

I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

by

Barnaby Wilde

Copyright 1999 by Barnaby Wilde

Barnaby Wilde asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Smashwords

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Ostrich cover photo by Petr Kratochvil

Other works by the author.

A Question of Alignment – a Tom Fletcher novel
CHAPTER 1

I remember seeing a cartoon once, years ago, in a magazine, of two hippopotami wallowing in a mud pool. Just the tops of their heads were visible. I think it was Playboy magazine. The caption under the cartoon said, "I keep thinking it's Tuesday". That's all. It made me laugh. I've been thinking about it a lot recently. I don't mean deeply or philosophically, I mean often. I keep thinking it's Tuesday.

Listen. I have to tell you something. Something big. The biggest thing I've ever done. Well, I haven't exactly done it yet. But I shall. I've made the decision. That's the important thing. I've made the decision. I've decided to get rid of my wife.

Listen. I don't want to hurt her, you understand. I don't hate her. I love her. There's no other way though. I've been over it a hundred times. More like a thousand, actually. It would be the kindest thing. For me and for her.

I don't know why I'm telling you this. My plan depends on me not being suspected. This has to be the perfect crime. I haven't decided how to do it yet, you understand, but I have a few ideas. The main thing is that she mustn't suspect anything, and I don't want her to get hurt. That's important.

I think about things a lot. My mind, it's always working. Going over things. Analysing. Trying to understand how things work or why things happen. I analyse things to death. Sometimes I think I think too much. I wonder if everyone thinks as much as me? I doubt it. I think there must be something wrong with me. I don't have the switch. The switch that turns your mind off. I'm sure other people have it. I've seen them, looking vacant. Eyes wide open and bodies functioning, but brains turned off. They go into conservation mode. Saving power. But my switch is broken. I can't turn my brain off.

I tried to empty it once. To think of nothing at all. I thought about black. The colour black, but little lights kept coming on, like stars. So I thought of white instead, but my hair kept getting in my eyes. I used to have hair then.

I dried my tongue off once. To see how it would feel. I stuck it out and let the air dry it right off to see how it would feel.

It felt dry.

Actually I was scared about emptying my mind. I thought I might not be able to restart it. I knew a man once, it was my grandfather, who was told by a doctor to breathe out, breathe out, breathe out. And when the doctor had lost interest, my grandfather had forgotten how to breathe in again. He had to be given artificial respiration to get him going.

I keep thinking it's Tuesday.

Now I stop to think about it, why would a hippopotamus have the same number of days in a week as us? Perhaps hippos have eight days in a week, or ten. Why does a week have seven days anyway? Why haven't I thought about that before?

I keep thinking about my wife, Gail. She hurts me. I love her. She hurts me. I have to escape from her. I'm trapped. I'm too much of a coward to walk away. That's why I have to kill her. Did I tell you that I was going to kill her? I thought I did. I knew you'd understand. If I don't, then I shall wither and die instead.

I shall need an alibi. A perfect alibi. The husband is always the prime suspect, so I'll have to sort out an alibi. The best way would be to make it look like an accident. Then no one will be suspected. The main thing is to plan. Plan meticulously. Plan well ahead. Maybe even a year ahead if I can last that long, or at least a week anyway. And tell no one. No one at all.

You? You don't count. You are a figment of my imagination. You don't really exist. I just need someone to talk to sometimes. Now and again. When I feel lonely.

Most murders are committed by husbands, or wives, or lovers. Did you know that? Husbands kill wives, or lovers. Wives kill husbands. Lovers mostly kill themselves. Usually it's all done in a blaze of passion. Unpremeditated. Wild, frustrated anger. Using the first blunt or sharp instrument that comes to hand. No finesse. This is a messy way to behave. Everyone gets hurt. Nobody wins.

I can't stop thinking about those damned hippopotami. What an easy life. Sitting around in mud all day. Nothing to do except fart occasionally and watch the bubbles come up through the mud. "What shall I do today? I know, I'll fart and watch the bubbles come up through the mud again. That'll pass the time."

I can't imagine hippos hurting one another. Maybe tread on one another's toes sometimes. Maybe steal somebody's leaf that he was just going to eat. Maybe flick faeces in someone's face by accident. Oh, they do that all the time, you know. Flick faeces I mean.

Listen. I'm not making this up. Hippos spray their faeces around by using their stumpy little tails like egg whisks. And they are none too particular about which way they face either.

"Look out Horace. George has got his whisk going again. I'd move if I were you."

"Eh? Oh, I keep thinking it's Tuesday."

It's all about planning. Analysing the situation from every aspect. Thinking about all the possibilities. Covering all the angles.

There mustn't be any slip ups. I don't want to hurt her. I love her too much. I always loved her too much. She doesn't love me though. I think she maybe did once. I don't know if she ever did.

She's watching me now. She's marking books and I'm writing to you. Oh, I forgot to tell you she's a teacher. I think she's beautiful. She has long legs and sometimes blonde hair. She is slim. She smiles at me.

"What are you writing?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing much. I was just thinking about hippos."

"Really? Why are you writing about hippos?"

"Not writing about them exactly, I was just thinking about them, that's all. One stopped breathing and had to be given artificial respiration you know."

"What, by another hippo?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I mean a man's mouth wouldn't be big enough, would it?"

"It all sounds a bit improbable to me."

I think she suspects something. I smile and try to look nonchalant, but I'm going to have to be more careful in future. I know where suspicion can lead. I was suspicious once. Too little and too late, but I got there in the end. Yes, I got there in the end.

I decide to walk up to the library. We have a good library in our town, and it's only five minutes walk from my house. We live near the centre of the town. It's a big town. We live on a main road. A very main road. Too busy. Too noisy. Too crowded. The library stays open in the evenings until eight o'clock. I'll walk up there and get out a book about murders. Preferably unsolved ones. That will give me some ideas at least. I'll get a book about hippos too. That will put Gail's mind at rest.

They're pink you know. Hippos I mean. You think they are going to be grey, but really they're pink. And they get sunburnt. You'd think that nature would have thought about that. Evolving in a sunny country over millions of years, you'd think they'd be resistant to sunburn. But, no, they go bright red after a few hours in the sun. That's why they sit in mud all day. It's nature's sun oil. They don't have to pay through the nose for factor twenty, and beg their wives to rub it on their backs, and remember to put a bit on the thin patch on top of their head. And then still forget the backs of their knees and lose the lid in the sand. No, they just sit in mud all day, farting from time to time and thinking about Tuesday.

"I'm just going to walk up to the library."

"I'll come with you."

"Actually, I think it might be raining."

"We'll take the car, then. I need to take my books back. Why did you want to go anyway?"

"Oh, no reason. Just thought I'd look for a book about hippos. Interesting animals hippos."

God, I love that woman. Her skirt is pulled right up. Halfway up her thighs. I'm drooling. How can she turn me on like this?

The library doesn't seem like such a good idea now. Perhaps I'll leave it until tomorrow.

"Perhaps it's too late to go to the library tonight. I'll leave it until tomorrow."

"OK. I'll get some coffee then. Would you like one?"

"Yes, please. Just a small one."

Listen. Is this making any kind of sense to you? It's difficult for me too, you know. I've been confused for a long time now. So long that I can't remember when it started.

Listen. I used to be happy once. We both used to be happy. Together. We were happy together. Now we just hurt one another. But I still love her. After twenty five years, I still love her. And she's in love too. Yes, after twenty five years she is in love too. But not with me. Not any more with me.

I wonder if hippos fall in love? I wish I could stop thinking about damned hippos. I don't even know if they have brains. They may be just big, mud wallowing, sunburnt farting machines with egg whisks for all I know. I bet they don't cheat on each other though. I bet they don't lie. I bet they don't have calendars either, so how would they know what day of the week it was? And why would they speak english? Surely a hippo would speak hip or something similar. Tuesday wouldn't be called Tuesday at all. It would be called oogmph or glawch or some other hip word.

I keep thinking it's oogmph.

Somehow that isn't so funny. Maybe that's why the cartoonist translated it into english.

Gail comes back from the kitchen with two cups of coffee.

"There's a terrible smell in here. Is it you?"

"Er, yes. Sorry."

"I've been thinking. It's a good job you didn't go up to the library this evening. It's early closing night."

"Oh, is it? I keep thinking it's Tuesday for some reason."

CHAPTER 2

Geoffrey removed the wood from the top of his Morris Marina Countryman and manhandled it through the front door. There were eight pieces. Tongued and grooved chipboard. Flooring grade. Each piece four feet by two feet. He propped them against the hall radiator until he had fetched all eight pieces inside and locked the car.

He carried them, then, one piece at a time, up the stairs to the landing. He left a small trail of sawdust on the plain hall and stairs carpet as he went.

From the landing, he pushed open the trap door to the loft and pulled down the sliding loft ladder, using a pole that was obviously kept for that very purpose. Straining slightly, he climbed the ladder eight times until the boards were all inside the loft.

"Those will do nicely," he thought to himself, pleased with what he had achieved.

***

I'm late. I scarcely slept last night. Hippos crashed through all my dreams. I couldn't get them out of my mind. If I tried counting sheep, they turned into hippos. And every one of them had it's little egg whisk going nineteen to the dozen.

Gail has already left for work by the time I stumble out to the garage. The car is sitting there, looking smug. It knows it won't be going anywhere today. The driver's door is swinging limply. Open just enough to have triggered the interior light all night. It almost laughs out loud at me as I put my key in the ignition and listen to it wheeze with helpless mirth. I am not a mechanically minded man, but I know a flat battery when I see one.

I put the battery on charge and set off, without enthusiasm, to walk the two miles to work. Oh to be a hippo.

There are some compensations to walking, quite apart from the excercise. There are other people walking, too. Some of them young women. Some of them pretty young women. I give them marks out of ten as they go past. I'm a legs man myself. Always have been. Start at the feet and work upwards. I pass a lot of two's and three's, and the occasional four's and five's. My marking scale is tough. I'm looking for the perfect ten. When I see her I'm going to marry her. I might have to settle for an eight or a nine though, but today I'm still aiming high.

Listen. I haven't forgotten that I'm already married. But I've told you. I intend to deal with that problem. Give me time. Don't crowd me. I'm working on it.

I get to the office almost an hour late. Mr Hudson is obviously not amused. Luckily my phone is ringing and I am saved by the bell.

"Good morning. Hudson, Hudson and Hudson. Estate agents, valuers, insurance and mortgage brokers. We work to serve you. Tom Fletcher speaking. How may I help you?"

I'm supposed to say that every time I answer the phone. I say it today because Mr Hudson is in earshot. Mr Hudson wrote the script. It takes so long to say it that half the callers assume they are talking to an answering machine and ring off. It's pretty demoralising when half the world thinks you are an answering machine.

It's a woman's voice when the response comes. A soft, sultry voice. It could be any age from thirty to fifty. I picture a blonde of about thirty. She sounds as if she could be an eight.

"Good morning," she says. "I'd like a valuation."

Mr Hudson can see that he's lost the initiative and walks away. He disappears into the back office. Julie, our secretary, picks up the coffee and mimes drinking to me. I nod, and she puts on the kettle.

"Certainly madam. Perhaps you could give me a few particulars. What name is it, please?"

It takes me about five minutes to establish all the details and arrange an appointment. She sounds in a hurry. She is very anxious for me to call around today, and foolishly I agree, forgetting that I haven't got my car. I shall have to go by bus.

While I am talking, Julie brings over the coffee and sits on the edge of my desk drinking hers and waiting for me to finish. Julie is definitely a nine. Maybe she is the one. I try not to look at her as I talk but no matter where I look my gaze seems unfailingly to return to her chest. I find myself talking to the woman on the phone and staring at Julie's breasts. They are hypnotic. Like the eyes on a painting which seem to follow you round the room, Julie's breasts are always about six inches in front of my eyes. I shut them as I talk, so that I can concentrate, but I can't resist peeping. And there they are. Hovering just in front of my nose. Every time she takes a mouthful of coffee her breasts strain against the thin fabric of her blouse. She seems unaware of the effect she is having on me.

Listen. Perhaps you think it's because of Julie that I need to kill my wife. You're wrong. I promise I'll tell you more later, but now isn't the time.

I think I might be falling in love with Julie. She doesn't know it yet. I wouldn't even have considered that if Gail still loved me. I pull my stomach in and turn on all my charm as I finalise the arrangements on the phone. Julie crosses her legs as she shifts her weight from one buttock to the other. I think my pulse rate just doubled. My hand is shaking as I pick up the coffee cup and take a nonchalant swig.

Somehow my mouth isn't where it used to be and half the coffee drains down my chin. Julie is almost hysterical with laughter. God, what I'd give to be suave. Why is it that some men are suave and others aren't? Why is it that my brain thinks suave and my body thinks plonker? Do other people have this problem? Sometimes I think there was a mixup. I got the wrong body. My brain knows it should have been in a body that was five inches taller and coordinated. I don't mean colour coordinated you understand. I'm not complaining that I've got one brown limb and three white ones. Just that my muscles and limbs are about two miliseconds out of sync with my brain. Two miliseconds may not sound a lot, but when your coffee is draining off your chin, it's a lot.

When I get off the phone Julie wipes me down with a paper hanky. She smells of something exotic. It's almost worth spilling the coffee to have her this close. I could cup her right breast in my left hand without hardly moving. I can feel the muscles in my shoulder tensing. They're crying out to me "do it, do it." But the muscles in my chin, dripping with coffee, are saying "who are you kidding?" The chin wins. The chin always wins. Where's your stiff upper lip man? Just above my flabby lower jaw. Just where it's always been.

Reality sets in hard. Why is a sex kitten like Julie going to fall for a bald, middle aged man like me? Sometimes I think it would have been a whole lot easier being a hippo.

I settle down to the rest of my work. Opening the mail. Chasing up reluctant clients. I proof read a couple of house particulars that Julie typed up yesterday. And there are a sprinkling of customers who wander in from the street from time to time. None of them serious. Window shoppers, voyeurs and time wasters. You can spot them a mile off.

At lunchtime, it's my turn to man the office. Usually when it's my turn to be in at lunch time I bring some sandwiches to eat. Today I forgot. Today I'm going to be hungry. There isn't even time to call out to the pub. As soon as the others get back I have to run for the bus to get to my afternoon appointment. On my way to the bus stop I notice two dogs copulating on the pavement. There are two others waiting their turn. Their tails are going almost as a wild as the hippos eggwhisks. The street is crowded with people. They are all trying not to notice. I try not to notice too. But my eyes keep turning that way. I can't help it. It's just like Julie's blouse all over again. Perhaps I've got a rare disease. Perhaps the link between my eyes and my brain doesn't function like everyone else. All these other people say to their brains "those dogs aren't there". And their eyes switch off. The dogs disappear. But my brain says "look, two dogs, copulating. In broad daylight. In the middle of the street. Don't stare." But I keep staring, like a kid. When I turn my head, my eyes just keep looking in the same direction.

I begin to worry that I might be a pervert. Oh God. Please don't let me be a pervert. Is this why Gail stopped loving me? Could she see that she'd married a pervert?

Listen. I'm not turned on by dogs. I don't like dogs. I don't know why I'm going on like this. You have to understand that I'm under a lot of strain. Normal people don't go round shooting their wives.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. I think I've decided to shoot her. It would be quick. And I think she wouldn't feel any pain. As long as I shoot straight. My only problem is that I don't have a gun. But I'm working on it.

The bus takes an age to come. The dogs come more quickly. The two who are waiting get their go. Their tails never stop wagging for a moment. The bitch stands cooperatively still while they take their turns. Funnily enough she is the only one whose tail isn't wagging.

I stand waiting for the bus. I wonder what it would be like to have a tail. I drift off into a semi daydream and imagine swishing my tail about. I suppose they must have some sort of function. Cows use them for flicking flies away. Hippos have their own perversions. But why do dogs have tails? I've never seen a dog flick away flies. I suppose they might help you to balance when you run round corners. I imagine myself running around a corner with my tail flying behind me.

Suddenly I become aware that the other people at the bus stop are looking at me. I have become more interesting than a pack of copulating dogs. I realise that I have been swaying about shaking my rear end as I wondered about dog's tails. I feel a little foolish. I feel the need to explain.

"I was just imagining," I say. "What it would be like to have one. A tail I mean."

This doesn't seem to be helping. I can hear their brains whirring. The messages are going out to their eyes. "Don't look. The poor man is obviously demented." Their eyes all go out of focus and I can tell that for them I'm no longer there. I've become invisible just like the dogs.

"I can't do that," I say. " My switch is broken. My eyes don't turn off like yours." But I can tell that I'm talking to myself. Their ears have switched off too.

I knew today was going to be a bad one. As soon as I found the car with the battery flat, I knew.

I can feel the colour rising. My neck is getting redder. I decide to walk on and get the bus at the next stop. "I think I'll walk," I say, to no one in particular. And no one answers.

As I walk away, the dogs decide to follow me. We walk in procession along the street. I try to look inconspicuous, but other dogs join the procession until there are ten or more. Large and small. Tails waving and silly grins on their faces. I start to move faster, but the dogs keep trotting along behind me. I start to run, but the dogs see it as a new game. In fact they seem to prefer this to sex. I see a bus in the distance, and eventually draw level as it waits at a red light. Luckily it waits long enough for me to jump on. I have no idea where it is going. Frankly I don't care.

By the time I get to my appointment I am over an hour late. The house is prewar, semi detached, and set back from the road. I check that I have my recorder and ring the bell.

I was right. She is an eight. When I guessed I mean. When I answered the phone this morning I guessed she would be an eight. She is blonde, too. I was right about that as well.

A slim, elegant woman of about forty answers the door.

"Good afternoon," I say. "Tom Fletcher, from Hudson, Hudson and Hudson."

She is dressed in a short skirt and a skinny red top.

"Carole," she says. "Please come in."

"Thankyou Mrs Carroll," I reply.

"No," she says. "Just Carole. No Mrs."

I explain to her the details I shall need, and she tells me to feel free. She stands and watches me as I dictate into the recorder.

She follows me into the kitchen and eyes me up and down as I measure and record the vital statistics of her home. It's mildly unnerving to be studied like this. I feel as though I'm being marked off against some mental score card that she has.

I walk back into the hallway, dictating as I go. She keeps just one pace behind me, never taking her eyes off me for a moment.

"You've got a nice bum, Tom," she says quietly, as I tell my recorder all about her hallway.

I almost fall over in surprise. Did I hear what I thought I did? I try not to react. I carry on speaking into the machine.

"Open hallway with doors off to lounge and separate dining room."

"I said `You've got a nice bum, Tom`."

"Radiator and telephone point. Yes, I thought you did. Thankyou."

What would a suave man do now?

"Stairs to first floor with hardwood bannister and window overlooking the side garden."

She's still looking at me. I can tell. She's still looking at my backside. No woman has ever admired it before that I know of. Funny, it's the same one I've always had. I pull in my stomach. My buttocks tighten at the same time. God, she'll think I did it on purpose. Keep cool. Keep cool. This has never happened before.

"Radiator and telephone point."

"You've already done that."

"Done what?"

"The telephone point. You've already done it once. On your little thingy." God, yes. She's right. She's making me nervous.

"Do you mind me watching you work?"

"N.No. Not at all," I stammer. "Not at all, Mrs ....."

"Carole," she says.

"Mrs Caroll"

"Just Carole."

Her voice is low and sultry. I have to let my stomach out again in order to breathe. It's getting warm in here.

"I'll need to measure," I say.

"Would you like me to help you? Or would you prefer me to fix you a drink, Tom? You don't mind me calling you Tom, do you?"

"No. Yes. No thankyou. I mean yes, please."

God, why can't I be suave. Please god, for once in my life make me suave.

I get my sonic tape measure out and start to take measurements. I continue to read them into the recorder. As we move from room to room I suddenly find I'm holding a glass of whisky. I didn't ask for whisky. I don't drink whisky. I don't like whisky. "Thankyou," I say, and take a sip. No water! I fight to suppress a cough. I see that she is holding a glass too.

"Bottoms up," she says. She somehow manages to infuse the toast with a meaning that I'm sure is not usually intended.

"And you," I respond. "Your's too. I mean up, up, bottoms." The switch has gone again. The two milisecond delay circuit has cut in. Brain and mouth belong in two different time zones. I know that I am going to spill whisky down my chin.

I try to move very deliberately. Raise arm slowly. Move towards mouth. Tilt glass. Sip gently. Yep. There it goes. A finger of whisky crawls out of the glass, hovers tantalizingly near my open mouth, and then settles near my right cheek to begin the journey down my chin and on and on.

It all happens in slow motion. I see Carole move towards me with a handkerchief in her hand. And before the whisky has a chance to reach the floor she is dabbing my chin. I feel her breasts pressed against my arm as she works at my chin with her left hand. Her right hand reaches down and feels between my legs. I am rooted to the spot. My buttocks tighten so hard with the surprise I feel sure they have bitten a huge chunk out of my underpants.

It's over in seconds. I can scarcely believe what has just happened. I down the rest of the whisky in one. Carole is standing back about eighteen inches watching me. Smiling.

"My, you were thirsty Tom," she breathes. "I can see I'll have my hands full with you."

Somehow I manage to get around the rest of the house without further incident. I'm going to have trouble explaining some of the noises on the tape to Julie though when I get back to the office. Carole follows me around as I complete the inspection. In the main bedroom she sits on the bed with one leg stretched out in front of her and one on the floor. I stay between her and the door the whole time. I can feel the whisky taking it's effect. It was only one glass, but I'm sure my speech is sounding slurred already.

She offers me another drink as I finish dictating. "Bathroom with low level suite. N.. No thankyou. Not today. I don't usually drink anything in the daytime. Well, tea and coffee of course. And water, sometimes. But not with alcohol. Oh, except xmas. I do have a glass of wine at xmas. And birthdays. Yes, sometimes on birthdays we go to the pub for lunch. But not while I'm on duty. House rule you see." I'm burbling. I know I'm burbling, but my mouth just keeps on running. And so does the tape. I'll have to rewind and edit that bit out.

She pouts gently at my refusal. "I shall have another one, Tom. Are you sure you won't join me? We'll need to get to know one another better if you are going to sell my house for me."

I somehow get to the door and through it, promising to ring her the next day with the valuation.

"I'll look forward to that, Tom," she says. "It's been lovely to meet you."

As I back away down the path she blows me a kiss. I turn and run. Only later do I realise that I haven't got my sonic tape measure with me any more.

CHAPTER 3

Geoffrey fitted the last wall panel into position. He was well pleased with his handiwork. He was a good craftsman, if he had to say so himself. With the last wall panel in place he had created a cosy little den. He sat down on the chipboard floor and admired his achievement. He plotted in his mind's eye how he would complete the decor. He needed more lights and mirrors. He would need a good thick carpet, too, and a cupboard or some drawers, but as the room was small he imagined that he would find a carpet offcut somewhere that would be ideal. Yes, it was all going well. Life was good sometimes.

****

Someone, somewhere, sometime, it was back in the sixties I think, carried out some research on people's attention span. Whoever it was, and I think it must have been a university professor, would pause at random points in his lecture and ask his audience to write down what they were thinking about at that instant. The results were illuminating. At any time only twenty percent of the audience were listening to what was being said. A further twenty percent were thinking about something related to what was being said, but the remaining sixty percent were thinking about sex.

A lesser man might have been distressed that his words were having so little effect on his audience, but this professor consoled himself with the thought that no matter what he said, at least sixty percent of his listeners were enjoying themselves.

I think about sex all the time. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Why is it that everyone else is getting more than me? And better!

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Gail likes sex too.

I finally get home on the bus from my valuation trip. Already I am wondering if I imagined the whole episode. But I can still taste the whisky, and I don't have my sonic tape measure.

Gail is home before me.

"Didn't you take the car today?" she asks.

"Uh. No. No, I decided to walk." Now why did I say that? Why didn't I tell her about the battery?

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks.

"Yes. Yes please." Go on, admit to her that you let the battery go flat. No, she'll only think I'm a plonker. She already knows you're a plonker. Why don't you admit it? Why don't you shut up? Coward! Not. Yes you are. Alright, alright I am. I will.

Gail is disappearing out of the door while I fight with my alter ego. "The battery," I say. Just as she disappears finally.

"Sorry?" she calls back. "Didn't catch that."

"The battery," I say. "I left the car door open and it went flat."

Her voice drifts back down the hall, "Oh that's nice."

She wasn't even listening! I needn't have said anything. God, she's thinking about sex. I know she is.

A gun. Yes, I'm sure that's the thing. But where do I get a gun from? I frown for a second, thinking. Then it comes to me. Exchange and Mart of course. You can find anything in Exchange and Mart. I saw an elephant advertised in Exchange and Mart once. It was in the Pets and Livestock section. Along with the incubators for hatching chicken eggs and devices for doing unspeakable things to young male cattle.

Listen. I'm not making this up. There really was an advert. It said 'For Sale, Elephant, surplus to requirements.' And then there was a box no.

My Dad wouldn't even let me find out how much it was. It's puzzled me ever since. Not how much it was, but how anyone could have an elephant surplus to requirements. Unless you normally buy them in sets, perhaps.

"I'd like some elephants please, my man."

"Certainly, sir. Would that be African or Indian?"

"Some of each, I think. Yes, a mixed herd would look nice."

"How many were you thinking of sir?"

"About ten I would think. Say five of each."

"I'm sorry, sir. They only come in dozens."

"Is that dozens of one kind only, or can one have a mixed dozen?"

"We do mixed dozens or single species."

"Couldn't you split a set for me? You see I don't have room for more than ten."

"More than my job's worth to do that, sir. You see there's no call for single elephants. People only ever want full dozens."

"No they don't. I don't want a full dozen."

"Are you trying to be funny with me, sir? You could always buy a dozen and sell the odd ones through Exchange and Mart you know."

"Yes. I hadn't thought of that. Thankyou. You've been most helpful. I'll take the mixed dozen then."

Gail comes back into the room while I am searching through the old newspapers. "What are you looking for?" she says.

"I thought there was an old copy of the Exchange and Mart here somewhere."

"Oh, that got thrown out weeks ago. What are you wanting to buy anyway?"

"Oh nothing. Nothing really. I was just thinking about elephants. Wondering. You know, how much do they cost. That's all. Quite expensive I would have thought. Even if you could buy just one. Probably they come in sets anyway."

"Why do you want an elephant, Tom?"

"Didn't really want one. Just curiosity you know."

"Yesterday it was hippos and today it's elephants. You've never been interested in big game before. What's brought this on all of a sudden?"

"Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all. Always been interested, actually. Just haven't talked about it a lot, that's all."

She's giving me a very odd look. I've got to change the subject somehow. Got to talk about something else. Not guns. Not elephants. Not sex.

"I saw some dogs earlier today."

"Dogs, Tom? What sort of dogs? What were they doing?"

"Oh, just dogs. Ordinary sorts of dogs. Big ones, and little ones. Doing? Uh, they weren't doing anything. Nothing. Just dogs that's all. Isn't that tea ready yet?"

I think she's suspicious. I watch her pour the tea. She turns me on. Whatever she does. Wherever we are. She turns me on.

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

She puts the tea on the small table beside my chair and sits down with her own. She is still not sure what I've been talking about. She picks up the newspaper and begins to read.

No Exchange and Mart. Now where do I go? I could buy one tomorrow I suppose. I sip my tea. A small drop somehow finds it's way around the rim and slides gently down my chin.

I sit and watch Gail reading the paper. I enjoy watching her. I look at her legs. She's wearing dark tights today. Sleek and shiny. She has nice legs. Slim and long.

"I see that bloke got life then," she says suddenly. "Better than he deserves."

"What bloke?" I ask.

"The one that killed his wife with a machete."

I feel my collar tighten. Does she suspect something? A machete? I haven't even got a machete.

"I haven't got a machete."

"Pardon?"

"I said, I haven't got a machete."

"I know you haven't got a machete. You haven't got a gun either. What has that got to do with anything?"

"A gun? Why are you talking about guns? I haven't got a gun. I wouldn't even know where to buy a gun. Except Exchange and Mart perhaps. No I shouldn't think even they have guns. Elephants is more the sort of thing you find in Exchange and Mart, I expect."

She lowers her paper and looks at me over the top. "What are you talking about, Tom? I was telling you about this bloke in the paper, and suddenly you start burbling. Are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I must have misheard you. I thought you were talking about guns that's all."

"Drink your tea, Tom. And stop dribbling. You're worse than a baby."

I finish the rest of my tea in silence. It seems safer that way. My mind begins to wander back over the events of the afternoon. An eight I thought when I first saw that Carole. Maybe she's only a six.

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

She was obviously thinking about sex, not about house valuations at all. I've never known having their house valued turn anyone on before. Unless it was me? Perhaps she just couldn't resist me. Perhaps she's now regretting what she did. Probably embarrassed about the whole thing. Probably never happen again. Just a momentary thing. Probably the whisky. Probably she'd been drinking before I even arrived. Best not to mention it to anyone. Save the poor woman the embarrasment. Yes, that's best. Pretend it didn't happen. Actually it was nothing much. Just an accidental brush really. Yes, I probably imagined most of it. Pity about leaving the measure behind, though.

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Yellow pages. That's a possibility. I expect they have guns in there. Only I can never find things in Yellow Pages. Never listed where you expect it. You look up guns and it tells you in very small print to try Spray Guns, Military Suppliers or Antique Dealers.

None of them seem very likely, but you take a chance on the Military Suppliers. M..M... Market Traders, Marriage Bureaux, Meat Wholesalers, Miliners, Milinery, Milinery Suppliers, Milinery Trimmings, Milinery Yarns, Milk Products, Mills, Millers. No entry under Military Suppliers. You go back to guns and check again. Yep. There it is. Spray Guns, Military Suppliers, Antique Dealers.

M...M... Marquetry, Medical, Metalwork, Miliners, Milinery, Milinery Suppliers, Milinery Trimmings, Milinery Yarns, Milk Products! And then you see it, in tiny print just after the Milinary Yarns, it says for Military Suppliers see Government Agencies, Arms Manufacturers, Aircraft Manufacturers, and Uniforms.

A...A....A.. Animal Products, Ambulance Services, Architects, Arms Manufacturers see Aircraft, Explosive Manufacturers or Guns.

No. Maybe not Yellow Pages. Not tonight anyway.

"Ha, that's strange, Tom. You were just talking about elephants, and it says here in the paper that one died today at a private zoo. Apparently someone gave it a couple of table tennis balls and it sucked them up it's trunk and suffocated."

I'm stunned. "You'd think they'd have more sense," I say.

"Yes, people do some thoughtless things at times."

"I meant the elephant. I wonder why they didn't give it artificial respiration?"

CHAPTER 4

I lie in bed thinking about the elephant. The one who suffocated on ping pong balls. Why didn't it breathe through it's mouth? Elephants must be able to breathe through their mouths. They must get colds sometimes. Somehow it all seems very unsatisfactory. The newspaper must have got it wrong. Can no one be trusted?

Gail lies beside me in the bed. She is asleep. She is lying on her front, and I can just see the hump of her backside in the dim light. I lie on my back and peer up at the ceiling. I used to trust her once, but she let me down.

As she breathes the duvet rises and falls gently. The light from the display on the bedside radio alarm casts a soft shadow of her breathing onto the bedroom wall. It looks like the sea. I hold out my arm and it, too, casts a shadow on the wall.

When I was a small boy I used to make shadows on the wall with my hands. I could make animals and birds, and faces of dwarves and deformed men. I haven't done it for years. I make a face with my right hand. The light is not bright, but I can just make out the shape on the wall. My thumb makes the chin, and my second finger makes the nose. The sea continues to heave gently in time with Gail's breathing. I try to make a ship sailing on the sea, but with one hand it doesn't really work. I try to make a man drowning in the sea, and this is quite promising.

I prop myself up on one elbow and bring the other hand into play. Now my drowning man has two arms which wave as he goes under. I'd forgotten I could do this. "Help! Help!" the drowning man calls in a reedy little voice. Gail turns over and suddenly the sea is a heaving tempest. The little man goes under. "Help," he calls for the last time.

"What are you doing?" asks Gail. "What time is it? ..... Good grief it's two o'clock. Can't you lie still?"

"Sorry. I couldn't sleep."

As the sea settles down again. I can't resist making a one handed bird flying up towards the heavens.

"Tom! Go to sleep."

I must remember to buy an Exchange and Mart on the way in to work tomorrow.

****

I arrive at the office before everybody else in the morning, and turn on the lights and disable the alarm. I have already made the first coffee of the day when Julie arrives.

She really is quite a cracker. I think I'll move her up to a nine point five. She smiles and blows me a kiss as she walks past my desk. She smells of something divine. I wonder if she put it on for me? Perhaps she fancies me. Yes, I reckon she could. She didn't have to walk that close to my desk, and she's always making coffee for me, and then there's the kiss she blew me. Yes, it must be that.

I watch her remove her coat. She has a gorgeous figure. Her long dark hair drops over her shoulders. Today she is wearing a skirt below the knee, but slit almost up to mid thigh. As she looks at her reflection in the mirror she catches sight of me watching her and smiles back. Yes, I'm almost certain.

How do I make sure? I mustn't make a fool of myself. Perhaps I should just walk boldly over and kiss her. What would Bond do?

Bond wouldn't have to do anything. She'd have her clothes off by now if I were Bond. He wouldn't have to do more than flick an eyebrow.

I sit, rooted to my desk, my right eyebrow going up and down like a yo yo. It isn't as easy as it looks. When I try to move just the right brow the left one moves too. I obviously need to practice.

I become aware that Julie is standing just in front of the desk looking at me with concern. "Is there something in your eye, Mr F?"

"Uh, No. No thanks Julie. Just trying out my eyebrows."

"You are funny Mr F. I do like you. You aren't like the others."

She likes me! She probably means 'loves'. Just too embarrassed to say it.

"I like you, too," I say. "And by the way, you can call me Bond."

"Bond? Mr F. I thought your name was Tom."

"Bond? Did I say Bond? I must have been thinking of someone else. I meant Tom." Go on, kiss her. While the office is empty. Be bold. Just stand up and sweep her off her feet. She's asking for it. Look at her, lips pouting. Breasts thrust forward. She can't wait.

I start to climb out of my chair as the door opens and Mr Hudson strides in. "Good morning all," he booms. "Good to see you in on time today Fletcher."

"And you," I reply.

He turns to regard me over his spectacles.

"Good to see you, I mean. Yes. Good morning Mr Hudson. Would you like some coffee?"

****

The carpet offcut was only just big enough to cover the floor of Geoffrey's den, but it's thick pile was exactly right. It added just the degree of luxury he was looking for. It would also muffle any sound. He had also fitted three lights and fixed two large mirrors to the end wall. He would have preferred a single floor to ceiling mirror, but, quite apart from the expense, he would not have been able to get it through the trap door. He made a short mental inventory of the things he still required before climbing down and closing the loft away behind him.

****

Julie is typing across the other side of the office. Each time she catches sight of me watching her she gives me a smile. I can just see the top of her legs around the end of her desk. As she moves, the slit in her skirt opens and closes tantalisingly.

I remember the Exchange and Mart in my briefcase and slide it out surreptitiously. I slip it into a folder so that no one will see what I'm reading. I start to whistle nonchalently. Everyone looks up simultaneously at the sound of the whistling. I fall silent again and they go back to their own work.

I'm not sure where guns would be. Not in the motoring section for sure, but would they be under domestic, leisure, craft, industrial, hobbies or what?

I decide to look under miscellaneous. While I am looking for the page I get distracted by items in other sections. Who invents all these things?

On one page is a device for squeezing teabags. Someone, somewhere sat down one day and invented a tea bag squeezer. Can you believe that?

"I know I'll invent the teabag squeezer. Just what the world has been waiting for. Everyone will want one. It'll make my fortune."

And having invented it, he's actually found someone to manufacture it and now he's advertising it in a full display advert. How much demand can there be for a tea bag squeezer? I don't know anyone who has one. Or perhaps lots of people have them, but they don't bring them out when they have guests in case it looks too mean.

"I bet you all use tea bag squeezers," I say to no one in particular. They all look up at me briefly. "Just thinking out loud," I say. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

There are some knowing looks before they get back down to whatever it is they are doing. Julie smiles at me.

I flick on through the magazine. Giant slippers that you can put both feet in together. I have a vision of people hopping to open the front door when they have visitors, wearing their giant slipper. Or maybe buying two and having to walk with legs astride. There is an inflatable coat hanger for taking on holiday with you. A thing for the car that enables you to pee while you are driving. So that you don't have to stop. 'Invaluable' it says. 'Fits either sex'. How? Do you have to have it permanently attached? Do you fit it before you get into the car? What happens if you have passengers? Do you have one each or just a lot of pipes? Or do you pass it around? What happens if you forget to take it off when you get out of the car?

Why are there no answers to these questions?

It says 'thousands sold'. To whom? Is that why all those people driving the big fast cars on the motorway look so smug? Are they all driving along at one hundred miles an hour peeing as they go? While the rest of us try to drive with our legs crossed. Or does everybody have one apart from me? Is it the kind of thing that everyone else knows instinctively except me, because I'm not suave?

I always find that reading Exchange and Mart makes me depressed. I feel so inadequate.

Listen. Perhaps you think I'm paranoid. I'm not paranoid. Things have not gone well for me recently, that's all. I just need to strike out in a new direction. Explore new opportunities. Make some decisions. Kill my wife. Things like that.

I thumb on through the Exchange and Mart. Not a gun to be seen, but I come across a double page spread of ads featuring drawings of scantily clad women. 'Free suspender set' it says under one, 'if you send for our exotic glamourwear catalogue. Send one pound ninety five postage and packing. Glamour set comprises suspender belt, stockings and see through crotchless panties trimmed in black lace simulation. One size fits all'.

Another ad says 'Parlour maid outfit, skirt, pinny, stockings, suspenders. This is a quality item. No rubbish. Sent under plain wrapper. Four pound ninety nine plus one ninety nine postage'. There is a picture of a parlour maid wearing such a short skirt that it doesn't cover her knickers.

There are dozens of adverts along the same lines. I read on, fascinated by the variety and ingenuity of the advertisers.

'Ladies, turn on the man in your life. Surprise him with this peephole bra and microbrief set.' I wonder if Gail would like to surprise me? Perhaps if I ordered it in her name?

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Everything comes down to sex in the end. Even Exchange and Mart.

"I'll have a Radio Times and a copy of Exchange and Mart, please."

