CHAPTER THREE

Whatever prompted her to put on Aunt Fatty’s ring, it wasn’t vanity. It encircled her finger like the tab from a Coke can, and was marginally less comfortable. It kept hitting the keyboard as she typed, bringing strange symbols up out of the depths of the WP; peculiar sigils and runes, the sort of thing that even software writers generally only see in their sleep, after a midnight snack of Canadian cheddar. To make matters worse, they proved singularly hard to delete. One of them, a weird little design that looked uncommonly like two very amorous snakes, had to be chased all round the screen with the cursor, and when Michelle finally backed it into a corner between two windows, it took three point-blank bursts from the delete key to finish it off. Even then, she had the unpleasant feeling that it was still there, hiding in the lost files and watching her.

Having killed it as best she could, she leaned back in her exquisitely uncomfortable health-and-safety-approved ergonomic WP operator’s chair (they use a similar model, virtually identical except for added electrodes, in some of the more conservative American states) and stared out of the window. In the tiny crack between the two neighbouring office blocks, she could see a flat blue thing which an as yet unsuppressed sliver of memory told her was the Sky. Hello sky, she thought.

‘Christ,’ she muttered to herself. ‘What am I doing here?’

Bleep. Bleep-bleep. The red light which served as the machine’s answer to the cartoonist’s thought-bubble with an axe in a log of wood in it flashed twice. Bleep.

‘What you should be doing,’ said the machine, ‘is getting on with inputting the East Midlands averages.’

Michelle blinked. Someone had spoken; someone, furthermore, who was either a Dalek {Legal & Equitable Life pic is an equal opportunities employer with a policy of positive discrimination in favour of minority ethnic and cultural minorities; L&E press release, 15/5/97), a heavy smoker or being silly. She looked round. At the next work-station, Sharon was locked in symbiotic communion with her machine. On the other side of her, Claire’s chair was empty; a sure sign the fleet was in. Claire seemed to catch things off transatlantic container ships; most spectacularly Johannes, a six-foot-four Dutchman with the biggest ears Michelle had ever seen on a two-legged life form.

Curious. Maybe they’d fitted voice-boxes to the machines without telling anybody; unlikely, since such gadgets cost money, and L&E, like most insurance companies, objected to parting with money under any circumstances whatsoever. Still, Michelle reasoned, if they ever did splash out on modems for the screens, it’s sure as eggs they wouldn’t tell us till a fortnight afterwards, whereupon a snotty memo would come round demanding to know why no one was using the expensive new technology. She decided to experiment.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ replied the machine, ‘it is alive after all, I was beginning to wonder. Was it anything I did, or are you just extremely badly brought up?’

Michelle frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.

‘It’s rude,’ replied the machine, ‘to ignore people. Ignoring them and prodding them in the keyboard at the same time is downright offensive.’

‘Sorry.’ Michelle’s eyebrows crowded together, like sheep harassed by a dog. ‘I expect you’re Japanese,’ she said.

‘Korean,’ replied the screen. ‘You bigoted or something?’

‘No, not at all,’ Michelle replied. People were looking at her. ‘I think you’re really clever, the things you come up with. You must be one of these artificial intelligences, then.’

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’

‘Fair enough. Can you switch off the voice thing, please? I think I’ll stick to using the keyboard till we get proper training.’

‘Same to you with brass knobs on,’ the machine said huffily. The same words then appeared in a window on the screen, and vanished. The telephone rang.

‘Legal and Equitable Assurance, Michelle speaking, can I help you?’

‘You’d better apologise to the computer,’ said the phone, ‘otherwise it’ll sulk. And guess who’ll get the thick end of it if it does? Me.’

‘Who is this, please?’

‘If you don’t believe me, ask the franking machine. Trouble is, if the computer sulks, the whole bloody office has a moody. On account of progress,’ added the phone bitterly, ‘and the new technology.’

Quick glance at the calendar; no, not April the First. ‘Look …’ Michelle said.

‘The computer gets all uptight and upsets the fax machine, the fax machine takes it out on the switchboard, the switchboard picks a fight with the thermal binder, the thermal binder quarrels with the photocopier and breaks off the engagement - that engagement’s been broken more times than the Fifth Commandment, I think they must get some sort of buzz out of tearing bits off each other - and the next thing you know, they’ve overloaded the wiring and the lights go out all over Hampshire. So before you say anything tactless to the machinery, think on.’

