THE STRANGE CASE OF THE METAL XYLOPHONE (STRANGE CASE 03)

Porridge, a set of pink neon lights, a heated argument about xylophones, the words 'clearly there had been a murder', ice, Morris dancers, the taming of three shrews, a portaloo, yesterday's newspaper and Horace the humble hat-maker. You wouldn't necessarily connect these things, but they all came together to create something I will always regard as the strangest case of my long career...

It had been another of those long, hot summers during which the sewers smelled as high as a kite, but there was barely a whiff of work. My telephone hadn't rung for so long that I was beginning to wonder whether the line had been cut, and it was while I was phoning the telephone company to find out, that the dame walked through the door.

What any private detective really wants is a juicy murder to solve, but nine times out of ten what we get is another sordid divorce case. Some sobbing dame would walk through the door and say "I think my husband is having an affair!" and I'd spend the next week hiding in the bushes with a camera. So you'll forgive me if I wasn't expecting much from this particular dame. Boy, was I wrong! 

"I think my husband is having an affair!" sobbed the dame. At these words, I stood to attention like a pointer sighting a covey of quail. Clearly, there had been a murder.

I suspected the Morris dancers straight off. Every morning they performed relentlessly outside the shelter. Come rain or shine, wind or wither, they would down tools and block the way, making me late for work every darned morning. Three years they'd been doing this. I knew in the back of my mind that they would be connected to this seedy underworld and, ultimately, murder.

But what were those pink neon lights on the other side of town? I had to get there, and quickly.

I pushed past the dame — Mrs Pardoe from the wool shop — without a word. Given the gravity of the situation, I was sure she would understand that there was no time for niceties.

I hailed a cab to the other side of town, telling the driver to head straight for the pink lights. The driver grumbled something about Philip K. Dick, but 8 miles and £28.50 later he got us there. I told the guy I'd pay him when I got my cheque from Mrs P, and jumped out when he stopped at the lights. There they were — in hot, neon pink that seared into the retina — the words:

UN LE SAL'S P ZZA IA

What could it mean? Either some of the letters were missing, or it was some kind of code. Whichever it was, I had to find out, so I dived into the building. It was some kind of restaurant. A fat man in a chef's hat was shovelling dough into a clay oven.

"Ciao buddy, I'm Uncle Sal. Wanna pizza?" he said.

"Enough with the wise cracks," I snarled. "This is a murder investigation! Now, tell me — the key to deciphering the code - what is it?"

"Eh?" said Uncle Sal, if that really was his name. There was something suspicious about this guy, so I decided to get a photo for my case file. But lady luck had it in for me tonight — the second I pressed the button, two people blundered straight into the frame. It was Mr Pardoe and that young woman from the perfume counter at Lacy's Department Store. They were kissing — and they'd ruined my photo! If I never solved this case — it'd be their fault!

I spent the night at home in the air raid shelter. I couldn't sleep. Images of those pink neon lights at that coded pizza place kept flashing through my brain amongst snapshots of Morris dancers. I decided to do me a bowl of porridge, which, if I recall correctly from my school days, was invented by a young lady from Norwich.

Hang on! That was it! Tomorrow, to avoid being late for work at the shelter, I would simply start work early, and go out to pick up my newspaper DURING MY SHIFT! That way I could prevent myself ever being late again!

Curious, I sloped off for another quick glance at the letters on the front of the restaurant. I was convin ed that they held the clue to the murder that I had envisaged had happened. On the way back, I noticed a brand spanking new portaloo. To say I didn't trust it would be the understatement of the minute. It had legs for a start...

I snuck up to the portaloo and took a peek inside. If it wasn't my arch-nemesis Lucie Drang! She screamed an ear-piercing shriek. The police were here in no time, obviously having worked out the same unlawfulness as I had.

"You're under arrest, pervert!" they said to me, presumably to make it convincing in front of Drang. They never said a word to me in the police car, but they bundled me into a cell. I was excited that they were recreating Drang's arrest using me as the main actor. After three days, I suggested that perhaps I was no longer required...

The officer in charge paid no heed to my words, and instead I was lumbered with a cell-mate in the form of Terry Twirling, the local high school music teacher. 

“What are you in for?” I asked.

“Thumped a bloke, didn't I?” said Terry. “Maths teacher. Said xylophones were made of metal! I said that's glockenspiels you're thinking of. Xylophones are made of wood. Bloody idiot!”

“But you've got to admit, on an onomatopoeic level, glockenspiels do sound as though they're made of wood, whereas xylophones…”

“Are you calling me a liar?” said Terry, squaring up. I noticed that his knuckles, though bloodied, were tattooed with the words "HATE" and "BACH". Desperately I began pounding the bars of the cell in order to get the attention of the guard. It sounded a bit like a glockenspiel.

Terry shot me a disapproving look. 

"That's Toccata And Fugue In D Minor," he said, in a low, terribly menacing voice. I had to say, they were taking this reconstruction to OBSCENE lengths.

"AAAGHHH!!!" yelled one of the guards.

"You wot?" said Terry.

"AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!" said the guard again.

And a few seconds later, "OUCH!!!!"

I decided to intervene.

"Excuse me guard," I said, "but that sounded very much to me like you'd been bitten by a shrew. Am I right, or am I right?" — I thought I'd better play along with the whole façade, as we couldn't waste TOO much time before we were to arrest Lucie Drang.

"Wrong," replied the guard, "THREE SHREWS."

"Tree shrews?" I said. "But they're normally so docile!"

"THREE shrews, you numpty!", snarled Terry, and just like that, he head-butted the cell door open. We each grabbed a chair and within a few minutes had all three shrews under control.

"We make quite a team," I said. "Have you ever considered becoming a detective's assistant?"

"Naff off," said Terry, and grabbing the half-empty can of warm Stella that had been confiscated when he was thrown into the cells, he staggered outside. 

"You've forgotten your newspaper," I said, picking up the copy of the local rag that had been sitting under the can. I glanced at the cover. There, encircled by a ring of lager, was the face of Uncle Sal! 

"BUY ONE PIZZA, GET ONE FREE", it said on the chef's hat he was wearing in the photo. Of course, that was it - how could I have missed it?

I perused the newspaper with intent. I couldn't help noticing it had yesterday's date on it, the 29st of June. Something seemed a little odd here. I was just on the verge of solving the mystery when the guard arrived.

"You're free to leave" he said.

"Oh that's sick, man!" I said, momentarily forgetting that I wasn't twelve years old, "but why?"

"You tamed three shrews for me," he replied, "so I had words with the powers that be"

"The powers that be what?" I asked.

"The powers that be....I dunno....above?"

"Above what?" - I was intrigued.

"Above...the law?"

"Like who?" - I was going to beat this confession out of him if it was the last thing I did.

"You're f...free to go...." he repeated, less sure of himself now.

"Like WHO?" I said again.

I was distracted for a moment, as I caught another glance at the newspaper. The headline read: "In ompetent thieves aught by se urity ameras."

