Part Twenty-Nine of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: Whatever Happened to Baby Jane Baban Singh Chopra?

Where were we? Oh – it’s a Sunday in January on Cumberside Island. The day of the Shrimpleton Town Summer Gala. At their The Black Pool football ground. James Proudfoot A.C.E. had just had a close call from Lady Lynne Shrimpleton about the whereabouts of Ranjit Singh Chopra – C.E.O. of the Khalistan Warriors. To say nothing of `Chopper’s’ lovely great-niece, the beautiful and very alluring Bollywood-bound starlet Simran, who has millions of admirers all over the planet.

Jim – characteristically – had lied to the Peeress of the Realm. He had no idea where Chopper was and the only trace he had of the gorgeous Simran was a video of her talking endless drivel about the football club he had become Chief Operating Officer of: Cumberside Island’s famous member of the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League (Second Division), mighty Shrimpleton Town.

Jim was ensconced in an ancient and rusty Shipping Container which served as the General Office at the club’s ground, The Black Pool. Apart from shamelessly lying about the whereabouts of various members of the Chopra family, the club’s C.O.O. had plenty of other worries on his plate to deal with. And as we rejoin him sitting on a rickety chair behind a broken desk in this `office’; one of these problems was requiring very swift – and immediate – attention…

His hopes that the storm which had engulfed the football stadium on the day of its supposed Summer Gala would keep all potential visitors away had come to nothing. Outside though, thunder continued to crash across the leaden skies above the ground; sheet lightning lit-up the Lakeland Hills in the distance and angry forked bolts of electricity smashed into the earth right across the rocky, desolate island.

Standing opposite him in his leaky container were five men. Five angry men. Five wet, angry men. Five big, wet, angry men. The fact that they were soaked was of no consequence to four of them. Rugged island farmers were used to bad weather and electrical storms: things like the one that was sweeping across Cumberside were the least of their problems. But what they were not used to was being swindled. And Jim was responsible for selling them Executive tickets for a world-class Summer Gala which should be happening at that very moment – but wasn’t. We must remember, too, that the club’s C.O.O. had charged fifty quid each to all the people he had targeted for such a rare privilege.

“We want our money back!” the largest of the big men said to Jim as he cowered before them behind his broken desk. “Or my friends here will all give you a little I.O.U. each – with these!”

In unison – synchronised punching, perhaps? – the pair of farmers on either side of the man who was speaking threatened James Proudfoot with huge clenched fists.

“Gentlemen – gentlemen! There’s no need to resort of threats of violence! We are all civilised human beings, are we not? Let’s get back to first principles. In my considerable experience…”

“Oh really? Well – in my considerable experience, townies and deadbeats like you don’t have any principles, be they first or last!” Jim suddenly realised that the giant who was speaking was somewhat more smartly – and expensively – dressed than his companions.

Jim was frankly flabbergasted. Was he losing his grip? Nobody had ever spoken to him like that before! And this big peasant seemed to be pretty articulated as well! (You know – good with words…) He was clearly a toff into the bargain. And he hadn’t finished yet:

“My father, the Earl of Cumberlake, has been hoodwinked by you into parting with fifty of His Majesty’s best gold substitutes for an event that – according to this poster – doesn’t even exist!”

He produced one of the laminated full-colour signs Jim had posted around the ground earlier announcing the postponement of the Shrimpleton Town FC Summer Gala. Looking at it as he did so, the posh gent continued:

“It says here: `No refunds will be issued’. Well, I have news for you, my unshaven, unkempt friend: as of now, full refunds will be issued, starting with five to my companions and myself!”

Jim started to argue.

“You misinterpretate my meaning! Allow me to bring your attention to the key word in that Official Annoncement.” Jim pointed vaguely at the laminate and continued “The bit that says – and I quote: `The Summer Gala planned for Sunday has thus been postponed!”

“There, you posh git!” he thought triumphantly. “Let’s see you get out of that!”

