Part Thirty-Eight of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: Should it be The Khalistan Worriers?

Last time, we left the leader of the notorious Kelly Gang with positively murderous thoughts about certain underworld rivals in the Irish Republic following the disastrous funeral of former gang leader `Joe-Boy’, Joseph Aleksandrovitch Kelly.

But new Gang Boss Siobhán reserved her greatest ire for the group she personally held responsible for the murder of her beloved older brother: the mysterious group known to her only as The Khalistan Warriors.

She planned to get even with them – and to do so imminently…

So today, there had been several surreptitious departures from Shannon airport.

Siobhán Aleksandovna Kelly and Big Brendan – battered and bruised as he still was after his encounter with Cormack McMullen the previous day – along with four more Kelly Gang heavies – were waiting for a flight to Liverpool. Next stop would be Barrow by train on the way to Cumberside Island.

They had already paid visits to several of the Mulligan Gangs’ known outlets in Limerick.

Laundrettes; shops and a brothel owned by the gang now lay in smoking ruins. Several people were no longer with us as a result. Two more joined them as leading members of the Mulligan Gang were confronted – and dealt with.

But was Siobhán’s phenomenal personal blood lust sated yet?

Not at all. Or – as she might say herself: “Not at all, not at all!”

In her view, the Khalistan Warriors were very much next in her sights.

But as the Kelly Gang waited at Shannon to set off to find and finally deal with the Sikhs who their leader deemed responsible for the death of Joseph Aleksandrovitch Kelly, other refugees from what was becoming known as The Arracrowe Incident were also seeking escape from The Emerald Isle

The Russian Orthodox Metropolitan Nikolas of New York was one of these people. He was dressed in casual clothes which he had bought in Dunnes Stores in Limerick on the way to the airport.

Nikolas showed his United States’ passport in order to board the flight he had paid for in cash to catch as soon as he had arrived in a taxi from the nearby city.

He had another passport: a Russian one which he had been saving for precisely a moment like this. But he chose not to use it. Yet…

Nikolas understood all too well that – once the shameful photographs; video clips and finally full-length images of him standing in a pool of his own making in a space occupied by the wreckage of a horse-drawn hearse with two corpses in shot reached a global audience – his name (and possibly even his life) would be worth absolutely nothing at all.

The very precarious nature of the Russian Orthodox Church – banned under Comrade Stalin but tolerated at other times in the USSR only to be actively embraced by the Putin regime – meant that Nikolas had always felt vulnerable in his chosen line of work. He knew that if you embarrassed Mother Russia and the Bolsheviks – or then their KGB – didn’t get you first, their successors in what was now the post-Communist state – certainly would.

He also knew that not only the Kelly Gang was not happy with what had happened on his watch during the last few days. What we hear described almost casually as `organised crime’ would have put a price on his head as a result, too – simply because he had worked for them.

Who were more scary?

Failures were not tolerated in Moscow in either the temporal or ecclesiastical world.

Which meant that he didn’t dare to return to New York either: he knew that – despite the current American President’s boasts to be taking `total’ (“So total – it’s beautiful!”) control of American borders – there would be a Russian Reception Committee waiting for him even there.

The Americans might loudly Trump (with apologies to President Donald) how effective and thorough a clamp-down on Mexicans and other unfortunate Hispanics was under his leadership But taking on the really serious – and scary – Mafia with its roots in the old Soviet Union was another matter altogether which even old Trumpy would not be quite so keen to even attempt, let alone brag about…

So – realising all this – Nikolas was making a run for it.

Next to him – on the bus to Limerick and in the taxi to the airport as well – was a fellow-cleric who was also desperately trying to turn his back on his previous life. Unlikely as it might seem, this was actually the same person Nikolas had laid-out with a slightly mis-placed punch the previous day in Arracrowe.

Father Finbar O’Fooligan was also traumatised by what had happened on his watch and in his church the previous day.

When he had recovered his senses sufficiently to comprehend what had actually occurred during Joe-Boy Kelly’s funeral, he felt physically sick.

The Roman Catholic Church in Ireland would blame him – and him alone – for the mayhem which had happened there. It was his church; his parish – and therefore his fault. More importantly, it was also his problem: in time-honoured fashion when anything went wrong, the huge conglomerate which is global Roman Catholicism would do virtually anything to avoid responsibility – just as all other massive organisations always do.

Is that a far too cynical view of things?

