To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

      Mickey couldn’t resist a loud guffaw. He thought about chinning him but decided against it. He was too tired for a start. Anyway, think of the court case. GBH on an elf. He’d never live it down. Easier to take the piss.

      Mickey engaged the elf in eye contact, then slowly surveyed him, up and down, from the bell on his hat to the curly points of his pixie boots.

      ‘And how many O-levels do you need for your job?’ Mickey asked.

      ‘I’ll have you know I used to work in a bank. But they’ve shut down all the branches round here and replaced us with hole-in-the-wall machines. You take what you can get. It was either this or Burger King. Anyway, stop changing the subject. You can’t park here. Can’t you read?’ The elf pointed to a sign indicating parking for the exclusive use of staff.

      ‘Just give us a minute, boss. I’m unloading my car. I’ve just arrived. I’m checking in,’ said Mickey, the joke wearing thin.

      ‘Well you can unload somewhere else,’ the elf said.

      ‘I’m supposed to be the guest here,’ Mickey protested.

      ‘Not my problem. Now move it, or I’ll have it clamped. There’s a £120 recovery fee.’

      ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’ A quarter of a century in the police force and here I am being ordered around by a fucking pixie, Mickey thought. ‘This is unreal.’

      ‘Only doing my job, mate,’ said the elf.

      ‘That’s what the Wehrmacht claimed.’

      ‘Eh?’ said the elf.

      ‘Ve vere only obeying orders, mein Führer.’ Mickey snapped his heels and thrust his right arm forwards and upwards in a Nazi salute.

      The elf took two paces back.

      ‘Look, mate,’ Mickey said, wearily. ‘I know you’ve got a job to do. But, as I said, we’re the guests here, right? We’ve had a long day, we’re dog-tired. We just want to get checked in, go to our rooms and sleep. So this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to unload the car, put the bags down here, and then, and only then, will I move the car. Is that all right by you?’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Elves have feelings, too,’ said the elf.

      ‘Sure,’ said Mickey. ‘Tell you what, do us a favour. While I’m moving the car, why don’t you frolic indoors and get a porter to help us with our bags.’

      ‘The porter doesn’t work nights. Check-in time is 6 pm. You’re late.’

      ‘I know we’re fucking late. You don’t have to tell me we’re late. I don’t suppose you’d consider giving us a hand with the luggage?’

      ‘Love to, mate, but I’m not insured, see. And I’ve got a dodgy back.’

      ‘Tell me about it, mate.’ Mickey shook his head.

      Mickey dumped the bags on the kerb and Terry began to manhandle them up the steps to reception.

      ‘That’s all right, son. I’ll do it when I’ve parked the car.’

      ‘I can manage, Dad.’

      ‘OK. But leave that big one. I’ll fetch it indoors.’ Mickey shut the tailgate and walked round to the driver’s side door.

      ‘Satisfied?’ he asked the elf.

      ‘Not quite.’

      ‘NOW what?’

      ‘This is a no-smoking facility. You’ll have to put that out. We don’t allow tobacco anywhere on the site.’

      Mickey took a last puff, threw the stub on the floor and crushed it underfoot.

      ‘And if there’s anything else I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask,’ said the elf.

      Fuck off and die, Mickey thought to himself. That would be a great help.

      Mickey parked the car, walked back the hundred yards to reception, took the bags inside and registered.

      The girl behind the counter was dressed in the same elfin uniform as the security guard.

      ‘Check-in is 6 pm,’ she said robotically, in the kind of voice employed by women in call centres.

      ‘So we’ve been told.’

      Mickey asked if there was any chance of getting something to eat.

      ‘Sorree,’ said the girl. ‘Goblin’s Grille closes at 9.30 pm, Monday to Saturday and 8 pm on Sunday.’

      Room service?

      ‘Sorree.’

      Mickey asked if there was an all-night take-away nearby, where he might pick up some food.

      ‘Sorree, guests are not allowed to consume food bought off the premises in their rooms. Policy. You’ll find a full list of rules in the welcome pack in your room.’

      Mickey would have to wait until breakfast, 7.30 am to 9.30 am, Monday to Saturday, 8.30 am to 10 am, Sundays.

      The receptionist handed Mickey their room keys. ‘Second floor. You’ll have to use the stairs. The lift is out of order. Sorree.’

      ‘Great,’ said Mickey.

      ‘Glad to be of assistance, Mr French. Welcome to Goblin’s. Have a nice day.’

      They lugged the cases up the stairs and, as Mickey settled the kids into their rooms, Andi ran him a hot bath.

      ‘At least the water works.’

      ‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’

      ‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean it like that. It will be great, just great.’

      ‘We’ll unpack in the morning.’

      ‘Fine.’

      Mickey towelled himself dry and collapsed on the bed while Andi pottered in the en-suite bathroom.

      He started to drift off, the horrors of the day subsiding.

      He was on the brink of deep sleep when he felt a gentle tingle in his groin. He opened one eye and looked down as Andi ran her tongue between his balls and up the shaft of his cock.

      ‘I’m sorry, love, I haven’t got much energy,’ he apologized, though he felt himself responding.

      She looked up at him, doe-eyed, squeezed hard and lightly kissed the tip of his now engorged dick. ‘You just lie there. This one’s on me,’ she said as she took him in her mouth, her eyes still locked onto his, which by now were both wide open.

      ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, desperately trying to delay the inevitable.

      ‘Everything, lover. You’ve heard the expression: when in Rome?’

      ‘Uh, uuugh,’ Mickey grunted in acknowledgement.

      ‘Well, as the lady said,’ Andi smiled as Mickey’s scrotum tightened, ‘welcome to Goblin’s.’

       Ten

       Tyburn Juvenile Panel

      Wayne Sutton dug deep into his left nostril with the long nail on the index finger of his right hand, which had HAT tattooed, or rather Biro-ed, on the knuckles in erratic, pre-school letters. Wayne thought it spelled HATE. Spelling had never been his strong point, which, since he had rarely attended school, was no great surprise. He was once moved on for begging outside Tyburn tube station with a cardboard sign reading HUNGREY AND HOMLES.

      Wayne