Out of Time

by Steven Allinson

After sitting in their usual booth, Artimus excused himself and walked to the other end of the bar. Five minutes later, he arrived back with the portly gentlemen Neil had seen slumped over the table on his first visit.

  “You appear to be becoming a bit of a regular, detective.” said George, sliding his massive girth onto the bench opposite. “It is a pleasure.”

  Neil accepted the hand offered, the heavy grip and firm shake catching him off guard. “Likewise.” he said, retracting his hand and trying not to grimace. “Mister..?”

  “Neil!” said Artimus, nearly spitting beer. “That is no way to talk to a knight of the realm. I apologise Gobbler, I believe the current generation are devoid of the vagaries of respect.”

  “It is fine, Cranky. I am sure Detective Townsend bore no idea who I was.” said George, forcing a smile. “I take no slight from the actions of the ignorant.”

  “I’m sorry.” said Neil, figuring that humour was the easiest way to diffuse any bad feelings. “The last time I saw you, Artimus called you George. I assume your title is Sir George, and not simply Gobbler; or even Sir Gobbler.”

  George chuckled and Artimus joined in. “I can see why Mister Crane likes you Neil.” said George. “Forgive my teasing, you may call me what you want.”

  Neil relaxed. Seemingly, another test had been passed. Being around Artimus was akin to riding on a rollercoaster. He was not sure he could cope with any more ups or downs today. “Thanks George. How did you get to be a knight?”

  “Services to Queen and Country, I think they call it. In my day we called it what it is; murdering people for your government.” said George, to the shock of Neil. “In other words, I was a spy. Much like your colleague here once was.” His smile dissipated and a frown crossed his face, as Artimus’ eyes closed and his head sagged. “Ah, I apologise Cranky. Haven’t had chance to inform the young man of our history yet, have we?”

  “You were a spy?” said Neil, turning to Artimus.

  “For a while.” said Artimus, distantly. “Not a very good one as it turned out. Let’s not linger on it any longer than we have to.”

  Neil wanted to know more, but he knew once a decision was made in Artimus’ world, there was no going back. “I take it from the knighthood you were more successful than Artimus?”

  “Perhaps.” said George, unconvincingly. “I certainly did it for far longer, you should see that as the reason our fair Queen invited me to her house.”

  “This banal chat is all well and good gentlemen,” said Artimus, still looking perturbed, “but we have business to attend to. George, we require your assistance with a matter of the utmost delicacy.”

  “I am at your disposal.” said George, straightening.

  “Excellent.” said Artimus, smiling. “An odious malcontent by the name of Clara Robertson, a Liberal Democrat don’t you know, is making our attempts to prise information from her more tiresome a task than it needs to be.”

  “You know Nicholas’ father Artimus. Get good Old Saint Nic on the blower and tell him to get his damn son in line. You don’t need me for this.”

  “Actually, I do.” said Artimus, a little sheepishly. “I may not be on best speaking terms with that family at present.”

  “I thought you said you had cleared things up?” said Neil, confused.

  “My comments may have been an aberration from the truth.”

  “You, lie?” said George, laughing. “Why am I not surprised? How did you manage to insult the man who looked after the family fortune for all those years? Or was it junior you insulted?”

  “Both.”

  “How exactly? And I need an answer if I am to rectify this.”

  “I may have slighted their pedigree.” said Artimus, his brow furrowed in rumination. “They are married into both German and Dutch lines, and I was very upset.”

  “And now you want me to make things better?”

  “If you could.” Artimus gave George a winsome smile, downing the last of his pint and calling over the barman.

  “Getting me sloshed will not assist in granting you a successful outcome. Nicholas has been a friend of mine for…”

  “Oh, shush now George.” said Artimus, handing over a twenty and refusing change. “It’s never failed before, I’m sure it won’t fail me now!”

  Neil watched the pair belly laugh across the table, both seemingly comfortable with the constant jibes of the other. It was clear the two men knew each other well, were versed in their respective abilities, and shared a deep respect that went beyond simple familiarity. What was not immediately obvious was why. If Artimus and George were part of British Intelligence, but Artimus did not stay long, surely that could not be the link. However, given that George remained in service for many years, how had their paths crossed to the extent the relationship showed? It was truly perplexing.

