5

  The name of Humphrey’s agency – ‘Somehow’ – was a masterpiece of self-deprecation.

  Of course, it’d been christened back in the days before he’d met and married Anthea, when he still had total responsibility for his own deprecation. She’d very quickly taken over the running of that particular department from him, along with a remarkably long list of others.

  ‘Somehow’.

  It was definitely catchy.

  It gave no real indication to the general public as to what it was really about either.

  You really had to want to find out more.

  At the beginning, he hadn’t even had a telephone number and, over the years, although he’d been steadily forced to accept certain technological advances through pure necessity, he had proudly continued to remain something of an enigmatic presence on the High Street.

  He’d always believed in the value of face-to-face negotiations and business dealings; at least, he had until his marriage anyway.

  That experience had managed to skew quite a few of his beliefs.

  In fact, some of them had been damaged quite beyond any sort of cost-effective repair.

  He’d established one thing right from the start; if folk wanted to find out what he was doing inside the offices of ‘Somehow’, then they would jolly well have to come inside and ask him. They wouldn’t just be looking him up in a phone book and calling him from the comfort of their armchairs. No way. In later years, they wouldn’t just be firing off a lazy and impersonal email either.

  No, if they wanted him, they had to find him.

  He wanted people who had made the effort to do that: the ones who had already thought things through; the ones who may well have followed a trail of dead ends that would have left all time-wasters by the wayside.

  He wanted people out of their comfort zones, to prove to him they meant business.

  Anyone who did that would get his undivided attention. All he had to do in the meantime was sit in his office eating crisps, waiting for them.

  It hadn’t even been a show business agency, not in the beginning.

  Humphrey had, originally, been operating more as a renegade life coach. The fact that he was sadly lacking in all suitable qualifications had preyed on his conscience considerably however, and he’d therefore decided it was best to be upfront about all that with his clients, right from the off. Honesty seemed to be in short supply in most areas of existence and he was going to try to redress the balance.

  The very notion of that had turned his father’s face the same colour as a glass of Ribena but that had only served to spur Humphrey on.

  Hadn’t that same spluttering figure told him, on umpteen previous occasions,

  ‘Those that can, do: while people like you will just have to manage “Somehow’’’?

  He should have been proud of him.

  There could always have been a first time.

  His father had never made the effort to try to understand him, that was the problem.

  One of them, at least.

  That name was a marketing master stroke!

  Of course, under ordinary circumstances the old git might have had a point. Voluntarily admitting to potential clients that you possess no actual talent of your own might not immediately seem to be a very sensible way of securing a regular income.

  And yet, something truly bizarre had begun to happen: his honesty itself had become his talent! People instinctively felt they could trust him and they could rely on him.

  Besides which, a man of the sort of gargantuan size that he’d been in those days would’ve been easy enough to hunt down and destroy, if he and his coaching advice had really pissed anyone off.

  Then there were the prices.

  Humphrey still had in his possession the old fag packet upon which he’d worked out most of them. He treasured it even more these days, given that it was one of the few things he’d been permitted to keep by his ex-wife’s damn lawyer. The prices had needed adjusting as his popularity had increased although, interestingly enough, he’d proceeded to make his services less expensive.

  Not what might have been expected, perhaps; which was precisely why it had appealed to him.

  He’d come full circle on that one.

  In the beginning he’d charged very little but had then been forced to look on in horror as his clients completely ignored most of his advice. A quick soul-search one morning, in the company of three dozen jam doughnuts, had led Humphrey to the obvious answer: they hadn’t valued his wisdom simply because it hadn’t cost them much. So, he’d taken his fag packet and had then plucked from the air some of the most eye-watering prices ever seen, outside of a budget airline’s list of compulsory extras.

  Within a week he was turning down business and so, within a week, he was able to reduce his prices back down to something slightly less reminiscent of blatant daylight robbery. His obvious popularity now – rather bizarrely – ensured his clients’ trust so an attack on their rainy day fund to focus their minds was, thankfully, no longer necessary.

  Money had never been his motivation.

  He’d leave his father and the others like him to worship, distastefully, at that altar.

  Meanwhile, Humphrey would have far more important things to do.

  Like actually taking care of his clients, for instance.

  His success had boiled down to just one thing.

  Belief.

  His charges had to believe in him, of course, but all he had to do was let them.

  All he had to do, in fact, was nothing.

  Nothing whatsoever.

