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Driving Lessons Chapter 19 - Jailhouse Rock
"Why in God's name am I stuck here with you?" England was sat on the floor and eyed France who sat opposite him on the bench/bed.
They were in a tiny cell the size of Denmark's head, and it was just like Denmark's head - empty, dusty and quite dark.
"Can we have a light on at least? Can I have a phone call?" England called. "We're entitled to one phone call each."
"Did you see ze nice police officer? I zink he likes me."
England crinkled his nose as if someone had stuck a turd under it. "I do not zink, I mean er think, that you feeling that policeman's bottom helped our predicament."
"Non?"
"What do you mean 'non'?" Non, it didn't or are you disagreeing with me?"
France thought about this.
England didn't wait for his answer, "Since you moved into my house you've ruined my life!" he said. "Don't interrupt me!" he added even before France had opened his mouth. "You've got me arrested, ruined my reputation with the other Nations, my bathroom got vandalised by Russia because of you, I married Belarus - illegally I might add - because of you, and, and… I missed the last episode of Downton Abbey."
"Your life was boring before I came along. Face it, mon ami. All ze Nations now zink zat you are a ladies' man."
"That is not good!" England yelled.
The door opened before England could launch himself at France.
"Is it ze boy?" France asked. (He, England and often Scotland referred to America as the 'boy'.) It wasn't. It was a policeman.
"You!" he pointed at England. "You're allowed one telephone call to your lawyer."
"I don't have one." England said.
"A next of kin?"
England thought about this. He certainly was not going to ring any of his brothers. They all hated him.
"Alfred?" he asked as soon as the phone on the other end of the line was picked up. It was his own landline phone he'd rung. His logic for this was that surely America would have gone straight back there and as his own mobile phone had been confiscated, he could not remember any other numbers. It wasn't Alfred, however. It was someone else. That someone else sounded very familiar.
"Hullo? This is Arthur Kirkland's house," came the mystery voice. It sounded quite squeaky and high-pitched.
"Who the bloody hell is this?"
"Is this one of those scam phone calls? I'm not sending any money to Nigeria."
"I don't want any money. Actually I do, for bail. And I know it's Arthur Kirkland's house. It's my bloody house!"
"Oh yes? A likely story."
"Who is this?" England asked, suspicious.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Arthur! Who are you?"
"Well this is Arthur's house, so how can you be Arthur?"
This was insane, England thought. "Denmark! If that's you on helium, I will end you!"
"Denmark?"
"Whoever you are, you need to come down to Highgate Police Station and bring money," England said. For all he knew he was talking to a bloody burglar.
"Ah! Money! I knew it was a scam!"
England was about to shout something else but stopped to think who it could be. Austria? He could be known as a troll. Denmark? He didn't rule this out, but the person sounded too articulate. Prussia? It certainly wasn't his brother, Hamish. Scotland couldn't disguise his Scottish accent if his life depended on it.
He was about to say something else when the policeman cut the phone off. "Two minutes are up."
"Well, bloody damn!" England said and then saw the man's severe look and said in as polite a way as possible, "Can I call someone else?"
"No." The policeman led him back to the cell and pointed at France, "Now you."
He was clearly not a conversationalist.
"You may have to carry me in your big strong arms," France simpered.
England shook his head at him.
"I am wounded you see…" France pointed at his foot. "I have been in such battles you have no idea…"
"You're an armed forces veteran? I thought you were a hairdresser?"
"Oui, Colonel Bonnefoy of ze Resistance."
"Francis…" England warned.
"I mean French Foreign Legion," France corrected.
"What a load of codswallop! You've never been in a desert in your life!" England shouted.
"You shouldn't abuse the vets. He's obviously spilt blood for his country," the policeman said.
"I have!" France said dramatically. "And wine…" he added, hopping to the door. But the policeman hadn't heard. "I have seen lots of action…" he leered.
"So have I! A bloody sight more than you!" England yelled after them.
"He was in ze scouts." England heard France say as the door was closed and locked.