The missing letter C! Where had I seen it before? I grabbed my notepad and scanned back rigorously. There in my own handwriting was the word "convin ed"!

All this time searching and the answer had been staring me in the face every time I looked in the mirror! I turned myself in and admitted the murder of whoever it was who'd been murdered, but I'd written "clearly there had been a murder" in my notepad, so obviously I must have murdered SOMEONE.

I felt sick to the stomach but I knew that the story wasn't over yet, as I'd also written 'ice' down as one of the things to tie the story together, as well as the hat man. What was THAT all about?

No!! Hold on!! I COULDN'T have been the murderer, otherwise how could I have seen the picture of Uncle Sal and the BUY ONE GET ONE FREE deal?!!! 

I told the guard that I had now worked out that I couldn't possibly have murdered the victim, whoever that was. He said "Yes ok, I'll let you out" and we shook hands and had a good laugh about it on the way out. Now it was time to solve it once and for all.

As I shuffled back to the air raid shelter, I passed the shop of Horace, the humble hat-maker, and remembered that I had ordered a new fedora. You can't be a private detective without a fedora.

When I got there, Horace was distraught. Three of the shrews he'd been keeping as pets had escaped. He showed me the cage they'd escaped from. There, on the floor of the cage was the same newspaper I'd found in the Police Station! How could it be in two places at once?

Either something very weird was going on, or someone had made a duplicate of that newspaper. But why?

I decided to conduct a little experiment. I would cryogenically freeze everything for a while. Well, maybe not cryogenically, but I knew there was some ice in the freezer. I looked around Horace's place for a bucket, filling it with the frosty cube thingies. I snuck up behind Horace and poured the ice over his head, aiming at an angle so that it would cover some of the newspaper too. Horace shrieked loudly. But wait, where had I heard that ear piercing squeal before?

That question would have to wait, but I HAD managed to answer my OTHER question about the duplicate newspaper, and it was my experiment that solved it...

I wrote down my findings as quickly as I could, on the only paper I could find — the back of the Polaroid I'd taken, or tried to take - of Uncle Sal. With this in one hand and my brand new fedora in the other, I rushed out into the street. There was no question of going back to the shelter now — that restaurant was at the heart of whatever was going on, and I had to get back there, fast.

I hailed a cab, and as luck would have it, the first one to pass was the same one I'd taken the last time I went there. 

"Take me to the pink lights!" I said, but to my surprise, the driver leapt out of the cab and socked me in the nose, muttering something about "lousy fare dodgers" and "Philip K. Dick nuts". The last thing I remember before everything went black was the driver taking my brand new fedora as collateral for the cab fare.

The next thing I remember was waking up on the sidewalk with a dame bending over me. It was Mrs Pardoe from the wool shop, and she was clutching the Polaroid.

"You did it!", she said.

"Did what?"

"Caught my husband with his fancy-woman," said Mrs Pardoe, dangling the Polaroid. "You know, I'm actually surprised, I had come to the conclusion you were an idiot."

"Wait," I said. "You can't have that, it's got my theory about the newspapers on the back of it!" But she was already getting into the back of the cab. As I staggered to my feet, it roared off up the road.

The next morning I turned on the television. Clearly there had been a murder. I saw the police on the news arresting Lucie Drang. I slurped on my coffee with satisfaction. I knew it was her, because that paper, the one at Horace's house, it was wet, so it couldn't have been the same one as the pizza place. It all made sense now, the missing "c", well that was obviously just a cleverly positioned clue by Uncle Sal, right near the portaloo, and was meant to be read as "see?".

That was all it took. I bristled with pride at such an impressive resolution to the case, and now I was free to do as I wished. And what I wished was that in the next case...I would have a sidekick.

But who would it be? Terry Twirling, the mild mannered music teacher? Horace, the humble hat-maker? Uncle Sal, the perplexing pizza chef? Or someone else entirely? One thing was certain —whoever it was, it would be the strangest case of my long career...

FIN

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STRING

I hate this part. The part just before the movie ends. They never have any damn string! Why don't cinemas provide string?

An old woman shot me an angry glance as I plucked a long, grey hair from her head. Otherwise...otherwise what else was I to use? No string, you see.

I quietly crept underneath her seat, and waited patiently for my moment. At last! The credits rolled. I tied one end of the string to the tail of her dog, which was sleeping at her feet, and the other end to the ankle of the man sitting next to her.

Popcorn was spayed everywhere, through the airtight nozzles that such snacks always come in. The dog's yelps drowned out the post-credits sequence.

The man floated into the air, somewhat unexpectedly, the dog still dangling from the silver buckle from whence it was tied. Chaos reigned in the Odeon. I had won, again. I love those dog biscuits.

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BANANAS

"With these bananas, I can rule the world! MWAHAHAH HAHAHAHA MWAHAHAHAHA!"

And if I ruled the world what fun there'd be,
If I could only get down from this tree!

I don't even know how I got here. Yesterday, I was just closing the shop, and I blanked out. Next thing I knew, I was in this tree. And now my wife is yelling that rubbish about bananas at me. She's deluded.

My wife is not the woman she once was,
Her evil machinations give me pause.
Yet still I love her with ferocity,
And will support her. Now, about this tree...

Annoyingly, I am inconsistent. Each time I open my mouth, I am unsure just how poetic my prose will be. Sometimes, it is as beautiful as a flying, golden rainbow fish. And other times, my words are just like treacle. Since my wife died, it's been hard to be consistent.

I desperately arranged a secret tryst,
With Norway's leading acupuncturist.
She stuck a bunch of needles in my spine
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine
Thus I was able to escape the tree
Since this improved my flexibility.

I confronted my wife upon arrival.
She whacked me on the head with a bible.
"Repent!" she screamed, and said I was the devil.
I won the fourteenth frame, and we were level.
"Five iambs in a line be damned," I said
"An extra trochee at the end, instead!"

I blacked out again. When I awoke, I found myself clutching a Rubik's Cube, sitting on the balcony at the opera. Incessant racket that was. Every time I got near to solving the cube a tiara would screech "LAAAAAA!" and put me RIGHT off my stride. I decided to put an end to this irritating charade right now.

Figaro, Figaro!
Figaray!
Figaree!
Figar ah ah ah ah ah
Say ah!
Say it again
Say it with flowers
Say you won't let go
Say you

Say me
Say it for always
Always read the label
Always on my mind
Always look on the bright side of life
Life, is not what you thought it was
Life's a bowl of cherries
Life's a bowl of All Bran
Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans
Oh, life, is bigger
Oh, Matron!
Oh, the humanity!
Oh, yes, sir, I can boogie
Oh, yes! We have no bananas
We have no bananas today
Ain't got no bananas
Ain't got no bowl of cherries
Ain't got no All Bran
Ain't got no money
Ain't got no class
Ain't got no wife no more, she done upped and died
When I fell outta that tree
And landed on top of her
That's the way it rolls, baby,
That's the way it rolls
Rolling out the barrel
Rolling in the deep
Rolling on the last bus home from Kidderminster
With a Ginster's
Pasty.