"Say no more, Guv. Say no more. Know what I mean."

"You don't understand. I'm looking for some plumbing fittings."

"I'll put it in a plain wrapper for you, Guv. Alright?"

"Yes. Yes that'll be fine. Thankyou."

"Plumbing fittings? First time I've heard it called that. Mind how you go, Guv. Know what I mean? Nudge, Nudge."

I become conscious of the telephone on my desk ringing. I am dimly aware that it may have been ringing for some time. All eyes in the office are on me. Wondering why I'm not answering.

"Plumbing fittings," I say to the room as I pick up the receiver. "Not underwear. I didn't even know the underwear was in there. I don't even know what a peephole bra is."

A voice in my ear says "I can show you if you'd like that Mr Fletcher."

It's a woman's voice. A soft, sultry voice. I know that voice.

"H..Hudson, H..Hudson, and Hudson," I reply. "Show me what? To whom am I speaking?"

"Why Tom, surely you can't have forgotten me already?"

"Mrs Carrol!"

"Just Carole, Tom. You must call me Carole. After all, we are friends."

"What do you want?"

"Why, Tom, surely that's no way to talk to a client. This is a business call after all."

The other members of the office are still looking at me. Even Julie has stopped typing.

"A client," I say. "She just wants a valuation. Just calling to tell me about my tape measure I expect. Not about sex at all."

"Tom, you aren't paying attention to me are you? I can hear you talking to someone else. Is it another woman? Are you trying to make me jealous? I think you are."

"N..No. There isn't another woman. I'm not talking to anyone. Just myself. Yes, just talking to myself that's all. Dictating. Yes, dictating."

"I've got your measure, Tom. Did you leave it here on purpose? Is it just an excuse to come back? You don't need an excuse, Tom. You can come anytime."

The other office members are still watching me.

"Ha. I left my tape at her house. That's what it's about," I say to them. "Didn't even know I'd lost it. There's a funny thing. Never lost my tape before. It must have been the drink. Not that I was drinking you understand. Well tea. Yes tea. I must have put it down when I spilt my tea. Not sex at all really, you see."

"Tom, when are you coming with my valuation?"

"I..I'm going to post it. Normal practice is to post it. Be there tomorrow."

"But Tom. I have things to show you. You left so quickly yesterday that you didn't get time to see everything. And your measure, surely you'll need it. Why don't you call around again this afternoon? We can have another little talk."

"Too busy I'm afraid. Lots of appointments. Gosh, yes, I don't know how I'll fit them all in. Better if I write. That's the usual method. Writing."

"But, your measure, Tom. How will you manage?"

"Oh. Ten a penny those measures. Yes, they look expensive but really they're very cheap. We give them away. All the time. In fact I usually leave one at most of my clients. Yes, keep it. Plenty more where that came from."

"Tom. I think you're trying to avoid me."

"N..No. Gosh, no. Avoid you? Why would I do that? Be pleased to see you again any time. Yes. No problem. What about next week?"

"Tom, I shall expect you this afternoon. About three. I'll prepare a little treat for you. OK? I won't take no for an answer now."

"Yes, of course. I mean No. I mean I'll see whether it's possible to rearrange the schedule. It probably won't be. All computerised you know. Set up weeks in advance. Takes days to reprogram. Mr Hudson was only saying this morning how much he regretted buying the computer. Taken all the flexibilty out of the system."

"Three o'clock, Tom. I'll be waiting."

I see that my colleagues are still watching me. They have been avidly following the entire conversation. Or at least my end of it. The phone goes dead. I smile vacuously and start waving my free hand in the air as though I am still talking to someone at the other end.

"I would recommend putting it on the market at around one sixty five, and be prepared to accept an offer around one sixty."

They aren't fooled, and immediately get back to their own jobs.

"Thank you for giving your business to Hudson, Hudson and Hudson," I say to the dead phone. "Our aim is to serve you."

I replace the phone. Why do I always feel inadequate? Why is life so intimidating? All I want is a quiet life and someone to love. Someone to love me. I look over towards Julie. She smiles back. Yes, I think she could be the one. I definitely think she's interested. But how do I go about it? That's all.

At lunch time I walk into the town. I'm beginning to think that a gun may not be the right thing after all. Difficult to make it look like an accident. And I might miss. Just end up wounding her. Might even wound myself. Maybe that's the answer? Shoot myself first. Just a bit, not too seriously, you understand and then shoot her afterwards. Pretend that I arrived too late to save her when she was attacked by a crazed gunman. Would need to wipe off the finger prints though.

I wonder where would be the best place to do it. So it wouldn't hurt. When I shoot myself I mean. In the leg maybe, or the arm? I start to imagine being shot in the leg. I reel violently and clutch my left thigh, knocking against a woman carrying her shopping.

"Aaah!" I cry out. "My leg. My leg. I've been shot."

She drops her shopping and grabs my arm. "I didn't hear nothing," she says. "Are you alright? Can you walk? Who done it?"

I come to with a woman trying to undo my trousers. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Which leg?" she says. "Which leg? I used to be a nurse."

I pull myself away and move off briskly down the street, remembering to limp until I get clear enough to run.

Maybe a gun isn't the best idea.

CHAPTER 5

On my way home I stop to buy flowers for Gail. I like to buy her flowers. I get chrysanthemums. A sort of russet colour. I think she'll like them.

Listen. Maybe you're confused. Maybe you wonder why I'm buying flowers for her and guns. Maybe you think this is all part of some elaborate alibi. No. It's much more simple than that. I love her. That's why I have to kill her.

Listen. You can't expect to understand everything straight away. It took me a long time too. But I got there in the end.

I keep thinking about that elephant. The one with the ping pong balls. The one that suffocated. Why didn't it just blow them out? One good sneeze and they'd have come out at ninety miles an hour. Probably kill someone if they got in the way. The elephant could have stuck it's trunk out through the bars of it's cage and shot the first person that walked by.

"Crazed elephant slays keeper." I can see the headline. Then endless speculation on the TV and radio about the motive, and where it got the idea or the ammunition. And debates in parliament again about bringing back the death penalty.

I wonder how you would hang an elephant? How would you get the noose over it's head? And what would you do if it wouldn't stand on the trapdoor? You know, if it splayed it's legs out wide. Or if it wrapped it's trunk around the hangman and wouldn't let go. I suppose you could always tie it's trunk in a knot. But they don't really have necks, do they? This worries me. Does it worry you? Am I the only person who thinks about these things? Or perhaps the animal rights people would kick up such a stink that it would get off with a life sentence, or even probation I shouldn't wonder.

Gail and I haven't been to the zoo for ages. Not for years. Maybe we could go this weekend. I stop on the way back to the car and buy a box of ping pong balls. Bound to come in useful sometime.

****

Geoffrey finished assembling the drawer unit and pushed it into position against the end wall. He had had to make it in situ because it wouldn't go through the trap door in one piece. The rail was already fitted, and the red curtain gave a warm glow to the little room. He manoeuvred the chair through the opening with some difficulty, and admired the general effect. It was about complete, and he was well pleased with the overall appearance. He rubbed his hands together in quiet satisfaction before turning out the light and locking the door behind him.

****

When I get home Gail is already there. She has not been home long and is still wearing her outdoor coat.

"Hello," she says. "Are those for me?"

She takes the flowers and gives me a peck on the cheek. "What a nice colour," she adds. "Thankyou."

"I thought you'd like them," I reply. There doesn't seem to be much else to say. "You look tired," she says. "Have you had a hard day?"

"One or two difficult clients," I say. The image of Carole comes into my mind.

"Difficult? How?"

"Oh, nothing really. Just awkward. I wondered if you wanted to go to the zoo on Saturday?"

"Did you say 'zoo'?"

"Yes. We haven't been for ages."

"What's brought this on? Why the zoo?"

"Oh, just an idea. Elephants. Haven't seen one for a while. Not many left now with all the poachers."

"Poachers at the zoo?"

"No, in Africa. They shoot them with ping pong balls you know."

"Ping pong balls? Surely you couldn't kill an elephant with ping pong balls?"

"Did I say kill? I meant make ping pong balls from elephants. From their tusks. Yes, the finest ping pong balls are made from elephant tusks. I thought you would know that."

"Are you sure you don't mean billiard balls?"

"Well, yes. Those too. Anyway I just wondered if you would be interested that's all."

She is putting the flowers into the sink. She looks puzzled. "Well," she says. "If you want to go to the zoo, of course I'll come with you. You seem to be very interested in animals recently."

"Just thought it would be a nice outing. Make a change."

"Yes," she agrees. "It would be nice to go out somewhere together, and thankyou for the flowers."

I can't stop thinking about Carole. Perhaps I should have gone round again to collect my tape. Perhaps she really did have something to show me. She's probably a bit anxious about selling her home. A woman on her own like that, without a man to help her. I wonder what happened to Mr Carrol?

I keep thinking about Julie, too.

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Sex with Julie. Yes, that would be good. I'm sure she fancies me. Just a bit shy that's all. Probably attracted to a more mature man and doesn't know quite how to say it. Tomorrow I'll make my move. Yes, I reckon I should be free of Gail in about another week. Allow a couple of weeks for mourning. And then Julie could move in here with me.

Perhaps two weeks is a bit short. Probably take a week to organise the funeral. "Better make it three"

"I'm sorry, Tom. Did you say something?"

"No. I don't think so."

"I thought you said 'make it three'. At least that's what it sounded like."

"Three? Oh that. Just three houses to sell that's all."

"Only three houses? Is business that bad?"

"No. Business is looking up actually. Just need to sell three houses before the funeral that's all."

"Has someone died?"

"Died? No, I don't think so."

"But you said something about a funeral."

"Oh that. Yes, well I expect someone will die soon. Bound to almost. Yes, actually lots of our house sales are for executioners."

"You mean executors."

"That's what I said isn't it?"

"No, you said executioners. You know you did."

"Just a slip of the tongue. I wouldn't even know where to buy a gun."

"You said that before."

"Said what?"

"About buying a gun. Yesterday. You talked about buying a gun yesterday. Why do you want to buy a gun?"

"A gun? Why would I want a gun? I don't even need to kill anyone."

I think she's getting suspicious. I must change the subject.

"Ha. Ha. You thought I meant a real gun. I meant one of those joke guns. The kind that has a little flag saying 'BANG' when you pull the trigger. Just a joke, for someone's birthday. Yes. Mr Hudson's birthday tomorrow. All the staff had a whipround and I've got to buy the thing. I don't suppose you know where they sell them?"

"No. I don't think so. I thought you said Mr Hudson didn't have a sense of humour."

"Oh yes. Great sense of humour Mr Hudson. Always telling jokes in the office. What was the one he told today? Something about an elephant and two ping pong balls."

I never could remember jokes. I either can't remember the punchline when I get to the end of the joke. Or can't remember the joke that goes with the punchline. Somehow, even when I do get the two together I always get the feeling that it's me everyone is laughing at and not the joke. Do you know why people become comedians? Because they want to be loved that`s why. Very sad people comedians.

After tea we settle down to our normal evening pursuits. Gail marks books, and I write my diary. She sits on the settee with her legs curled under her. The pile of books slowly moves from her left side to her right, picking up red graffiti on the way. I find myself watching her as she concentrates on her work. She turns me on.

I think a gun would be no good. I wouldn't be able to watch, and pull the trigger. If I tried to do it with my eyes closed, who knows where the bullet would go. I don't want to hurt her.

I could always hire a hit man, but they are probably even harder to find than guns. Probably not even Exchange and Mart has hit men.

Exchange and Mart. I remember the lingerie.

I wonder if Gail feels like turning on the man in her life. But she doesn't need a peephole bra to turn me on. She turns me on anyway.

But then I'm not the man in her life.

She looks up and smiles across the room at me. "What are you thinking about?" she asks. "You look very thoughtful over there."

"Oh. Peephole bras. That's all."

She smiles and says, "Why don't you go and make some coffee?"

While I am making the coffee, I notice the flowers are still in the sink. I hunt around and find a vase. The flowers look nice. I cut an inch off the bottom of each stem, and I have to shorten a couple of them to make a good arrangement. I take them back into the sitting room, with Gail's coffee.

"Thankyou," she says. "The flowers look nice. I meant to do them earlier. Put them on the table. I think they'll be best there."

I'm a little hurt that she had obviously forgotten about the flowers. I think maybe I'll stop on my way in to work tomorrow and buy some more for Julie. I'm sure she'll appreciate them. Better make sure I get in in good time.

I wonder what sort she would like. Red roses I expect, but perhaps that would be over the top. Too obvious. Maybe something simple like daffodils. But then daffodils aren't very romantic. Carnations perhaps?

An old Greek man once gave me a carnation. At Easter. Many years ago, in Crete.

It must have been almost ten years ago. I had walked up the mountain road from the beach. Perhaps three or four miles. Gail was sunbathing on the beach. I left her there, toasting, while I went for a walk. It was a hot day. Gloriously hot, and I came to a little Taverna with four grizzled old Cretan men sitting outside drinking thick, strong, muddy coffee. I stopped for a beer.

Before I could go inside, I was invited to sit down with the men. I was delighted to accept. I spoke only four words of Greek. They spoke even less English. Between us we had about twenty words of German, so we spoke German.

They gave me coffee. And we laughed in the sun. None of us understood a word the other was saying, but we laughed. And then one of the men disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with a carnation which he gave me as a gesture of friendship. It is the only time in my life anyone has ever given me flowers.

Why don't people give flowers to men? Men grow flowers. Men buy flowers for women. Women buy flowers for women. But noone ever gives flowers to men. Why?

I can hardly remember being happier than I was at that moment. That carnation was one of the nicest gifts I have ever received.

But the pleasure lasted only about five minutes. A young woman came to join us at the table. I would guess she was the niece or grand daughter of one of the old men. They made a great show of sitting her next to me. From her blushes and the general hilarity they were obviously making gentle fun of her at my expense. I became very conscious of the carnation. Suddenly it was burning a hole in my hand. I didn't know the local customs. Should I keep it or give it to the girl.

Giving carnations was obviously a sign of friendship, but maybe it would be improper for a stranger to give a flower to a young girl.

My happiness turned to misery. If I gave her the flower I might be insulting her. If I kept it I might be insulting her even more. If I gave it to her, perhaps we would be engaged. If I kept it I might be insulting the man who gave it to me. If I gave it away I might be insulting him even worse.

The old men watched my discomfort. I remembered that these were the same old men that harried the germans during the war. These were tough and proud people. I wished I'd stayed on the beach. I downed my coffee in one gulp. It was almost solid and I could hardly stop from choking. I pushed back my chair and made my farewells. I fled down the mountain with a crumpled carnation in one hand and my throat burning from the coffee.

I begin to gag on the coffee.

"What's the matter?" Gail asks as I cough and splutter.

"Sorry?"

"What's the matter? You sounded as though you were choking."

"Oh. It was the coffee. Burning my throat."

"Mine isn't very hot."

"Not hot. It was too strong. Had to swallow it all in one go because of the girl."

"What girl?"

"Oh. The Greek girl. I didn't want to be engaged. Or shot."

"I don't follow you, Tom. Is this one of your little fantasies?"

"Fantasies? No. No it really happened. You were on the beach. So I went on my own. Don`t you remember?"

I wonder what happened to the carnation? I don't remember dropping it. But I don't remember showing it to Gail either.

She is sitting with her coffee in her hands. Both hands wrapped round the mug, warming them on the coffee. She smiles at me. "Well my coffee is fine," she says. "Why don't you go and make another one for yourself if that one is too strong?"

We sit and look at each other for a few seconds. She's still smiling at me. I think she's beautiful. "You didn't notice if I was carrying a carnation?" I ask.

CHAPTER 6

Listen, this story isn't just about wild animals and dogs. It has pygmies too.

No, I'm not just making it up. This isn't just thrown together you know. There is real drama happening here. I'm going through a crisis. A midlife crisis. Well a whole life crisis actually. They say a drowning man's whole life passes in front of his eyes as he goes down for the last time. Well I'm a drowning man. I've been drowning my whole life. My life is passing in front of me right now. It won't take long. If you could just hold on for a second or two, I'll be right back with you.

There, that didn't take long did it? I told you it wasn't much.

Listen, you can't believe everything you read. I mean, how does anyone know what a drowning man sees when he goes down?

Look, I promise not to lie to you. There have been too many lies already. Lies hurt people. Worse than bullets.

During the evening we watch a documentary about pygmies on the TV. We watch them hunting and foodgathering in the forests where they live. They are gentle people in harmony with their local environment. Each tree and plant is the home of a spirit. Each animal is sacred and protected by it's own particular god.

Did you know that pygmies never kill except for food? They believe that every animal that is killed for food gives it's life willingly to sustain the pygmy. This is a very convenient belief which assuages any guilt that the pygmy might otherwise have from killing a brother of the forest. Convenient for the pygmy, that is. It's not quite so good if you happen to be a wild boar. Even the innocent pygmy cannot help but be tainted by the arrogance of being a man it seems.

We watch the pygmies cook and eat their food. We watch them playing with their children. We watch them building shelters and smoking their pipes. They all appear to be fit and healthy. They are happy and brown and almost naked except for tiny loincloths. Not a peephole bra in sight.

I wonder how they entertain themselves. There's no TV or radio here. No books or magazines. No shops. Not even a pack of cards.

Sex I suppose. Or community singing perhaps.

These programmes never seem to answer this sort of question. Why not? Doesn't it occur to the film makers that we might want to know these things?

And something else, what do they use for toilet paper? And how do they manage without nappies for the babies? In my experience babies seem to be able to defeat the tightest multilayer swaddling in terrycloth and plastic, so how do these people manage with nothing? Do their babies come pretrained? Or do they stopper them up somehow? Or perhaps they are incredibly tolerant or maybe they just move more quickly than we do?

"Watch out Yg, baby Za's got that look on his face again."

Zzzipp!

"Only just moved in time then Yg. I think your reflexes aren't what they used to be."

"Yep. That was a close call. Thanks for the warning. I'll whittle a couple more stoppers in the morning."

And what turns a pygmy on? I mean if he's surrounded by naked women all day, it can't be the glimpse of a well turned ankle. Or even a hint of a nipple through a silk blouse. Why are these questions never answered? Am I the only one who wonders these things? Am I really different from everybody else? Please don't let me be a weirdo. Please let me be just ordinary, like you.

Watching the pygmies gives me an idea though. Blow pipes!

Pygmies don't have guns. They couldn't. No pockets you see to put the bullets in. Well I suppose they could have little bags, but the idea of a pygmy with a handbag just doesn't seem right somehow. Anyway they don't have shops, or money, so even if they did have pockets they couldn't afford guns. So they use blowpipes instead. Big ones, about ten feet long. Funny that, why such little people should invent such a big weapon. You'd think they would have invented something smaller, like a catapult maybe.

Anyway, it seems they spend years hollowing out long pipes and then they blow little poisoned darts at their prey. Now where do they keep the little darts? Perhaps they do have pockets after all, in those little loin cloths. Yes, I guess that must be it. They don't really have anywhere else.

I couldn't afford to spend years hollowing out a pipe, of course. Even my Black and Decker wouldn't help much. The drills are too short. But I do have a length of copper tubing in the garage, left over from doing the central heating. It must be at least eight feet long. I'm sure that it would do just as well as a hollowed log. I haven't seen it recently though. I hope it's still there.

"You haven't noticed if that copper tube is still in the garage, have you?" I ask Gail.

She is half asleep over her marking. "Sorry," she says, coming to. "Did you say something?"

"Not about a blowpipe. No," I reply.

"What about a blowpipe?"

"Haven't got one, I'm afraid. Why are you asking?"

"I'm not asking, Tom. It was you asking me about a blowpipe."

"No. No. I was asking about a copper pipe. In the garage. You must be thinking about the pygmies that we watched earlier."

"Sometimes I don't follow you at all, Tom. Why are you asking me about a copper pipe?"

"Oh, no reason. No reason at all. I think I'll just pop out and tidy the garage."

"But, Tom, it's past eleven o'clock. Why on earth do you want to tidy the garage at this time of night?"

"Just feel wide awake, I suppose. Been meaning to do it for ages. I'll just pop out and make a start. Won't be long. Just a token really. About five minutes I should think. Then I'll be ready for bed."

"Well if you must, Tom. But do remember that you are still wearing your suit."

I find the pipe almost immediately. It seems to have got a bit bent. It must have been propped up in the corner for years, and it has obviously sagged. I pick it up and squint along the length. Yes, quite a pronounced curve. I'll either have to straighten it or, perhaps, aim a bit to one side. I give an experimental blow down the tube. Clouds of dust shoot out the end, and a rather startled spider scuttles out of sight into the corner. Yes, I reckon this will do. Just need to find some darts now.

When I go back indoors, Gail is tidying away her school books and making ready to go to bed. "Oh Tom!" she says. "You're filthy. I told you not to go out there in your suit. What have you been doing? And how on earth did you manage to get a black ring around your eye and mouth?"

***

Geoffrey checked the name and address in his diary for the tenth time that evening. He had no need to check. He could remember the details without having to refer to his diary. Everything was going splendidly to plan. He had had qualms at the beginning. Indeed it had taken him a long time to raise the courage to get started, but now that the beginning was begun, so to speak, he had no doubts that he would see it through to the end. In fact it wouldn't be an end at all. More like a beginning. "Yes," he thought to himself. "Think of it as a beginning."

He put the diary back into his pocket and hummed a small tune to himself as he scanned the TV page of the newspaper to see what he would watch tonight. He glanced at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Yes, he would probably watch for a couple of hours before finally going up to bed.

***

I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling. Gail is already asleep. I tried to cuddle her when she came up to bed, but she went to sleep within minutes of getting in beside me. Just like the previous night. And the one before. And the one before. She didn't resist my cuddles, just sort of accepted them without any kind of reaction at all.

As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I see the shadow pictures moving on the wall again, synchronised with her breathing. My mind, though, is working on weightier matters than shadow pictures tonight.

I have my blowpipe, now all I need are the darts. I wonder what I could use. Unlikely to be able to walk into to town and buy anything. Anyway it would attract too much attention.

"Good morning Sir, and how may I help you?"

"I was wondering whether you stocked darts?"

"Would that be for throwing or blowing, Sir?"

"Oh, blowing, I would think. Yes, definitely the blowing kind."

"Tipped or untipped, Sir?"

"Pardon? What's the difference? This is my first time you know. Haven't really got the hang of the jargon yet."

"That's quite alright, Sir. That's what I'm here for. To help you."

"And to take the money, of course."

"Pardon, Sir?"

"And to take the money. That's why you're here as well. It's the main reason really. No point in helping people if you don't take the money too. Soon go out of business that way. Yes, I'd certainly say that taking the money was even more important than helping people, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Sir. Of course."

"In fact taking the money is the most important thing you do I expect."

"Did you want the darts, Sir. Or did you come in merely to engage me in conversation?"

"Oh No. I mean Yes. I mean I don't want to talk to you. Well I shall have to to some extent, of course. But I do want the darts. You said there are two sorts I believe."

"Yes, Sir. We have untipped, for practicing with, or for friendly tournaments, and we have the tipped ones for the actual hunting. As you are a novice, I expect you would want the untipped. You wouldn't want to kill someone would you?"

"Kill someone? How did you know that? I haven't said anything to anyone. What makes you think I want to kill my wife? Even if I had a wife, that is. Which I do, as it happens. But I love her. And anyway I would have thought there were easier ways to kill your wife than with a blowpipe. A gun for instance. Hypothetically speaking that is."

"Yes, Sir. Hypothetically speaking I suppose you are right. Unless you were a pygmy of course."

"Why of course?"

"No pockets you see, Sir. Where would they put the bullets? I can't imagine a pygmy with a handbag now, can you, Sir?"

"Ha. Ha. No, preposterous idea. Funny mind you must have to think of something like that."

"Yes indeed, Sir. Just my little joke. A little laughter makes the world a better place I always say, Sir. Yes, a little laughter goes a long way."

"Especially if you are a pygmy, eh?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. I don't follow."

"Pygmy. Little laughter. Little people. Don't you see? Little people would have little laughs."

"I don't think it's very amusing to mock someone's small stature, Sir. Frankly I don't think I like that kind of remark in my shop. Now did you want the darts or not?"

"Yes, please. No offense intended you know. Sorry if I spoke out of turn. Just got a bit carried away, that's all."

"None taken, Sir. Let's not mention it again. How many darts will you be wanting then, Sir?"

"Oh, just the one. I don't suppose I'll get a chance of a second shot."

No. Somehow I shall have to make a dart. It shouldn't be too difficult. Why, if a pygmy can do it in the middle of the jungle without any tools at all, it should be easy for a man with a DIY superstore at the end of his road.

I lean over and kiss Gail on the shoulder. She snores on. I turn over and drift off to sleep and dream of being chased by hundreds of little men only a few inches tall. They are firing tiny darts at my ankles and feet. Hours later when I wake up, my left foot is numb with pins and needles from where I have been lying on it.

CHAPTER 7

On my way into work I stop to buy flowers for Julie. I can't decide what to buy. They have everything. I stand, dithering in front of the stall. I hate making decisions.

"Morning guvnor."

"Good morning."

"For the missus or the girlfriend?"

"Sorry?"

"So what did you do wrong then? Lipstick on the collar job is it, eh?"

"Sorry?"

"Yes Guv. So you said. So it's a forgiveness job then. Must be pretty bad for you to be worked up in a state like this."

"Sorry?"

"Look Guv. Why don't I ask you in words of one syllable and you just nod your head once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'. Savvy?"

"Sorry."

"Gordon Bennett, Guv. You must've done something bloody awful to be this bad."

"I haven't done anything. I don't follow a word you're saying."

"Look, Guv. Blokes only buy flowers for two reasons. They've either done something wrong and they're trying to dig 'emselves out of an 'ole. Or else they're on the make. Which one is it? Are you saying 'sorry', or 'how about it'?

"I don't understand."

"Listen. Did you do something naughty last night, or are you just hoping to do something naughty tonight?"

"N.No. It's nothing like that. Someone's birthday, actually. My boss. Yes. It's his birthday today. Yes, he's Fifty three I think. Or Fifty four."

"Pretty is he? Always get him flowers do you?"

"Yes, actually. I mean No. He isn't pretty. I mean he likes flowers."

"Bit of a poofter then is he? Not that I'm complaining mind. It's all good business. Takes all sorts, I say. Pity I haven't got any pansies!"

"Sorry? I was thinking of freesias, actually."

"Why don't you show him you really care and give him some nice red roses? That should be worth a rise if you get my drift."

"No. I'll just take the freesias thank you. One bunch."

"Right you are Guv, but I reckon he won't be turned on by a little posy like that. I'd really recommend you to go for something a bit more ostentatious. Show him you care. You never know, it could be your lucky day."

Somehow I find myself carrying two bunches of flowers when I get back to the car. A small bunch of freesias in a delicate cream colour, and a dozen red roses. The freesias perfume the inside of the car as I drive.

When I get to the office, I leave the roses on the back seat. I'll take them home for Gail. I take the freesias in with me. Julie is already at her desk. She is putting on lipstick, peering into a tiny mirror perched on the top of her wordprocessor.

"Hello Mr F." she says.

I smile nonchalantly and saunter casually over to her desk with the flowers. "Hi," I reply. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a joint like this?"

"Who are you today then, Mr F? Do I have to guess? You're not being Bond again are you?"

"Bond? Who's Bond? It's me. Tom."

"Yes. Mr F. I know it's you, but yesterday you said I had to call you Bond. I thought it was a game. You know, something between us."

"I love you Julie."

"I love you too, Mr F. You're funny."

"N.No. I mean it."

"Mr F. What would your wife think if she could hear you now? Or Mr Hudson for that matter?" She leans over and blows a kiss at me. "Oh those are nice," she adds, seeing the flowers. "Shall I get a jar for you to put them in?"

"Y.Yes. Yes please. They're for you."

"Oh, thankyou. Mr F you are sweet." She leans right across the desk and kisses me on the cheek. As she leans forward I can see right down her shirt. She's not wearing a bra. I can see the soft pink of her nipples brushing against the shirt fabric. Her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. My heart almost stops beating.

"Why, Mr F, you've gone quite pale. Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes. I'm fine. Fine. I'm very fine, thankyou. It's just that. Well I mean. You, you aren't.. I mean I was just a bit surprised that's all. Not that you need to of course. I mean, it's fine. Yes, very fine by me."

"Are you sure you're alright Mr F? Do you want a glass of water?"

My pulse starts racing. I can feel the colour rushing back to my cheeks. I have to do it. It's now or never. I shall just lean across the desk and take her in my arms. She'll melt when I kiss her. I've seen it on the films. I've practiced for it in my mind. This is the one. Go! Go! Go!

The world slows down. Everything happens in super slow motion. I lean slowly towards her. My arms swing slowly up to take her slim young body into a close embrace. My lips begin to pucker in anticipation. I can smell her scent radiating across the ever shrinking gap between us. As my arms close, she moves just as slowly away and I am holding air. Kissing space. Stumbling over my own feet.

The door to the office crashes open, and Mr Hudson strides through.

"Morning Fletcher. Good morning Miss Green. What on earth is the matter with you Fletcher? You look as though you've been sucking on a lemon."

"He's had a bit of a turn, Mr Hudson. One minute he was alright and then he sort of doubled up and pulled a funny face. I think he's in pain."

"Is that right, Fletcher? Are you in pain? Not a bloody heart attack I hope. You're not going to die on me are you Fletcher?"

I can hear the words being said all around me, but it seems a bit unreal. I feel as though they are talking about someone else. I look around, but I can't see anyone else. It must be me they're talking about.

"Are you alright, Fletcher? Come on man, say something. Don't just stand there like a bloody tailors dummy. Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?"

"Hurt? It doesn't hurt anywhere."

"Then why are you standing like that? Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to scare Miss Green, is that it?"

"Scare? No. It's just that she wasn't ...and then I .. and then she...and I."

"You haven't been drinking have you, Fletcher. If you've been drinking you're fired. Can you smell drink on him Miss Green? I'm sure I can smell something."

"Freesias."

"What's that, Fletcher? What did you say?"

"Freesias. That's what you can smell. Nicer than roses. Anyway I left them in the car."

"No you didn't, Mr F. You gave them to me."

"They were for Mr Hudson."

"Freesias? For me? Good god man."

"No, not the freesias. The roses."

"Roses? What roses?"

"He made me buy them. He thought you were queer. After I told him it was your birthday. Wouldn't let me go with just the freesias."

"Birthday? Whose birthday? Is it your birthday, Fletcher? You're not trying to swing a day off are you, just because it's your birthday?"

"No, Mr Hudson. It can't be his birthday. He had a birthday last month."

"Then whose birthday is he talking about? Is it yours, Miss Green?"

"No, Mr Hudson. I thought he said it was yours."

"Mine? Good god I haven't had a birthday for years. Whatever gave him that idea? So who are the flowers for?"

"He gave them to me, Mr Hudson."

"What on earth for?"

"I don't know, Mr Hudson. He just gave them to me, and then he had his turn."

I stand there listening to them discussing me. It doesn't happen this way in the films. In the films the hero reaches out and takes the girl. And she doesn't resist. Usually she can't get her clothes off fast enough. Where did I go wrong? I go over the details in my mind. I'm sure I made all the right moves. It should have worked. I think Gail must be right after all. I don't have any charisma. I might as well not be here. I might as well be invisible.

Perhaps I am invisible. Do you ever get the feeling that only you are real? That everyone else is just existing in your imagination?

No. Of course you wouldn't, because you are only a figment of my imagination anyway. You don't exist at all beyond these pages.

Or is it me that doesn't exist? Maybe you are the real one and I am a figment of your imagination. If that's it, then what happens to me if you start to think about something else? The idea makes me shiver.

"I think he's going again, Mr Hudson. He's starting to shake."

"Fletcher. Are you ill? Are you cold?"

"Don't stop thinking about me."

"Thinking about you? What do you mean?"

"Don't want to disappear, you see."

"Disappear?"

"No. Can't afford to yet. Still have to make the dart."

I look down at my hand. I'm sure it doesn't feel as solid as it did. I try to look through it, moving it about from side to side. I'm almost sure I can see light through it.

The door bangs open. Two other staff members crash in. Mr Hudson motions to them to quieten down. They peer at me from a distance. I must be fading quite quickly now because they seem to be having trouble seeing me at all. I wonder if my clothes will fade with me. It doesn't seem entirely logical that they should. It's always concerned me slightly that the invisible man must have spent most of his time in the nude. Cold for one thing. And no pockets.

I'm wondering how to get out of this situation. Maybe now that I'm almost invisible it will be easier. All I have to do is walk to the door and slip out. No one will even know I've gone.

I start to move towards the door. Everyone is looking at me. Or through me. Yes, I reckon it must be through me. No one says a word. Halfway to the door an idea hits me and I walk back to where Julie is standing. I reach out and take her in my arms. Our faces meet and I give her a long lingering kiss. She is warm and soft in my arms. She responds to my kiss and presses her body against me. I feel her moist warm lips on mine. We hold together for about five seconds before I let her go and walk out of the office.

There are some advantages to being invisible.

Nobody tries to stop me leaving. They just stand there in the office, mouths open, not moving. They seem to be frozen. Perhaps I have moved into another dimension. I remember seeing that once, when I was a boy. In a comic. The hero could switch into another dimension where he moved at the speed of light and everyone else moved so slowly by comparison that they appeared to be frozen. He had time to save the world and get back to his starting point before they even knew he had gone. Perhaps I'm in a new dimension now, as well as being invisible.

Perhaps I'm supposed to be saving the world. Please don't let me be responsible for saving the world. I don't know where to start. I don't want to wear my pants on the outside of my trousers.

In the street people are still moving. Doing their shopping. Going to work. Unless the whole street has shifted to another timezone they appear to be in the same dimension as me. I walk down the road in a daze. Noone takes any notice of me. I guess I must still be invisible. I am wondering how long it will last until it wears off, when I catch sight of myself in a reflection in a shop window. I look normal. Probably I'm not invisible. Unless invisible people can see their own reflections?

I step out in front of a woman hurrying to work. She steps around me, and tuts. I guess the invisibility must have worn off. Perhaps it's a force field that only operates inside the office. Maybe I'd better keep away for a while until it dissipates.

Listen. I'll be alright. You don't have to worry about me. Things have been getting on top of me recently, that's all. This business with Gail has upset me rather. I only wanted to love her. I only wanted her to love me. But it's all changed now. I'll sort it out though. I know I can. It's my story. I can make it go any way I like.

Curare. That's what I need. To tip the dart with. I wonder where you buy curare? Sainsbury's perhaps? I think I've seen it amongst the spices. Or was that cumin? Perhaps cumin would work just as well?

I decide to walk along to the reference library and check up on curare.

I find it easily in the Encyclopaedia Britanica. It tells me that curare is a plant derivative from South America used to tip blow pipe darts. It acts as a muscle relaxant. If you have enough of it you relax so much you forget how to breathe. A little goes a long way. It would be a painless death. Just a small prick and then drift off to sleep. It doesn't say where to buy it. South America is not really practicable at present. I would have to arrange the time off out of my annual holiday quota, and I'm not sure Mr Hudson would be too cooperative over that just at the moment.

I look through the gardening books to see if there are any alternatives. None of them carries much useful information about poisonous plants. I do discover that rhubarb leaves are mildly poisonous, but you would need anout half a sackful to kill someone. Too uncertain. Firing sticks of rhubarb down a blowpipe doesn't seem a very realistic proposition.

There is one of group of plants, though, that seems more of a possibility. Euphorbia. I know enough about gardening to know that euphorbias have a poisonous milky sap. And I know where there is a euphorbia.

I take the gardening books back to the librarians desk. "Any good?" she asks.

"Poinsettia," I reply.

"Poinsettia?"

"On your desk. The plant with the big red flower."

"Oh. Is that what it's called? I'm not very good with plant names. It's pretty though, isn't it?"

"Pretty dangerous I would say."

"Dangerous. How?"

"Member of the euphorbia family you know. The sap is very poisonous. Just a spot of it on your skin can kill you instantly."

"Really?" She is eyeing me strangely. "Oh I shouldn't think so. They wouldn't have dangerous plants in the library."

"Well you see they don't think about blowpipes. Kill you from fifty feet away with a blow pipe. People just don't think."

"No. I suppose not. But noone would come into the library with a blow pipe now, would they?"

"Except a pygmy, of course. Never go anywhere without their blowpipes. Even take them to bed with them so I've heard."

"I've never seen a pygmy in the library though."

"Well you wouldn't. Masters of disguise. Merge in with the forest. Just slip silently from tree to tree, then whoosh, and before you know it it's all over."

The young librarian is giving me very strange looks. I put on my nonchalant face and begin to whistle. Suddenly, I grab the poinsettia and run.

Have you noticed how often I end up running away? I wonder if it means anything?

CHAPTER 8

I walk back to the office with the poinsettia. Noone says a word when I come in. They pretend to be absorbed in their work, but I see their eyes track me across the room. I put the plant on the corner of my desk and sit down. Only Julie acknowledges that I am even there at all. She smiles nervously at me from behind her desk.

"Bracts," I say to noone in particular.

Curiosity gets the better of the others and they stop their writing and look towards me.

"Bracts," I say again. "Not flowers at all. There is a flower, but it's tiny and insignificant. These large red petals are actually leaves. Modified leaves, called bracts. Not a lot of people know that."

Julie smiles encouragingly at me. The others just stare and say nothing.

"Spray them with hormones, you know, to bring them into colour early. Otherwise they don't flower until they are about six feet tall. Too big then for your normal sized living room. Just imagine having a six foot tall plant on your desk. Could hide anything. A pygmy could get lost in a plant that size. Useful things hormones."

The others exchange meaningful glances. There is some sniggering, but Julie doesn't join in. She smiles at me again. "Would you like some coffee, Mr F?" she asks.

"Yes, please," I reply.

Mr Hudson comes through from his office. "Oh, I see you've decided to come back then Fletcher. Glad you could make it. Feeling better now are we?"

"Yes thankyou, Mr Hudson. I think some fresh air was all that I needed."

"Well you'd better get on with it then. You can take care of this for a start."

He passes me a note with a name and a phone number. "She was most particular that you deal with this, Fletcher. Can't think why, but she said she wouldn't talk to anyone else. A Mrs Carrol."

My heart skips a beat. "No Mrs," I say. "Just Carole."

"Eh?"

"Her name. It isn't Mrs Carrol. It's just Carole."

