with a silk cravat and was giggling gently as the three intruders slowly came to.

  Brenda heaved herself up to her knees and watched him rubbing his tiny pale hands.

  ‘Oh dear. Dear oh dear,’ he simpered. ‘How I dislike having to resort to such tactics. Oh dear.’

  ‘You!’ Brenda growled at him.

  ‘Yes, I am sorry, my dear Brenda, if you find yourself alarmed at being captured like this.’

  Now that the room was a little brigh
ter, Brenda could see that they were locked in a grimy and denuded storeroom. Mr Danby was standing with his back to the interior door. She heard a groan and realised that Effie and Robert were regaining consciousness. She stooped to help them. Poor Effie was delirious.

  ‘Auntie Maud? Auntie?’

  Brenda stroked her hand and helped her up. ‘Ssssh, Effie. It’s all right. Calm down.’

  A fit of panic seized Effie as she remembered what had happened. ‘Help! Brenda! Gas! It’s—’

  ‘It’s all right, Effie. We’re—’

  Beside them, Robert was on his feet. ‘Owww, oww. My head.’

  Mr Danby sounded so calm, so soothing. Just as he did on his nightly show. ‘The fog inside your heads will vanish in a few moments. I regret that I had to render you unconscious. It’s just that you looked so fierce. I quite feared for my safety.’

  Brenda rounded on him and found her fingers twitching. She was dying to smack him one. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do.’

  Mr Danby ignored her, fixing instead on the shaky Effie, who had risen to her feet by now and still looked confused. ‘Effie Jacobs!’ he cried. ‘We meet in the flesh once more.’

  Effie refused point blank to be charmed. She focused on him and gave one of her deadliest scowls. ‘Mr Danby. I thought you had changed your ways. I thought you were such a smoothie on the radio. A reformed character. But Brenda was right about you.’

  He shrugged helplessly, as if that had little to do with him. ‘I dread to think of what she’s been saying.’

  Now Robert became all gallant, stepping forward protectively to demand: ‘What are you going to do with us? You can’t just go taking prisoners. We’ll be missed.’

  Mr Danby sighed and gave him a disparaging glance. ‘More’s the pity. And I can’t just kill you either, much as I’d like to be rid of you. You ladies brought my glorious Deadly Boutique to an ignominious end last year.’

  ‘Let us go, Mr Danby,’ said Effie, in a very steady voice. She had been rattled by his mention of killing. She wasn’t sure what this oleaginous fop was capable of, and she wanted out. ‘We promise we won’t tell anyone what you’re up to with your talk show.’

  Brenda put in, ‘How could we? We don’t even know what it is he’s up to.’

  ‘And that’s the way it’ll stay.’ The little man glowered at them. ‘You don’t need to know.’ A red lightbulb above the doorway gave a sudden fierce buzz. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘if you’ll excuse me, that’s my signal to be back on the air. The adverts are finished. Will you be comfy enough in here?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ snapped Robert sarcastically. All three captives were staring at the door, which had opened behind Mr Danby, revealing the presence of a gaggle of figures as short as he was. They gathered about him protectively, like terrible bouncers, and escorted him from the storeroom. The door clanged, leaving four of these curious guards behind.

  Effie backed away. ‘Ugh. He’s got his primitive cave-women people looking after him again. Awful man.’

  It was quite true. The security women were tiny, naked women from the dawn of time. Mr Danby seemed to use them for all his dirty work. They were staring at the captives with their feral yellow eyes burning in the dark.

  Brenda sighed. ‘I could have done without another punch-up with the primitive apewomen,’ she said. ‘But . . .’

  Actually Effie suspected that Brenda rather enjoyed having the excuse for a good punch-up. She had once told her she found it an enormous stress relief, especially if the people she was fighting really deserved it.

  Soon the dim and squalid air of that empty storeroom was ringing out with the cries and slaps of an unholy tussle. Brenda started it. She went barrelling towards the four hirsute guards with both hefty fists flying. Effie and Robert had no choice but to back her up and join in. Any compunction Robert had about punching a lady (even one with fangs and unopposable thumbs) vanished as the primitive women fought back viciously with sharp teeth and savage claws. He concentrated on pushing the women away and trying to urge Brenda and Effie back to the main exit, which he had found hidden in the shadows of the far corner.

  They soon realised what he was yelling about, as he kicked the door open with a great metallic screech. Brenda and Effie turned tail and ran while they were winning, leaving the scene of the dreadful fist-fight behind.

  As they pelted through the bleak wasteland of the industrial estate - knowing full well that the slave women would not follow them too far - Brenda cried out to the others in a rueful bellow: ‘That’s yet another less-than-successful investigation.’

  They reached the waterfront. Effie had to pause and ease away the stitch in her side. ‘Why is it,’ she gasped, ‘that so many of our adventures involve us breaking in somewhere, having a fight, and running away again?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Robert. ‘And why does Mr Danby have ape-woman security guards?’