The performers stared up at me. The audience were aghast that I had ruined their precious opera beyond belief. I was running for my life when the plump lady caught up with me. Apparently she worked as an A&R man at Mudskipper Records, and wanted to sign me on a 3 album deal on the strength of the bit from Hair what I done. I decided to play hard to get.

"You who live in Heaven," I warbled, "hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth | Who are afraid of being left by those we love..."

"If I'm honest," said the lady A&R man, "I preferred your other stuff. That Christian rock doesn't really float my boat, baby, I'm an agnostic."

Still, my wife was grateful for the offer and I became the first singer to have all my first eight singles reach number 59. With the proceeds I...I...oh hang on I'm going to black out again...

I found myself once more up in the tree.
The zookeeper was looking up at me.
"I don't suppose you'd sign your autograph?
It's not for me, it's for the new giraffe."
Reluctantly, I took the pen and signed.
Then turned around, took a look behind.
There was my wife, alive once more today
With twenty-six bananas on a tray.

"With these bananas", I said...

"I thee wed."

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THE OLD WALTZER

She wasn't to know I wasn't her real grandson. This partly explained the see through negligee, but the old waltzer? Well that was inexcusable. He would have to go. No-one would come between me and "granny".

I never mentioned the whole charade to Dennis. I fear he would have tried to talk me out of it. Dennis always was good at Snap! But I won the last game we played, so really, he had no control over the matter anymore. It was our agreement.

Reluctantly, he stroked his turnip, egged on by "granny". He used to grow them, but we were all so angry about it that we would dig them up and place them in his children's ears as they slept. This was yet another from the rescue shelter. I always found they worked better than shop-bought turnips.

The old waltzer trundled along, childless, seatless, and sprayed with pesticides. Wearing nothing but an oil slick, she concluded her perambulations with a shuffle-two step and collapsed full length on the rug. "It's cold down here", she said, "if I can just scratch my fingers hard enough on the coffin lid, there may be a chance". We poked her with the last of the turnips. Even "granny" laughed.

Dennis poked his head around the corner. "Having fun?"

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THE STRANGE CASE OF THE SECRET SOCIETY (STRANGE CASE 02)

A birthday cake. A rope. A man dressed up in a costume that made him look like a floodlight wearing waders. The third line of a lost Shakespeare tragedy. Polish dancing. A horse who takes everything far too personally. A teapot full of custard, and a bloodied baseball bat. You wouldn’t normally connect these seemingly unrelated things, but they all became key parts of the jigsaw in what was the strangest case of my long career.

It was the long, hot summer of 1993. Japan had just won the Eurovision Song Contest, Accrington Stanley had won the World Cup and the Bee Gees had held the number one spot for three consecutive weeks with Paranoid Android. The world was buzzing, but the world of criminal detection was curiously quiet. I sat at my desk with my feet up, watching the smoke from my shoes drifting up towards the ceiling fan. It was that hot, that the friction from my recent Polish dancing class had set fire to my soles. The game was afoot.

The burn on my ankles was so severe that I went to the medicine cabinet to get some kind of healing lotion. Something wasn’t right though. I could just see, out of the corner of my eye, a suicide note. It was from Jeanie. She sent me one every year as a form of endearment, but this time, somehow, something was different. Attached to the note was a teapot full of custard. Clearly, there had been a murder.

I took the teapot to the lab for analysis. The man at the photo counter at Boots looked puzzled for a moment, but told me he’d do what he could. Twenty-four hours later, the prints were ready. They showed a birthday party, with an unfamiliar woman blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. I dusted the prints, and they were a match for Jeanie’s.

I took the photographs to the pathologist, who was typically unimpressed.

“She’s not dead,” was all he would say, even though when you put it all together with the teapot full of custard, it clearly suggested otherwise.

“Thus of ye custodian mirth,” the doctor interrupted, “thou shalt salver thy turnips benign.”

“Is that Shakespeare?” I asked. “I’m not familiar with that line.” The pathologist looked me dead in the eye and made a sign with his fingers, a sort of inverted trapezoid with tentacles. The sign of the Secret Society of the Lost Play! Whatever I was getting into, I was getting into it deep. But there was no going back now, if I was going to find out the truth about Jeanie, I would need to become an initiate!

It took me a good three years to get over the turnip initiation. At night time, I would cry myself to sleep, often having to turn to recreational use in order to weary myself enough to drop off. As I sat on the swing, a charming little pony poked its head over the fence, which was surprising, as the fence was around eight feet tall.

“Well, now, aren’t you the cutest little horse?” I said by way of a compliment, but the pony just grew angrier and angrier and leapt over the fence. “Now, now,” I said. “Let’s not be hasty,” but it was too late — the pony climbed the top of the steps and went down the slide in a terrifyingly aggressive manner. Then, rather sinisterly, and watching me intently all the time, it did it again. As you can imagine, my heart raced, but of course, now it all made sense. This was all part of the initiation — the final test! The pathologist reappeared, now dressed in the ceremonial robes of a true believer — a costume consisting of a gigantic headlamp and waders - and riding on the pony. 

“Congratulations,” he said. “You are now a member of the Secret Society of the Lost Play. Miss Jeanie will see you now.” He led me away over hill and vale, until we arrived at last at a vast canyon spanned by a tightrope. “Walk across the tightrope,” he said, “and all you seek will be found on the other side.”

He was right! There it was! The murder weapon - a bloodied baseball bat. And what’s more, it had been tied up with rope! There was no need to continue anymore. Another case solved!

FIN

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BIG LOUIE

Big Louie was a Mob boss. He was big. He was Louie. Lenny the lobster was behind with his payments again, for the third week running. 

'Lasht chansh Lenny,' said Louis. 'You shleep wid da fishes tonight.' And he pushed Lenny into the East River.

Lenny swam happily home to his family. 

'Guess what?' he said. 'I got away without paying Big Louis again!'

Manny the mole was behind with his payments, for the third week running. Louis drove him out into the forest.

'Lasht chansh, Manny!' said Louis. 'You digsh your own grave tonight.'

Manny burrowed happily home to his family. 

'Guess what?' he said. 'I got away without paying Big Louis again!'

To tell the truth, Big Louie was pretty unintimidating for a mob boss. He was 97, very skinny and had no teeth, hence the way he spoke. His various branches all over the city were staffed with similarly inept gangster types. People like Lenny and Manny never told their families about this, of course, for it made them look heroic in their families' eyes, when they thought their partner/father had escaped the clutches of evil henchmen.

Benny the bird was behind with his payments again, for the third week running. Louis took him out onto the fifteenth floor balcony.

'Lasht chansh, Benny!' said Louis. 'You walksh on the air tonight!' And he pushed Benny over the rail. 

