Praise for Dominic Green’s Smallworld:
“...a showcase for Green’s bone-dry satire and deadpan humour...Green’s agile imagination constantly wrong-foots the reader. A delight.“
Peter Ingham, The Telegraph
Sister Ships and Alastair
published by
Dominic Green
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2008 Dominic Green
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Table of Contents
7. Cliff Richard for Eurovision
8. A Bomb That Shouldn't Have Been There
11. Do Not Push This Button If You Wish To Live
12. All Things Will Be Better In Glorious Soviet Utopia
13. The Well Dressed Astronaut Will Be Airtight This Summer
15. What Do You Know About Unified Field Theory?
19. Take Thou Two Of Every Animal
20. They Can’t Quite Lose The Beefy Milky Aftertaste
22. The Elephants Now Have The Stun Gun
1. Fun With Big Chief I-Spy
The sun was warm on his back, despite the cool of the morning. The shadows of the buildings - Woolworth's, the Co-op, Lloyd's - were still long on the brickwork. An occasional tramp or early morning cleaner ambled past. The Council seating had been made to last rather than to provide a positive bum-to-seat experience. The cheeks of Ant’s backside were lightly refrigerated through sitting on what was effectively a large seat-shaped lump of cast iron.
The I-Spy Book of Spacecraft, the most recent book on space travel he had been able to get from the library, had been written in 1969 by someone calling himself 'Big Chief I-Spy', though Ant doubted that this was the name he had been christened with. Big Chief I-Spy had rather optimistically included a set of tick boxes readers could fill in if they saw any of the spacecraft mentioned.
His dad was late. The clock on the Italianate Church had already struck nine. Mum had dropped him off over an hour ago. Her new boyfriend, who drove a Mercedes, had offered to buy him a cappuccino at the expensive new Caffè Hyperactivo over the road. Reasoning that his dad might see him, Ant had refused. There was always an expression of crestfallen emptiness in his dad's eyes whenever anyone with money bought anything for Ant that his dad would normally tell him was too expensive.
Someone seemed to be hammering at something somewhere in the distance. He tried to ignore the sound, and concentrated instead on the Soviet Vostok space capsule in the book. Perhaps to confuse NASA, the Soviets had written 'BOCTOK' down the side of it instead of VOSTOK. It had supposedly been the first manned craft to fly in space. On April 12, 1961, said the book, Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin blasted into the record books in Vostok 1. To Ant, who knew that the first voyage to Alpha Centauri had been made in 1951, it was laughable. The Soviet space capsule looked like a pepper shaker with a rocket where the filler hole should have been. The Apollo capsule on page 30 looked like its salt-shaking equivalent.
Space had not only been explored to a far greater extent than almost anyone on Earth suspected - it had been colonized, by shadowy government agencies of whose existence the present-day Presidents and Prime Ministers of the United States, Russia and Britain knew nothing. Now, those colonies in space had revolted, seeking independence, and a secret war was being fought out in the stars.
The Vostok flew once round the Earth, announced Big Chief I-Spy's I-Spy Book of Spacecraft, before returning its two tonne re-entry capsule to Engels in the Russian Soviet Federal Socialist Republic. Ant felt like scribbling the tonnage of a Revere-class cruiser in the margin -
He could hear a tiny voice, like a pixie yelling from the bottom of a well. "earth calling ant! come in ant!"
He looked up. Someone was banging on the window of the Caffè Hyperactivo.
"vincent anthony stevens! this is the voice of god! look up and notice the funny black people yelling at you from over the road!"
The embarrassment was devastating. Someone had seen him waiting in vain for his father. "...Cleo?"
"there's no use talking, i can't hear you, nimrod! for god's sake shut your mouth, you look like a fish breathing! i am screaming at the top of my voice in here!"
Cleo and her entire extended family were standing in the café window, banging, making faces and waving. Behind them, the café staff were trying desperately to quieten them down. Ant sprang into action, gathering up his rucksack full of physics books and hoisting it hastily onto his shoulder. The café window erupted in a silent cheer, and Cleo's family sat down en masse.
Entering the café, trying to ignore the glares of the other diners, Ant looked at Cleo's family in bemusement. Cleo's father, who always wore a polo shirt round the house, was wearing a suit. Cleo's mother, who was never normally seen outside jogging bottoms, was wearing not only a gigantic polka-dot dress, but also a gigantic polka-dot hat. And every other member of the family, Cleo included, was dressed to kill.
"Did someone die?" said Ant.
The Shakespeare family doubled up in laughter at Ant's expense. "We're going to church", said Cleo's mother gently. "We go to the Christ-Centred Pentecostal Good News Church of God the Redeemer every Sunday. And so should you", she added with mock sternness.
"It's not the Christ-Centred Pentecostal Church any more", said Cleo's father. "It's the Ecumenical Rainbow Faith Church of the Army of Jesus. They changed the sign again last week."
Ant was amazed. "You're Christians?"
"I'm afraid so", said Cleo, with an embarrassment apparently even huger than Ant's. "Despite the best efforts of a scientific education, my father still believes in a big bearded man on a cloud." She looked around herself and added in a whisper: "I think we'd better keep it down now. The waitress just came over and told us to be quiet in Polish."
"I can be quiet in Polish", said Ant. The Shakespeare family laughed dutifully; Ant was a guest of the family, and his jokes had to be laughed at. Encouraged, Ant continued. "I can be quiet in a number of languages.". He pursed his lips and screwed up his eyes for several seconds. "That was Persian", he said.
Cleo's father stared at Ant for one long moment, then collapsed in hysterics - specifically in Jamaican hysterics, which were far louder than ordinary hysterics.
Besides her Sunday best, Cleo was also wearing a watch set into a bangle in the shape of a double-headed serpent. A coiled serpent also framed the watch face. The whole thing reflected light in an expensive way that suggested silver rather than chrome.
"Isn't it great?" said Cleo, noticing Ant's interest. She held up her wrist and shook it so that the bangles chattered like magpies. "It's a present from my beautiful parents for trying hard in my Applied Science homework."
Ant, who had never received any interest in his school performance short of being docked pocket money for fighting, looked at the watch and said: "It's very nice."
"Hello Ant", said Tamora, Cleo's sister. Ant's teeth ground together involuntarily as she added: "So you just happened to be here, did you, Ant? At the same time Cleo was."
"Yes", said Ant. "A mind-boggling coincidence, what with us living in the same town and all, but true, Tammie."
"I'll believe you", said Tamora. "Thousands wouldn't. My name's not Tammie", she added.
"I know", said Ant.