  Neil relaxed his mind, trying not to concentrate too hard on what he needed to know. He did not want to tell Artimus, but that was exactly how his epiphany with the philandering of Mister Grayson had come about.

  Neil was not concentrating then either. Distracted by Artimus, he was at once thinking about why Clara Robertson was trying to mislead them, whilst trying to think about what it told them if she was not.

  Neil blinked, staring at Artimus and George as his mouth slowly opened in revelation. Familiar knowledge of each other’s patterns, nicknames used in polite discussion, clear respect held beyond work experience, and a desire to see each other’s requests fulfilled. Had he done it again? Was it that simple?

  “You two are cousins.” said Neil, grabbing his coke from the table and taking a swig. Instantly regretting it, he started to cough violently as the two men turned to face him. He held up a palm as his wheezing subsided, before placing the foul drink back on the table. “Sorry about that.”

  Artimus peered straight through Neil, his face twisted in concern. “Have you suddenly gained abilities I am not aware of? That’s twice today you’ve surprised me. How have you done it this time?”

  “Er…” said Neil, worried that he had done something wrong. “You two know each other on a level beyond a working relationship and are casual in both your postures and language. You do not look enough like one another for it to be a close familial tie, so that left me with first or second cousins. It’s the only explanation.” He held his hands up in supplication, as George turned to Artimus.

  “He’s a lot better than you said he was.” said George, one eye closing slightly as he appraised Neil.

  “He wasn’t.” said Artimus, not wavering in his gaze. “Something has changed. I’m unsure what.”

  Neil remained frozen to his seat as George and Artimus continued to look him over. It was as if they had been given a puzzle and were weighing up where to start.

  “Recent Trauma?” said George, stroking his chin.

  “I cuffed him round the head then kicked him in the plums for being a twat.” said Artimus, matter-of-factly. “However, I don’t think this can be explained by damage to the Iliohypogastric nerve.”

  “Could have had a secondary impact to the dorsal root ganglion.” said George, raising an eyebrow. “There are cases of sudden learning events caused by strokes linked with overexcitement of it.”

  Artimus shook his head. “Neil is an eidetic. That kind of incident is beyond his brain wiring.”

  “Bollocks!” said George, bashing the table. “Videographic memory is a myth.”

  “Neil, describe how many and of what type beverage was on the table when you first met George, plus tell him exactly what he was wearing.”

  Neil closed his eyes, opening them a fraction of a second later. “Five empty pints of lager, five empty pints of wheat beer, plus a half-finished whisky and coke. You were wearing green cords, tan loafers, white sports socks, green vest, and a mottled-brown woolly jumper.” He smiled, catching the stunned look on George’s face.

  “Well I never!” George exclaimed, his eyes wide. “Emotive hemispheric assimilation.”

  “Good c
all George!” said Artimus, patting him on the back. He waved a finger in the air triumphantly, snatching his pint and laying into it with gusto. “I knew you were not as stupid as you looked.”

  “If intellects and appearances were conjoined,” said George, laughing, “you Cranky, would be fortunate to be branded an imbecile.”

  The two howled, their glasses clinking together before they finished another drink.

  Neil simply gawped. It was like being in a zoo, an animal on display for other’s enjoyment. “Can we get to the point where we can talk over what we are here to discuss?” He said, increasingly put out.

  “Let’s see what these new abilities can do, shall we Neil?” said Artimus, his head swaying slightly as he spoke, as if looking into Neil’s eyes at a different angle might tell him something new. “You tell me what we found out today.”

  “Do we have to go through the games?” said Neil, feeling like a cadet at his placement interview.

  “I certainly have an interest.” said George, leaning back into his seat. “Not only can I judge if Artimus is suitably impressed, but I can glean valuable information about why I am being asked to put one of my oldest friendships on the line for this arse.”

  “Thanks for the coercive assistance, Gobbler. Expect payback.”

