Chapter Two: Men Without Tents – A Group Who Didn't Need Tents
In which Johnny meets said Men Without Tents – the listening joys of 'Dinner Music For A Pack Of Hungry Cannibals' – Johnny's great phobia
The men sat on barstools and the lead man who appeared to do all the talking ordered four stout glasses of ale for them. Johnny thanked him profusely, but he wouldn't hear anything of it, claiming that he hoped it recompense Johnny for being "so rudely knocked over". Johnny had the sense to keep his mouth shut and accept the gift with a grateful smile.
'Anyway,' Johnny thought, being as low on cash as I am, 'I should damn well drink all the free ale I can get.' He firmly decided to uphold this thought, trying to savour the alcohol as he gulped it down. He paused though; Johnny was afraid he was being impolite and took the course of action to question the men. Maybe they would give him money out of pity, or he could convince them to become clients.
'If they were mad enough,' he added darkly and sulked briefly in his drink, before straightening and putting on his 'customer relations' expression.
"So, uh, what do you guys do?" Johnny asked apprehensively and the tallest man chuckled at the younger man's nervous disposition before taking in a deep breath.
"We are a group of men who are on holiday. We're staying in London for a few days to look about all over the place. We travel in caravans, though we love camping out. Unfortunately the small village we hail from ran out of tents and we had to leave without them. That was a dark day," the man lowered his head and Johnny felt a little sorry for him. The man looked so forlorn over such a small upset. Instead of saying anything, Johnny took a sip of ale and watched the three men, who also took long draughts from the large glasses.
The Men Without Tents, as Johnny began to think of them as, were tall burly men with faces that crinkled slightly in all the right places to indicate they were jolly. The 'leader' – at least the only one who appeared to speak – was the tallest and had a shock of ginger hair that melded with his beard, making his face a mass of hair and cold reddened cheeks with small sparkling blue eyes hidden within.
"My name is Johnny, by the way," Johnny told the leader and he grinned, grasping Johnny's hand very firmly. Johnny felt his eyes begin to water from the strength of the grip, but was thankfully released and he let out a quiet gasp.
"Bellows. Lorne Bellows," the man bellowed and Johnny wondered how he ended up involved in such a strange day. Lorne, or Lead Man Without Tent, pointed at one of the other Men Without Tents who remained blank faced and proceeded to introduce them too.
"And this is my two friends who work with me on the farm back home – Kier Sunday and Michael Hanford," Lorne said and the two quiet men each gave Johnny a nod, who gave a pathetic wave in return.
"Ah, they don't like to talk too much. To be honest they're quite disappointed about being unable to acquire some good old fashioned tents. All the modern ones they sell just aren't what we're looking for," Lorne elaborated and Johnny absentmindedly nodded along, not really paying attention.
"You work on a farm. Nice. Better than my job – I do people's taxes for them. You wouldn't happen to be interested in me doing taxes for you, would you?" Johnny asked hopefully, although he didn't believe for a second that Lorne would agree. He was surprised then when the man grinned and grasped his arm heartily.
"Really? We desperately need some help with taxes and would be willing to pay a small sum if you would help us next time taxes come around. You could stay with us over in the outskirts of Folkestone from where we hail. Would you be willing?" Lorne asked Johnny hopefully and Johnny smiled for the first time since they had entered the pub, a wide, genuinely happy smile that made Lorne grin even wider.
"I would be honoured. Wow, a… client," Johnny said, at a loss for words and Lorne clapped him on the back, nearly making him smack his head on his glass.
"Not just one, Kier and Michael would be happy to become clients too. You can run through the farms taxes as well while you're at it," he informed Johnny, who felt his eyes threaten to fall out of his head at the good fortune.
"Thank you so much. I mean, you're the first people who aren't mad or my parents who wanted to be part of my clientele," Johnny confessed and the Men Without Tents shook their heads in unison and stood, their glasses empty.
"It's okay, you can drop the paperwork and so forth later. I'll scribble our address down in London and you can come visit us. Oh, and you would happen to know where a copy of 'Dinner Music For A Pack Of Hungry Cannibals' is, eh? I mean, usually the boy's play it on our yearly travel about, by we seem to have misplaced it," Lorne enquired and Johnny shook his head, feeling slightly bewildered.
"Uh, no. Sorry," he coughed, downing the last of his ale and the Men Without Tents shook their heads sadly. The two silent ones took their leave and Lorne sighed, as if reminiscing while scribbling the address on a procured scrap of paper he had somehow laid hand to, along with the pen.
"Ah, shame. Brilliant tune. Here you go – I trust you know London alright. We're not far from you really. Goodbye for now, Mr. Theremin," he nodded and left the bar, adjusting his heavy raincoat as he opened the heavy oak door.
Johnny sat alone at the bar and a shiver suddenly ran through his body, as if his body realised what Lorne had actually said, before his mind even had time to ponder on it.
"How did you know my surname?" he rapidly turned and called out, but they were already gone. He stood uncertainly, his accelerated heartbeat making him worry about what had just taken place. He went to leave but saw out of the door's window that it was now raining heavily, the sky a leaden grey colour and the rain hurling itself at the ground unpleasantly. Johnny could handle a drizzle, sure, but a full on downpour sent another shiver down his spine.
This was because Johnny was mortally afraid of water. He didn't know why, but suspected he had long ago expertly scabbed over the trauma of say, falling into a bath as a child or crossing the English Channel on a particularly stormy afternoon. He honestly couldn't recall, but it no longer bothered him. Johnny was however terribly embarrassed that people could terrorise him with the knowledge of a nearby bath if they had wanted to and he would scream like a girl should they threaten to put him in said bath. Washing was a daily battle he rather wouldn't go into.
Annoyed at himself for having such a pathetic phobia, Johnny sat down. He felt comfortable, the warm comfortableness you get when you're nicely un-sober. Not drunk, just… un-sober.
"I can wait out some stupid rain," he muttered to himself and contented himself to sit with his back to the bar to watch the rain trickle down the large window panes. More events were yet to befall poor Johnny Theremin, weirder occurrences than he usually encountered. The crazy lady who believed she was famous was about as odd as his life had got.
Sighing, Johnny looked at the piece of paper Lorne had given him and realised that it was actually a flyer folded in half. He looked at the address Lorne had left and noted that Lorne was correct – it really was quite close to where the office was. Intrigued, Johnny unfolded the flyer and peered at the advert. It was for a bar in Soho called The Singing Fish. Johnny noted how stupid the name sounded, but then realised that the owner of the bar sounded familiar.
"Belladonna La Poisson," he murmured, a part of his brain tickling with the familiarity of the name. A vague recollection of an usual looking woman, who was strangely beautiful woman with long flowing black hair and large lugubrious eyes. He wasn't sure where he had heard the name before, but he could deal with that later.
For now, he waited.