Part Ten of The Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: Abduction.

Last time, we were in the Snug at the Shrimpleton Arms on Cumberside Island waiting for the meeting between the fabled Khalistan Warriors and the fans’ representatives of the island’s biggest football club – The Shrimpies’ Trust – to take place. In the audience could be found heart-throb tough-guy Soldier Jay and an Oriental-looking woman of simply extraordinary beauty who styled herself as Baroness Blighty of Brighton. Both of these people had distinct agendas of their own as far as what would happen next this evening…

Eventually, the back door of the pub opened and two figures entered. One was Shrimpleton Town’s Captain: Skip. He was wearing what appeared to be his best Births; Funerals & Weddings all-purpose suit and a tie. His thinning hair had obviously been washed and brushed severely flat over his bald patch, probably using Brylcreem. Or perhaps Vaseline. Maybe just a bit of lard – but he looked very smart, in a 1950s sort of way.

“All Right Barbara… Roy…. Edna!” he said as the locals nodded or smiled back at him. He winked at Zorba as the dog barked once at him and wagged its tail. Then he sat himself at a table facing the audience. With him was a huge man, about six foot six tall, Jay estimated; maybe twenty stones or possibly even more: probably about sixty years of age, quite upright for a man of his years and XXXXL size but with a noticeably enormous belly. Even at this distance, Jay could see his rows of yellowing teeth as he made a shy smile towards the audience and imagined he could already smell the man’s slightly curry-tinged breath. That wasn’t the most remarkable thing about him though. He had a massively bushy white beard – like Father Xmas on Acid – and masses of white hair all tied-up and stuffed under a dark red, almost crimson-coloured turban.

He smiled again, fleetingly, at the audience as Skip introduced him:

“This is Baban Singh Chopra – Doctor Baban Singh Chopra” said the Shrimpleton Town team Captain.

Jay’s ears pricked-up: was this the mysterious Chopper he had heard so many things about; the legendary Chairman of the football club? Lady Lynne went one step further by actually standing up suddenly – but then pausing as Skip continued:

“The brother of Ranjit Singh Chopra, CEO of our owners, Khalistan Warriors. Doctor Baban is the current Director of Communications for the group – and our beloved football club.”

The ageing Skipper of the team gave the locals a knowing look and added, almost as an afterthought:

“Although how long that will last is anyone’s guess…”

The audience chuckled and nudged each other. Stage Whispers: “Baban? More like Ba-boon!” and “Baban? Sure it’s not Barbar – the Elephant?” producing a lot of disrespectful and unapologetically racist hilarity among the assemble yokels.

One of them didn’t join in this joint hilarity, though. It was Little Phil. Phil was an Oft-Comer who owned a former fisherman’s cottage overlooking the sea down by the harbour. He had lived on the island – on and off – for maybe thirty years. But Phil didn’t look like the rest of the islanders: he was a dark-skinned man who could have passed as an Indian himself.

But when he responded to Skip’s request to the assembled multitude to be the first to interrogate their esteemed guest, nobody could doubt his origin. He had an unmistakably strong West Indian accent which he would have described himself as Indo-Caribbean. His ancestors came from Gujarat, a predominantly Muslim region in southern India – and a place he had never been to. His roots in Jamaica were established – as so many Indian ex-pat communities from Uganda to Trinidad & Tobago and South Africa to Guyana were – after the abolition of slavery. The British colonialists who owned all the sugar plantations there still required cheap labour and invented the term `indented’ to describe the tens of thousands of Indians they settled in places previously worked by slaves from Africa.

But nothing stays still for long and the `wind of change’ that Prime Minister Harold Macmillan spoke about in the 1950s would blow ambitious people like Little Phil right across the Atlantic in search of a better life in the Mother country. As one of the so-called `Windrush’ generation, Phil was determined to fulfil a potential in the UK which was denied to him back home in the Caribbean. He got a job as a bus driver in Birmingham. Joined the Union. Used his ties there to get a place at Night School. Worked and studied hard. Qualified for University. Graduated with an engineering degree. Became one of the technical staff in the city-owned Bus Company. And then was offered a job as a lecturer in Engineering at Lanchester Polytechnic. But he remained active in the Union and found his interests increasingly wandering towards politics. So when he was offered a PhD scholarship to study Race Relations at Warwick University in 1969, he jumped at the chance. Shortly, Doctor Phil was a senior lecturer at the Uni and a regular guest on late-night chat shows discussing the rights and wrongs of such things as the National Front and populist politicians such as Enoch Powell. Phil’s was always the voice of moderation. His magnum opus: “Aren’t We All Racists?” was a best-seller at the time – perhaps you remember it. He’d be seen regularly at Coventry City’s Highfield Road, standing with the skinheads on the terraces. Against everything you might expect, they adored him – saw him as One of Their Own. But that was Little Phil to a tee: no preconceptions; no prejudices: We are all the same under the skin… That’s probably why he had been accepted so readily on Cumberside Island too.