"How can you be a Christian and a trade unionist at the same time, dad?" said Cleo sulkily. "Where are your socialist principles? Religion is the opiate of the people. The top three girls in school all have parents who are practising atheists. Statistically, you are stunting my educational growth."
Cleo's father shrugged. "Break your leg and you'll find out opiates are wonderful things. Besides, I can't believe that something as complex as a human being can exist for no reason."
"Yes, and that reason is Darwinian evolution", said Cleo. "Darwin -"
Cleo stopped unaccountably dead in mid-sentence.
"Darwinian Evolution is Cleopatra's religion at the moment", said Cleo's mother.
"Ecumenical Rainbow Darwinian Evolution", corrected Cleo's dad.
Cleo would normally never have tolerated being called Cleopatra, but her attention was elsewhere. She was staring out of the café window at the other side of the street.
"What is it?" said Mrs. Shakespeare.
"Oh my god", said Cleo. "Oh my god. You give people advice, and they throw it into the wind and throw up after it."
Ant followed Cleo's gaze.
"Oh, my", he said. "Oh lordy, but that is wrong."
Two black-suited, black-tied, white-shirted figures wearing opaque black sunglasses were approaching the café. Each wore a smart black hat. One seemed to be male, one female; their hair, however, had been slicked back so fiercely that they appeared almost identical.
They entered the café. Every pair of eyes inside the building and out was fixed on them, apart from Ant's and Cleo's, which were intently examining the lino.
"Do you know these people?" whispered Cleo's mother. "Are they churchgoers?"
One of the figures raised its hand in a salute. The little and index fingers of its hand were sticking out of a half-clenched fist.
"Respect."
"Big ups", said the other figure, "from the posse of where we originate."
Cleo's father sat in bemusement, then weakly raised a hand and parted his fingers in a Vulcan greeting.
"Ah...live long and prosper?"
The two figures looked at one another. Then, one bent down to Cleo and whispered:
"You told us no-one ever actually did that."
Cleo hissed back through the corner of her mouth: "WHAT in the name of FLIPPING HECK are you DOING?"
"Following instructions", said the man, clearly hurt. "Absorbing the culture of the last twenty years." He slid out a DVD case from the inside pocket of his jacket. The cover read The Blues Brothers.
"We've also been reading Mixmag", said the woman.
Cleo made a come-hither gesture with a finger. When the woman bent her ear to listen, Cleo hissed into it: "In the shop where you bought that movie from the nineteen-eighties, did you see another movie from the nineteen nineties called Men In Black, in which sinister men wearing black ties and sunglasses are the secret representatives of aliens from another planet?"
The man looked at the woman. She shook her head. He turned back to Cleo and shook his head.
"Are we incorrectly dressed?" said the woman. "I have to admit the film made little sense."
Lieutenant Turpin and Lieutenant Farthing looked ridiculous, but it was easy to see how they might not have realized the fact. They were, after all, used to wearing grubby and threadbare flight uniforms, and to breathing the lead-free air of Gondolin, a smaller world orbiting a very different sun. They were citizens of the United States of the Zodiac, a set of rebel colonies in space that fiercely protected its independence from its mother countries, Britain and America - and here on Earth, they stuck out like sore thumbs on an octopus.
"Aren't you going to introduce us, Cleopatra?" said Mr. Shakespeare.
"This is my elder brother", said Ant quickly, despite Cleo's eyes flaring angrily as she mouthed NO! STOP DIGGING NOW! "And his girlfriend." This time it was Lieutenant Farthing's eyes that bounced out of her head. She threw Ant a look that promised vengeance.
"We're from out of town", explained the man.
"Where are you from?" said Mrs. Shakespeare.
The man's eyes bulged with geographical effort.
"The Orkney Islands", he said finally.
"Oh really", said Mr. Shakespeare. "Letitia and myself once went on a walking holiday in Orkney."
The man beamed at Mr. Shakespeare as if the act of ceasing to beam might cause his brain to stop functioning.
"It was very nice", said Mr. Shakespeare.
"It is very nice", said the man. "The sea is very nice. The way it surrounds the islands on all sides."
"Mr. Turpin", said Cleo in a strained voice. "Miss Farthing. What are you here for?"
"We're just hanging", said Lieutenant Turpin.
"With our peeps in the hood", clarified Lieutenant Farthing.
"I thought your name was Stevens, Ant", said Mr. Shakespeare.
"My brother kept my mother's maiden name", said Ant.
"Digging deeper and down", said Cleo. "Gosh, is that an unexploded bomb under your shovel, or is it just another sewer pipe?"
"Would any of you like a cappuccino?" said Mrs. Shakespeare.
Turpin's face contorted as if he were being strangled by an invisible man. Cleo nodded at him sharply.
"...Yes?" he managed.
"I believe I would also like a cup of Chino", nodded Farthing.
Mrs. Shakespeare reached for her purse. "Decaffeinated?"
"No", said Lieutenant Turpin. "It's just the way I'm sitting."
"Skinny?"
Turpin locked his eyes on Cleo with the expression of a man who is absolutely sure he is right.
"My name", said Cleo hotly, "is not Skinny."
"Do you want skimmed milk", explaind Mrs. Shakespeare, as patiently as the situation allowed.
"No, just the Chino, thanks."
"It's very rare for someone to take their mother's maiden name", said Mr. Shakespeare.
"My brother doesn't get on with my father", said Ant.
"Oh, really? That sounds terrible", said Lieutenant Turpin. "Why is that, exactly?"
"YOU'RE MY BROTHER", hissed Ant.
"I'm joking, of course, haha", said Turpin. "It's quite simple. My father and I belong to two rival dance styles."
"Tell me you didn't get out Breakdance Two: Electric Boogaloo too", said Cleo.
Lieutenant Turpin reddened and cleared his throat. "I am a pure breakdancer, whereas my father has strayed away from the true path. He" - he lowered his voice dramatically - "does robotics."
"I can do robotics", said Mr. Shakespeare brightly.
"You can so not do robotics, dad."
"You don't sound Scottish", said Tamora to Lieutenant Turpin.
"Do I need to be?" said Turpin.
"If you come from Orkney, I believe so."
"He was resettled in Orkney", said Ant. "On a witness protection programme", he added desperately.
"Yes", said Turpin. "That is true."
The conversation died like the wind in the sails of a becalmed galleon.
Mr. Shakespeare unwisely broke the silence.
"I, um, hear there's a lot of secrecy in these witness protection programmes." Despite a tremor in his voice that indicated he knew this was terribly, terribly wrong, he nevertheless continued: "It sounds very interesting. Tell us about it."