  “I’ll expect nothing of the sort if you actually want any help Cranky.” said George, meeting Artimus’ piercing look. “Now detective, if you would be so kind as to give us the benefit of your considerations into the events as you see them.”

  Neil sighed, reaching for his coke to wet his dry mouth and retracting when he realised how disgusting an experience that could be.

  Sensing his need, Artimus called the bartender over again, ordered three drinks, and shoved one in his direction. “It’s called Alpine. Don’t worry, it’s only weak.”

  “Weak for whom?” said Neil, carefully taking a sip. “You? Or someone who can actually feel the effects of alcohol?”

  “This is Citizen Smith’s public house Neil. Weak, as in weak for a man whose lightest beer gives you a hangover equivalent to a twenty-kiloton thermonuclear warhead going off behind your eyes. That kind of weak.”

  “Great.” said Neil, sipping even more gingerly. “Should I get through my recap quickly or should we wait for the boom?”

  “Now would be good.” said George, chuckling.

  Neil zoned out, closing his eyes and running through the events of the day. Some of the sequences around the morning’s interviews were cloudy at best, but soon everything was fine and he was chasing down the strange argument between Artimus and Henry, then the trip to the estate agent’s, before ending with the conversation with Clara Robertson. “To be honest, the only thing today has done is confuse me. Clara Robertson looked for all the world to be involved in this, but clearly she’s not. We’re still no closer to understanding why. The people this morning were a dead stick, other than the one you said may be running some masonic lodge. Is he tied to the mole at the Yard? Again, not sure. Michael Grayson suddenly comes back into the picture, but I couldn’t tell you what is going on there because he doesn’t look like a guy who’s capable of buying a house in Belsize Park out of his own pocket, yet he clearly did, and then sold it. We need to know where that money went. What we do know is he had an affair at some point. It is definitely worth our while finding out with whom, and that’s about it. Oh, other than that Noel Grayson is in with the masons as well, but you think he’s just funding them to climb the ranks.”

  Neil waited for a response. Artimus looked vaguely insulted and George had turned to face him.

  “It’s a bit sketchy still, isn’t it?” said George, shrugging his shoulders. “I wouldn’t say there’s anything major going on.”

  “Bland.” said Artimus, disappointment loading his voice. “Not at all the insightful breakdown I expected.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” said Neil, as sarcastically as he could muster. “I had no idea I was being tested… again.”

  “Life’s a test Neil.” said Artimus, taking another gulp of drink. “You would do well to play you’re A-game more often. Or at least attempt to locate where you’re A-game is.”

  Before Neil could say anything further, Bancombe’s head appeared round the corner of the booth. “Ah, Artimus! Glad I got here before everyone else.”

  Bancombe handed Artimus a folder and Neil watched him scan its contents. At the end of his initial perusal, a frown drew wide over his face.

  “These tests have been done independently of the labs at Scotland Yard?” asked Artimus, perturbed.

  “They have.” said Bancombe, cautiously. “Problem?”

  “Could be.” said Artimus, his voice hushed. Closing the folder, he placed it by his side, and checked his watch. “Can you keep Cyril company for an hour or so Gobbler? We have our first guest arriving in five minutes.”

  “Sure thing Cranky.” said George, prising himself out of the booth. “You want us incognito or are we good with lingering at the bar?”

  “Out of sight I’m afraid.” said Artimus, distantly.

  “No problem.” said George, setting off. “We’ll head down into the cellars.”

  As the pair disappeared, Neil could feel an air of expectation begin to swell in the booth. Artimus shuffled, a slight grimace drawing over his features as he rolled his glass between his palms.

  “I need you up to speed as quickly as possible Neil.” said Artimus, breaking his troubled silence. “I need you working with me on this, at my level, or it could get away from us too quickly. If Cyril is right, we’re running out of easy options fast and your run-through was just about as awful as I’ve heard for man who can remember everything he is present for.”

  Neil did not reply, he did not know what Artimus was talking about.

  “I need you to see what I’m seeing Neil.” said Artimus, forcefully. “We have a few minutes before Dawn gets here. So, let’s see what you’ve got. I want to know why I’ve done what I’ve done.”