England sagged against the door. "Ring Alfred or someone sensible," he shouted. (The two were obviously not the same person.) "He'd better bloody not be playing bloody Fish or whatever the bloody hell that game is and don't bloody waste your call on trying to have some wine delivered!"
Over at England's house, America was indeed playing Call of Duty (so England was almost correct…). The American looked up as Tony (the alien) walked in.
"Who was that on the phone, dude?" he asked.
Tony shrugged, "A scammer asking for money."
America nodded. "You can't trust anyone these days. I wonder when England and Francy-pants will ring?"
Tony (the alien) shook his head, looking straight in America's eyes as he did so.
"I wonder if they're still in that police station?" America said to himself and went back to his game. Tony (the alien) ignored him and wandered off upstairs.
The other Tony (Spain) came in, "I made paella!"
"Yo Spain, my main man!"
Spain, who had never been called anyone's 'main man' before looked quite alarmed.
America guzzled the paella, talked with his mouth full, "So what do you reckon, man?"
Spain looked worried.
"Do you think we should rescue Francy-pants as well?" America asked.
Tony (Spain) nodded, "He's my friend."
"Do you think they're still in custard?" America asked.
Obviously, America meant custody, but Spain did not know this and looked even more worried. "That would be terrible!" he said, thinking of England's cooking. He'd partaken of England's custard once and did not wish to repeat the experience.
"Then that settles it! I'll just finish this paella," America pronounced it 'pee-ella'. "Grab my big spoon and we'll get going! Yeehaw!"
Meanwhile, over at the police station...
"Zay love me, zay really do, mon ami."
"No, they don't."
"You say zis as you are jealous."
"I'm saying zis, I mean this, because it's clearly untrue."
"Why do you zay zis?"
"Because that man threw you in and then wiped his hands. He looked pleased to be rid of you."
"Ah oui…"
England shook his head. This conversation was like plaiting fog, "Who did you ring anyway?" he asked, to change the topic.
"Pierre, my most faithful servant."
"Poor bugger. I thought he'd retired."
"Zis is Pierre mark two."
"Ah."
"And zen I rang ze most reliable Nation I could zink of."
"Oh no, I don't want any of zem, I mean them, to know I'm in jail."
France smiled, "Eet eez all over ze youtube."
"Damn! Who did you ring? Reliable?" England racked his brains, "Estonia? Lithuania?" They were the only sensible Nations he could think of.
"Non non…" France shook his head at each of these suggestions.
"Who zen… I mean, then?"
"Your French accent is coming along well," France observed.
"Bugger off."
"Prussia and Denmark of course."
"You've got to be absolutely kidding me! They aren't sensible. They've never been sensible. You might as well have phoned a bunch of monkeys."
"But Prussia is very good at plotting, mon ami."
"He's an idiot. He managed to lead a Panzer division off a cliff in the War."
"Ah leetle Gilbert…" France smiled at the memory.
"And if I remember rightly, the German High Command did not allow him to any meetings after he put laxatives in the tea."
"Ah oui."
"If he does that with his own allies…" England didn't finish his rant. The wall of the cell exploded inwards and France who had been sitting on the bench with his back to the wall was flung across the cell into England's arms.
"Mon dieu!"
"Well men, this is it! Now we have to storm the building!" America yelled to his 'men'.
These 'men' consisted of Spain (still holding a briefcase full of tomatoes), Prussia and Denmark who happened to turn up at the police station at the same time as America, and a harrassed-looking Frenchman by the name of Pierre.
"You're Francis' stooge aren't you?" Prussia asked the man.
The man nodded. He looked nervous. As well he might - surrounded as he was by Nations.
"Who are we rescuing? A cute chick?" Denmark asked.
"Nah man. Francis." Prussia answered.
"He's not cute or a chick," Denmark said and took a swig of beer and belched loudly.
"That's just your opinion," Prussia told him.
"We're here to rescue dude Artie and Francy-pants from a dessert situation!" America said.
"Do you mean desert?" Prussia asked, frowning.
"No! It's exactly as I said," America told him.
"He's not been baking again has he?" Prussia looked worried.
Spain was not happy, "I do not like England. He split up me and Belgium."