Benny flew happily home to his family. 

'Guess what?' he said. 'I got away without paying Big Louis again!'

Dermot the Dung Beetle was NOT so lucky, however, attempting to appease the situation with small talk. "Good win for the Hammers last night", he offered, hopefully. Big Louie, as luck wouldn't have it, despised West Ham. Absolutely loathed them. He sat for a moment, looking both pensive and sinister, which secretly pleased him a LOT...and then...

'Lasht chansh, Dermot!' said Louis. 'You'sh in deep shit now!' And he flushed Dermot down the lavatory.

Dermot crawled happily home to his family, carrying an enormous turd.

'Guess what?' he said. 'Dinner's on Big Louis tonight!'

Everyone agreed, Big Louis was a hell of a nice guy.

Sadly, Big Louis only had limited time left on this mortal coil, and waiting in the wings was Little Dorritt, who already had a chip on his shoulder after a lifetime of people saying things like 'What the Dickens do you want?' Things were about to get baaaad. Very baaaaaad indeed in Mammaland...

'Time's up, you old fool!' said Little Dorrit, and picking up Big Louis by the ears, he flung the old rabbit into the prickly briar patch.

Big Louis laughed and frolicked among the brambles.

'I wash born and bred in the briar patch, Little Dorrit, born and bred!' said Big Louis, and he hopped happily home to his family. 

THE END

'"THE END?"' raged Little Dorritt, 'It's not the end until I SAY it's the end! Never ever do that to m...' 

THE END.

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A COAT OF SHINY PAINT

By now, the wheelbarrow race was in full swing. Nobody knew what the prize was going to be, but suffice to say, Mrs and Mrs Gilmorton were NOT intending to be ousted by any NEW upstarts, oh no.

It hadn't taken long to make the necessary modifications, and Mrs Gilmorton was looking more like a wheelbarrow than ever. A coat of shiny paint and a proper wheel would make all the difference. They were sure of one thing and one thing only:- Anne Boleyn was Henry V's ninth wife. But how would that help? As it turned out, it was rather useful knowledge to have, and the Stanislavs were ruled out of the race because of it, obviously.

The Wheelbarrow Race had some rather peculiar rules, with Royal Succession and the life cycle of a hawk moth having a direct bearing on the result. However, Brian isn't, really.

The wonderful thing about that is that, having played netball on Thursday, there was no more food to share, so maybe it was worth studying after all. Tom Fazackerley was the master of this kind of nonsense, so he was made the bookies' favourite, even though he was out of their price range really.

The issue of modifying contestants was somewhat controversial, however, though not strictly against the rules. Mrs Fitzsimmons had been disqualified the previous year when she claimed that she had converted her husband completely into a wheelbarrow. The judges claimed that she was simply using a real barrow she'd bought, but six months later she was seen walking about town and conversing with the wheelbarrow in public, and they had to admit that it still SOUNDED like Reggie Fitzsimmons, and smoked the same pipe.

Anyway, the race was won by some bloke that nobody had ever heard of. It turned out to be a rather dull affair, and rendered this story pointless, never to be spoken of again.

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THE STRANGE CASE OF THE TRIANGULAR PHOTOGRAPH (STRANGE CASE 01)

Triangles. Paper clips. Ostriches. Waterslides. Measles. The woman called Clifton in the local bread sanctuary, horticulture and Aunt Norma's wedding. You wouldn't necessarily connect these things but one wet Thursday in the Spring of 2022, they all colluded to create the strangest case of my long career...

It all began when I received a letter, addressed to Arthur Bagley, which is one of the names I use in my role as a detective. Paperclipped to the letter was a triangular photo of an ostrich. I was intrigued, to such an extent that I ventured out of the air raid shelter for the first time in months. There was no address on the letter, but given the two letters ZR in small print at the bottom, I worked out that this was a cry for help from Hull. How did I work that out just from those two letters? Well I'm going to tell you - it must have been a cry for help from Zoe Ramsbottom, my old girlfriend from Hull. The letter was otherwise illegible, blurred beyond distinction by water damage. I set out at once for "Splashing 'Eck", Hull's premiere water park. Zoe had always enjoyed water slides.

When I arrived, I showed various people the photo of Zoe and asked if they had seen her. "That's an ostrich", they invariably replied. This was a problem. You see, Zoe always looked a bit like an ostrich, so it was easy to confuse the two, and I'd brought the wrong photo with me. This was going to be harder than I thought. Then a woman, around 42, walked past me with a nine year old kid in tow. His face was full of spots, like measles. Instinctively, I covered his head with a brown paper bag. If you can't SEE measles, you can't catch them, I'd always been told. The woman felt otherwise, and hit me between the eyes. I went down like a sack of carrots, and when I woke up, I was in the local bread sanctuary, with both my hands tied behind my back. The woman was standing over me, holding the photo. 

"Who are you?" she said. "And what are you doing with a photo of my prize cow?"

"COW?" I replied. "It looks like a bloody ostrich!"

This infuriated her immensely. 

"I know your kind"? she said, and lifted her leg as though she was about to stamp on my head and put me out of my misery, when young Measly suddenly said "Mum, when can we go zebra racing again?"

Zebra racing! Of course! This whole thing had nothing to do with Zoe after all. I booked a taxi and pulled up outside the zebra track. Instantly, I could smell a rat. There wasn't a zebra in sight. Instead the whole place had been taken over for a horticultural show. Everywhere I looked, there were nothing but daisies. I suddenly remembered that this was the venue Aunt Norma had chosen for her wedding. And sure enough, there she was, walking up the aisle with Clifton, the woman from the bread sanctuary, who had knocked me cold just a few hours before! The 9 year old kid was acting as a flower girl, still with the paper bag on his head, scattering daisies as he skipped along behind them. Clearly, there had been a murder. But who was the victim? Where was he or she? Who sent the anonymous letter? And most importantly of all, where was the toilet? I was busting to go.

Oh and whodunit? I'll tell you what I've worked out so far:

1. That damn cow WAS an ostrich
2. 'Clifton' was my ex-girlfriend in disguise 
3. The 'child' was actually Ethan, my old nemesis from preschool. How was it that he was still 9, yet I was 46?

But then it hit me - the letter wasn't a letter at all. It was a map of the zebra track, with the crime scene marked by a picture of an ostrich. If only I could get there in time, I could find the proof I needed and stop this travesty of a wedding! Fortunately I had in my pocket a hot cross bun from the bread sanctuary, which had been abused with a chocolate topping. I hurled it at the elderly woman across the street. What happened next was a comedy of errors...

The old woman fell backwards onto her pull-along shopping trolley. A dog leapt on top of her to eat the hot cross bun, wagging its tail wildly. The tail whacked 'Clifton'/Zoe so hard in the face that she hopped and yelped in pain. The Red Indian parade that was passing believed her to be doing a rain dance, so they joined in, hopping and yelping until the clouds broke open, drenching everybody. Zoe HATED being wet, so she flung open the doors to the café by the side of the track. I followed her down. She quickly removed the top half of her clothing. My eyes nearly popped out. But not because of her impressive womanliness, oh no, it was because of what I discovered amongst her discarded garments...

