'You're going to Spain then?' she said disbelievingly.
'Didn't say that. What I mean is, I got to get away from here. From you. Need a bit of time to think. My brain don't work like yours, Butcher. You see things in a tangle, then you see them clear. Me, I need to be picking and unpicking till I work out what I've got.'
He expected another outburst. Instead the little lawyer came round the desk and gave him a hug and her soft-spoken words sounded remarkably like an apology.
'You're right, Joe. That's your way and it's a good way. For you it's the only way, which means it's the best way. You get it sorted in your mind then give me a ring, OK? I'm sorry I yelled at you.'
This was like Aunt Mirabelle jumping on the bar at the Supporters' Club and leading a chorus of 'I'm a-rootin' for Luton,' the club song. It was time to get out before she asked him to marry her.
He said, 'That's fine. Didn't notice. Really. I'll be in touch, yeah?'
He hurried out to the Morris and drove away. His mind was in a turmoil. He knew he had decisions to make and he'd no idea how to set about making them.
It wasn't till a couple of minutes later he realized he was heading for Rasselas.
He relaxed behind the wheel and felt his mind clearing like a freshly poured bottle of pils. This was the way it often happened. Somewhere deep inside there was something that made important decisions affecting his well- being, then let him know at its own sweet leisure. Bit like the NHS. King Rat wasn't going to be happy when he found out. Well, that was tough. But lovely little Mimi deserved an explanation.
After he parked at the tower block he dug her number out of the green folder and punched it in as he went up into the building. The lift was on the seventh floor. He summoned it down as Mimi's voice said, 'Hi!' in his ear.
'Mimi, it's me, Joe,' he said. 'Look, I'm really sorry, but I'm not going to make it.'
'Surprise!' she said with that gurgling laugh that made a guy feel real good. 'Shame. It's lovely here.'
'Listen, I don't want you to get into trouble. I'll ring Mr. King and explain-'
'No need. I've just had Ratcliffe on the line. Wanted to know why I hadn't told him you were still in Luton.'
'Shoot! I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do-?'
'Nothing, thanks all the same. He fired me.'
'What? That's terrible! Mimi, I'm-'
'Hold it there, Joe. It's OK. I've been looking for an easy escape route for a while now and they don't come any easier than getting sacked.'
'But what will you do?' said Joe, still guilt ridden. 'I mean, without a job… and what about money…?'
'Well, first I'll finish my margarita, then I'll do some serious work on my tan. That should take three or four days. Meanwhile I'll get back to the three or four guys who've been dangling tempting job offers in front of me for the past six months and decide if there's anything there I fancy. As for money, well, when I saw you this morning I said to myself, I don't think this guy is serious about coming to Spain. So I took the precaution of paying for my hotel room in advance with the company credit card before the Rat put a stop on it. Oh, and I hit a couple of money machines and got myself a whole hatful of euros too. So I'm fine. Hope you will be too, Joe.'
'Any reason I shouldn't be?'
'I don't know why Ratcliffe wanted you in Spain, Joe, but I do know he doesn't much care for not getting what he wants. You see Stephen Hardman coming toward you, better turn and run! In fact, maybe a little holiday abroad wouldn't be such a bad idea.'
'I'll think about it. Mimi, something you can maybe help me with. Mr. King used to be in close cahoots with Sir Monty Wright. They got anything going lately?'
There was a silence long enough to get Joe apologizing again.
'Look, sorry, shouldn't have asked. Even though he's your ex-employer, I know you can't go mouthing off about your work there…'
'No, I was just thinking. In fact, I never had any dealings with Wright-Price. No reason to, Ratcliffe was just a non-exec director, nothing hands on. But he has spent a lot of phone time talking to Sir Monty lately, don't know what about. Could be just exchanging recipes. That it, Joe? The ice is melting in my margarita.'
'Yeah. And thanks for being such a sport.'
'No sweat. Like I say, I was ready for fresh fields and pastures new. Take care, Joe.'
'No, hold on,' said Joe. He rarely got flashes of inspiration but sometimes a trigger could produce a flash. 'Pastures new, I mean New Pastures-you ever hear of an outfit with that name?'
'Yes. How do you know about them, Joe? It's a land-holding company that Ratcliffe set up a couple of months back.'
'Thanks, Mimi. See you around, maybe.'
'Hope so, Joe. Bye.'
The lift had arrived and Joe had stuck his foot in the door to hold it there. He now stepped inside. As the door closed he saw the swing doors of the main entrance begin to open. His first instinct was to hold the lift for the newcomer. Then he saw who it was.
Jurassic George.
'Oh shoot!' cried Joe and hit the 7 button. Fortunately though a long way from the smooth swift sweet- smelling elevator in ProtoVision House, the lifts on Rasselas were just as far removed from the mechanically and physically dangerous mobile urinals you found on Hermsprong.
The door closed. The ascent began. Not even a super athlete could make it up seven flights of stairs as fast as the lift, but Joe still sprinted down the corridor. Once in his flat he locked and bolted the door. The security chain dangled uselessly from the woodwork. Joe grabbed a stout dining chair and wedged it under the handle.
'There,' said Joe. 'Let's see you get through that!'
Breathing deeply he opened the balcony window to get some air. Below him Luton slumbered in the heat. It was good slumbering weather, specially if you were lying beside a pool with some like Mimi…
Beryl… he corrected guiltily. He meant someone like Beryl…
In Aunt Mirabelle's strict theology, even a fantasized infidelity deserves punishment, so she might have been unsurprised by what happened next, but Joe was figuratively as well as literally bowled over when he felt himself hit from behind and flung forward against the balcony railing.
Whoever said lightning never struck twice clearly didn't know Jurassic George!
For the second time that day Joe found himself staring down at the area of paving seven floors below which was likely to be the last resting place of his scattered brains.
One part of his mind was thinking, no misnomer calling George lightning, speed he'd got here. The guy couldn't be human!
But the other and larger part, that devoted to self-interest and survival, was instructing his voice to scream, 'George, George, my man, no need for this, I thought we got it all settled, you seen my girl, you seen my Beryl, I got eyes for nobody else, man!'
In view of his recent lascivious fantasy about Mimi, this wasn't strictly true, but while Jurassic might have superhuman physical powers, not all the hard training in the world could make him telepathic.
The one improvement on his earlier experience was that this time, rather than being dangled over the balcony, he was folded across the rail on his stomach and he had instinctively taken a vice-like grip of the metal bar. Also his attacker seemed more interested in dragging him back than pushing him over; but as his preferred method of doing this was to heave at Joe's personal parts while simultaneously punching him in the kidneys, it did not appear that his motives were altogether benevolent, and now Joe found himself hanging on to prevent being dumped on the balcony floor rather then being dropped to the entrance paving stones.
The hand between his legs twisted viciously, and Joe, who'd always envied the ability of the solo tenor in the Boyling Corner Chapel Choir to soar effortlessly toward his top-C's, now found himself hitting notes even a coloratura soprano might have balked at. Just as the agony brought him to the point of fainting, there was some kind of disturbance behind him and suddenly the grip on his testicles relaxed. But this blessed relief seemed likely to be counterproductive. Weakened and barely conscious, he slumped over the rail like a sack of potatoes and hardly registered that gravity was pulling him inexorably down toward the waiting paving stone.
Too late he recognized his peril. His fingers clawed once more at the balcony railings but he could draw on no strength to get a grip. Then he was falling… falling…
Then something grasped his legs and dragged him upward and backward and bore him through the balcony
