12: The Flaming Furies

Polly is still missing, but help is at hand in the shape of the Flaming Furies. They're loud, loyal and on a mission, so best get out of the way. Brighton won’t know what’s hit it.

I opened the door after a panicky knock, and a tall, slim man in a skin-tight silver T-shirt barged past me. ‘We’re here, darling,’ he announced, heading straight for the kitchen.

Three people were still standing on the doorstep, the oldest of whom said, ‘I’m sorry about him. He’s a bit distraught.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ said one of the others – a woman dressed in a way that reminded me of Polly.

‘Yes,’ the older man replied, ‘But that’s no excuse for bad manners.’ He held his hand out, and although I found the formality odd, I shook it.

‘I’m Carl,’ he said, his warm eyes and deep voice giving off a parental air. Pointing to the others, he continued, ‘This motley crew are Niall, Loz, and the other is Costas.’

‘Collectively known as the Flaming Furies,’ said Niall, ‘Nurses by day, performers by night. Think Kate Bush meets the Dubliners, if you know what I mean.’

‘I doubt she wants an elevator pitch about your cabaret show,’ said Carl.

He was right; I didn’t really care about their nocturnal activities. I did, however, recognise some of the sycophants who had hung around Diana at her after-show soiree.

‘We’re here to see Diana. Can we come in, please?’ said Carl.

‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘Of course. Diana’s in there.’

I followed them into the kitchen. Loz, the one who dressed like Polly, plonked the box she was carrying on the countertop, shaking her arms with relief.

‘There you go, Di,’ she said, ‘two thousand. Should be enough to get us going.’

Diana opened the box, paused, then pulled out a large glossy sheet. Polly’s vivid, smiling face appeared before us, the sun shining behind her. Rays of light twinkled through her bright yellow hair, which was tied in knots, Björk-style, just like it had been the last time I saw her.

It was the perfect picture, bright and eye-catching and unmistakably Pol. The designer, whom I guessed was Loz, had captured her essence. She’d even included pictures of a silver bomber jacket, a pink feather boa and glittery platform shoes down the side of the poster – not the same as Polly’s, but a good enough likeness for someone unfamiliar with Polly’s sense of style to understand her look.

‘Will they do?’ Loz asked.

‘They’re magnificent, Loz,’ Diana replied, ‘She looks like the perfect little cherub that she is. I defy anyone to look at this and not be moved by her plight.’

‘Or the thousand-pound reward,’ said Carl, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

Before Diana could reply, there was another knock at the door, which Carl answered. Another four people entered the kitchen, the rest of Diana’s entourage, and busied themselves, emptying stuff onto the kitchen counters. The room had suddenly burst into life, bringing with it a sense of hope. It felt good to be industrious, but I would need to make tracks soon - I had a date with Michael.

‘Any news, darling?’ asked one of the men emptying bags.

‘Nope, not a thing,’ said Diana, ‘we rang around the hospitals and have informed the police, but so far, nothing. I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck, Carl?’

‘No. I’m very worried about her this time, Diana. I’ve checked all the usual places and people, but no one’s seen or heard anything.’

I was curious about this Carl bloke. Diana had mentioned him in passing before, saying he was her go-to for finding Polly in the past. But he seemed different to the others. He was older for a start, probably about fifty, and he was wearing a three-piece suit. The others looked like they had wandered into an army surplus store on their way to a disco – all Doc Martens, glitter tops, and utility belts; not to mention Niall’s tutu.

‘That’s about to change,’ said Diana. ‘Once these go up around Brighton, someone will contact us – I can feel it.’

‘Right you are,’ said Niall. ‘We’d better get our freak on then. Which of yas has the staple guns?’

‘They’re here,’ said one of the newcomers, holding up a rucksack.

‘Fabulous,’ said Costas, grabbing the bag, then raising his voice to address the room. ‘Right, everyone; take a staple gun, pins and roll of tape, and as many posters as you can carry. We’ll be putting posters up on trees, telegraph poles, and anywhere else you can stick ‘em.’

A few saucy eyebrows were raised at this double-entendre, but it didn’t stop anyone hanging on Costas’ every word. ‘Don’t forget to pop some inside cafés and pubs as well. Milly and Molly, you cover around the station and down around the Albert. Ade and Wendy, London Road. Niall and Loz, West Street and around Churchill Square shopping centre. I’ll cover around the Mash Tun and the Theatre Royal.’

‘And remember,’ Diana interrupted, ‘Polly is our sister. She is missing and could be in terrible danger. We need to find her as soon as possible.’ The group nodded at this point, and Diana gestured to Costas, who continued.

‘Ask around for information as you go. We need to make sure everyone in this town knows about Polly, so plaster those posters everywhere, people. Now let’s go to work.’

And with that, they filed out, staple guns and posters in hand. I was amazed - and a little humbled - by their resolve and how well-organised and downright determined they were. As Diana’s hangers-on, I had thought them a frivolous bunch of feckless wannabes, but having seen them in action and the way they came together and just got on with it, I was left in no doubt that the whole town would be looking for Polly in no time. Wannabes they may have been, but feckless? Not on your nelly.