“It says no such thing!” said the posh git, turning the laminated sign towards Threefeet Of the Yard to inspect it for himself. Jim was unconcerned – this might be a stuck-up bloke with a toff’s lah-di-dah private education but surely even he could read basic English, couldn’t he? He took the sign and started to point towards the correction he had made; when he had crossed-out the word `cancelled’ and replaced it with `postponed’.

His face fell.

What devilment was this? The word `postponed’ had completely disappeared to reveal the unaltered word `cancelled’ in all its glory.

How could this be?

As his heart sank, Jim realised – far too late – that the corrections he had made by hand with an ordinary felt-tip had been made after the sheet had been laminated. The torrential rain had simply washed them all away.

But Jim Proudfoot was never lost for words for long. No, he told himself, Hell will freeze over before that happens. Anyone would think that he’d lost his touch, wouldn’t they? This was just an understandable error which anyone could make. All he needed to do was just talk a bit more and persuade these men that the printers had misunderstood his precise instructions. The Summer Gala had been postponed not cancelled. Therefore the Executive tickets were still valid and no refunds would be made.

Ten unblinking, disbelieving eyes stared back at him. Well – if Plan A doesn’t work, there’s always Plan B, isn’t there?

“I tell you what, then” said Jim. “As a sign of my good faith, I am prepared to give you all a sneak preview of what would have been the main event here today.”

The five men eyed him suspiciously. Undeterred, Jim slipped his phone out of his pocket and found the message Chopper had sent him earlier. He clicked on the link to the video attached to it and turned the screen towards his visitors.

Exotic music featuring sitars and tablas began to play as a scene worthy of a Sultan’s harem unfolded on the small screen. Scantily-clad dusky handmaids – some wafting fans made of ostrich feathers – were seated or lying on steps covered in red satin which led slowly up towards the base of an ornate diamond-encrusted throne. The camera panned out to reveal a woman dressed in exquisite silks sitting on it with her head turned slightly sideways to the lens. As it moved closer, the woman turned slowly to reveal a head topped by a brilliant topaz tiara. Ornamental gold snakes cascaded from this into thick braids of auburn hair and highlighted the red spot in the centre of a perfectly formed forehead which came into view. Then the camera panned out to reveal the beautiful Simran herself in all her considerable and seductive superstar charm. Cleopatra – eat your heart out! She was cradling a velvet cushion on which appeared to be a book.

“Welcome!” she said in a voice absolutely laden with sensuality, “Welcome to the latest episode of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga!” So saying, she turned the cover of the `book’ towards the camera. To reveal the front cover of a standard Shrimpleton Town football programme, the printing typo SHRIM PIEstill alive and well on its cover.

Jim looked towards his male audience, confident that just a promise of a copy of this work of art would forestall any further arguments with these previously unhappy customers. And was again surprised by the response he received:

“Do people actually pay to watch this sort of nonsense?” said the posh bloke, who was indeed the only son and heir of the sole aristocratic family to still be found on the island: the Earl of Cumberlake’s. “I’ve seen better-looking tarts in Waitrose behind the till!”

“Waitrose?” repeated Jim before he could stop himself. “Your fancy-pants ways don’t cut any ice with me, mate! I can assure you that lots of respectable people pay plenty of money to view this exclusive content!”

“That’s good then! So I should be able to sell it then, shouldn’t I?” said the posh guy – and snatched Jim’s phone right out of his hand.

“Give me that back!” said Jim, with commendable pluck, given the odds stacked against him.

“Very well – you can have it back as soon as you refund us the money you owe us which – by my reckoning – is two hundred and fifty English pounds!”

Jim was about to protest further but the expressions in his visitors’ eye made him think better of it. He put his hand in his pocket and started to count-out two hundred and fifty smackers from the three hundred and fifty he had in there. Only to have all of it snatched out of his hand again by the same big posh bloke who had just robbed him of his phone.