Whether it is or not, Father Finbar O’Fooligan for one believed it. Panicked by rumours that he could be held personally responsible for the carnage and the widespread fires which had ensued and end-up with a personal bill of several million Euros, he was only too keen to take any sort of way out.

So when Metropolitan Nikolas had suggested they join forces and forge a bright future together as New Age Hippies on an island somewhere in the Indian Ocean, he jumped at the chance.

Together, they would take a flight to Faro airport in Portugal. Then they would take another flight to the former Portuguese colony Goa on the western Indian coast.

From there – hand-in-hand as they both belatedly realised the appeal of heterosexual celibacy to Catholic and Orthodox priests and why it had never really bothered either of them – they set off for a new life together on a ferry which would give them an almost endless choice of destinations once they arrived there.

Nikolas would dispense with his beard and shave his head as soon as they landed in Goa, by which time the formerly clean-shaven Finbar would have allowed his whiskers to grow. In just a few weeks’ time, nobody who knew them previously even really well would recognise either of these renegades.

Neither man knew anything about the Khalistan Warriors and wouldn’t have been concerned if they had. In reality, they had nothing to fear from these ne’er do wells – who weren’t aware of their existence either.

Sadly for him, though, the Khalli Scallies’ leader Ranjit Singh Chopra was not aware of the existence of several other individuals and organisations who wished him harm. If he had been, he might have been a bit more worried about his own safety – and that of his fellow Warriors – then he was at that particular juncture. But Chopper had far more pressing issues on his mind…

—

Back in the Irish Sea just off Cumberside Island, everyone on board Lady Lynne Shrimpleton’s yacht was exhausted after the trauma of the previous night and it was some time before Her Ladyship, Jay, Four and Nine assembled in the main cabin. They all pitched-in to create a basic breakfast and it was even later when Jay finally noted that there was no sign of the fifth member of their latest crew.

Lynne didn’t seem bothered – with the remnants of the bottle of spirits she had given him, she assumed that James Churchill Proudfoot was still Three Sheets to the Wind even without any help from her or her nautical crew on what was at least theoretically still a sailing ship.

But some instinct told Jay that this wasn’t actually the case.

He found Jim’s cabin empty when he visited it. So where was he?

“How many lifeboats do you carry?” he asked after a quick scan of the vessel. Learning that the answer was `two’, Jay’s anxiety heightened.  Because only one remained…

This was because – defying every other expectation we might all have of him – James Churchill Proudfoot had awoken long before anyone else did on Lady Lynne’s lovely yacht.

He did so – eventually – because his phone was ringing. Insistently.

“Chopper” was on the other end. Although Chopper was vague in the extreme and possibly totally oblivious to the events that had unfolded on Cumberside Island in the last twelve hours or so, his friends in Jalandhar were aware of Jim’s current location: and had given it to him.

“Take one of the lifeboats and head south..” he told Jim. And then started to experience the sort of exasperation that dealing with James Churchill Proudfoot inevitably caused anybody:

“They’re on the deck… Painted bright orange… No – north is Barrow and Scotland…Listen!… Just turn right… Right – yes, same way as the hand you write with… And keep on going. We will find you!”

Chopper was as good as his word. Jim shortly emerged from a bank of sea mist to be confronted by a vision of his own wet dreams: a massive sea-going luxury yacht that was so big, it sported a helicopter pad on the back. Sorry – stern. Even better, the helicopter space was occupied by a huge machine with not just one but two massive rotors.

The jealousy which had consumed Jim when Threefeet of the Yard had seen two Sikhs passing in a top-of-the –range Porsche as he stood in the rain in a London bus stop not all that long ago was completely eclipsed by this vision of what success means in the very materialistic world people like him have always aspired to live in. This floating status symbol put even the sumptuous house Joe-Boy Kelly had lived in completely in the shade: it was absolutely phenomenal to behold!

It didn’t matter that the lifeboat he was in was already bright orange to attract attention: Jim Proudfoot could have outshone it with how simply green he was with envy – the RNLI would have spotted him from ten miles away!

Willing hands dragged him aboard and ushered him into the interior where he was told Chopper would welcome him in no time at all.

Jim found himself alone in a large space surrounded by framed paintings of obviously foreign landscapes which were actually those of the Punjab; golden Kalashnikovs hanging from the walls and photographs of old men in turbans whose identities he couldn’t even begin to guess.  