"I'm not interested in her marital status, Fletcher. She could be Mr Carrol in drag for all I care. The only thing that is of any importance is that she has a house to sell, and she seems to think that only you can sell it for her. God knows why, but let's hope she's right eh, Fletcher? Because that's the way we make our money. So if you don't sell it, we don't eat. Do you remember how the system works?"

There is a titter from one of the other desks. It dies away as Mr Hudson glowers in the direction of the noise.

"I'm working on it, Mr Hudson," I say.

"Well I suggest you work on it a little harder then. She wants you round there today."

"But why? I've done the measuring." I'm starting to feel apprehensive again.

"Fletcher. She is the client. The clients pay our wages. If she wants you there, then that is where you go. Until the commission is in the bank, you do everything in your power to keep her sweet. If that means measuring her house twice, then that is exactly what you will do."

"But...."

"But me no buts, Fletcher. I've already told her you'll be there after lunch."

When Julie brings me my coffee a few minutes later, she sits on the corner of my desk warming her hands on her own cup. "Do you feel better now Mr F?" she asks.

"Yes thankyou, Julie. I'm fine. Thanks for the coffee."

"That's OK Mr F. Thankyou for the flowers."

"Call me Tom, please."

"OK Mr F. I will."

"I meant it, Julie. What I said earlier. I meant it."

"You're very sweet Mr F. I'm glad you work here."

We sit in silence while we each finish our coffees. The others pay no attention. We have ceased to be amusing. We have exhausted their short attention spans.

I spend the rest of the morning catching up on a backlog of paper work. There are a few telephone calls and some copying to do. Nothing too taxing. I try not to think about my impending meeting with Carole.

From time to time my mind returns to the problem of the blowpipe. I still have the dart to make and somehow I have to extract the poison from the poinsettia. I remember seeing a film once, of a man tapping a rubber tree. He cut vee shaped notches in the trunk of the tree and then hung a little collecting can on it at the base of the vee. The latex sap dripped slowly from the wound into the can.

My poinsettia is only about ten inches high. I study the stem carefully. If I used a magnifying glass and a model maker's knife, maybe I could make tiny vee shaped cuts in the stem, but where would I find a little can small enough to hang on it?

One time when I am studying the stem intently I see Mr Hudson watching me from across the office. "Greenfly," I say, flicking vaguely at the plant with my ruler.

"Can't be too careful with greenfly, you know. Did you know that they have live young? About one every minute I believe. And they start breeding about five minutes after they are born. That means that one greenfly can produce about ten million others every hour."

Mr Hudson rolls his eyes and walks back to his office.

"If it wasn't for ladybirds we'd be knee deep in greenfly by now," I continue. "Maybe even chin deep. We'd be wading about up to our chins in greenfly. Trying not to breathe in too quickly."

"I swallowed a greenfly once," says Julie.

"A good job that someone does," I reply. "Otherwise we'd drown in a sea of greenfly."

"Or ladybirds!"

One of my colleagues from across the office is unable to restrain himself from joining in. His comment produces a snort of laughter from the other two.

"So why aren't we drowning in ladybirds, then?" he continues.

I confess I am unable to answer this point at the moment, and swish at an imaginary greenfly on the poinsettia with my ruler.

My aim is not good and I manage to slice the top third of the plant off with one blow. A heap of red bracts appears on the floor three feet in front of my desk.

There is a guffaw from opposite. My ladybird friend collapses in hysterics. He rolls around his seat with tears of laughter running down his cheeks. Only Julie looks concerned.

"Oh, Mr F. Your lovely flower."

I watch, entranced, as a white bead of sap oozes from the broken top of the stem. It grows into a round white pearl balanced on the green stalk. I need a little can to collect it in. A little rubber tapper's can. It would need to be about the size that a Barbie doll would use. I look over towards Julie. "Do you have a doll's house by any chance?"

We improvise a collecting can from a milk bottle top. I twist it around my little finger to make a miniature goblet, and catch the drop of white sap just as it rolls down the stem.

"Why did you do that, Mr F?" asks Julie, who has watched the whole intricate operation.

"Not for a blowpipe," I say. "Whatever made you think of that?"

"I didn't think about a blow pipe Mr F. I'm not even sure what a blow pipe is."

"Did I say blowpipe? I must have meant hosepipe. Yes, hosepipe. Mine has got a small leak and this will be just the thing to repair it with. Natural rubber you know."

"Oh. I thought you said blow pipe Mr F. Isn't there a ban on hosepipes?"

"Only in public places," I add. "Like flick knives. Dangerous things hose pipes. People mistake them for snakes, you know."

"Are you pulling my leg, Mr F? I think you might be teasing me."

"Yes, just my joke. No one would mistake a flick knife for a snake."

***

Geoffrey's appointment was for eleven. It would take about two hours, but he had decided to take the whole day off work. No sense in rushing. He was savouring the moment. Relishing the anticipation of what lay ahead. He had put on his normal work clothes and left for the office at the usual time so as not to raise any awkward questions, but once clear of the house he turned away from his usual route and headed across country instead.

There was no hurry. The train journey would take only a little over twenty minutes and it was only a short walk at the other end. Still, he thought it was prudent to travel from a different station, and perhaps a little after the normal rush hour. Wouldn't want to bump into anyone he knew. He didn't want to get into any conversations today. No. This was his day, and he meant to enjoy every minute of it.

***

I take the late lunch, delaying my appointment with Carole as long as possible.

I don't know what she wants, but she makes me uneasy. I feel like a spider waiting to be eaten.

Did you know that female spiders eat their mates after having sex? Well I suppose that saves them from getting lung cancer. From smoking I mean. Anyway it's difficult to imagine a spider with a cigarette. It would probably get all tangled up in it's web.

Still it does seem a bit unfair. The female spider wafts her pheromones around and the poor male, programmed by millions of years of evolution, strolls up, whistling nonchalently, for a bit of spider slap and tickle. He's no sooner given her what she was advertising for, than she turns round and eats him.

Do you know how to tell the sex of a spider? Well the nervous looking ones are the males!

I learned how to tell the sex of a milk bottle once. You have to tie a wedding ring onto a length of cotton and suspend it above the bottle. After a few seconds it starts to swing. If it swings round and round, it's a female. But if it swings back and forth, it's a male.

Or was it the other way around?

I suppose it doesn't really matter except to another milk bottle.

I used to have a wedding ring, but I don't wear it now. I gave it back. It seemed to have stopped working.

I wonder if people have pheromones?

Anyway I feel nervous now.

Pull yourself together, man. She's just a poor lonely woman, looking for some help to sell her house. The rest is just imagination. I'd like to know what happened to Mr Carrol though.

I drive to her house and park outside the gate. I see the curtains move as I arrive. She has been looking out for me. As I get out of the car I notice the roses on the back seat. They've been there since first thing this morning. They're looking rather limp without water. Maybe they'd be better on the floor, in the shade, but I don't think they'll be up to much by tonight.

"Oh, Tom. Flowers for me. How thoughtful."

I'm startled by the closeness of the voice. Carole has come out of the house and right up to me without my hearing. She leans across me and reaches into the car for the flowers. They look pretty sorry. Twelve limp red roses, heads drooping in their pink patterned paper wrap.

"Why, Tom. They're beautiful," she trills. "My favourite flowers. What a kind thought."

She bobs towards me and tries to plant a kiss on my cheek, but I manage to move aside so that her lips miss me by the merest fraction of an inch. As she passes I smell scent in the air.

"Pheromones!" I cry in alarm.

"Fairy what's?" she replies.

"Pheromones," I repeat. I back away nervously.

"I don't know what you mean, Tom. What's the matter?"

"You can't fool me. I know a pheromone when I smell one. I know your game. A quick bit of sex, and then it's all over for me."

"Tom, you're making me blush. It doesn't have to be over that quickly."

"Keep away. Let's just keep this to a business relationship. Thought you could catch me off my guard eh? But your scent gave you away."

"My perfume, Tom? Don't you like it?"

"Perfume? Is that what you call it. I know a pheromone when I smell one. You don't fool me."

"Tom. It isn't what you think. It isn't Fairy Moon. I've never heard of Fairy Moon perfume. It's Anais Anais, Tom. I put it on specially for you."

All the while we have been talking I've been backing away. She has followed my every step. I think I'm walking into a trap. Suddenly I find I can't go any farther. My heel hits the door step. I stumble backwards and fall against the door. It yields to the pressure and I find myself collapsing back onto the hall carpet.

Carole is following me so closely that she is caught up in the general collapse and falls headlong on top of me. I am vaguely aware of the taste of roses as my head is buried in blooms and leaves and thorns, followed by the weight of her body, and a blast of perfume in my nostrils.

Oh god. This is it. She's going to eat me, and I didn't even get the sex.

CHAPTER 9

When I come round, my head is surrounded by roses. A woman is performing some sort of ritual dance and flicking cold water over me. Is this it? Is this a kind of ceremonial cleansing before the meal? Am I already dead?

"Oh, Tom. You've woken up. You frightened me, falling over like that. You must have hit your head?"

She bends over me and reaches out with her hands.

"Don't eat me," I whisper. "Please." My voice is almost inaudible. She ignores my croaks and pulls me up into a sitting position. I am too shocked to resist, and by degrees she gets me onto the settee in the front room.

"Double aspect room with telephone and television point. Patio doors to the rear."

"Shh, Tom. Relax. You'll be alright in a few moments. Just relax." She's holding my head against her chest. I think she might be trying to suffocate me.

"Feature fireplace with coal effect gas fire. Shelves to recesses on either side of chimney."

"Perhaps you'd like to go upstairs and lie down? I could bring you a cup of tea."

Numbly I find myself preceding her up the stairs in a kind of hypnotic haze. Is this how pheromones work? My limbs are moving, but I have no control. We arrive in a bedroom, with a double bed. It is covered with a pink and grey duvet.

"Master bedroom. Rear aspect, with fitted wardrobes and ensuite shower room. Telephone and TV point. Single radiator."

I'm not sure what I've done with my sonic tape measure. Must have put it down somewhere. I'll have to come back up and measure later. Carole pushes me gently onto the bed and starts to remove my shoes. I watch her as though I am watching a film. I can see two feet. They look like my feet, but distant somehow. "Hello feet."

"I think I should loosen your clothing," she says. "Come on, now. Don't be shy. After all we are practically lovers."

I find myself in the bed. I can see my trousers hanging over a chair. My jacket and tie are hanging over the back of the chair too. It's warm and comfortable in the bed. I think the sheets are new. They smell fresh. Like spring flowers.

"Blossom," I say, patting at the duvet gently with my hand.

"Darling?" she replies.

I have no idea who she is talking to, and look around to see if there is anyone else in the room.

"Would you like something to drink, Tom?" she asks. "Tea, or brandy perhaps? I think I might have a little brandy myself. For medicinal purposes, of course."

I nod vaguely, though I'm not sure whether I'm agreeing to the tea or the brandy. In any event it turns out to be immaterial.

When she returns, she is carrying a tray with a large green bottle and two glasses. "I couldn't find brandy," she says. "All I could find was this old bottle of champagne."

Opposite the end of the bed is a large mirror. It fills half the wall. It's like being at the cinema. There is a film already running. A middle aged, balding man is sitting up in bed. He appears to be partially dressed. I can see his trousers and jacket hanging on a chair by the bed, but he is still wearing a shirt and tie. His tie has been loosened, and the top button of his shirt is undone, but the tie is still looped around his neck. He looks somewhat vacant, as though he is watching a movie.

A woman is sitting on the bed. She has kicked off her shoes, but she is still dressed. She is quite attractive. A little younger than the man, slim and blonde. She appears to be pouring champagne into two glasses. She looks excited.

I think this might be a sex movie. This looks like the build up to a sex scene to me.

The man scarcely moves. He seems preoccupied by something at the foot of the bed. He takes the proffered champagne glass without a word and swallows the contents in one gulp. I'm not impressed by his acting. He looks familiar, but I can't put a name to the face. It doesn't look very true to life to me. Just an excuse for a bit of titillation I expect. I wonder why they didn't use a younger actor?

The blonde woman's skirt has ridden up her thighs. She has nice legs. She is sipping her wine more carefully than the man. She refills his glass, and he sips at it absentmindedly.

There seems to be something wrong with the sound track, too. There is no music, and the actors voices seem to be coming from a long way away. I look around vaguely for the remote control.

"Should I take your tie off, Tom? You still look a little flushed. Perhaps you should take off your shirt?"

The actress is slowly undressing the man in the bed. He seems not to mind. In fact he seems a bit indifferent to the whole process. You would think they'd hire better actors. Can't think how he holds the job down. After all, she's quite a good looking woman, and she's acting her heart out. I wonder who she is? Not a face I recognise, but I suppose for a sex movie the face isn't important.

"Lift your arm, Tom, so that I can get this little sleeve off. Here, put the drink down until we get the rest of these clothes off you."

I wonder what day it is? I keep thinking it's Tuesday for some reason. I feel sure there was something I should be doing today. Something important. Still, it's not often I get time to watch a film in the afternoon, and this one's getting more interesting.

I take another sip of my drink. The man in the bed takes a sip too. He'd better watch out. If he drinks much more he won't be able to perform at all.

"I'm just going to powder my nose, Tom. Don't go away will you."

The blonde has slipped off the bed and out of her skirt. She is still wearing a short slip. She disappears from the screen, undoing her blouse as she goes.

I reach for my glass, but it seems to be empty. The film seems to have ended. The woman has gone. The man is just sitting there in the bed, doing nothing. Perhaps it's a serial? Or maybe it isn't a sex film at all. I decide to turn it off, and climb out of bed.

I wonder where I am?

I look at my watch. It says three thirty. If this is Tuesday I should be at work. My clothes are on a chair by the bed. I start to put them on. I feel a little light headed. I can't see my shoes anywhere. Perhaps I left them downstairs. As I leave the bedroom, I see a small tub filled with coloured balls of cotton wool. On an impulse I put it into my pocket. I'm sure it will come in useful.

My shoes are in the sitting room. I am just about to put them on when I hear a wail from upstairs.

"Tom! Tom! Where are you?"

This is a good question. Where am I? This isn't my house. Oh, God. I've come into the wrong house by mistake. Oh, God. Don't let me be caught. I've dreamed about this. Going into the wrong house. Sitting down at the wrong table. Getting into bed with the wrong wife.

It's one of those recurring dreams, like walking down the street with no trousers. My trousers! Where are my trousers?

Oh God. I've always woken up before. This time I don't seem to be waking up.

I pick up the shoes, and head for the front door. There is a naked woman on the stairs.

"Tom!" she cries. "Tom. Come back."

"I'm sorry," I say. "It was an honest mistake. I must have opened the wrong front door by mistake."

"Tom. I love you! Don't go." The naked woman is coming down the stairs towards me.

There are some roses lying in a heap on the hall table. They look a little the worse for wear. I pick them up and push them towards the nude blonde bombshell that is headed my way.

"Keep away! I know how to use these, and I'm not afraid to." The woman hesitates, deterred by the thorns no doubt.

"Tom. Come back to bed. You're still concussed. Come back and let Carole nurse you. I need you Tom. I need you."

Her momentary hesitation is enough. It gives me time to dive through the front door and run. I throw the flowers on the floor as I go. Did she say Carole? That name has a familiar ring. As I run down the garden path I drop one of my shoes, but now is not the time to stop.

My pursuer has regained her composure and is coming down the path after me. She is clutching red roses in each hand. Two wilting bunches of roses are all that stand between her and me. I decide to leave the shoe.

"Tom!" she calls, as I fight my way into the car. "Thankyou for the flowers, Tom. You'll be back, Tom. I know you will. I love you, Tom. You will be back. ......I've still got your trousers."

As I drive away I can see her standing in the middle of her front garden. She has abandoned modesty, and is waving both bunches of flowers above her head.

I see curtains twitching all about. There will be something for the neighbours to discuss over tea tonight.

Are you still following this story? I'm not going too fast for you, am I? You weren't expecting more sex just now were you? I hope you weren't. It really isn't that kind of story.

Listen. I keep trying to explain to you, this is a story about a man who loves his wife. That's all. Oh, and he's going through some sort of crisis. Well, quite a big crisis really. But it will all sort itself out in the end. This isn't one of those stories with an enigmatic ending. I promise you that. Just as soon as I've killed my wife, it will all sort itself out. You'll see.

Look. Noone will get hurt. I won't hurt her. I love her too much to hurt her. The hurt has happened already. It happened to me. But I'll be alright. I'll get over it. One day.

Have you noticed that I'm running away again? Why does that always seem to happen? And how am I going to get back into work with no trousers?

Running away. It seems to happen all the time, but this time I think it has given me an idea.

I drive towards the local park and stop in the layby. I take off my shirt and socks. I still have my vest and pants on. My tie is still loosely draped around the collar of the shirt. I take it and tie it around my forehead, the loose end dangling down my back. There is noone much around, just a couple of mothers walking their babies and a bunch of teenagers playing football in the distance.

I get out of the car and start to run. This time I'm not running away. This time I'm a jogger!

I run round the perimeter path of the park. Noone takes any notice of me. I pass the mothers with their prams, they don't even look up from their conversation as I pass. I run on round towards the footballers. In time honoured tradition they have piled their track suits into heaps at either end of the pitch to mark the goal mouths. They ignore me as I approach.

When I get level with the first goal I make a sudden sortie onto the pitch and grab at one of the goal posts. Success! I have two track suit tops and one bottom. The boys stand open mouthed at my antics, and not one of them gives chase.

"Emergency," I shout as I disappear. "Police business. Probably be on Crimewatch this evening. Thankyou for your assistance!"

Listen. I do feel guilty about that, but what else could I do? I couldn't just walk back into work with no trousers, now. Could I?

Listen. Be reasonable. I mean, what would you have done?

CHAPTER 10

Geoffrey arrived fifteen minutes early for his appointment. The address was easy to find, but a little more seedy than he had imagined. He almost had second thoughts, and had to walk aound the block to compose himself.

It was not an entirely unexpected finding, though he had convinced himself that the whole enterprise would be a little more salubrious. Fortunately he had rehearsed in his mind how he would react in this eventuality, and a few minutes walking was sufficient for him to regain his resolve.

At two minutes to the appointed time he took a deep breath and walked in.

Now, two hours later, as he emerged, he felt good. He was glad he had had the courage to follow it through. It hadn't been cheap, and it had all been a little tawdry, but all in all he was satisfied. He tucked his package under his arm, and, whistling gently to himself, strolled back towards the train.

***

I arrive back at the office just before five. There are hoots of laughter as I enter. Even Julie joins in. I try to look nonchalant, but it isn't easy wearing a tracksuit bottom four sizes too small, and wearing only one shoe.

"Personal fitness," I say. "Very important to take regular excercise."

The laughter continues, aided by some ribald comments that I don't catch. Well I do catch the odd words, like 'stupid pratt', but I try not to react. I do a couple of deep knee bends before sitting down at my desk.

"You ought to try it," I continue. "I feel wonderful. Must've done twenty miles at least today."

"And where the hell have you been?"

I nearly jump out of my skin. Mr Hudson has come out of his office, attracted by the noise, no doubt.

"Not sex," I say. "Definitely not sex. Whatever gave you that idea?"

"What the hell are you babbling about man?"

"Filming. Yes, got caught up in some filming. Needed me as an extra. It turns out I'm the exact double of this film actor. They didn't have a stunt man, you see, and they couldn't risk him because of the insurance. So they asked me. Motorcycles. It was a war film I think. Something about an escape from a P.O.W. camp. I had to outride the Gestapo and jump a barbed wire barrier. I didn't do the sex scene, though. Drew the line at that. I think it's degrading to women, don't you?"

I can tell he doesn't believe me. I can tell that noone believes me. I look to Julie for help, but I can see that even she doesn't believe me.

"I didn't do it," I say to Julie. "I wouldn't. I think it must have been the champagne. Perhaps she isn't used to it."

"I don't understand, Mr F," she replies. "What champagne?"

"Did I say champagne? I meant........." But I've run out of words. Everyone is waiting for me, and I've run out of words.

When I was a boy, I thought you only had a set number of words, and that when you'd used up your stock of a particular word that was it. You couldn't ever use it again. If you tried to, all that came out was silence. I decided to test out my theory by choosing a word and saying it over and over to see if I could use up my supply. I chose a word that I could live without, of course. I wasn't entirely stupid.

I chose wombat. For days I walked around saying wombat, wombat, wombat. But I never used it up. I lost interest after a while and stopped, but I sometimes wonder how many wombats I've got left.

"Well?" asks Mr Hudson.

My mouth is going up and down, but no sound is coming out.

"I'll look after him, Mr Hudson," Julie says, and she comes over to my desk and puts her hand on my shoulder. "Let's take this off for a start shall we, Mr F?" She reaches up and unties the tie from around my forehead. "Now then, how would you like a nice cup of tea?"

"What day is it?" I ask, as Julie makes the tea.

"It's Thursday, Mr F. All day." She smiles at her own little joke. She's beautiful. I really am falling in love with her.

"Is it?" I say. "I keep thinking it's Tuesday." The image of hippopotami comes into my mind briefly, but it soon goes. I wonder why?

Julie brings me the tea. The rest of the office has packed up and gone home while the tea was brewing. Even Mr Hudson has left tonight. Usually he's the last to go. He just shook his head at me as he passed and said nothing. I think he isn't pleased with me recently.

She sits on the corner of my desk warming her hands on her own cup. I've noticed her do that before. It's one of her little mannerisms. I suppose everyone has mannerisms, but you are never conscious of your own are you? I wonder if I have any?

"Do I have any mannerisms?"

"Sorry, Mr F. What was that?"

"I said, 'do I have any mannerisms?'. You know, funny little behaviours or odd things that I do."

"Oh, you shouldn't take any notice of them, Mr F."

"Take any notice of what?"

"The others, Mr F. Just ignore them."

"Who do you mean?"

"The others. In the office. Just ignore them."

"How can I ignore them? We have to work together."

"Yes, Mr F. I know you have to work with them. But just ignore them when they laugh at you."

Do they laugh at me? Why? Am I funny? Perhaps I have a very odd mannerism. One that is truly eccentric. I wonder what it is? Please don't let me be eccentric.

"What exactly do they laugh at?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing, Mr.F. They're just silly people."

"You don't laugh at me."

"No, Mr F. I think you're sweet. I like working with you."

She said that before. She said she liked me the other day. I think she must love me. I think perhaps we are in love with each other.

"Will you marry me, Julie?" I ask.

She coughs on her tea. "But you are already married Mr.F. Whatever would your wife say if she could hear you now?"

My wife would be delighted, I think. "Afterwards, I meant. When she's gone."

"Gone, Mr F? Where is she going?"

"Going? Oh, nowhere. Not anywhere."

We sit and contemplate our tea for a few seconds. Julie smiles at me. She is sitting on the desk, facing me. With her legs crossed. I want to put my hand on her thigh, but my arm muscle won't let me.

"Why won't you call me Tom?" I ask.

"I do call you Tom, don't I, Mr F?"

I smile back at her. "Yes," I say. "Perhaps you do."

We look at our tea again. "I love you, Julie."

"I have to go home, Mr F," she says as she slips off the desk. "Let me have your cup and I'll wash them both up."

I watch her take the cups and disappear to the small kitchen at the back of the office. I put my hand on the desk where she has been sitting a few moments before. It's warm. Warm from the heat of her body.

I feel empty. Hollow. A shell. Something is missing in my life. I stare at my hand on the desk.

Suddenly I realise what's missing. It's the poinsettia. It's gone. When I left at lunchtime, it was on the corner of the desk. Where Julie was sitting. Perhaps she knocked it off, when she sat down. I get down on my knees and crawl around the desk.

Nothing. No sign of it. Not even any spilt earth. Just a plastic headed map pin which must have been dropped. I pick it up, almost absentmindedly.

"Where have you gone, Mr F?" I see Julie's legs from under the desk. She is only inches from me. I could reach her from here and kiss her calf. But even as I think the thought she bends down and looks at me from the far side of the desk. "It's gone," I say.

"What's gone, Mr F?"

"The poinsettia. It was on the desk before you sat down."

"Oh. I'm sorry Mr F. But I didn't sit on it, honestly. I threw it away after you had gone out at lunch time. I didn't think you would want it now it was broken. Did I do the wrong thing?"

"Broken? Oh, yes. I remember. No that's ok. No use to anyone a broken flower.....

.....Very dangerous things, poinsettias. Did you know that? Lot's of pygmies get killed by poinsettias you know. Just brushing past one is enough. They find them strangely attractive for some reason. I think it must be to do with pheromones. They're always hanging round the sort of places that poinsettias grow, and then, just a momentary lapse of attention and the next thing they know they've woken up dead. You'd think they'd learn."

We head for the door. Julie turns off the lights as we go. I remember to turn over the sign on the door to read 'closed', and we walk round to the car park.

She blows me a kiss as she drives away.

I feel in my pocket for my car keys. I find the keys, but everything else is gone. My wallet isn't there! And then I remember. These aren't my trousers. My wallet must still be in my trousers.

That means I shall have to go back. I can live without the trousers. I can live without the money. I can even cancel the credit cards, but I put the little foil packet of euphorbia sap in my wallet that I collected from the broken poinsettia , and I shall need that soon.

I am still holding the map pin that I found on the floor in the office. I push it through the lapel of my jacket. I have thought of a use for that. I pat the pocket of the jacket to check that the cotton wool balls that I picked up when I left Carole's house are still there. I have a use for them too. But without the euphorbia sap, I'm stuck.

Listen. I hope you are still following all this carefully. The plot is building nicely now. There is real craftsmanship here, you know. Every word and every comma is placed with precision.

This may seem like disconnected ramblings to you, but hundreds of hours of painstaking research have gone into this. That map pin wasn't on the floor under my desk just by chance, you know. I dropped that there weeks ago in anticipation of this.

Look. I can't stand here all evening bantering with you about my literary style. I've got a wife to kill.

A wife.

I arrive home at the same time as Gail. She is locking her car as I pull in to the drive. She waits while I get out of mine.

"Good grief!" she says. "What on earth are you wearing? And what's happened to your other shoe?"

"Party," I reply.

"Party?"

"Me, too. How was yours?"

"How was my what?"

"I thought you said you'd been to a party."

"You're being deliberately obtuse, Tom. Where is your shoe?"

"Oh, that. I think it must have got lost at the party. Old Hudson's birthday you know. I thought I told you. It got a bit wild. Musical chairs, and things."

"And the trousers?"

"Uh... Oh we had a bit of a kick about. Five a side. Or maybe it was only three. Must've picked up the wrong ones by mistake. No problem. Sort it out in the morning."

"And Mr Hudson joined in this 'kick about' did he?"

"Yes. You know he's not a bad old stick when you get to know him, and he did like the flowers."

"Flowers?"

"Roses."

"Roses?"

"Why do you keep repeating everything I say?"

"You gave roses to Hudson?"

"Couldn't get carnations, and the poinsettia got broken." Even as I speak I realise that I am making a terrible mistake. I shouldn't have mentioned the poinsettia. I need to change the subject. My right foot is going numb ,too.

"Poinsettia? Did I say poinsettia? I meant freesias. Always get them confused for some reason. Nasty things poinsettias."

"Nasty? Why?"

I think she suspects something. Why does she keep going on about poinsettias? How could she know? I must change the subject. "Poisonous? I didn't know they were." Damn.

"Sometimes I don't understand a word you are saying," she says, and fumbles in her bag for the front door key. While we are standing there the telephone begins to ring in the house. Gail manages to undo the door and grab it before it stops.

"It's for you," she says, handing me the phone as I come through the door. "Someone called Mrs Carroll. Apparently she's found your wallet somewhere."

CHAPTER 11

"Good Evening, Tom Fletcher speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hello Tom. Aren't you going to say 'sorry' to me for running away like that?"

The sound of Carole's voice over the phone sends shivers down my spine. Gail is taking off her coat behind me. She hangs it on the hook and disappears towards the kitchen.

"Yes," I say loudly, projecting my voice in the general direction that Gail has taken. "This is Mr T. Fletcher. You do have the correct number."

"Why are you shouting at me, Tom? I can hear you perfectly well. I've got your trousers, Tom, and your shoe."

"You've found my wallet," I shout. "Why that's wonderful."

"Oh yes, I've got your wallet, too, Tom. So when are you coming to collect it? I'm free now, you know. Why don't you come round straight away? We could finish off the champagne. If you came now you could have it in ten minutes."

"Yes, there is a reward," I continue. Gail reappears from the kitchen. She frowns at me as she approaches.

"Why are you shouting?" she mouths as she passes.

"Deaf," I shout.

"Well if she wasn't when she rang, she soon will be," adds Gail as she goes into the sitting room.

"Tom!" Carole's voice explodes in my ear. "Stop shouting at me. I'm not deaf!"

"Not you," I add. "The cleaning woman. Deaf as a post she is."

"What cleaning woman? With you, now? At this time of night?"

"Yes. Yes. It was the cleaning woman that answered the phone when you rang. She prefers the late shift. Doesn't sleep well." I turn and call to the wall, "Don't sleep well, do you dear?"

"Did you call?" Gail's voice drifts back from the sitting room.

"No. Not you. Just calling to the cleaning woman."

"Sorry? Did you say cleaning woman?"

Carole's voice sounds in my ear again. "But if she's deaf, how could she answer the phone? Are you sure there isn't someone else there with you, Tom?"

"No. No. Quite alone," I say as nonchalently as I can. Please let it sound nonchalent for once.

"I heard you talking to someone," insists Carole. "Who were you talking to, Tom?"

"No one," I reply. "Just thinking out loud." I think she might not believe me. "If you could just clean behind the piano," I call, just to add some verisimilitude to my story.

"I'm sorry, Tom," calls Gail. "I can't hear you. If you are talking to me you'll have to speak up. What was that about a cleaning woman?"

"Oh, I just thought we might need one. The woman who found my wallet says she is a cleaning woman. Wanted to know if we needed any work done."

Carole again, "Tom, are you talking about me? I'm not a cleaning woman. Who are you talking to? I thought you said your cleaner was deaf."

I'm starting to get confused. Perhaps it would be easier if I handed the phone over to Gail and let her talk to Carole. For a moment I'm tempted, but somehow I have an inkling that it would complicate rather than simplify matters. Why don't I just put the receiver down?

"How did you get my number?" I ask down the phone.

"Easy, peasy, Tom. It was in your wallet."

"Actually I am interested in a cleaning woman." I nearly jump out of my skin. Gail has crept up behind me while I am talking, without me hearing her.

"God! You made me jump."

"How did I do that, Tom? I could do more than make you jump if you came round now," purrs the voice in my right ear.

"Ask her how much she charges," whispers Gail into the other ear.

I get a bad feeling about this, but I can't see a way out. "Uh....How much do you charge?" I ask.

"Oh there's no charge, Tom. Not for you. What sort of a woman do you think I am?"

"What did she say?" asks Gail.

"Nothing, not anything," I fumble.

"Well she must have said something. I could distinctly hear something. Here, let me talk to her."

"N..No!" I'm starting to sweat. "She won't talk to you. Doesn't deal with women. Some sort of phobia. Something to do with her childhood. Had a terrible experience when she was young. With gypsies, I believe."

"How do you know all this? I thought you said she didn't say anything?"

"Just a guess," I say.

"Tom. There is someone else with you isn't there?" Carole's voice continues in my right ear. "Who's there, Tom? I don't believe it's the cleaner."

Gail continues talking into my other ear. "Don't be so stupid, Tom. She must know what she charges. It's a perfectly reasonable question to ask." Gail is giving me her hopeless look. I don't mean she is hopeless, I mean the look she gives me when she thinks I'm hopeless. I see it often.

"Nothing," I say. "Not a penny. She doesn't charge. Does it free. An eccentric. Yes, that's what she said. Doesn't need the money, just likes housework. And helping people."

"Tom. If you don't answer me, I'll get in my car and drive round to your house." Carole's voice has taken on a more menacing tone. "Perhaps I'll do that anyway," she adds.

"Well if she's free, she can come anyday," says Gail. "Just the sort of eccentricity that apppeals to me."

Listen. Did you know that when twenty two footballers are running around on a football pitch, the odds that there will be two of them with the same birthday are better than evens. It's surprising, but true. That little fact is so surprising that when two people discover they have the same birthday, they say "what an amazing coincidence." and "would you believe it?" It isn't amazing at all, of course. Just a simple statistical truth. Well, probability theory if you want to be more precise.

People also say "lightening never strikes twice in the same place." But that's not true either. The Empire State building has been struck by lightening hundreds of times. Not coincidence at all.

I need a coincidence now. A lightening strike would do nicely. I need a bolt of lightening to take out the telephone line. I think it's about time I got lucky.

"Tom.....talk to me Tom."

Click. Silence.

The receiver has suddenly gone quiet in my hand. Carole has gone. The telephone line is dead. What an amazing coincidence. Just when I needed it.

"Hello," I say to the dead phone. "Hello. Is there anyone there?"

Silence. Bliss.

"What's happened?" asks Gail.

"Lightening I should think," I reply. "Yep. I reckon a bolt of lightening must have taken out the phone line." I hand her the receiver so that she can listen to the silence too.

"But the weather is completely clear," she says. "You don't get lightening on days like this."

"Amazing." I say. "Isn't it incredible how nature can constantly surprise us."

Gail studies me with a disbelieving look on her face, but she can't argue. She heard the silence too. After a few seconds she shrugs and disappears back to the sitting room.

When she has gone, I replace the receiver in the cradle and bend down to unravel the phone lead from the toes of my right foot. I almost push the connector back into the socket, but, on reflection, I decide to leave it unplugged for the time being, in case Carole decides to ring back.

Sometimes you just have to give coincidence a hand. Besides, it's time things started to go my way for a change.

Oh. By the way. The birthday thing works for cricketers too. Or ballet dancers. I'm not sure about pygmies. I don't know whether they have birthdays. Or hippos. Do hippos have birthdays? I can't imagine hippos blowing out birthday cake candles, can you?

***

Geoffrey came into the house quietly. He had a package under his arm. He slipped upstairs without being noticed and, with as little noise as he could make, he pulled down the loft ladder and climbed up. He pushed the brown paper package behind a box and clambered back down without wasting time. As he pushed the ladder back up through the trapdoor, a little shower of dust cascaded down and frosted him lightly across the top his head and shoulders.

"Is that you, Geoffrey?" called a voice from downstairs.

"Yes dear. I'll be right down," he replied. His fingers were dirty from the ladder, and he rubbed them on his trousers as he headed downstairs.

***

After tea, I retire to the garage. I take with me the map pin and the cotton wool balls that I collected earlier. You see, I told you there was a purpose to all this.

A couple of minutes rummaging turns up a small length of fuse wire wound round a yellowing card, and my old dart board. I have no idea where the darts are.

I am not a practical man, but a few moments work with the wire and I have turned the pin and cotton wool ball into a passable imitation of a blowpipe dart. It's time to try it all out.

I hang the dart board on the back of the garage door, about at head height, and take the copper pipe to the far end. By fluffing the cotton wool ball, I make the dart a loose fit into the tube. I lift the tube, my improvised blowpipe, to my lips and take sight along it's length at the dart board. The tube has a distinct curve to it, and it's difficult to know quite where it should be pointed. The end of the tube seems to wave about rather in the air. I try to hold it steady. One puff, and the dart flies effortlessly from the tube and hits the dart board just above the bull a fraction of a second later.

At least, that's what should have happened. What actually happens is nothing. The dart merely sticks at the entrance to the pipe. I try again. Blowing harder this time. The dart moves. Fractionally.

Perhaps I've made it too tight a fit?

I manage to shake it from the pipe and roll the cotton wool between my fingers gently, to compress it.

This time it's worse than before. I expend lungfuls of air down the tube, but the dart doesn't even move as much it did previously.

Perhaps it's too loose, not too tight.

It falls easily from the pipe when I tip it up. Yes. I'm sure it must be too loose.

I fluff the cotton wool as much as I can until it is a snug fit in the end of the pipe and try again. This time there is partial success. The dart still doesn't move much, but I can feel resistance now. I just need to blow harder.

I take a deep breath and blow as hard as I can. It moves! About three inches I would guess. I can still see it in the pipe, but now it is tantalisingly out of reach. I take another breath. Another few inches. Another breath. More movement.

The pipe is about six feet long. I reckon the dart is moving about three inches with each breath. If my maths is right, another twenty breaths will get it right through the pipe. I don't remember the pygmies having this problem.

Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. Squint down the pipe. I can no longer see the dart. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. I'm beginning to feel light headed. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. The garage light is starting to pulse strangely, and my legs are beginning to go. I can't figure what's happening. I can't tell whether the dart is still moving. Inhale. Blow. I feel very strange. Perhaps it's something I ate. Inhale. Blow. I've lost count of the breaths I've already taken. I'm finding it difficult to stand up straight. My head is spinning.

A terrible thought overtakes me. Perhaps Gail has poisoned me. Maybe she has guessed what I'm planning. Maybe she poisoned my tea. Did she drink the same as me at tea time? I don't remember.

I have to get the dart out of the pipe. Inhale. Blow. I wonder what it was she put in the tea? I'm starting to feel really bad. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. My legs seem not to be there any more, and my arms are losing all feeling. Whatever it was it is acting very quickly.

How ironic. All the while I've been planning how to kill Gail, it never crossed my mind that she would want to kill me. There may still be time. If I can get the dart and poison the tip, maybe I can get her with it before her poison finally gets me. Inhale. Blow.

The dart should be almost there by now. I try to look down the end of the pipe to see it coming, but the feeling in my fingers has completely gone. I can no longer hold the pipe properly and it slips from my fingers onto the floor. I slowly crumple into a heap beside it. The garage is going round and round.

I manage to retrieve the pipe, but I can't remember which end is which. I can't see the dart from either end. Which way is it headed? There is no way to tell. How long do I still have? There is no way to tell. I only have one choice. I must keep blowing. Even if I am blowing the dart back into the tube, eventually it must come out of the other end. It can't be more than twenty three breaths either way.

By a supreme effort of will power I get my mouth over the end of the pipe. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. Inhale.

Listen. I don't know exactly what happened next. I remember blowing and then I remember being asleep. I don't know how long I was asleep.

"Tom. Wake up. Come on, Tom. Wake up."

I am aware of being shaken. I can hear Gail's voice way off in the distance. She's calling me.

"Tom. Wake up. Whatever have you been doing? What's the matter?"