So he kicked-off the evening’s entertainment:

“Good Evening Dr Chopra and Welcome to Cumberside Island.” He then folded his hands together over his chest and bowed slightly towards the elderly Sikh, adding:

“Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa, Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh.”

Baban responded with a huge grin and a mumbled English response (“The Sikh Community belongs to god; Victory belongs to god!”) to this most traditional of Sikh greetings.

Phil then asked his question, quietly and with a smile:

“I’m sure you don’t need any lectures about racism from me, Dr Chopra! So my question is simply this: Just imagine, back home in the Punjab, that you owned a football club. It has a Sikh Manager, a Sikh Board and a Sikh Owner.”

Babar Singh Chopra smiled knowingly and nodded towards Little Phil.

“But then – out of a clear blue sky, just imagine if, say, some Dutch business men expressed an interest in taking over your club.”

“It wouldn’t happen – it couldn’t” said the old Sikh.

“Ah – but just imagine that it did! These Dutchmen intend to buy the club – hook, line and sinker – from its current owners. And completely transform it from top to bottom. Sack its current Manager – the very popular and highly respected Amandeep Singh – and replace him with one of their own; in this case, one called Adam de’Rek! Wouldn’t you think that could be interpreted as racist, Dr Chopra?”

“Indeed I would!” said the elderly Sikh, looking positively outraged. “As I say, it would not be allowed…”

Little Phil continued, almost as if Baban hadn’t said anything:

“So put yourselves in our shoes for one moment, please. What’s the difference – in terms of racism – between a bunch of Dutchmen taking over a football club in the Punjab and sacking key staff who are not Dutch – and what you and the rest of the Khalistan Warriors have done here?”

Baban Singh Chopra looked uncomfortable, acutely aware that the sniggering and gossiping behind their hands which had broken out earlier in the audience had erupted once more – but louder this time. As the elderly Sikh struggled to formulate a response, nobody seemed to notice the exotic female visitor to the Shrimpleton Arms moving towards the curtains in the Snug and opening them just a touch before rubbing the window with the palm of her hand, as if trying to peer out into the darkness through the misted-up glass.

That is to say, nobody noticed except Jay. And two men hidden in the darkness outside.

So we shall never know how Dr Chopra was going to answer Little Phil’s tricky question. Instead, I invite you to imagine everyone’s surprise when – just as Skip was beginning to explain to the assembled multitude that although he was the Director of Communications for the club, Dr Baban Singh Chopra’s English wasn’t as good as it might be – the door of the Snug burst open again and two men wearing dark overalls and balaclavas with slits for their eyes leapt in. One was carrying an automatic weapon, which he pointed at the audience. The other rushed towards the desk where Skip was sitting and grabbed the stranger wearing a turban by the arm and bodily pulled him out of his seat – no mean feat but the big intruder was clearly really strong – and propelled him towards the exit. Not a word was spoken until, suddenly, the door to the main Bar burst open and there was Seth, the Landlord’s son filling the frame as he brandished a twelve-bore shotgun which he pointed directly at the Man in Black holding the AK-47.

“Hold it right there!” yelled the Landlord’s son, bravely – or perhaps foolishly…

Seeing the beginning of a potential blood-bath of a sort even the producers of Eastenders haven’t yet thought of (give them time…), Jay reacted automatically. He turned towards the dark-clothed man with the AK-47 and shouted: “Man On, Four!”

For that was who it was (at the risk of stating the bleedin’ obvious): Four from the Shrimpleton Town football team.

Startled, Four immediately turned to look behind him in the manner of one of Pavlov’s dogs just as Jay knew he would and in that instant, a large ashtray which he had thrown at young Mr De Rowlocks bounced off Seth’s forehead, the shotgun fired into the ceiling as he fell over, senseless, onto his back; the lights went out and the audience screamed and dived to the floor. In the moment that the emergency lighting took to kick-in, the two intruders had disappeared with the elderly Sikh and there was no sign of Jay either. All that was left was hysteria in the Snug, broken laths and plaster all over the place; a gaping hole in the ceiling and a strong smell of cordite. Seth lay inert on the floor; Skip shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; Zorba barked loudly to show his own confusion and anxiety – and Baroness Blighty of Brighton picked her way delicately though the debris and headed out into the darkness.

The former Olympic athlete had lost little of her old speed and moved at a remarkable rate into the night and away to where she knew a rubber dingy was waiting to take her to a yacht moored not too far off-shore. She got there before Nine and Four did. They had struggled with their hostage – not because Baban Singh Chopra had resisted but because his sheer size, age and poor general shape had slowed them right down. They pushed him into the boat, where he lay, breathless and presumably cursing loudly in his own language before Lady Lynne got aboard, Four covered their guest with his weapon and Nine fired-up the outboard motor and pointed the boat out to sea.

It took them less than four minutes to tie-up alongside Lady Lynne’s yacht. Less time than it took them to manually heave a protesting Baban Singh Chopra out of the dingy and shove him into the main cabin of the luxury vessel and attempt to calm him down. This was difficult. His lack of basic English and total absence of Vietnamese didn’t help and the more Lady Lynne tried to do so – even using the sort of charms which had reduced men to jelly in the past – the more agitated he was getting.