...The murder weapon! A paperclip, identical to the one on the letter she had sent me, covered in fresh ostrich blood. Well, she knew the game was up, but in her haste to escape, she ran out in front of the 3:15 Zebra Derby. There was nothing I could do, and I could only stand and watch as she was trampled beneath her hooves. But at least the wedding was off.

And the 9 year old boy turned out not to be Ethan, after all. That mystery was solved when, later that evening, I was playing Trivial Pursuit with my cat. I had taught the cat to both speak and play to keep myself company. He asked me the capital of Belize, and I said I knew it was Belmopan. 

I don't think I need to tell you why, but this completely gave the game away where Ethan was concerned. Obviously, his real name was Bill. 

Another case solved with absolutely no loose ends.

FIN

NOTES:
This is the first in a series of stories from the casebook of Arthur Bagley, a private detective, though as he would often point out, Arthur Bagley was only one of the names he used in the pursuit of criminal detection. These stories follow a common format; they start with a list of disparate things, things one might not necessarily put together. But to Arthur Bagley, P. I., they are all clues in what invariably turns out to be the strangest case of his long career...

This list provides a series of elements for Loz and I to construct a story around. For Bagley, the ace detective, the connection is usually obvious, but is he seeing patterns where none exist? The stories all have the following characteristics:

• The list of disparate items.

• The words "clearly, there had been a murder."

• The complete absence of a body.

• The fact that every one of Arthur's cases is "the strangest case of [his] long career."

The third story, The Strange Case of the Metal Xylophone, is where the series begins to gel into something coherent. Many of the regular characters and settings are established in that story, and from that point on, the stories are set in something more recognisable as the real world, with Arthur himself being the most eccentric thing in it.

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DEAR ARTHUR

Dear Arthur,

 

Thank you very much for my present. It was a surprise to receive such a generous package of Italian sweetmeats considering how grievously I have wronged you. Dare I to suppose that you wish to initiate a reconciliation? 

 

I am aware of course, that the incident with the terrapin and the soiled undergarments was a terrible oversight and yes, an event at which two pensioners were renewing their wedding vows was an ill chosen moment to perform such an act, even if his wife did enjoy it rather more than she let on.  

 

Hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and understand that I acted, as ever, with your best interests at heart. My darling dachshund Arthur enjoyed the sweetmeats very much. I know you meant them for me, and how much they must have cost you, but I must watch my figure, in order to remain attractive to my many admirers. Yes! I named Arthur after you. He has your carriage and bearing, and the same dignity. 

 

I am as ever,

Your darling

Elizabeth

 

PS - I hope the zoo will continue to expand your enclosure so you have a bit more space to run around, and let you swing freely from the trees. I have enclosed a banana as a token of my lust.

 

 

My Dearest Elizabeth,

 

It was at your insistence that I quit my spacious villa at Sandringham, and took up residence here, in order to be 'closer to you'. Imagine my amazement, then, on learning that you have moved to the other end of the country! If I were not sure that you loved me, I would take it as a snub! The zookeeper will not let me leave, thinking me to be some species of ape—and I an earl! Really,  Elizabeth, I sometimes wonder.

 

Furthermore, I must inform you that some of the lady apes have taken a shine to me since my arrival, as well as some of the less eagle-eyed male ones, who think I am a female because of my poncy hairstyle. It is a problem, as they are forever trying to hump my legs from either side like a randy Labrador retriever. Worst of all, that blasted gibbon is forever stealing my favourite jodhpurs just for kicks.

 

Elizabeth, I implore you! Release me from this misery. A brief letter to the zookeeper is all that it would take.

 

Your most humble and devoted paramour,

Arthur

 

My Dearest Arthur,

 

I need not communicate your concerns in writing, for the zookeeper has moved in here with me and is next to me right now. I thought it felt a little empty without you around, so I decided it would be best for all parties concerned if I merely continued the life we used to have...but with another man. 

 

You have little to worry about. We have only made love seventeen times, and to be honest it goes on far too long for my liking. Don't feel too bad—I have never even found out the zookeeper's name, so it's not like we are close. I feel reassured that you too are playing the field with the lady apes, and pleased, because I can go ahead with the new set-up with—thingy—without feeling any remorse or guilt.

 

I am afraid I have some sad news to report. Little Arthur, the dachshund, is no more! Thingy and I were teaching him to jump through hoops, raising them higher and higher. In his desperate efforts to please me, his little heart burst, and he died at my feet. How much he reminded me of you, even at the end! 

 

I will be coming to visit you on the twenty-third, accompanied by the cream of London society. With regard to the jodhpurs, I have asked that thingy confiscate all of your clothes. They will only make the other apes jealous, and cause problems for you. I look forward to seeing you, through the bars, of course, on the twenty-third.

 

Your devoted

Elizabeth

 

Yo Lizzie, yo boo dint fink he cud be bovvad to snd anew lettr. He arskd me too insted. He sed go get yusself fuckd scuzzy biatch.  Fanks, Ryan, aged 9, Pontyfract.

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FISH

On the day before his retirement, Commodore Walfish stood on the deck of his command, the SS Sea Witch, and reflected upon his life, a life on the ocean wave. Ah, the sea! The sea. How he would miss its stupid blue face. How he would miss being tossed and thrown, miss his dinner sliding around the table, miss spewing whatever he'd managed to eat over the side of the boat each and every evening. Oh how he hated the sea! He had hated, he now realised, every nautical minute of his life on the ocean wave.

But Walfish was a man of his word. He wasn't about to compromise his good name with last minute broken appointments. Tonight, well, tonight he had a date with the Devilfish....

Under cover of darkness, the Commodore slipped out of his cabin porthole and into the ocean. He was not wearing any diving equipment, because he did not need any.

Every day for years the Commodore had taken a sauna, each day increasing the humidity by a few percent. Once past 100% humidity, the air became more water than air, and eventually it was 100% water. Thus, by degrees, he had acclimatised his body so that he could now breathe underwater as well as any fish. He pitied those poor divers with their cumbersome and unnecessary oxygen tanks!

Gradually he made his way down and down to the underwater castle of the Devilfish.

On the way there, he passed a throng of octopus, who seemed to huddle together and whisper to each other something like "Those who enter Jupiter, may God save their souls".

"Not a problem", thought the commander, as he wasn't going anywhere near Jupiter at ALL.

Was he?

He found the castle of the Devilfish abandoned. This was odd, as the Devilfish was a stickler for timekeeping! She hadn't gone out, as her bicycle was lying abandoned on the drawbridge, and she never went anywhere unless riding upon 'Rosinante'*. Walfish went through into the study, where one would normally expect to find her hard at work on her magical tracts, but the room was empty. Curiously, though, there was a strange new window on the wall, high above the Devilfish's desk. It was small, and perfectly square. He swam up, and peered inside.