  People would come through his door nursing long-held desires, things they passionately wanted to do or to change, things that they didn’t think they had the courage to even try to achieve on their own.

  And Humphrey simply had to sit there and do nothing.

  Well, nothing except listen to them.

  That was a vastly underrated skill though, actually taking the time to listen to people.

  Certainly, nobody had ever taken the time to listen to him.

  He didn’t mean nodding, vacuously, at his clients while they were talking either, as an unseen internal jukebox cranked out a nice bit of loud Muzak to prevent him from falling asleep through sheer boredom in mid-nod.

  He meant giving them his complete, undivided, attention.

  The whole show business aspect of his career had blossomed from there.

  Well, perhaps not ‘blossomed’ exactly. That might imply there’d been beautiful little buds of fresh talent sprouting up in every direction.

  It hadn’t been quite like that.

  The showbiz hopefuls Humphrey had begun to cultivate were inclined, by their very nature, to require unbelievable levels of nurturing and attention as well as almost infinite amounts of time and patience.

  That was something he could completely understand.

  Even if, after all that, it was usually discovered that the resulting bloom did not really live up to any realistic horticultural expectation.

  However, rather than being humanely left to rot on some sort of slowly decomposing entertainment compost heap somewhere, most of his ‘discoveries’ were subsequently able to make quite a reasonable living for themselves.

  One way or another.

  The ones with a burning desire to play the spoons in the orchestra at the Royal Variety Performance, or with a desperate need to spend their remaining days as members of the, virtually anonymous, ensemble of a London musical, were relatively easy to please.

  They were the hybrids really, the ones who still had real and tangible dreams. Humphrey delighted in working with those people. Even if their goals proved just that bit beyond them, it almost always proved to be a mutually enjoyable experience. The journey towards the realisation; the new paths it could lead to and what it said about them, that was the point.

  That was the key.

  But there were others, whose numbers he’d seen steadily grow throughout the years. They were completely different to the sorts of clients he’d originally been looking to help. They had neither the desire nor the inclination to even set themselves any realistic goals and were usually after one of two things; fame or money.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Or, of course, both.

  The pursuit of fame seemed to be the more popular while, oddly, the idea of being rich without being famous appealed to relatively few people. In fact, there seemed a really rather incredible number who would happily have lived out their lives in the spotlight, even if it meant being forced to borrow the price of a cup of tea from the nearest charitable church mouse. Most of them would’ve been only too delighted to endure ongoing financial penury if it meant being recognised in the street by members of the public. And it didn’t even seem to make a blind bit of difference to any of them what they were actually recognised for:

  “Serial Shagger”?

  Result!

  “Celebrity Sponger”?

  Nice one!

  One of Humphrey’s rabble had, in fact, once reached the definitive all-time low of selling his own grandmother, purely for the publicity.

  Fair enough, it had actually been Humphrey’s idea… but he’d obviously never intended for it to ever be taken seriously. It’d been said in exasperation, as a throwaway remark:

  ‘You would sell your own grandmother for the publicity’.

  Just a stupid throwaway comment, that was all. He had certainly not expected to find the woman’s particulars in that week’s edition of ‘Exchange and Mart’.

  Strangely enough, she’d then managed to attract more publicity, out of the whole episode, than her seriously put-out grandson, on account of the sudden onslaught of interviews and morning television appearances that had arrived hot on the heels of her best ‘Or Near Offer’ price.

  Humphrey could easily understand – and, indeed, empathise with – anybody who felt like they needed a bit of attention. He even recognised that complete inability to differentiate between ‘good’ or ‘bad’ attention.

  Hence his own, ill-advised, teenage adventures with his father.

  But that was different.

  Most of these people were, literally, a danger to themselves.

  Barney Adams.

  Yes: a prime example there, if ever there was one.

  ‘Well, you wanted to be famous, Barney. Tell me, do “Wanted” posters count?’

  Barney didn’t quite understand all aspects of that question.

  Or was it two questions?

  If it was two questions they surely couldn’t be in any way associated.

  Because if they were, then Humphrey clearly didn’t know him very well. Barney’s mental processing powers were fragile at best. But there was no shame in not being an intellectual.

  How many of them were famous?

  No, it was no good, he’d never be able to get the hang of this thinking lark.

  The echo was giving him a splitting headache for a start.

  Oh great, it looked like Humphrey was going to answer his own question.

  Or was it two questions?