“Hey!” protested Jim. “You can’t do that!”

But the Earl of Cumberlake’s son could. And he did. He retreated with his four companions towards the door and then paused by it before turning back towards Jim and saying:

“Sorry old fellow! I promised to give you your phone back, didn’t I?”

He paused and put his hand in his pocket as if he was searching for it. But then added, with a cruel and mocking leer at Jim:

 “Unfortunately – I was lying!”

“That’s not fair!” protested Jim – as well he might.

“Fair – fair?” the posh bloke repeated. “Do you imagine that my family made its fortune by being fair? Thank your lucky stars I don’t put you in hospital into the bargain, you appalling little nonentity! Luckily for you, I – and I alone – choose whose body fluids will soil my exquisite clothing! Scum of your sort needs to learn to be properly deferential towards their social betters and personal superiors! Don’t force me to return to reinforce that message!”

“You can’t speak to me like that!” protested Jim with courage which surprised even himself. “That is to say: you can’t speak to me like that, Your Lordsh… Maj…” (What the hell was the correct way to address the son of an Earl? Ah:) “Your Earliness! I’m not one of your square deals!”. 

“Square deals, you preposterous little oaf! “Square deals”? What on earth are you talking about? 

“Serfs, My Liege” Jim replied, thoughtfully allowing me to invoke a joke that only people of a certain age will get.

His Earliness didn’t seem to – or wasn’t amused by it if he was. Indeed, he was actually reconsidering visiting actual bodily harm on the Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town Football Club – but clearly thought better of it. With a grunt of disgust, he was gone, taking his big, strapping pals with him. Seconds later – in a huge 4×4 monster of a car – they had disappeared into the thunder and lightning leaving Jim Proudfoot – for once in his life – utterly and completely outmanoeuvred; out-thought and outnumbered. He watched them go with a feeling of utter helplessness and – for perhaps the first time in his life – had a vision of himself as others must see him: out of work; out of luck and absolutely out of his depth.

He sank to the floor and collapsed among the detritus surrounding him in the leaky container as the wind whistled wildly outside – and sobbed his heart out.

—

Not too far away, moored in the increasingly rough waters of the Irish Sea, Lady Lynne Shrimpleton had just tried to ring Jim again. She was already furious with him but his failure to answer now made her ever more angry. The storm, lack of sleep and Jim Proudfoot’s treachery was surely enough for anyone to cope with in themselves. But things were getting even worse from Lady Lynne’s point of view.

The Embassy had been in touch. One of their members had been with Baban Singh Chopra on his flight to Hanoi.

The plane broke the journey – as usual – at Delhi, the Indian capital.

Everyone got off. Including Baban and his minder. The big Sikh had headed straight for the toilets.

He was quite some time. But his Vietnamese companion – a young woman called Anh who had been personally selected for the task by Lady Lynne – could barely follow him in to investigate the delay, could she?

This was yet another unforeseen error of the sort so-called surveillance services regularly make right across the planet. It’s the little details you haven’t foreseen that always catch you out: they should have sent a man.

Because Baban never came out again – not the way he had gone in, anyway…

So the onward flight to Hanoi was two passengers down: Baban himself and his distraught minder, who would have lots of questions to answer when she finally pulled herself together and made her way to the local Vietnamese Embassy.

When they learnt of this development, Hanoi’s GDDI (General Department of Defence Intelligence) assumed she had been duped and that Chopra had deliberately eluded her.

They were not happy.

Neither was Lady Lynne. Baban had seemed to welcome her suggestion of rehabilitation in her own country. Now it seemed that he had merely wanted to get away from her. And why shouldn’t he? She’s had him kidnapped after all and caused a truly traumatic episode in his life – one that he had barely survived – into the bargain. Of course he would want to escape!  – who wouldn’t?

So had she made yet another major blunder in her interaction with a leading member of the Khalli Scallies? Was she losing her touch altogether?

