Part 28 (1/2)

'Let's go in and ask.' Cornelius pushed open what was left of the door and they went inside.

The wife was turning pink sausages in a frying pan. Big men sat around tables, reading their small news-papers, tugging upon mugs of tea and discussing the sort of things big men discuss when in the company of their own kind.

'Morning, big men,' called Cornelius.

'Morning, Cornelius,' the big men called back. 'Morning, Tuppe.'

'Morning, big men.'

'I'll order breakfast,' Cornelius said. 'You tune up the big men. Find out what happened here.'

'Okedoke.'

Cornelius ordered breakfast. The wife looked decidedly shaky, but quite pleased to see him. She gave him the cream of the milk. Cornelius told her he was expecting a postal order.

'By the end of the week, or you're barred,' the wife told him.

The tall boy smiled warmly and freighted the mugs of tea to his favourite table by the window. It was a bit short on view this morning. Tuppe soon joined him.

'You would not believe what happened here,' he said as he scaled a stool. 'Someone opened fire on the place with a minigun.'

'A minigun? You're kidding.'

'I am not.'

'You mean a 7.62 M134 General Electric Mini-gun?'

'I do.'

'7.62 mm x 51 sh.e.l.ls? 1.36 kg-recoil adaptors?'

'And a six-muzzle velocity of 869 m/s. That's the one.'Capable of firing six thousand rounds per minute?'

'Correct. Was all that supposed to be funny, by the way?'

'Search me. So what exactly happened?'

'Well,' Tuppe sipped tea, 'as I say, someone opened up on the place yesterday afternoon and shot two men dead.'

'Blimey,' said Cornelius.

'Blimey is right. One was a policeman, well known in these parts. Inspectre Hovis.'

'Never heard of him. What about the other?'

'Ah,' said Tuppe.

'Ah? What is, Ah?'

'Ah is, I'm sorry.'

'Why, what have you done?'

'I haven't done anything.'

'Then why are you apologizing?'

'I'm not apologizing. I'm saying I'm sorry.'

'Is this supposed to be funny?' The tall boy sipped his tea.

'It's not funny. Listen, Cornelius. The other man who got shot, no-one got his name, but he was a great big heavily built man. With a shaven head. And he was wearing a nineteen-thirties Boleskine Tweed plus-fours suit.'

Cornelius spat his tea all over the table and all over Tuppe.

Mickey Minns awoke in the wardrobe. There had been some more unpleasantness in the Minns house-hold, but it was better left undwelt upon. The Minns bore an arm-load of clothing away to the bathroom. He really intended to enjoy the gig tonight and he wanted to look his very best.

The trouble was, as he stood in front of the mirror and struggled to get his arm down the narrow sleeve of a cheesecloth s.h.i.+rt, a-shade-of-green-that-dare-not-speak-its-name, none of the fab old gear seemed to fit any more.

It seems like one of those really wonderful ideas, keeping all of your old clothes. To still possess those faded purple moleskin South Sea Bubble hipster loon pants, with the patch pockets and the twenty-three-inch bottoms, the ones you wore to your first Happening. And the tie-dye five-b.u.t.ton granddad vest that you threw up all over.

Wonderful idea? I don't think so.

Mickey returned to his wardrobe and pulled out the Giorgio Armani suit that he had been saving for when he was invited to attend The Rock and Pop Awards.

Outside the horn of his van went Beep! Beep! Honk! Mickey peered out of the window to see Anna waving up at him.

Polly Gotting awoke in the bedroom of Prince Charles.

The ringing of the telephone woke her.

The prince reached over and picked it up.

'One,' said he.

Certain words came to his ear and these he answered with polite ones of his own.

More followed and the prince replied to these also. 'Yes,' he kept on saying. And then, 'Goodbye.'

'Whatever's happened?' asked Polly. 'You look terrible.'

'Ah,' said Charles Philip Arthur George, no relative of Barbara. 'I think I'd better go and have a word with my mum.

'I don't know what to say.' Cornelius didn't. 'Except I'm sorry I spat my tea over you. But he's dead. Rune is dead. I can't believe it.'

'Of course it could just be another great heavily built man, with a shaven head and a penchant for nineteen-thirties Boleskine Tweed plus-fours suits.''You really think so?'

'Not really, no.'