  “Which part?” said Neil, confused.

  “The parts that had you baffled today.” said Artimus, expectantly. “I need to know you can figure some of this out for yourself if needed. We’ll start with Clara Robertson.”

  Neil thought back to everything they had discussed with Clara, the two things that perplexed him being how Artimus had known she had not bought the house in Belsize Park before they had spoken to her and why she still believed her assistant lived at her old address.

  Neil flicked his eyes to Artimus, trying to discern anything from his passive stare. That was pointless. He closed his eyes again and played all the comments Artimus made. None of them helped. It appeared he had to decipher this himself.

  Neil calmed his thoughts. He was a detective, and a damn good one. If there was something to figure out, surely…

  Once again, a brief relax and a change in focus appeared to have done the trick. Opening his eyes and smiling, he looked straight at Artimus. “We know Clara Robertson did not buy the house in Belsize Park because she made no initial mention of it when the story appeared on the news. If she really did own the house, or indeed have anything to do with it, she would have explained everything to the police at the earliest opportunity because she would want to protect her position as an MP. Which means, she is unaware of the change of address of her assistant because she is either distanced from the knowledge, presumably by her clerk, or the information never reached her. That brings Missus Grayson back into suspicion.”

  “One down.” said Artimus, grinning. “Mister Grayson next.”

  Neil barely had to zone out before information and explanations appeared. He opened his eyes and stared at Artimus, shocked at the sudden rush of activity in his brain.

  “It’s happening, isn’t it?” said Artimus, his voice an eager hush. “Stay calm and let it.”

  Neil took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as once more the onrushing data swam over him. “You think the Michael Grayson who bought the house was Noel Grayson. There
’s enough family resemblance for them to be mistaken because of the age difference, and Noel Grayson used that to buy the house in his brother’s name, probably using one of the accounts he has off-shore that Dawn told us about. We need to know why.” He looked up, Artimus was lounged back, one arm draped over the bench and the other holding his beer aloft.

  “And…” said Artimus, circling his free hand to get Neil to take the next logical step.

  “Never!” said Neil, total surprise washing over him. “If Missus Grayson’s work still thinks she lives at her old address that means they are sending correspondences there. That then means she needs access to the property to retrieve it. If Noel Grayson bought the house in Belsize Park, then he had a reason to move his brother from the old house. That could mean Missus Grayson is potentially having an affair with Noel Grayson! That’s why Missus Grayson still has access. The Grayson’s never sold it. The affair could be a revenge thing for Mister Grayson, or it could be that Mister Grayson never had an affair at all, and Missus Grayson was trying to get her own issues off her chest when she was talking with Fiona Shaw.”

  “Now there’s a thought.” said Artimus, clearly impressed. “Anything else you think I should know?”

  “Yeah.” said Neil, his confidence brimming. “This would take less time and be far less painful if you could please try to not be quite as big an arsehole as you are being.”

  Artimus nodded, laughing heartily. “Duly noted my good man.”

  As if timing her arrival perfectly, Dawn walked up to the booth and stood in the light drawing down from the orbs overhead. The amber glow, diffused by the glass screens surrounding them, draped her dark skin in warming tones and seemed to lift the highlights from her hair and make them sparkle.

  Without knowing it, Neil found he had sagged forward and was finishing a long sigh that had drawn the attention of both Dawn and Artimus.

  “I thought you were gay?” said Dawn, disturbed by what Neil was doing.

  Neil straightened instantly, coughing nervously and shuffling down the bench. “I never said I was gay. That was…”

  “Me dear.” finished Artimus, patting the space to his side. “As it turns out, he’s just a socially inept pervert. My bad.”

  Dawn laughed, taking up a position next to Artimus and taking a folder from her bag. “So, where do you want me to start?”

  “From the top.” said Artimus, exuberantly. “Before you do, can I get you a libation of some kind?”

  “Sure.” said Dawn, craning her neck to see the bar. “What wines do they do?”