  Well, however many it was, that would probably be the best plan anyway.

  Barney might have to ask him for an aspirin or two once he’d answered his own question.

  Or was it two questions...?

  ‘It is fame you want, is that right? Not money?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely! In any case, you don’t need to be rich once you’re famous. Because it’s implied.’

  Humphrey eyed him, suspiciously.

  ‘ “Implied” by who exactly?’

  Barney was aghast.

  Humphrey was supposed to be a man of the world!

  ‘Well, women of course. Women!’

  Humphrey threw down his pen in exasperation.

  So, ‘women’.

  The whole sorry saga had taken a grave new turn.

  ‘When you say “women”, Barney, are you perchance thinking of fame-hungry gold-diggers, just by any chance?’

  ‘With big boobs. Yes, that’s it.’

  This time Humphrey threw up his hands in exasperation.

  Barney’s own hands were clearly holding two – imaginary – approximations of these, apparently desirous, attributes.

  Either that or he’d just grabbed hold of two, invisible, prize-winning watermelons.

  The poor sod was becoming a parody in front of his very eyes: a stereotype. It was but a short, paparazzi-infested, journey from honest and hard-working artist to shameless media whore. And even if he did become famous, once any of the sort of girls he was dreaming of got their hooks into him they’d have all the sordid details in “Crap!” or “Rubbish!” or some similar trash magazine before anyone could say they’d slept with and then cheated on Jack Robinson.

  Well, he wasn’t going to be dragging Humphrey down that slippery slope with him. Boobs the size and texture of the stone spheres of Costa Rica might well appeal to those who couldn’t think for themselves, but there were other options: far more realistic ones.

  Like the sort of boobs that resembled a couple of old sandbags; the sort that came halfway down to their owner’s knees every time she took her bra off.

  Yes.

  As far as Humphrey was concerned, there was a great deal to be said for the likes of them.

  And God, how he missed Anthea.

  ‘Don’t you want to hear what happened last night?’

  ‘I already know, Sonny Jim. Your singing defied description.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  This was the sort of pivotal moment where Humphrey really earned his money.

  He sat on his hands though, just in case they betrayed his measured calm and made an independent lunge towards Barney’s throat.

  ‘Well, let’s look on the bright side… at least you’re getting noticed.’

  Barney beamed back at him.

  Such a wide-eyed, trusting expression.

  Just like a baby seal.

  A baby seal who assumes he’s about to be fawned over but who is in much greater danger of being brutally clubbed to death.

  Humphrey scrutinised him.

  He’d seen that expression in his own mirror enough times to be able to identify with it, on every single level. That had been him, all those years ago. Desperately trying to get noticed, usually by doing the wrong things. With Barney it was the singing; or the attempt at singing at any rate. With him, it had been the embracing of his more ‘artistic’ side.

  He’d stood there, like Barney now, and silently begged for his father’s attention.

  And he’d got it too.

  He shifted, very slightly, in his chair as he remembered the usual way that attention had manifested itself.

  Nevertheless, if someone is taking his belt to you he cannot, by definition, be dragging his trolley round the golf course or propping up the clubhouse bar.

  Although, that wasn’t to say that he hadn’t been there, in spirit.

  That was a depressing thought. Could it really have been that even those precious times together hadn’t been all they’d seemed?

  Then again, it would’ve been no worse than what Humphrey himself was doing to Barney at that very moment. What about that promise made, all those years ago, to always listen intently to his clients?

  As long as this particular one did not try to burst into song, of course.

  ‘Did you know you’ve got a fan club?’

  Barney was obviously pondering that question.

  He was frowning so hard it looked as though his face was collapsing on itself.

  Which could still have been a major improvement.

  ‘No! Me?’

  ‘I know, I know: it’s astonishing, isn’t it?’

  Wait though, that woman had called herself an ‘Appreciator’ hadn’t she, not a fan.

  Was there a difference between the two definitions?

  It would seem to be arguing semantics and for no particularly good reason. Whoever these people were they were clearly off the charts in terms of good sense, taste and sanity.

  The whole thing was obviously beyond Barney’s limited comprehension.

  Along with most things, in all honesty.

  Now, how was Humphrey going to break it to him that the woman he’d met earlier on did not exactly have the boobs of his dreams?

  Mind you, Sandra might easily fall – rather top-heavily – into that category. Not that her former brother-in-law had ever noticed or anything like that. Although it had been extraordinarily difficult not to: sometimes.