‘Hey,’ said Michelle briskly. ‘Shut up.’

‘You see?’ complained the telephone. ‘Silly mare doesn’t listen to a word I say. Not that I care, I mean, one thing you can’t be if you’re a phone is at all thin-skinned, you’d be in the funny farm inside a week if you took any notice. But if you were to go saying things like that to the cistern, next day half of Southampton’d be going to work by boat.’

‘Shut up!’

The telephone shut up; there was a click, followed by the dialling tone. Dear God, muttered Michelle to herself as she replaced the receiver, there’s some right nutters work in this place. As you’d expect, come to think of it. Like it says on the tea-room wall, you don’t have to be mad to work here, but it surely does help.

The computer had switched itself off. Gee, Michelle growled to herself, thanks. You’re not the only ones who can sulk, you know. We carbon-based life-forms are pretty good at it, too. She leaned forward and hit the switch. Nothing happened.

‘Not,’ said the machine, ‘until you apologise.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not too much to ask, surely,’ the machine whined.

Michelle looked round to see what everybody else was making of this performance, but nobody seemed interested. Maybe they were having similar problems of their own; but apparently not. All round the huge inputting-pen, screens were glowing, fingers were rattling on keyboards, faces were glazed over with that unmistakable Jesus-is-it-still-only-half-eleven look you only seem to get in big offices.

‘Please,’ Michelle said. ‘Stop it.’

‘Look who’s talking,’ the machine went on. ‘Look, it’s high time we got this sorted out. I mean, God only knows I’m not the sort to bear a grudge, but you still haven’t said you’re sorry for that time you spilt hot chocolate all over my keys. Have you any idea how sordid that makes you feel, being all sticky and gummy in your works? I’ve still got bits of fluff stuck to my return springs, it’s so degrading…’

Michelle stared. Yes, it was the machine talking; she was certain of that. Obviously there was some bizarre experiment going on, probably the brainchild of some psychotic systems analyst, and she was the victim.

‘This,’ she said aloud, ‘is no longer amusing. Please stop, or I’ll pull your plug out.’

‘Like that, is it? Violence? Threats? You really think that’ll solve anything?’

‘Good point,’ Michelle replied. ‘I could try hitting you with the heel of my shoe. It made the shredder work, that time it ate Bill Potter’s tie.’

‘I must warn you,’ said the machine icily. ‘You lay one finger on me and that’ll be our whole working relationship up the spout, for good. And that goes for the printer, too.’

‘She’s right,’ said the printer. ‘You big bully.’

‘That does it,’ said Michelle, and pulled the plug. The screen cut off in mid-bleep, and the green dot faded into a pinprick. Michelle sighed and leaned back in her chair.

‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

‘ What!’ Michelle jerked upright; the bloody thing was off at the mains, how could it… ?

‘And you can get off me, while you’re at it,’ added the chair. ‘Pick on someone your own size, you fascist.’ Michelle stood up and began to back away. ‘Christine,’ she called out, trying to keep her voice calm and even, ‘could you come and look at my machine, please? I think there’s something wrong with it.’

‘Sticks and stones,’ muttered the computer.

‘Pots and kettles, more like,’ replied the telephone.

‘I never did like her,’ added the stapler. ‘Never trust anybody who comes to work in green suede slingbacks.’

‘Christine!’

‘Now what?’ There’s one in every office; unflappable, competent, overworked, smug as a dying bishop. ‘What have you gone and done to it now?’

‘Nothing. It just won’t…’ Oh God, Michelle thought, does it happen this quickly? I thought you started off with mild depression, then bad dreams, then a couple of months of acting strangely, and only then do you start hearing the Angel Gabriel commanding you to drive the English out of Gascony. Apparently not. Oh bugger.

‘Won’t what?’

‘Won’t work,’ Michelle said feebly, moving aside as Christine sat down on the chair. ‘It’s sort of, well, playing up.’

Christine looked round. ‘It helps if you plug it in,’ she said. ‘Next time, give that a try before calling me, okay?’