  “Terps or Meths.” said Artimus, scowling. “Although, I hear if you mix either with full-fat tonic-water and ice, you get a concoction more resembling rubbing alcohol than paint stripper.”

  “I’ll have a coke.” said Dawn, looking worriedly at Neil as he shook his head vigorously.

  “The cola-style drink they serve here is way up at the rat end of the piss spectrum.” said Artimus, apologetically. “And I think Neil would agree even that’s being generous. How about half a lager?”

  “Fine.” said Dawn, as Artimus ordered another round and the barman cleared their empties. “Are we all ready now?”

  “I think so.” said Artimus, checking with Neil.

  “OK.” said Dawn, delicately opening the folder and pinching the first page. “Seeing as how neither of you has even looked at the report of Officer Leeks on Alanis Grayson, I’ve taken the liberty of condensing the significant points for you.”

  “That was thoughtful dear.” said Artimus, taking a swig of his beer. “As you can see, we’ve been unusually busy.”

  “Obviously.” She glared at Neil, not turning to give the same look to Artimus before continuing. “Alanis is in non-acute psychogenic shock, and has been sleeping in the same bed as Mister and Missus Grayson since the incident. Although her blood pressure is high and her respiratory system is still suffering from the effects, Officer Leeks is assured there will be no long-term damage and the only thing needed is attention and time. As far as her recollections of what happened go, Alanis struggled to return many details. In fact, on the two occasions Officer Leeks attempted to get a clean story from Alanis, the story markedly changed each time. The only consistent evidence given is that it was her father who carried her out of the cellar to the kitchen.”

  Neil glanced at Artimus, who was nodding to Dawn’s side. “So, were there any details about Missus Grayson’s activities whilst she was in the cellar?”

  Dawn flicked a couple of sheets, scanning quickly before returning to the first. “She’s changed that story unfortunately. Officer Leeks says not to trust either version.”

  “Give us both anyway Dawn.” said Artimus, seemingly disinterested. “We can see if they are worthy of further attention if anything pieces against them.”

  “Well, her first account says both her and her mother were in the cellar with the bodies. Her second says she ran into the cellar alone, and her mother remained in the living room.”

  “I take it one statement came from the day of the call to the police, and the other was yesterday?” asked Artimus.

  “Actually, one was boxing day, the other this morning.” said Dawn, checking her notes. “Officer Leeks gave Alanis an extra day to try to get her stable so questions could be asked. Literally as soon as the interview was typed up it was on your desk.”

  “Of course it was.” said Artimus, pleasantly. “I would expect nothing less my dear. Please continue.”

  Dawn smiled, returning to her notes and running a finger down the second page. “Forensics came back on the wall to the cellar. At best guess the wall has been there fifty-seven weeks, with a three week margin of error either way. The bricks are a modern LBC sixty-five millimetre red-clay composite, manufactured by the London Brick Company. There are thousands of stockists and no printed serials; so there’s no way of tracking the purchase. The mortar is a seventy-thirty cement-lime damp resistant mix. The patina you recovered from the chair in the room was a gum-Arabic, often used by Chinese labellers looking for a non-glue based way of affixing shipping tags to goods. Again, its use is so widespread that tracking specific manufacturers will be impossible. The gum appears to have been disturbed by the lime in the brickwork, as all three dating attempts returned error dates.”

  “Error results?” said Artimus, nodding as he took notes. “Can we have specifics so we can make that determination ourselves?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dawn, flicking pages, “I can’t give that information as I don’t have it. The reports simply say error in the date section.” She unclipped the relevant forms from her folder and handed them over. “You can check for yourself.”

  Artimus accepted the pages, placing them on the seat to his side. “Thank you Dawn. Please continue.”

  “The genetic results were next.” said Dawn, revealing multiple sheets of paper. Each page was strewn with purple bands of varying thicknesses running in rows along its length. There must have been twenty or so such sheets, and soon the table was obscured by three neatly stacked columns. “Mister Grayson, Missus Grayson, and Alanis.” said Dawn, pointing to each column from right to left. “Because we had so much tissue to play with, RFLP, AmpFLP, STR, and YSTR results have been stacked against their cellar counterparts. The differential you see in the third stack is probably the most perplexing aspect, but Alanis is young and so growth hormone and natural cellular mitosis could have caused some of the erroneous data. The bottom sheet of each is our third corroboratory gene sample.”