There was a particularly large portrait of some old Indian guy among all this. On a shelf beneath it was a vase holding fresh flowers of a variety Jim didn’t recognise. Plus loads of joss-sticks unleashing their incomparably wonderful smell as they gradually reduced themselves to very fragrant ashes.

Shortly, a young woman in traditional Indian dress entered and offered him tea.

Now, we must remember that Jim thought Yorkshire Tea actually grew in Pontefract and he wasn’t keen on any foreign stuff. So he refused – Darjeeling, Assam, Chai and other highly-prized foreign varieties from exotic climes which he had drunk in some of the posh cafes he had visited in London was one thing – but who wanted to drink any of this Indian muck?

Another young woman followed her shortly. This one wasn’t dressed in traditional Indian dress though. She was wearing jeans and a baggy black sweatshirt. She ignored Jim altogether and then threw herself down on one of the padded seats which encircled the cabin – and burst into tears.

Jim said nothing – for once in his life, he didn’t know what to say. But he watched the girl as she finally sat up, brushed her tangled hair away from her tear-stained face and took out a mobile phone before firing it up. On the small screen, Jim could vaguely discern a picture of a young Asian man who he didn’t recognise.

He didn’t recognise him because this image was connected to a modern, Korean genre of music that Jim was totally unaware of. It was no less a personage than the lead singer of the currently most popular of the K-Boy pop bands – Sixteen&AHalf – a teen idol who had entranced young women all the way from Seoul to the Punjab; London; New York – and all points beyond. And the girl almost within touching distance of Jim was clearly one of the thousands who were completely under this young man’s spell…

“He doesn’t care!” she wailed. “He doesn’t reply to my emails or return my calls!”

Adolescent women and their hormonal rites of passage were a complete mystery to James Churchill Proudfoot. Girls of this sort were best to be avoided altogether in his opinion. Unless they had particularly shapely rear ends. Or looked anything like the Goddess Made Flesh otherwise known as the delectable and utterly adorable Simran. Not like this kid with the spots and the puppy fat and the greasy hair…

A door to the cabin suddenly opened to reveal the rather large figure of Ranjit Singh Chopra.

“Mr Proudfoot!” he announced with a smile as he advanced towards Jim with his right hand extended. “How very good to see you! I was hoping that…”

His smile evaporated and he stopped abruptly in his tracks, as his face turned towards the young woman with the phone and the tear-stained, spotty face.

“Simran!” he bellowed. “What in the name of all that is good are you doing, girl? You have to be camera-ready and on-stage in no time at all. Look at you! Get your big, fat arse in gear! The makeup artists and wardrobe department are looking for you everywhere! I don’t pay you to swoon over Korean trash who will be forgotten long before next week’s cricket results have come in! Get out of here – now!”

So poor old Simran did as she was told – as had become her habit.

—

An hour later, the nascent Bollywood sensation’s make-up had been finally done and her absolutely sensational costume eventually finished to everyone’s satisfaction. The young lady was as ready as she would ever be to face the night ahead.

Unusually, she was nervous. Very nervous. She had never faced a live audience before. All her world-famous appearances previously had been pre-recorded. Carefully choreographed. Impeccably edited. When she watched them back, she barely recognised the young girl from a poor village in rural India – she even astonished herself!

But she was unhappy and emotional too. The current K-Pop Boy Band lead singer really had refused to return her calls and she remained crestfallen about that. What was the point of being famous if other people totally ignored you? And other people – rude people – told you what to do all the time?

Great-Uncle Chopper had shouted at her earlier – called her fat and spotty!

“He’s no room to talk, the pock-marked porky pig!” she thought bitterly.

If only Baban was still around! He never spoke to her like that!

To make things worse, her period had started earlier and it was causing her cramps which made it sometimes painful to move.

She also hated what she knew as `the crew’. The two make-up women and that really irritating Bengali gay bloke who talked about her as if she was an object or – even worse – as if she wasn’t even there!

They were constantly bothering her and telling her when she could eat –and even what: “Don’t munch on those biscuits Simran! It’s ruining your lipstick! And putting on the pounds!”

The gay guy had actually jabbed his finger into her stomach when he came out with that particularly hurtful remark.

She had a good mind to jab something into him too – and not necessarily into his stomach, either!

The wardrobe department were even worse; constantly pulling her this way and that and poking at her as if she was a dummy; making her wear things that were uncomfortable or too tight or too small or that made her sweat.

“No cha for you young lady – you’ll spill it on your sari!” – or something equally fatuous were the sort of things they said to her all the time – even when she was parched and almost begging them for something to drink!

