21

Where's The Biff?

At last they reached the alley, that evil back passage in which Biff's shoe shop lurked like some malignant tumour. Dredly shuddered as he looked down the high-walled canyon. It was dark and dismal even during the day. The walls were drab and the brickwork was blackened with pollution. The three friends stopped for a moment and looked at each other. Now came another test of their mettle. Once more loins had to be girded up, courage had to be plucked up and frayed nerves had to be wound up with gaffer tape. They stood shoulder to shoulder, puffed out their chests and set off down the alley. Their bravery was not matched by their sense of space, however, and one step later they were wedged fast, stuck between the walls of an alley which could easily have accommodated people walking two and three quarters abreast, but not three abreast. A short burst of colourful language and a great flailing of limbs ensued before they were able to untangle themselves and set off once more.

This time Sage and Dredly took the front and Greta guarded the rear.
"Watch for pigeons." Dredly warned.
"Pigeons? You never said anything about them having pigeons!" Sage was suddenly afraid, for he had as little reason to love pigeons as his comrade.
"I haven't seen them, but they've been here." Dredly indicated the carpet of sticky guano.
"So they've got a numbering system and lookout pigeons..." Sage was impressed by the fiendish cunning of their enemy. The organisation had a beauty about it... But it was the beauty of the black widow's web. Still, whatever the danger, he would tear up that web and crush the vile spider at its centre until the ichor oozed out of its ears...
"Sage!" Dredly was clicking his fingers as Sage snapped back to reality. "Stop daydreaming and take the door!"
"Sorry, I got caught up in the middle of an overextended metaphor."
"Ooh and you didn't even put your hand up!" Greta chided.
"I thought that was only for when we were saying them out loud." Sage replied.
"I don't think so."
"What do you think, Dredly - should we have to put our hands up if we're only thinking metaphorically?"
"I think we should get some focus here and beat the crap out of some bad guys!" Dredly urged.
Greta and Sage reluctantly dropped their argument and took up their positions by the door. Above them, the neon sign flashed the word 'Biff's'. The night before it had lured Dredly into the shoals of hair-raising depilation, now its reflection glinted in the window. On the inside of the glass a heavy black velvet curtain had been draped. They could see nothing beyond it. Perhaps the steel shutter was down and there was no way in? In a moment they would find out. Greta gave the door a sharp kick and it burst open.

A heartbeat later Dredly had dived through it, effected a commando style forward role across the floor and taken up a Ninja crouch, his hands held like cutting blades, ready to deal death to any foe. The move would have been deeply impressive had it not been for two things:
1. Dredly didn't know the first thing about martial arts and would probably have broken bones in his hands if he had attacked anyone.
2. There were no 'foes' in 'Biff's'. Instead of the nightmare shoe shop, Dredly found himself in the body of a dingy but ultra trendy cafe.

Even though he had leapt in noisily, not one of the waiters or clientele had turned to look at him - they were all that cool. Dredly straightened up out of his crouch and went back outside.
"Come on in. They've outwitted us again."
Sage and Greta followed. The place was indeed a cafe - dark, smoky and terribly Bohemian. It was packed to the gunnels with Lou Reed wannabes, all drinking espresso like crazy and scribbling meaningless song lyrics onto the backs of their hands or their napkins. Despite the gloom within, virtually all of them were wearing shades. The place was trendy - there was no doubt about it - but it oozed with faded hopes and unattainable dreams. It was the kind of place where people planned but never achieved. It was an academy of failure. As Dredly looked around he could see that it contained three kinds of people - those with no talent, who hoped that by dressing the part and hanging out in the right place they would somehow absorb talent by osmosis and become an artiste; those with bags of talent but no discipline to turn it into anything concrete; and those who had had their shot at fame, screwed it up and were ending their creative days getting their egos massaged by the people with no talent.

Greta, Sage and Dredly slipped into a booth. It was at the same point on the wall where the previous night Dredly had been tortured by a gnome with attitude.
"The chair was right here and this wall was false!" Dredly slapped the wall as he spoke - it had the soulless solidity of concrete. They pondered the fact while they ordered coffee. How could their foes have made such extensive structural changes in such a short time? Where had they found such efficient builders?
"I wonder whether we can get their number?" Sage mused.
"If they're out to kill us, I hardly think they're going to give us the number of their builders."
"Shame, though, 'cos we've got a lot of brickwork back home that needs re-pointing."