“Put the gun away, you’re scaring him!” she said in her own language to Four, who replied:

“Isn’t that the point?”

“JUST DO IT!” she yelled at him. And even though Four obeyed and stepped back outside onto the deck, the sudden shouting seemed to upset poor old Baban even more. He started yelling himself in a language Lady Lynne couldn’t even begin to understand as little flecks of spit started to form in the corners of his mouth. She had noticed two small purple patches on his cheeks and a similar tinge about his rather large nose even as he sat in the pub. She knew these to be sure signs of heart trouble. But now, his hooter was a throbbing purple beacon; the spots on his cheeks enormous and his lips were turning blue right before her eyes. These were all really bad signs which she simply hadn’t bargained for. She comprehended all too clearly in that moment that kidnapping someone was actually a lot more problematic than she had anticipated it might be. This man was becoming not just hysterical, but clearly actually medically vulnerable. All the signs of imminent heart failure were already there. Another sudden shock could have untold effects on him. How could she stop this?

Maybe if she offered him a stiff drink, that might calm him down a bit. So she stood up and headed towards the rear of the cabin where the booze was stored in a cupboard.

But, just as she was reaching towards the handle to open it, a door from a lower deck flew open and a handsome man she vaguely recognised stood there, water dripping from his hair, face and clothes and a gun in his hand which he pointed straight at the struggling hostage.

Baban Singh Chopra took one look at him, made a strange almost whinnying sound, put his hand to his heart and slid to the floor, where the laboured breathing he had been exhibiting until that very point stopped altogether.

“Oh no!” said the dripping wet stranger with the gun – just as Nine (who had been tying the dingy up behind the boat in preparation to get underway) – entered the cabin from the side accompanied by Four.

“Five!” they both yelled, instant recognition of Jay and obvious pleasure overcoming their awareness of his gun.

The wet stranger totally ignored them. Instead, he dropped the weapon to his side as he knelt to find the stricken Baban’s pulse – and couldn’t find one.

Lady Lynne didn’t say anything, initially at least. Instead, she suddenly struck Jay a sickening blow right across the face with such extraordinary force that it knocked him backwards and he didn’t really know where he was momentarily:

“You absolute moron! You’ve killed him!” she yelled.  “Now what are we going to do?”

Jay tried to revive Chopra. Mouth to mouth. (Curry; halitosis – Uggh!!!) But poor old Baban didn’t respond. Seemingly, he wouldn’t need to wait for the latest scandal involving Punjabi nationalism to do for him – he was already in a far better place.

“Only one thing for it: weigh him down and drop him over the side” said the apparently totally cold-blooded and ruthless Vietnamese Peeress.

“Bit heartless, isn’t it?” Jay objected, as he felt a small, warm trickle of blood start to track downwards into his bearded chin from a split in his lower lip.

“You got any better ideas, smartarse?” she snapped back at him. “He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s beyond caring now! And who caused him to have the heart attack in the first place? Well?”

Jay looked at the floor but didn’t answer.

“So do something useful and help sort-out this mess! In the meantime, I can cover-up his disappearance with a couple of strategic phone calls.”

(She stopped at this point and looked over at the Soap Opera’s Director of this scene.

“Talk about spelling it out for the viewers!” she said in an accent noticeably unlike the posh one she had been using so far to the woman wearing headphones and holding the script. “`I can cover-up his disappearance with a couple of strategic phone calls’: That’s a pretty crummy line isn’t it?”

“No worse than any of the others” the Director replied. Fair point. So the drama continued…)

The latest Lady Shrimpleton retreated to her cabin and got out her mobile device.

Left with the body at his feet, Jay took the Sikh’s wallet and his mobile phone. It occurred to him that maybe the key to what he realised all four of the people left on the yacht had in common – to track down the Khalistan Warriors – could be discovered in them…

Then he got Nine and Four to help him to drag the enormous, inert bulk to the back of the boat and the rearmost cabin before they heaved it onto its side on the floor in the recovery position. Not that any of the three imagined for even one second that the motionless Sikh – whose limbs were already beginning to stiffen – was ever going to come round again.  Jay found a white sheet and laid it gently over the Sikh’s huge bulk. He felt a sudden pang of guilt as he considered the lonely death of a man from the other side of the world so far away from people who presumably loved and would therefore miss him. He stood to attention and bowed his head, flanked by little Four and much taller Nine, who both followed suit, having removed their balaclavas before doing so.

Oh dear – this kidnapping lark wasn’t as easy as it seemed, was it? Jay and Lady Lynne are now in a worse position than either of them could have possibly imagined before attempting an abduction in front of countless witnesses at the Shrimpleton Arms earlier in the evening.

How were they going to get out this mess? And how would the Khalistan Warriors react to the loss of one of their own?

Don’t miss the next action-packed episode to find the answers to these questions – and lots more!