Don Blanco urged the harbourmaster to try and find some more power in the small fishing boats engine as it chugged its way out of London town and upstream towards a quiet empty stretch of river. Mr Sempleton finally fully recovered from the Fisherman’s Friend incident emerged from the boats small cabin adjusting his deer stalker.
“So what’s happening chaps, ooh what a jolly pretty stretch of river reminds me of Wind in the Willows.”
Don Blanco jumped up and lurched toward the English detective, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him violently.
“Listen you idiota, my friend is going to die if we do not reach him soon and all you can talk about is the scenery Santa Maria Socrates help me.”
Suarez intervened taking Don Blanco by the arm and then he spoke.
“Torado is my dearest oldest and sweetest friend, if we cannot reach him in time I too shall surely die because by heart will break and shatter into a thousand pieces but we must remain strong and calm.”
Sadness descended over the boat, even the harbour master though he did not really know these men or their kidnapped compatriot Torado felt the pain that had ached in the words of Suarez.
Mr Sempleton walked over to Don Blanco and wrapped an arm around him and in a voice full of kindness and care apologized.
“Don Blanco you must accept my apology, I have not quite been myself ever since those blasted Fisherman’s Friends. Do not worry I will do whatever it takes to release Torado from the clutches of these animals that smear the name of my country so.”
The Don thanked him for his kind words then turned to address Suarez, Gilberto and Gonzalo.
“We must find a quiet stretch of river, it is about 20 miles upstream where the banks are full of weeping willows, there Signor Robbiati told me is a long haired man of the river. He guards a pair of giant wooden doors in the middle of the water and he will take us to this dreaded island.”
Then he grabbed the bulging biceps of Gilberto and Gonzalo.
“Be ready to fight boys!”
The huge footed Brazilian and the swarthy Argentine defender gave a deferential nod towards the Don.
The boat continued on up the river, the day was mild and the trees that dotted the riverbank were starting to show the first small green buds of the approaching spring on their spindly branches.
At one point they passed some huge carefully manicured laws as green as the greenest Rio Grandean avocado, towering up from the lawn was a magnificent grey stone castle.
“What is that?” asked Gilberto pointing at the castle.
“That” said Mr Sempleton “is Windsor castle the residence of our great Queen Elizabeth.”
“Santa Domingo Socrates Rolando Cristobal” shouted Gilberto “if I knew we were going to see the queen I would have changed my slippers.” And then pointed at his once purple velvet slippers that were now caked in a combination of dried mud and sea kelp. Everyone laughed and just for a second the men’s tension, worry and fear slipped away. They were at that very moment just six men enjoying a day out on the river Thameses.
As the boat continued its journey chugging its way upstream across the borders of each new shire the distance between the houses along the riverbank grew. Each house seemed larger than the one before like gigantico Hacienda’s thought Don Blanco.
Mr Sempleton piped up. “I know this stretch of river, my grandpapa used to take me crayfish poaching here as a little boy.”
“These houses are huge, who an earth owns them?” asked Suarez pointing at a huge faux Gothic monstrosity on the riverbank
“No Rio Grandean that’s for sure” laughed Gilberto
“These” replied the English detective “are the properties of England’s elite classes my friend. Bankers, Estate agents, Rowing coaches, Rotary club members and crooked politicians.”
As the fishing boat floated past one of the huge mansions that hung over the river, Don Blanco saw two white wooden signs poking up from the manicured lawn. One read Keep of the Grass the other said Rowers do it better footballers don’t do it at all. Incensed by the sign Don Blanco pulled out his ivory pistola and deposited the whole clip in the sign leaving it riddled with bullet holes. Suarez snatched the gun from the Don’s hand “tranquillo Don Blanco,tranquillo amigo.”
Then a short beetroot faced bald man, emerged from the ostentatious doors of the mansion and marched across the lawn shaking his fist at the occupants of the boat.
“What is the meaning of this bloody outrage.” As he stared at the gaping holes of his precious wooden sign, he eyed the faces of the men on the boat and seeing the deep olive skin of Don Blanco, Gilberto, Gonzalo and Suarez began to hurl xenophobic abuse in their direction.
“Bloody Immigrants, layabouts haven’t you been told Britain is closed to the likes of you, don’t you know?”
Don Blanco grabbed his pistola back from Suarez refilled the clip and fired four shots into the air, then at the top of his lungs shouted “Viva Rio Grandé, Viva Torado”
The bald beetroot shaped and coloured man fearing for his life jumped into the river and howls of laughter erupted from the boat as the man’s bald pate emerged from the water with a Mallard nesting on his head , mistaking the round shape of it for an un hatched egg than needed incubating.
The man shouted angrily as the boat and the laughter drifted off upstream.
It took another 3 hours to reach the lock that was just a few miles downstream of the temple, by now it was mid-afternoon and the sky had taken on a dark grey hue that was neither pleasant nor reassuring. The lock keeper seeing the small boat approach, put down his ukulele that he had been strumming in an absent minded manner all day, stood up pressed the button spun the metal wheel, the huge wooden gates to the lock began to open and the small fishing vessel navigated its way skilfully through the opening doors.
The harbourmaster and Suarez tied the ropes to the metal ringlets on the bank by the boats aft and stern; Don Blanco skipped off the boat up the stone steps, removed his panama hat, pulled out a Fidelito Castrato cigar and struck a match against his gunpowder scarred cheek.
The lock keeper looked at the giant figure in the Cashmere suit and then down into the boat at the swarthy figures of Gilberto and Gonzalo and the strangely tweed suited deer stalker wearing figure of the English detective Mr Sempleton. He closed his eyes, he was sure he must have been having one of his acid flashbacks but when he re-opened them the same bizarre motley group of men were still staring back at him.
The Don stuck out his huge leathery hand “My name is Don Blanco, these men” he pointed at the fishing boat “are my most trusted allies and you are Mr Pottering I presume?”
The lock keeper almost entirely lost for words stuttered “er… erm… er yes, may I ask how... er… you know my name Sir?”
“you know a certain lady? A Signora Robbiati no?”
Christ thought the lock keeper; I thought my therapy sessions were supposed to be confidential. He started to think of all the secrets he had revealed to the Latina therapist who had become like a surrogate mother to him. Then a strong feeling of nausea started to overwhelm him. Did this man know that his very first erotic awakening had involved a pop-up book about the HMS Nelson and a particular page which had shown a detailed drawing of two sailors being flogged?
He tried to gather himself “Yes Yes She is my therapist, why?”
“Well you see my friend” said the Don “we are close friends/colleagues of her only son Signor Rolando Robbiati the famed manager of Rio Grandé”
“Viva Rio Grandé” came a shout from the boat.
“Er…ah…ok right, please to meet you” said the lock keeper feeling more confused than ever and at that point made a solemn promise to himself to never touch another drop of Olde Man Mindfuck again.
Don Blanco becoming increasingly impatient with the niceties expected of you when greeting the English gave the astounded looking river man a very brief synopsis of Torado’s kidnap.
“Now you my friend must lead us to this island and its temple at once!” And just to show the lock keeper that this was not a request but an order, he unbuttoned his cashmere jacket so the long haired man could see the ivory handle of the pistola.
However there had been no need for this demonstration as the lock keeper overwhelmed with happiness that his long held conspiracy theories had been confirmed and tiring of his life opening the river doors for the rich and privileged ; simply grabbed his tatty canvas bag and ukulele tore of his Thameses river agency sweater and leapt into the boat.
“Shall we go then?” he said grinning.
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