'You know Dorrie?'
'No, but Merv was just telling me about her. Well, thank you, Merv.'
The taxi driver was counting three five-pound notes into his hand.
Joe pocketed them, stood up and said, 'Nice to meet you, Molly. Have a nice night.'
'You too, Joe.'
He went back to the bar, downed his drink and called, 'Whitey! Move your butt.'
Slowly the cat unwound itself, rose, stretched, and was sick into the cash register.
'Oh shoot,' said Joe. 'Let's get out of here.'
On the way home, he found he was acutely aware of motorbikes. He couldn't swear that any one of them was the same that had followed him (perhaps) from the Heights but he was feeling nervous. No reason, of course, but when had reason ever done anything for him? Bad way for a detective to think maybe, but it was consulting his feelings that kept him healthy. So instead of parking in his usual spot in the dark cul-de-sac of Lykers Lane, he left the Mini under the bright light shining outside Aunt Mirabelle's block and walked the quarter mile to his own. There had been a time when such a stroll across the Rasselas Estate might have been fraught with peril, but things had changed since the establishment of the Residents' Action Group under the dynamic leadership of Major Sholto Tweedie, not to mention the dynamic lieutenancy of Aunt Mirabelle.
The major's ambition was for an environment in which a naked virgin clutching a bag of gold could ramble round unmolested. Joe didn't qualify in any particular, but, despite a certain built-in prejudice against the rule of an ex-colonial militarist, he had to admit that the lighting worked, the graffiti was minimal, and the only disorderly conduct to disturb the peace came from Whitey who, refusing or unable to walk, sat on his shoulder, howling defiant challenge at everyone they met.
He quietened down as they entered Joe's block and got into the lift which, under the major's rule, was no longer used as either a waste chute or a urinal. And when they reached the sixth floor, he jumped down from Joe's shoulders and ran along the corridor towards their flat, purring.
Then suddenly he stopped, crouched low with back arched and tail fanned, and started his I'm-going-to-tear- your-heart-out snarl again.
'OK, I'm coming, I'm coming,' said Joe, at first putting it down to mere impatience. But when he caught up with Whitey at the door, he realized there was something really bothering him.
Could be a dog has passed this way, or another cat, pausing in the doorway to leave its mark.
Could be there was a bulky biker in a red helmet lurking inside to do him wrong.
Carefully he inserted the key, turned it slowly and pushed open the door.
'Anyone there?' he called.
Not the cleverest words he'd ever uttered, he acknowledged, but at least it would give any intruder notice that this was no unprepared victim he was dealing with, but a fully primed Fighting Machine.
But no way was this same Fighting Machine going to step into an unlit flat. He stretched forward his arm, and curled his hand round the jamb in search of the light switch.
Behind him, Whitey, who like all the best commanders had decided his role was to offer encouragement and advice from the rear, let out a piercing scream.
Not much encouragement there, thought Joe. And if there was anything of advice, it was something like, Don't do that you dickhead!
Or perhaps, Instead of straining your eyes and ears to pick up shape or sound in that darkness, why don't you stop holding your breath and take a deep sniff
He took a deep sniff and started coughing.
Gas! The place was full of gas just waiting for a spark to turn it into an incendiary bomb!
He jerked his finger back from the light switch like it was red hot.
Then, taking a step back, he took his pen clip torch out of his jacket pocket, switched it on, drew in the kind of breath he used for Figaro's 'Largo al factotum' and plunged into the room.
The breath held till he got the gas fire turned off, opened the big window in the living room and stepped out on to the tiny balcony where he drew in another huge draught of cold night air.
Admission of human frailty had never been a problem for Joe and he was willing to accept full responsibility for culpable carelessness until he went into the kitchen to check the cooker and found all the taps turned fully on.
'Know what I think, Whitey?' said Joe. 'I think someone's trying to off me.'
The cat, persuaded that his life was now no longer in danger, began a bitter complaint about the freezing temperature produced by having all the windows wide open.
'Shoot,' said Joe. 'Go to bed if you want to get warm. I'm going to have a gas bill so big the directors of Brit Gas will be able to give themselves another million-pound bonus!'
Eleven.
Despite everything Joe had a good night's sleep.
He usually did. Rev. Pot (which is to say, the Reverend Percy Potemkin, Pastor and Choirmaster of the Boyling Corner Chapel) had once told him he was blessed with something called negative capability, which seemed to mean he didn't get hassled by stuff he couldn't understand. A cracked skull or a dodgy curry might give him bad dreams, but mere attempts on his life by person or persons unknown were rarely allowed to trouble the quality time between his goodnight cocoa and the Full British Breakfast.
At seven forty-five the next morning, bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes and fried bread safely
