Senin, 07 Mei 2012

Oww! Careful with that cosh Mr Mayor...

Oww! Careful with that cosh Mr Mayor...

By Craig Brown

PUBLISHED: 17:23 EST, 7 May 2012 | UPDATED: 17:23 EST, 7 May 2012

Final episode: Damian Lewis in Homeland

Final episode: Damian Lewis in Homeland

Ever since the final episode of Homeland was broadcast on Sunday, there has been a slightly eerie atmosphere in our village.

My first intimation that something wasn’t quite right came as I was peering through the curtains of an upstairs window at the village postman delivering letters. Nothing odd about that, you might say, but it was ten minutes to midnight. And when he delivers the post he doesn’t usually dart from door to door, looking left and right, dodging behind parked cars along the way.

Normally, he whistles tunes from musicals like Oklahoma! and Mary Poppins. But on Sunday night he was whistling something rather more unusual â€" a mixture of high notes followed by low notes, all in rapid succession.

But it was not until yesterday morning that it dawned on me that it wasn’t the first time I had heard that tune. My friendly local GP â€" the one with the beard, the trace of foreign accent, the haunted look, and the wife who went missing â€" was treating me for a slight sniffle by placing me under a general anaesthetic.

Suddenly I remembered where I had heard that tune before. It was in the village tailor’s, three days ago, coming unexpectedly through the speakers just before poor old Colonel Jenkinson collapsed and died, apparently of natural causes, while being measured for a traditional Harris tweed suicide vest. But I thought nothing of it at the time.

As I made my way along the High Street to the doctor’s, nothing struck me as particularly odd. On the other hand, and with the benefit of hindsight, it probably was a bit out-of-the-ordinary to see nice Miss Chancellor, the deputy treasurer for the local branch of the Women’s Institute, sweating quite so profusely as she was bundled into the boot of a passing car.

I thought nothing of it at the time. After all, when I asked her if anything was wrong, she waved both arms reassuringly, while one of her hooded guards sweetly said ‘Trust me’ before driving her away.

It was not until I was halfway up the High Street that I  had noticed a man with a black balaclava perched on the rooftop of the chemist. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember seeing him there before. ‘Good morning!’ I bellowed, adding, jovially: ‘Call me silly, but that looks  like a sniper’s rifle you have there!’

At that point, a shot rang out. A passing motorcyclist swerved and fell to the ground, pointing frantically at the mayor before breathing his last. I thought nothing of it at the time.

‘What rotten luck, to have coincided with a bullet crossing his path,’ I merely observed to our jolly village bobby, PC Longchurch.

‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ he replied. ‘There’s a conspiracy out there, and I intend to . . .’

The poor man has never been good at finishing sentences, and today was no exception. Instead, he simply slumped to the ground, sprawled any-old-how across the pavement, so that shoppers were obliged to step round him.

It occured to me that I should report all these goings-on to someone in authority. The mayor was the obvious person. He has always struck me as a very approachable sort of fellow. It’s something to do with the way he grips you firmly by the hand, looks you straight in the eye an d whispers urgently into his concealed lapel microphone.

‘I don’t know if you watched that final episode of Homeland on telly last night,’ I said to him, while surveillance helicopters circulated overhead. ‘But there’s something about what’s been happening in this village that’s been making me feel distinctly . . . uneasy.’

The mayor listened carefully to what I had to say. He then placed a soothing hand on my shoulder, forced me into a disused warehouse, coshed me discreetly over the head and fastened me by my feet to the ceiling. It was while he was fixing electrodes to my skull that the thought struck me: was he all he seemed to be?

'It was then he started poking me with the cattle-prod, but I thought nothing of it at the time'

'It was then he started poking me with the cattle-prod, but I thought nothing of it at the time'

‘I hope you don’t mind if I scream?’ I said.

‘Not at all. Scream away, old boy. We’re fully soundproofed,’ he replied, reassuringly. I had never noticed the hint of Arabic in his accent before.

One doesn’t want to bother the neighbours,’ I said. ‘Not with all they’ve been through â€" buying their house with all that cash, only to discover it overlooked the top secret military base. Rotten luck.’ 

‘The neighbours?’ replied the mayor. ‘No need to worry about them.They’re clean-shaven, they’re devoted parents and they’ve been given the highest level security clearance. Or so the late postman told me.’

It was then that he started poking me with his electric cattle-prod. But I thought nothing of it at the time.

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