Edison Fox 2 (as yet untitled)

The rod twitched, calmed and then twitched again.  The second mate’s eyes grew wide and his grip tight.

           ‘I think I’ve only gone an’ got one!’

The captain appeared, his bristly beard and pipe leading the way.  When he got to his crew member’s side, he frowned, emptied the pipe over the bow and proceeded to refill it.  The frown stayed put during the procedure.

More twitches and then a definite bob.

           ‘I’m ‘a reelin’ it in!’

Second Mate desperately span the reel, winding in the catch, his grin as wide as a builder’s bucket.  He could almost taste the cod and chips as he worked and actually smacked his lips.  Then, just as his hands were starting to ache, the surface broke and he triumphantly hoisted aloft his fish.  It was barely larger than the hook.  The captain cackled violently, or hacked up half a lung – it was hard to tell which.  Second Mate, still dangling the fish on the end of his rod, turned to his captain with a defeated look.

           ‘How hungry are yeh exactly?’

Then something decidedly strange happened.  A bright shaft of yellow light descended from the clouds and illuminated the sea just off the bow.  The hooked fish started to rise.  Higher and higher it went, the unlikeliest of kites, the reel spinning itself out again until it reached its end and the fish stopped half way to the clouds. The confusion on Second Mate’s face had hardly found its way there before the sea began to churn and roil.  Greater became the disturbance until suddenly the surface exploded with water and foam as a huge wale ascended from the depths.

           ‘Arrr, not that hungry…’ declared the captain.

The wale left the water completely and rose into the sky as if strapped to an invisible crane.  First Mate stared in shock, still determinedly holding onto his rod and his fishy dinner.  As the wale passed the fish, it swallowed it down before continuing its unlikely trip into the atmosphere.

           ‘Aye,’ said the captain, lighting his pipe.  ‘Wale in the sky, tide be gettin’ high.’  With that he nodded knowingly to his second mate, turned and ambled off, whistling the tune to a bathroom mould remover advert.

10:32pm, Muddlewell Farm, somewhere in Somerset, England

Farmer Gilesby chugged across his field on an ancient tractor that was substantially older than he was, and that’s saying something.  In the darkness he bumped and bucked over the ruts like a geriatric rodeo rider, the gloom ahead seemingly made worse by the two useless headlights at the front, which flickered like candles in a draft.  As he went, the farmer muttered and moaned to himself.

           ‘Stone the crows; I canna see me cheese for the pickle!  If old aunty Bettie were ‘eer, she’d be a turning in her gravy.’

All these thoughts of food was making him hungry and his tummy rumbled louder than his tractor’s gearbox.  Remembering things seemed always to be a challenge these days, but he smiled a toothless smile as he realised he still had his crusty ham roll jostling around on his dashboard.  Then, if he had been wearing his false teeth, he’d have spat them out in shock.  From the blackness ahead there suddenly appeared a big, hairy cow’s face.

           ‘Mooooooooo!’ Declared the cow.

           ‘Gizzards!’ Declared the farmer, and he stood on the brakes like his sandwich depended upon it.  Coming to an eventual stop, he groaned and clambered down from his seat.

           ‘Is that you, Pat?’ he asked, shuffling around to the front of the tractor as fast as his bunions would allow.  The cow turned and stared lazily at him whilst chewing a mouthful of grass.  ‘Blimey girl, I almost squished your very bones!’

Pat responded by letting fly with enough gas to raise a hot air balloon.

           ‘Hairy crumpets, Pat; we’re goin’ to have teh sort yer diet, m’girl.’  He turned, cursed the tractor’s headlights and then thumped them with all the strength his arthritic fists could muster.  Suddenly farmer Gilesby and Pat were blinded by yellow light.

           ‘Ha!  There yeh go, Pat, m’girl.  That’ll do it.’

Pat responded by letting off the biggest gust of gas yet.  Even her own ears flapped.  As it burst forth, she began to rise.  So did farmer Gilesby’s eyebrows – in shock.

           ‘Now just you let it out and get back down ‘eer!’

But she continued on her way, still chewing and looking completely relaxed.

           ‘Paaaaaaaaaat!’ Bellowed the farmer but up, up and away went his hairy heifer.

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the yellow light went out and plunged Gilesby and his tractor back into darkness.  The farmer was just wondering how this day could get any worse when the light came back, sucked up his sandwich and vanished again.