"I can't", said Mr. Turpin helplessly. "It's a secret."
At that moment, all conversation became inaudible as a deafening roar shook the plates on the tables and a massive shadow closed across the sun. Man-high letters scrolled across the café window, stencilled on corrugated steel with the enigmatic word: HUOLINTAKESKUS. Despite herself, Cleo yelped in fear and ducked under the table.
"Is there a planet Huolintakeskus?" she said to Turpin and Farthing.
"No", said Ant with weary resignation. "But there is a Finnish international shipping company Huolintakeskus who write their name on the side of their containers."
Pneumatic brakes spat, and a black and evil-smelling cloud of diesel fumes drifted in through the café doors. Ant attempted unsuccessfully to merge with his surroundings.
"Hey", said Mr. Shakespeare. "Is that your dad, Ant?"
Outside, someone was arguing with a traffic warden. One of the waitresses marched out to add her own voice to the argument. The argument appeared to be coming inside.
"- BUT I'VE GOT A DELIVERY TO MAKE -"
"- I'm sorry, you can't park an articulated lorry here whether you're making a delivery or not -"
"CO KONTYNUUJE TUTAJ??" demanded the waitress.
"I'd better go", said Ant.
Ant's dad poked his head in through the doors.
"DOUGIE!" said Mr. Shakespeare. "WAZZZUUPPP!!!"
"Dad, people don't say WAZZZUUPPP any more. In fact, I suspect even Americans only ever did it in Budweiser commercials -"
Mr. Shakespeare turned and winked at Cleo. "Check out THESE moves, daughter of mine."
He rose from his seat in a series of fluid yet mechanical jerks, moved across the room to Ant's dad, and offered his hand for shaking with the clumsiness of a robot. Mr. Stevens stared at the hand as if its owner were a lunatic. On Mr. Shakespeare's face was now written the sheer terror of a man who has suddenly realized he has committed a social faux pas of awesome magnitude. However, he had now begun the faux pas, and therefore had to finish it. Continuing the same series of stumbling, shuffling steps, he walked out through the café door into the street and carried on walking, robotically.
"Mr. Shakespeare sometimes gets like that", said Ant. "It's a medical condition."
"He's had it his whole life", said Mrs. Shakespeare grimly.
"Oh." Mr. Stevens shook his head to clear it. "Well, I'm outside." Conscious of the presence of the traffic warden, he added: "Heck of a coincidence you just happening to be here not waiting for me at all. Want a lift?"
The traffic warden folded his arms. "If you do not move on in the next ten seconds, you will get a ticket."
"JEST TEN WASZ SAMOCHÓD CIĘŽAROWY???"
Ant grimaced at the Shakespeares. "See you later." He hurried out of the café with his rucksack of books.
"Well, I have to say, you really don't get on with your father at all", said Mrs. Shakespeare to Lieutenant Turpin. "He never even gave you a look."
"There's a terrible feud between us", said Turpin.
"I cannot believe you people", said Cleo. "The Blues Brothers represents modern European society about as much as Return of the Jedi represents life on other planets."
"Return of the Jedi is actually surprisingly accurate", cautioned Turpin.
"Apart from the Ewoks", said Farthing.
"Ewoks!" chortled Turpin. "The very idea!"
"I mean, you could see they were just cleverly trained monkeys", said Farthing.
"Monkeys don't make tree villages or ride motorcycles", said Cleo coldly.
"They don't?" said Lieutenant Turpin blankly.
"They were very little people in furry suits."
Turpin clicked his fingers in sudden realization. "Little people!"
Farthing nodded. "Furry suits."
"Of course, it's obvious now she says it." Lieutenant Turpin patted Cleo's hand on the table. "You see, that's why we need you. You're the expert."
"What do you need me for today?"
"We're on a mission."
"From God?" said Cleo with mean untrusting eyes.
"Higher up. From Commodore Drummond's commander's commander. The head of the US Zed. President Mathews."
"Gosh, I'm impressed", said Cleo, who wasn't. "What are you here to do?"
"Find out whether we and Earth are about to go to war."
"How you doing?" said Ant's dad, spinning the wheel with an airy unconcern Ant wished he shared. On past performance, somewhere at the back of the truck, concrete bollards were probably being wrenched from the pavement.
"Fine", said Ant. This was the normal limit of his communication with his dad.
"All set for the trip?"
"All set."
Ant's dad slapped Ant's leg jovially. "Excited?"
"Very much so", said Ant unconvincingly.
"They've got a Chill-Out Zone and a bungee-jumping high wire act telling the story of Skyboy", said his dad. "That's what it says in the programme."
"The story of who?"
"Skyboy. Like in Star Wars, I reckon. Luke Skyboy, that was his name. Probably have a load of stormtroopers catching aquaphibians on the flying trapeze."
Ant's imagination balked at the thought of hordes of bungee-jumping jawas. "That's Luke Skywalker, dad. And they're not aquaphibians, they're gungans. It sounds really, really lame. Why couldn't we go to the National Space Centre? I've, er, got a school project to do on space travel."
"Because Shawna wanted to go to the Millennium Dome. It's got to be a great day out. They've spent millions on it. It'll be like the Great Exhibition in 1951." Ant's dad frowned into the windscreen. "They looked like aquaphibians to me."
"Dad, aquaphibians are wooden puppets from a TV show made when you were young and dinosaurs ruled the Earth. They look awful. Gungans, meanwhile, are highly complex 1990's CGI creations rendered using gigabytes of computing power."
"That still look awful", said Ant's dad, a smile plastered across his face.
"That still look awful", parrotted Ant, grinning despite himself.
"Shawna wants you to come. She's looking forward to meeting you. And so is Jordan."
"Jordan?" Ant's voice stiffened in alarm.
"Her little lad. Well, I say little, he's a bit taller than you are, actually. It'll be like having a big brother."
"WHAT?"
"Nothing. Er. Did I say something?"
"You did. You said it'd be like having a big brother. You did."
Mr. Stevens backtracked with delicate crablike grace. In the distant world out beyond the windscreen, he narrowly missed a Keep Left sign and a herd of cyclists. "I didn't really say anything -"
"They're moving in with us. Aren't they."
"Well, we thought, I'm not earning as much from the truck as I did, the mortgage is going up, the rent on Shawna's flat is going up too, it'll do us good to have a woman round the house -"
"Dad, just you nearly hit a woman in a wheelchair."
"How many times have I taught you the Highway Code? The ones with wheels aren't pedestrians, they're traffic."
***
"I thought you were already at war."
