concealing his face in his glass.
'You sure there's nothing you want to share with me?' said Dildo.
'Dildo, it's just a little job Zak's hired me to do, and all I want is to be sure there's nothing iffy going on around her.'
'I hope you're telling the truth, Joe, 'cos you know how that girl's regarded in Luton. Anything unpleasant happens around her, you could find yourself very unpopular with a lot of people.'
'I'm her greatest fan,' said Joe fervently.
'Not while I'm around,' said Dildo. 'Isn't she gorgeous? The thought of all that highly trained flesh and muscle ...'
He shook his head, bit deep into his burger, and through the succulently anonymous meat went on, 'In my dreams. How's your love life doing, Joe?'
Joe glanced at his watch. It was after eight.
'Disasterville,' he groaned. 'Dildo, I gotta shoot.'
'Saturday night is nookie night, eh?' laughed the younger man sympathetically. 'I'm hoping to score myself later. Thanks for the grub, Joe. Though on second thoughts if it's on the house, you still owe me. What's good for afters?'
'Cherry cheesecake,' said Joe, rising. 'Thanks a lot, Dildo. Anything I can push your way, I won't forget.'
'Couldn't push your cabbie friend's woman my way, could you?'
'Sorry. But you might like to take a look at her daughter. Cheers.'
He started to move away, then paused and came back.
'Jones, where'd he do his time?'
'The Stocks I expect. Why?'
'Just wondered. Stay honest. 'Bye.'
The Stocks, thought Joe as he went out into the chill dark night. Where Henry Oto had been a prison officer for the past fifteen years. Must've recognized him. It wasn't as if Starbright was someone you soon forgot! And he can't have been all that chuffed to find his daughter was being minded by an ex-con. So why hadn't he said anything? Or perhaps he had and ... and what? Could this explain Mrs. Oto's antipathy for the guy?
He got in the Magic Mini and set off for Rasselas. He was trying to rehearse apologies to Beryl but his mind refused to focus. Was that a motorcyclist in his rear-view mirror? Did the helmet gleam red under the slippery silver of the street-lamps? What was it Dildo had said about Jones being clocked doing the ton on his bike on the M1 ... ?
He looked again. No bike. Overactive imagination. Not one of his most common failings!
On reaching Rasselas he parked in his usual spot in Lykers Lane, which was handy for his own flat but a good half mile from Beryl's block. He could have saved himself a few minutes by driving straight there, but the trouble was Aunt Mirabelle lived in the same block, and while he might just about escape observation by slipping in through the janitor's door at the rear, the presence of the Magic Mini parked anywhere close would be reported instantly by one of MI6, which in this instance stood for Mirabelle's half dozen ever alert close cronies and informants.
Not that she'd come bursting in. On the contrary, she'd probably post an armed guard on the lift to make sure the visit was in no way disturbed! But it did nothing for Joe's libido to know that the length of his stay was being monitored to the last significant second by his aunt's stopwatch.
On foot the only danger was running into one of Major Tweedie's vigilante patrols who would of course recognize him as a friend, but also recognize he was heading in the wrong direction, and another alert would be sounded down the line.
So he skulked his way from one block to the next, like a prisoner trying to escape from Colditz. At one point he thought he heard the growl of a motorbike engine and dived into the shadow of a doorway till all was silent again. Not that the silence was really silent. Just as in the darkened countryside, sounds of nature's nightlife start crackling and snuffling all around you, so here in the suburban jungle distant footfalls, a window opening, a car door closing, a snatch of laughter, a dog's bark, a blast of rock, all merged together in a sinister symphony which to Joe's musical ear seemed to be crescendoing to some explosive climax.
'You got to get your head together, man,' he admonished himself. But so strong was his sense of menace, that he almost abandoned his plan of going in through the back in favour of entering via the much better lit front entrance.
'Shoot! You a man or a mouse, Sixsmith,' he said aloud, and kept on his chosen course.
One thing, under the major's benevolent despotacy, even the service areas of the tower blocks were no longer the foul-smelling, rubbish-littered rodent runs they once had been and still were across on the Hermsprong. The huge wheelie bins were lined up like motor pool vehicles on inspection and even the lights, albeit dim, all actually worked.
Emboldened, Joe set out for the janitor's entrance. It was of course kept locked, but one of Joe's most closely guarded secrets was that as a result of a helping hand he'd been able to offer the janitor's daughter when she got out of her depth with a bunch of teenage pushers, he had his own personal key.
He had almost made it to the door when the figure stepped out from behind one of the big metal bins and hit him with some kind of club. It was a savage, full-blooded swing which would have split even his hard head like a melon if it had connected direct. But Joe's senses hadn't been alerted for nothing and a saving moment before his mind signalled ATTACK! his body was into evasion. Even then the best it had time to manage was shoulder up and head down as the club came whistling round. The shoulder took most of the blow, leaving his arm numb and paralysed, while the weapon went onward and upward, clipping the top of his skull with a glancing but nonetheless stunning blow.
He went down. His body was divided between evasion and defence, but his mind advised submission. Do like an overmatched cat would. Lie on your back with your legs in the air, let the guy take your wallet must be all of twenty quid in it! then raise the alarm and wait for the paramedics.