* There is a strange proverb, in the world above, which suggests that a bicycle is useless to a fish, but anyone who has spent any time under the sea would attest to its falsity. Indeed, cycling is common - the octopuses Walfish had passed earlier were riding four bicycles each.

He walked into the gymnasium, and saw many different fish - clownfish, salmon, tuna, cod, haddock, grimbletufftyflops (a rare fish indeed), fappyfappydoodahs (even rarer), all riding exercise bikes, rowing machines, and going on treadmills, which is very tricky for a fish. "I never knew fish had gymnasiums!", the Commodore exclaimed. 

"We don't have a gymnasium", the nearest rainbow trout replied, "it's a FISHnasium"

All the fish in the gym fell about laughing, for these creatures didn't really GET humour, in fact their whole attitude around it revolved around just changing one word to "fish". It was never funny. But the fish? Well, they thought it was hysterical.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Bond", said a sinister voice from the cross trainer machine.

"No, you were expecting FISH", said a roe, pleased with himself. Cue more fish hilarity.

The Commodore braced himself and said...

"I regret to inform you all, that the Devilfish has fallen out of a strange new window in her study. Insofar as I can tell, given my scant knowledge of astronomy, the window leads to Jupiter."

Meanwhile, the Devilfish had just hit the core of Jupiter, and had just had some 'evil' put in her...

The source of this evil was Jupiter himself. The god, Jupiter, also known as Jove. Jupiter, the planet, was a gas giant, and so was Jove, in that he was a giant in the gasoline industry. Jupiter, the planet, was made of gas, and Jove had made a considerable fortune selling it. He was now attempting to sell the Devilfish on a brand new idea.

"A fish doesn't need a bicycle," said Jove. "What a fish needs is a car."

All the other fish in the Jimnaysium (they were awful spellers too) looked at each other warily. There was contempt, if ever you'd seen it, for fish have never embraced new technology in the same way that seals have, and the idea of owning a spinny-wheeled brumbrum machine was NOT something they were going to be roped into. A rainbow trout leapt off the cross trainer and landed a swift left hook upon Jove's face. Deadly silence followed. The other fish waited, petrified...

"THIS", uttered Jove in the most sinister voice imaginable, "is unacceptable. The only way to settle the matter is for me to have a fire fight with Cod Almighty".

The other fish backed away and watched in fear as Jove turned to face the Commodore...

The Commodore drew himself up to his full height of four foot eight. He cast his mind back to the great sea battle of 1976, in which he took on seventeen Barbary Pirates single-handedly, armed only with a... With a... Now what was it he used again?

"Prepare to meet your fate", said Jove, in a far more dramatic voice than was necessary.

"No", said one of the three skates in the corner, "Prepare to meet your FISH."

This time, nobody laughed, and the skate shuffled uncomfortably...

"Skate! That was it!" said the Commodore exultantly. He reached into his backpack, pulled out a pair of roller skates, size four and a half, and pulled them on.

Never having been particularly adept at skating, the Commodore slipped and slid, clacking his feet together one, two, three times...

And he was back home in Kansas, loyal dog Yoyo yapping happily by his side. His quest to find the golden fleas would have to wait another day. Ah well, nobody's perfect.

The next day, the crew crowded around the door to the Commodore's cabin. Two ensigns carried between them an enormous cake with the words "Happy Retirement Commodore Walfish" written on it in pink sugar icing. 

"Surprise!" they yelled, bursting into the room, but the Commodore was nowhere to be seen. Instead they found an octopus riding four exercise bikes at the same time. 

"Fishprise!" said a small skate, bursting out of the cake.

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DINGALING

It was early in the Spring of 1997 that Herman Van Hoop was declared "the greatest human being ever to have lived". The award ceremony was attended by Herman Van Hoop and his dog, skippy.

It was a long time since Herman had ‘trod the boards’, so to speak, and he’d have been lying if he’d said he wasn't nervous. This was his moment, and he wasn't going to make the same mistake THIS time, oh no.

Last time, you see, he had failed to secure his hat firmly to his head, and a freak gust of wind had carried it off into the audience, who, as now, consisted of three dozen retired tailor's dummies, eight garden gnomes and an inflatable Santa.

It was humiliating, even amongst useful innate effigies. So embarrassed was he that he decided to leave the country, take a vow of sirens, and become a Pavlovian monk. And THAT is where this story truly begins...

“Good morning,” said Herman. “I would like to join the holy brotherhood of Pavlovian monks, as its leader.” The monk on reception looked up at him ruefully. Who was this idiot, with his broad-brimmed ladies hat and his rainbow unicorn onesie? 

“Oh yes?”, he replied, "and what makes you think you're qualified to be the Grand High Abbot of the ancient order of Pavlovian Monks?"

“This,” replied Herman van Hoot, simply. He held up a tiny bell. The receptionist recoiled in horror.

“What! How did you get that through security?”

“Aluminium.” said Herman, and he gave the bell a little tinkle. The entire monastery, in accordance with their Pavlovian vows, got up as one and ran towards the refectory, salivating copiously. Herman turned in the other direction, towards the now-vacant throne room of the Grand High Abbot.

He could SMELL that throne. In a mere matter of seconds, he would crown himself King Of Lima. But before he knew it, a very angry throng of hungry people were charging at him with spears. Fearless, he rose. ‘DINGALINGALING!’ sounded Herman's bell again. To a man, they all instantly went scarpering excitedly back to the refectory. This “kinging” lark was clearly going to be a doddle.

Herman spent four months at the monastery, honing his people skills, before ordering a sedan chair to Peru. The monks took it in turns to carry him, but even so, the going was painfully slow. After three weeks Herman reluctantly ordered them to change course for the airport.

“Two tickets to Lima,” said Herman. “One for me, the Grand High Abbot of the ancient order of Pavlovian Monks, and one for my little dog, Skippy.”

“I'm sorry sir,” said the desk clerk, sighing ruefully and examining her nail polish for defects. “I can't sell you a ticket if you don't have any money.”

“You are right,” said Herman van Hoop, “I don't have any money. But I do have this.” To the desk clerk's horror, he produced from his pocket a....sabre toothed tiger.

The clerk looked baffled. “How did you fit THAT in your pocket? I thought those things were extinct!” he said with bemusement. Curiosity had gotten the better of him and the impending fear that SHOULD have been his overriding emotion was pushed into a broom cupboard somewhere in the depths of his mind.

“Oooooh!” said the tiger, in the campest voice imaginable. “I'm only a prototype, naughty!” putting its paws coyly to its mouth and giggling.

This seemed to hypnotise the clerk. “Two...tickets...to...Peru...your...wish...is...my...command”....