Take off the ring. ‘But I only unplugged it because …’

‘You shouldn’t unplug it, ever,’ Christine was saying. ‘I knew you weren’t listening when we did training. If you’ve broken it I’m going to have to tell Mr Gilchrist.’

Aunt Fatty and the alarm clock. Talking to things. Take off the ring. ‘Could you just try it, Chris? Please? I’m sure you can make it work.’ As she spoke, Michelle found the ring and started to tug. It wouldn’t budge. I might have guessed it runs in families, she told herself. After all, I’ve got Mum’s nose, so it’s reasonable enough that if there’s pottiness on her side of the family…

‘Look,’ Christine was saying, in that Fools-gladly-no-thanks voice of hers. ‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

Tug. It was stuck. She felt like a racing pigeon. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ignoring Christine’s impatient noises, ‘I’ll be back in two ticks. I’ve just got to go to the loo.’

Soap shifted it; and as soon as it was off and safely in her pocket, she began to feel a whole lot better. Hell, I must be in a mess, Michelle told herself, instinctively checking her face in the mirror. Never thought Aunt Fatty dying would get to me like this, make me start having sympathetic hallucinations. True, she was my last living relative, so maybe it’s not so strange after all. Maybe I should see somebody about it, before it gets any worse. Because if all inanimate objects are as snotty as that lot, I think I’d rather stick with people. Not that there’s a great deal in it, at that.

When she got back, Christine had the machine working and eating, so to speak, out of her hand. Somehow, that didn’t reassure Michelle at all; quite the reverse. Only doing it to show me up, aren’t you? she demanded wordlessly of the screen. A red light winked at her offensively.

Bet you can’t read thoughts, though. Huh, thought not. Now then, where were we? She sighed, and began to type in the East Midlands averages.

After a bumpy ride down the laundry chute, and an apparently endless journey hidden under three hundredweight of straw in the back of a wagon, Akram arrived at the frontier.

When you consider what it’s the frontier of, there’s remarkably little to see. They don’t make a song and dance about it. There’s no triumphal arch for you to pass through, no enormous sign saying:

WELCOME TO )

)

WILKOMMEN IN )

} REALITY

BIENVENU A )

)

BENVENUTO IN )

- reasonably enough; there’s no commercial traffic to speak of and they actively discourage tourism, as the barbed wire fence and searchlight towers imply. On the other hand, neither are they particularly paranoid about it. The idea is that the less conspicuous they make it, the fewer people on either side of the line will know it exists. This is a very sensible attitude, and accounts for the popular misconception that the border can only be crossed via the second star to the right, the back of the magic wardrobe or by air in a hurricane-borne timber-frame farmhouse.

In fact, all you have to do is present your papers to the sentry, get your visa endorsed and walk through the gate. This presupposes, of course, that you have the necessary papers. If you don’t, you might as well forget it, because if you haven’t got a permit, all the pixie-dust in Neverland won’t get you past Big Sid and his mate Ugly John. In fact, the only thing more stupid in the whole world than trying to barge past Ugly Sid is folding a hundred-dollar bill in your dud passport and expecting Ugly John to let you through.

For those who want to leave but can’t, there’s always Jim’s Diner. Officially it’s on fairytale soil and under the jurisdiction of the storytellers. The truth is that once you’re in Jim’s, the authorities don’t really want to know. It’s the Hole in the Wall, the badlands, where the Southern crosses the Yellow Dog; and it’s acquired its status as an off-record sanctuary because (so the authorities argue) any escaped criminal or political dissident who hangs around there for ever rather than in a nice, clean, comfy jail where the food is better and free is getting the job done far better than the state could do it, and at absolutely no cost to the taxpayer.

As a business proposition, however, it’s remarkably successful; with the result that Jim has opened another branch on the other side of the line. The two establishments are, of course, sealed off from each other by an impenetrable party wall, guarded by the ultimate in security equipment. There’s a window - one and a half metre thick Perspex - so that customers can catch a tantalising glimpse of life on the other side - precisely the same limp hamburgers, grey coffee in styrofoam mugs and wrinkled doughnuts, served with a scowl by the most miserable waitresses recruitable on either side of the line. This generally has a calming effect, and since the window was installed sales of very cheap gin have rocketed in both establishments, as customers fall back on the last and most reliable means of escape from anywhere.