"Cold war", whispered Lieutenant Farthing. "We stare at them across a few light years of space, they stare back. They send in their reconnaissance ships to photograph our installations, we send ours in to photograph theirs. Occasionally we knock one out, capture the pilot and exchange him for one of ours the enemy have captured."
"But you think the war might turn hot", whispered Cleo. Someone hissed at her to be quiet from the pew in front.
"WHY DO I SEE SO MANY UNHAPPY FACES IN THIS CONGREGATION HERE TODAY?" yelled the minister from the pulpit. Cleo, Turpin and Farthing were jammed into the last pew at the back.
"One of our reconnaissance flights made a pass over the US colony at Newer England, Alpha Centauri Four", whispered Farthing. "That's the closest base they have to our main industrial centres at Hertzsprung-Russell 4523 and Delta Pavonis. A whole squadron of deep space attack ships looked like they were loading cobalt bombs."
"HAVE YOU NOT HEARD THE GOOD NEWS OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST? LET ME HEAR YOU SAY HALLELUJAH!"
"HALLELUJAH!"
"What's a cobalt bomb?" whispered Cleo.
"Well", whispered Lieutenant Farthing, "if you take an ordinary two-stage fusion-boosted fission device and equip it with a cobalt tamper -"
"Okay, okay. It's a bomb and it has cobalt in it."
"Broadly accurate."
"Do you have cobalt bombs?"
"No. We've never built any due to the Morgan Doctrine. Levi Morgan, the USZ's first president, declared that we would rely on threatening to expose the American and Russian governments' secret colonies in space, rather than build cobalt weapons ourselves -"
"WILL YOU BE QUIET!" hissed a huge lady in a huge fuchsia frock from the pew in front.
"NO MATTER WHAT SIN YOU HAVE COMMITTED! NO MATTER WHAT EVIL OR INIQUITOUS ACTS YOU HAVE PERPETRATED! NO MATTER WHAT DRUG YOU HAVE TAKEN, NO MATTER WHAT BLOOD YOU HAVE SPILT! YOU ARE FORGIVEN BY THE EVER-LOVING LORD!"
"Looks like your first President pretty much stuffed you up", whispered Cleo.
"He was a great and wonderful man", said Farthing. "But a few nukes would have solved our immediate short term problems, yes."
"LET ME HEAR YOU SAY PRAISE THE LORD!"
"PRAISE THE LORD!"
"So what do you propose to do?"
"Find a newspaper we can tell American colonies exist in space", said Lieutenant Turpin eagerly, producing and unfolding an entire tabloid unashamedly in a mass of rustling newsprint. "We found this American one; it has a wide circulation, and many of its stories concern extraterrestrial life -"
Cleo glanced briefly downward. "It's the National Enquirer."
"Is that bad?"
"The front page headline says Celine Dion is a killer robot programmed by aliens."
Turpin shrugged. "We don't have the Celine Dion background to make an informed judgement."
Cleo looked at Lieutenant Turpin sharply. "Are you saying Celine Dion might be an alien?"
"Well, aliens certainly exist." Turpin looked at the front page photograph again. "Though I doubt they'd design a robot that looked quite so obviously alien."
"She isn't alien. Only Canadian."
"Gosh." Turpin showed the paper to Farthing. "Look, Pen, that's what Canadians look like."
"Oh, the poor things."
The lady in the pew in front now had her hand up, like a tell-tale at school, and the other finger pointing indignantly down at Cleo, Farthing and Turpin.
"I BELIEVE THERE ARE PEOPLE IN OUR MIDST TODAY WHO ARE NOT HEARKENING TO THE WORD OF THE LORD! YOU ARE FORGIVEN! YOU ARE FORGIVEN! COME FORWARD!"
"What?" said Cleo out loud.
"YOU, CHILD! YOU!" Reverend Adebayo's finger was jabbing not down towards Cleo, but towards Lieutenant Turpin.
"Me?" said Turpin, pointing to himself for emphasis.
"YOU!" said Reverend Adebayo triumphantly. "YOU! THE LOST WHITE SHEEP OF THE FLOCK!" This drew a nervous titter from the congregation; Turpin and Farthing were clearly the only white faces in the church. However, to his credit, the preacher pounced on the churchgoers with his finger in turn. "DO NOT LAUGH! FOR I AM SAVING THIS POOR SINNER! WHAT IS YOUR NAME, CHILD?"
"Richard", said Turpin.
"RICHARD! RICHARD THE LION-HEARTED?"
Lieutenant Farthing snickered.
"Actually, I'm a bit of a cowardy custard", admitted Turpin.
"ARE YOU NOT GOING TO COMMAND A GLORIOUS CRUSADE TO SMITE THE HEATHEN?"
"Well, no", said Turpin. "I quite like Mr. Singh, actually."
"ARE YOU AWARE OF THE LOVE OF JESUS?"
"I am." Lieutenant Turpin licked his finger and dived into his newspaper with suspicious speed. "Here on page five, he is described as being alive and well and living in Cleanspot, New Jersey. Look, there's a picture, he's burning holes in a pagan idol with bolts of laser light coming from his eyes -"
Cleo leaned sideways and whispered out of the corner of her mouth. "He's enjoying this."
Farthing's hands gripped her Book Of One Hundred Songs Of Praise For Voice And Acoustic Guitar so hard that the cover squeaked. "I am only just beginning to realize as much. I suspect he has also quite deliberately, on the very first time I've ever visited Earth, walked me down a High Street in an outfit every single person was staring at as if I was mentally defective. He will pay. The next time I maintain his in-flight toilet, oh yes, he will pay."
***
Cleo and Lieutenant Farthing stood at a discreet distance on the large traffic island occupied by the Ecumenical Rainbow Faith Church of the Army of Jesus. Sunday morning traffic zoomed around them. Twenty yards away, Lieutenant Turpin was still standing talking to Reverend Adebayo, beatific smiles etched into both their faces. Occasionally Reverend Adebayo would tap the copy of the Good News Bible he was holding for emphasis; occasionally Turpin would tap his National Enquirer in answer.
"They seem to be getting on well together", said Mrs. Shakespeare.
Cleo shook her head. "They hate each other. Reverend Adebayo makes a big show of making friends with everyone he can't bully."
"Cleopatra!" said Cleo's mother, slapping her lightly on the shoulder, but hiding a guilty smirk with her other hand.
"They're smiling", agreed Farthing, "but their teeth are gritted."
"Do you have Reverends where you come from?" said Cleo.