9:17pm, The Bandy Buzzard pub, not far from Muddlewell Farm

Tom Picklethwait staggered up to the bar with an empty pint glass in one hand and a  battered-looking bank card in the other.  He went to sit on a bar stool, missed entirely and collapsed into a giggling heap on the floor.  Hauling himself back up he clung to the edge of the bar like someone trying to climb into a life raft.  He straightened his slipped wig as he grinned up at the stern-looking barmaid.

           ‘Well,’ he slurred. ‘Which one of you lovely ladies is going to top me up. My beer seems to be a little bit gone.’

Just in case the message hadn’t entirely got through, he turned his empty pint glass upside down and patted its bottom.

           ‘See! Nuffink!’

           ‘As you well know, Tom Picklethwait, when you are seeing two of me is when your wife demands that I send you back home.  Off you go, she’s waiting!’

Tom tried his sad puppy dog eyes but the barmaid was well used to this tactic and sent him packing. As he zig-zagged his way to the exit, his mates laughed and jeered in his general direction.

           ‘Off you go, tommy-boy.  Don’t worry, we’ll have a few drinks for you!’

Tom sighed and pushed open the door, carried on pushing and then fell face-first into the pansy patch by the entrance.  It took all his concentration and coordination to clamber back to his feet but climb back up he did.

           ‘Cor blimey, ‘oo put them flowers there, it’s blacker than the wife’s sausages out ‘eer!’

Then, the brightest yellow light that Tom had ever squinted at beamed down from the clouds and settled itself inches from his shoes.  He stared up at it and that’s when he saw something descending within it.

           ‘Grockles!’ He yelled as he watched a figure float to the ground like it was in a great yellow elevator.  It was the strangest sight Tom had ever seen, despite the strength of the Bandy Buzzard’s beer.  It had arms and legs and a head like a person, but was featureless and white all over.  He rubbed his eyes; that usually worked in these types of circumstances.  Only it didn’t, and the figure was still there once he’d finished.  Then, as he stared at it all betwaddled, it began to change.  Features grew and clothes too until it was an exact copy of himself.  Tom sprang back in such surprise, his wig fell clean off.  Immediately, the head of the figure before him became bald too.  They stood and gawped at each other for a moment before a sly grin broke across Tom’s blurry face.

He threw over his house keys.  ‘Don’t forget to let out the cat or she’ll whack y’eh with the frying pan!’  He rubbed his head absently.  ‘You can take the car if-‘

A second shaft of light fell down and bathed an old Ford Escort in a yellow glow.  A moment later there was an almighty crunch as a big, hairy, grass-chewing cow dropped onto the car’s roof and blew out the windows.

Tom shrugged and wobbled his way happily back into the pub.  As the door swung slowly closed behind him, there was a cheer, a clink as a coin was shoved into the jukebox and ‘I want to dance with somebody’ by Whitney Houston blared out into the night.

Chapter One:   The Bank Job

Two weeks later, the foyer of the Regal and Rogue bank

People stared as the two visitors strode across the highly polished and gold-leaf inlaid foyer of the Regal and Rogue bank.  As they made their way toward the lifts, cleaners stopped cleaning, cashiers stopped cashiering, security stopped securing. It was doubtful that the hallowed hallways of the Regal had ever seen anyone so outlandish between their walls.

One of the visitors appeared fairly normal.  Older than the other, he wore an expensive-looking suit, which was as grey as his hair, but looked slightly too big for his frame. An oddly shaped nose supported thick-lensed glasses and below both of these was a moustache so pencil-thin it looked like it could have been drawn on with a pen.  

The other was a teenager and as he walked, his shiny sequinned outfit was reflecting the light cast from the ornate chandeliers above and was bedazzling those following his progress through the building.  Maybe it was that which caused jaws to drop, or maybe the tall, spiky, lime green hairdo.  Or maybe the shades he was wearing that appeared to have actual mini TV screens on the outside showing video.  Or it could have been the drone that buzzed just ahead of his lurid green hair and seemed to be recording his every move and beaming it to his glasses.  Either way, the two had made it all the way to the lifts before a particularly large security guard snapped out of his state of frozen amazement and put out a tennis racket sized hand.

           ‘Hey you, Elton John, where do you think you’re going?’

The youth looked up at the guard and pressed a button on the side of his shades.  The small screens folded up to reveal lime green contact lenses and an expression of indignation.

           ‘Who, me?’

           ‘No, the pot plant over there.  Of course you!’

           ‘I have an appointment.’

           ‘Yeh?  Who with?’

           ‘A pot plant,’ replied the youth, raising his eyebrows slightly.