Akram walked in, sat down at the counter, nodded to a couple of people he recognised and ordered a large doner and coffee. While he was waiting, the proprietor himself appeared through the bead curtain and sauntered across.

‘Akram,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d be along sooner or later.’

Akram nodded. ‘Good to see you, Jim. Nice place you’ve got here.’

Jim shrugged. He was tall and lean, with long, curly black hair, a moustache and an industrial injury. ‘No it isn’t,’ he replied, picking up a glass and polishing it. ‘It’s a dump. Still, it’s better than —’

‘Quite.’ Akram shuddered. ‘How’s business?’

‘Never better,’ Jim replied. He noticed the dishcloth was dirty, dropped it in a bucket behind the bar, took a new one from a drawer and wrapped it round the hook that served him for a left hand. ‘I mean, look around, the place is stiff with the buggers. Dunno why, but all of a sudden everybody wants out. If only I could find a way of smuggling ‘em across the border, I’d be a rich man.’ He reached into the pocket of his red frock coat, produced a half-smoked cigar and lit it. ‘I reckon I could name my own price, only what the devil would I ever find to spend it on? Anyway,’ he sighed, flipping ash into a big dish of trifle, ‘since there’s absolutely no way past the guard without a ticket, it’s all academic anyway. Fancy a snifter? On the house.’

‘Thanks,’ Akram said. ‘Coffee, black. You’re sure about that?’

‘Course I’m sure,’ Jim replied, offended, as he poured a coffee and a large rum. ‘All new arrivals get a free drink, it’s a tradition of the house.’

‘Not that,’ said Akram, fanning away cigar smoke. ‘About there being no way out. I’m prepared to bet there is one, if only…’

Jim laughed. In his previous career as a melodramatic villain, he’d naturally acquired a rich, resounding laugh, and he hadn’t lost the knack. ‘Why don’t you go over there and join the research team?’ he chortled. ‘Around about six in the evening they’re usually about four deep along the far wall there. Take my advice; there’s no way out, come to terms with it and save yourself a lot of unnecessary aggro. Here’s health.’

He knocked back his rum, dunked the glass in the sink and pottered away to serve another customer. Akram stayed where he was.

After a while, an unpleasant thought occurred to him. In this place, so he’d gathered, a lot of characters from stories and legends were cooped up with nowhere to go. One day was virtually identical to another, and there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it. Hell, Akram growled to himself, it’s just another bloody Story. Any minute now, Ingrid Bergman would wander in and demand to be flown to Lisbon.

Just then, he became aware that someone had sat down on the stool next to his. He looked round and blinked.

‘Couldn’t help overhearing,’ said the newcomer. ‘Someone you should meet.’

Akram hesitated. Partly because the newcomer had obviously been drinking - the nodding head, the slurred consonants - but mostly because where he came from, you didn’t see eight-foot-tall teddy bears every day of the week.

‘Haven’t seen you in here before,’ he hazarded.

‘Not from these parts,’ replied the bear. ‘But today’s the day the teddy-bears have their picnic, and some pillock forgot to pack the beer. Lucky I found this joint, or I’d be spittin’ feathers by now. That’s very kind of you, don’t mind if I do.’

Obediently Akram summoned a waitress and ordered a triple Jack Daniel’s and a small goat’s milk.

‘Who’s this bloke I ought to meet?’ he enquired.

‘Ah.’ The bear grinned and waved a vague paw. ‘That depends, dunnit?’

‘Depends on what?’

‘On what it’s worth to you.’ The bear leered, until the stitching under his left ear began to creak. ‘Valuable tip I could give you, if you made it worth my while.’

‘Go away.’

The bear blinked. ‘You what?’

‘I said go away. Scram. I’ve got enough problems of my own without being hassled by cheap hustlers with stuffing coming out of their ribs. Go on, shoo.’

‘Jussa minute.’ The bear gestured feebly. ‘Don’ be like that, I’m only trying to help. But a bear’s gotta look after himself, right?’

‘You’ll be a bear with a sore head in a minute. Get lost.’

‘Look.’ The bear laid a huge, rather threadbare paw over Akram’s hand. ‘Come with me and see this guy, and then we’ll talk turkey. Can’t say fairer than that.’

‘Not without slurring your words you can’t. Sorry, but my mother told me never to go with strange bears.’