The Peeress had no way of knowing that the person most upset by his inability to board the flight to Hanoi he had been booked onto at Delhi was Baban Singh Chopra himself.

Lady Lynne and her Vietnamese compatriots had no idea – and probably no way of knowing – that the progress of the man she had abducted from Cumberside Island was being monitored from afar all the time it was happening.

The watchers in Jalandhar had plotted Baban’s progress from Heathrow right from the moment it had started. A quick search of the internet had told them where what was clearly a flight he was on was headed. And where it would stop on the way.

So the Punjabi Popular Front sent four men to meet him there…

—

From Baban Singh Chopra’s point of view, this is what happened next:

One moment, he had been with the truly lovely Vietnamese girl Anh – Ann if you prefer – on his way to the country of her birth for rehabilitation. Next minute, he was jammed into the back of an ancient Ambassador car with four small but very smelly and sweaty men. They had to look of what Hindus called Dalits – `Untouchables’ – dirty, worn clothes and shoes (two didn’t have any); a generally undernourished appearance; missing or rotten teeth – and the driver seemed to be a lunatic into the bargain. Taking to the roads anywhere in India in any sort of vehicle has always amounted to taking your life in your hands but this guy was accepting absolutely no prisoners as he repeatedly cut-up other road users and drove straight at pedestrians as he sped round the impossibly congested streets of Delhi with his horn blaring like a police klaxon.

The four men had grabbed Baban as he had taken what the Americans would call a `comfort break’ at the airport, marching him out of a side door almost before he had time to fasten his flies. They ignored his protests as they shoved him into the ancient car, which had once been (and possibly still was) a taxi. (Hindustan Ambassadors were basically Indian versions of English Morris Oxfords and had been manufactured in vast quantities from 1957 until as recently as 2014.) The driver and another guy got into the front seats. Another man got in the back before Baban was shoved in next to him and sandwiched in place by the fourth, who squeezed in on the other side, slamming the back door after the vehicle had already set off, its wheels spinning and skidding slightly as it lurched forwards into the moribund traffic and started bulldozing its way ever onwards.

Within minutes, Indira Gandhi Airport was left far behind as the car weaved and bumped its way – the horn constantly blaring – towards the centre of the Indian capital in a north-easterly direction.

Outside, it was swelteringly hot. Inside the car was like an oven and Baban started to feel distinctly unwell as he was hopelessly trapped between his less than sweet-smelling companions. He had only the faintest recollection of what had happened to him on board Lady Lynne Shrimpleton’s yacht just a few days ago other than it was really scary and something he really didn’t want to happen again ever – but some of the warning signs were beginning to appear once more for anyone who might bother to look at him carefully to notice these things. His nose and the patches on his cheeks were becoming increasingly purple and his lips were steadily turning blue as he struggled to breathe in a car which was already suffocatingly hot. He could do with some water. And air. He didn’t seem to be getting enough oxygen into his lungs as his vision started to break-up before his eyes – like a video screen which wasn’t receiving enough digital information.

Next thing he remembered, he was in the car alone. He felt terrible and when he finally managed to struggle out into the open air, he immediately vomited. There was no sign of his captors and he didn’t know where he was. People and vehicles swarmed around him everywhere in all directions, totally oblivious as they went about their own lives in the little worlds of their own that they were also trapped in.

He slumped into the driver’s seat, the car door open to allow in what fresh air was to be had in the heavily polluted, stinking and superheated atmosphere which surrounded everyone in Delhi for far too much of the time.

He looked at himself in the driving mirror and felt worse than ever for doing so. He realised that he must have had another `episode’ of the same sort he had endured on Lynne’s boat just a few short days ago. He guessed – correctly – that his kidnappers had thought he had died – and fled. So he must take advantage of this misunderstanding – and think very carefully about what to do next.

The keys had been left in the ignition as the driver and his pals had abandoned the car.