They fell back to silence as the attractive 'Goth' waitress brought their coffee. Sage liked the look of her - the winged helmet and battle-axe were nice touches.
"I don't think we should go to Billings." Dredly announced suddenly.
"But what about your shoes? If the Whisperer is there, we have no choice - we've got to follow, like a Belgian following a waffle salesman." Greta had a point.
"And anyway, I thought we were hitting back at the enemy." Sage added.
"Yes, but that was before all this..." Dredly indicated the amazing building conversion. It was sobering to see the true nature of the beast they were up against.
"Besides, we never really had a plan - we just whooped a lot and then charged down here... " Dredly sighed heavily, "...We've all been through a lot in the last few days... I think we should go on holiday... Live it up a bit away from gnomes and moustaches and mysterious cobblers. I think it's the best thing to do - call it a gut feeling."
"Heartburn or trapped wind?"
"Trapped wind."
"Then we've got to go on holiday!" Sage had learned to trust the instincts of Dredly's gut while Dredly, for his turn, had learned to avoid the emissions from Sage's.
"Let's go to Bermuda!" Sage cried. "It'll be beautiful at this time of year."
"Baffin Island's nice around now... Lots of fish..." Greta looked at the men, who were scowling at her typically ursine suggestion.
"Okay, Bermuda it is!" She said quickly, "But I need to get something to wear."

With that the die was cast. Bermuda it was! After an overpriced coffee and a Danish, they left Biff's and went their separate ways. Sage went to get some new holiday boots, Greta went to get her clothes and Dredly went to the nearest hairdresser to get some of the gnomic damage sorted out. There were shrieks as he entered the salon and one poor fellow fainted, but once they were over the initial shock, every coiffeur in the place was called in to consider the problem. After some minutes of discussion it was decided that an all over blonde dye followed by a close French crop was the best solution. Dredly wasn’t too sure about the plan, but after the dreadful experience at the tiny, yet ruthless hands of the gnome, he was loathe to voice his concern. Roberto, the snake-hipped sultan of the scissors who was the head honcho noticed his concern.
“Listen to me, girlfriend,” He said in an outrageously camp voice, which made Dredly suspect that the man was secretly straight, “You’ve gotta cut it short and let it grow out slowly. This hair has been savaged and it needs healin’ time. Am I right girls?”
At this the rest of the hairdressers erupted into a somewhat frightening cacophony of enthusiastic cheering and whooping.
Roberto slipped uncomfortably close to Dredly and whispered into his ear “See? You know I’m right.”
“But I generally favour longer hair.”
“Honey, if you want hair, you gonna have to buy it off a shelf. Try this place – I use it when I want to get out of myself.” Roberto reached into the pocket of his impossibly tight hipster jeans, pulled out a card with the flourish one might expect from a magician who’s just achieved the unlikely and handed it to Dredly.
“Syrups and Figs?” Dredly queried.
“It’s a toupee shop a couple-a blocks away. Run by one of your fellow countrymen. Just ask for Dazza – he’ll set you straight. Now, silence! A genius is about to work…”
Roberto brandished his scissors and Dredly gritted his teeth. What was that saying about getting back on the horse?