As they poked and prodded at her, a single thought occurred to Simran: weren’t Superstars supposed to be Queens of all they commanded?

She commanded nobody. She even had to get permission to go to the toilet! And her period simply made things feel so much worse.

She sighed and tried to visualise what might happen later on. And shuddered. She wondered if other Divas or stars of film or stage suffered from First Night Nerves too. And realised that they must do. Simran had read enough celebrity magazines to know that a succession of soul singers; rock stars; Screen Goddesses and famous TV actresses struggled with addiction issues. Booze. Drugs. Both. But nearly all of them said they had first used them to get their nerves under control.

What did that tell a sixteen-year-old-girl? To avoid the Demon Drink? To give drugs a Wide Berth? No – it told her something else entirely: it told her that booze and drugs worked: other Divas wouldn’t take them if they didn’t, would they?

That irritating Gay guy took drugs. He had told her as much. Sometimes, his hands shook when he was doing her make-up. He told her it was the result of taking barbiturates – what he called `downers’. But he said he had a cure – just take more of them. He’d said this one day when she’d asked him why his hands sometimes trembled – and he had just poked her in the eye because of it – albeit accidentally in all truth.

He looked around to furtively see if anyone might be watching and then slipped a small white box from his pocket and popped two white pills from it into his mouth. Then he looked around again before saying:

“Would you like to try? – they will help you to relax!”

At the time, the thought made her feel almost nauseous. If a creep like him was into stuff like that, it was well worth staying away from. But now, she wasn’t quite so sure…

It was an hour and a half before they were due to get in Ranjit’s helicopter and fly the short distance to The Black Pool and the stage on which she was expected to perform.

The `crew’ were resting. They had told her to take the opportunity to take it easy too. But how could you take it easy when your insides were leaking out and your nerves were tying you up in knots?

She went back to her cabin. Looked in the bathroom cupboard. Paracetamol. Codeine. She was given them to help with her periods, which had nearly always been painful. Maybe she should take a couple now. She just needed something to wash them down with…

There was small fridge in the cabin of the sort you might find in a hotel bedroom: a mini-bar sort of thing. Snacks and bottles of all sorts in it. She removed one with a nice green label.

`Lager’ read the label. `5%’.

That would do. She knocked it back. It was quite nice. So she had another one. But the pain in her guts seemed even worse.

So Simran went back to the bathroom and consulted the leaflet inside the codeine packet.

But she didn’t read it properly. It advised no more than eight 30mg tablets in a 24-hour timeframe. Simran knew she’d only taken two. Another couple wouldn’t do any harm, would they?

So she carried two more with her back into the main part of the cabin, oblivious to the fact that the dosage written clearly on the side of the pack was 60mg. Then she knocked them back with another drink from the fridge. She deliberately chose a smaller bottle this time because she felt that the two bigger ones she had already consumed were having an effect on her.

Down went the pills. Uggh!  And down went the rest of the drink too – it had a much stronger flavour than the lager.

“Gosh!” she thought. Suddenly, the pills seemed to be working. The pain was fainter and her head felt lighter. Much lighter. She leant forward to put the empty bottle down on a table in front of her. And missed. It fell onto the floor, label side up.  `Teachers 50mg’ it read; “40% ABV”.

Simran suddenly felt very tired. She had been told not to lie down and spoil her costume by the crew more times than she could remember. Well – let the damned costume spoil: she needed to have a rest quite urgently!

She walked unsteadily towards her bed and virtually fell onto it. Then Simran watched the ceiling slide in and out of focus for an instant before her eyeballs rolled upwards into her head and her lids firmly shut as she fell headlong into blessed oblivion.

So, had he only realised it, things were not progressing on Chopper’s enormous boat in quite the way the Chief Executive Officer of the Khalistan Warriors had expected – or wanted.

And not too far away, on Cumberside Island itself, other things were happening that the Sikh had no idea about. If he had, maybe he would simply abandon the impact he intended to make today as the re-organised Shrimpleton Town Summer Gala approached the climatic end of the day: the appearance at the Black Pool football ground of possibly the most famous sixteen-year-old anywhere on the planet: the one and only – and truly fabulous – Simran.

But what shady goings-on were developing behind Chopper’s back? And had anyone come any closer to discovering what the Khalistan Warriors’ unlikely interest in lowly Shrimpleton Town football club really was all about?

Don’t miss the next scintillating episode of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga to find out!