           ‘Oh, ha ha.  Very good.  Such a comedian.  See, the problem is that nobody gets in that lift unless I say so.  And guess what?  I don’t say so.’

At this point, the suited visitor chimed in.

           ‘Er, could you please just -‘

           ‘No,’ interrupted the guard.  ‘Who are you, anyway, his babysitter?’

           ‘My manager actually,’ corrected the shiny youth.

The guard laughed at this point.

           ‘Manager!  Now I know you’re a comedian!  See, it don’t matter what he is because unless he’s my boss, or my wife, I ain’t doing a thing he says!’

           ‘Oh, I think you will,’ added the youth with a hint of a grin.

           ‘Really?  How so?’

The kid leaned forward and whispered his reply.

           ‘Because I know what you get up to on that phone when your boss thinks you’re working.’  He nodded at the device pushed into the guard’s breast pocket and tapped the side of his video shades.  One of the screens folded back down over an eye.  ‘With a touch of a virtual button, I can email the entire contents of your internet history to your boss.  Or your wife.  Hum, dancing cats…dogs on skateboards…origami for beginners-‘

           ‘That..that’s rubbish!’ Stuttered the guard.

           ‘No, that’s paper folding.  Oh wow, hold the hashtag, what’s this one here?’

           ‘Just-‘ shouted the guard loud enough to jangle the chandelier above.  He stopped himself and, taking a deep breath, lowered his voice to a barely audible level.  ‘Just get in,’ he growled and used his large hand to slap the lift button.  As the doors slid neatly open with a ding, the two visitors strode in.  The video drone followed, bouncing off the guard’s head as it went.

           ‘Oh,’ added the youth, looking out at the guard as the doors began to close, ‘who’s Elton John anyway, grandad?’

There was just enough time to see the veins bulge in the man’s temple before the doors closed between them like a metal bouncer breaking up a fight.

There was a long release of breath as the lift ascended.

           ‘Wow, Ed; I thought he was going to crumple us up like paper and toss us in the bin!’

           ‘Don’t you worry, Jimmy, everything’s going to plan.  Just stay calm.’

           ‘How did you know all that stuff about his phone?’

           ‘Just a guess, Jimmy.  Just a guess.’

Jimmy had been friend and accomplice of Edison Fox for long enough to know that he would not have left things to guesswork when carrying out one of his audacious schemes, but now was not the time to get sidetracked.

Edison and Jimmy watched the floor level numbers flash on the screen as they ascended until the lift slowed and the doors opened at level ten.  Jimmy looked at Edison.

           ‘You first,’ Edison whispered.  ‘Remember, you’re not my classmate, you’re my manager.’

Jimmy nodded and strode out of the lift, Edison following.

They were in a reception area, which was even more luxurious than the foyer downstairs.  There were intricately detailed and expensive-looking rugs on the marble floor, a plush leather sofa sat in a corner and gold lamps that hung from dark red and silver patterned wallpaper.  At the far end was a desk, behind which sat a woman that reminded Edison of a headmistress he had once had.  He shuddered at the thought, that time hadn’t ended well, but it was history now, just like the subject she taught.

Jimmy looked over the rims of his glasses at the desk as if to orientate himself, pushed them back up his bulbous nose and walked toward the woman as confidently as he could manage.  Edison put on his best ‘yeh, whatever’ look and sauntered after his fake manager.  At one point he had to reach out and steer Jimmy back on track as he veered off to one side, almost colliding with a coat stand.

           ‘Sorry,’ Jimmy whispered over his shoulder, ‘I can’t see through these things.’

They avoided the rest of the furniture and arrived safely at the desk.  The woman sat writing as if they were not there at all.  Jimmy made a little noise in his throat to announce their arrival.  The woman continued to write before letting out an exaggerated sigh and putting down her pen very deliberately.  She looked Jimmy up and down with a practised expression of disdain before turning to Edison.  Her eyes bulged like an African bullfrog.

           ‘Yes?’ she almost demanded, her gaze flicking toward the emergency stairwell as if she expected security to burst in any moment.

           ‘My name’s Mr Forge; we have an appointment with the bank manager, Mr Rogue,’ declared Jimmy.  ‘Four thirty.’

           ‘Appointment?’ stuttered the woman.

           ‘Yes.  Four thirty.  With Mr Rogue.’

           ‘Mr Rogue?’

           ‘Wow,’ cut in Edison, ‘what’s wrong, is your bandwidth on the buffer?  Yeh, appointment.  Mr Bank Manager.  Four thirty.’