Lieutenant Farthing shook her head. "Not like this. There aren't enough of us. We have Father Serafino, but he doubles as a Flight Systems mechanic and hydroponics engineer. It's very easy to sidetrack him off the Miracle of the Virgin Birth and onto the gravity braking system on a Hawker Harridan."
"Hydroponics!" said Mr. Shakespeare. "Is there a lot of that in the Orkneys?"
"In our part of the Orkneys", said Farthing.
"Funny", said Mr. Shakespeare. "I'd always imagined crofting was the main form of agriculture in the Orkneys."
"Hydroponic crofting", said Lieutenant Farthing, with such grey-eyed sincerity that Mr. Shakespeare found himself nodding earnestly in agreement.
"So you have a problem", said Cleo. "And you need us to solve it. Or you wouldn't be here."
"Captain Yancy insisted that we enlist trustworthy local assistance", said Lieutenant Farthing.
"That wasn't exactly what he said, was it?" said Cleo.
Lieutenant Farthing pursed her lips. "I believe what he actually said was 'You dumb space monkeys are only one step up from walking up to gas pumps and asking them to take you to their leader'."
Cleo grinned. "So what's the problem?"
"We have no real way of knowing whether planetkillers are being loaded up at Alpha Four or not. All we have are some very blurry photos taken during a pass at point nine lightspeed that seem to show rather bigger stand-off missiles on the loading rails than usual. Now, those stand-off units could be made of cobalt and uranium, or they could be made of plywood. All this might just be an attempt to frighten us. The whole of Alpha Four, you see, is a military district. Any of our ships travelling much slower than lightspeed wouldn't get with a hundred kilometres of the strat-attack bases. But the U.S. and the U.K. military are very methodical people. Every time they load a planetkiller up at Alpha, they ship a replacement up from weapons assembly on the far side of Earth's moon. They store planetkillers on the far side in case of accident, in case one of them goes off on the side facing Earth. Unfortunately, the lunar far side is also a military district. But every time they ship a planetkiller off the Moon, they replace that too, and they do that by sending up transports from Earth, from where the warheads are made in Bedfordshire. And we can land anywhere we want in Bedfordshire."
"Back up here a moment", said Cleo. "You have now said the word 'planetkillers' four times. When you say 'planetkiller', do you by any chance mean a thing that -"
"Kills planets, yes." Farthing nodded. "If a suitably-sized cobalt weapon goes off on a world with surface life, Cobalt-60 fallout will sterilize that world to a depth of a metre or so into the bedrock, making it uninhabitable by most life forms for between fifteen and twenty standard years."
Cleo's face had gone ash-grey with shock.
"Missiles", said Mr. Shakespeare, who had been listening intently.
"Not real missiles", said Cleo hastily. "It's all a big, uh, role-playing game. Yes, a role-playing game is what it is. Penelope here is a Royal Princess of the Planet Galactia. She's searching for the Lost Crystal of Argh, which is the only thing that can restore peace to the galaxy."
Lieutenant Farthing's pupils bounced big and small in her head. Otherwise, she did not react.
"That is absolutely true", she said.
"To be quite honest, she's quite unnaturally obsessed with it", confided Cleo.
"It sounds that way", said Lieutenant Farthing.
"Well, are we ready to go?"
Cleo turned. Lieutenant Turpin was standing behind her, all smiles. Cleo looked from her mother to her father.
"Erm", she said, "normally I'd love to go. It's just that it's the beginning of the summer holidays, and -"
"And Cleo has Christian Adventure Retreat to go on", interposed Mrs. Shakespeare firmly.
Cleo's face went from ashen to whiter-than-Ant. "What?"
"It never did me any harm", said Mrs. Shakespeare, folding her arms with pre-emptive finality.
"But we talked about this!" said Cleo. "We have to sleep in dormitories. They make us sing songs. Happy songs. About Jesus."
"You haven't anything else to do for the whole of the summer", said Mrs. Shakespeare. "You'll only get under my feet. Besides, someone's got to look after your sister."
"I do not need to be looked after", said Tamora.
"Excuse me a moment", said Cleo, flipping out a highly expensive pink mobile phone.
Lieutenant Farthing leaned close. "What are you doing?" she whispered. "Is that a pocket calculator?"
"We're in trouble", said Cleo, dialling furiously. "It's time for the Antphone."
***
Ant's phone, a massive bargain-basement device only marginally smaller than a laptop computer, rang in his bag. It would, after all, not fit in his pocket. He struggled it out of the bag and up to his ear. "Hello?"
"Ant. We have a problem. I am going to be forced to sing happy songs with Christians."
Ant paused to assimilate this. "How is that a we problem?"
"Because it will make me HIGHLY DISAGREEABLE TO BE WITH, Ant."
"Okay, okay, you sold me on the we. I am going to the Millennium Dome."
There was a shocked intake of breath at the other end of the phone. "Oh, Ant, the sadists. Have you thought of checking in at a police station and telling them you're being abused?"
"Believe me, I have. We are spending a lovely day at the Dome, and then nipping down to Shawna's mum's caravan on the Isle of Grain. I will be sharing that caravan with my dad, Shawna, and my New Big Brother, Jordan. There will be ample opportunity for enjoying myself birdwatching, beachcombing, and playing healthy games of British Bulldog with all of Jordan's friends -"
In the seat next to Ant, Ant's dad sat smiling serenely into the distance, gazing out at a clear mental picture of Paradise.
"It's all right, Ant, don't panic. Deep breaths. We will get you through this. I have a plan. It involves Mr. Turpin and Miss Farthing and will solve all our problems in one bold stroke. There is only one small unpleasant detail. Listen carefully..."
Cleo's voice dropped to a whisper, which was good, as the speaker on Ant's brickphone could be clearly heard six feet away.
"Ant? Ant, are you still there? Stop making that strangling noise. It is not that bad. If I were a thin-skinned person I might feel quite insulted. Ant?"
***
"Dad, you were right all along. Cleo and I are going out. We are a couple. An item. She is my girlfriend."
Ant's face was fixed on the speeding traffic in case his father tried to read it. His father, meanwhile, turned round enthusiastically in his seat.
"WOO-HOO! I knew it! Oh, it's going to be so romantic! An autumn wedding!"
"We're not getting married, dad", said Ant through gritted teeth. "We are thirteen years old."
"She's a looker, though! You rascal! And her dad must have a few bob!"
"I can't say I've ever noticed. Dad, the roadblock."
Ant's dad whipped his eyes front. There was no roadblock. "There's no roadblock", he said.
"Made you look, made you stare", said Ant, looking in the truck's side mirrors. "Hey, is that the same Renault as five minutes ago?"
