CHAPTER EIGHT
To the sound of the cheers from the audience and the
boos from the GITs ringing in his ears, Marty makes his way to the front. Just
before preparing himself to clamber and crawl his way up on to the stage he
glances back towards the GIT’s table just to make sure none of the bastards
were pinching his champagne and pickled egg cocktail (an invention of Mr.
Biggins) while he was gone. But what’s this? Captain Pete is sitting at his
table directly in Marty’s line of vision and Marty can see straight through him
to the table. Trouble is, all Marty can see is the GIT’s table. The empty
champagne bottles are gently rolling to and fro on their sides. The pickled egg
jars are upturned awaiting replenishment. Vinegar is dripping off the table and
the pristine white table cloth that Mrs. Flagg had so recently taken so much
trouble with is hanging half off and half on the table covered in stains, blood
and urine.
Marty can see all this but he can’t see any of the
GITs.
He can hear them though.
“Bloody ‘ell, what’s ‘e gettin’ an award for?”
Crawfie’s shouting.
“Yeah, just cos he was King GIT years ago in the dark
ages, what’s he done since?” Pants is shouting back.
“He’s a has-been old chums, he’s living on past
glories. Much like you Crawfie old bean,” says The Count.
“I resent that remark,” glowers Crawfie, “What you
young pretenders to the Crown don’ realise is that the questions were much
‘arder in my day. To be King GIT then, took more brains and intelligence than
it does now, you upper crust twit.”
“Yeah, it’s all questions about everything except
intros innit? Why is it still called ‘Guess the Intro’, that’s what I’d like to
know,” complained Pants.
“Steady, steady,” says Joe, “I think as the current
King GIT I can safely say that the questions have never been harder than they
are now and it takes a special sort of courage and determination to overcome
the obstacles involved in becoming King GIT in this modern, thrusting, digital
age in what we live in now.”
“Bollocks,” shouts Crawfie and, pausing only to pour
himself another glass of champagne he kicks Joe on his bad leg.
Unfortunately for Joe, Mrs. Flagg had earlier removed
the urine soaked bubble-wrap which had been affording him some protection as
she said she needed it to drape over the buffet to keep the flies off the open
sandwiches.
Joe falls off his chair in agony and careers across
the floor neatly knocking old Mr. Mayfield’s legs from under him as he hobbles
past with a tray of Guinness.
All this is not seen by Marty. All he can see through
Captain Pete’s body is just an apparently empty table. But what he does see is…
a champagne bottle hovering in mid-air, a glass hovers next to it, the bottle
tips itself forward, fills the glass and the glass tips itself back as the
liquid strangely empties out of the glass and disappears. Both the champagne
bottle and glass slam themselves down on the table and Joe suddenly appears as
if out of nowhere, to the right of Captain Pete’s body, rolling across the
floor towards old Mr. Mayfield.
The audience are starting a slow hand clap and Mr.
Ross is saying, “Well, are you coming up for this damn award or not?”
Marty however is oblivious and is still staring
towards the GIT’s table. The only time he can actually see any of them is when
they happen to move outside of the area defined by Captain Pete’s transparent
body. Everyone else in the club is perfectly visible all the time.
“Don’t tell me they’re all ghosts,” thinks Marty,
“How can they be? They’re my old mates; I’ve known them for years. If they were
dead I’d know wouldn’t I? Although I’m not so sure about Pants, how would I
tell? No, no, no, I’m hallucinating. The GITs are as real and alive as I am…”
The blood suddenly drains from his face and thumps down into his legs causing
him to hold on to the edge of the stage to stop him collapsing. “Oh no, it
can’t be, can it? What if I’m a ghost too and all this GTI stuff over the years
has just been an elaborate charade? I can’t be dead…or am I?”
“You’ve got ten seconds to get up here or the award
is forfeited,” Jonathan is shouting.
Marty pulls himself together and with a leg-up from Mrs.
Flagg he lands in a heap on the stage. He approaches Mr. Ross who hands him the
award with one hand, the microphone with the other and hisses, “You’ve got
thirty seconds, then bugger off.” Marty clears his throat and starts to speak
sounding remarkably like Joe Pasquale. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is indeed an
honour,” and reaching inside his jacket he pulls out a large piece of paper,
“I’d just like to thank a few people without whose help I wouldn’t be standing
here tonight…”
The audience start shouting, “Get off!” Jonathan
yanks the microphone out of Marty’s hand, says, “Thank you,” and points across
to the side of the stage where Mrs. Flagg is waiting to escort him off.
Reaching his seat back at the GIT’s table he still
looks ashen. Marty’s looking at the rest of the GITs in a concentrated
manner…watching their every move. But everything seems perfectly normal.
Pants has a champagne bucket on his head. Joe is
doing his Long John Silver impersonation. Crawfie’s beating up the waiter for
being late with the pickled eggs and The Count is adjusting his hot pants while
singing, “I’m the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo
Marty breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe he was
hallucinating after all. He turns to Crawfie but just as he’s about to speak,
Mr. Biggins walks straight through Captain Pete. Captain Pete jerks his head,
his eyes open and he’s off again.
“Hang on, hang on,” shouts Pants,” We haven’t guessed
the last lot yet.”
“Yeah, I got Pirates of the Caribbean too,” says Crawfie, “and The Shining.”
“What about Halloween,” shouts Joe hopping on one leg
with his hand over his eye.
“And of course we all know that last one don’t we
chaps? It was Flash Gordon I believe,” says The Count.
“Be still,” shouts Captain Pete, “Guilty! Guilty! My
evil self is at that door, and I have no power to stop it! Are you telling me
that an ape that lived two million years ago got out of that crate, killed the
baggage man and put him in there, then locked everything up neat and tidy, and
got away? Did you know that I could hear
the scratching of her fingernails on the casket lid?”
He suddenly produces a knife from under his jacket
and everyone takes two steps back.
“This is what she used on my brother and her sister,
hacked them to pieces. We found parts of their bodies all over the house, in
places you wouldn't think. A funny thing is the heads have never been found,
hands and feet and things like that, but no heads.
The ghosts are moving tonight, restless... hungry.
May I introduce myself? I'm Watson Pritchard. In just
a moment I'll show you the only really haunted house in the world. Since it was
built a century ago, seven people including my brother have been murdered in
it, since then, I've owned the house. I only spent one night then and when they
found me in the morning, I... I was almost dead.
You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off
You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? You talkin' to
me? Then who the hell else are you talking... you talking to me? Well I'm the
only one here. Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Oh yeah?”
“Can’t somebody shut him up?” says Pants. But of
course as no one else apart from the GITs can see or hear Captain Pete the
evening’s events are continuing even though there seems to be a raving lunatic
in the room waving a knife and spouting rubbish.
Suddenly Captain Pete drops his knife and slumps in
his chair exhausted just as Mr. Ross is about to announce the next award
winner…
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