Her gaze narrowed behind her angular spectacles, the chains that secured them around her neck jangling in sympathy with her nerves.

           ‘Mr Rogue has no more appointments today, so you will have to leave.  Now.’

           ‘No need to be salty.  Are you quite sure?’

           ‘I can assure you, young man, that if there was an appointment in the diary I would-‘

She was interrupted by a ping from her computer.

           ‘Hashtag winning!’ declared Edison, pulling a complex hand pose.

           ‘Erm, this way, is it?’ asked Jimmy, gesturing to a door to the left.  Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Edison away from the desk.

           ‘Just…wait a minute!’ Stammered the woman, her face a perfect blend of shock, frustration and annoyance.  The drone swooped down, took her picture and beamed it to the office printer, which spat out twenty copies.

Jimmy knocked on the door.

           ‘Enter,’ came the reply from within, and so they did.

The office was also plush, as expected, and sat at a large desk by the window was Mr Rogue, who was on a phone call.

           ‘Yes yes yes, I know all that,’ he was saying, the back of his mostly bald head facing the boys as they walked toward two seats by the desk.  ‘Well, they took the rate, they will just have to find the money or else we will come over to collect assets.’  With that, he swivelled around in his chair, thrust the phone’s handset down and yelped like he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod.

           ‘W-who?’ he asked simply, not taking his eyes from Edison.

           ‘Mr Rogue, sir,’ said Jimmy, thrusting his hand in Rogue’s direction.  The bank manager reached out and shook it briefly without taking his gaze from Edison’s hair.

           ‘This is my client,’ continued Jimmy, ‘who likes to be called HashtagDude12.’

Edison smiled widely, showing off what looked to be several gold teeth.  ‘Nice to join your live-play, Mr Manager.’

Rogue stared at Edison’s glasses, seeing his own face displayed upon the screens.  It took several moments for him to work out what was going on and he glanced up at the drone hovering above the desk.

           ‘Oh, don’t worry about the tech,’ said Edison.  ‘I live stream my life to my fans, see?’

           ‘Fans?’ replied Rogue.  ‘Live stream?  No, I’m afraid I don’t see.  Who are you exactly?’

Edison looked over at Jimmy and jerked his thumb at Mr Rogue in a ‘fill him in’ kind of way.  His friend was momentarily transfixed by a bronze bust of Mr Rogue himself, which sat on the corner of the desk, frowning up at him with its golden eyes.  Jimmy gulped slightly and casually looked at his left hand where he had scribbled some notes.  However, with these glasses on, he couldn’t even make out his hand, let alone the writing.  He tilted his head back to try and see under his lenses, which helped but made him look like he had some sort of neck problem.

           ‘HashtagDude12 is an internet sensation,’ explained Jimmy.  Rogue looked none the wiser.  ‘A tech entrepreneur, if you like.  He has thirty million subscribers, who like to follow his every move over the internet.’

“Thirty million” was a number and a big number at that, and Rogue could understand numbers.  It seemed to buy them some more explaining time at least.

           ‘Go on.’

Jimmy glanced at his hand again, but the ink seemed to be getting harder to read as his hand’s sweat levels increased.

           ‘Well, as you can imagine, that gives him a substansicle…subtantickle…big amount of people to advertise to.  Only yesterday he was asked by Sam’s son-‘

           ‘Samsung,’ added Edison under his breath.

           ‘-Samsung,’ continued Jimmy, ‘to drop an advert for a new mince pie-‘

           ‘Mini PC,’ corrected Edison, trying to disguise it with a cough.

           ‘-Mini PC.  He made £5 in one night!’

           ‘£5,000,’ coughed Edison again.

           ‘£5,000!’ Declared Jimmy.

Rogue was looking at Edison like he may have something contagious.  ‘Five thousand, eh?  Not bad, but if you can make that kind of money, why are you here?’

Edison flipped up his glasses and looked at Rogue through his lurid green contact lenses; the bank manager was now sitting with his meaty arms folded across his equally meaty chest in a way that suggested he was not about to write them a cheque any time soon.

           ‘I want to go big!’ said Edison, his own arms spread wide.  ‘I want to drive traffic to my website by advertising on TV!’

           ‘TV, but that’s expensive!’

           ‘Exactly,’ replied Edison.  ‘Around fifty thousand pounds, but I’ll make more than double that back through the adverts on my site.  You can’t lose!’

Rogue sat back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully.  Apart from the hum of the drone and the buzz of a fly, there was quiet for a moment.

           ‘I don’t know, you could be some cheap chancer for all I know.’