"Yes", nodded his dad. "Been following us the last half mile. Same registration."
Ant was amazed. "How do you know that? You hardly look at the road."
Mr. Stevens shrugged. "I drive this thing around all day, old son. We'll be parking up behind the Super Sausage and switching to the car in a minute. Then we'll see if he's got the guts to keep following."
"You think he's following us?"
"Oh, yeah. He's been doing it all week."
Ant's stomach did a flip inside him. "What's he look like?"
"Little guy, fat, white, bad moustache. Nothing like the Man With The Van, if that's what you're worried about."
That was something at least. The Man With The Van had been chased away by Cleo's and Ant's combined dads when they'd found Ant and Cleo in the woods over a year ago. This had happened only minutes after Ant and Cleo had returned from their trip into space. To explain their absence, they had prepared an elaborate lie in which they had been kidnapped by a desperate criminal who drove a white van. This fictitious man had kept them prisoner for over a month for no apparent reason, then inexplicably released them. On returning to Earth, they had had the good luck to run into just such a man, who had actually been scouring the woods for them. Although this had helped their parents and the police to believe their story, the fact that the man, by sheer coincidence, actually existed was worrying. The British government had been hunting Lieutenant Turpin in those same woods when Turpin had kidnapped Ant and Cleo from Earth. Almost certainly, that meant that the Man With The Van was a government agent - and if that meant Ant and Cleo were now suspected of being sympathizers with the rebel colonies in space...
"The thing is", said Ant, "I sort of promised Cleo I'd spend the next couple of weeks with her. On her Christian Retreat", he added quickly.
The streets continued to motor past at an unsafe speed.
"Christian Retreat?" said Ant's dad. "I see. Does it cost anything?"
"No", said Ant confidently. He could almost hear the clank of calculation in his father's head. Christian Retreat at no cost versus Millennium Dome at cost of three tickets @ twenty pounds each rather than four...and he knew perfectly well that his dad would not have booked tickets in advance.
Sure enough, things lurched ponderously down the path of least expense. "All right", said Ant's dad. "But just this once, mind." Mr. Stevens looked secretly relieved at not having to spend a week confined to the same caravan as both Jordan and Ant. Unsettlingly, however, he also looked disappointed at having missed an opportunity to introduce Ant to his new family.
"You tell your mum, though", he said. Ant nodded. He was used to acting as an intermediary between his mum and dad. At least he wasn't doing this while they were both in the same house any longer. "Tell your father this." "Well, you tell your mother that." Tell her yourself, she's only in the spare room upstairs.
***
"The only trouble is, mum, I told Ant I'd spend a couple of weeks with him in Dougie's partner's mum's caravan on the Isle of Grain."
Mrs. Shakespeare blinked.
"LEONARD", she said.
"Does Dougie know about this?" said Mr. Shakespeare quickly.
"Oh yes", said Cleo. "He would have to. It's a very small caravan. We girls are all sleeping in one room, the boys in another. Can I take my sleeping bag? I don't think they'll have one spare."
Mrs. Shakespeare looked meaningfully at Mr. Shakespeare. Mr. Shakespeare drew in his breath and frowned, contemplating the imaginary horrors that might await his daughter in a caravan on the Isle of Grain, and balancing them against the very real horrors that would result if she was not allowed to get her own way.
Finally he looked up and said:
"Is this going to cost money?"
The Shakespeares' Volvo pulled into Ant's drive. Further down the road, Mr. Stevens' eighteen-wheeler was parked across Miss Purbright's, Mr. Carslaw's and Mrs. Gooch's front drives, as usual. Normally, bitter complaints would result if a truck was parked across an entrance, but Miss Purbright, Mr. Carslaw, and Mrs. Gooch were all OAP's, and Mr. Stevens' truck brought them cheap cigarettes, Belgian chocolates and gin. For this, they were prepared to let it take up five parking spaces on a semi-permanent basis.
Mr. Shakespeare wound down the window and looked across at the truck.
"Well, Dougie's here."
"I still think this is too much to let a young girl do at Cleo's age", said Mrs. Shakespeare. "I never let you sleep in the same caravan as me at her age."
"Yes", said Mr. Shakespeare, remembering grimly. "But times change. And Dougie is in charge. If Dougie is involved, it will be all right."
Mrs. Shakespeare sat with her hands twisting in her lap as Cleo manoeuvred her enormous suitcase out of the car. "I don't know what you see in him."
"I wanted to give up", said Mr. Shakespeare softly.
"What?" said Cleo.
"When we were looking for you in the woods. I wanted to give up. You know, I kept telling myself, statistics say that after the first couple of days a child is missing, the chances are the child isn't coming back. But Dougie, you see, he doesn't have my fine education and he doesn't give a damn about statistics. He would have stayed in those woods searching till the Moon fell out of the sky. He shamed me into staying."
Mrs. Shakespeare, Tamora and Cleo, struck dumb, sat and stood still, not daring even to look at each other, or at their own reflections in the car's mirrors.
"See you in two weeks' time, princess", said Mr. Shakespeare, and wound the window up on the driver's side. Cleo stood back from the car as the engine fired up and the wheels span on the gravel.
Ant walked out of the house, catching an accusing glare from Tamora in the Volvo's back window. Ant waved cheerily at her as the car sped away.
"Oh my god", said Cleo. "My dad gave up looking for me."
"That's nice", said Ant. "Tamora suspects."
"What, suspects that we're about to go into outer space? That's one deductive little sister I've got there."
"Possibly not. But certainly she thinks we're not going to the Isle of Grain."
Cleo nodded. "Our first stop has to be an internet café. You need to know everything there is to know about St. Ignatius de Loyola's Faith-Based Prescribed Christian Activity Centre, and I need to know everything there is to know about the Isle of Grain."
"It's flat and it stinks at low tide", said Ant. "That's all you need to know."
Lieutenant Turpin and Lieutenant Farthing rose from their hiding place behind the bushes outside Number Thirteen.
"Have they gone?"
"Yes. Where's the space ship?"
Lieutenant Turpin looked at Cleo as if she were mad. "Space ship?"
"Yes. You came here in a space ship, out of space?"
Turpin looked at Farthing, who evidently shared his concern for Cleo's sanity. "Well...yes, but, as I said, we're going to Bedfordshire. Bedfordshire's not a very long way away."
Cleo looked coolly at Turpin. "It is if you walk there, buster."
"I thought we might use one of your earth cars", said Turpin. "They move on the planetary surface under power." He made a motion with his hand of a car moving on the planetary surface under power.