I'm trying to stay asleep. To steal a few more minutes in bed, but it isn't bed, and my head seems to be clearing. When I open my eyes I am lying on the garage floor. Gail is standing over me. She looks scared.

"Tom. What happened?"

I sit up. I'm still holding the copper tube. It seems to have bent almost to a right angle under my weight. She mustn't guess what I've been doing. She has obviously bungled her poisoning attempt. I mustn't bungle mine. I may only get one chance.

"Plumbing," I say.

"Plumbing?" she replies. "What plumbing?"

"Oh. I just thought I'd do some plumbing," I say. "Must've fallen off the ladder."

"But I don't see a ladder, Tom," says Gail.

"Oh no!" I say. "Don't tell me we've been burgled, too."

CHAPTER 12

Gail makes coffee when we get back indoors. I watch her like a hawk to see whether she adds anything foreign to my cup. I don't spot anything, but I make sure that I carry the cups into the sitting room, and, en route, I switch hands while she is not looking. I delay starting my drink until I see her take a sip from hers. She seems to be in no hurry. Eventually she puts the cup to her lips, but it appears to me that she may only have mimed drinking. I study her closely to see her swallow. She glances over at me and smiles.

"Do you feel better now?" she asks.

"Yes, thankyou."

"Why don't you drink your coffee before it gets cold?"

"I'm just going to," I say. But I'm still not sure. I'm still waiting for her to take a good mouthful.

She toys with her cup, and again takes a sip. Or mimes? I can't see from here whether she is actually drinking it. She is still watching me.

"Isn't it a bit hot still?" I ask.

"The coffee?" she replies. "No, it's about perfect. If you don't drink it now, it will be too cold."

She seems very anxious for me to drink my coffee first. Why? If mine is poisoned and hers is not, why doesn't she drink hers? Or perhaps they are both poisoned and she is just bluffing with hers? Or maybe she was more subtle. Maybe she knew I would switch the cups. Maybe she kept the poisoned one and gave me the good one knowing that I would swap them over. Perhaps I've played right into her hands. Why does she keep smiling at me like that?

I play for time. I smile back. "Why aren't you drinking your coffee?" I ask.

"I am," she says, and takes another small swig. There. I'm almost sure she faked it that time.

I put the cup to my lips, and pretend to drink. I try a little too hard to look convincing, and some of the coffee runs over the lip of the mug and into my mouth. Some of it spills and runs down my chin. I seem to do that recently. Isn't that what old people do? Or babies? I'm not old. Please don't let me be old. Not yet. I'm too young to be old. Let me have a few more years yet. Please.

"You're spilling it, Tom. Be careful." Gail sets down her cup and reaches over to wipe my chin with her handkerchief as if I were a child. She is not especially gentle. She has put her own cup on the corner of the coffee table and when she turns to go back to her chair I am able to reach over and switch the cups again.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Nothing," I reply. I can feel my cheeks redden. I never could tell lies.

"You did. You swapped the coffee cups over."

"No I didn't."

"You did, Tom. I saw you."

"Just pushed yours onto the table," I say. "I thought you were going to knock it off." I take a gulp from the mug I am now holding. It tastes different. God, I've played right into her hands. She has tricked me into drinking from the poisoned cup.

I spray the mouthful of coffee onto the floor.

"Tom! What on earth are you doing?"

"Ha! Thought you'd got me didn't you? Well I could taste the difference. You won't catch me that easily." I put the remainder of the coffee triumphantly onto the table. Gail has started to cry.

"I don't know what has got into you, Tom," she sobs. "Look what a mess you've made."

"I could taste it, Gail," I say. "Your coffee didn't taste the same as mine. I don't know what it was, but I could taste the difference."

She looks witheringly at me. "Of course it tasted different, Tom. You know I only drink decaffeinated."

***

When he had finished his tea, Geoffrey slipped quietly upstairs. He lowered the loft ladder again and climbed swiftly up. He retrieved the package he had stowed earlier and made his way over to the door of his secret little room.

The door was not easy to spot. The wall he had built across the end of the loft had been deliberately made to look like the end wall of the attic. It wouldn't pass a close inspection, but to anyone who merely put their head through the trap door and glanced around it would not attract attention. He had piled boxes against it, too, and also made sure that the bulb in the attic light was not too bright. He wasn't expecting any investigation, but it paid to be careful.

He unlocked the door to the little room and let himself in. He closed it behind him before turning on the light.

The package was not difficult to unwrap, and he quickly emptied the contents onto the floor. He smiled in secret anticipation as he examined each item before carefully putting it away.

***

Listen. Perhaps you don't understand what's happening. Perhaps you think I hate my wife. Perhaps you think that's why I have to kill her. I don't hate her. I love her. That's why I have to kill her.

Listen. I've always loved her. Ever since I first met her. She used to love me too, I think. But somewhere she stopped loving me. I don't know when it happened. Perhaps you find that hard to believe. Perhaps I did too. It took a long while before I understood. It took a long while before I found out she was cheating me.

Even when I found out, I still loved her. I wanted to start again. I wanted to rebuild, but she just went on cheating. Perhaps you think I want revenge. I don't want revenge, but she did a terrible thing. She destroyed trust. That's why I have to kill her. I love her too much to walk away, but it hurts too much to stay.

Listen. I still love her. I promise not to hurt her. I just need someone to love me, that's not too much is it? Is it?

When I get into work in the morning, Mr Hudson is waiting for me. I don't even get a chance to take off my coat. Julie is already typing, she gives me a smile but says nothing. The others are too busy to acknowledge me.

"Fletcher," says Mr Hudson. "I'd like a word."

"Yes, Mr Hudson. I'll pop in later."

My response causes sniggers from my colleagues. A glance from Mr Hudson chokes them off. He regards me over the rim of his spectacles. "Now, Fletcher," he says. "If you please." I think I'd better please, and I follow him into his office. He sits down behind his desk. I sit in the visitor's chair.

"Are you happy here, Fletcher?" he asks, after a few moments pause.

"Oh yes. I think so Mr Hudson. It's kind of you to ask."

He puts his spectacles on the desk and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. I am still wearing my outdoor coat. It's starting to feel a little warm.

"Is anything troubling you, Fletcher?" he asks.

"No. I don't think so," I reply. He is looking a little pained. I think he is expecting me to say more. "Well there was the blowpipe," I continue.

"Blowpipe?"

"Well it was the dart that was the problem really."

"Dart?"

"Yes. I couldn't budge it, and then I think I must have hyperventilated or something, and it got bent. The blowpipe, I mean. Not the dart. And then I spilled the coffee, of course. That didn't go down too well I can tell you." Mr Hudson looks puzzled.

"Coffee?" he says. I wonder why he keeps repeating everything I say. Perhaps he's just trying to be friendly. Or perhaps it's a new management technique. Something to do with staff development. They do that from time to time you know. I decide to help him.

"And my wallet. I seem to have mislaid my wallet somewhere. I think it must have been in my trousers."

"Trousers, Fletcher?" He shakes his head in disbelief.

Whatever this new technique is, I don't think Mr Hudson has quite got it. I'm sure he should be developing some interactive dialogue with me. It must be something to do with building rapport or team spirit, but he doesn't seem to know how to develop the conversation. He can't have been paying attention at the training session. I don't see how this can build into something meaningful if he merely repeats the last word I say each time.

Unless that's it, of course. Perhaps it's got something to do with word association. Perhaps he says a word and I have to say the first thing that comes into my mind. It's some kind of psychological test. Like a Rorschach test. You know, the one with ink blots. They show you ink blots and you have to say what they remind you of. And whatever you say they can prove that you have a sexual perversion. Even if you say quite ordinary things like teapot or trousers.

Trousers. That was what he said last. I have to think of a word associated with trousers that isn't sexual. Now let's see.

"Roses," I say. Yep. That's got him. He's on the defensive now.

"Roses?" he says, after a moments pause. Well that's hardly fair. If he's just going to keep repeating the last thing I say. He really doesn't seem to have much aptitude for this. Well, he won't get me that easily.

"Champagne," I say. I find it hard to keep the note of smugness from my voice.

"What the hell are you blathering about, Fletcher? What the hell have roses and champagne got to do with selling houses?"

I'm beginning to wonder if I've got it wrong. Maybe this isn't a wordgame after all.

"She gave me the champagne after I gave her the roses. Your roses. The ones I got for your birthday. Well not for your birthday, of course, because it wasn't. Not that I think there is anything wrong with men receiving flowers even if they aren't homosexuals. Only she thought they were for her. And now she's got my trousers."

Things aren't going well. I can see he's having a problem with this. Perhaps it's the champagne bit he doesn't like.

"I didn't drink any of it, of course. I wouldn't while I was on duty. Well maybe one glass. Yes, I think she gave me one glass while I was in her bed, but I was still concussed then, I think. I don't remember clearly."

Mr Hudson doesn't look happy. He's playing with his spectacles, folding the arms and then unfolding them again. I can see that I'm not improving matters with my explanation. That seems to happen to me a lot lately. It seems clear enough inside my head, but somehow it all gets a bit muddled by the time it gets to my mouth. I think it's something to do with the that milisecond delay circuit that makes me spill coffee and not be suave. He pushes the spectacles back onto his nose.

"How long have you worked here, Fletcher?" Mr Hudson asks.

"Five years now, Mr Hudson. Almost exactly."

I wait for him to reply, but he seems to be in no hurry to speak.

"Have you ever thought of doing anything else?" he asks eventually. "Something less taxing?"

"Oh no. I like selling houses. I'm quite happy here, thankyou."

"When did you last sell a house, Fletcher?"

I have to think about that one a bit. Actually, come to think of it it has been a while. While I am thinking, Mr Hudson seems to come to a decision. He takes off his spectacles again. They leave a little red mark on each side of his nose. I find myself trying not to look at them.

"I think it might be better for both of us if you started looking around for some alternative employment," he says suddenly. "Let's say work til the end of the month shall we?"

I'm trying not to look at his nose. The two little red marks are still there, one on either side. I think he just fired me. I'm not sure why. I don't know what to say. Is he giving me the choice?

The phone on the desk rings before I can answer. He picks it up.

"Hudson," he says. That's all he says. Just 'Hudson'. He makes us do the whole business, 'Hudson, Hudson and Hudson' and all the works about estate agents and valuers and how may we help you? And all he says is 'Hudson'. It seems hardly fair.

He's talking to a woman. I can tell it's a woman because he's got his patronising tone of voice on.

"Yes. I'll get someone on it right away.....No, not him. I'm afraid he won't be available in future....I'm sure someone else will do an excellent job for you....Yes, of course.....No, certainly.....If you insist madam.....Yes.....Yes.....Yes.....Today for certain.....Of course.....Yes.....Thankyou for calling."

He looks irritated, and slams the phone back down onto the rest. The little red marks are still there on his nose.

"That was Mrs Carroll, Fletcher. It seems she wants you to sell her house for her. She won't accept anyone else."

My heart sinks.

"She has your wallet, too. You must have dropped it in her house yesterday. Lucky for you, eh?"

He picks up his spectacles and puts them back on. The little pads on the specs line up exactly with the red marks on his nose. I wonder if he realises.

"You'd better get round there now, Fletcher. I want that house sold within two weeks. This is your last chance, do you understand?"

I sit with my mouth open, but no words come out.

"And you can take Miss Green with you," he adds. "It's about time she started to get more involved, and she can keep an eye on you at the same time. Well, what are you waiting for?"

I'm not sure whether I'm still sacked. I'm not sure if this is the time to ask. I'm not sure I want to go to Mrs Carroll's, Carole's house again. But then, if I can take Julie with me, surely that will be ok?

"Thankyou," I say. I'm not exactly certain what I'm thanking him for, but it seems an appropriate thing to say. He just shakes his head and starts reading something on his desk. I think the interview is over.

"I'm sorry about the roses," I say as I leave, but he doesn't even look up.

When I get back out to the office I am aware of a man doing deep knee bends in front of his desk. He has pulled his tie up around his forehead. From the guffaws of laughter, I assume the others find this amusing. The laughter dies away as I walk out, and he pulls his tie down around his neck again.

"How was it then, Fletcher?" he asks as I get back to my desk. "I hope we're not going to have to arrange yet another office collection." There are sniggers at this comment, but not from Julie, who looks embarassed by the turn of events.

"Just a sales conference," I say. "Mr Hudson wanted my advice on a couple of small points."

There are some knowing glances exchanged around the room.

"Actually, I shall have to go out shortly," I continue. "Mr Hudson has asked me to take Miss Green for some training in the field. Said he needed an experienced man for the job." I look across at Julie and smile.

"Oh, Mr F. Do you mean it?" she asks.

"Whenever you're ready," I say. "And you'd better bring a pad to make notes on."

We leave the office together ten minutes later. No one says a word.

CHAPTER 13

Julie's perfume fills the car. I don't recognise it, but it smells expensive.

I breathe it in as I drive, drinking in the scent. Pheromones. But they aren't hers. She has disguised her natural odour with a mixture of smells extracted from flowers and animals.

I wonder what her natural scent is. I sniff experimentally to see whether I can detect it beneath the perfume overlay. I imagine a fresh scent. Newly washed skin. Hair drying in the breeze. The scent of youth. Summer.

All I can discern, beyond her bottled perfume, is a car sort of smell. Slightly oily, mixed with a hint of exhaust and stale sweat.

Yes, definitely stale sweat. Surely that can't be right. I sniff again. Two or three times.

"It sounds as though you are coming down with a cold, Mr F," Julie says.

"No. No. I'm fine," I reply. "And please call me Tom."

"Yes, Mr F. I will."

I can still smell stale sweat. I lean over towards Julie as we take a right hand bend and sniff deeply. She smiles at me and takes a tissue from her handbag to dab at her own nose.

It isn't her. The stale sweat. All she smells of is flowers. But I can still smell it.

It must be me. Oh, God. The first time I get to be with Julie on my own and I stink of stale sweat. I edge across to the right hand side of the driver's seat, but the smell doesn't go away. In fact it's all I can smell now. It's almost overpowering.

But it can't be me. I showered before I came out this morning. Surely I'm not one of those people like in the adverts. You know, the ones whose best friends won't even tell them. Please, not me. I edge even closer to the side of the car. My right buttock is overhanging the gap at the side of the driver's seat. Julie is glancing anxiously at me. It isn't easy driving like this.

"Darned leg," I say, with a sophisticated chuckle. At least, it should have been a sophisticated chuckle. It comes out more like a chicken with a hernia.

"Pardon, Mr F?"

"Old war wound," I add. "Piece of shrapnel lodged in the left knee. Can't bend it as well as I could."

She looks puzzled. Or is she wrinkling her nose at the smell? It's difficult to tell. God she looks lovely.

"But Mr F, surely you can't be old enough to have been in the war?"

"The war? What war?"

"Your leg, Mr F. You said you had a war wound."

"Did I say war wound? Ha. I meant wall wound. Yes. Fancy you thinking I was in the war." The stench of sweat is overwhelming. I press myself against the door of the car. But it makes no difference. Surely she can smell it, too. She doesn't show it though. What self control she has.

"What's a wall wound, Mr F?"

She looks lovely. I'm sitting almost sideways to the car. The sun is creating a halo effect through her hair. I love her. I know I do. But I have to do something about this smell.

"Mr F. What's a wall wound?" she asks again.

"Oh. It's nothing. Happened a long time ago."

"Why won't you tell me, Mr F? Are you teasing me?"

I can feel the winder of the window pressing into my back. With difficulty I can reach it with my left hand and I try slowly to lower the window. A blast of cold air screams into the car.

"Brrrr. That's chilly, Mr F," she says, pulling her coat around her.

"Just thought you'd like some air," I reply. I take a couple of deep breaths for effect. I notice that we are about to pass a garage and swing hard down on the wheel. There is a screeching of tyres as the car swerves into the forecourt. We clip the metal sign as we go past. Not enough to cause damage, but it flips the sign over to 'closed' with the impact.

The forecourt is deserted, and we slew round to come to rest near the pumps.

"Just in time," I say. "Almost out of fuel."

Julie looks alarmed and pulls her seat belt tighter around her. I leap out and start to fill the car. It takes only a gallon before the pump cuts off. I whistle nervously as I saunter over to the kiosk to pay.

There is a bored looking teenaged girl sitting behind the counter. I lean over and enquire confidentially "Do you have any deodorant?"

"Ya what?"

"Deodorant," I repeat, glancing around to make sure that no one can overhear me.

"What do ya want deodorant for?" she asks.

"What does anyone want deodorant for?" I reply, with a hint of irritation.

"This is a bleeding garage," she says helpfully. "Not a bleeding chemists. You should try Boots."

For some reason this reminds me of a joke that I heard once at a party. It was about a newly wed wanting to buy contraceptives. Someone said 'you should try Boots' and he said 'I did, but it all ran out the lace holes.' I'm about to say 'I did...' but I decide that now isn't the time. Anyway I can never tell jokes. Always get the punchline wrong.

"What have you got?" I ask.

"Petrol," she says. "And oil. Boiled sweets, cigarettes, digital watches and air fresheners."

Did I hear right? Did she say air fresheners? I almost decide that I must have misheard. I don't have luck like that, but there they are. Next to the till. A whole display of air fresheners. Green cardboard xmas trees that are alleged to smell of pine. Specially made to hang in cars.

"I'll take three," I say, ripping them off the display before the girl can stop me. The wretched things are wrapped in clear plastic film with no obvious means of entry. I scrabble away at the pack with my fingers getting nowhere, and finally, in desperation, I tear at the packaging with my teeth, spitting plastic and bits of foul tasting green cardboard onto the floor.

"Hey," she says. "Cut that out. I have to sweep this place up. You'd better pay me for all those."

I thrust five pounds at her, and while she is using a calculator to multiply by three, I slip off both shoes and remove my socks.

As I push the green xmas trees into my socks the girl stands up and peers over the counter at me. "Here, are you some kind of pervert? I've got a phone you know. I can call the police."

With one shoe on I limp towards the door struggling to get the other one replaced. "Keep the change," I say as I lurch out and hop back towards the car with the third xmas tree dangling from my hand.

"You poor thing," says Julie, as I climb back into the car.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Your leg," she says. "I could see you almost doubled up inside that kiosk. Is it really very painful?"

I give her the last air freshener. "Free with the petrol," I say. "Some sort of gimmick. Not sure what it's for."

We pull out of the petrol station. I can feel the xmas trees in my socks. My feet are being bathed in pine oil. I resume a more normal driving posture.

Julie relaxes beside me. She is clutching the little tree.

"I'm ever so excited to be with you, Mr F."

She said 'excited to be with me'. She didn't say 'excited to be coming with me', she said 'excited to be with me.'

"I'm excited to be with you too," I reply.

"But, Mr F, you've done this dozens of times. This is my first time."

She must think I'm really sophisticated. She probably thinks I'm always with beautiful young women. Perhaps she thinks that just because she finds me attractive, that all women find me attractive. Perhaps they do and I just don't notice.

Listen. I know they don't. You don't have to snigger. But there has to be some reward for writing this stuff. Surely I can dream in my own story. Can't I?

Listen. Are you telling me that you don't dream?

"Oh, don't imagine that I respond to every woman that finds me attractive," I say. "I have had to learn to say 'No' sometimes. Gently, of course. Don't like hurting people."

"I know you don't, Mr F. But this is my first time going out on a house valuation. I'm glad it's with you. I feel safe with you."

Disappointment comes in many forms, and I can smell that sweat again. I thought the xmas trees would do the trick, but it's back. As strong as ever. Surely she can smell it. I start to whistle gently to myself.

It must be my armpits. I remember an advert on the radio when I was a boy. Radio Luxemburg it must have been. It said ` make your armpits your charmpits`. I think mine must be more like cesspits, but why haven't I noticed it before?

"I like to hear a man whistle," says Julie. "My Dad used to whistle when I was little."

Now it's a funny thing about whistling. You can only do it when you think no one else is listening. As soon as someone comments, a chemical reaction sets in which immediately dries up all your saliva. I don't know why. It's just one of those things like.... Well, like... Well, just one of those things.

It happens almost instantaneously. One second it's air on a G string, and the next it's chapped lips and a silly sizzling sound. Instead of accepting the inevitable, I try licking my lips and blowing again. All that comes out is a Hooo Hoooo sort of noise. And that smell. It's still there.

I wave my arm enthusiastically, as though indicating some distant sight, and take a surreptitious sniff of my right armpit in passing. It's inconclusive. I create an opportunity to check the left one by adjusting the rear view mirror, but that is no more successful. The strain is starting to bring out beads of perspiration on my forehead. At this rate I shall need a change of clothes before we get to Carole's.

Carole's! The thought makes me sweat even more. I have to do something. I see a small parade of shops ahead and pull into the layby.

"Are we there?" asks Julie.

"Just need to get a fresh battery for the tape," I say. "First rule of doing a house valuation is to make sure there is a fresh battery in the sonic tape measure."

Julie nods and writes a note on her pad.

"What are you writing?" I ask, alarmed. Perhaps Mr Hudson has asked her to write a report on me.

"Always put a fresh battery in your sonic tape measure," she reads. "I just wrote down what you said, Mr F. I want to learn everything from you."

I leave her in the car as I get out to look at the shops. There are only three. A butchers, a newsagents and a dry cleaners. No pharmacy. Not even a general store. What do I do now? I can't imagine the butcher or the dry cleaner will be much use. It will have to be the newsagent. I hop over the low wall bordering the layby and push open the door to the newsagents.

"Do you have any deodorant?" I ask the indian behind the counter. I can smell curry coming through from the back of the shop.

"I'm sorry?" he replies.

"Deodorant," I repeat.

He smiles patiently at me. "I am thinking, have you tried Boots, Sir?"

"Yes, but...." No, this isn't the time. "I'm desperate," I say. "Don't you have any in your house? Doesn't your wife have any? I'll pay."

He looks at me quizzically. "This wouldn't in any way be a hold up, Sir, would it?" he asks.

"A hold up? Whoever heard of anyone holding up a shop for deodorant?"

"Yes. But you are just wanting me to be out of the shop so you can be robbing the till, Sir. I am knowing these things you see, Sir, because I am watching Crimewatch on my television every week."

"This isn't a hold up," I say. "Look I have money." As I reach into my jacket the man dives down behind his counter.

"Don't shoot me, please, Sir. You can have the money."

"I don't want the money. I have money. I want deodorant."

"I am not having any deodorant, Sir. I am telling you that once already. Please don't shoot me."

"I'm not going to shoot you, you silly man. It's my wife I want to shoot. I just want deodorant from you."

"Please Sir. I'm not having any deodorant. I have whisky. You want whisky?"

"I don't like whisky."

"You can have my wife, Sir, if you wish. She is a very desirable woman. I can fetch her for you if you want, but please don't shoot me. I know you are having a gun in your jacket."

This is ridiculous. "OK, I do have a gun," I say, reaching for my pocket again. "Now get me deodorant or I shoot."

"You see, Sir. I am knowing there was a gun." He looks almost pleased, but he disappears into the back of the shop. He reappears an instant later, before picking up the till and taking it through with him. I stand in the shop for what seems like an age waiting for him to return. I try not to notice that there is a row of girlie magazines on the top shelf, but every way I stand my eyes are drawn to the pictures of carelessly dressed women with big bosoms and miniscule knickers. The bosoms seem to follow me around the room. I can see them out of the corner of my eye. It feels as though I am lined up in front of a firing squad of double barrelled shotguns.

I begin to study the other shelves, but I know those bosoms are there, boring into the back of my neck. Even when I study the opposite side of the shop, I become aware of the magazines reflected in the security mirror above the door. Eight magazines. Sixteen inflated bosoms all aimed at me. I start to whistle again. Hey, my whistle has come back.

The indian shopkeeper reappears suddenly.

"I am finding only this," he says holding a spray can out towards me. At first glance I assume it's an aerosol deodorant, but closer inspection reveals the legend 'Spray Starch, Lemon Scented'.

"That will be five pounds, Sir," he adds, holding the can tantalisingly out of my reach.

I hesitate fractionally before handing over the money. I've been here too long already. Julie will be getting worried. I take the lid off the spray. There is no time for ceremony. I spray a generous dose of the lemon scented mist onto my jacket under each arm. For good measure I also spray the inside of the jacket too, in the general region of the armpits. There, that ought to do it.

"And I am phoning the police while you are waiting," the indian continues. They will be arriving very shortly, Sir. So there is no point in trying to take the money." He looks very pleased with himself, but doesn't hang around to find out what I will do, disappearing back through the curtain into the curried obscurity of the back of the shop.

What I will do is run. Yep. It's back to running again I'm afraid.

As I turn to flee the shop, I am aware of an increasing sensation of heaviness in my arms. They seem to have lost all their strength. I can barely raise my arm to open the door of the shop. By the time I get outside I have lost all movement above the wrist. My arms feel as though they are welded to my sides.

My arms are welded to my sides!

The spray starch must have set solid. I can't lift or bend either arm. I run towards the car like a demented penguin, swinging my shoulders to retain my balance. I try to jump the low wall around the edge of the layby to get to the car, but my balance is all wrong with my arms trussed to my body, and I catch my foot on the top of the wall. I can't even put my arms up to save myself, and I topple like a felled tree into the gutter by the car. I'm completely rigid. Unable to move my upper body.

I hear a car door open, followed by the sight of Julie's feet and ankles appearing below the car on the far side. She runs round to my side of the car.

I lie there, immobile, on my back, looking up seemingly endless legs. I crave those legs. I'd like to run my hands up those legs. But I can't run my hands over my own legs at present, let alone Julies.

"Mr F. Mr F. Are you alright?"

"Fine thanks, Julie. Just checking the exhaust. Thought it sounded a bit noisy as we drove up."

"Mr F. I saw what happened. I saw your leg give way when you tried to jump over that wall."

"Yes, that dicky knee of mine always lets me down at the most awkward times. I don't suppose you could help me up could you?"

"But Mr F. What if you've got a broken bone? I read somewhere that you shouldn't move injured people. I should put you in the recovery position."

"What recovery position?"

"Oh. I don't know Mr F. It just said recovery position. But I do remember that I shouldn't move you."

"But, Julie. I can't lie here all day. We've got a house valuation to do. Duty must come first. I can't let a little personal discomfort stop us. What would Mr Hudson say?"

"Oh, Mr F. You are brave. But you are lying funny. I think your arm might be broken. It looks very peculiar from here."

I become aware that I'm starting to feel very cold. The road is sucking my body heat out of me. If I don't move soon I'll freeze to death. And the police. They'll be here soon. Julie has knelt down beside me. She looks very concerned. She has taken off her coat and made me a pillow. The cold is having an effect on her, too. Her nipples are creating two pronounced blips through her blouse. As she leans over me to push the coat under my head one of them passes within an inch of my lips, but I am locked solid. So near and yet so far.

"Help me up," I croak. "It's freezing down here. Nothing is broken. I just need to get this jacket off."

At last she complies and heaves me up to a sitting position. I am totally unable to help. Now that I am sitting I can just see over the top of the wall beside me. Inside the newsagent's shop I can see the shopkeeper peering out at the spectacle on the pavement. He appears to be conducting a running commentary into the phone in his hand.

We struggle into the car. I sit with my arms jammed to my sides. I can't do anything like this.

"You'll have to take my jacket off," I say to Julie.

"Mr F. You're embarassing me," she says.

"Undo the buttons," I implore.

Gingerly she begins to undo the buttons. Under different circumstances this could have been fun, but I'm sure I can hear a police siren somewhere. "Hurry," I cry.

"It's not very easy," she replies. But by degrees she gets them all undone.

"Now take it off," I say.

"Take what off Mr F?"

"The jacket. The jacket. Quick. I can hear them coming. They'll be here any second. Please get it off."

As soon as my arms are free, I get the engine started and into gear. We surge out of the layby and away.

"Mr F."

"Yes, Julie."

"It's all stiff, Mr F."

"Yes. I know."

She passes the jacket behind her. It's absolutely rigid, and remains standing on the back seat.

"Mr F."

"Yes, Julie."

"It smells of lemons, Mr F."

"Yes, I know."

I had almost forgotten about the smell, but the car is now full of a pot pourri of different scents. Julie's perfume, pine, lemon, a hint of oil and a frisson of exhaust.

As we pass the brow of the hill, a police car rushes by in the opposite direction, blue lights flashing and sirens shrieking.

"They're in a hurry," observes Julie. "Must have been a murder."

"Oh, I expect they are just looking for deodorant thieves," I say. "Been a lot of that recently. One of the fastest growing crimes you know. Been on Crimewatch apparently."

She looks a bit puzzled. She opens her mouth to ask a question, but closes it again without speaking. Such a pretty mouth. One day. One day.

"Mr F."

"Yes, Julie."

"I think I know how you got your wall wound, now. You weren't teasing me at all, were you?"

CHAPTER 14

That smell is still here. Even amongst all the other odours swirling through the car, I catch an occasional whiff. There is no escaping it. Someone around here has a personal problem. I know it isn't Julie, she smells like heaven. It has to be me. Why? Why is it always me? Why am I the one whose stomach rumbles in meetings? Why do I always get hiccups in church? Why am I the one who farts in the lift? And how does everyone else always know it's me?

Why couldn't I have been born suave? Please, couldn't I be suave just for one day? Just once. Just to know how it feels.

I have to do something. I see a flower stall by the roadside as we approach the final roundabout. Maybe flowers will do the trick. It's my last hope.

"Mr Hudson's birthday," I mutter to Julie as I jump out of the car.

She says something in reply, but I don't catch it.

I use the last of my money to buy a dozen red roses, but as I go to put them on the back seat alongside my starched jacket the source of the smell is finally revealed. In the floor well at the back of the car are two track suit tops. Two track suit tops that I stole from the boys in the park when I lost my trousers. When I last visited Carole's house. Carole's house, a shiver runs down my spine at the thought.

Those boys can't have washed for weeks. Filthy little tykes. I've a mind to go and tear them off a strip. Those clothes must have been festering in the car for the last two days. Why didn't I notice before?

I feel a surge of relief that I am not the source of the smell and throw the track suit tops, without ceremony, into the gutter.

Listen. I know it isn't very nice to dump litter in the road, but this story will never get anywhere if we have to go and seek out a litter bin every five minutes.

Look. This is a murder story not a homily on recycling and environmental conservation. I'm a potential murderer, remember? How often have you read that the murderer washed out his empties and took them to the local bottle bank before pumping five soft nosed slugs into his victim? Or that James Bond neatly bundled the newspapers and tied them with string before dropping them off at the district recycling depot along with the bodies he had stockpiled during the last week?

Look. Just get off my back, and go check your own waste bins, ok!

We arrive at Carole's house without further incident. There are curtains twitching all around. The neighbourhood mafia are watching in force. I see the curtains to Carole's house twitch too, and, sure enough, the front door opens before we are even out of the car.

"Tom. You've brought me more flowers." Carole's voice echoes around the front gardens. She must have been using binoculars to see those roses from the house. By the time I am out of the car she has the back door open and the roses in her hand.

"Why, thankyou Tom," she continues. "You are always so thoughtful." She bobs towards me and before I can take avoiding action she has planted a moist kiss on my cheek. "And who else do we have here? Can this be the dear, deaf, old cleaning lady?"

Julie looks confused. She waits for me to explain.

"Uh. This is Miss Green, my personal assistant. Miss Green, this is Mrs Carroll."

"Just Carole, thankyou Tom. Hello Miss Green, what a quaint outfit. Did you make it yourself? I imagine it was a remnant."

Julie opens her mouth to speak, but Carole has taken my arm and is dragging me up the path to the house. As we go through the door, she mutters "Get rid of her, Tom," in my ear.

Inside the hallway I notice a vase with several bedraggled red roses in it. A relic of my previous visit, I imagine. In the middle of the hall is a large package. A very large package. About the size of a big suitcase. We stand in a triangle around it.

"I've pressed your trousers, Tom," says Carole. I give a barely discernible nod. "And I've polished your shoe. I'm afraid you only left the one."

I'm feeling somewhat warm under the collar. Julie is still looking confused by the situation.

"The lounge I think, Miss Green," I say to Julie.

"Mr F?" she says.

"Measuring," I say. "We'll start in the lounge."

"But Tom," says Carole. "You've already done all that."

"Can't be too careful. Measure twice and cut once my old woodwork teacher used to say to me," I reply.

"Cut what, Mr F?"

"Yes, Tom. What are you planning to cut?"

"Figuratively speaking, I mean't. Not actually planning to cut anything actually. Just an expression actually." Why have I started repeating 'actually' all of a sudden? Not the two milisecond brain slip again. Please, not that.

"What will you use for a measure, Tom?" Carole is smiling at me. It's unnerving. She has something in her hand.

"Always use fresh batteries," says Julie suddenly.

We both look at her somewhat nonplussed.

"Mr Fletcher always uses new batteries in his tape measure," she adds. "You bought some on your way here didn't you Mr F?" She looks pleased with herself for remembering.

"Actually, no," I say.

"But Mr F, we stopped specially. Don't you remember?"

"Yes...... of course I remember, but they were fresh out of batteries, actually. Didn't have any at all in any size actually." I have to stop saying actually. I can't think why I'm doing it. My brain has gone into a sort of loop.

Carole is playing with something in her hand. She seems to be daring me to ask what it is. I won't. I won't play her game.

"Actually..." Damn, I've done it again.

"Actually what, Tom?" asks Carole. She is still smiling at me.

"Did I say actually? Ha. I mean't factually. Yes, that's what I meant. Have to get the facts. Now where did I put my measure?"

"Is this what you're looking for, Tom?" asks Carole. She's holding my sonic tape measure in her hand and she is stroking the case of it in a most suggestive way.

"Oh look, Mr F," says Julie. "She's got one just like yours."

It is mine. It's the one I left behind with my shoe and my trousers and my wallet. My wallet! I must get my wallet back. The poison is in the wallet.

Listen. I hope you've remembered about the poison. I don't want to have to keep spelling it out to you. I am expecting you to be following the plot at least. It's hard enough being me without having to keep remembering to spell things out for you.

"Actually I don't think we shall need to measure today," I say. "It can't have changed much in two days."

"But Mr F. Why would it change at all?"

"Temperature," I say. "Sometimes makes a huge difference. Everything expands by different amounts when it gets warm. Measure a house on a cold day and then measure it again on a hot one, and everything's changed. Changes the whole character of the property sometimes. That's why you don't sell so many houses in the winter, of course. They're all so much smaller in the cold weather. People can't get all their furniture in."

Julie looks a little doubtful, but she takes copious notes.

I start looking around for my wallet. I can't see it. I lift up the phone directory and move the ornaments on the window sill. Carole seems to find this amusing. She watches me for a few moments without speaking.

"Woodworm," I say to Julie. "Always remember to check for woodworm. And damp."

"Woodworm and damp," she repeats as she writes. "What does woodworm look like Mr F?"

"Sawdust," I say. "Just look out for sawdust. They eat it you know."

"Tom. I need you to help me with this package," says Carole suddenly, tapping the top of the huge parcel that we've all been stood around. "It needs to go upstairs."

I look at the parcel. I look at the stairs. I get a bad feeling about this. "And then you can help me put it up," adds Carole.

Put it up? Put what up?

"Actually is that the time?" I say. "We really must be off."

"But Mr F. We've only just got here," says Julie. "And Mr Hudson said we had to help Mrs Carrol in any way we could."

"Yes, Tom. That's what he told me, too," smiles Carole. "He particularly told me to feel free to ask you for anything at all. All part of the service, Tom. That's what he said."

I know I have lost. One man against two women is no match. This man against one woman is no match. I give up any thought of protest and test the weight of the package. It weighs a ton. Figuratively speaking of course. "What on earth is it?" I ask.

"My new water bed, Tom," replies Carole. "You can help me test it."

I wish I hadn't asked. I told you I had a bad feeling.

A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter. A gallon of water weighs ten pounds. A cubic foot of water holds six and a quarter gallons and weighs sixty two and a half pounds.

Fascinating stuff, water.

Look, if you don't want to know these things, you could always skip on a couple of pages.

Water is at it's most dense at four degrees centigrade.

Listen. This matters to you. If ice was denser than water, then the sea would freeze from the bottom up. None of us would be here at all. Or else we'd all be eskimos. I wonder if eskimos have estate agents?

OK. OK. I just thought you'd be interested.

We heave and strain to get the package up the stairs. Or I do. Julie tries to help, but the sight of her attempting to lift one end of the parcel saps my strength. Each time I look up I see endless legs disappearing into her short, tight skirt. My pulse rate goes up and I go weak at the knees. I decide that I would get on better on my own. Carole stands well clear and just makes encouraging noises.

Eventually we reach the bedroom. I am perspiring freely now. The pine trees inside my socks have gone completely squelchy. I suffer a pang of raw fear as I cross the threshold to the bedroom. It all looks horribly familiar.

"Oh look, Mr F. It's your photo."

Julie is pointing to the mirror at the foot of the bed. Pushed into the frame is the photo from one of my business cards. Carole must have found it in my wallet. My wallet! What has she done with my wallet?

"No. I don't think so," I reply. "Doesn't look a bit like me."

"Yes it is, Mr F. It is you."

"No. No. Much taller. The man in the picture is much taller. And the beard."

"But he hasn't got a beard, Mr F."

"Exactly."

"But Mr F. You don't have a beard either."

"No, but if I did you'd see that we were two entirely different people."

Carole has been watching and listening with an expression of detached amusement. "Why don't you go and measure something, Miss Green?" she asks suddenly. "I'm sure Mr Fletcher would let you play with his little thingy, wouldn't you Tom?"

I don't like the way that she said that. I feel as though I am being led into a trap. Reluctantly I let Julie take the measure and she disappears like a child with a new toy.

"Can't you get rid of her, Tom?" hisses Carole. But I pretend not to hear.

Together we pull the mattress off the bed and lean it against the wall. With difficulty I heave the parcel onto the bed. Carole insists on helping, but her help consists mainly of running her hand across my behind and reaching through my legs to prod ineffectually at the package. I find myself moving around the bed with my buttocks clenched and my knees pressed together. It isn't easy.

Eventually I get the thing open. Inside it is an object like a giant ballon. A huge rubber bag. As if someone had sucked all the air out of a whale and then folded it up for neatness. There is a rubber teat at one end.

"We'll need a hose," I say. "For filling it."

Carole nods and makes for the door. "Don't go away now. I'll be right back. You look all hot and bothered, Tom. Why don't you slip something off?"