  And that woman was a fan of Barney’s?

  Life wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t.

  There were so many questions that had been left unanswered when that lady and her gingham had gone. And there was really only one way for Humphrey to try and find some of those answers.

  He would have to go and find Sandra.

  And how would he find Sandra?

  He’d just have to go and ask Anthea.

  Yes!

  Finally, an excuse to go and see her, without having it look like he wanted to see her.

  Fantastic!

  Ah, but he couldn’t really mention the bit about wanting to find Sandra. Because it would be just awful if Anthea became jealous.

  And it would be utterly catastrophic if she didn’t.

  Perhaps he’d be better off staying right where he was and finishing his chocolate?

  ‘Do you mean that people actually like me?’

  God, just look at him.

  Honestly, if he’d put on a bit of make-up and had his eyebrows plucked it really would’ve been like looking in a mirror from the 1980s.

  ‘Damn right they do. I will say this though, I don’t know enough of the details yet to be able to ascertain precisely why they do. Frankly, I wouldn’t even like to hazard a guess in that direction until I’ve looked at least one of them right in the eyes and seen for myself how far her pupils are dilated.’

  ‘But people actually like me?’

  Humphrey swallowed hard.

  ‘Yes, son. Of course they do!’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without you. You believe in me, don’t you, Humphrey?’

  Hang on.

  Was that a statement, a question or a threat of some description?

  Humphrey was taking no chances.

  ‘My God, Barney – look at that!’

  Bless him, Barney could only ever really successfully focus on one item of importance at any one time. He did well to be able to breathe and move around simultaneously on a day-to-day basis. Now here he was, engaged in an intensive search of the immediate area for the imaginary diversionary tactic that Humphrey had deployed.

  Never mind.

  His short term memory wasn’t brilliant. Hopefully, by the time the search was called off, he would’ve forgotten all about that absurd little line of enquiry.

  There was only one way to find out.

  ‘Sorry, Barney. You were saying?’

  Barney looked puzzled, then confused and then hopelessly lost.

  Bingo!

  ‘Oh well, not to worry. It can’t have been all that important then, can it?’

  ‘What can’t, Humphrey?’

  Dear God Almighty.

  Surely he’d never been this obtuse, had he?

  Even as he thought that, he became acutely aware of a different group of memories which were beginning to organise themselves into an orderly queue ready for his attentions.

  He tried to remain one step ahead of them.

  ‘All right then, Barney: onward and, well, I suppose upward. I have got you a gig next Tuesday. Before you ask, yes, we can call it a “singing” engagement if we really have to. But I do advise you to work on a back-up act if that is going to be the case. Something like the Duke Boys used to do, you know… diving into your own General Lee without having to stop to open the doors first and then doing nought to sixty in four seconds. It’s at that wine bar, on the way up to the station.’

  Barney looked concerned.

  Or maybe he simply had indigestion.

  It was really very difficult to say.

  ‘I thought I was banned from there?’

  Crikey, he was right.

  Humphrey should have remembered that.

  Of course, it was terribly difficult keeping track of all of Barney’s various ASBOs and restraining orders. Each one seemed to have its own unique little clauses and legal jargon.

  The one taken out by the vicar of one of the local churches was his own, personal, favourite.

  Humphrey had dispatched his tuneless troublemaker down there to sing at a harvest festival of all things.

  It sounded ridiculous in hindsight, of course it did.

  But then, Barney’s singing tended to sound ridiculous in pretty much every single circumstance. That was still no reason for the vicar to have double-crossed them like that, though.

  You really couldn’t trust anyone these days, it was true.

  Once Barney had frightened all the mice away from the comestibles, the clergyman had only gone and called the police on him! And young Barney had, eventually, found himself banned from the church and the grounds – to a depth of six feet – on the basis that ‘singing like his could waken the dead’.

  Which was a very real threat, Humphrey had – reluctantly – been forced to concede.

  But what about that wine bar?

  Ah yes, that’s right: Barney wasn’t allowed to go within a hundred metres of there.

  Was that right?

  Or was that the distance he was required to keep away from that double-glazing showroom?

  Would a hundred metres from anything be able to provide an adequate buffer zone from the horrors that could be unleashed, quite effortlessly, by that charismatically clueless chord-crusher?

  He’d have to check the paperwork again.

  He wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to discover that it was a hundred mile exclusion zone they were actually dealing with.

  At least.