Kim Newman - Diogene Club 01 - The Man from the Diogenes Club

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[Diogenes Club 01]

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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CONTENTS

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THE END OF THE PIER SHOW

Icy winds barrelled in off the sea, lashing the front like an invisible tidal wave. Fred Regent shoved his fists deeper into the pockets of his yellow silk bomber jacket.

Apart from keeping his hands out of the cold blast, Fred was trying to prevent himself from constantly fingering the bee-fuzz on his scalp where he used to have hair like Peter Noones. If his bonce went blue, itd look like a coppers helmet and thatd be the end of this lark. Going undercover with the Boys now seemed a lot less like a comfortable way out of uniform than a protracted invitation to a busted mug and a cryo-dunking in the channel.

Its April, said Jaffa, the Fhrer Boy. Whatever happened to spring?

New ice age, mate, said Oscar, the intellectual of the Boys. Hitlers astrologers said itd happen.

The Boys clumped along the front, strutting in their steel-toed, cleat-soled Docs. They shivered as a razor-lash of wind cut through turn-up jeans, Fred Perry shirts and thin jackets. Only Oscar could get away with a duffel coat, and Jaffa sometimes sneered mod at him. The Boys were skins and hated mods; not to mention hippies, grebos, Pakkis, queers, students, coons, yids, chinks, car-park attendants, andespeciallycoppers.

Fred wondered if the others felt the cold on their near-exposed skulls the way he did. If so, they were too pretend-hard to mention it. Skinhead haircuts were one of the worst ideas ever. Just as the Boys were some of the worst people ever. Itd be a pleasure putting this bunch of yobs inside. If he lived that long.

The point of this seaside excursion was for Fred to get in with Jaffa. A bag of pills, supposedly nicked with aggro from a Pakistani chemists, had bought him into the Boys. But Kevin Jaffa, so-called King Skin, didnt trust anyone until theyd helped him put the boot into a third party. It was sort of an initiation, but also made all his mates accomplices in the event of legal complications.

It had seemed a lot simpler back in London, following DI Prices briefing on King Skin and the Boys, getting into the part, learning the lingo (Say coon, not nigger) from a wheelchair-bound expert nark, picking out the wardrobe, even getting the haircut. Steel clippers snicking over his head like an insectile lawnmower. Now, barely two months out of Hendon, he was on his own, miles away from an incident room, with no one to shout for if he got on the receiving end of an unfriendly boot.

What was he supposed to do? How far was he supposed to go?

For the Boys, this was a pleasure trip, not business. And Fred was supposed to be stopping Jaffas business.

On the train down, Jaffa had taken over a compartment, put his Docs up on the seat to defy British Rail, and encouraged everyone to pitch in ideas for entertainment. Nicking things, smashing things, getting plastered and snatching a shag were the most popular suggestions. Petty stuff, day-outing dirty deeds. Fred was supposed to let minor offences slide until he had the goods on one of Jaffas Big Ideas, but he supposed hed have to draw a line if it looked like some innocent was going to get hurt.

Everythings bloody shut, Doggo whined. I could do with six pennorth of chips.

Jaffa cuffed the smaller skin, who couldnt be older than fourteen.

All you bloody think of is chips, Doggo. Set your sights higher.

The shops along the front were mostly boarded over, battered by windblown sand and salt. Stacks of deckchairs down on the beach were chained down under tarpaulins. A few hardy dog-walkers were out and about. But no one else. The whole town was shut up and stored away.

They came to the pier.

Lets take a look-see, Jaffa suggested, climbing over a turnstile. There was a booth nearby, but it wasnt manned. The Boys trooped after their leader, clumping onto shaky boards. They fought the wind, walking towards the pagodalike green structure at the end of the pier.

On a board in the shape of an arrow was written This way to The Emporium, Palace of Wonders, Arcade of Education, Variety Nitely. Admission: 6d. There was no admission price in new money.

As he clambered over the turnstile, Fred noticed a poster on the side of the booth. A comical drunk in a long army greatcoat sat in a pub with a slinky blonde draped round him. Half the womans face was covered by a wave of hair; she was smoking a cigarette in a holder, the smoke forming a skull with swastika eye-sockets. The slogan wasCareless Talk Costs Lives. The poster might have been up since the war.

No, the colours were too bright, as if just from the printers. It must be part of an exhibition.

Come on, Fred, said Oscar. Last one ins a sissy.

Seamouth wasnt big enough to support the pier these days, but it had been a fashionable resort around the turn of the century. Seventy-odd years of decline hadnt yet dragged the attraction into the sea. The structure projected out from the beach, struts and pillars temporarily resisting the eternal push and pull of the waves. It couldnt stand up on its own much longer. Everything creaked, like a ship at sea.

Looking down, Fred saw churning foam through ill-fitting, water-warped boards. He thought he saw crabs tossed around in the water.

They reached the Emporium. It was turquoise over gun-metal, the paint coming off in swathes. Ingraham put a dent in a panel with his armoured toe. Freckles flew off.

This shed looks about ready to collapse, Oscar said, shaking a loose railing. Maybe we should give it a shove.

Oscar hopped from one foot to another, looking like a clog-dancer, shoulders heaving.

Everythings shut, Doggo whined.

Jaffa sneered with pity at the kid. A three-inch orange line on the King Skins scalp looked like a knife scar but was a birth malformation, skull-plates not knit properly. It was probably why he was a psycho nutter. With an elbow, Jaffa smashed a pane of glass and reached inside. He undid a clasp and pulled a door open, then stood aside like a doorman, indicating the way in.

Doggo straightened himself, took hold of his lapels, and strutted past. Jaffa tripped him and put a boot on his backside, shoving the kid into the dark.

Doggo whined as he hit the floor.

Jaffa went inside and the Boys followed.

Fred got out his lighter and flicked on a flame. The Emporium seemed bigger inside than it had on the outside, like Doctor Whos police box. There were posters up on free-standing boards, announcing shows and exhibitions that must have closed years ago, or attractions that were only open in the two weeks that passed for summer on the South Coast. Mysteries of the Empire, Chu Chin Chow, Annual Talent Contest.

Dont think anyones home, Oscar said.

Fred noticed Jaffa was interested in the pier, but couldnt understand why. There was nothing here to nick, no one to put the boot into, nothing much worth smashing, certainly no bints to shag. But Jaffa had been drawn here. The King Skin was on some private excursion in his own head.

Was there something going on?

Stepping into the Emporium, Fred felt a sense of being on edge, of something just out of sight watching. The atmosphere was heavy, between the smell of the sea and the mustiness of damp and forgotten exhibits. There was a greenish submarine glow, the last of cloudy daylight filtered through painted-over glass.