Two hours later, Dredly (with a haircut that thankfully no longer raised ire in passers-by) found himself outside the colourful frontage of ‘Syrups and Figs’. The window display contained wigs of various styles that had been arranged on top of what looked like large jars of crystallized figs. Unperturbed, but definitely puzzled, Dredly opened the door and stepped into a wonderland of hair-pieces and preserved fruits. As he closed the door a little bell tinkled, alerting a man whom Dredly assumed must be Dazza, who bounded out of the back room into the shop.
“All righ’, mate?” He cried in a clattering Cockney accent.
“I’ve had better days.” Dredly replied. He was still feeling fragile after the recent events and couldn’t disguise it.
“You’re English, int’cha?” Dazza grinned, revealing a gold top left eye-tooth.
Dredly nodded. Dazza, who was a tallish, thin man with a set of heavy gold chains around his neck, a selection of sparkling Sovereign rings on his fingers and a loose fitting Chelsea football shirt decided to take Dredly under his wing.
“Well don’t you worry, me old China! We’ll git ya’ sorted wiv' a syrup fit for the Queen! What ya’ lookin’ for?”
Dredly looked around the shop and was astounded at the dizzying array of wigs on display, and also by the sheer selection of figs – from fresh to pickled and every point in between. There was even a jar of figs and larks tongues in aspic. Dredly was about to praise the proprietor for his fig-tastic spread, when he realized he was feeling faintly disturbed. Was it the figs or… No, it was the wigs. Each was mounted on a very realistic mannequin head. In fact, the heads were a bit too realistic… Dredly didn’t like the look of it all – or the vague smell of formaldehyde in the shop.
“You’ve spotted it!” Dazza said with a twinkle, “Yeah, they’re real, taxidermied human heads – all legal, mind… I’m not the Sweeney Todd of New York. I get ‘em cheap dahn the city morgue. John and Jane Doe’s, they call ‘em. This one ‘ere…” Dazza indicated the head of a young woman, which might have been attractive had it not A) been a severed head and B) had its glass eyes inserted in such a way that they gave the face the surprised look of someone who has just had something unexpectedly jabbed into their bottom.
“She was a jumper off the Brooklyn Bridge. Rest of the body – strawberry jam – but the head, perfectly re-useable. Shame to waste it, so here Glenda is. Fig?” Dazza smiled cheerily and proffered a silver bowl of fresh figs.
“No thanks, I’m trying to cut down.” Dredly was not about to start ingesting anything from a shop that even Pol Pot would have found creepy.

All that notwithstanding, Dredly was intrigued by the place and looked around in wonder – after all, it's not every day that one stumbles into a shop in which stuffed human heads are being used to display toupees.
“So, what ya’ looking for? Sensible every day wig or something glam for a night on the tahn? Got a lovely Cher…” Dazza pointed across the room and Dredly did a double take – it was as if Cher’s identical twin had been beheaded and set on the shelf.
“But it’s so realistic…” Dredly began.
“Yeah, she was one of them lookie-likey people – ya’ know, they get paid to impersonate stars and such. You might say that she’s now a Dead Ringer for Cher… Geddit?”
Dredly looked nonplussed.
“You know – that song ‘Dead Ringer For Love’ by Cher and Meatloaf?”
“Oh yes, I get it now.” Dredly forced a smile.
“Cos she’s dead AND identical to Cher, so she’s literally a Dead Ringer – that gag works on so many levels!” Dazza laughed heartily, then suddenly became more serious. “She was accidentally electrocuted by her vocoder during a performance of ‘Believe’… Fortunately my taxidermist did a bang up job – you can’t see any of the scorch marks or nuffink. Fig roll?” Dazza offered a plate of biscuits.

“No, thanks all the same.” Dredly was seriously beginning to wonder what he’d walked into – it was time to get down to business and get out!
“I need something white blonde, cut across the ear – slightly foppish but not the full Hugh Grant.”
“Mmm, I see you know your hair,” Dazza was impressed, “I’m sure I’ve got just the thing…” And with that, he jangled out to the back room, leaving Dredly alone with the heads. And the figs. Dredly wasn’t sure which was worse. As he walked around the shop, he could feel the figs following him around the room. Thankfully Dazza wasn’t long and came trotting back out with a head in his hands.
“Right, try this on for size, me old mucka.”

Dredly took the wig from the head of the fat man…
“Amway salesman – more useful in death than he ever was in life.” Dazza chipped in as Dredly was about to try on the wig. “Figgy pudding?”
Dredly waved the bowl of pudding away and tried the wig on – it wasn’t bad. If anything, it suited him slightly more than his usual haircut.
“Nice…”
“Yeah, suits ya’. ‘Course, I’ve got loads more to choose from…” Dazza was about to make a move to the back room, but Dredly intervened.
“No, it’s all right, I’ll take this one.”
“You want that gift wrapped, or…?”
“No, I’ll wear it.” Dredly was already opening his wallet.
“Well, that’ll be a monkey.”
Living in London, Dredly knew that a monkey was Cockney slang for 500.
“Five hundred dollars?” All the same, it seemed a bit steep.
“That’s only two hundred and fifty nicker, an’ this is real human hair an’all.”
“Oh, I suppose when you put it like that, it seems quite reasonable.” Dredly handed over his credit card.
“’Course, when I say it’s a monkey to most Yanks, they think I want them to pay me in actual monkeys. Idiots.”
“Yeah – fancy them not knowing Cockney rhyming slang… Fools!” Dredly laughed along with Dazza, “But I’ve got to ask why you thought that a shop based on the Cockney rhyming slang for wig…”
“Syrup of figs…” Dazza added helpfully.
“Yes, why that would be a winner in New York – and why you thought the combination of wigs and figs would work?”