As soon as she has gone, I start looking around for my wallet. It isn't immediately visible, perhaps it's in one of the drawers. I pull open the top drawer of the dressing table. It's full of underwear. Silk and lace. There are dozens of pairs of silk pants. Tiny bikini briefs and loose French knickers. Black tangas and white slips of almost nothing at all. Creams and browns. Lace nonsense and old rose. An image of Exchange and Mart comes into my mind. I'll bet there's a peephole bra here somewhere.

"Well, Tom. Was there anything that took your fancy? I'd be happy to model something for you."

I slam the drawer so fast it traps my tie. As I try to step back I find I can't straighten my legs. Carole has come back into the room without me even hearing her. She's carrying a hose pipe, and when she puts it down she plays with the end of it. Holding it in one hand and caressing it with the other. I can't move. I have to watch her in the mirror. I am completely at her mercy.

"I was just....."

"Oh, there's no need to explain, Tom." She advances towards me across the room. I need another coincidence badly, but the sky is completely clear. Not a chance of thunder.

"I've measured the downstairs, Mr F."

Thankyou Julie. Bless you Julie. "In here," I croak. "I think you should check this room next."

Carole looks furious.

"Mr F. Why are you standing like that?"

I can see their reflections in the mirror. Two attractive women. One blonde and middle aged. One dark and glowing with youth. One ruthless and sex starved, and one a picture of innocence. I'm trapped in a bedroom with two beautiful women. It ought to be exciting, but my legs are beginning to hurt with having to stand like this, and my tie feels distinctly tight around my neck. I can't open the drawer without taking my hands off the top of the dressing table. If I move them I think I might fall over and strangle myself. Somebody needs to do something.

I can hear a sort of rushing noise in my ears. It's getting darker too and my legs seem to be drifting away from me. In fact I feel quite lightheaded.

"Mr F. Are you alright?" Julie's reflection is looking worried.

"F..fine," I gasp. "D..do you think you could open this drawer for me, please?"

"Do you think I should, Mr F? It is a private house? Do you think Mrs Carroll would mind?"

Carole's reflection is starting to spin. The whole room is starting to go round. Carole is making no attempt to help. There are two rubber things where my legs used to be.

"Q..quickly,..p..please," I whisper.

"If you think Mrs Carroll won't mind," says Julie, but it's too late. Just as I start to slide down the front of the dressing table, Carole strolls across and releases the drawer. I finish up sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"Oh, what lovely clothes," says Julie as she glimpses the contents of the drawer.

I gulp in great lungfulls of air. As my head clears, the room slows down. I feel safer down here. I may not stand up again for a while. I look around the room. The deflated water mattress hangs limply over the bedframe. The old mattress is propped against the wall. There is a hosepipe on a reel by the door. There are small cupboards on either side of the bed. Each has a little shelf. On the shelf of the right hand unit is a book and a wallet. My wallet. I can see my wallet. All I have to do is to crawl over and pick it up.

When I look up, both Julie and Carole are watching me. Waiting to see what I will do next.

I move over to the bed and pull the water mattress straight. "Better get this filled up then," I say in a businesslike way. "Miss Green, could you unroll the hose down the stairs, please."

"Yes, of course, Mr F."

I edge round to the right side of the bed as the hose begins to disappear down the stairs. Carole regards me suspiciously. She thinks I'm up to something, but she's not sure what. I start to whistle. That convinces her I'm up to something.

"What are you doing, Tom?" she asks.

"Nothing," I say. "Just helping."

The hose unwinds completely and Carole grabs the end before it disappears altogether. While she is distracted I reach in and retrieve the wallet. She doesn't notice.

Carole starts trying to fit the end of the hose into the water bed. "I'll go and help Jul...Miss Green attach the other end," I say as I slip past her and out onto the landing.

Julie is in the kitchen. She has already managed to fix the hose onto the cold tap.

"Shall I turn it on, Mr F?" she asks.

"Yes, full on," I reply. The hose gives a little shiver as the water begins to flow.

"Time for us to leave, I think, Julie."

"But Mr F, aren't we going to stay and fill the water bed for Mrs Carroll?"

"I think she'll be fine on her own now," I say.

I am propelling Julie as fast as I am able to the front door. I remember to grab my shoe and my trousers as we pass. The wriggle in the hose is moving rapidly up the staircase. As we reach the front door there is a mighty shriek from the bedroom.

We don't stop.

"Mr F." says Julie when we are safely in the car.

"Yes."

"I found some woodworm."

"Really," I say.

"Yes, Mr F. On the landing."

"Hmmm."

"Little piles of sawdust."

"Good. Good."

"Mr F."

"Yes."

"I'm glad I came with you. You know ever such a lot. I shall tell Mr Hudson what a good job you did."

I know I'm in love. I'm in love with Julie. I start to hum to myself. I could whistle, but I feel more like humming just at the moment. It's not been a bad morning really, all things considered. There was that little misunderstanding with Mr Hudson, of course, but I didn't actually get fired. At least, I don't think I did. And then there was that little problem in the newsagents, but we did get away before the police came. And then I did sort out the smell in the car. My jacket's in a bit of a state I suppose, but it'll probably wash out, and then I did get my shoe and my trousers back.

And my wallet.

And I didn't get eaten by Carole. And best of all, I'm sitting in a car with my lover.

Well, perhaps she isn't my lover yet, exactly. But almost.

Yep. A pretty good morning really, even if I do say so myself.

CHAPTER 15

Being Friday, it was fish on the canteen menu, and, as fish went, today's wasn't bad. Geoffrey sat alone in one corner of the dining room and ate his meal quietly. He followed the battered cod and chips with a portion of fruit pie and custard.

It had been a pretty uneventful morning. A couple of short meetings, and then back in the office dealing with the daily bumf. The afternoon was unlikely to be any more exciting. Still, the weekend was imminent, and he had also promised himself a little treat. He smiled inwardly at the prospect.

The treat wouldn't happen until monday. It couldn't, of course. The risk would be too great. But he had remembered to book the day off, and part of the pleasure would be in the anticipation.

***

I have my wallet back. I can feel it pressing against my thigh as we drive. There's been no time to check whether the little foil packet is still inside, but even if it is, my blowpipe is broken. I need to find out.

Julie is draped over the seat beside me. My pulse races each time I look at her. I have to let her know how I feel. I just don't know how to do it. How would Bond do it? He wouldn't have to, of course. Gorgeous women just throw themselves at him. It doesn't happen like that to me. Or perhaps it does, and I just don't recognise it. Yes, I reckon that must be it. It's happening all the time and I just don't notice. She's probably sitting there now, dreaming about me and she doesn't know how to make the first move. She probably wants me to start something. Probably she can hardly hold herself back. I should just put my hand on her knee, lean over and kiss her, and she'll melt.

I glance over. She's lounging back in the seat with her eyes closed. Her coat is undone, and the diagonal strap of the seat belt across her chest is accentuating her bust. Her skirt is pulled up to mid thigh. All I have to do is reach across.

I loose my grip on the wheel with my left hand and it moves waveringly in her direction. I can feel my pulse rate begin to climb, and those little beads of perspiration have started to grow on my forehead again.

At the instant my hand makes brushing contact with her knee, she springs awake,

...and screams!

The shock makes me almost jump out of my skin and I jerk the steering wheel in surprise with my right hand.

The car, which until this moment was content, more or less, to follow the one in front, lurches sharply to the right and into the path of the oncoming traffic. Even in my state of shock, I am aware that this is not a good place to be. Indeed we seem to be headed for the front of a bus.

Julie screams again. Just as I am about to take avoiding action I am once more scared rigid by her yell. I brake and heave the wheel simultaneously. The car reacts by performing a gentle pirouette in the path of the oncoming bus. I see a momentary look of horror on the driver's face as we career across his path and bump over the kerb.

Shoppers scatter, and I am aware of dogs and small children flying through my field of vision. We slide backwards across the pavement, narrowly missing a wooden gatepost, and come to rest inches from the rear wall of a small car park. and parallel to a large black BMW saloon. We seem to be parked in the forecourt of a public house.

"Lunch?" I say.

"It was horrible Mr F."

I've blown it. I know I have.

"I felt it Mr F. On my knee. It was horrible." She isn't taking this well.

"It made me feel sick, Mr F."

I feel wretched. I don't know what to say.

"I hate spiders, Mr F."

God she thinks I'm a spider. That's worse than a louse, isn't it? I hang my head in shame.

"I felt it walking across my leg, Mr F."

I'm not listening any more. I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. I am a pervert after all. I sit looking at my lap.

I can feel Julie moving in the seat next to me. I hear her seat belt click open. She's probably going to call the police. I shan't resist arrest. I'll go quietly, take my punishment like a man. Maybe I'll get probation. Bound to lose my job though. Socially ostracised. Probably have to move house. Take on a new identity. Maybe even have to emigrate.

I feel a moist kiss on my cheek. "You are brave, Mr F. Trying to knock that spider off like that."

"Australia," I say.

"Australia, Mr F?"

"Penal colony," I add.

"They have big spiders there, Mr F. I wouldn't like that."

I think she just kissed me. I'm not actually sure. I think she kissed me and I missed it. I'd like to rewind and run it through again, but I don't have a remote control. I'm rooted to the seat.

"Are we going in, Mr F?" she says, breaking the silence.

I feel my left cheek. I'm sure I can feel a trace of moisture. A few molecules left by her kiss. An infinitessimal quantity of lipstick transferred from her to me.

She opens the car door and I follow in a daze. She goes in through a discoloured door marked 'Public Bar'. The pub is a dark and dingy affair when we get inside. There are some unsavoury types scattered in the gloom in the nooks and crannies around the bar, and there is a small stage at one end of the room.

We order drinks and sandwiches and find a table. Someone unseen starts up some music, too loud, on the intercom system and a girl moves up onto the stage. She has no clothes on. I find this surprising, but noone else reacts. The other people in the bar are more interested in continuing their discussions. A couple of people leave.

The girl is not completely naked. She has a tiny glittery G string that covers almost nothing, and a couple of silver tassels. I watch, fascinated, as she gyrates in an unenthusiastic way to the music. Julie is sitting with her back to the stage, and she appears not to be aware of the dancer. In fact, I seem to be the only person in the whole pub who is taking any notice at all.

Perhaps we should leave. This isn't a suitable place for someone like Julie. I start to drink my beer, and take a bite from my sandwich. I try not to look at the girl, but I can see her from the corner of my eye all the time. She is running her hands over her body in a very suggestive way. I take another drink.

"She's very attractive, isn't she, Mr F," says Julie suddenly.

"Pardon?" I reply, surprised. I didn't think she could even see the stage from where she is sitting.

"I said she's very attractive, Mr F."

"If you like that kind of thing," I say. I try to sound sophisticated. I can't stop staring at the girl. She sees me watching and blows me a kiss.

"Lovely clothes. All that silk."

Silk? How can she tell from here? There isn't much of anything that I can see. The girl smiles at me. I seem to be her only audience.

"She has nice taste," continues Julie. "Very sophisticated."

Sophisticated? I study the girl intently over Julie's shoulder. She is stroking her crotch with her right hand, and running her left hand down her thigh.

"Do you think it's her natural colour, Mr F?"

I look hard at the girl. She looks a pretty normal colour to me. Slightly tanned. Maybe she's been using a sunlamp. She has both hands on her thighs and is squeezing her breasts between her arms. I think she's doing it for me. I can't look away. I've stopped chewing. I can feel my collar getting tighter.

"I'd love to be blonde, Mr F. Do you think I'd look nice blonde?"

The dancer is doing amazing things with her tassels. She is swinging them in circles. Clockwise in time to the music, and then counterclockwise. My eyes are starting to pop.

"Do you, Mr F?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you think I'd look nice blonde?"

The tassels are now going in two directions at once. The left one is going clockwise and the right one is going anticlockwise. How does she do that?

"I think I might do that, Mr F?"

"Do you know how?" I ask in surprise.

"Oh yes, Mr F. It's easy. Lots of girls do it."

They do? Why didn't I know this? Where have I been? The tassels are going mad. The effect is hypnotic. I'm transfixed. The other people in the bar are taking no notice at all.

"I'd like to see that," I say.

"I wouldn't go as blonde as Mrs Carrol, I don't think. But it suits her."

"Carole? Where does she come into this?"

"That's who I was talking about, silly. You weren't listening were you Mr F?"

The girl on the stage is going wild. The tassels are going every which way. She has her thumbs tucked into the top of her G string and she is thrusting her hips at me. I fumble for my drink.

"I thought," I begin. But as I start to talk I knock my beer off the edge of the table and soak my right leg. Julie moves back to avoid being soaked too, and catches sight of the dancer for the first time.

"Sandra!" she calls.

"Julie!" The girl on the stage stops her frantic pelvic thrusting and jumps down from her dais. "Julie," she says again, and throws her arms around Julie. The two girls clasp each other in a bear hug. There is beer draining gently down my right leg and into my shoe. I stand there feeling somewhat left out.

"Mr F," says Julie, when they finally pull apart. "This is my friend Sandra. We were at school together. I haven't seen her for years."

I'm staring at Sandra's right breast. Her tassel has become caught in Julie's coat and has detached itself from it's rightful owner.

"Sandy, this is my friend Tom," says Julie. She hasn't noticed that she now owns a tassel. I wonder what I should do. I'm so absorbed in the tassel, that I don't even notice that Julie has introduced me.

"Pleased to meet you Tom," says Sandra. I raise my arm to shake her hand, but she leans across and kisses me instead. As she does her exposed nipple brushes my hand.

This is a terrible dilemma. It's like sitting opposite someone at dinner with a piece of lettuce stuck on their teeth and not knowing whether to mention it or not. Only worse.

"Did you like my dancing, Tom?" asks Sandra. "I saw you watching me."

I'm staring at her breast, and then at the tassel. I can't see what holds it on. Should I say nothing, or would it be suave to replace it for her? Why don't I know these things?

"Your uh ..costume," I say.

"Brill innit," she replies. "Me mum made it for me. Well she bought the bits anyway." She looks down and notices that the tassel has gone for the first time. "Oh, god, I've lost me doofrey again."

I reach across and take it from Julie's coat. I wonder whether I should reattach it for her.

"They fall off all the time," she adds. "I've got a box full out the back. I usually chuck them to the blokes at the end of me dance, if anyone's interested. Here have the other one. Keep em for souvenirs."

I sit with a silver tassel in each hand. The two girls are talking nineteen to the dozen. I think I've just become invisible again. Perhaps I'm not really here at all. After all it isn't very likely is it?

Listen. Perhaps you think I'm making this up. Do you really think I could invent something like this? Who would ever believe a story about a bald, middle aged man with a wet leg sitting in a pub with a naked woman?

Exactly.

Julie and Sandra seem to have lost interest in me completely. My right leg is starting to feel pretty uncomfortable too. I think I must have about half a pint of beer in my shoe. The two girls disappear through a door at the back of the bar leaving me alone.

"What are you on mate?" A voice startles me in my left ear. One of the shadowy customers from another table has moved up alongside me.

"Tabs?" he asks.

I don't know what he means, but then I realise that I'm still hanging onto Sandra's tassels. "Uh, just looking after them for a friend," I say, pushing them down into my pocket.

"What's your scene, man?" he continues.

"Just waiting for a friend," I say. "You didn't think I was going to wear those things did you?"

"Snow? Acid? Crack?"

I think I wish he would go away. I think he's trying to sell me something, and I don't know what it is.

"Look," I say. "If you are trying to sell insurance, forget it. I've got all I can handle." I feel pretty cool. If there's one thing I can do it's get rid of unwanted salesmen.

"Hash? Speed? Coke?"

"Nothing to drink, thankyou. You can't get around me that way. I've already got a drink thankyou." I look down at my empty glass. "You're not timeshare are you?" I ask.

"Ecstasy? Grass? Reds? Blues?"

"Double Glazing?"

"Come on man. I can get you anything you want. You want a girl?"

"No thankyou. I don't want any salespersons coming to my house."

"You want two girls? A boy? A girl and a boy?"

"Ha. I've got it. It's encyclopaedias, isn't it? Well you're wasting your time. I've got a very good one already, thankyou. A complete set of the Book of Knowledge."

"Pictures? Magazines? Videos? I can do porno, sado, rubber, all women, mixed, schoolgirls. Whatever you want man."

"Look, I think you'd better leave, please. I don't know what it is you're trying to sell, but I don't want any thankyou. If you don't go I'll have no choice but to get rough." I wish the girls would come back.

I also think I need to empty my shoe. I make my way to the gents. My unwanted friend doesn't follow me, but two other characters do. The two men follow me into the loo. One of them comes up behind me and kicks my legs apart. He pushes me forward so that I have to hold myself off the wall with my hands.

The second man leans back against the door to prevent anyone else entering. "Check him out," he says.

"Look I'm not buying anything," I say. "So you can cut this out."

"A tough guy," says the first man. "New around here are you?"

"OK. This has gone far enough. I've got you sussed. You're Jehovah's Witnesses aren't you?"

I feel his hands running over my body and fishing in my pockets. He's getting mighty personal too! He finds the tassels. "Check these," he says, throwing them to his mate at the door.

"I can explain those," I say. I feel his hand go into my trouser pocket. The hand comes out with my wallet in it.

"Look, you'd better put that back. I don't find this very amusing." My arms are starting to ache. My nose is pressed into the front of a vending machine. One pound, it says. Press button A for plain or button B for assorted.

"Look," I say. "If you give me back the wallet and leave now, I'll say no more about it. Fair enough?"

"Selling then are you?" asks the man in the doorway. "If you're not buying you must be selling."

"Actually, I do. As a matter of fact. Been out on a deal this morning, actually." I feel pretty smug. They won't put one over on me. I wasn't born yesterday. I can just read the description on the front of the vending machine. Under `assorted` it says one tickler and one licorice flavour in each pack. Doesn't sound very assorted to me. I strain to read the rest of the sign. I can't see what it is they're selling.

The man in the doorway is going through my wallet. He has found a little silver foil packet. "Well, well," he says. "What have we here?"

I know what he has. He has my poison sap.

Listen. Had you forgotten about the sap? From the poinsettia? In the office?

Good. Just checking. It is a pretty key point in the plot. I don't want you to miss it.

He unwraps the foil and sniffs the contents. "What do you reckon?" he asks passing the packet to his mate.

"It's a new one on me," the second man says after taking a sniff.

I have a feeling that this could be difficult to explain. I'm beginning to suspect that these men aren't selling anything at all. My arms are almost breaking. My nose is pressing so hard into the front of the vending machine I think it might be permanently deformed.

"You're nicked," says the first man.

"You're not obliged to say anything," says the second. "But anything you do say may be used in evidence against you." He pulls me back upright.

"Condoms," I say. I've been leaning up against a condom dispenser all this time. "Now why would anyone want licorice flavoured condoms?" I ask.

CHAPTER 16

I read somewhere once that your finger nails keep growing after you've died. Your hair too, apparently. I suppose this is an evolutionary thing in case you are buried alive.

So that you would be able to scratch your way out of the coffin, of course.

Look, I'm not making this up. If finger nails didn't keep on growing the entire human race would probably have died out by now.

Somebody else told me that your ears keep on growing too, but I'm not so sure about that. If your ears kept growing and the rest of you just withered away then pretty soon the whole coffin would be filled with ears. You don't ever hear about archeologists uncovering giant pairs of ears, do you? Still, it makes you think.

Well it makes me think. It makes me worry actually. I worry about things a lot. Like how you'd have to wear umbrellas on your feet if it rained upwards.

Or what anyone would do with a licorice flavoured condom.

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

I worry about sex a lot, too. But I'm not thinking about sex at the moment.

At the moment I'm thinking about why two Jehovah's Witnesses have kidnapped me in a pub toilet. That's if they are Jehovah's Witnesses. It could still be timeshare. I'm keeping an open mind.

There is no sign of either of the girls as I am frogmarched through the pub. The other customers studiously ignore us. Maybe this sort of thing happens regularly. Maybe they are believers too. I do think about shouting for help, but when I try all that comes out is a tiny whisper.

"Bless you," says the barmaid as we pass.

"Gesundheit," says a man by the door.

My two new friends take me round to the front of the pub. We stop by the black BMW saloon. One of the men kicks the corner of my car.

"These your wheels?" he asks.

"Actually the whole car is mine if you must know," I reply.

He opens the door using the keys he took from my pocket. "I think we've struck paydirt," he says. "It smells like a chemical factory in here."

"I can explain that," I say, but noone listens.

He prods my jacket which is still standing stiffly to attention on the rear seat. "Looks like some kind of body armour," he says. "Looks as though he came expecting trouble."

"I can explain that, too," I say to noone in particular. I wish Julie was here. I wish Gail was here. I even wish Carole was here. No, maybe not. Things aren't that bad yet.

I'm pushed roughly into the black saloon, and handcuffed to the armrest. I think it must be timeshare. I don't think Jehovah's Witnesses carry handcuffs. The second man gets into my car, and follows as we drive out of the car park. I wonder how Julie will get home? I wonder if she's missed me yet? Things were going so well until this little hitch cropped up.

Well she did kiss me, and she did call me Tom when she introduced me to her friend Sandra. And another thing, I'm still wondering how those tassels were attached. I shall lie awake tonight worrying about that. I know I shall.

Listen. Just in case you are worrying, too, it all turns out alright in the end. I do enough worrying for both of us. I don't want the responsibility of you lying awake all night as well.

After a short drive we arrive at a police station. This seems to be a little short sighted to me. Don't they realise that I'll report them for kidnap? I've come across some confident salesmen before, but these two take the biscuit.

Inside the police station I'm led through to a small office. As we go, I leave a trail of wet foot prints across the floor. My right shoe is still awash with beer. My left foot leaves no mark. To anyone following it will appear as though a one legged, amphibious brewer has hopped through. Noone appears to notice, though. Hey, I'm invisible again. If only I could work out how to switch this thing on and off it might even be useful.

The office to which I'm taken is almost filled by a wooden desk, behind which is a man with the biggest ears I've ever seen. His hair is cropped very short. Apparently he wears his ears with pride. He seems to want to display them to the whole world. I try not to look.

"I'd like to report a kidnap," I say to the man with the ears. I look around for somewhere to sit down, and choose a leather covered red chair in front of the desk.

"Shut up and empty your pockets," he says.

"You don't understand," I continue, removing my right shoe and sock as I speak. A few drops of beer splash onto the floor. "These two timeshare salesmen have forced me to accompany them. I've been kidnapped."

The man with the ears seems to be fascinated by my right foot. Even I am surprised by it's appearance as I remove my sodden sock. My foot is bright green.

I think it might be better not to draw attention to it, but in truth I'm a little worried. Could this be gangrene?

I wring the sock out on the floor beside me. A little pool of green liquid forms on the carpet, and slowly soaks into the pile. I put the sock on the radiator to dry.

Big ears looks from my foot to the carpet and across to the radiator. He comes round from behind his desk and crouches down to inspect the bottom of my foot. I think maybe he's not happy about the carpet.

"Try salt," I say.

"Salt?" he replies.

"Salt," I repeat. "Rub salt in it, and it will wash right out. Be good as new. Better even I shouldn't wonder. Always works, salt. Or red wine. I've heard that red wine works too, but I've never tried that."

"Red wine?"

Why does he keep repeating everything I say? Mr Hudson did that, too.

Suddenly he reaches over and starts to tickle the bottom of my foot.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. He. He. Stop," I cry, but to no avail. This must be some form of interrogation technique. "He. He. He. Stop. Stop. I give in. Stop."

He straightens up, clutching something that was apparently stuck on the sole of my foot. It's a green pine tree. Sodden. Misshapen. Disintegrating. But a pine tree nonetheless. He looks triumphant.

"Ha. Ha. Te. He. He." I chortle through tears of laughter. "I can explain that."

"Take off the other one," he says.

"Not if you are going to tickle me again," I say.

"Off!" he orders. I decide to comply.

The pine tree in the other sock is in better shape. It still smells faintly of pine. I place it on the desk alongside the first one.

"Quite a relief," I say.

"Relief?" he repeats.

"Yes. I thought it might be gangrene at first."

Big ears turns to my kidnapper. "What else did he have?" he asks.

"We found these on him," says my new companion. He puts the two silver tassels on the desk along with the little foil packet from my wallet and the wallet itself.

"I can explain those," I say. "It has absolutely nothing to do with murdering my wife."

"Has he been cautioned?" asks big ears.

"Yep. He's been talking non stop ever since. Seems obsessed with condoms and Jehovah's Witnesses. We've got it all logged."

"That's how they do it of course," says big ears. "Persuade innocent people to swallow condoms full of drugs. That's how they get it through the customs."

"So that's why they're licorice flavoured," I say. It seems to me that the manufacturers are playing into the hands of these people.

My second new companion staggers in carrying my rigid jacket. It still smells of lemon. "Better get this off to forensic," he says. "I don't know what it is, but it's loaded with something."

The man behind the desk pulls on his right ear. All this while I've managed not to keep staring at those ears, but he seems to want to draw attention to them. "I suppose you can explain the jacket, too," he says.

"Actually, yes," I reply. God, I hope I don't start saying actually again. I don't want them to think I'm odd. My best hope is not to draw attention to myself. Just stay calm and polite.

"What do you reckon these were for?" asks big ears, fingering the two silver tassels. "They look as if they might have held something."

"Oh, nothing," I say. "Just a present from a friend." I remember Julie and Sandra suddenly. I wonder if they've missed me yet.

Big ears is still toying with the tassels. "I can't see how they fasten," he says.

"I was wondering that," I say. "Must be glue, or suction, I reckon."

"Better get these off to forensic, too," he says. He pushes the tassels over with the jacket and the little foil packet.

"They'd better check the car, too," adds the second man. "It smells of every chemical you've ever come across. I reckon this guy could be into something big."

I decide not to mention the tracksuits. No point in getting arrested for petty theft.

"What about the wife? Is she dead? He said she'd been murdered."

"Actually, no," I say. I think I should try to change the subject. This could get a bit sticky. Big ears is playing with his lobes again. I wish he wouldn't do that. I'm sure he's making them bigger. All that pulling and stretching.

"They do that in Borneo, you know," I find myself saying.

"So that's the source is it?" asks big ears. "I hope you're getting all this down, son," he says to the first of my kidnappers who has been writing furiously all the while we've been talking.

"To their ears," I say. Damn. I didn't want to mention his ears. "Not that your's are big I mean. Well not as big as theirs, anyway."

"Should I still be writing this down?" asks the first man.

"They put golden pegs in them," I say. Actually I may have got that wrong. Perhaps it's wooden pegs. Maybe it's the giraffe necked women who use gold.

"I think he might be trying to buy us off, sir. Should I keep writing, or are we dealing?"

"Actually, I might be thinking about giraffe necked women," I say.

"This guy is cool, sir. Fancy thinking about women at a time like this."

I look at my watch. "Gosh is that the time. I should be getting back to the office. Mr Hudson will wonder where I am. Perhaps I'd better give him a ring."

"OK, wise guy. So you know your rights. One phone call then, that's all. You can make one call. Who is this Hudson? Your solicitor? Or are you about to tip someone off?"

"Mr Hudson is my boss, I'll have you know. And he wouldn't like to hear you drop the Mr."

"Sir, I think he's offering to deal. It sounds as though he's willing to name the boss."

"This Hudson, is he boss of the whole show?"

"Absolutely," I reply. I thought that would get their attention. "Nobody messes with Mr Hudson."

"OK. You can make one call," says big ears. "But we'll be listening, so nothing funny, understand?"

Big ears pushes the phone over to me. I punch in the code confidently. There are a couple of faint clicks before I hear the ringing tone. The phone rings four times before it's answered. That means Julie can't be back yet. She always answers within three rings.

"Sicilian Pizza," says a voice heavy with a foreign accent. "Howa my we helpa you?"

"Pardon?" I reply in surprise.

"Sicilian Pizza. Howa my we helpa you?"

Big ears has reacted sharply. He's listening on an extension phone. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand and speaks to the other two men. "Sicilian? That's Mafia isn't it?"

"Is that Mr Hudson?" I ask, but I already know it isn't. Mr Hudson doesn't even like pizza.

"No, issa not udson. Issa Pizza. You wanna Pizza or no?"

Big ears is getting excited. "He's talking to the bloody Mafia," he says. "Get a trace on this bloody call, quick."

"How do we do that, sir?" asks the man who has been doing the writing.

"How should I know?" says big ears. "I've only seen it on the films. Just get it done."

Actually pizza sounds like quite a good idea. I hadn't realised how hungry I was, but I never finished my sandwiches, of course, in the pub. "What sort have you got?" I ask.

"We gotta every sort. We gotta cheese n tomato, we gotta anchovy, we gotta meaty, we gotta mushroom, we gotta seafood, we gotta vegetarian. Whatta sort you wanna?"

Choosing. I hate choosing. It all sounds good to me. "What do you recommend?" I ask.

"Everybloodyting acourse. I maka de Pizzas. I sella de Pizzas. I cooka de Pizzas. People giva me money. Itsa how I maka my living. Now, you wanna Pizza or no. I canta standa round ere alla dy talkin to you. I gotta udda customers you know."

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. Big ears still has his hand over his mouthpiece. "Anyone else want pizza?" I ask. "It's usually more economical if we get one big one and divide it."

"Ask him if they do peperoni," says big ears.

"And garlic bread," says my kidnapper. "I always have garlic bread with pizza."

"Hello," I say. "Are you still there?"

"Acorsam still ere. Where d'you tink I go? I aint in no kinda hurry. You taka your time."

"Thankyou," I say. "Most civil. Do you do garlic bread? and peperoni?"

"How many times I tella you? I maka de pizzas. All sortsa pizzas. An de extras. You wanna Hawaiian? I maka Hawaiian. You wanna special Sicilian? I maka de special. I maka tin base or pan pizza. But pleasa choose sometin Mr befora ma arma she drop off."

Big ears is whispering to his colleague. "It seems to be some sort of code. I reckon all these different pizzas are different drugs. This must be designer drugs I reckon."

"The special Sicilian sounds nice," I reply. "What goes into that?"

"Everybloodyting. Thatsa why itsa special. You wanna special? Wid extra peperoni an garlic bread, yeh?"

"Sounds delicious," I say. "Yes, we'll have a family size on a deep pan, please. And you'd better send round some cokes as well."

Big ears is ecstatic at the mention of coke. I find it a bit gassy myself, but it's ok with pizza. I have to ask him the address, and he gives it down his own handset.

While we wait for the pizza, 'twenny minnits or you no hava to pay no way!', big ears and his two aides make plans. The plans mostly seem to consist of one of the men hiding behind the door and grabbing the pizza delivery boy as he walks through. It all seems a bit petty to me. The price was quite reasonable. It's no wonder that people don't respect the police any more. Oh, I have come to the conclusion that they are police by the way, but I still haven't worked out why they want to talk to me. Just a routine enquiry I suppose.

We wait for almost twenty minutes. I'm beginning to think that the pizza will be free anyway. So much for big ear's plans. But, with only a few seconds to spare there is the unmistakeable sound of a pizza approaching.

The delivery boy is tiny. Not much more than a large red motorcycle crash helmet with a couple of stick legs. The pizza is almost as big as him. As he comes through the door he is grabbed from both sides. Big ears bravely rushes forward when the boy is secured and pulls the pizza package from his grasp.

"Get this lot to forensic right away," he yells.

"But...," I gasp. I am already salivating at the prospect of the pizza.

"And get those two down to the cell," he adds, waving generally in the direction of me and the boy.

Listen. I bet you are wondering how is he going to get out of this one? I'll bet you're thinking that it's time for another amazing coincidence.

I know I am.

As we are led from the office I hear a familiar voice.

"Mr F, Mr F."

Just in time!

Listen. You didn't really want me to go to the cells, did you?

Listen. I can explain. There's a simple explanation.

"Mr F," shouts Julie breathlessly as she runs down the corridor towards us. She has never looked lovelier.

"Hi," I say. "I think I've been arrested."

"I know," she says. "That's why we're here."

I notice that Julie's friend Sandra is here too. She looks different, with clothes on. I must remember to ask about those tassels, it will only keep me awake otherwise.

"Mr F. The barmaid told us where you'd gone."

You see. I told you there was a simple explanation. You should trust me.

CHAPTER 17

Listen. Perhaps you think this is all getting a bit far fetched. Perhaps you think things like this don't happen in real life. Well, some pretty funny things have been happening to me lately.

Like phone calls with noone at the other end of the line. Like a wife who isn't where she says she is sometimes. Stuff like that.

Look. I love my wife. But I don't trust her any more. She tells me lies. That's why I have to kill her. I need to start again.

Look. I told you I won't hurt her. Trust me. I just need to start again that's all.

I get a bit confused sometimes. But I'll work it out.

I wonder what day it is? I keep thinking it's Tuesday for some reason.

Someone speaks to me, but I don't catch what is said. "Pardon?" I say.

"Frogs," repeats the pizza boy. His name turns out to be Frank.

"Really," I say. I don't even remember what the question was.

"Yes," he says. "There's over eight hundred different species, you know."

"Wow," I reply. "I never would have thought that."

"People don't," he says. "Most of them come from the tropics of course."

"Of course," I repeat.

"I've only got seven different types myself, mind. My mum won't let me keep any more. I've got them in my bedroom. In tanks."

"I had a frog once," I say. "When I was a boy. I found it."

"Probably the common english frog, I expect," says Frank. "Did you keep it in a tank?"

"No. Not exactly," I reply. "I put it on my notice board."

"On your notice board?"

"Yes. I kept it there with drawing pins."

"Drawing pins?"

It's happening again. People keep repeating things I say? I wonder why they do that?

Frank looks unhappy at my revelation, and starts to examine his nails. "How long do you think we'll be here?" he asks.

"I had it for years," I say, ignoring his question. "I used to call it Spot. Spot the frog. It was my little joke."

"I don't think it's very funny," says Frank. "It sounds pretty cruel to me. Nailing a frog to a notice board just to make a joke."

"I did try Blu Tak," I say. "But it kept falling off."

Frank continues to pick his nails.

"Of course they eat them in France, you know. Frogs and snails. That's mostly all they do eat so I believe. That's why we call them froggies, of course."

"I know," says Frank.

"We could have called them snailies, I suppose. Funny that. Might have changed the whole course of history."

Frank gets up and starts to pace around the cell.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. We ended up in the cell after all. Julie's intervention didn't save us. But I know she hasn't given up. "I won't desert you, Mr F," she said. It was very touching. I wonder if she'd stand by me if I went to jail?

"My mum will give me hell when I get home," says Frank. He's a herpatologist, you know. When he's not delivering pizzas that is. That's what he was telling me about. About his hobby. "We've been here two hours already," he adds. "How much longer are they going to keep us?"

"I did think about calling him Gaston," I say. "In honour of the French. I thought it might be noble to give him a french name."

"And I'll probably lose my job," he continues miserably.

"I wonder what the world record for frog jumping is?" I ask.

"Over fourteen feet," replies Frank.

"Wow," I say. "As far as that." That's clear across our cell. "Spot couldn't jump at all," I add. "He only had three legs, of course. That didn't help."

I thought talking about frogs would cheer Frank up, but it doesn't seem to be working. I don't know why.

"I tried putting him in a catapult once," I continue. "But it wasn't very successful. The aerodynamics were all wrong. He was too flat, I think. He used to catch the wind and flip over on his back."

"You're sick," says Frank suddenly. He looks quite angry. "I think I might report you when we get out of here for cruelty to frogs."

I'm somewhat taken aback. I didn't think of it as cruel. In fact I thought of Gaston/Spot as my friend. I didn't have many friends. And my mother wouldn't let me have a dog. She wouldn't let me have any pets at all. "I was very careful with him," I say somewhat defensively. "I even varnished him so he wouldn't spoil."

I think Frank might be going to be sick. He's a funny boy. Seems very small for his age. Very thin legs.

"I didn't know what else to do with him," I say. "I suppose I could have put him in an album, but I liked having him on display."

"You should have released him back into the wild if you weren't going to look after him properly," says Frank. "You should have put him in some long grass and let him go."

"He just fell to bits eventually," I reply. "Couldn't even glue him back together. I think he must have just got vacuumed up in the end."

"Well I hope you're proud of yourself," says Frank. "Killing a frog like that."

"Oh I didn't kill him," I say. "He was already dead when I found him. All dried out and flat. I just peeled him off the road."

"Oh," says Frank.

"You thought....," I say.

"Yes," he says.

"Do I look like a killer?" I ask.

Frank just looks at me and doesn't answer. We sit in silence for a while. Actually I am a killer, of course. Well, nearly. Well, I will be if I can work out a way. If I ever get out of here. I wonder what Julie is doing? Calling International Rescue I hope. Or the AA. I've always found them very good. I still don't know why we're here. Unless it's a case of mistaken identity, of course. Yes, perhaps they think I'm someone else. Now that I think about it, I did hear one of them talking about 'The Jackal'. That must be it. They must think I'm 'The Jackal'.

"Have you ever heard of 'The Jackal'?" I ask Frank.

"What, a wild dog?" he replies.

"No. No. 'The Jackal'. Frederick Forsyth. 'Day of the Jackal'. You must have heard of it."

He looks blank and shrugs. I narrow my eyes and put on my mean and smouldering look. Yes, I reckon that's it. They've mistaken me for 'The Jackal'. I can almost feel the bulge of the gun in my shoulder holster. I pat it for reassurance. Frank just watches and says nothing.

"I suppose you don't know where I could get a gun?" I ask.

"What sort of a gun?"

"Just a gun sort of a gun."

He shrugs. "I only know about frogs," he says.

"And pizzas," I add. "You know about pizzas."

He nods in agreement.

"Actually a bow and arrow would probably do," I continue. Though I must admit I can't imagine The Jackal with a bow and arrow. "Make a bit of a bulge under the suit though," I say.

"Eh?"

"A bow and arrow. It would make a bulge under your jacket."

"I suppose it would."

We lapse back into silence.

"Did you know that the indians in South America tip their arrows with poison from a frog?" asks Frank suddenly.

"No," I say. "I didn't even know frogs were poisonous."

"This one is. There's enough poison in it to put on over a thousand arrows."

"Wow," I say. "A thousand." This is even better than Poinsettia.

"It's called the poison arrow frog," he adds.

"A good name for it," I reply.

I wonder where I could get one of those? I bet they're not in Exchange and Mart either.

"How much longer do you reckon we'll be here?" asks Frank again. To tell the truth I'm wondering this myself. Maybe they've forgotten us. Perhaps we should try to escape.