Prussia nodded, "He's a buzzkill."
"He's a fellow Nation and he's stuck in custard," America said confidently. This obviously called for a rescue in his eyes and as he was the hero he should be the one to lead it.
"He didn't give us a tip for when we drove him and Belarus," Denmark pointed out.
"Don't say that name!" Prussia yelled, shuddering and looking around nervously.
"Well men, let's do this!" America yelled. "I bet John Wayne didn't pro… pro…"
"Procrastinate?" Pierre offered.
"… No, I mean mess around," America said.
"We're with you, dude," Denmark said.
"I'm not…" Spain muttered.
But America marched into the police station and leaned across the front desk. A very large Police Sergeant looked back at him, "Well?"
"Yes, I am, thanks." America said. He'd been taught to be polite by England.
"What do you want?"
"Howdy!" America said. (Obviously still channeling John Wayne) "We've come for our pals…"
"Well pals is putting it a bit strong," Prussia interrupted.
Denmark nodded and belched.
"You two people look familiar," the policeman said.
"Well we might be! We're very famous!" Prussia said.
"We were on Britain's Got Talent!" Denmark said.
"No Den… it was X Factor."
"I think you'll find it was Britain's Got Talent."
"Or was it Britain's Got Talent? I can't remember. Maybe you're right?" Prussia looked confused and rubbed his awesome hair.
"I can't remember which stage we got thrown off," Denmark agreed.
"There's been so many," Prussia nodded.
"That Simon Cowell didn't like it when you mooned him."
"No or when you snogged Cheryl Cole!"
"Happy days…"
"X Factor!" they both shouted together and high-fived each other.
America turned to them, "Shut up, dudes! This is serious. We have to rescue Artie and creepy dude Francy-pants from that custard." He turned back to the Sergeant. "I brought a big spoon to help eat the custard."
Before the Nations (and Pierre) knew what was happening they had been thrown out, down the steps of the police station and were lying in a tangle of arms and legs on the pavement. A large London police officer stood at the top of the steps glaring at them.
America jumped to his feet (after shoving Prussia off him first) and dusted himself down. He didn't appear to be bothered or disheartened by this turn of events. He was American and a hero and heroes did not get downhearted or put off. Even if they had someone stood next to them telling them that they should 'give up and go home'.
Even if they were at the wrong police station.
England stared at the hole in the cell wall. France was clinging to him and saying he had saved his life.
"Alfred? Did you blow a bloody hole in that wall?" England called, shoving France off him.
A huge green scaly head suddenly appeared and filled the hole. It was not Alfred.
"Aaargh!" England screamed.
"Honestly, Arthur. You are such a drama queen!" China said, also poking his head through the opening.
"Drama queen?! It's a bloody dragon!"
"We are rescuing you," China told him calmly.
"Well we were waiting for America," England replied as he gingerly got on board the dragon.
Sirens could be heard and alarms. It seemed to be the soundtrack of his life at the moment.
"Well I don't see him anywhere, do you?" China said and began telling 'Mr Ping' the directions in Chinese.
France climbed on behind England and wrapped his arms around England's waist. England, in turn, had his arms around China.
"Europeans…" China muttered under his breath as he looked back at France's pasty white face and England's angry, confused look.
France put his head on England's back and nuzzled him, "Ah mon cher! Do not let me fall."
"You bloody poof! Man up will you!" England said. Although he did have some consternation, despite using this mode of transportation before.
And then he felt an odd vibrating sensation in the region of his lower lumbar region, somewhere close to his left buttock. "Jesus Christ on a sunbed, France! What in God's name are you doing, you pervert?"
"Ah, mon phone. Eet eez vibrating!" France said and took it out of his pocket, clinging to England with the other arm. "I have a text message!"
"Well thank God for that!"
"Eet eez your next date, mon ami."
"Date?!" England almost fell off the dragon.
"Oui!" France sounded excited. "Ah you will adore zis one."
"Oh no…" England moaned. He was really looking forward to an evening in front of the television with his slippers and Coronation Street. His plans did not involve another excruciatingly bad date where he ended the evening passed out or in a jail cell.