So far, everything had gone swimmingly, if that was really a word. Despite the hiccup at the airport, Herman now wore three hats. The original straw bonnet, which had belonged to his auntie Gunther, the tall, beaver-skin hat of the Grand High Abbot of the Ancient Order of Pavlovian Monks, and the gaudy crown of the King of Lima, which the citizens of that city had bestowed upon him the moment they saw the sabre-toothed tiger. Was there no height that his ambition would not scale? No, there wasn't. Herman wanted all the hats, but the one he longed for most of all was the Wind Hat. Some folk may regard this as rather crass, but it amused him, and he knew that French people, at least, would like it.

The next week, an incredible honour was bestowed upon him when the prestigious ‘Illiterate Monthly’ magazine named him as the ‘World's Most Hatted Man.’

This life was a dream.

The ceremony was to take place in Paris. In order to get there, Herman made himself First Lord of the Admiralty, and commissioned a bicorn hat festooned with brocade. The hats were now beginning to compete with each other for attention, and the citizens of Lima, and his retinue of Pavlovian monks, all had to wear sunglasses to shade their eyes from his awesomeness. No matter. In Paris he would declare himself God of the Four Winds, and that would be that. Never again would his hats be blown off by a freak gust, and Skippy would eat premium dog-treats every day of his life.

His Royal Yacht being too wide for the river Seine, Herman simply ploughed a furrow through the city. Boulangeries, Charcuteries and Tabacs were pushed aside to make way for the impressive ship, and Napoleon's magnificent Arc de Triomphe was cleft neatly in twain as he passed through. Herman stood proudly on the prow. Now, THIS, was how to make an entrance.

To say things did not go smoothly was an understatement. First of all, some kind of black and white meow cow appeared in the doorway. What on earth was it? And then the worst thing that could possibly happen, happened...

As Herman walked up the red carpet towards the beckoning cow, a freak gust of wind caught the brim of the straw bonnet, bequeathed to Herman on his death bed by Herman's Auntie Gunther. As one, the entire stack of hats began to topple earthwards.

“WHO ARE YOU?” cried Herman, as he vainly attempted to catch them.

“I am the God of the Four Winds!” said the Meow Cow.

A typhoon raged around his head. It was so fearsome that even Cannibal Collier had fallen victim, on several occasions. As Herman approached, the meow cow cleared its throat. "Now, I hear you're a fan of hats,", it said, "but I'm going to give you a chance to admit that you actually prefer cats." 

It wasn't really a question, but Herman felt that there really was only one viable answer.

He held Skippy out with outstretched arms. What happened next surprised everyone...

Skippy bit the cow on the nose, as if to say, “cats, indeed!” The meow cow howled, and reared up on her hind legs. As she did so, there fluttered from her head a tiny cap with a propeller on it - the Hat of the Winds! Placing his loyal dog gently on the red carpet beside him, Herman dived for it. The cow dived at the same time. Their heads collided in a spray of sparks, causing Cannibal Collier to shade his eyes. Herman's hands closed around something small and soft. It was a hat, but which hat? There was only one way to find out. Crawling out from beneath the sprawled cow, he slammed it onto his head.

“Proceed to Level 14”, the hat said, shining a bright red LCD instruction that everyone except Herman could see.

“You have won the chance to challenge The Boss,” it continued.

There was silence...

“By that, I don't mean Bruce Springsteen,” it added.

“THE Boss”...

Herman looked around, bewildered. He looked at his reflection in the glass window of the Hotel Ritz, where the now forgotten ceremony was to have been held. He was wearing a hat, but it wasn't the Hat of the Wind, it was a hat he'd never seen before, a simple bowler. Written on the hat-band in clear black mirror-writing, were the words “THE BOSS”.

He glanced up at the meow-cow. It was wearing a pair of boxing gloves and a filthy grin.

Perversely though, it was dancing, rather than threatening. It seemed to be implying that what he had been fighting against all this time was himself. He screamed out loud, and ran off in both directions, but as hard as he tried, he just could not separate the man from the myth, and they clashed together clumsily. Distraught, he looked at Skippy, who looked incredulously, and leapt up, grabbing the tiny bell from his master's pocket. Of course! This was the ultimate test, right now!

Skippy rang the little bell. The monks Herman had brought with him immediately began salivating and ran off in the direction of the refectory, which was thousands of miles away. Herman, still running around frantically, slipped on the monks' drool and crashed through the gilt-iron gates of the Hotel Ritz de Paris. But instead of the sumptuous interior he expected, Herman found himself back in his bedsitter on Perelman Road. There, seated upon the rickety old chairs he'd found at the dump, were three dozen retired tailors' dummies, eight garden gnomes and an inflatable Santa.

Skippy was seated on the stage, wearing an adorable little doggy tuxedo, and beside him, in a tiara, stood the indomitable meow-cow.

“Congratulations, Herman Van Hoop,” said the cow. “You are officially the greatest human being ever to have lived!”

“Thank you,” said Herman. “But,” he whispered mischievously, “I still prefer hats!” much to the mirth of his audience.

Suddenly, a freak gust of wind blew his hat off...to reveal a cat purring contentedly upon his head. He'd been lying to them all along!

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TUMBLEWURZEL

Llorenna was playing in her tree house when the fictional character Tumblewurzel appeared before her. Not being a fan of the show, at first she ignored him, but after the fourteenth triangle (kind of cerise in hue, and much sharper than the blonde one), he had started to win her over. Up until now, she had nothing to take to the Girl Guides' summer jamboree, but now...well NOW...

NOW she had Tumblewurzel, and whilst she wasn't a fan of the show, the other girls liked it well enough, and Felicity Marchbanks was a card-carrying fan. But oh, the horse-adder! She'd forgotten all about the horse-adder, and she dashed down the ladder into the house to put on her electric blue Victorian military-style jacket with the cerise epaulettes and the dim, green boots of nebulous reality.

The build up to the Show And Tell at the jamboree was intense, with painstaking efforts to keep Tumblewurzel hidden until that dramatic 'reveal'. 

"Cometh the hour, cometh the MAN!" she proclaimed, as she drew back the curtain, to gasps of bewilderment from her classmates, and...and...hang on....they're not gasps, that's laughter, and not 'let's laugh at Tumblewurzel' type laughter either. What the....

Llorenna turned around. All that was there was to see was a tiny, rather geeky looking squirrel, trying to prise nuts out of a plastic container, which to be frank, wouldn't have fazed a newborn baby octopus. 

No. This wasn't right.

She turned to the crowd, laughing to cover her embarrassment. "Just my little joke," she said. "Tumblewurzel is will be joining us any minute, but for now, please enjoy watching the incredibly stupid squirrel!”

She dashed behind the curtain and ran off in search of Tumblewurzel. This is the work of the horse-adder, she thought through gritted teeth.

Even worse, next onto the stage bounded Muddah. Her mum had always insisted on being called this, as she loved the Allan Sherman novelty hit, Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah, and wore a t-shirt to remind everyone that it reached number 14 in the UK charts in September 1963. "Aww, don't be upset, my wittle pwincess, Muddahmuddah will make it alright"...