  “This looks like what I was expecting.” said Artimus, looking down the page. “I assume the RFLP was broad-spectrum rather than the Metropolitan Police’s minimum thirteen base?”

  Neil waited quietly at the other side of the table, not wanting to comment. His knowledge of genetics was limited at best. In most cases, he looked for certain words. Positive match, almost one hundred percent certainty, and no match being the most likely on any forensics results to pique his interest. What Dawn and Artimus
were currently discussing was way beyond his level of expertise.

  Neil watched as Artimus continued to question Dawn. As his unrelenting thirst to check his thinking was correct poured forth, Neil could see Dawn’s pupils slowly widen. It was clear she was getting pleasure from the conversation. He watched a hand reach up and run through her hair. She pouted, almost mouthing Artimus’ words. A smile swept across her sublime face, drenching her countenance in serene radiance. She leant back, exposing her delicate neck, as she crossed her legs.

  “…but of course he’d never know that because he’s off with the fucking fairies again, isn’t he?” said Artimus, slapping the table with his hand. “Earth to Detective Townsend!”

  Neil snapped his head up from ogling Dawn’s legs to find both Artimus and Dawn glaring at him. Not sure what else to do, and turning a shade of red not usually possible outside a sauna, he apologised.

  “What is your problem?” said Dawn, frowning.

  “We don’t have time for a full analysis Dawn.” said Artimus, in mock surprise. “Henry wants the case closed before the end of January, at the latest!”

  “Ha ha, very funny. I have apologised you know.” said Neil, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can’t help it if…”

  “I’m a pervert.” said Artimus, interrupting and copying Neil’s voice. “We know. Dawn especially.”

  “Not funny at all, Artimus.” said Neil, indignantly.

  “Oh, lighten up Neil.” said Dawn, flicking her hair. “I have great pins. I know this. You’re not the first man to stare at them. It’s not a problem.”

  “It’s not?” said Neil, his anger fading and a smile spreading across his face.

  “What part of the olive branch you were just offered do you wish to rip off first Neil?” said Artimus, astounded.

  “What?”

  “Head – in – the – game.” said Artimus, cuffing Neil across the ear. “Do you know what we just said?”

  “No idea.” said Neil, rubbing his head.

  “The genetic tests, every single one of them, came back as a match to the Graysons. Unless we are talking about monozygotic twins of each of the family members, we just told you the bodies are those of the Grayson family.”

  “Monogeriatric..?”

  “Identical Neil.” said Artimus, moaning in frustration. “Identical twins are known as monozygotic twins, because mono is single and zygote is egg; thus, two people from one egg, for those of us who learnt English from a Speak and Spell.”

  Dawn started to laugh, and Neil turned redder, hanging his head into his lap.

  “You know what we said about being an arsehole?” Neil raised his eyes to meet Artimus’. “Anytime you want would be good.”

  “The point is Neil,” said Artimus, hurrying the conversation along, “it turns out it was the Grayson family in that cellar.”

  “Bullshit.” said Neil, rubbing his brow. “It simply can’t be. Mainly because they are still alive. How do I know this? I don’t know, maybe because I’ve fucking met them!”

  “Anger is not going to change our results Neil.” said Artimus, shrugging. “There are possibilities left, and I think we are now firmly in the realm of number three.”

  “Three being?” asked Neil, certain there would be no response.

  “Why don’t we allow Dawn to finish up first?” said Artimus, motioning for her to continue. “Where were we?” He ran a hand through his hair, tapping his pen against his lips. “Does that actually leave us anything?”

  Dawn flicked another page, settling on two items of information. “Mister Grayson’s bank account shows no sign of transfers in or out relating to the purchase of sale of the property in Belsize Park, and the signature given on the title deeds does not match the one Santander hold on file for him for his current account. Oh, yes, and there were no twins born on the same day at the same hospital as Mister or Missus Grayson.”

