contradictions. Wrong timings. It’s all over the place. And, hang about, reprogramming, did you say? These Ministry men have reprogrammed my brain somehow, is that what you’re saying?’
‘In as many words, yes.’
‘Reprogrammed me to do what?’
‘Who can say?’ And Mr Ishmael shrugged. ‘They do have some very state-of-the-art techniques of mind control. They will probably have brainwashed you so that at a given signal, known only to themselves, you will perform certain actions without being aware that you are doing it.’
‘What?’ I said. And, ‘WHAT?’ I shouted.
‘Calm down, please,’ said Mr I.
‘Calm down? I’ve had my brain tampered with. What might I do? What?’
‘It might be just a surveillance thing. Although it’s more likely to be something more. Assassination, probably.’
‘They want to assassinate me?’
‘Not you. You will be triggered to assassinate someone else.’
‘WHAT?’ I shouted. Most loudly.
‘But don’t worry,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘If it’s me that they are intending you to assassinate, I will deal with it.’
‘How?’
‘I will kill you,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘Now, what else would you like to know?’
21
It’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it? How things progress, gain momentum, spiral out of control and things of that nature, generally.
I mean, one minute I was strumming happily on a ukulele. Admittedly to an empty school hall. And then, the next minute, suddenly everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.
There was a day missing out of my life, a day during which, it appeared, I had been put through some kind of mind-control programming that had the potential to turn me into a robotised assassin at the push of a pre- programmed button. A killer zombie, perhaps, but alive.
And zombies. The reoccupied. Could any of that actually be true? I don’t know whether I would have believed it if it had just been down to my brother’s half-mad ramblings. But Mr Ishmael appeared to confirm it. And whatever Mr Ishmael was, he was clearly something. Somebody. He spoke with authority.
And so I considered doing a runner.
I weighed up the pros and cons. Hanging around here meant considerable danger, but would that danger diminish if I fled elsewhere? If this danger was a sort of Universal Danger, then ultimately there would be nowhere to run. But then if I did run and did hide very well, I might just be able to avoid the Universal Danger. If I hid very very well.
It was a tricky one.
Of course, if I stayed, I could go on being a private eye. And it was quite clear from the success that I had enjoyed thus far that I was really born to this particular profession. And there was the matter of being in The Sumerian Kynges. Because Mr Ishmael had our equipment and he had promised to make us successful.
It was every boy’s dream, wasn’t it? To be a private eye and a rock ’n’ roll star. All bases covered. How cool would that be? And I hadn’t forgotten about being cool. And just how important that was.
‘Speak to me,’ said Mr Ishmael, for I was still in the back of his limo, and although I couldn’t see him now as the vehicle was completely fogged up with cigar smoke, he could clearly see me. Because he then said, ‘You have a very silly look upon your face.’
‘I am cogitating,’ I told him. ‘Weighing up the pros and cons. Trying to make a considered judgement.’
‘Unnecessary,’ said the enigmatic Mr I. ‘I will make the big decisions for you, thereby saving you the mental energy. The added benefit being that I will arrive at the correct decisions.’
I shook my head and made a wary face. ‘I can’t make any sense out of any of this,’ I said. ‘It’s all too much for my brainbox.’
‘Then leave it to me, young man. More scotch?’
‘Yes, please.’ And more scotch was poured into my glass.
And then Mr Ishmael touched his glass to mine and said ‘cheers’. And we drank.
‘It is all very complicated,’ said Mr Ishmael, ‘and it may take years to unravel. All the loose ends must be carefully tied together. If we are to succeed, we must tread a careful path et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘Et cetera?’ I queried.
‘You know the form,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘It would go on in that vein. But you probably don’t want to hear any more cliches.’
‘I’d appreciate some comforting ones,’ I replied, ‘such as “it will all come out in the wash” and “all will be well that ends well”.’
‘It will all come out in the wash,’ said Mr Ishmael.
‘That’s comforting indeed,’ said I.
‘But I will have to drop you off here. I have a luncheon engagement at the Wimpy Bar. Important American contact, I want to make an impression. You know how it is.’
‘Yes, but-’
‘A Double-Decker followed by a Multiple Pile-Up.’
‘I don’t think I’ve tried that one, but-’
‘And two Coca-Colas with ice and straws.’
‘Yes, but-’
‘So, keep in touch.’ And with that I was ushered from the limo.
As in, the door on my side was opened and I was ejected at speed. It was done with skill, however, as my glass and my cigar were snatched from my hands as I was flung from the car and into the street.
I rolled to an uncomfortable standstill in a gutter.
I rose unsteadily to my feet and dusted myself down. Where was I? I looked to the left and the right. I was outside my house, which was something at least. I sighed, brushed further snow from my person and trudged, fairly trudged, up my short garden path.
I rang the doorbell and my mother answered this ringing.
My brother was just finishing my lunch. ‘It was a shame to let it go to waste,’ said he. ‘Christmas pudding, mince pies and gay cream.’
‘Gay cream?’ I queried.
‘Why did you run away from those Jehovah’s Bed-Wetters?’
‘Jehovah’s Wet-Nurses,’ I corrected my brother.
‘So, why did you run?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said. ‘It was all a misunderstanding. And why are you looking so happy? Aside from the fact that you’ve managed to eat my lunch as well as your own?’ For my brother was grinning fit to burst.
‘I have decided to eschew the speedboat and the sports car and invest my money in opening a private detective agency.’
‘Oh,’ I said. And, ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Would you care to go into partnership with me? We could cover each other’s backs, as our colonial cousins will have it.’
‘You and me in our own private detective agency?’
‘We’d need to take on a young woman, as secretary and receptionist. She’d need to be blonde with very big bosoms.’
‘Why?’ I asked, and my brother stared at me.
‘Right,’ I said once more. ‘Enough said.’