The bear scowled; that is, its button eyes glared, and the three strands of cotton that served it for a mouth twitched downwards. ‘The hell with you, then,’ it said. ‘What’s the matter with you, anyhow? What’ve you got to lose?’

He’s right, Akram thought. Apart from my seat at this bar, absolutely nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s a saying in my part of the world, never look a rat-arsed soft toy in the mouth.’ Not unless, the proverb goes on, you like the sight of nicotine-stained teeth; but he left that bit out. ‘I was being churlish. Lead on.’

‘Not sure I want to now.’ Akram suppressed an impatient remark. ‘Let’s see if another drink’ll help. Excuse me, miss!’

Three large whiskies later, the bear slid off its stool, slithered on the worn-out felt pads that served it for feet and wobbled towards the door, with Akram following self-consciously behind. He had absolutely no idea what to expect - except maybe several hundred thousand sozzled bears, if they’d managed to find an off-licence by now; when not on duty, teddy-bears supplement their income by sitting outside shops with hats lying beside them until the shopkeepers pay them to go away - but he no longer cared particularly much.

The bear staggered on for about a quarter of an hour, stopping from time to time behind bushes and large rocks. Occasionally he sang. Akram was just beginning to wish he was back inside his nice snug oil-jar when he found himself outside a pair of impressive-looking gates, through which he could see a long drive, a wide lawn and several large, striped tents. There was a band playing in the distance; a lively, bouncy tune with lots for the trumpets to do. People were dancing. It all looked rather jolly, until a huge man in a black suit with dark glasses appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of the gates.

‘What you want?’ he growled.

‘Invited,’ mumbled the bear. ‘To the wedding.’

‘You?’

‘Bride’s bear,’ said the bear portentously. ‘An’ guest.’

The guard thought for a moment, muttered something into a radio, shrugged and jerked his head. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’re expected.’

The gates opened, and the bear staggered through, with Akram trotting behind. He was beginning to have his doubts about all this, and said as much to the bear.

‘You wanna get out, right?’

‘Right. Very much so. But… ‘

‘So. Ask the Man. If anybody can fix it, he can.’

Akram frowned. ‘What man?’

‘The Man.’ The bear shook his head, apparently astounded to discover that there was still such ignorance in the world. ‘And today’s his daughter’s wedding day. Man, you sure got lucky.’

‘I did?’ Akram glanced back at the guard, and the closing gates. He couldn’t see what made them open and close, but it surely was very strong. ‘Oh good,’ he said.

If you want a wish granted, ask a fairy.

There are, of course, fairies and fairies. The wish-granting side of the business is looked after by the fairy godparents. Of these, the fairy godmothers are generally no bother at all, provided you’re home on time and don’t mind travelling by soft fruit. The fairy godfathers, however, are a different matter entirely. With them, you have to watch your step.

They offer you three wishes you can’t refuse.

‘Next.’

It was dark in the Man’s study; the blinds were drawn, and the only light came from a standard lamp directly behind his head. This made for a very dramatic ambience but didn’t help you very much with negotiating the furniture-strewn journey from the door to the desk.

‘Who’s this?’

The lean, grey man who stood two respectful paces back from the desk glanced down at a notebook. ‘Grumpy, padrone. He’s a dwarf from the Big Forest. Sometimes we buy toys from his people.’

The man behind the desk nodded. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What you want?’

There was a flurry of low-level activity and a brightly coloured little man with a fluffy white beard bounded forward and fell on his knees in front of the desk. The man gestured for him to stand up.

‘Justice, padrone,’ said the dwarf. The man laughed. ‘Another one,’ he sneered. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Padrone,’ the little man sobbed, ‘we’re toymakers, me and my six brothers, we live in the Big Forest. We’re poor people, padrone, we try to make a living, we don’t bother nobody. Then one day this girl comes busting into our house. She steals our bread and milk. She sits on the chair and breaks it, ‘cos she’s so goddamn big. We try and make her welcome, you know, the way you do. She eats all the food. She drinks all the milk. She decides she likes it here, says she’s gonna stay. Next thing she’s ordering curtain material, loose covers, carpets, wall lights, fitted kitchens. We can’t afford stuff like that, padrone, not on what we make. Then it’s You lousy dwarves, you take off your goddamn boots when you walk on my kitchen floor and Look at the dirty marks you leave on my towels and If I’ve asked you once to put up those shelves in the lounge I’ve asked you a hundred times. You see how it is, padrone. We ain’t welcome in our own home, she’s taken it over. We been to the police, we been to the Gebruder Grimm, they say there’s nothing they can do. Then Dopey, he says, Go to the Padrone, he will give us justice. So here I am,’ the little man concluded. ‘You gotta help us, or we go out of our minds. You find her some handsome prince somewhere, make her go away.’

