64 The Hon DJ - Part Three - The Pink Lover
It is time we spoke of the DJ’s lover. At least that’s how he viewed Mystery and her constant presence in his orbit. Whereas she, independent, unable and unwilling to be tamed, saw herself rather as a star who chose to flicker her light, upon him.
The daughter of Irish rebels with a cause, to her friends Mystery was precisely that – she had not been at school or university with any of the DJ’s inner sanctum and no one shared any memory of the day she arrived. There was simply life before Mystery and life after she placed herself at its epicentre. No one knew her in any other form other than Mystery, the Pink had been an addendum, given due to her obvious proclivity to cloth her body in some way with this colour.
And now I’m about to give you, dear reader, a delicious snippet of information to which not one of the Posse was privy – Mystery was an exquisitely trained assassin. What she wore tapped to the top of her thigh must be seen to be believed - a superbly thin knife, almost to the point of being bladeless. With genius dexterity, she used this piece of cunning to pierce both flesh and heart, leaving no discernible point of entry, albeit with just the slightest hiss of escaping blood upon extraction. To the right of the blade, the smallest set of fuse and detonator; to the left , two vials, one of PETN, the other RDX. Mystery was an expert in compounds and explosives.
Nights with Mystery tended to go off with a bang not a whimper – a shocking cliché, one which finds me audibly groaning as I write – but here the cliché is utterly correct and now watch what happens as the guests move closer, towards an elaborate mound of small tables, where in the middle, stacked high, a tumble of marzipan cakes, designed as silver trophies, each one hand painted, each carrying an inscription plate, each inscribed with an achievement, fictious or other, proclaiming the brilliance of the Honourable DJ, 8th Duke of Aldervalle, owner of all the eye can see, man of riches, music and soon to be, subterfuge. You may add to this, lover of Mystery – or so he thinks.
Yes! Please come closer! Yes do! invites the Dowager.
And the night is still and warm and filled with life and the sharp intake of excitement that elates ones twenties; a burning sensation that sticks in the back of the throat after too much, yet not enough, imbibing; the knowing, yet oblivious dial – this is fantastic, I am on my cusp of greatness, oh wonder of life drink me in, for here I stand before, I topple - over.
Yes, watch as his friends begin to sing, in his honour and the DJ takes a silver knife, pro-offered by a French patisserie chef, whose mastery of butter and eggs we stand before in collected admiration.
And the DJ holds the cake knife in the air, while beside him, Mystery strokes her thigh, as if she is checking her stocking. Our woman of the moment slides the smallest, the tiniest of detonators in synchronicity with her mans slicing action of his cake – down his knife comes – and as silver sugar splits – BOOM! Followed by another BOOM! And yet another! And from the heavens falls a cascade of silver, diamante rain and everyone cheers and looks up, shielding their eyes, up towards a bedazzled heaven, laughing at this confected marvel, shaking their heads at the Dowager’s super human ability to top this and every party season.
And only three people - you, me and a woman in a pink - know the truth.
If Mystery had a middle name it would be fearless.
Return as you will for Part Four