  ‘I think he’s kinky,’ said Effie decisively.

  Brenda shuddered. ‘We’re well out of that one, I think. You don’t know what might have happened while we were in his power.’

  Bacon Sandwiches

  Brenda wasn’t happy till they were safely in her attic sitting room. They went thundering through the deserted streets, and shooting up her side passage. They made a ghastly noise running up the side stairs. But at last they were in Brenda’s rooms at the top of the guest house.

  She urged them to sit as she retreated to her open-plan kitchen, wielding her blackened frying pan with aplomb. ‘Spicy tea and bacon sandwiches! Just the thing when you’ve had a nasty run-in!’

  Robert collapsed on to the paisley two-seater. He realised he’d come out having had no supper. ‘Brenda, you’re a marvel.’

  Effie eased herself on to the bobbly armchair. She still felt the lingering traces of that knock-out gas floating around her addled head. She pursed her lips thoughtfully and conceded to Brenda, ‘Well, you’ve certainly proved you were right, ducky. Mr Danby is clearly up to his old nefarious and wicked tricks. I was too stupid to see. I was mesmerised by his charm, entranced by his chat.’

  Brenda smiled kindly. ‘Do you both want tomato sauce on your bacon sandwiches?’

  Robert was leaning across to her cluttered mantel, tuning her wireless. There was a squawk of static, making Effie shield her delicate ears.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to get The Night Owls on Whitby FM. See what he’s saying . . .’

  Brenda swished the spitting, quarrelsome bacon in the pan and mused: ‘We must figure out what he’s playing at. Do you think it could be he’s trying to take over the minds of everyone in Whitby? Using some kind of subliminal messages . . .’

  Effie harrumphed. ‘No tomato sauce for me, Brenda. Wretched, gory-looking stuff.’

  And then the smarmy tones of Mr Danby came to them through the crackling medium of Brenda’s tranny. They all paused, ears cocked to listen.

  ‘. . . earlier tonight, dear listeners, I’m sorry to report. Who would have thought a convivial little show like this one would make enemies? I’m sure I never thought such a thing was possible. But there you go. You try to bring a little light into people’s lives . . .’

  Brenda switched off the gas ring and brought their heaped plates into the sitting room. The smell of the bacon was driving the ravenous Robert mad. ‘What’s he saying?’ she asked.

  Robert seized his plate. ‘I think he’s talking about us!’

  Effie jerked upright. ‘What?’ Then she looked at the mammoth doorstep Brenda had cut for her. How was she going to manage that, with her little mouth?

  Mr Danby was still broadcasting to Whitby at large. He sounded so woeful and righteous, Brenda felt her fingers tingling once more with incipient violence.

  ‘It sounds strange, I know,’ Mr Danby sighed, ‘but I really got the sense that these people hated me and everything my show stands for. And what do we stand for? Just people speaking their minds. Free speech! Well, I suppose there are always going to be people who want
to spoil that. Weirdos and fanatics. I tell you, Night Owls, when they came breaking into these studios, making their violent protest tonight, I really - for a moment - felt in fear of my life.’

  Effie just about choked on a piece of bacon rind. ‘The devil!’

  ‘I want you to watch out for these three people, Night Owls. Make sure you give them a wide berth. The two old ladies are not as benign and harmless as they may seem. One or two of my colleagues here are going for medical attention this evening, after their fracas with our vicious intruders . . .’

  Brenda felt a hot shiver of dismay pass through her. ‘He’s trying to turn the whole town against us.’

  ‘. . . one pale, skinny old woman. I thought she was a friend of this show. She runs a junk shop right next door to the B and B of the thickset woman I believe to be the ringleader. And a young man who lives and works at the Hotel Miramar. Whitby is a small town, and you will know who I am talking about. You will recognise your enemies when you see them next . . .’

  ‘Crikey!’ said Robert. ‘Can he do this?’

  Effie set her unfinished supper aside. ‘I think he just has.’

  ‘Switch it off,’ urged Brenda. ‘I can’t listen to any more of him. Eat your supper, both of you.’ She realised that both her friends were looking at her.

  ‘What’s going to happen, Brenda?’ Effie asked.

  Brenda sagged down on to a kitchen chair beside her breakfast bar. Could Danby really turn the whole town against them? Just by saying these things on his radio show? She shook her head dolefully. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  But she did know really. She had said it herself. Danby was hypnotising all of Whitby with his late-night gassing. Could he really tell people what to think?

  It was Brenda’s own worst nightmare. Being demonised like this. In her own recently adopted town.

  The three friends stared at each other for a moment, and then Brenda hastened to pour out their tea.

  A Function to Attend

  What happened next had all to do with the retired superhero ball being held at the Christmas Hotel that weekend. Brenda and Effie had heard a little about it, and they had observed a few masked and Lycra-clad pensioners gadding about town. Brenda even had one of the ex-superheroes staying incognito in her guest house: a Mr Timperley, who was once Harry the Cat, scourge of Salford.