The man behind the desk was silent for a long time, and the dwarf began to sweat. Then the man spoke.

‘Grumpy,’ he said, in a hurt voice, ‘what’s this you telling me? You come to me on my daughter’s wedding day, you say, “Give us justice, padrone. Marry her off to some handsome prince and everything gonna be just fine.’” The man drew breath, and sneered. ‘You think I got nothing better to do? You think every little problem you got, you come to me and now it’s my problem? You think that’s the way to show respect to your padrone, who loves you and cares for you? I don’t think so.’ He scowled, and drew hard on his cigar. ‘But,’ he went on, ‘since it’s my daughter’s wedding day, I can refuse you nothing. Carlo and Giuseppe will see to it. Now get out of my sight.’ He made a tiny, contemptuous gesture with his left hand, and the dwarf was bundled away. Then two large, chunky men stepped forward from the shadows, conferred with the man briefly in whispers, and left the room. ‘Next,’ the man said.

‘Go on.’ The bear nudged Akram in the ribs. “It’s your turn.’

Akram hesitated. Not for nothing was he called The Terrible from Trebizond to Samarkand, but he could recognise bad vibes when he felt them. In comparison, five litres of boiling water down the back of his neck seemed positively wholesome.

‘Akram the Terrible,’ read out the grey man. ‘He’s some kinda thief.’

Akram took a deep breath and stepped forward. Fortunately, he had at least a vague idea of the form. He bowed politely, smiled, and said, ‘Congratulations on your happy day.’ He hoped it sounded sincere. His own optimism amazed him.

‘Thank you,’ replied the man, and his voice was like a huge rock rolling back into the mouth of an airtight tunnel. ‘And what can I do for you, Mister Thief?’

‘I want out, padrone.’

The man’s eyebrows rose, and he took the cigar from his mouth; something which, a moment or so earlier, Akram would have sworn required surgery. ‘Out?’ he repeated.

‘Out of fairyland,’ Akram said. ‘I understand these things can be arranged. If anyone can do it,’ he added, ‘surely you can.’

He’d said the right thing, apparently, because the man smiled. It wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘Maybe I can do all sorts of things.’

‘Thank you, padrone.’

‘I didn’t say I could,’ the man said. ‘But supposing I did, what then?’

Careful, said a voice in the back of Akram’s brain. This is where you have to leave one lung and your liver as security. ‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘I’d be eternally grateful.’

‘Of course.’ The man shrugged. ‘That’s only to be expected. And who knows?’ he went on. ‘Maybe one day, you could do me a favour, like the one I’m doing you now. I don’t know, it may be next year, it may be in twenty years, it may be never. Who can predict these things?’

Akram smiled weakly. He felt rather as if he’d just handed a signed blank cheque to a lawyer and said he didn’t care how much it cost, it was a matter of principle. ‘A favour for a favour. What could be fairer than that?’

‘Or rather,’ said the man, and the smile vanished from his face, ‘three favours. Three wishes. You understand me?’

‘You want me to grant you three wishes?’

There was a cold silence, and Akram had that ghastly feeling of knowing you’ve said something crass without having a clue what.

‘No,’ said the man. ‘You ask me for three wishes. When the time comes, you’ll understand. Thank God,’ he added, ‘I only got one daughter. Paulo, Michele, see to it, and get this bufone out of my sight. Next.’

Half an hour later, a small yellow lorry chugged through the checkpoint into Reality. In the back of the lorry was a load of well-rotted phoenix guano, a permitted inter-world export destined for the asparagus beds of Saudi Arabia. Under it, and reflecting bitterly on the appropriateness of it all, was a tall, gaunt man with a passport in the name of John Smith.

Self-consciously, the plot thickened.