Llorenna cringed and was just about melting with embarrassment, to the sound of heaving laughter now, 12 year old girls guffawing uncontrollably all over the place.

But then a horn sounded. And not just ANY horn...

It was the mournful, fog-horn sound of Uncle Alexis's car horn. Uncle Alexis was, like Llorenna herself, a Goth, and the only member of her family who really understood her. He had driven to the front of the crowd in his open-topped hearse, and was sitting there now, watching the stage impatiently and applying yet another can of hairspray to his towering three-foot 'do.

Hilarity turned to fear amongst the throng at that instant, probably because on the side of the coffin, it had the words "To Be Confirmed" in blood red permanent marker. It was meant as a light hearted joke, but, well, you know, people have absolutely NO sense of humour these days, do they?

To Llorenna's horror though, at a point where she felt she was to be rescued from this excruciating humiliation, Tumblewurzel chose THIS moment to appear, astride the horse-adder (a ridiculous sight, as I'm sure you'll agree), and fling himself at her uncle at what seemed to be around 30 knots, although I am unsure how this translates into land speed.

Alexis, his mascara-ringed eyes wide, threw the vehicle into reverse, running over a picnic that Felicity Marchbanks had been setting up there and slamming into the Promise Tree. Tumblewurzel and the horse-adder landed in the coffin, the lid slamming shut on impact. Girl Guides scattered in all directions as Alexis put the hearse into gear and pulled around to the side of the stage. "Get in!" he shouted, and Llorenna leapt clear off the stage and into the passenger seat. Alexis floored the accelerator, but what was that hanging on to the tow-bar?

It was that darned squirrel! By now it had eaten some nuts, and it was...growing...And growing....until OH NO IT'S KANTORI, Tumblewurzel's arch nemesis. Not being a fan of the show, Llorenna was unaware that Kantori built her special powers and not insignificant strength through the consumption of nuts. This was going to be tricky.

Great plumes of smoke rose from the rear tyres of the stationary hearse. The engine was going flat out, but the giant squirrel held it motionless with the tip of a single claw.

"Do something!" said Llorenna, but her uncle hadn't seen the show either. Suddenly there was someone hammering on the windscreen. Felicity Marchbanks had thrown herself onto the bonnet and was screaming "use the triangles!" Of course! Those stupid magic triangles Tumblewurzel was always producing. Pulling up her boots of nebulous reality, Llorenna clambered over the back of the passenger seat. She HAD to get that coffin open.

"I'm not coming out there!" shrieked Tumblewurzel, "it's too dangerous!"

"The triangles," Llorenna asked hurriedly, "Where are they?"

"They're in here with me" came the reply, "but you're NOT HAVING THEM because apparently you're not a fan of the show! Plus, I'm weally weally fwightened!"

Sheesh, how did this guy ever get his own show?

Alexis, who seemed rather suspiciously to be actually ENJOYING the spectacle, had a brainwave: "I think I may have a set square in the glove compartment!" he said.

Llorenna, heart pumping like never before, but ultimately drained, reached into said glove compartment.

"EURGH!" she exclaimed, "What's THAT?"

"Oh for goodness sake", sighed Alexis, "that was your birthday cake. Hrmph. We'll just have to make do without it now,"

To her astonishment, Tumblewurzel and the horse-adder rose in union from the coffin, and girl guides surrounded the car to sing Happy Birthday to her. Was this some kind of PRESENT, she wondered?

"Ahem" said Kantori, "Are you quite finished? I haven't defeated you yet and I don't DO birthdays."

Llorenna fished the remains of the birthday cake from the glove compartment. Red velvet cake with black icing and white candles. Her favourite. She sighed and flung it, with all her might, into the squirrel's black, malevolent eyes. At the same time, Alexis hit play on the car stereo system. Preacher Man by Fields of the Nephilim began to blare out of the modified hearse's five gigantic subwoofers. The terrified squirrel, temporarily blinded, found itself encircled by packs of headbanging Brownies.

And everyone knows that headbanging brownies only means one thing - levitation. As Alexis's car rose higher and higher towards the Wormhole Into Another Dimension Where People Are Given New Identities, they looked down at the mass riots developing below. Up...they look like toy people now....Up....now like insects....Up....invisible now.....Up....SCHLOOOOPPP!!!

"Lovely cup of tea" said Geoff.

That's what they call him now. Geoff, not Tumblewurzel. And he's a vicar now, not a television star. But he still looks like a cross between a clown and a scarecrow, with eyes like spiralling pinwheels, and he still plucks magical triangles from between his toes - BUT ONLY WHEN NOBODY'S LOOKING.

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FIELD TRIP

There were thirteen girls and eleven boys. This was the field trip from HELL. Whatever possessed Mrs Oggett to come up with such a trip here of all places was anybody’s guess.

“Now, class,” said Mrs Oggett, “You must be on your best behaviour today. Traffic islands can be very dangerous places, particularly if, like this one, they have never before been explored.”

This was about as cheerful as Mrs Oggett ever got, for she had a well known tendency for spoiling the fun. Just last year, at the Academy for the Progression of Rescue Animals, the children were sitting by the campfire, sharing stories, when a little black and white cat called Tabatha came up to them, tap danced and told a few hilarious jokes.

“Cats are not talking animals!” she chastised, and legend has it that the cat lumbered off forlornly, never to utter anything except “Miaow” again. Similarly, when Phoebe befriended a very intelligent crocodile, and shared her picnic with him, Oggett said loudly, “Crocodiles are violent, predatory creatures!” Poor Phoebe…

“This is boring,” said Stuart, ten, who had already discovered the centre of the traffic island. Mrs Oggett, who had visions of herself as the next Marco Polo or Ferdinand Magellan, was having none of it.

“We are pioneers in a new frontier. Not all of us will make it home to Kirkdale Primary, but those of us who do will be hailed as heroes.”

Frustratingly for Mrs Oggett, the children hadn’t heard a word. They were captivated by the yodelling hedgehog.

“Hedgehogs do NOT make it across roads,” said Mrs Oggett.

This was the last straw for some of the children, who protested by surrounding the hedgehog in the middle of the busy road.

“Bzzerrtrrp,” said Oggett.

The children craned their heads in confusion.

“Rzz sspppt… bleep!” said Oggett.

At first it wasn’t clear what their teacher was up to, but Maryam, always the top of the class, was the first to figure it out.

“She’s trying to communicate with that traffic light!” Indeed, when the children listened carefully, they could hear faint electrical noises from inside the metal pole. Bzz rrp zzt!

“What’s she saying?” said Robert, who was only nine.

“I think she’s trying to buy the island from the traffic light, in return for a pile of disease-ridden blankets and a handful of glass beads.”

Eventually, the hedgehog led the children down the busy dual carriageway and safely back to school. Mrs Oggett was never seen again. Rumour had it she had “gone native”.

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