  “Truly excellent work Dawn.” said Artimus, beaming. “Do you not think Neil?”

  “Very impressive, as always.” said Neil, trying a smile.

  Artimus called the bartender over and bought another round before Dawn could refuse. Yet another crisp twenty handed over for the drinks.

  The next forty-five minutes passed in a blur of joviality and humour for Neil, before the stupefying grin accompanying the arrival of Wordy snapped him back to the present.

  “Evening guys!” said Wordy, taking a seat next to Neil. “Glad your driver turned up Artimus. I was almost climbing into a taxi for King’s Cross. Evening Dawn.”

  “Why?” said Neil, unsure he really needed to hear the response.

  “When Artimus’ note said ‘head for the Cittie of York’, well…”

  “Don’t bother.” said Neil, groaning and chuckling at the same time. “Do you have whatever Artimus asked you to bring?”

  “Well,” said Wordy, unsure where to start, “there’s only one piece of information to give to be honest, as the Grayson’s and Miss Robertson both only had basic surveyors reports done. The person at the surveyor’s office called it a ‘drive-by’. He says the report will tell you nothing.”

  “That sounds about right.” said Artimus, glancing between Dawn and Wordy. “And the other thing?”

  “Oh yes.” John went into his pocket and brought out a bag with something floating in it. “It was frozen, so I have no idea if it needs longer to get better. Can I ask why you needed it?”

  “I’m not sure I did…” said Artimus, looking mildly horrified.

  Neil could not help but stare. There, in a sandwich bag part filled with water, a clearly frozen king prawn bobbed.

  “I think all I can say is… er…” stumbled Artimus, accepting the gift. “Thanks?”

  “Hey, no problem Mister C. Just glad I could find a fishmaker who didn’t speak English to get what you needed. Not sure he understood what I was after, but as long as you have it…” said John, picking up a random drink from the table and taking a swig. “Jesus! What is this shit!”

  “Alpine lager.” said Neil, lost in his thoughts.

  “It tastes like it’s come from a Renault too!” said Wordy, picking up another. “This one’s much better.”

  “That’s slops from the empties.” said Artimus, his face contorting with the images now roaming his mind. “It’s probably a good fifteen percent masticational fluid.”

  “It’s nice.” said Wordy, finishing the rest with gusto. “I’ll have a pint of this masticano slops the next time anyone goes to the bar.”

  Artimus removed his wallet and handed Wordy a crisp twenty. “You go, will you? Two pure-brewed, one Alpine, one half of Taddy, and whatever it was you think you just drank.”

  As Wordy left, Dawn shook her head. “I never realised just how…” she said, her voice timid.

  “We all make mistakes dear.” said Artimus, knowingly. “He’s not a bad looking lad. Staff party?”

  “How..?” said Dawn, turning to Artimus.

  “Posture mainly.” said Artimus, weighing up how to say what he needed to. “Familial awkwardness is the term, I believe. It’s usually due to shared events people haven’t had chance to deal with. A one night stand was just the easiest option for you two.”

  “What?” said Neil, dumbstruck.

  “Don’t look so disgusted!” said Dawn, defensively. “It was the first time I met him, and he seemed like a lot of fun.”

  “You and Wordy…” said Neil, his brain refusing to process the information.

  “I wasn’t sure when I first met them, but the more they were forced to interact, the more they avoided each other. In the end, it was the only choice left.” said Artimus, nodding. “Still, you’re single now, right?”

  “I am.” said Dawn, not understanding where Artimus was going.

  “So, still a good chance of you throwing a little seed around then Neil.” said Artimus, finishing his drink. “Excuse me a moment. I’ll just go get Cyril and George. I’m sure they’re missing us.”

  As Artimus w
andered off, Dawn simply gawped.

  Feeling the blood rush to his cheeks once more, Neil grabbed his drink and downed it. Hopefully, Wordy would return from the bar soon and he could get on with trying to erase his memory of the evening to date.

  Chapter 27

  Back in the Room