‘One-point-seven-five-million.’ The Governor deep-swigging from a two-litre bottle of Romanian firewater. ‘So how come Knees’s case been labelled not for the public interest?’
‘This carries on for hours,’ groans Holmes with wilting interest and peering into a carton of goat vindaloo.
‘Well pass me the remote.’
‘Can’t find it,’ The goat vindaloo Holmes stirs with a large wooden serving spoon. ‘Your mate Knees reckons he never set up the bank account, and never set about the Dean’s expenses.’
‘Rubbish!’ scoffs the Governor. ‘Knees is guiltier than O J Simpson.’
‘Knees reckons the university is run by the Dean’s bunch of crooks who’re milking your poor students, and then paying themselves a king's ransom.’
The Governor savours a deep fresh swig of swilling deliciousness. ‘Look, everybody knows your degree is worth a bachelor’s sausage. So that’s hardly news.’
‘See, Archie, your students’ union is holding up Knees as some folk hero, and they’re saying nobbling the Dean’s expense allowance is the best way to shock your new new new Labour mob into taking seriously Knees’s claims of a Great British University Rip-Off.’
‘You’re seriously not telling me Knees is innocent?’ angers the Governor and attacking the bottle. ‘Then how come the security van was found in Knees’s duck pond?’
‘See,’ says Holmes and dredging the carton, ‘Your new new new Labour mob can’t let on about the Great British University Rip-Off. Hiss bad for public morale.’
‘Fuck public morale.’
‘People should leave crime to the experts,’ shakes down Holmes pink rubbery chins and choppers. ‘Fitting up crooks is strictly our job —’
‘Strictly our job,’ concurs Pym.
‘— and we know Knees must be guilty ’cause we checked the files and Knees is not one of our fit-ups.’
The Governor with bottle of firewater, steaming inside a nuclear fogbank of cigar smoke, before the video of the foyer of the Fascist Benevolent Bank with honest Lower Springwood customers pilgrimaging to and fro the single cashier.
‘Was you a child of the Great British University Rip-Off, Archie?’
Deep-swigging deliberates the Governor. ‘See, I was never one of your filthy lazy scroungeabouts. I is more drawn to your honest hard work.’
‘One-point-seven-five-million.’ Pym set front-square to the video nasty of the bank.
The slow frame by frame Hell for a further half-hour captures arms and legs, a boy blowing bubblegum-pops to the camera, and cursory customers about their honest business, when like an electric shock from Heaven, across the white-tiled floor trundles a trolley stacked with towers of banknotes and pushed by a security guard in uniform with visor down and luxurious black curls cascading the confines of the headpiece.
‘My God! Hit’s Kneeeee-eeeee-zzzzzzz!’ sceams the Governor to within a pixel’s bogie of the television screen.
‘— globmmnm globmmn — Hiss a bit like Knees — globmmnm globmmn — ’
‘Oh thank God! He loves me! I’m right! You bastard!’
‘— globmmnm globmmn — Seems like Knees ... that's swot the judge said.’
‘Seems? My God! Seems?’
A prolonged scramble for the remote control, a further round of refreshers sent for, Pym thumping the buttons on the panel of the machine, the same blue-screen cursing of Professor Jason Knees, and over the limit, way into the witching hour, with goat curry coursing the veins, and the same drowning by bottle of brown firewater, finally the Governor slips comatose, cocooned and embedded in the armchair over-covered with a devil’s counterpane of crushed beer cans and goat curry cartons.
*****