Edison glanced at his watch.  From down in the street a loud car horn sounded.

           ‘I’m HashtagDude12.  The real deal.  Google me if you want.’

Outside the horn sounded again, more insistent this time.  Edison knew that they were at that tipping point where things either go according to plan, or slip the other way into complete failure.  But which was it going to be?

Rogue opened a desk draw, pulled out a can of fly spray and blasted the irksome flying insect.  Outside, the car blasted its horn once more.  Rogue stood and strode to the window where he stared down to the street.  Jimmy, who had been blasted with fly spray, was making odd snuffling noises as he tried to stifle a sneeze.  Edison realised far too late what was about to happen.  Jimmy could hold it back no longer and let out a tremendous ‘aaaaachooooo!‘.  His fake nose shot off like a Champaign cork, colliding with the drone before ricocheting into the waste paper bin.  His grey wig span around on his head, facing the wrong way whilst his spectacles flew off and wedged themselves onto the bronze bust of Rogue.  As if this wasn’t bad enough, the drone flipped upside down, fell sideways into a shelf and destroyed a matchstick model of the HMS Victory, showering the floor with bits of tiny wooden debris and string rigging.  Edison’s heart seemed to come to a standstill.  Rogue turned slowly away from the window.

           ‘Is that your limousine waking the dead down there?’ he asked.

           ‘Yes,’ replied Edison simply whilst mentally trying to restart his heart.  There was a pause before the bank manager smiled widely.

           ‘Excellent,’ he beamed.  ‘Let’s do the paperwork, shall we?  So, what’s the name on your account?’ he asked, turning to his computer.

A sly grin appeared on Edison’s face.

           ‘X.  Mr A X.’

As Edison and Jimmy descended in the lift twenty minutes later, there was a heady mixture of sweat, hair gel and success swirling around in that small but expensively designed space.

                ‘We did it, Ed!’ declared Jimmy, smiling widely with his nose all crooked and his fringe over his left ear.

                ‘Yes, we did, Jimmy.  Yes we did.’

                ‘I don’t know much about banks, Ed, but those terms seemed pretty steep.  Are we going to be able to pay all that interest back in just a few days?’

                ‘It wasn’t us that just took out that loan, it was the real Mr X and he is our next stop.’

                As they passed through the foyer, a scruffy-looking man in a badly fitting chauffeur’s outfit was remonstrating with the security guard.

                ‘Oh come on,’ he was shouting, ‘someone must have ordered the Super Hen Do Deal?  The limo’s outside and the bubbly’s getting warm!  Oh come on!’

                Edison sniggered to Jimmy as they left the building.

One hour later, the dark end of the “Stash ‘n Save” warehouse complex

           ‘Are you sure this is the right place, Ed?’

Jimmy was staring through the taxi’s rear window with a worried expression.  They had been driving through the complex for several minutes and his nerves, which where already nearing their limit after the bank job, looked about ready to quit.

           ‘Yes, Jimmy, this is the place,’ replied Edison, scanning the buildings intently as the taxi drove on.  A few moments later, Edison thrust his finger over the driver’s shoulder.

           ‘There!’

Up ahead, another building loomed but unlike the others, this one had its own gate and guards patrolling up and down the fence-line like caged lions.  There were infra-red security lights set at various points and one of the guards had a large dog at his heel.

As the taxi approached the gates, Edison turned and checked Jimmy over.  The boy was still wearing his disguise, but now had both his hair and nose on straight again.

           ‘How do I look?’ He asked.  As soon as they had left the bank, Edison had ditched his HashtagDude12 outfit and was now dressed in fake designer clothes and a little makeup so as to appear a bit older and a good deal richer.

           ‘Yeh, good, Ed.  Just like you said, well off for cash, but not filthy rich.’

Edison nodded and pulled at his shirt’s neckline with agitation.  If anything, this was the worst part; give him a frown-inducing t-shirt any day and certainly nothing that buttons up.

The car came to a halt before the gate, Edison handed over the fare and they both stepped out.  There was a chill wind that made Edison shudder slightly and the guard dog barked, which made Jimmy yelp.  They approached the gate and Edison explained to one of the guards that he had an appointment with Mr X.  The guard unclipped his walkie-talkie radio and had a brief conversation.  The gate was then slid open and the guard pointed toward the entrance to the warehouse.

           ‘Just remember to leave the talking to me, Jimmy,’ said Edison as they made their way across the tarmac.

           ‘Fine by me, Ed.’