"Got a driving licence?" said Ant.
Turpin shook his head. "No. What's one of those? Does it have anything to do with golf?"
"Lieutenant Turpin, you were driving a van when we found you last time."
Turpin shook his head. "George Quantrill drove the van. All those pedals and levers scare me."
Ant ignored this. "Couldn't we just take off in your ship and land again a little bit to the south?"
"Go ten miles? In a Fantasm fighter? A ship designed for travelling across astronomical units of space?" Turpin looked shocked. "I dare say it's physically possible...of course, we'd have to get there first."
"We didn't land as close to here as we might have", confided Farthing.
"Where did you land?" said Cleo.
"Bedfordshire", said Turpin, smirking bashfully.
"Lieutenant Turpin suffered a navigational incapacity", said Lieutenant Farthing.
"I landed us on the right island on the right planet in the right solar system", complained Turpin. "In astronomical terms, we might as well be in the next room."
Cleo fixed Turpin with a hundred-watt stare. "Mr. Turpin, you are being deliberately obtuse. You got from where you landed to here somehow. How did you do that?"
"Via what I like to call the Universal Planet Earth Transportation System", said Turpin.
"Which is?" said Cleo.
Turpin grinned and stuck up his thumb.
***
"I not suppose to pick up hitch hiker", said the young, shaven-headed man driving the Transit. "But in my country half of country hitch hike. No-one have car. OUT OF WAY, MONKEY HEAD!" He leaned on his horn with his elbows, shooing a dawdling driver out of the fast lane, lit a foul-smelling cigarette with his free hand, and tossed a crisp packet out of the window with the hand he should have been using to hold the steering wheel.
He took a drag on the cigarette and offered it to Ant.
"I'm sorry", said Ant. "I'm too young."
"In my country", said the man, "everyone smoke cigarette, since pop out of mama." He offered the cigarette to Lieutenant Farthing, who shied from it like a horse from a snake.
"Don't you have lung cancer in your country either?" said Cleo from the back of the van.
"Oh yes, pretty lady. We have big communist nuclear reactor ten kilometre outside capital city, melt down, everyone got cancer, so smoke as many cigarette as want, not matter one tinker's flying cuss." A mobile phone rang somewhere down by his groin. He rummaged for it, barely missing a slow-moving Sunshine Coach full of old people. "HELLO? I RUN HALF HOUR LATE, IS TERRIBLE TRAFFIC. I RIGHT NEAR SCOTCH CORNER, BE WITH YOU IN TEN." He winked at Lieutenant Farthing. He had been doing a lot of winking at Lieutenant Farthing.
"Where do you come from exactly?" said Cleo.
"I not sure exactly. Name of country change on regular basis. Was once part of Hostro-Ungarian Hempire. LOOK IN MIRROR, IDIOT MAN, YOU SEE HOW YOU SO UGLY!"
In the back of the van, Lieutenant Turpin was sitting watching the traffic sail past, his whitened knuckles gripping the shelf rails in the walls.
"Mr. Turpin, you are such a baby", said Cleo. "You're used to travelling near lightspeed, and we're barely doing a hundred and ten."
Turpin swallowed something that seemed to object to being swallowed and fight its way back up his throat. His face was pale, his eyes pleading. In the front of the cab, Lieutenant Farthing looked similar.
"I just saw a sign for Bedford", said Ant.
"That's good", said Cleo.
"It was on the northbound side. We're southbound."
"You no worry. You Uncle Prawo he get you where you want to be got." Ant's Uncle Prawo handed him a business card. "I also install you new nice central heating, all British Standard, no foreign rubbish. MOTHER OF A PIG, YOU USE ACCELERATOR IS NEXT TO BRAKE!"
"We're going in the right direction", said Turpin gently. "We need Sapphirey Park, just like I said."
"Never heard of it", said Ant.
"Is famous tourist attraction!" said Ant's Uncle Prawo. "Beautiful country house, get visit by many British peoples, drive round in cars with windows shut, lose windowscreen wipers." He began making hooting noises and beating his chest for no apparent reason.
Ant stared at him blankly.
"I'm sorry", he said. "That one lost something in translation."
Then, just to the left of Uncle Prawo, he saw a thing that caused the blood to freeze in his veins. In the fast lane, hanging back a hundred yards, was a navy blue Renault, and sitting in its driving seat was a short fat white man with a bad moustache. What had the registration been? Impossible to remember.
"Er, Prawo", said Ant. "I think we're being followed. You understand 'followed'?"
Prawo looked in his mirrors in puzzlement. "Is no police."
"It's not police", said Cleo.
"No police? Then they eat my, how you say, ekshaustor! Is no man follow Prawo Jazdy we need next exit I think yes?"
"...yes", said Ant doubtfully, as the next exit sailed past, lost, to their left.
The van changed down a gear and the seat hit Ant in the back with a whiplash-inducing impact. The van's sides rocked, trying desperately to escape their chassis; twin trails of boiling rubber smoked on the road behind them. The Transit swerved across two HGV's to nip into the junction to a fanfare of horns. Behind them, through the back window, Cleo saw a blue Renault frantically change lanes, trying to follow the Transit, only to smash into the driver-side wing of an unsuspecting white Nissan in the centre lane. Bits of car flew everywhere. The BANG of the two cars coming together could be heard even inside the Transit. In seconds, the road behind them was a mass of skidded collided cars. Drivers emerged and began arguing with each other. Two well-dressed men in suits, both holding bleeding noses, were getting out of the Nissan.
"He no follow nobody no more", said Prawo in satisfaction as the Transit drew up to the lights at the top of the junction. "I am James Bond! I drive like I love! I install low cost domestic plumbing solution!" He thumped his chest proudly.
"I can't see any signs for Sapphirey Park", said Ant.
"Is here", said Prawo. "You trust." His mobile phone went off again; he seized it and yelled "HELLO IS VERY BAD TRAFFIC SORRY LINE IS BREAKING UP. I AT HANGER LANE GYRATORY, BE WITH YOU BEFORE YOU KNOW, FIX YOU NICE MIXER TAPS, YES?"
***
"You can drop us off here", said Turpin suddenly.
Prawo looked up and down a long, completely empty stretch of road. To one side, a very high brick wall separated them from huge, high old trees. On the other side were hedges and farmland.
"This is it", said Turpin. "Sapphirey Park."
Prawo nodded and braked with surprising gentleness. "Is true. But entrance is on other side."
"We're not going in by the entrance." Turpin pointed to a stretch of wall that looked as impassable as any other stretch of wall. "Here will be fine." He extended a hand. "Thanks very much."