"I saw this film once," I begin.

"Escape from Alcatraz," says Frank.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"Just a guess," he says.

The door of the cell is suddenly unlocked, and one of my kidnappers steps in. He motions to us to leave. I try to look cool. A cross between 'The Jackal' and Clint Eastwood. I screw up my eyes to narrow slits, and try to walk on the balls of my feet.

"Do you need the bogg?" asks my jailer.

I throw him a long, contemptuous glance. "'The Jackal' never drops his pants for anyone but a beautiful woman," I say.

"Just thought you needed the bogg, that's all, from the way you were walking and screwing up your face," replies the guard.

We follow him back up to big ear's office. When we arrive he's in conversation with a short, balding man of about fifty.

"Haven't done a full check, of course," the man is saying, "but it all looks pretty innocuous. The jacket seems to be soaked in starch, lemon scented. And the pine trees are just normal air fresheners. Traces of spirit gum on the tassels. Nothing else."

"Spirit Gum?" I repeat. "Well I suppose that's one mystery solved at least."

"The only puzzling item was the foil packet," the man continues. "Just contained some rubber like substance. No idea what, but not narcotic."

I am about to explain, but 'The Jackal' plays it cool and stays silent.

Big ears looks disappointed. He turns to me. "I don't know what your game is," he says, "but I guess you think you're pretty smart."

"Mistaken identity," I say. "You think I'm someone else, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says. "Mistaken for who?"

"Don't be a tease. I heard you. You think I'm him, don't you. You know." I'm still trying to play this cool. My turn to make him sweat now.

"Who?" he repeats.

I don't see why I should make it easy for him. "Wild dog," I say.

"Wild dog?" he repeats.

"Why do you do that?" I ask. "Why do you repeat everything I say?"

"Repeat everything you say? I don't."

"There."

"There, what?"

"You just did it?"

"Just did what?"

"You did it again."

This could go on all night, but just then someone comes through the door. Someone I'm very pleased to see.

"Hello, Mr F," she says. She looks tired. Still lovely, but tired.

"Mistaken identity," I say.

"No it isn't Mr F. I know it's you. I recognise you."

"'Jackal'," I say. They think I'm 'The Jackal'. That's why they've arrested me."

"No they don't, Mr F. They know you're you. I've explained everything. You can come home now."

Big ears pushes a box of things over the desk to me. It's my wallet and my jacket and the air fresheners. There are two silver tassels on top. "Just routine enquiries, sir," says big ears. "Thankyou for your cooperation."

"But what about 'The Jackal'?"

"In the box with the other things, sir. I should get it dry cleaned if I were you. Come up as good as new it will."

It's my turn to be mystified now.

"Your jacket, sir," says big ears. "It's in the box."

Frank has been standing quietly through all this up to now. "What about the pizza?" he asks. "Who's going to pay for that?"

I look about for someone to answer, but I think I already know. As I hand over the money big ears clears his throat and says "The boys in forensic said to thank you for the pizza, sir. Very thoughtful they said."

When we are in the car again there is a question I have to ask Julie.

"How do you think they stay on?" I ask.

"What, Mr F?" she replies.

"It's been bothering me," I say. "Do you think she uses glue?"

***

Geoffrey pulled into the layby in front of the pharmacy and carefully locked the driver's door after climbing from the car. Inside the shop he asked the woman behind the counter for a disposable camera.

"Twenty four or thirty six?" she asked.

"Thirty six, I think," he replied. "Yes, a thirty six please, and I need one with a flash."

***

CHAPTER 18

When I get home Gail is in the kitchen. She bobs her head towards me so that I can kiss her cheek. Why won't she ever kiss me on the lips any more? When did that stop?

"You're late," she says. "Busy day?"

"So, so," I reply. "About average."

"There's a pizza in the oven," she adds. "It won't be long."

"How did you know?" I ask in surprise.

"Know what?"

"About the pizza."

"I put it there, of course. Who else?"

She's wearing a skinny red jumper and a straight black skirt over sleek black tights. Even in the kitchen she turns me on.

I still love her. But I think I love Julie, too. Sometimes life seems very complicated. If I had a gun maybe it would be simpler. Or a bow and arrow.

"Did you know that there was a frog called the poison arrow frog?" I ask. Now why did I say that? I think I must have gone into brain slip again.

"Mm," she replies. "That's nice." She's preparing a salad over the kitchen sink.

"Not that I want one, of course," I continue. I must change the subject somehow. "Wouldn't know where to find one, even if I did. Probably not even in Exchange and Mart."

"Have you looked on the coffee table?" she asks absent mindedly.

"The coffee table?" I say. Now why would there be a frog on the coffee table?

"Yes," she says, shaking lettuce leaves all over the floor. "I tidied it earlier. Didn't notice one though."

Is she serious? I thought I was the one who was confused. "I don't think you get them around here," I say. "Except in zoos perhaps."

"I thought I saw you reading it the other evening."

Now I know she's confused. I thought I understood her once, but now we might as well be speaking urdu to one another.

"It was an Exchange and Mart you were looking for wasn't it?" she asks. "What is it you're thinking of buying?"

"Oh, nothing." Not even a peephole bra, I think to myself.

We lapse into silence. We've been apart a whole day, and now seem to have exhausted all communication in under a minute. Do all marriages go this way? I finish laying up the table for the meal. The aroma of pizza fills the kitchen.

"Do you still want to go to the zoo this weekend?" she asks suddenly.

"The zoo?"

"Yes. The other evening you were talking about elephants. It was when you were reading Exchange and Mart I think. You said you'd like to go to the zoo again. We could go tomorrow if you want. The forecast is good."

Later, when we go to bed, I find Sandra's silver tassels in my pocket. Gail is undressing on her side of the bedroom. She takes off her skinny red jumper to reveal a cream coloured thermal vest, and below that a no nonsense white cotton bra. I finger the two tassels as I watch her. I wonder if.....?

"You look deep in thought," she says. "What's bugging you?"

"Have you ever thought about being a dancer?" I ask.

"I used to go to ballet lessons when I was small," she replies. "Why do you ask?"

"Just a thought," I say. "No particular reason."

As I go to sleep, I tell my brain to dream about Julie, but the message obviously doesn't get through. I spend a restless night being chased by pizza flavoured condoms, or condom flavoured pizzas. It's a very confusing dream.

Listen. Did you know that topologically speaking you are more closely related to a donut than a pizza? I read that somewhere once. That donut shape is called a torus.

It's funny that.

Listen. I'm not making this up. Mathematically you are just a long tube. A piece of meat with a hole through it. In topology any solid shape with one surface and a hole through it is a torus. Like a hose pipe, or a wedding ring for example.

Hey, I've just realised. I'm more closely related to a hosepipe than to my underpants.

Because my underpants have two holes, silly. Look, if you aren't going to concentrate I shan't tell you this stuff. It could be important one day.

I don't know why. It just could be. Do you want to stay ignorant for ever?

I feel a great empathy for donuts. I never eat the kind with a hole through the middle. It would be like eating my brother.

It's the same with peppermints. I can only eat the solid ones.

Look. I worry about these things. I can't help it. It's just the way I am.

We arrive at the zoo just a few minutes after it opens. There aren't many people about yet, but the forecast was right. It's going to be a nice day.

"Do you have frogs?" I ask as I pay for the tickets.

"Dunno luv," says the girl who takes the money. "I only work ere. I spec they ave. They've got most things. Lions an that. I should ask someone if I was you."

"If I were you," I correct.

"Sorry luv?" she replies.

"If I were you," I repeat. "Not if I was you. If takes the subjunctive."

"Why don't you piss off, creep," she says, raising two fingers to me through the glass partition.

I think of her as a donut. It helps sometimes.

There are a few other donuts passing through the opposite turnstile. Big ones and little ones. A uniformed donut is leading an elephant across to a sign which says donut rides. Queue here. The elephant is a donut too. But I struggle to see it as an elephant. It flickers between elephant and donut for a while, but finally it stabilises as an elephant. The other donuts slowly resolve themselves into people and keepers. I thought I'd gone for a moment. Hardly worth paying if you see everything as a donut. Might as well go and stand in front of the bread shop.

"Where shall we go first?" asks Gail. She is studying the guide book which she bought from a kiosk just inside the entrance when I was having my donut attack. I never see her as a donut. Funny that. I never noticed that before.

"Don't mind," I reply. "Whichever way you like." But I am already walking over towards the elephant. It's skin is hanging off it in great wrinkled folds. They're never as fat as you expect. Their skin always looks two sizes too big.

It turns it's head towards me and reaches out with it's trunk. I suddenly remember the elephant in the paper with the ping pong balls. The one that choked. I should have brought some with me. Not to choke it with, you understand. But maybe I could have used it to shoot Gail.

It puts it's trunk into my pocket. "Looking for donuts," says the keeper in my ear. "That's what it's doing. Looking to see if you've got any donuts."

Gail has her camera in her hand and snaps away as I try to fend off the huge animal. "Beware table tennis players," I whisper to it as I back away.

We stroll along the pathways looking at the animals in their cages and compounds. Most of them are asleep or else invisible. Actually, half the cages look empty. We stand in front of cage after cage peering at scraggy bushes and trampled grass looking for armadillos and lemurs, wombats and macaques, but often all there is are two sparrows and a crisp packet. There is litter everywhere. I'm beginning to think that half the animals don't exist at all. It's just a giant confidence trick. Putting names on empty cages to kid us that the zoo is full.

Gail seems to be enjoying it all though. She oohs and aahs at anything sleek and furry and snaps away if any animal is cooperative enough to move into a patch of sunlight.

I keep noticing the litter. There are drink cans and food wrappers along every pathway. The litter bins are pristine, and empty. The zoo has only been open for an hour. I think they've got the wrong animals inside the cages.

We stroll along to a compound which is like a small paddock. There are a couple of mangy looking goats in it, and a large bird. The notice on the railing says `Ostrich. Please do not feed. These animals bite.`

A small boy is running back and forth across the front of the compound. He has an icecream in one hand and a yellow plastic water pistol in the other. He is trailing the water pistol along the fence to annoy the giant bird.

It runs back and forth alongside him on the far side of the fence. The boy is giggling furiously. He appears to be on his own. I see him as a donut. The parent donuts seem to have abandoned him.

As he reaches one end of his run, the boy stops for breath. The ostrich stretches it's long neck over the fence and siezes the boy's ice cream. It swallows it in one easy movement. The bulge can be seen travelling slowly down it's extended neck. The boy reacts by thwacking at it with his water pistol, but the ostrich is quicker. The water pistol follows the ice cream cone somewhere into the birds scruffy body.

"Do something," says Gail.

I find it difficult to know how to react to this command. My inclination is to let them fight it out. Frankly I'm rooting for the ostrich.

Did you know that an ostrich can kill a man just by staring at him? Or is that a dodo? I decide not to get too close, just in case.

The alternative might be to take a photo. Maybe the papers would be interested. 'Ostrich mistakes boy for donut' has a certain ring to it. But the problem resolves itself. The bird loses interest and starts foraging around inside it's compound.

Gail makes towards the boy, but before she can reach him he is off.

He heads towards a low brick building signed 'Reptiles and Amphibians'. "Let's go there," I say. Gail gives a shudder at the prospect, but follows without demur as I stride purposefully towards the entrance.

Inside the building it takes a moment to adjust to the gloom. There are people shuffling along in front of shop windows. There is litter here too. Behind the windows are alligators and snakes. Some of the windows have lizards and salamandars. None of the creatures are moving. I am almost coming to the conclusion that they are models. There are notices on the windows saying 'Please do not tap on the glass.'

I stare at one huge alligator for a full minute. It definitely isn't moving. I watch it's sides to see it breathing. Nothing. I watch it's eyes to see it blink. Nothing.

Either it's a model or it must be dead. Perhaps if I go closer to the glass it might react. I press my face against the window. It's surprisingly warm. It must be like a sauna in there. Still no movement.

I'm determined to get a reaction. I stick out my tongue. I put my fingers in my mouth. I roll my eyes until only the whites are showing, but then I can no longer see the alligator, so I have no idea whether this is successful. When I look again the alligator is still there, unmoving as ever. I turn to talk to Gail.

But she's gone. Instead there is an official zoo donut in a blue uniform, and a small crowd. I look round to see what has attracted the attention, but there's nothing to see. Several people are sniggering. It seems to be me that is the source of the attraction.

"Contact lens," I say. "Damned thing's slipped right round." I clutch my left eye with my right hand and feel my way along the front of the window.

"Been giving me trouble all morning," I add, but already I've ceased to be amusing. The people start to move away. As they disperse I spot Gail in the distance.

"Almost lost my lens," I say as I rejoin her.

"You don't wear lenses, Tom," she replies.

We seem to have left the reptile section. The windows here are much smaller. They are more like large aquariums really, and they have newts and toads. Very ugly some of them. Hard to think of them as donuts at all.

Inside every tank is a foil tray with food. It was the same in the reptile exhibits. The trays are filled with fruit or insects or mealworms according to the diet of the inmates. It must be lunch time.

And then I see them.

Poison Arrow frogs. Or at least I see the label. I don't believe it. But there it is. On the front of a large aquarium is a label saying 'Poison Arrow Frog, South America.' There are other labels too. There are at least three types of frog in the tank.

Inside the aquarium someone has made a half hearted attempt to reproduce a small pool. It seems to be made from a pie dish. There are a couple of half submerged pebbles in it and a branch leaning against the side of the tank. There is another pie dish with grass growing in it. Poor frogs. I doubt that they are fooled.

And there are frogs. Several of them. There are bright green ones, and yellow and black striped ones and mottled brown. Which is which?

I need Frank. Why are people never there when you need them?

I wonder about ringing for a pizza, but I don't have the number with me.

"Oh Tom," says Gail. "Aren't they pretty."

"I don't suppose the zoo would let him in anyway," I reply.

"I'm sorry, Tom?" she says in puzzlement.

"Probably a concession. Wouldn't allow you to bring your own food in."

"Food? Are you hungry?"

"No. Not hungry. No. Not at all. I wasn't even thinking about pizza."

"But we had pizza last night, Tom."

"Was it only last night?" I reply. "It feels like longer."

I look back to the frogs. I'm almost sure one of them winked at me.

CHAPTER 19

On the whole I'm a law abiding man. I've never been in trouble with the police. Well, except yesterday of course. What I mean is I've never broken the law. OK. I've never broken the law except speeding. What I mean is I've never stolen anything. Except those tracksuits. Yes. But that was a desperate situation. There was no alternative.

What I mean is I've never stolen anything with premeditation. What I'm trying to tell you is that I am basically an honest man. I try always to be fair and I try not to hurt people. All I ever asked from life was to be loved. And the person I loved the most lied to me. And even when I found out she was cheating me, I still loved her. And she kept right on lying. So now I don't trust her any more. I still love her, but trust is like a teacup, once it's cracked no amount of repair can ever unbreak it.

That's why I have to get that frog.

Listen. I don't expect you to understand. This is just something I have to do. I have to get free, and I'm not brave enough just to walk away.

Listen. I would pay for the frog, but it might be a bit difficult to explain. "I say, my man. Could I purchase one of your delightful little frogs?"

"Which type would you be wanting, sir?"

"Those Poison Arrow frogs look rather nice to me."

"Not sure I'd recommend that, sir. Very temperamental, Poison Arrow frogs. Have to be kept at precisely eighty seven degrees centigrade day and night, and then they only eat the nymphs of the Lesser Moonwing Moth, of course."

"Well I'd only be wanting the one."

"Ah, well. You see, sir, they're a social animal really. Hunt in packs in the wild. Wouldn't really be fair on the poor creature unless you was to take a dozen or more."

"Perhaps I could take one on trial. Say forty eight hours approval?"

"Not at this time of the month, sir. Coming up to the full moon is usually when they start their moult. Wouldn't be fair to ask you to cope with that. They get very moody during their moult. Sudden temper tantrums, things like that. Give you a nasty suck they can when they gets in one of their moods. No, sir, if I was you I'd start with something much easier, like a python perhaps."

It will be easier to steal one. Believe me.

We emerge from the gloom of the reptile house into the sun. It's a nice day, just as the weatherman predicted. I spot a sign to the restaurant and steer Gail towards it.

There are seats outside on the terrace. The restaurant is called The Happy Donut. There is a large cutout picture of a donut with arms and legs and a big smiling mouth standing by the steps up to the terrace. I try not to look at it, but I give it a friendly pat as we go past.

"Keep smiling," I say.

"Pardon?" says Gail.

"Nothing," I say. "Just talking to the donut."

She gives me one of her looks. "I think it's warm enough to sit outside," she says.

"Fine," I say. "Do you think there is a loo anywhere?"

"Inside, I expect," she replies.

"Can you order the coffees?" I ask. "I just need to go and look for the loos." I walk across to the door leaving Gail at one of the empty tables. "Oh. No donuts for me," I call back to her, but there is no reaction.

Instead of going into the restaurant, I slip round to the side and double back towards the reptile house. It takes only a moment before I'm back in the gloom and litter. There are fewer people around than earlier, that should make it easier. I stand in front of the frog tank and peer in at the inhabitants. They peer back. I wish I knew which was which.

There is no obvious way into the tank from the front. Somehow I have to get round to the rear. There is a door at one end of the row, which is partially open, but there is also a uniformed attendant that I have to get past. He has taken off his hat, and left it hanging on the back of a chair. It gives me an idea.

Listen. Have you noticed how things always go in threes?

For instance, there was that cartoon about the hippos. The ones who kept thinking it was Tuesday. And then I kept thinking it was Tuesday. And then it was Tuesday. You see?

Or there were the peephole bras in Exchange and Mart. And then there were Sandra's tassels. And then there ..... Well things do go in threes. Often.

Listen. What I was trying to explain was that when I lost my trousers I had to disguise myself as a runner. With my tie. Remember? And now I'm going to do it again. Disguise myself I mean. But not as a runner this time, and not with my tie.

Listen. I know that's only twice. But things do go in threes often. I just mentioned it that's all. I thought you might be interested.

I take off my jacket and stuff it into a gap between two of the exhibits. Noone is watching. I roll up both the sleeves on my shirt. From amongst the litter on the floor I retrieve a foil dish half full of chips. I also pick up pieces of orange peel and some pinkish popcorn which I add to the chips in the dish.

I stride confidently towards the uniformed attendant. As I pass his chair I grab his hat and put it on my head. He is staring vacantly into space and doesn't see me coming until I walk past him towards the door to the back of the exhibits. "Lunch for the frogs," I say as I sweep past.

"They've already been fed once," he says. "Seconds," I say. "They phoned out for seconds."

"Oh," he says. "Ha. That's a good one. Phoned out for seconds. Ha. Ha."

I push on through the door, and he makes no attempt to stop me.

It's like a different world on the other side of the door. There are pipes running everywhere. Huge steam pipes and smaller water pipes. There are cables and junction boxes and whole banks of switches. I don't spend long looking around though. Gail will worry if I'm not back soon. The exhibits look different from the back. I'm not certain I can remember which is the correct one. I think it was the third on the right.

I count along the row. I'm too short to see over the top, and there are no labels on this side. I reach over experimentally and feel around with my hand. I can feel something, but it seems too big for a frog. Whilst I am fiddling, a small hatch swings open in front of me and I find I can see into the tank. I can see my fingers wiggling around in the air, and I can see something big with teeth looking at them. This isn't the frog tank!

I can also see right through the tank to the viewing area. A little crowd is staring into the tank apparently watching to see my arm get eaten. In the background I just catch a glimpse of the attendant walking over to see what the attraction is. I withdraw my arm and shut the hatch.

I've obviously counted in the wrong direction. The frog tank is third on the right from the front, but that means third on the left from the back.

I retrace my steps, and just as I reach the frogs, the door opens and the attendant peers in.

"You alright mate?" he asks.

"Just got a bit muddled doing it backwards," I reply.

"Oh," he says. "New here aren't you?"

"Newish," I say.

"Oh," he replies. "Thought you were."

He stands, half in and half out of the doorway, watching me. I still have the little foil dish in my hand.

"Bob down," he says suddenly.

I duck instinctively to a crouch and look around to see what the problem is. I see nothing untoward. He looks surprised and takes a step towards me.

"What is it?" I ask.

"What's what?" he replies bending down to my level. We crouch there looking at each other while droplets of water drip from pipes around and above us. I feel rather foolish hunkering down amongst the zoo plumbing holding a dish of second hand chips whilst the owner of my hat is stooped down facing me just three feet away.

"Are there bats in here?" I ask.

"I don't think so," he replies. "They're mostly over in Nocturnal World."

"They get tangled in your hair," I add. "Impossible to get them out once they've done that. Have to get your whole head shaved once that happens."

"Wonderful how they can see in the dark though," he says. "One of nature's miracles."

"You'd be alright if you wore a hat I suppose," I say. Damn! Why do I always do that? Why did I have to mention hats?

"Or a hair net," he says thoughtfully. "A hair net would probably work just as well."

We crouch there talking to each other in the semi dark, damp and, it has to be said, faintly smelly atmosphere at the back of the reptile house. My legs are beginning to ache, too.

"So it's not bats then," I say.

"Bats?" he responds. "Why do you keep going on about bats? And why are you hiding down here anyway?"

"You told me to. You said 'duck down'. I thought it was probably bats."

"I never told you told you to duck down. I was just trying to be friendly like. Just introducing meself."

"I'm Bob," he says holding a hand out towards me. "Bob Downe."

"I'm already down as low as I can get," I say. "And to tell you the truth, Bob, my legs are starting to hurt."

I have to stand up. My legs are killing me. As I rise the penny drops. "Ha!" I cry. "It's your name, isn't it? Bob Downe. Get it? I thought you said bob down, and what you really said was Bob Downe."

"Sorry?" he says.

"Bob Downe. Not bob down. I thought you were telling me to bob down because of the bats, and there aren't any. Ha. Ha. I suppose that must happen all the time?"

"No," he says. "Never to my knowledge. I don't think we've ever had a bat in here. Not in my time anyway."

I think this conversation may have run it's course. I did hear a joke once about two men called Ben Doon and Phil McCavity. I didn't understand it, and now is probably not the time to bring it up. Good grief. The time! Gail will be getting anxious. I have to get back, and I haven't even got the frog yet.

"I must feed the frogs," I say.

"It's the one right behind you," says Bob.

I reach over and put the tray into the tank he is indicating. He seems to lose interest, and wanders back out the door towards his former post. He shakes his head as he leaves. "Just trying to be friendly like," he mutters as he goes. "Waste of bloody time."

I fumble around in the tank and encounter what is obviously one of the inhabitants. It's easy to catch, and I put it into my shirt pocket. I scrabble around and quickly find a second. There isn't time to go for a third or to check which type I have caught. I need to get back to Gail.

"Er, which ones are the Poison Arrow frogs?" I ask Bob nonchalently as I walk past. "Not that I want one, of course. Just professional curiosity you know." The frog in my hand is starting to protest about being held so tightly. I suddenly wonder whether it has teeth. I think those little beads of perspiration might be about to make a comeback.

"The yellow and black ones," he says sulkily. "And you want to get another hat, mate. That one's miles too big for you."

As I push back out into the sunshine I take off the hat and give it to a small boy who is coming in. He looks familiar. I'm sure I've seen him before somewhere.

The frog in my hand is wriggling furiously, and the one in my shirt pocket is trying to climb out. I shove it back with my other hand as I run back towards the restaurant. In my haste I stumble and sprawl full length along the path. As I hit the ground the frog in my shirt pocket is bounced free. It's a yellow and black one! I watch helplessly as it hops off the edge of the path and through the fence of the ostrich compound. Fortunately I still have the other one tightly held in my right hand.

I sit up and try to look between my fingers to see the colour of the frog I'm still holding. A little foot thrusts it's way through the gap. It's olive brown.

So close. So close. I had one and I let it go.

People are helping me back onto my feet, but I scarcely notice. I'm peering through the railings into the ostrich compound looking for the escapee. I think I can see something moving in the grass.

A woman is holding my arm. "Are you alright?" she asks.

"I've got to get it back," I say.

"Quite a nasty tumble," she replies.

"Yes," I say. "Here. Can you hold onto this for a moment."

As I hand her the frog all the colour drains from her face. She slowly crumples into a heap at my feet. I don't have time to worry about her. She is clutching a pale lilac handbag. In desperation I untwist the clasp and push the frog inside. "I'll be back," I call as I scramble over the railings into the compound.

I've temporarily lost sight of the frog, and go down onto my hands and knees probing through the grass to relocate it. There is a small movement ahead, and I pounce. Just as my hands grab at the grass where the movement was, a small yellow and black shape hops out and away.

I am suddenly aware of two huge pink feet approaching at a trot. They come to rest just in front of my head. As my face rises to peer up the ugliest, knobbliest legs you've ever seen, another face is descending to peer at me.

I am confronted by two huge eyes and a large brown bill. These are surmounted by an almost bald head sprouting a scruffy topknot of feathers.

The face hovers about six inches in front of mine and we gaze deep into each other's eyes. Please God, let it be the dodo that kills you with a single stare.

Nothing happens for seconds. The ostrich seems as puzzled by me as I am scared of it. We remain frozen, staring at one another, six inches apart. I blink. It blinks. I think it must be dodos. Thankyou God!

And then, from the corner of my eye, I see a little yellow and black movement. It hops across my field of vision and stops just behind the ostrich. I'm looking at the ostrich with one eye and the frog with the other. The ostrich is looking at me with both eyes. It seems unsure what to do. The frog isn't looking at either of us. In fact it seems quite oblivious of our presence at all.

If I reached out my arm I could touch it.

I slowly move my right arm forward and between the ostrich's feet. The bird's gaze flickers between my eyes and my hand. It decides the hand is more interesting, and as I reach through it's legs, it's head follows.

The ostrich is quicker than me. As I lunge for the frog, it lunges too, and I watch in disbelief as the little yellow and black body is hoovered into the giant bill.

I grab at the bird's neck with both hands. If I can prevent it swallowing there is still a chance.

The bird rears it's head up taking me with it. It is amazingly strong, but I manage to retain my grip on it's neck. It starts to run around the compound in circles. I have to take giant bounding strides to keep up with it, but I'm determined not to let go.

After a few circuits it slows down. It seems to be having difficulty breathing. It gives an enormous honking cough, and I see blur of yellow fly from it's bill and land in the grass beyond. I release my grip and dive for it before the ostrich can get a second wind.

And come up with a yellow plastic water pistol.

CHAPTER 20

Hey. I've thought of something else that comes in threes.

Women come in threes.

Look, I told you things happen in threes.

Look, you have to pay attention or there is no point in me explaining any of this.

I told you, a few pages back. Things happen in threes. Well, women happen in threes. They do to me anyway.

You see there's Gail. My wife. The woman I love, who doesn't love me any more. Then there's Julie. I love her as well, I think. I think she might love me, too. It's just that she hasn't realised it yet. And then there's Carole. I give a little shiver at the thought of Carole.

Three women. I can't handle three. Let's face it, I can't even handle one very well.

And now I've lost my frog. The frog that was going to help me solve my woman problem.

And now I'm standing in the middle of a grassy compound, holding a yellow plastic water pistol, whilst a demented ostrich runs circles around me.

"He's the one," shouts a woman's voice. "He's the one what accosted my Raymond."

I am vaguely aware that a considerable crowd has accumulated in front of the ostrich compound. A woman is waving her arm at me and pushing a uniformed attendant towards the fence. I think it might be Bob, from the reptile house.

"He's a pervert," she's saying. "He tried to entice my boy with presents."

I have no idea what she is talking about, and I hear the words without associating them with me. I begin to walk back towards the fence. Gail is probably wondering where on earth I am.

A second woman is pointing at me now. "He..He..He gave me a frog to hold," she says. The very act of saying it almost makes her faint like she did before. She is holding a lilac handbag I notice. I have a feeling that there is something I should be telling her about the handbag, but somehow it doesn't seem important just at the moment. She'll find out in due course.

A small boy pushes his way to the front of the crowd. I've seen him before somewhere. He climbs up on the railings until his mother pulls him off.

"Hey, mum," he yells. "He's got my water pistol."

"You keep away from him, Raymond," screams his mother. "He's a pervert."

"But, mum. He's got my water pistol. Make him give it back."

"Do something," she screams at the attendant. Now that I'm closer, I can see that it is Bob. He looks a bit nonplussed by the situation.

The woman on his other shoulder is standing, pale faced and gently sobbing. "Tried to make me hold a frog," she says, to noone in particular.

As I reach the fence a small, mild looking woman, who hasn't spoken up to now, says, rather quietly, "I saw it all." She is ignored by everyone.

"What's up?" Bob asks me, but before I can answer Raymond's mother starts up again.

"He gave my boy a hat to lure him away somewhere. That's what's up. Bloody pervert." The woman takes a swing at me with her handbag as she speaks, but her aim is wild, and she merely succeeds in clipping Bob around the ear.

"It's a real one, too," says the boy proudly. "Isn't it mister?"

"Tried to make me hold it in my hand," says the other woman. "A frog. Me."

"I did see everything," says the timid woman. But her intervention fails again. I feel unreal. I can hear these people talking, and I can tell that they are talking about me, but I don't really understand what they are talking about. That happens to me quite a lot. I wonder if I'm going invisible again?

Bob is clearly out of his depth. I hand him the water pistol as I climb over the fence. It is grabbed out of his hand almost immediately by the boy. His mother takes a swing at the boy, but only succeeds in clipping Bob for a second time on his other ear.

"I only work here," says Bob rather helplessly to her.

"I actually touched it," says the woman with the lilac bag. "Actually felt it."

"Excuse me," says the timid woman. "I think this man just saved that bird's life."

Raymond is examining the water pistol. He gives it a couple of experimental squeezes on the trigger. On the third squeeze a jet of water is expelled which hits his mother square in the face. I think that may have been a tactical error on his part. She swings at him again with her bag, and this time almost knocks Bob off his feet. He isn't coping with this at all well.

I reach down and take the hat back from Raymond. "Muuum!" he yells, but I ignore him. His mother ignores him too.

"Put this on," I say to Bob. "It will lend you an air of authority. And try to think of them as donuts. I find it helps."

"Thanks," he says. I think he may be slightly concussed.

I start to push my way through the crowd. It parts magically in front of me. I feel like moses.

"Bless you my son," I say as I pass a small bald man on my left. "Bless you," I say to a woman on my right. I make slow progress through the crowd laying hands on people as I go. Somewhere behind me I can hear Raymond's mother, and Raymond, and the woman with the lilac bag, and Bob. But the sounds gradually fade. They seem to have forgotten all about me. They are quite content to argue amongst themselves for the time being.

A hand touches my shoulder. I look round and find that the timid woman is following me. "I saw what you did," she says.

I walk more rapidly, trying to shake her off. But each time I look round she is still there. "Saw everything," she says breathlessly. I start to run.

Hey. I'm running again. Haven't done that for a while.

By the time I've done two circuits of the reptile house and one of Nocturnal World, I think I've shaken her off. I make my way by the most direct route back to the restaurant.

As I pass the cutout model of the happy donut I pat him on the head. "Bless you my son," I say.

It strikes me suddenly that a donut is the same shape as a halo. I've never thought of that before. Perhaps all those pictures of people with wings and circles round their heads are actually trying to tell us something about donuts.

It's just a thought.

Gail is still sitting at the terrace table. She has turned her chair to face the sun and pulled her skirt up so that her legs can tan. She is sprawled back in her chair with her eyes closed and her face tilted to the sky. She looks beautiful. I know that I shall always love her.

She opens her eyes as I sit down. "You've been gone a long time," she says.

"Yes. It was miles," I say.

"I got you a donut," she says. "But your coffee will be cold by now."

I look down to the table. There is a congealed cup of coffee and a sorry looking donut. "Do you think angels like donuts?" I ask.

Before she can answer a breathless woman trots up the steps and stands panting by our table. It's the third woman. The timid one.

Had you noticed that they came in a set of three again? Raymond's mother, lilac bag and the timid lady. You see. I keep telling you things go in threes.

"Is this man your husband?" she demands of Gail.

"Yes," says Gail cautiously.

"I saw it all," the woman continues.

My heart sinks.

"Your husband should be reported to the authorities for what he did."

Even if I run away now I don't see how I can get out of this. Gail will know where to find me. My heart sinks still lower at the prospect of spending my life in jail.

"What's been going on?" asks Gail. "Is someone going to tell me?"

The timid lady seems to be getting her breath back. She has stopped panting quite so wildly. "Your husband risked his life to save one of the animals," she says.

I did? When was that?

"I've been trying for half an hour to get someone to listen to me. And then your husband took matters into his own hands. Quite literally."

"What did he do?"

Yes. What did I do?

"Well he only managed to get the ostrich to cough up a plastic water pistol that that wretched child had fed it. That's all. I've been trying to get someone to do something for half an hour, and none of the zoo people would take me seriously. If your husband hadn't done something himself that bird would have died."

"Tom. Is this true?"

I am basically an honest man. I always try to tell the truth. I am about to explain about the frog, and Bob's hat, and the foil dish, and the lilac handbag, but maybe this time it would be better to say nothing.

"Would you like a donut?" I ask the woman.

***

Geoffrey laid the lunch table. He put out two of everything. Two knives, two forks, two spoons and two plates. He put a glass tumbler by each place. He worked carefully and made sure that all the cutlery was laid out neatly.

He looked at his watch. Was it really only lunchtime on Saturday? That meant there was still one and a half days to wait.

He sighed at the thought and tried not to look at his watch again. He moved one of the tumblers a quarter of an inch to the right and sighed once more.

***

When we drive home from the zoo, Gail puts her hand on my knee and squeezes it gently. When I look at her she smiles at me. "I'm so proud of you, Tom," she says, and squeezes my leg again.

I feel downhearted. I should feel good. I'm riding in my car with the woman I love. She's put her hand on my knee, and she says she's proud of me. But then I know she tells me lies.

And she doesn't say she loves me.

"Weren't you wearing a jacket when we arrived?" she asks suddenly.

The jacket! I'd forgotten the jacket. This is the second one this week. I only have three. You see, even jackets come in threes.

"It got used as a tourniquet," I say. "On the ostrich. The zoo said they'd send me another one."

"Do they know the size?"

"About six foot I would guess."

"But, Tom. You are only five foot seven."

"Yes. It was taller than me by several inches."

Gail gives up. Long experience has taught her when to stop.

"Ugly things when you get right up to them," I say. "Did you know they can kill you with one blow from their wings? Or is that swans? I can never remember."

Gail smiles to herself and squeezes my leg again.

CHAPTER 21

"Are you awake?"

I prod Gail gently, but there is no response. She is lying against me with her arm across my chest. Her breathing is slow and regular. I wish I could get to sleep, but everything is churning round and round in my head. I resume my staring at the ceiling. There is just enough light in the room for me still to be able to make out the pattern of circles and squares. I can't decide if the pattern is made up of a grid of squares overlaid with circles, or an array of circles with squares superimposed.

I wonder if it differs depending whether you look through one eye or two? I squint through my left eye. Definitely squares with circles. Through my right eye it's circles with squares. When I look through both eyes it stays as circles with squares. That seems to clinch it, except that as I look the circles with squares gradually flip over to squares with circles. I knew they would.

They always do.

I try blinking rapidly, then switching from one eye to the other and back in quick succession. But I've tried all these tricks before. I never reach a conclusion.

I wish Gail was awake. I prod her again. She snuggles up against me but there is no interruption to her breathing.

I can see lines on the ceiling, too. Very faint lines, crisscrossing under the paper. They are why the ceiling was papered in the first place. Embossed paper to cover the cracks. But it never really works. You always know the cracks are there.

"That's a nice ceiling. Very pretty paper, and such an unusual colour."

"Thankyou. Chose it myself. Wanted to create an atmosphere of sophisticated informality. Decided that the colour and texture of the doors and walls should be echoed through the ceiling to harmonise with the japanese theme that we were trying to convey."

"Cracked was it?"

"Pardon?"

"The ceiling. Cracked was it?"

"There was a fine crazing, actually. Nothing significant."

"Thought so. Good these embossed papers aren't they? You'd never really know."

Once the cup is cracked it's impossible to uncrack it. Once the trust has gone........

I wonder what they did before they had embossed paper? Probably had to paint pictures all across the ceiling and hope you wouldn't notice. That's probably why they painted the ceiling of the Sistine chapel. Because it was cracked.

"Blimey look at all them cracks."

"Yeh. Looks bleedin awful don't it."

"We oughta get summink done about that. Get it painted or summink."

"What, pictures you mean?"

"Yeh. I reckon if we was to put a few cherubims and seraphims up there noone would notice the cracks. What do you fink?"

"Maybe. Maybe. Mind you some of them cracks are pretty big. I reckon cherubims wouldn't be big enough."

"We could get em painted big."

"What, big cherubims?"

"Yeh. Grown up ones like."

"You don't get big cherubims. They only come little. They don't ever grow up big. I fought everyone knew that."

"Why don't they grow up, then."

"Cos they're myffical. That's why. Surreal figments of the imagination."

"Well we could 'ave lots of 'em then. A crowd of cherubims like. Wiv a few seraphims frown in for luck."

"No. I reckon we should fink bigger. Not just a few little cherubs. Let's go for the 'ole effin shabbang. Angels, archangels, the trinity, the works."

"Yeh. I reckon you might 'ave summink there. We could put Michael an' Gabriel up there. Wiv that big crack running down the edge of their wings. Noone would ever notice."

"I wonder who we could get to do it?"

"What about that Michelangelo kid?"

"What, that kid what keeps painting graffiti in the Vatican loos?"

"Yeh. It'll keep 'im out of trouble, and 'e does a pretty good cherubim. Have you seen that one in the third cubicle. The one with the..."

"That's enough, Favver. I don't fink we wanna 'ear all the detail, fankyou. Why don't you go and find the Michelangelo kid then?"

I prod at Gail again, but she is well asleep. I wish I could sleep like her, but all that keeps going round in my head is Julie, and Carole, and Gail, and Ostriches, and Gail. And Gail.

I saw a cartoon once of Michelangelo painting the Sistine chapel. He was very small, lying on his back on the top of a huge mound of scaffolding, right high up by the ceiling. There were two small figures down at ground level, and one was saying to the other, "You'll have to excuse the mess. We've got the decorators in."

That was all. It made me smile. I thought it might make you smile, too.

Look. I can't help it if we have a different sense of humour. At least I'm trying.