He started the engine. To his left, a grubby screen which had some sort of primitive GPS system connected to it lit-up, showing him precisely where he was at the moment. He worked out how to plot a journey from where he found himself to New Delhi Railway Station – and then set off. It took quite a while but by the time Baban arrived and abandoned the car appropriately on a taxi rank outside, he was feeling a little steadier on his feet. On the way, he had worked-out exactly what he needed to do next.

First of all, he bought a cheap but serviceable mobile phone from a stall within the huge station building and then made his way to Platform 16, where he bought much-needed food and drink to revive himself and found a socket with which to charge his new purchase. As he ate and re-hydrated his parched system, he copied key numbers from his existing phone into the new one.

Pay-phones are a rarity in Britain these days, as Soldier Jay had already discovered in Fishguard a few days earlier. In New Delhi, though, they were more common. As soon as Baban came across one, he rang 1500.  A brief conversation ensued.

After this, he walked to Platform 14 and discovered the Shan-e-Punjab Express just about to depart. He climbed on board one of the so-called Premium carriages and walked the length of it, as if looking for a seat. He spotted what he guessed was a safe place where he could hide his old mobile phone at the back of a luggage rack where he hoped it would be unlikely to be found and surreptitiously placed it out of sight there. Then he walked back into the main body of the enormous station.

He entered the first barbers’ stall he came across and a little while later emerged again looking completely transformed. The long, white hair had gone to be replaced by what Americans would call a `buzz-cut’ and – for the first time in his adult life – Baban was clean-shaven. He didn’t even recognise himself as he saw his image reflected back at him as he made his way to the Metro station within the gigantic complex. The red turban he had rolled-up and placed in a pocket prior to sitting in the barber’s chair was dumped in a waste bin as he walked towards it. The Orange Line took him back in the direction he had already travelled from the airport. Just short of it, near the national Rail Museum, Baban got off the train. He then walked the short distance to 20 Kautilya Marg, Chanakya Puri and entered the very impressive building he discovered there.

It was the Vietnamese Embassy. He had been told the address by the person he had spoken to after ringing 1500 at the station.

Baban had been tempted to use his old phone for a final time to find it but decided this would not be a sensible move. Because, all the way from London – and in truth, even before that when he was still on board Lady Lynne’s yacht – Baban Singh Chopra had been thinking about a branch of the Punjabi Popular Front which specialised in electronic eavesdropping and which he knew to exist in Jalandhar. His suspicions that they had been using his phone to monitor his every move had been confirmed as soon as he had been grabbed in the toilets at the airport earlier in the day. Looking-up the address of the Vietnamese Embassy in New Delhi on it would guarantee that a Reception Committee from the Punjabi Popular Front – who he guessed his kidnappers belonged to – would be waiting for him there.

But now, the plotters in Jalandhar would be transfixed by his old phone as it sent a signal from the Shan-e-Punjab Express whilst it made its way steadily ever northwards towards a final destination at Amritsar, just over three hundred miles away from where he was now. What they would do when it arrived in seven hours’ time he could only guess but he hoped that by that time, his interrupted journey to Hanoi would be well under way once more and he would be truly out of their clutches, hopefully for ever…

Three thousand or more miles away to the north, we find another man who would have given everything he owned in the world to be on the flight with Baban. This was Padraig McMullen, ordinary footsoldier of the Garda Síochána, as he stood forlornly by the side of a road somewhere in the wilds of Tipperary. His face was blackened and his uniform in tatters and next to him, his brand new electric-powered patrol car was on fire. But – even more alarmingly – an enormous tractor and huge cattle trailer stuffed with prize Boars was trundling away from him, out-of control and gathering speed as it began its long, unguided descent towards the little town of Arracrowe in the far distance.

Policeman Pat couldn’t begin to imagine what would happen next. But fear not – you don’t have to. All you have to do is read the next enthralling episode of

The Sensational Shrimpleton Saga…