"Is no problem for Prawo! I am iron man!" Prawo handed Turpin a card. "Reinstall you boiler, rates very reasonable." He winked once more at Lieutenant Farthing as Ant and Cleo hopped out of the van, and Farthing and Turpin slithered sickly out of it like crocodiles off a mud bank. It was good to have their feet on the ground again after an hour of driving and plumbing-related conversation. As Prawo burned away waving in a cloud of rubber and diesel, Farthing said:
"Did he just call me a boiler?"
"If he did", said Ant, "I'm sure it was a compliment. He obviously cares very deeply about them."
Cleo scowled at Turpin. "We have to get to your ship right now. He was so a government agent. Nobody is that Eastern European."
Ant weighed in in Prawo's defence. "But he got us away from that Renault! And that guy was following us!"
Cleo shrugged. "Maybe he was an agent working for the Other Side. Maybe he only wants his people following us."
Ant span round the landscape, waving at it demonstratively. "Cleo, we are alone. There is nobody on this road for over half a mile."
"Oh, we won't see them", said Cleo, with immense self assurance. "They'd be far too clever for that."
A Mondeo estate was approaching down the road from the motorway, apparently being careful not to exceed the miniscule local speed limit. Ant's, Cleo's, Turpin's and Farthing's eyes locked on to it and continued to stare fixedly at it as it rolled slowly towards them, passed them, and rolled away. A balding, middle-aged man with glasses sat behind the wheel, wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Next to him, a middle-aged woman sat underneath a massive perm. Behind them in the back seat, two children of around seven and nine, a boy and a girl respectively, stared back through identical National Health glasses. In the very back of the car, a red setter looked happily out at the world. The driver and the woman looked uncomfortable at being stared at. The boy stuck his tongue out at Ant, and so did the dog.
There was a moment of quiet as the car vanished round a bend in the road.
"They weren't", insisted Ant. "They were so not. They had children."
"Those children", said Cleo, "could have been highly trained dwarfs."
"Little people", nodded Turpin with grim sagacity. "In furry suits."
"The dog was genuine", said Cleo quickly, before Turpin acquired ideas.
"Cleo, this is pure paranoia." Ant turned to Turpin. "And I don't see any spacecraft around here anywhere."
"Of course not. We've hidden ours." Turpin's face assumed an expression of extreme cunning. "We put leaves and branches on top of it."
Ant looked round. Grass, leaves and branches stretched away to the horizon. He rubbed his head to make his brain work harder.
"Well, all I can say is that you've hidden it very well."
"Not here, monkey head", said Turpin. "Over here." He walked up to the fifteen-foot-high wall that flanked the road. "In Sapphirey Park." Bending down into the grass, he picked up a long, forked tree bough, needing to use both hands because of its weight. Staggering about in the grass beneath the bough, looking up his stick like a plate spinner, he poked it up into the branches of a massive lime that overhung the wall, and hooked a rope off a bough. The end of the rope dropped down to ground level, and Turpin tested it by pulling down hard. Then he set his teeth with concentration and began to walk up the wall, feeding the rope through his fingers. Seconds later, he was balanced on the top of the wall, breathing in great spasming gasps.
"He's really out of shape", remarked Ant.
"He comes from a world where gravity is only eighty per cent Earth normal", said Lieutenant Farthing, looking up the rope nervously. "And so do I."
"I am one hundred per cent sure I am not going up that rope", said Cleo, folding her arms. "Ropes and I don't get on. If I were a rope, I would have no rope friends of my own, and would be very lonely."
Ant grunted in disgust, took hold of the rope, and strolled up the wall. Lieutenant Turpin had still not regained his breath when he reached the top.
"Come on Pen", said Turpin. "You made it on the way out."
Farthing grimaced, spat into her palms, and grabbed hold of the rope. Turpin sucked in his breath, forced himself to his feet unsteadily on top of the wall, and wound the rope around himself, swaying backwards to take the weight off Farthing.
"Richard, remember, we'll fall further if we do fall", cautioned Farthing. "You fall ten metres further in three seconds in this gravity than you do back home."
"Luckily I think we'll hit something before our three seconds are up", said Turpin. "Climb, Pen."
Farthing gritted her teeth and stepped up onto the wall. With every step up it, her shoulders shook and her breath whooshed out like steam from a locomotive. By the time she was halfway up, Ant was absolutely convinced she was not going to make it. Her face was beetroot-red, and her knuckles white as raw chicken on the rope.
She made it, rising to an awkward position on top of the wall where she and Turpin were balanced delicately facing each other, connected by the rope. Hugely embarrassed, and obviously trying to touch each other as little as possible, they manoeuvred themselves to left and right until they were both sitting on the capstones.
The worst, however, was yet to come, Ant knew. As Turpin and Farthing dropped off the wall into the woods on the other side, Ant was still looking down at Cleo, who still had her arms folded.
"I am not", said Cleo, "going up that rope."
"Hey, look", came Turpin's voice from the forest floor behind him. "An animal. Do you think that's a deer?"
"Come on", said Ant. "You can do it. I know you can."
Cleo walked up and down the roadside, glaring at the ground, shaking her head. "You are not looking at Miss British Amateur Gymnastics", she said. "I do not do physical education. My body contains muscles by accident rather than design." She turned around and began sulking in the opposite direction.
"I think it's too big for a deer. Do you think it's friendly?"
"I don't know, let's try feeding it. Do you think it likes chocolate?"
"Look at the nose on it!"
"Couldn't you just try?"
Cleo wheeled around again, her jaw set. She had walked far enough up the road to be on the other side of a large roadsign that had its back to Ant.
A white Nissan was approaching up the road. That in itself would have been unremarkable. But the wing of this particular Nissan was hanging off in plastic rags, pieces of it dropping off as it came on. It was moving slowly, but despite that, it would be with them in half a minute or so.
"Er - Cleo?" said Ant. "We may have a problem."
Had the Nissan's driver been intending to leave at the same junction they had? The Nissan had been in the middle lane, but a sharp and dangerous swerve would still have been needed to make the turn. Hadn't it been the Renault, not the Nissan, that had been following them, though?
Had the Nissan simply left the road because of the accident it had just had?
"Cleo", he said, "I think you should stand very, very still and act like landscape."
Cleo did not answer. Looking back towards her, he saw her with her head raised up high, her eyes wide, reading the other side of the roadsign.
"Ant", she said, "I think we may have a problem."
"I know", said Ant. "I've already seen it."
"Don't be obtuse, Ant. How could you have seen this? Just come down here and look."
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