I took a big swig. ‘He can’t be dead,’ I said once more. ‘This isn’t how it happens.’
‘You what?’ Norman watched me carefully.
‘I saw the future. I’ve told you about it. Back in ‘sixty—seven, when I smoked those Brentstock cigarettes. I’m sure this isn’t how he dies.’
Norman watched me some more. ‘Perhaps you got it wrong. I don’t think the future’s fixed. And if he blew himself up, right in front of all those heads of state-’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Oh Jesus!’ I clutched at my throat. ‘I’m on fire here. Jesus!’
Norman took the bottle from me. ‘Serves you right for taking such a big greedy swig,’ he said with a grin. ‘I may not be able to predict the future (yet), but I could see that one coming.’
‘It has to be a hoax,’ I said, when I had regained my composure. ‘That’s what it is. He’s faked his own death. Like Howard Hughes.’
‘Don’t be so obscene.
‘Obscene?’
‘Howard Hughes. That’s fourth generation Brentford rhyming slang. That means—’
‘I don’t care what it means. But I’ll bet you that’s what he’s done.’
Norman took a small swig from the bottle. ‘And why?’ he asked. ‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘I don’t know. To go into hiding, I suppose.’
‘Oh yeah, right. The man who adores being in the public eye. The man who gets off mixing with the rich and famous. The man who was to host the greatest social occasion of the twentieth century. The man—’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘You’ve made your point. But I still can’t believe it.’
‘He’s Leonardo,’ Norman said.
And Leonardo he was.
I was really keen to view the body. Not out of morbid curiosity — I just had to know. Could he truly be dead? It didn’t seem possible. Not the Doveston. Not dead. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that it couldn’t be true. He had to have faked it. And if he had, what better way would there be than blowing himself up in public view? Leaving no recognizable pieces?
Norman said that he could think of at least six better ways. But I ignored Norman.
We both attended the funeral. We received invitations. We could pay our last respects to his body as it lay in state at Castle Doveston and even help carry the coffin to its resting place on a small island in the one remaining lake on the estate. He had apparently left instructions in his will that this was where he was to be interred.
A long black shiny armoured limo came to pick us up. Rapscallion was driving. ‘Masser Doveston’s gone to de Lord,’ was all he had to say.
As we approached the grounds of Castle Doveston, what I saw amazed me. There were thousands of people there. Thousands and thousands. Many held candles and most were weeping. The perimeter fence was covered with bunches of flowers. With photographs of the Doveston. With really awful poems, scrawled on bits of paper. With football scarves (he owned several clubs). With Gaia logos made from sticky-backed plastic and Fairy Liquid bottles with their names blacked out. (There’d been a tribute on Blue Peter.)
And the news teams were there. News teams from all over the world. With cameras mounted on top of their vans. All trained upon the house.
They swung in our direction as we approached. The crowd parted and the gates opened wide. Rapscallion steered the limo up the long and winding drive.
Inside, the house was just as I remembered it. No further decorating had been done. The open coffin rested upon the dining table in the great hall and as I stood there memories came flooding back of all the amazing times that I’d had here. Of the drunkenness and drug-taking and debauchery. Of things so gross that I should, perhaps, have included them in this book, to spice up some of the duller chapters.
‘Shall we have a look at him?’ said Norman. I took a very deep breath.
‘Best to do that now,’ said Norman. ‘He probably pongs a bit.’ He didn’t pong.
Except for the expensive aftershave — his own brand, Snuff for Men. He lay there in his open coffin, all dressed up but nowhere nice to go. His face wore that peaceful, resigned expression so often favoured by the dead. One hand rested on his chest. Between the fingers somebody had placed a small cigar.
I could feel the emotions welling up inside me, like huge waves breaking on a stony beach. Like the wind, rushing into the mouth of a cave. Like thunder, crashing over an open plain. Like an orange turnip dancing on a cow’s nest in a handbag factory.
‘He doesn’t look bad for a dead bloke,’ said Norman.
‘Eh? No, he doesn’t. Especially for a man who was blown into little pieces.’
‘It’s mostly padding, you know. They only managed to salvage his head and his right hand. Here look, I’ll open his collar. You can see where his severed neck is stitched on to the-’
‘Don’t you dare.’ I pulled Norman’s hand away. ‘But he is dead, isn’t he? I thought that it might be a dummy or something.’
‘They fingerprinted the hand,’ said Norman. ‘And even if he was prepared to lose a hand in order to fake his own death, I think that losing his head might be going over the top a bit.’
I sighed. ‘Then that’s it. The Doveston is dead. The end of an era. The end of a long, if troubled, friendship.’ I reached into my jacket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. This I slipped into the Doveston’s breast pocket.
‘Nice sentiment,’ said Norman. ‘Something for his spirit to smoke on the other side.’
I nodded solemnly.
‘Pity they’re not his own brand, though,’ said Norman with a grin. ‘That will really piss him off.’
The funeral was grim. They always are. At the service, numerous celebrities came forward to offer eulogies or recite really awful poems. Elton John had sent his apologies (he was having his hair done), but they had managed to employ the services of an ex-member of the Dave Clark Five, who sang their great hit ‘Bits and Pieces’.
The actual laying to rest was not without its moments. Especially when, as we were trying to get the coffin into the rowing boat, the vicar fell in the water.
‘You bloody pushed him,’ I whispered to Norman. ‘I saw you. Don’t deny it.’
And then it was all back to the big house for drinks and fags and snuff and cakes and a lot of polite conversation about what an all-round good egg the Doveston had been.
Oh yes, and the reading of the will.
‘I’m off home,’ I whispered to Norman. ‘There won’t be anything in it for me.’
‘You might be surprised. I witnessed his will, after all.’
‘If it turns out to be a signed photograph, I will punch your lights out.’
I’d seen the Doveston’s solicitor before. We weren’t on speaking terms, but I had some amazing footage of him on video tape. So I knew what he was wearing under his jolly smart suit.
There were at least fifty of us there, seated in the great hall, facing the table that had so recently supported the coffin. Most of those present were strangers to me, but I imagined that they must be the Doveston’s relatives. It’s only weddings and funerals that bring these buggers out.
‘So,’ said the solicitor, seating himself behind the great table, secretly adjusting his corset as he did so. ‘This is a very sad time for us all. Indeed for the entire nation. England has lost one of her most notable and best-loved sons. I do not think that his like will ever be seen here again.’
‘He nicked that line,’ said Norman.
‘Yes, but not from you.
‘There are a number of bequests to charities and trusts,’ the solicitor continued. ‘But these need not concern us here. You’ll no doubt read all about them in the newspapers, as soon as the details have been officially leaked. What concerns us here is the major part of the estate, the house and grounds, the business interests, the capital.’
‘Now, first things first. The Great Millennial Ball. The Doveston has left specific instructions that the ball must go ahead. It will be held in his honour and hosted by his inheritor. I say inheritor, rather than —tors, because there is only one. This one person must host the Great Millennial Ball in the exact manner the Doveston planned it, or forfeit the inheritance. Is this understood?’