Dazza punched the shop code into the card machine and handed it to Dredly for confirmation.
“It all started back in London. See, I was born within the sound of Bow Bells and that’s what makes me a Cockney. So I’ve got the whole slang lingo goin’, an’ I was brought up in me dad's wig shop on Streatham High Road and as a kid I was addicted to figs and then one day it struck me – syrups and figs. ‘Course, I couldn’t set up a shop like that in London – get laughed aht of tahn would’n’I? New York seemed like the only place in the world I could make it work, so ‘ere I am.”
The card machine finished its transaction and Dredly took his card.
“Pickled fig?” Dazza gave him a winning, cheeky cockney smile.
Dredly looked at the offered jar of figs floating in brine and suddenly realized that he hadn't eaten for hours.
“You know, I think I will.” He said, dipping his hand into the jar. As he did so, Dazza’s eyes seemed to sparkle – perhaps he scented a fig-based sale in the offing?
“So did you move to Streatham when you were a child?” Dredly asked as he brought the fig to his lips.
“Nah, I was born there.” Dazza grinned, though his eyes were on the fig.
A cold shiver ran through Dredly’s already terror-raddled body and he froze with the fig millimetres from his lips.
“What?” Dazza sensed the change.
Dredly dropped the fig, which fell to the floor with a limp splut.
“You’re not a Cockney at all are you.” It was a statement of fact and Dredly started backing slowly towards the door of the shop.
“What makes you say that, mate?” Dazza’s tone was anything but matey and now he was moving around the side of the counter like a panther stalking its prey.
“Streatham isn’t within the sound of Bow Bells. Nowhere near them. Streatham’s south of the river and is a good couple of miles south of The Borough, which is about as far south as you can hear them… And a real Cockney would know that.”
“Go on…” Dazza’s voice seemed deadened by the atmosphere in the shop that had become heavy with danger.
“And that Chelsea shirt – they’re a bunch of West End pretty boys. You should be supporting The Hammers or Millwall… So if you’re not a real cockney, then this shop’s a front for something evil… Those figs… You’re so keen for me to eat one – why?” Terrible thoughts were flashing through Dredly’s brain. “Because they’re poisoned, which means all these heads aren’t John Doe heads at all, they’re customers. You poison them, take their money, use their hair for wigs, taxidermy their heads for mannequins and split the profit with… Roberto!” Dredly made a mental note never to see another hairdresser or wig maker again.

“Very clever – think you’re a real intellectual, eh?” Dazza’s smile had vanished and the twinkle in his eyes had become a cruel glint – worse still, his accent had revealed his true origins…
“Toronto!” Dredly gasped. So, the fiend was Canadian – now it all made sense. Dredly backed into a shelf and the head of a woman fell to the floor and rolled across to rest at Dazza’s feet. He picked it up and regarded her.
“She tried my speciality figs en croute – loved ‘em, right up to the point abooot a minute later when she died an agonizing, writhing death. And now my friend it’s abooot time I ended it for you, eh?” Dazza pulled a switchblade from his pocket.

Never before in his life had Dredly wished so much that he’d stayed at home and just put up with uncomfortable shoes. New York was a bloody nightmare! He glanced around and saw one chance for salvation. Even as Dazza pounced, Dredly plucked the Cher head from its shelf and swung it hard at the oncoming crazy Canuck. There was a horrible crunch as Cher’s forehead clashed with Dazza’s nose and the explosion of blood told Dredly that Cher had come out the winner. Dazza staggered and Dredly pressed home his advantage, taking a mighty side swipe which caught Dazza in the temple and sent him reeling to the ground. Dredly stood over the prone body – the insane purveyor of toupees was out cold. Dredly looked at the Cher head. It was a little worn, as if it had just had to sing three encores of the ‘Shoop Shoop’ song, but otherwise all right. He placed the head on the counter, called 911 on the shop phone and told them the situation, then ran like hell for the hotel.

What nightmare of fiendishness will beset our friends next? Toxic dates? A slightly mushy Kiwi fruit? And will they really head off on holiday in the middle of the story?

Find out in the next feather-brained chapter...