Part 13 (1/2)

Eventually, perhaps because of the increasingly twitchy Twitch's protests, the swinging ceased once more and Joe's enhanced but jangling brain could get to grips with the pressing problem of how to deny there was anything going on between him and the girl without actually mentioning her name.

He let himself go limp, which wasn't difficult, and called up in a broken voice, 'George, after I die, man, do me one promise. You owe me that, man. Promise you'll go and see Beryl and tell her I love her.'

That hiatus again. For a moment he feared that George's cauliflowered ears might have misheard Beryl for Eloise and he closed his eyes in antic.i.p.ation of being let go.

Then the voice rasped, 'Beryl? Who's this Beryl?'

'Beryl Boddington. My fiancee,' croaked Joe.

'Your fiancee? You two-timing my Eloise?'

This sideways bound of logic impressed Joe, himself no mean leaper on the dance-floor of debate, but this was no time for abstract a.n.a.lysis.

Keep it simple.

'No ... Beryl my one and only love ... She's a scary woman, George ... no way I'd dare two-time her ... You tell her I was always true ...'

There was a moment of complete stillness which, thought Joe, was perhaps really death. Then he felt himself swung high once more, this time the grip on his ankles was released, and now he was flying through the air.

He had time to think, 'I'm going to die,' before he hit the ground a bit earlier than he'd expected.

There was surprisingly little pain, which meant he must have been killed instantly. If Aunt Mirabelle had got it right the next voice he'd hear would be the voice of St Peter.

But oddly St Peter sounded a lot like George.

'You saying you're not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my girl, Eloise?'

Joe opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of the balcony. Way above him loomed Jura.s.sic, who now prodded him with a booted foot and repeated the question.

'You saying you're not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my girl, Eloise?'

Joe tried to think of someone who in a similar situation might have replied, 'Well yes, I am, actually. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her, I mean. As often as I can.'

James Bond maybe? Had to be someone in a movie. No one in real life would even dream of it!

'Yeah, that's what I'm saying, George. I love my fiancee, Beryl.'

'What about them photos? You telling me you're not feeling her up on them photos?'

I was right, thought Joe. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Twitch (he'd fallen out of love with Twitch) had been taking pictures and sending them back to George.

'No!' he declared. 'She was just pretending to mess with me to make you jealous.'

'Why'd she do that?'

''Cos she's still got feelings for you, man! She knew your boy was there, spying. Hard to miss him, all that twitching.'

George glowered at the now spasmodic Twitch, who said defensively, 'Looked like he was really feeling her up to me, George,' confirming Joe's disenchantment.

It was decision time. Joe could actually see the thoughts making their slow progress across the boxer's face. If he fought like this, how did he ever manage to win? Then his gaze fell to those huge fists which looked like they'd been carved by that Greek guy Mickey Angel out of solid granite for some gigantic statue.

He urged, 'She loves you true, George. You gotta see that. How could she settle for a guy like me when she could have a hunk like you?'

He could see how this logic made its mark, but in George's primitive mind a photo was still worth a thousand words. He needed supportive evidence.

'This fiancee, Beryl, where does she live?' he demanded.

'Next block, number 23,' gabbled Joe, thinking, I've got him!

'I need to talk to her.'

'Yeah, sure. Er, why is that?'

'She tells me she's your fiancee, then maybe I don't smash you to a pulp,' said George.

Joe's mind was racing. Beryl was sharp. A couple of quick winks as he explained the situation and she'd be well up to confirming their engagement and convincing George there was no way her man would have strayed. Beryl could be really scary when she chose. OK, he would have to pay for it later, but it would be worth it whatever the price.

'Let me get some clothes on and I'll take you round there,' he said, scrambling to his feet, which George immediately swept from beneath him, sending him cras.h.i.+ng back to the ground.

'No, you stay there. I'll talk with this woman without you winking and nodding and fast signing in the corner.'

Shoot! The monster wasn't so simple after all.

But there was always the phone ...

Not if you're locked naked on your balcony seven floors up, there wasn't, he thought disconsolately as the boxer slammed the balcony door shut and turned the key in the lock.

Through the locked door he watched his unwelcome visitors make their exit from the flat. He could see the so-called security chain dangling loose. Presumably a single push from George's bull-like shoulder had ripped it from its staple on the wall. He thought of trying to smash the gla.s.s panel in the balcony door, but it wasn't worth the bother. After some early fraternal visits from a few of the brothers in Hermsp.r.o.ng, the Ra.s.selas inhabitants had demanded and got shatterproof gla.s.s put in all their windows. Height was no disincentive to agile thieves who had a Whitey-like ability to scale the sheer side of the tower block from one balcony to the next. Joe peered down and shuddered at the thought of even making the attempt to descend. He might at a pinch be able to drop down on to the balcony below, but by the time he had persuaded the flat-owners that they shouldn't take the dramatic entry of a stark-naked man into their premises personally, George would almost certainly have arrived at Beryl's.

No, all he could do was wait and hope that her natural intelligence and quick wit would get him off the hook.

Of course there was a strong likelihood that being rousted out of bed by a belligerent boxer at this unG.o.dly hour would make her react to the suggestion that Joe was her fiance with a derisive laugh and unambiguous denial.

In which case George would return ...

In which case, dropping on to the balcony below didn't seem quite such a desperate act ...

He sat with his back against the railings so that he could watch the main entrance across the living room.

At least he wasn't cold.

Even at this hour the newly risen sun had enough warmth to warn him of another red-hot day in prospect. Which he might or might not live to see.

Oh well. No point worrying.

His mouth opened in a huge yawn. He had after all had a very disturbed night. A few seconds later the old Sixsmith philosophy that, however bad things were, losing sleep over them only made them worse, kicked in and the yawn turned into a gentle snore.