Our bedroom ceiling is pink. The whole bedroom is pink. I decorated it when we first moved here. It probably needs doing again. I don't know if it will ever get done. I don't know anything any more.

I don't think I'm ever going to get to sleep. I feel wide awake.

I wish Gail would wake up. I need someone to talk to.

When I was a boy, my ceiling used to be white. I wanted to paint it black with gold stars, but my dad wouldn't let me. He said, "When you've got your own house, son, you can paint your ceiling any bloody colour you want, but this one is staying white!"

"Hey dad! I've got my own house now. I painted it pink."

It's a good job my dad wasn't pope.

Gail makes sucking noises in her sleep. I think for a second she might be trying to kiss me, but it's not likely. She's probably dreaming of someone else. I kiss her instead.

There was a swan on my ceiling, too. When I was a boy. Just a little one. I don't mean a little boy, I mean a little swan. It wasn't a real swan of course. It was just a little flick in the plaster where the workman had caught the edge of his trowel when the ceiling was first made. It was only a tiny mark. Right above the head of my bed. It looked just like a swan with it's head curled back over it's wings. You couldn't see it in the daytime, the light had to be just right. I used to look at it for hours some nights when I couldn't get to sleep.

I could do with a swan now.

I nudge Gail gently with my arm. "Are you awake?" I ask. But there is no response.

Some of my friends had planes on their ceilings. Real ones, not painted ones. Well not real ones, of course. Boy's didn't have real planes. Real models I mean. Made out of plastic kits with about a thousand pieces in them. All glued together.

My dad wouldn't let me put planes on my ceiling either.

I glued my fingers together once. Well more than once, actually.

I think I need to go to the loo, but with Gail's arm across me I can't get out of bed without waking her.

I'll try to go to sleep. If I empty my mind maybe I can. Have you ever tried to do that? To think about nothing? I keep trying to think of nothing, but every time I try I end up thinking about something. Usually it's the loo. Now that I've thought about it I can't stop. The more I try not to think about it, the more I need to go. But if I get out of bed, I'll wake Gail up. Maybe if I slid down the bed and got out the bottom I could do it without disturbing her.

I'll just wait one more minute. I'll try to empty my mind again. Perhaps it'll work this time. But all I can think of now are frogs, and blow pipes, and guns. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to murder Gail.

I didn't ever want to really, but I don't know how to escape otherwise.

I still love her. I love her too much just to walk away, and I can't bear the thought of her with someone else. But she doesn't want me, I know that. I wish I knew what to do. And then there's Julie, of course.

I do need the loo, though.

I suppose there's always botulism. I'm not sure what it is exactly, but I know that half a teaspoonful is enough to kill the whole world, or is it one teaspoonful is enough to kill half the world? I can never remember. By the way, how does anyone know that? How could you even get the whole world to drink out of one teaspoon? Surely even if everyone had just a tiny sip you'd run out after about twenty people? Anyway it's probably even harder to get hold of than Poison Arrow frogs.

I reckon that if I just slid down the bed I could get out from under Gail's arm without waking her up. I begin to inch my way down under the bed clothes. It's hot and dark down here. By hooking my ankles over the end of the bed, I can pull myself down about an inch at a time. A couple of times when I move I think Gail is going to wake up, but she slumbers on.

I get free of her arm and my legs are hanging out of the end of the bed, but as I progress downward she rolls over and throws her leg across my neck. I'm trapped. The position I find myself in has interesting possibilities, but the opportunities will be severely limited unless I can find a way to breathe.

To make things worse, something is trying to eat my left foot.

It's funny how things work out isn't it? One minute you are quietly minding your own business, trying to get to sleep, and the next you have a face full of pubic hair and only eight toes.

I figure I have about a minute left to live. I wonder if Gail planned this all along? Maybe all the while I've been plotting to murder her she has had a cunning plan to lure me into this position so that she could suffocate me.

There are probably worse ways to die.

I can't hold my breath much longer. I feel curiously relaxed, but if I don't do something soon, whatever is eating my toes may decide to sample other parts of my anatomy. With my legs hanging out of the duvet, and my back arched over the end of the bed, I feel somewhat vulnerable.

My left hand comes into contact with Gail's foot. I begin tickling her sole. At first she merely twitches but as I persist she rolls back off me. I gasp in lungfuls of air.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asks.

"I..I..I..," I gasp.

"Come back up here," she says. "You know I don't like that sort of thing."

"I..I..I..,"

I start to pull myself back up the bed. The cat decides this is all part of the game and continues to hold on to my big toe while I retreat.

"What ever are you playing at?" she demands.

"The cat," I pant.

"Don't blame the cat. I know it was you. Whatever were you thinking of?"

"Michelangelo," I say. I always try to tell the truth.

Sometimes it just doesn't seem to be the right thing to say, though. I have a feeling this may be one of them.

CHAPTER 22

Geoffrey dressed for work as normal. He put on his grey suit and shiny black shoes; his white shirt and a sober grey tie with a small blue motif. He ate his normal small bowl of muesli for breakfast and drank his usual one and a half cups of medium strong tea.

After breakfast he brushed his teeth, and, at precisely seven twenty three, he gave his wife her customary peck on the cheek and set off for work.

Exactly as he always did.

Today of all days it was imperative that he did not draw attention to himself. As far as the world was concerned today was just another day.

When he reached the station, however, he didn't join the queue at the ticket office, but bought himself a daily paper and headed for the station buffet. There, despite his recent breakfast, he ordered a coffee and installed himself in an out of the way corner. He would not be missed at work. He had taken the precaution of booking a day's holiday more than a week ago.

And there he sat. Insignificant and inconspicuous, his black umbrella dripping into a slowly widening puddle on the floor beside his chair. He planned not to move for at least an hour.

***

I'm running out of jackets. I'm standing in front of the wardrobe in my underpants wondering what to wear to work. The cat is sitting beside me, also contemplating my clothes. I guess she isn't impressed, because she gives a mighty yawn and starts trying to look up her own bottom. I haven't forgiven her for Saturday night yet. The choice is between going to work in pullover and slacks or the one remaining jacket. Mr Hudson doesn't encourage informality, so it had better be the jacket. It's a pity the weather has gone off.

Gail has already left for work. She still hasn't forgiven me for Saturday night. Nothing more was actually said, but things have been pretty cool ever since. My suggestion to paint the bedroom ceiling black wasn't even acknowledged. I guess I'd better bring some flowers this evening. It sometimes works.

The problem is what to wear with the jacket. I eventually decide on white cricket flannels and a pair of two tone brown and cream brogues. Actually they are the only shoes I can get on over the bandage.

It's the first time I've worn my rowing blazer in years. I think it looks quite fine with it's yellow, orange and white stripes. In a sudden fit of enthusiasm I search out my old straw boater. It's gone a bit yellow, but actually I think the whole effect is quite fetching. I stand and admire myself in the wardrobe mirror while the cat rubs itself around my legs. The same legs it tried to eat only thirty hours ago.

While I am searching through my other trouser pockets for my keys I come across two silver tassels. I think I'd better dispose of them before Gail comes home. Somehow I don't feel up to explaining their presence. I shove them in my pocket absentmindedly. Outside, the weather is tippling down with rain. I hook my big blue and red golfing umbrella out from the back of the wardrobe.

Did you know that the umbrella was invented by a man called Jonas Hanway in 1750? Well, not invented exactly, he just discovered that umbrellas could be used to keep you dry. Before that people used to put their umbrellas down when it started to rain.

"Damn. It's coming on to rain. I'd better put my umbrella down. I'd have left it at home if I'd known it was going to be wet."

"Good Lord. Look at that Hanway fellow. He's putting his umbrella up! Can't the fool see it's starting to rain?"

Of course the first umbrellas were made of paper. That probably didn't help. I wonder what people used to leave on trains before they had umbrellas?

It makes you think.

There are hoots of laughter as I walk into the office. I hear odd references to cameras and asylums, but I take no notice.

"Up for the regatta are we?" I hear. The question is greeted with titters from the others.

"Just trying to think positively," I reply. "My horoscope for today said 'think positively and change the world'."

"Good for you, Mr F," says Julie. She is the only one not laughing.

"Mind over matter," I say.

There are renewed sniggers each time I speak.

"Its a proven fact that the human mind is the most powerful force in the universe," I continue. "We just have to learn to harness it, that's all."

Despite the golfing umbrella the bottoms of my white flannel trousers have got rather wet walking round from the carpark. The material clings limply to my ankles. I notice I am wearing odd socks again.

"For instance, there was a man who could make electric lamps light up just by thinking about it in the paper the other day," I continue.

"Allelujah. You'll be telling us about a man who could turn water into wine next."

"That's nothing. I can turn wine into water!" adds another wit. There is hysterical laughter at this interjection.

"Take no notice of them, Mr F," says Julie. "I think you look very...well, very ....striking. Now why don't I get you a nice cup of coffee?"

The sniggering and taunting from the others continues for a while, but I scarcely notice. I sit and contemplate Julie's bum as she makes the coffee. She is looking gorgeous, as always. Her skirt today is so short it makes my eyes water. When she stretches for the mug and the milk, the line of her pants is clearly defined as the material pulls taut across her buttock.

Think positively and change the world. I wonder if Canute takes the same paper as me?

Julie brings over the coffee and sits on the edge of my desk. I can't stop looking at her legs. Whichever way I look I seem to be peering up her skirt. I can feel my collar getting tighter, too. The others gradually lose interest in me and settle down to their own work.

"Did you know that umbrellas are a sign of rank in some parts of Africa?" I ask Julie. Now why do I always say something naff like that? Why can't I think of something smooth to say? Please God, let me be smooth just for one day. I'll never ask again. I promise.

"That's interesting, Mr F. You do know a lot of things."

"Will you marry me, Julie?" I ask suddenly.

"Don't tease me, Mr F. Tell me something else about umbrellas."

Why won't she call me Tom? Why doesn't she take me seriously? Why am I joke? Why does she want to know about umbrellas?

"Good God, Fletcher! What the hell are you wearing? What do you think this is, a bloody circus?"

Mr Hudson has emerged from his office while we are talking. Julie slips quietly off my desk and drifts back to her own. The others have suddenly become aware of me again. There are nods and winks being exchanged.

"And where the hell did you get to on Friday?"

Friday? That seems to be a long time ago. I have a dim recollection of being in a police cell, but surely that can't be right?

"And what the hell were you playing at flooding that woman's house?"

Flooding a woman's house? I don't recall that. Julie is looking distinctly apprehensive opposite. I do love her, I know I do. Surely she can see that. I smile across the office to her, but she shakes her head gently at me.

"Well, Fletcher?"

I look up and see Mr Hudson towering over my desk. He seems to be expecting me to say something.

"I'm sorry," I say. "What was the question?"

There are shrieks of laughter from down the office, but they cease in a strangulated whimper after one glare from Mr Hudson. I wish I could do that.

"I think you'd better come into the office, Fletcher," Mr Hudson says as he turns and retraces his steps. "Miss Green. You can bring us some coffee, please," he adds as he disappears from view.

I follow quietly. I still have my half drunk cup of coffee in my hand as I enter his office.

"Well, Fletcher? Explanations please. What the hell is going on?"

I'm not sure where to begin. There seem to have been a lot of things happening to me recently. I suppose I'd better start at the beginning.

"I suppose it started with the hippos," I say.

"Did you say hippos, Fletcher?"

"Yes. I kept thinking it was Tuesday."

"Tuesday?"

"Yes. Only it wasn't. It was only Monday then. But it turned into Tuesday later."

"It does, Fletcher. It does."

I wonder if I ought to tell him about the gun and the blowpipe, but it would probably only confuse him. I pause, pondering what to say next. Suddenly I have a need to talk to someone.

"It's Gail, Mr Hudson. My wife. She isn't always there."

"Always where?"

"Well, anywhere. Sometimes she isn't where she says she is."

"Where is she, then?"

"Well she's at work now, of course. She's a teacher you know. At least that's where she should be, but I can't tell any more."

There is a knock on the office door.

"Come," bellows Mr Hudson. Julie appears carrying two mugs of coffee. She passes one to me and one to Mr Hudson. I notice he doesn't thank her. I smile at her for both of us. She hovers uncertainly in the doorway, apparently unsure whether to go or stay. I sip alternately at the coffees in my left and right hands.

"Miss Green?" says Mr Hudson looking at Julie.

"I think I might be able to explain, Mr Hudson," says Julie.

This surprises me. I didn't think Julie had ever met Gail. "She hasn't been with you, has she?" I ask.

"I'm sorry, Mr F. Who do you mean?"

"Perhaps you could start at the beginning, Miss Green," says Mr Hudson. He's beginning to look as though he wished he hadn't started this.

"I've already told him about the hippos," I say.

"Hippos, Mr F? What hippos?"

"You know," I say encouragingly. "I keep thinking it's Tuesday. Remember?"

"But it's only Monday, Mr F." She looks confused.

"Yes I know it's Monday now," I say. "But last week I kept thinking it was Tuesday, and that's when I decided to shoot her, except that I didn't have a gun." Damn. I wasn't going to mention the gun.

"Shoot who, Mr F?" asks Julie.

"Yes. What the hell are you babbling about, Fletcher? What the hell has all this got to do with flooding Mrs Carrol's house?"

A shiver runs down my spine. It happens every time I hear that name. "Carole," I say. "Just Carole. Not Mrs Carrol."

"To hell with what she's called," shouts Mr Hudson. "What do you mean by flooding her house?" He looks angry. I get the feeling it might be my fault, but I'm not sure why.

"It was her water bed, Mr Hudson," says Julie. "Tom, I mean Mr F, was helping her to fill it. It must have burst."

She called me Tom. Just then. When she spoke to Mr Hudson, she called me Tom. "You called me Tom," I say to Julie.

"Yes, Mr F. I always do, don't I?"

"Shut up, Fletcher. Just shut up and let Miss Green explain about the flood will you, please."

Suddenly it's all coming back to me. "Yes. I remember. My tie got caught in her underwear drawer, and then I couldn't stand up straight."

I think Mr Hudson might have stopped listening.

"At least I still had my trousers on that time," I add. Julie looks nonplussed.

"I think I've heard enough, Fletcher," says Mr Hudson after a short pause. "I think maybe you aren't cut out for this work."

"But I haven't told you about the police and the pizza yet," I say.

"Enough, Fletcher. I need time to think. Thankyou Miss Green. You had better get back to your desk."

Julie casts me a long, concerned glance as she leaves. I try to give her a reassuring smile in return, but I think it probably came out more like a lecherous leer. I turn back to Mr Hudson and wait for him to speak.

***

Geoffrey tried not to watch the clock, but each time he looked up the hand had crept on only another minute. He wondered for a while if it was broken, running backwards perhaps, but a glance at his own wristwatch confirmed that the two were still in sync.

He studied the crossword, but couldn't solve any clues, and gave up after a few minutes. His coffee grew cold in the cup. He wasn't really thirsty. He had only bought it to establish his right to the table. He was excited. He tried to calm himself by controlling his breathing.

Eventually the minute hand crawled round to eight forty five. He folded his paper, picked up his umbrella and brief case and walked out into the street. It was raining harder than ever, but he scarcely noticed.

***

We sit in silence for a while, Mr Hudson and me. I wonder how he knew about the water bed? She must have phoned him I suppose and put in a complaint.

"I think it would be better for us both if you were to go, Fletcher," he says suddenly. "I don't think you are really cut out for this line of work."

"I think you're right," I say. "Assassination isn't really my forte. You need a James Bond for that sort of thing really. I was beginning to go off the whole idea anyway, actually." God, I hope this isn't an actually attack coming on again.

"Have you ever thought of seeking help, Fletcher? Professional help I mean."

"No. I hadn't," I say. "I thought the fewer people who knew, the better. You see the police would always suspect the husband first. Besides, I wouldn't know where to go. Not the sort of thing you find in Exchange and Mart exactly, is it, Mr Hudson?"

"I'm sure I could recommend someone suitable for you, Fletcher. I do have one or two contacts who could probably help."

I'm flabbergasted. Fancy Mr Hudson knowing people like that. I would never have thought he would have underworld connections. "Would that be Mafia?" I ask.

"More likely to be BUPA," he replies shaking his head.

"I don't want to hurt her, you understand. I do still love her. It's just that I love Julie too, and she doesn't love me any more. Not Julie I mean. She still loves me. Well actually she may not. I haven't asked her yet, but she did call me Tom. That is a start wouldn't you say?"

Mr Hudson says nothing. He just sits shaking his head gently. He looks worried about something. "Would it help to talk about it?" I ask him. "Whatever it is that's worrying you, I mean. I find it helps me. Talking about things."

There is a small commotion outside in the main office. I can hear voices being raised. The door to Mr Hudson's office bursts open and two people hurtle through. One is Julie.

"I tried to stop her, Mr Hudson," she says.

The other is Carole.

"Tom!" she cries.

CHAPTER 23

"Mrs Carrol," says Mr Hudson rising from behind his desk and extending his right arm.

"Just Carole, thankyou," she replies ignoring the proffered hand.

"There was no need for you to make a special journey, Mrs C....., Carole. The matter has already been attended to."

"I told you to send him back," responds Carole. "Where was he?"

"A full investigation has been carried out Mrs uhh, Mrs ummm, Carole. And I have dealt adequately with the situation. I think you'll have no more problems."

"I didn't want him dealt with Mr Hudson. I wanted him sent back. I can deal with him myself very well, thankyou."

I sit and listen to the interchange between the two of them. Julie hovers in the doorway. I wonder if we shouldn't leave. This seems to be some personal disagreement between them. Probably doesn't concern me or Julie at all. Just as I resolve to creep quietly out, Carole turns away from Mr Hudson and plants herself squarely in front of me.

"Where did you get to, Tom?" she asks. "I thought we were friends."

"N..No." I cry in surprise. "N..No. Not friends. Not enemies mind you. No animosity on my part I can assure you. Quite warm feelings actually. In a professional manner of speaking of course. Friends in a professional sort of way I suppose you could say. Yes, more acquaintances perhaps. Business friends maybe."

"Friends," she says, smiling. "I think there was a little mixup on Friday wasn't there, Tom?"

"You mean about the pizza?" I ask.

"Mrs Carrol," tries Mr Hudson. "I can assure you there will be no repetition of this unfortunate business. Mr Fletcher will be leaving Hudson's today."

"He will?" gasps Julie.

"I will?" I say. When did that happen? I don't remember that happening.

"He won't!" says Carole. "Not if you want to keep my business, anyway. And not if you want to avoid a story about unfair dismissal in the local paper. I want Mr Fletcher working on my house sale, if you please."

"But the flood?" protests Mr Hudson. He looks confused.

"An unfortunate accident," says Carole. "Just a little water got spilt, that's all. A trivial incident, cleared up and forgotten about. A pity you can't forget it too, Mr Hudson."

I'm not sure whether I still work here. Mr Hudson seems to think I'm leaving, but Carole seems to think I'm staying. "Do I still work here?" I ask Julie.

"I'm not sure, Mr F. I think so," she says.

"Of course you do, Tom. Doesn't he Mr Hudson?"

"I suppose so," he replies grudgingly.

The telephone on Mr Hudson's desk decides to ring. It's someone buzzing through from the outer office. You can tell, because it's a different sort of ring from an outside call. He picks it up and exchanges words with the handset.

"Someone wants to view your house," he says to Carole, putting his hand over the mouthpiece as he speaks. "This morning if possible," he adds.

Listen. I know it's a bit of a coincidence that someone should ring just at that moment, but surely I'm allowed one coincidence in a story this long?

Look. It isn't much of a coincidence, more of a literary device really.

Look. There are other ways of moving the plot on, but this is simple and inexpensive.

Listen. It's my story. If I want a coincidence, I'll have a coincidence, thankyou.

"Oh, goodness," says Carole. "I should be at work really, but I'm late already. Oh, I'll phone in sick. Yes, I suppose it's alright, but make it late morning, around eleven maybe. I'll need to go home and tidy the place up. Perhaps Tom could come and help me? After all, he did create some of the mess in the first place."

***

Geoffrey walked briskly home. It was raining hard, and he was distinctly wet by the time he arrived, despite the black umbrella. Although he had his key, he rang the doorbell, just to be on the safe side. There should be noone there at this time, but he had his explanation ready in case of something unexpected. His heart beat wildly as he waited. He couldn't tell whether from the exertion of the walk or the anticipation. He couldn't deny he felt excited.

He heard the bell ringing inside the deserted house, and when he was sure there was noone home, he let himself in. A curtain twitched in the house opposite, but he didn't notice, and wouldn't have been concerned even if he had seen it.

Once inside he stood his wet umbrella in the sink in the utility area and hurried upstairs. He was still wearing his outside coat and carrying his black briefcase.

He took the wooden pole from the airing cupboard on the landing and used it to let down the trap door in the ceiling. He pulled down the extending ladder and climbed rapidly up.

When he was in the loft he paused for a second, and then decided to pull the ladder back up after him. This was easier said than done, and he had some difficulty in reaching round the ladder to pull the trap door shut. He would have to improve that arrangement he thought to himself. But not now.

***

"I think Miss Green should come with us," I plead to Mr Hudson. "It will be good experience for her." The thought of being left alone again with Carole terrifies me.

"I need her here," Mr Hudson says. "Besides, the last time she went with you I didn't see either of you again all day."

"But Mr Hudson, you did say I could help Mr F. on this sale," says Julie. "You said it was part of my training."

"You can join them later, Miss Green, when the client arrives. Just for the moment Fletcher is going to take Mrs C...., Carole home to help her clear up the mess he made on Friday. And I want no more mistakes, Fletcher. Do you understand?"

"I'll stick close to him, Mr Hudson," says Carole. There is the look of victory in her eyes. I feel like a christian about to be fed to the lions. I think I preferred the police cells to this. "Come along, Tom," she says, putting her arm through mine. "We must go. We'll take my car, but you can drive."

The rain is torrential. By the time we reach Carole's car we are both soaked. Her insistence on keeping our arms linked means we take twice as long to reach the car, and also that we can't hold the umbrella steady.

"It's a nice big one, Tom. I do like a man with a big one," she says as we get to the carpark. "And such a nice colour, too."

"Yes," I say.

"I can't stand men with little ones," she continues. "All prissy and too small to do you any good at all."

"No," I say.

"Give me a good big one any day," she says as she unlocks the car door. "And if it's a nice bright colour too, then so much the better."

"The biggest ones all used to be black, of course," I reply.

"That doesn't surprise me," she says.

"In fact they all used to be black before nineteen twelve, men's and women's. It wasn't until the introduction of oiled silk that colours crept in for the women."

"My, you certainly know a lot about umbrellas, Tom," she says handing me the ignition key.

"Yes. Julie said that, too," I say.

"Ah. The virginal Miss Green. Now why on earth would you want to be bothered by a silly young thing like that?"

As we drive out of the carpark, Carole puts her hand on my knee. My whole body tenses up and I try to slide across to the edge of the car. She is unperturbed, and merely slides across to the edge of her seat, too.

At the lights we bunny hop away when the green signal illuminates. It's not easy driving with your knees together.

My throat feels very dry.

"Your trousers are soaking," says Carole. "We'll have to get you out of them as soon as we get home. She pulls her dress up above her knees. "And I'll have to take this straight off, too," she says.

My throat is so dry I can hardly breathe.

At the roundabout, I have to change gear. As I move my foot across to the clutch Carole's hand slides up my thigh. I tense so violently, that the car shoots forward and we plough straight through the centre of the island, leaving deep tyre marks across the grass. A cyclist who is circumnavigating the roundabout dismounts and lifts his bike over the metal railings onto the footpath.

"My, we are tense," says Carole. "I think you need something to relax you, Tom. And I think I know just the thing."

***

Inside his secret litte attic room Geoffrey removed his wet coat and placed it carefully on a hanger which he put on the back of the door. He pushed his briefcase into the corner and removed his shoes.

He took off his suit jacket and put it onto a second hanger. He removed his tie and hung it on the same hanger as his jacket.

The room was small, but adequate for it's purpose. Cosy rather than cramped, but, above all, private. He caught his reflection in the mirror and smiled in anticipation.

He finished undressing with quiet efficiency. Always taking care to fold each discarded garment before placing it in a neat pile or on a hanger as appropriate.

He tried to avoid seeing himself in the mirror when he was completely undressed. Tried not to see the soft white flesh of his buttocks. Tried not to notice the thick waist.

He pulled open the top drawer of the chest and surveyed the contents.

***

I have to do something about my throat. The tickle from the dryness is unbearable. Carole is stroking my thigh as I drive. I try to avoid changing gear as much as possible and keep my knees tightly clenched together. The engine screams as we hurtle on in first gear.

There is a parade of shops ahead. It looks strangely familiar as I pull into the small layby. "Throat pastilles," I croak at Carole, pointing at my neck as I fall out of the car and run across to the shop.

Inside the shop I suffer a strong sense of deja vu. I think the scent of curry may have something to do with it.

"Most inclement weather for the time of year, sir, I am thinking." The shopkeeper's voice falters as he says the words. "You!" he says.

"Bosoms," I say.

"I am not having bosoms, sir," says the man. "And neither is my wife."

"On the shelf. Bosoms. They follow you around like eyes. I was here before."

"I am calling the police again, sir, if you are not leaving at once."

For a moment I wonder if that might not be preferable. Perhaps I should just sit down on the floor and wait for the police to come.

"Please to leave my shop at once, sir. I am not wanting your custom, thankyou."

I turn to go. The shopkeeper senses an easy victory and, in a sudden show of bravura, advances from behind his counter with a broom.

"Sorry to trouble you," I mumble as I open the door to go out. "Just had a bit of a tickle that was all."

To my surprise he grabs a magazine off the top shelf and thrusts it in my hand. "Now please to go away, sir. You can look at these bosoms in the privacy of your own home, but do not come here again bothering my wife. She is not for sale."

He pushes me out the door, and I hear a bolt shoot behind me. This is bizarre. I walk across to the car and climb in. Carole takes the magazine from me as I restart the engine.

"Well, well, Tom. Things are beginning to look up."

She thumbs through the magazine as we drive. It has the benefit of occupying both her hands, but I have a bad feeling about this.

CHAPTER 24

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

I think about sex a lot. Everybody does. About sixty percent of the time. It's just that they don't admit it. Not even to themselves sometimes. Oh, I forgot. I already told you that once.

I'm thinking about sex now. Sitting in Carole's car. Driving to Carole's house. In the pouring rain. With Carole sitting beside me looking at carelessly dressed women. Women whose brassieres have mysteriously shucked their contents. Miniature knickers that have strangely managed to wrap themselves around their hosts in such a way as to perform no useful function and to conceal absolutely nothing. Women who for no apparent reason have decided to play hunt the thimble with no clothes on. At least I can think of no other reason why they would be bending over peering down the back of the sofa while a wandering photographer takes pictures of their backsides.

Carole thumbs through the magazine as I drive. I catch glimpses of pneumatic breasts and endless thighs out of the corner of my eye. She turns the magazine on it's side to examine the centre spread. Now I can see why it's called a centre spread! The rain is lashing down. Somehow I manage to keep on the correct side of the road despite the distractions.

I don't know what I'm doing here. My life seems to be totally out of control recently. I think the reason might be sex.

Listen. We will get back to the story soon. I promise you.

It's just that I'm having a bit of trouble hanging on right at this moment. I haven't forgotten about Geoffrey. He's quite happy on his own for a while. He can manage without us for now.

Look. Just skip a few pages if you like. You won't miss much.

My clothes are soaking. My white flannels have glued themselves to my legs. Water is dripping from my head and running gently down my back. Carole's dress is soaking too. It clings to her body like a second skin. The material has gone quite transparent in places. She seems not to notice.

Sex is at the root of everything. It's the only reason we're here. We only exist to pass our genes on to the next generation. After that we're just walking donuts. And nature has contrived all sorts of tricks to make sure we keep to the job in hand. We're programmed to reproduce. We can't help ourselves.

We're loaded with erogenous zones, and pheromones, and drives and juices. Nature has made sex pleasurable. Why else would anyone do it? If it was just plumbing and moisture then you might as well go and install a new kitchen sink for kicks.

"By heck. I feel randy tonight. What I couldn't do to a thermostatic shower unit."

"Look over there. There by the bar. No, not there. Behind the girl with the big knockers. Just get a look at the shine on that mixer tap."

No. Nature has made sure that you get an itch that won't go away just by scratching it. A little itch that makes certain you'll be prepared to labour for hours just to indulge in five minutes moisture and plumbing. And you think you've done it because it felt good. Or worse. You think you did it to make someone else feel good. But all the time it was just those genes fighting to pass themselves on to the next generation.

Hey! I think this is a story about sex. I thought I was trying to murder my wife and all the time I'm just writing a dirty book.

Hey! If I'm writing a dirty book, what are you reading?

I've got to get a grip on myself. I haven't felt in command recently. Things keep happening to me. It never used to be this way. I used to be happy. I think Gail was happy too, but we lost it somewhere.

And what about Carole? What is she looking for? The involuntary shiver runs down my spine at the thought. Or was it just another rain drop? She must have sensed the thought, because she reaches across and gives my leg a reassuring squeeze. Reassuring to her that is.

Listen. Did you know that human beings have forty six chromosomes? Twenty two pairs and two odd ones. The odd ones are the sex chromosomes. The chromosomes are made up of long strands of DNA. The DNA is just an enormous list of instructions that tells your body what to grow up into. So that you don't grow up into a hippo or a strawberry plant by mistake.

"Hello mum. Just ringing up to let you know that Sue had the baby this morning."

"What?... Oh, about seventy two pounds."

"Yes.... Yes.... Eyes?... Sort of brownish."

"Yes... Yes... It was a little hippo. Ugly little brute. Haven't been able to get close enough to tell whether it's a boy or a girl yet. Doctor said just to throw it some straw and wait till it goes to sleep."

"Yes...Yes... A bit. Well we were hoping for a shetland pony, but as long as he's got all his fingers and toes, or whatever hippos have. That's the main thing."

The individual instructions are called genes. There are genes for everything. A gene for blue eyes. A gene for big ears. A gene for bulbous noses. Everyone has a different mixture, that's why we all look different. When we reproduce, the baby gets a mixture of genes from it's mother and it's father. Half from each. That's why it looks a bit like both of them.

I just thought you'd like to know.

Nature invented sex just so we could mix our genes up. That's all.

I think Carole wants to mix her genes up with mine. I should be flattered, she's a very attractive lady. But she scares me.

I'm also getting a very tight feeling under my arms. Either I'm having a heart attack or this jacket is shrinking. I glance down and see that the buttons are pulled tight across my chest. It must be shrinking. And the colours seem to be running too. An orange yellow tide mark is creeping from the bottom of the jacket along my pants. I think I've just ruined my last jacket. Perhaps this is a story about a man who doesn't own a decent jacket? And now the car windows are beginning to steam up.

Some living things don't bother to mix their genes up. Amoebas and viruses and things like that. They just chop themselves in two when they want to reproduce. Where's the fun in that I'd like to know?

And some things have sex without even noticing. They just spray their genes around and leave them to find their own way. Sea urchins for example. Hard to imagine a sea urchin getting much fun from sex. A quick quiver of your spines, spray fifty billion sex cells into the sea and then get your head back down to doing whatever it is that sea urchins do when they aren't having fun.

"Have a good day today, dear?"

"Yes. I sprayed fifty billion sex cells into the sea. Quite exciting for a second or two."

"Yes. I can imagine. Then back to the continuous eating was it?"

"You got it. How about you? A good day?"

"Just the eating."

Yep. I reckon it would be really great to be a sea urchin.

I don't know why I'm telling you all this stuff. Just trying to delay getting to Carole's house I guess.

We drive on through the rain. I can see Carole studying a picture of a woman with her hands manacled above her head. She has leather, thigh length boots, no knickers, huge breasts and a peephole bra. Hey! Who'd have thought peephole bras would get another mention in this story. It could almost have been premeditated.

I think Carole is looking for ideas. She's studying the pictures in the magazine as if it were a text book. It's all nature's fault of course. Pornography I mean.

Nature has spent millions of years mixing all our genes up and bribing us all with promises of love and physical pleasure. And making sure that we all get excited by each other's wobbly bits so that we go right on doing it.

The same applies to all animals of course. But with most, they just do the plumbing and moisture bit and then get right back down to the important things like eating and farting. They don't worry about commitment, or lying, or pensions, or licorice flavoured condoms.

Only nature got it wrong with humans. It got the genes so mixed up that they started acquiring airs and graces above their station. And strange ideas about right and wrong, and clean and dirty. But they couldn't lose the fascination for the wobbly bits. And when there weren't enough wobbly bits to go round, the humans were so smart they found ways of supplementing the supply with videos and magazines.

Some mixtures of genes work better than others, of course. That's what evolution is all about. Survival of the fittest. And of course man has been smart enough to exploit this and has selectively bred other living things for desirable characteristics. That's how we've got all those different vegetable varieties and corgis; and turkeys that have such big breasts that they can no longer mate without human intervention.

I wonder if that's why we put a chipolata sausage on the plate with the turkey at xmas? A token phallus in recognition of what we've done to the turkey.

Only a human could invent the peephole bra. I mean, can you imagine a hippo in a peephole bra?

We turn into the street where Carole's house is. The rain is falling as hard as ever. She puts the magazine on the back seat, and her hand goes back on my thigh. I don't like the look she's giving me.

***

Geoffrey regarded the items lying neatly in the open drawer and stroked them gently. He removed a plastic pack and carefully tore off the seal. He tipped the contents onto the top of the chest and threw the empty packet into the corner.

With unpracticed hands he unfolded the leather pants and sat on the chair to put them on. They seemed so tight he was afraid they would be too small. But little by little he managed to pull them on.

***

We pull up outside Carole's house. For a brief moment I wonder if I could just drive away as she gets out. But my legs refuse to work for me, and I find myself following her up the path. She has my umbrella, but makes no attempt to share it.

"You'd better put it in the sink to drain," she says, handing me back the brolly once we are inside. My jacket has shrunk so much now that my shoulders are being pulled right back. The only way I can walk is to thrust my pelvis forward and swivel my hips. I take the umbrella and place it beside the other in the sink. I look around me. The house is immaculate. I thought we came back to tidy up.

Carole is waiting for me in the hall as I come mincing back. She is stepping out of her dress!

"My, we are feeling eager," she says as I parade myself past her. She is wearing only a pair of tiny silk pants and a soft cream coloured brassiere that leaves little to the imagination. Even these are wet and moulding themselves to her skin. I don't know which way to look. My jaw sags and I close my eyes.

This is a tactical error. No sooner have I dropped my eyelids than I feel Carole's hands trying to drop my trousers. She has the zip undone in a fraction of a second, while her other hand fumbles with the fastening at my waist.

"Let's get you out of those horrid wet clothes," she says. Her hands are everywhere.

"Not that wet actually," I say, trying to heave the zip up again. Surely the trousers can't be shrinking too? But the zip won't budge. "Just a bit damp," I add. "Nothing to worry about. Soon dry off. Often wear clothes much wetter than this. Yes, sometimes take them straight out of the washing machine and let them dry on the drive to work. Gosh, is that the time? We ought to start clearing up. The client will be here soon. Where do you keep the vacuum cleaner?"

All the while I am talking she is managing to undo buttons, laces and fastenings. I keep grabbing at parts of my clothing, but she seems to have more hands than I do, and I find shoes slipping off, arms sliding from shirt and jacket and a sort of crumpling sensation as gravity wins the fight over my trousers and they slide gracelessly down around my ankles. I think she must be descended from Houdini. I wonder if there is a gene for undressing?

It takes about thirty seconds before I am reduced to a pair of socks, my red and white striped boxer shorts and my vest. Carole looks triumphant.

"Under the stairs, would it be?" I ask.

She throws her arms around my neck and presses her body against mine.

"The cleaner," I add. "Under the stairs is it?"

She is grinding her hips into mine and chewing my ear. I think she might be hungry. "I need a man," she growls.

I am trying to back away, but she sticks to me like glue. When I reach the wall and feel it cold against my back I give an involuntary start. "That's better," she says. "Now you're entering into the mood."

She unwraps herself from me and takes my hand. I find myself being led across the hall towards the stairs. I manage to grab my trousers as I pass and clutch them protectively in front of me.

"You won't need them, Tom," she smiles. But she makes no attempt to stop me.

Listen. Perhaps you think I'm not resisting this very hard, but this has never happened to me before. I don't have the 'think of a cunning plan' gene.

We pass a tall vase on the landing. For a fleeting moment I consider breaking it across her skull, but I'm not sure Mr Hudson would understand.

She leads me into her bedroom. I've been here before. She still has my photo tucked into the frame of the mirror at the foot of the bed. And there is the drawer where all the flimsy underwear is kept. I wish Julie was here. She'd know what to do.

Carole pushes me gently down onto the bed and starts to remove my socks.

"Why, Tom. What an exciting man you are. Full of surprises. I should have known you'd do something unconventional like wearing odd socks."

She stands up and pulls my head forward, burying it between her breasts.

I can't help it. I was born with a gene that makes women want to mother me.

CHAPTER 25

Geoffrey is in a private heaven. He fumbles with the unfamiliar fastenings of a spiked dog collar and studded wrist bands while putting them on. He has trouble lacing the leather vest, but the unfamiliarity and slight difficulty adds to the sense of excitement he feels.

Arrayed about him are whips and chains and a shiny brand new pair of handcuffs.

He admires his reflection in the mirror. Bliss.

***

The bed is going up and down. I can't stop it. It feels as though I am in a boat.

"The bed," I say.

"Don't talk," says Carole. She is still wearing her damp underclothes, but is searching through her drawer for replacements. She is steaming gently. I still have my trousers clutched to me. I wonder if I can get them back on without her seeing, but she is watching me all the while in the wall mirror.

"It's going up and down," I say.

"It's supposed to, Tom," she says. She holds up a miniscule G string for me to inspect. It's about the size of a postage stamp. "What do you think?" she asks.

"It's not going to keep you very warm," I reply. I'm starting to feel seasick. She has a transparent wisp of nothing in her other hand. I think it might have been intended as a bra. I try not to look as she exchanges the items in her hand for the wet ones she is wearing. How will I explain this to Mr Hudson? Or Julie? Or Gail? I feel miserable. This ought to be exciting, but I can't cope with it. And I do feel sick!

There is a huge wallow on the bed as Carole throws herself on beside me. Why does it do that? We surge up and down in the aftershocks.

"I need a man, Tom," she breathes in my ear.

"The bed," I say again.

"Full wave, undamped," she says. "It's the most sensual."

We rise and fall like leaves in a storm drain. I'm going to be sick soon. I know I am. I pull my bundled trousers up under my chin in a protective gesture.

"Why is it going up and down?" I ask.

"Tom. Tom." she coos into my ear. "Don't you find me attractive?"

I have a feeling this might be a catch question, and consider carefully before replying. Mr Hudson says always treat the customer as though he's right even when he's wrong. But she isn't wrong. She's a very beautiful woman. I don't know why she's doing this. Beautiful women don't throw themselves at me. I don't have the 'throw yourself at me' gene. I don't know how Bond copes with this.

"Why me?" I ask feebly. I have my damp trousers wrapped around my hand. I start to suck my thumb. Maybe I don't want to be smooth after all. "What about Mr Carole?" I ask after a pause. "What would he think about this?"

"Him!" she snorts. "He's not a man. I want a real man. I want sex, Tom. I want excitement. I knew you were exciting the moment I saw you. I saw the animal lust in your eyes."

She is rubbing her body against mine as she speaks. Little goose bumps pop out all along my arms. "I'm not a real man," I say, sucking hard at the thumb. "This sort of thing doesn't happen to me."

"Tom. Who else would have the savoir-faire to defy every convention and wear a sixties striped blazer and odd socks? Who else would spray his jacket with lemon scented starch just to make a fashion statement? It takes a special kind of man to have the balls to defy convention like that. You do have balls, don't you Tom?"

I'm not sure if this is a rhetorical question. My free hand strays down between my legs to provide a measure of reassurance. This merely seems to encourage her, and she resumes her chewing of my ear.

"I think you might have made a mistake," I say. "The thing is the zoo."

"What zoo, Tom?"

"Frogs," I add in explanation. Her tongue is probing deep into my ear. I think she might be trying to lick my brain.

"Stop talking, Tom," she says.

"But you don't understand," I say. "About the jacket. I was trying to get a frog, for the blowpipe. No, I don't mean the blowpipe. That was the euphorbia, only it got knocked off the desk, and then the police got involved. It was Frank that told me about the frogs when we were in the cells. He delivers pizzas, you know." My speech is choked off by Carole climbing on top of me and trying to force her tongue into my mouth. I manage to twist free.

"Mr Carole," I splutter. "What if Mr Carole...?"

"I want a real man, Tom. I want excitement. He's not a man. He wouldn't even know how to spell excitement."

"I'm not exciting," I mumble around my thumb.

She pulls my hand away from my mouth and unravels the trousers from my fist. "Yes you are, Tom," she says. "I knew it the moment I saw you. I saw the way you looked at me the first time you were here. I saw your perfect little bum when you measured up the house."

Her left leg is thrown over mine, and she is still pressing herself against me. I'm beginning to feel quite hot, despite the lack of clothes. The bed is subsiding a little, thank goodness. But every time one of us makes a move the oscillations start up again.

She is straightening out my crumpled trousers. "Whatever is this?" she asks fishing in the pockets. She has found Sandra's tassels. I had forgotten they were there.

"Those?" I say. But I am lost for an explanation.

"Tom," she says. "You tease. There you are trying to tell me you are not a real man, never done this before, and all the time you are hiding these in your pants. No wonder you wouldn't let go of them. Would you like me to put them on for you? Is that it?"

Even as she speaks she has her bra undone and off. Her breasts are magnificent. She cups the tassels over her nipples, but they fall right off. "How do they stay on?" she asks.

"I was wondering that," I say. "I thought you might know."

"Spirit gum, I expect," she says thoughtfully. "I don't have any. Wait there," she says slipping suddenly off the bed. The resultant wave is of tsunami like proportions and I am swept helplessly from one end of the bed to the other. I try to lie very still and let the turmoil die down.

I can hear Carole downstairs. It sounds as though she is going through drawers in the kitchen. I can hear something else too. A sort of creaking. It seems to be coming from the ceiling.

I listen carefully. The noise is definitely coming from the ceiling. It sounds as though something is moving about in the roof. Something big.

Carole reappears clutching two silver tassels to her bosom. "Rubber cement," she says. "From the cycle repair kit. I reckon that will do it. It'll take a few minutes to dry."

"Mice," I say.

"Mice?" she repeats. Why do people do that? Repeat what I say all the time.

"Mice," I confirm. "In the roof. Big ones."

"Nonsense," she says. "There's no mice in this house."

"I heard them," I say. "In the roof. Listen."

We sit on the bed straining to hear the sounds. Carole is still holding the two silver tassels to her chest. It seems to have gone quiet for a moment, but then unmistakably there is a loud creak from the roof.

"That's not mice, Tom," she says. "It's too big. I think we've got a burglar."

"Probably nothing," I say hopefully, but the creaking continues. I try to whistle but nothing comes out.

"Do something, Tom," she says.

I wonder if there is time to ring the office. Julie would know what to do. But I know this is a forlorn hope.

"There's a ladder," says Carole. "You have to push up the trapdoor with a stick."

Listen. I know I wanted to be like Bond, but this isn't what I had in mind. I'm not so sure I want it now. It's alright, God. You can take it back. Thankyou anyway. Sorry to have troubled you.

Carole is out of the bed and onto the landing. She has a hand cupped over each bosom holding the silver tassels in place. The mattress slops from end to end with the force of her departure. I bob up and down like a cork in a bowl. Either I have to follow her. Or be sick!

"In there," she says pointing with her toes at the airing cupboard door. "Get the stick." From the rear her G string has all but disappeared.

"I'll phone," I say.

"Get the stick," she repeats.

"Julie will know what to do," I continue.

She yanks open the cupboard door and grabs a small pole. "Here," she says. "Use this."

"What will you use?" I ask. The stick looks hardly big enough to offer much protection. I eye the vase on the landing. That looks rather more substantial to me. Surely Mr Hudson would understand if it were used in self defense.

She grabs the pole and jabs at the ceiling. A trap door drops down. "Get the ladder," she orders.

"I don't think you should go up there," I say. "It might not be safe. Why don't you let me phone Julie?"

While I am talking she has the ladder down from the hatch and somehow I find myself standing on the bottom rung. I've just realised. I think she's expecting me to go up.

"I don't have it," I say.

"Have what?"

"I haven't got the right one. It didn't come in my set."

"What set?"

"Genes. I didn't get the one for going up ladders into dark places."

There is a muffled thump from the attic. As though someone might have bumped into a chair.

"Sparrows," I say hopefully. But even I am not convinced.

I progress up the ladder one slow step at a time. Carole is coming up behind me. She is so close I can feel her hot breath on my backside even through the boxer shorts. When my head is level with the trap door I peer cautiously over the rim. It's dark.

"Nothing," I say. "Nothing at all. Whatever it was must have heard us coming and gone. Might as well shut it all back up again."

I am about to descend when there is another muffled noise from deep within the roof. As I peer through the gloom I can see a line of light. Very narrow and very faint. It looks like a doorway.

"There's a door," I whisper.

Carole is continuing to come up the ladder. It sags alarmingly under our combined weight. If I don't move she'll have us both off. She scrambles up beside me and we crouch on the joist staring at the light.

"Where does it go?" I ask.

"I've no idea," she says. "I've never been up here before."

"Stowaways," I suggest. "Perhaps you've got stowaways."

"Don't talk rubbish, Tom. You don't get stowaways in houses."

I have the feeling she's beginning to have second thoughts about me. Perhaps this would be a good time to slip away. But even as I have the thought there is a sharp jab in my side from her elbow. "Do something," she hisses.

I'm not quite sure what she has in mind, but at a rough guess it involves me crossing the attic and confronting whatever is behind the door. I survey the intervening space. There isn't even a floor. It isn't far, only about ten feet, but it involves stepping from joist to joist. I don't even have any shoes on. Come to that I don't have much of anything on. I wish I'd hung on to those trousers.

Listen. Have you ever read any of those horror stories where a ravening beast with three eyes and six arms lurks behind every door and eats anyone foolish enough to walk past? So have I! Rubbish aren't they?

I step gingerly between the joists. What am I going to do when I get there? I think I might turn back. But when I look behind me I can see Carole crouched in the trapdoor opening. She is illuminated by the light from below. I can just make out a silver gleam from the tassels on her chest. I guess the rubber solution must have worked. She looks like an amazon huntress poised for the kill. I think I'm more scared of her than the beast. There is a small noise from the other side of the door. It sounds like somebody moving around.

I stand helplessly by the door. Now what do I do?

CHAPTER 26

Listen. Do you remember that I told you a pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter? Way back. Sometime around chapter fourteen.

Look. If you aren't going to remember these things I shall stop telling you. It might be important one day. Might save your life.

Well, did you know that more than three quarters of you is made of water? The rest is made up of coal, and phosphorus and calcium, plus a few other bits of this and that. Oh, and about enough iron to make three nails. I suppose something has to hold you together.

That's all you are. A bag of water with a few pounds of cheap chemicals thrown in. A leaky bag at that. Perforated with millions of little holes that let your insides leak out. All the while you are trying to look suave and sophisticated you are slowly leaking out through your skin.

More than a third of what you eat or drink is either breathed out or leaks out through your skin. Not a lot of people know that.

Topologically you are a walking donut.

Biologically, a fruit salad of genes. Chemically, just a leaking bag of water.

Sometimes it feels really good to be me. I feel like a bag of water right now. I think I feel a leak coming on, too.

Little sounds continue to percolate through the closed door. Whatever it is behind it, it sounds big. I wonder if I should knock?

"Excuse me. Sorry to trouble you. You don't know me, but....."

Maybe if I wait long enough it will go to sleep. Or perhaps I could nail the door shut?

I raise my arm to knock, but the muscles seem remarkably reluctant to respond. Perhaps it would be better to charge the door with my shoulder. Burst in, hit the floor and keep rolling. I've seen it done in the films. It doesn't look hard. Creates an element of surprise. Bruce Willis does it all the time. "What's happening?" whispers Carole. She sounds impatient.

"Timing," I whisper back.

"What timing?"

"Element of surprise," I say. "All depends on perfect timing. A fraction of a second either way and it's a bullet in the lung."

Charlie Chaplin was a master of timing.

I make a couple of imaginary chops in the air with the side of my right hand. I'm not sure what it's supposed to do, but I've seen that in films, too. I almost lose my balance in the process. It's not easy standing on a joist with no shoes on.

My eyes are beginning to adjust to the light. I can see that someone has built a partition across the loft. It looks fairly new.

"Squatters," I whisper back to Carole.

"Squatters?" she says.

"Squatters," I repeat. "Probably dozens of them in there. I think we'd better call the police."

"Nonsense," she says. She sounds closer than she was. When I turn round I can see that she is no longer crouching in the trapdoor, but is stepping across the joists to join me. There is a glint from the tassels on her chest, otherwise she is just a black shape in the gloom. She reminds me of cat woman.

"You need a good six inches," I tell her when she gets up close.

"You should have thought about that before," she says.

"I did. It's in my report."

"What report?"

"The one I did for Mr Hudson. 'Nice bum Tom'. Don't you remember?"

"What are you talking about, Tom?"

"When I came here, before. You said 'you've got a nice bum Tom'. When I was measuring. I knew you should have six inches then, so I put it in the notes."

"Huh! I knew you were interested. So why so coy today?"

"Not coy. Just forgot."

"Forgot? How can you forget something like that?"

"I just did. Until we came up here. To tell you the truth, I was a bit out of my depth down there, but when we came up here I could see straight away. You haven't got enough on."

"I thought you'd like it like this."

"Oh, no. Waste of money, you see."

"I wasn't going to charge you,Tom. It was free."

"No such thing as a free lunch. That's what Mr Hudson always says. You always have to pay for it somewhere. Look at the small print, Tom. That's what he says. Well, actually he says, look at the small print, Fletcher. That's what he calls me. Julie calls me Mr F. I don't know why. Can you think why?"

"Shut up, Tom. You're talking about insulation aren't you?"

"Yes. Pays for itself inside two years you know. Everyone should have six inches in their roof."

The two of us are perched on the same joist outside the secret door. Carole is hanging on to my arm for support. I can hardly maintain my own balance, let alone support her.

"Do something," she hisses. She pushes me towards the door and I sway wildly, grabbing at a rafter to steady myself. Suddenly the door opens and floods us with light. A figure is silhouetted against the opening. I step back in surprise.

My foot hits the floor midway between the two joists and keeps right on going. I feel my left leg disappear through a hole into a large void beneath. My arms flail wildly for a hold. Carole sidesteps neatly as my right hand makes brushing contact with her arm. My right foot follows the left one through the growing hole. I am aware of two silver tassels passing briefly before my eyes, followed a fraction of a second later by a small lace triangle. I manage to grab the neighbouring joists, and come to rest with my head level with Carole's feet. The bulk of my torso is dangling through the ceiling into the room below.

"What the ....," says the silhouetted figure.

"Geoffrey!" says Carole.

"Help," I say quietly.

"Geoffrey?" asks Carole. "It is you isn't it?"

There is no immediate reply.

"Help," I repeat. Neither person appears to hear me. Carole is gazing in disbelief at the figure in the doorway. She is standing in a slight crouch with one hand on a rafter for stability. The silver tassels are swinging gently in time with her breathing. The other figure, Geoffrey (?), is standing somewhat sheepishly in the doorway. He appears to be wearing bondage clothes and holding a whip. The two of them stand for a moment eyeing each other suspiciously. I get the feeling they have met before.

"I thought you were at work," he says eventually. He looks somewhat dejected.

"Uh, I took the day off," she says.

"I say," I try, but noone notices.

There is a pause as the two of them continue to study one another. There is a ringing somewhere in the distance. I think it might be the telephone.

"I think the phone is ringing," I say, but to no avail.

"I haven't seen you dressed like that before," says Geoffrey suddenly.

"I was just thinking the same," she replies.

"It's quite amusing really," I say. "Quite funny. Noone would ever believe this. Funny how a series of quite ordinary events, quite innocent little things, can build up into an improbable situation like this. You see there's probably quite a boring explanation for all of this. For example, I find that things have been happening to me a lot recently. All sorts of unusual little things. I keep losing jackets you know."

"Shut up, Tom," says Carole. Geoffrey holds out an arm to her, which she takes as she steps across to join him in the doorway to his secret den. I hear the ringing again from downstairs. It isn't the phone. I think it must be the doorbell.

"Excuse me," I say. "The doorbell."

"Who's he?" asks Geoffrey as he helps Carole through the door.

"Him?" she replies. "Oh, he's just an estate agent."

"Estate agent? I didn't know we were selling the house."

"Selling? Oh, we're not. He was just cold calling. Like double glazing, you know. They're all at it now."

"Oh," says Geoffrey as they disappear from sight. A moment later Carole's head pops back round the door jamb.

"Not today, thankyou," she says. "You can let yourself out. Drop the latch behind you, please, when you go." It goes suddenly dark as she pulls the door shut behind her.

"Help," I cry softly to noone in particular.

It's not uncomfortable here, surprisingly. I'm quite a snug fit in the hole, and my arms and shoulders are preventing me from falling right through. I expect they'll get me out soon. I think they have some talking to do. They probably need some time together.

The ringing seems to have stopped.

I wonder how I shall explain this to Mr Hudson. I suppose he'll sack me now. He did say that I had to sell this house if I wanted to keep my job. I think Carole has decided not to sell now. I suppose I'll need to find another job. I wouldn't mind being a zookeeper actually.

Carole and Geoffrey are talking. I can hear them through the partition. It's a bit muffled, but they are talking quite loudly. I can hear another voice, too. It's muffled as well, but I'm sure it's someone I know.

A head pops up through the trapdoor. "Hello Mr F," it says. "I thought it would be you. The door was on the latch so I let myself in."

Julie. My heart begins to thump. Why am I always doing something naff when she's around?

"Hello," I say lamely. "Is it still raining?"

"More or less stopped," she says.

"I got soaked," I say. "Had to take off my clothes."

"I saw," she replies.

"Where?" I ask in surprise.

"Downstairs. I could see your legs with no trousers."

"Oh," I say. "Where am I exactly?"

"Most of you is in the main bedroom. You've made a bit of a mess, you know."

"Oh... You were right by the way."

"What about Mr F?"

"Woodworm. These joists are riddled with it."

"Oh... Mr F."

"Yes."

"I'd better clear up the mess. The client will be here soon."

Her head disappears back down through the trap.

"Julie," I cry, but she appears not to hear.

Carole and Geoffrey are still talking. They sound as though they are getting on quite well together. I get the impression they haven't talked to each other for some time. I think Geoffrey must be Mr Carole. It happens quite often you know. Not the dressing up, I mean. Well, not as far as I know. No, I mean the not talking. People take each other for granted so much they forget to communicate.

Listen. Did you know that the average number of words passing between a man and wife in the morning before they part for the day is less than twenty? I read it in a book. I remember it because the book was written by a man with the same name as me. I think I'd like to write a book one day, but I wouldn't know where to start. Nothing interesting ever seems to happen to me.

"I thought you weren't interested," Carole's voice says through the wall.

"I thought it was you that wasn't interested," Geoffrey's voice replies.

I'm beginning to get a bit uncomfortable. I have the feeling that everyone has forgotten me. Perhaps I'll starve to death. I wonder if I can get out of here on my own? A few struggles convince me that I can't get back up. Perhaps if I put my hands up above my head I could slip down through the hole. I put both arms up in the air and I do move an inch or two, but then I stick again. Now my arms are wedged, I can't move at all. I try swinging my body. Very little happens at first, but as I build up momentum I feel myself slip another couple of inches.

Julie's head reappears. "I think you ought to come down now Mr F," she says. "The client will be here in a few minutes."

"OK," I say. I am about to ask her for help, but she disappears again as quickly as she came. This is silly. I resume the swinging.

Swing. Move. Swing. Move. It is working. With each swing I slip another fraction of an inch. Swing. Move. Swing....

Suddenly I'm through. I plunge feet first into the centre of the water bed.

Hey! I've just thought. The mattress on the water bed is a bag of water just like me. We could be brothers!

I lurch about on the mattress trying to gain my balance. At each step my foot sinks in up to the ankle. No matter how I try I can't seem to stop. I stagger about like a drunk.

"Stop playing about, Mr F," says Julie from behind me. The client will be here any moment. Finally I work out how to stop by sinking to my knees.

Julie bustles about while I regain my breath. She removes the bedcover, which has caught most of the debris from the ceiling. I watch her in the mirror. She is beautiful. Suddenly I realise what an opportunity this is. The two of us alone, in the bedroom. Me already undressed.

What would Bond do?

Why do I always ask that? Bond wouldn't ever find himself in this position. He wouldn't be sitting on a bed in his boxer shorts while the woman he craves does the dusting. No, he would sink onto the bed, and she would emerge from the shower in one of his shirts.

"Hot shower?" I say out loud.

"Gesundheit," she says, without looking up.

"Pardon?" I say.

"Gesundheit, Mr F."

Why is she talking about my height? I know I'm not a tall man but I didn't know it bothered her. She's never mentioned it before. I sag back into the bed. This is a new development.

"Does my height bother you?" I ask.

"Sorry Mr F?"

"Am I tall enough for you?" I ask.

"Tall enough? I've never thought about it Mr F. Why do you ask?"

"I just wondered if you thought I was too short?"

"What ever made you think of that, Mr F? I think you are just right. Why, if you were any taller you'd have to walk with your knees bent, and if you were any shorter then your legs wouldn't reach the floor would they?"

I wonder about this for a moment. I think she may be making fun of me. This isn't going to plan at all.

"I wondered if you wanted to wear my shirt?" I suggest.

"Why ever would I want to do that, Mr F?"

"Just something I saw on a film," I say.

There is the sound of a car pulling up outside. "Mr F. Come and look. I think the client is here."

I walk over to the window and peer out to the road. A white Ford Escort has pulled up behind Carole's car. The figure getting out looks familiar. I've seen him before, very recently. As he starts to walk up the path to the house I suddenly realise who it is.

"Bob Downe!" I exclaim.

Listen. I know I said there would be only one coincidence in this story, but you didn't really expect me to pass up the opportunity to use that name again did you?

Look. It's one of the best jokes in the whole story, and what possible harm can it do?

Look. If I can't get Julie in bed with me, surely you'll allow me one small joke?

Thanks.

Julie drops down to the level of the window sill. "What is it, Mr F?" she asks.

"Nothing," I say. "Nothing important. Just a jacket I used to know. That's all."

CHAPTER 27

"Of course it isn't a worm at all you know."

"What isn't, Mr F?"

"Woodworm. It isn't a worm. It's the larva of the furniture beetle, anobium."

"Oh," says Julie. "That's interesting."

"Yes," I continue. "It's a member of the anobiidae family of beetles. Closely related to the deathwatch beetle you know."

"Really? You do know some funny things Mr F."

"There's about eleven hundred altogether. Not woodworms of course. There must be millions of them. Eleven hundred types I mean. Of beetle that is. In the anobiidae family."

I don't know why I'm doing this. Why am I talking about the classification of beetles? She doesn't want to know this. I always do it. Why am I such a boring person? Is that why Gail lost interest? Bond wouldn't do this. I must change the subject, talk about something else.

My mind is a complete blank. Think man think. Say something.

"My aunt had woodworm once," I say. I can't believe I said that. I was trying to change the subject. God, she must think I'm a pratt.

Julie suddenly giggles beside me.

"What's funny?" I ask.

"What you said, Mr F. You said your Aunt had woodworm."

"She did, quite badly," I explain.

Julie is still giggling to herself. "It sounded as though it was your Aunt that had woodworm," she says. "Don't you see?"

"Of course I see," I say. "But it wasn't funny. Not to her anyway."

"But people don't get woodworm Mr F. It just sounded funny."

"But she did, in her leg. She used to leave little piles of sawdust everywhere she walked. My Uncle would have to run along behind her with a dustpan and brush sweeping it up."

Julie hoots with laughter at this. "You're teasing me Mr F. I know you are."

"No I'm not," I say. "We had to get her treated."

There are tears welling up in Julie's eyes from her laughing.

"It was a shark that did it," I continue. "When she was mackerel fishing. It was at Newquay. We stayed on a caravan site."

Julie is holding her side as she rolls in her seat with laughter.

"Bit her leg off when she dangled it over the side of the boat," I say. But I don't think Julie hears. "She had a wooden leg from that day on."

The tears are streaming down her face from the laughing. "What happened to her Mr F?" she asks.

"She fell over and died," I say. "Her leg just crumbled to dust one day. Over she went and hit her head on the wall. We left it too late you see."

"What, Mr F? What did you leave too late?"

"The treatment," I reply lamely.

Julie's mirth dies down gradually, but every so often a little giggle escapes. She still isn't sure whether I'm teasing her or not.

We sit in silence for a while. I keep thinking that I'm going to have to face Mr Hudson soon and explain about the house. I don't think he'll be amused. I think I won't be working there after today. This could be the last time I'll ever see Julie too. I try to think of something to say to her, but my mind is empty.

We left Carole and Geoffrey up in the loft. I did call goodbye, but there was no answer. Julie sorted out Bob Downe. Explained everything. He said he quite understood. I kept out of the way. I thought it would be best.

I asked Julie if we could stop for a while on the way back to the office. Couldn't face Mr Hudson just yet. And now I can't think of anything to say to her. She appears to be in no hurry, though. She seems content just to sit here for the moment. At least the rain has stopped.

"Umbrella!" I exclaim, suddenly.

"Umbrella, Mr F?" asks Julie.

"Fifth one this year," I add glumly.

"Oh," she says.

"Jackets and umbrellas," I say. "Costing me a fortune."

We continue gazing across the valley from the car. We're parked in a layby, more of a small carpark really, at the edge of the park. The sky is almost clear now, and the pavements are steaming gently. There is a lushness about the green grass and trees that would have been hard to imagine just a couple of hours ago. My striped blazer is a damp shrivelled thing lurking on the back seat.

"Forgot it again," I continue.

"It's stopped raining now Mr F. You won't need it. It's lovely though isn't it, so bright and fresh."

"I thought it was fairly ordinary," I reply. "Sort of blue and red. It's my golf one. I left it in the sink you know."

She leans across and kisses me on the cheek. "You are a silly, Mr F. I was talking about the view."

I touch my cheek with the fingers of my left hand. I can already feel the roughness of today's stubble growing through my skin. I search for the trace of moisture that her lips must have left on my face, but my fingers cannot detect it. She puts her hand on mine and squeezes it gently.

"Julie," I say. But the words dry up in my throat. I watch her in the mirror. She's young, beautiful and fresh as the grass outside. I look at my reflection beside her. Greying temples. Lined face. Receding hair.

"Mr F?" she prompts.

"I.. I.......," I try. But no words come out. "I...I......," I try again. Why can't I say it? I said it to her before. The words came out before. When we were in the office. But she didn't believe me then. She thought I was just teasing her.

I know this is my last chance. My brain wants to tell her I love her, but my mouth won't obey. It does that sometimes. Usually it says things that I didn't intend. This time it's just stopped working.

"I... l....."

Julie squeezes my hand again and smiles encouragingly at me.

"I... l....."

"Come on Mr F. Spit it out," she laughs.

"My mouth," I say. "It's stopped working."

"No it hasn't Mr F. It's working now, see?"

So it is. I try again. "I... l..... I... l...... You see," I say. "It doesn't work." I think I must be having a stroke or something. "Have I gone blue?" I ask.

"No, Mr F. You're a perfectly normal colour. A sort of sallow yellow." She giggles as she says it. "I'm just teasing Mr F. You're lovely and pink. Just like a baby."

"I... l....." I strain to get the words out, but they won't come.

"Is it a game, Mr F?" she asks. "I do like games. Is it like I Spy? Do I have to guess? A word beginning with 'l' is that it?"

"I... l...l..." My tongue welds itself to my upper palate every time I try to say I love you. It sets solid. A useless lump of meat just sitting there like a pit prop. And then, when I give up, it frees itself and laughs at me.

"Something beginning with 'l'," repeats Julie, looking around and about her. "Leaf?" she says.

"No," I reply shaking my head in frustration. "Not leaf."

"Lamp post," she tries.

"Where?" I ask.

"Over there," she says pointing.

"No. Not lamp post."

"Larch?" she says nodding her head towards a tree in the distance.

"No," I say. "Anyway it's a spruce."

I can't believe this. This is probably my last chance. I'm sure Mr Hudson will fire me when we get back. I may not see her again ever after today. I have to tell her how I feel. I have to ask her if she'll wait for me, while I sort out Gail. And here we are playing I Spy. She is getting right into the spirit of it too. Peering around inside and outside the car for inspiration. I try again. "Julie," I say. "I'm trying to tell you something."

"No clues. No clues. Don't tell me Mr F. I want to guess."

"I... l...... I... l......."

"l...l....l....l," she trills. "Lawnmower?"

"No."

"Landrover?"

"No."

"Licence?"

"Licence? Where? I can't see a licence."

"Here, Mr F," she says, pointing to the tax disc. "It's a Road Fund Licence. That's it's proper name."

"No," I say. "It's not licence. Julie, I... l....."

"Is it two words, Mr F? Is it 'I' something 'l'?"

"Three words," I say. "I... l...... I... l......"

"You're cheating Mr F. You're saying it's three words, but you're only giving me two letters. How can I guess that?"

"I... l.... you," I splutter.

"That's better," she says. "'I', 'l', 'u'. 'I', 'l', 'u'."

Somehow I have to sort out the Gail problem. I think that's the trouble. I think I'm feeling inhibited by the knowledge that Gail is still out there. I still feel loyal to her despite what she has done to me.

Listen. I do still love her, you realise. Gail, I mean. Not Julie. Well, yes. Julie too. But that came later.

Look. I know this is difficult for you to understand. I never stopped loving Gail. She stopped loving me, that's all.

Look. I think if I could just solve the Gail issue, I'd be alright. Do you think Julie would wait for me? I mean if I got sent down?

"You've got a visitor, Fletcher. Better tidy yourself up, and be quick about it."

"Visitor? I haven't had a visitor for months. Who is it?"

"Young woman, Fletcher. Very personable young woman. Didn't catch the name. Your daughter is it?"

"Daughter? I don't have a daughter."

I follow the screw up the long corridor to the visitor's room. We have to call them screws. I'm not sure why. They seem quite nice people some of them, but the other guests say I should hate them. Oh, we're called guests by the way. As we pass the other cells some of the men blow kisses at me and whistle. I try to ignore them. They don't seem to like me. I don't know why.

The door of the visitor's room is closed, and the screw has to bang on it for it to be opened. There are tables inside with one chair each side. Some of the tables are occupied. On one side there is a man, each identically dressed in prison clothes. The seats opposite them are filled with a motley collection of people. Most of them women. Wives, mothers, daughters, girlfriends.

I am led to a table on the far side of the room. There is a young woman sat on one side. "Julie!" I say in disbelief.

"Hello, Mr F," she says. She gives me a thin smile across the table and I reach out to touch her.

"Hands off the table," bellows one of the guards.

"Sorry," I say, and drop my hands back in my lap.

"How are you Mr F?" she asks.

"Fine," I say. "Fine. How are you?"

"Fine," she replies.

I study her closely. She is still as beautiful as I remember. I notice she has put on a little weight.

"I thought you'd come sooner," I say. "It's been over a year." I didn't mean it to sound critical.

"I......" the words die on her lips. That sort of thing used to happen to me, too. I smile encouragingly at her.

"It's lovely to see you," I say. "I knew you'd wait for me."

She gets up suddenly, knocking the chair over as she does. The guard starts to move in her direction.

"I shouldn't have come," she says. I notice she's wearing a ring. "I'm sorry Mr F," she says, and I see that tears have begun to form in her eyes. She turns and walks quickly over to the door. Her gait rolls slightly as she walks. I would guess from the bulge under her coat she only has a couple of weeks to go.

"Pregnant," I whisper quietly to myself.

Julie starts at the sound of my voice. We are still in the layby overlooking the park.

"How did you know?" she asks. The game is forgotten for the moment.

"I....just noticed, that's all," I say. "When you ran out. And the ring."

She puts her hand protectively on her stomach. An instinctive reaction. "I didn't think it would show for weeks yet," she says.

She fishes in her bag and produces a small black box. It is passed to me for inspection. Inside there is a small diamond solitaire ring.

"It's lovely," I say. "He's a lucky man."

"I was going to keep it a secret for another week or two, Mr F. I suppose I'll have to tell everyone now."

I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. It seems an appropriate thing to do. "I hope you'll be very happy," I say.

"Thankyou Mr F," she says. "You are a nice man. Your wife is a lucky person, too." She restarts the engine and we head back towards the office.

"Umbrella," she says suddenly. "The 'u' stands for umbrella doesn't it Mr F?"

"Pardon?" I reply.

"The game," she says. "'i', 'l', 'u'. It's something, something umbrella isn't it? It must be something ladies umbrella, or something lost umbrella. Am I warm Mr F?"

"Yes," I say. "Something, something, umbrella. That's what I was trying to say. Something, something, umbrella."

"I wonder what the 'i' stands for?" she says. "Don't tell me. Don't tell me. I want to guess."

CHAPTER 28

When I get home, Gail is in the kitchen. I have a shoe box under one arm, and some flowers for Gail. Julie found me the shoebox to put my odds and ends in. There weren't many. Just the plastic name plate from my desk and a couple of postcards and a stone I'd picked up from somewhere. Why does everyone always have a stone or a pebble in their desk? Oh, and my poinsettia of course. Well it isn't much of a poinsettia at the moment after being knocked off the desk. Just a stump really, but Julie said to take it. She got it back out of the dustbin for me. She said it might resprout.

Mr Hudson was very good really. Didn't shout or anything. I tried to explain, but it only seemed to make things worse. He said it would be better for both of us and a few things like that. Even told me I could have the rest of the week off as holiday. He can be surprisingly generous sometimes.

I take the flowers through to Gail.

"You're early," she says. "Are those for me? Put them on the side will you, I'll do them in a minute."

I'm wondering how to tell her about the job. Perhaps there is some way I can make it sound positive. A career move, maybe. I hover in the doorway trying to think of the right words.

"There's a package for you in the front room," she says suddenly. "A man dropped it in earlier. Said he was in the area looking at houses."

I go through to the lounge and find a parcel on the coffee table. It's wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. My name is on the outside. My jacket is on the inside. The one I lost at the zoo. There is a note attached. It says 'found in the amphibious room'. There is also a copy of the zoo magazine with 'complimentary copy' stamped on the cover.

I settle back to read it. There is a fascinating article about hippos, and a picture of two hippos wallowing in the mud with just their heads showing above the surface. "I keep thinking it's Tuesday," I mutter to myself as I look at the picture.

"Pardon?" says Gail. She has walked into the room while I am reading. She's carrying a vase of flowers. My flowers. The one's I gave her a few minutes ago. She bends down and gives me a kiss on the end of my nose. "Thankyou for the flowers, Tom," she says.

I'm mildly stunned. "What did you say?" I ask.

"I said 'thankyou for the flowers'," she replies.

"No. Before that."

"Nothing, I think. Oh, I asked you what you said when I walked in. I didn't catch it. You were looking at your magazine."

I look back at the photo of the hippos. "Oh, nothing," I say. "I was just muttering to myself."

Listen. Perhaps you think this is all a bit banal. Perhaps you were expecting me to go home and run amok with a machine gun, or a machete. Perhaps you think this is a murder story. Perhaps you're reading the wrong book.

Listen. Nobody gets murdered in this story. I just die a little that's all.

Listen. Life can't always be exciting. Sometimes it is banal.

"Bob Downe," I say to Gail.

"Why?" she asks.

"That's his name," I continue. "The man who brought my jacket back."

"Oh," she says. "I thought...."

"Everyone does," I interrupt.

"Julie's pregnant," I say. "Julie from the office."

"She's not married is she?"

"No. She couldn't wait."

We sit in silence for a while. I keep thinking about Geoffrey for some reason. I hope he and Carole can sort something out. I wonder what he'll do with the clothes?

"Do you think it would be easy to get rubber solution off your skin?" I ask Gail.

"I think it comes off if you rub your fingers together," she says. "Why do you ask? Have you had a puncture?"

"No, just a hypothetical question. What if you had it on somewhere else that you couldn't rub together?"

"I expect it would come off in time," she replies.

"Good," I say. "Good."

There are adverts in the back of the zoo magazine. Adverts for all sorts of things. Mostly Panda mugs and things like that. On the inside back page is an advert for keepers. No experience necessary it says. No qualifications required, just a calm temperament and a willingness to work hard with animals. I draw a circle round the phone number with my pen.

At bedtime Gail goes up before me. That doesn't happen often. She's normally a late bird. Usually I'm in bed and almost asleep before she comes up. Tonight, however, she retires early. I can hear her moving about between the bedroom and the bathroom. I put my poinsettia on a saucer on the kitchen window sill. It looks a bit pathetic, but I don't have the heart to throw it out.

I lock up the doors and turn out the lights before going up. There's no sign of the cat. It's probably lying on a bed somewhere, keeping it's head down. I carry up two glasses of water for Gail and me.

The bedroom light is turned down low. Gail is lying on the bed. I can scarcely believe my eyes. She is wearing an ivory coloured, silk teddy. It's cut high at the sides, and the top section is a fine filigree of lace. Even in the low light I can see the dark area of her nipples through the lace. She smiles at me when I walk in.

"Hurry up," she says. "It's getting cold."

When I am undressed she is under the duvet waiting. She cuddles up close and throws her arm across my chest. We lie in silence for several minutes.

"I'm sorry, Tom," she says. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me."

I can feel the warmth of her against me, through the silk, and the pressure of her breasts against my side. I put my left hand on her hip and feel the material under the tips of my fingers. I feel her breathing. She snuggles her head into my neck and kisses me gently.

I'm nonplussed. I hadn't expected this. I stroke her body gently through the silk. I don't know what to say.

"I love you, Tom," she says. "I got confused for a while. I let you down. I want to start again if you still want that."

She kisses my neck again. I wonder if I should tell her about the job. Perhaps she'd feel differently if she knew I was unemployed. I lie almost still apart from the small stroking movements that I'm making with my left hand.

"I'm thinking of applying for a new job," I say. "Something with animals, perhaps."

"If that's what you want, Tom, that's fine."

"Big animals preferably. Elephants or hippos if there's a choice."

"In a zoo?" she asks.

"Probably," I say. "Did I tell you I met a man called Bob Downe the other day? It was him that gave me the idea. It's a great life, Tom, he said. Very rewarding. Working outdoors. Meeting the public. Winning the affection and respect of the animals. Lot's to learn of course. They don't just employ anybody to do that kind of job."

"I'm sure you'd be very good, Tom." She is stroking my hair with her right hand. This hasn't happened for months.

"And the perks, of course. Free entry anytime. You'd be able to get in free too I expect. And a uniform. I've always wanted a job with a uniform."

Her hand has moved down from my head and she is stroking my nipples gently.

"And manure," I say. "Tons of it. We'll be able to put it all over the garden. Tiger dung is especially good for roses I believe."

She continues to nuzzle my neck, and I feel her push her hips against mine.

"I wonder if you have to take your own bags?" I ask.

"What for, Tom?" she mumbles as she chews my ear.

"The manure, of course," I reply.

The End

If you enjoyed reading about Tom Fletcher in 'I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday', then you might also enjoy the following Tom Fletcher story by Barnaby Wilde.

A Question of Alignment

Something is going wrong with the Lottery. There hasn't been a jackpot winner for eight weeks. Something is also going wrong with the weather. It just won't stop raining.

Balding, middle aged Tom Fletcher is an unlikely man to save the universe. In fact he is an unlikely man to do anything requiring action, but when the family cat talks to him and then walks through the sitting room wall even he is intrigued.

The cats have discovered that someone from a parallel universe is trying to alter the laws of probability by exchanging Lottery balls. Unfortunately, although all cats are born with the ability to travel between parallel worlds by the simple method of walking through perfectly aligned east/west walls, they are not born with hands suitable for opening doors or carrying Lottery balls.

Tom's cat, Smokey, (or Boudicca as she has nicknamed herself) has oversold Tom's abilities to her peers but despite his poor juggling skills they adopt him as their leader and set out on a quest for the mysterious 'Smith'.

Soon, Tom is littering the adjacent universes with stuff that just shouldn't be there, creating more problems than he is solving; like how to hold up his trousers when his belt is two dimensions away or how to explain to his wife the presence of a white lace thong in his spectacles case.

Barnaby Wilde. July 2005