As they approached the door, it was thrust open by a large man who filled the doorway completely.  He raised his signet-ring encrusted right hand and pulled a glowing cigar out of his mouth, blowing a cloud of smoke into the night air like an old car’s exhaust pipe.  He then proceeded to point at them with the glowing end.

           ‘I assume,’ he said with a deep voice and narrowed eyes, ‘that one of you pair is Mr McCoy.  Is that correct?’

Edison nodded.

Mr X stared at the boys for what felt like an hour, his gaze intense, as if he was interrogating them without actual words.  Satisfied about something, his frown relaxed.

           ‘McCoy, eh?  Just like the Star Trek guy.’  He looked at Jimmy.  ‘What’s your name, Spock?’  Jimmy glanced at Edison nervously but Mr X waved his cigar dismissively, causing a shower of small sparks to fall from it.  ‘Whatever, I don’t need to know names.  Come in.’  With that, the man turned and walked back into the warehouse.  Jimmy and Edison followed in the wake of the man’s expensive aftershave.  As the man walked, he talked without looking in the boy’s direction.

           ‘So I take it you’re into making a little cash, eh?  The kind where the return is good and the questions don’t get asked?’

           ‘Absolutely,’ replied Edison.

Mr X stopped suddenly and turn to face the boys, who almost collided with him.

           ‘You’d better be, because if there’s anything I hate more than a deal that goes bad, it’s questions.  Understand?’

           ‘Isn’t that a question?’ asked Jimmy.

Mr X stared at Jimmy like he wanted to put out his cigar on his forehead.

           ‘I think that was a rhetorical question,’ said Edison, hastily turning to Jimmy, ‘which doesn’t count.’

           ‘Exactly!’ declared Mr X, poking Edison in the chest and smiling.  ‘Rhetorical.’

As the man carried on walking, Jimmy turned to Edison with a confused look on his fake face.

           ‘What does-‘

           ‘Not now,’ interrupted Edison under his breath.

Mr X lead them through the warehouse, which was stacked high with shelving units that held uncountable boxes of all shapes and sizes and seemed to go on forever.

           ‘Wow,’ whispered Jimmy.  ‘It’s like that scene out of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ed.  You know, with all those boxes of secret things!’

           ‘Yeh, I know the one,’ muttered Edison, who was wondering what on earth was being stashed under this massive roof.

Just then, someone called out to Mr X from down one of the isles they were passing.

           ‘Just a moment,’ he said, and left them at the end of the isle whilst he walked down to meet the caller.  Once he was out of earshot, Jimmy turned to Edison once again.

           ‘So, Ed, tell me why we’re doing all this?’

           ‘I’ve told you why, Jimmy.’

           ‘Actually, I don’t think you did.  I mean, don’t worry, you don’t have to tell me, it’s fine.  I was just wondering is all.’

Edison rolled his eyes, and took a deep breath before taking Jimmy back a couple of weeks.

Two weeks ago, Edison’s Bedroom

Jimmy lay sprawled on the bed, trying to wrestle a rubber chicken out of the mouth of Edison’s dog, Fleabag.  With every yank, the chicken shrieked, which excited Fleabag tremendously and annoyed Edison just as much.

                ‘Can you shut that thing up, Jimmy?’ he asked, not turning his frown away from his computer screen.

                ‘Sorry, Ed, didn’t mean to do your head in.’

                ‘It’s not that.  Not really.  It’s this,’ he said, pointing at the screen with an actual piece of chicken in the form of a chicken dipper.

                ‘What’s going on?’ Asked Jimmy, leaving Fleabag to shake the living daylights out of the rubber chicken.

                ‘I’m bidding to try and win this model of the Starship Enterprise, signed by all the original cast, but someone keeps outbidding me every time.’

                ‘Can’t you just use that auto-bidder software that you used before.  You know, to bid all in the last second until you win.’

                ‘And look at the trouble that got us into – right in the middle of a war between alien races, one of which tried to collapse a house on our head and the other that wanted to crush the planet and wipe out the entire human race!’

 ‘Too true, Ed,’ replied Jimmy.  ‘Maybe stay away from the bidding tech.’  He staring into nothing for a moment.  ‘Do you think we’ll ever see them again?  Ali and Perry I mean.’

           ‘I don’t know, Jimmy.  It’s been nearly a year and nothing.  Maybe our intergalactic friends have had enough of the human race – DAMN!’

           ‘What’s up?’

           ‘I’ve lost!  I can’t believe it.  A signed model of the Enterprise.  Unbelievable.’

The pain of losing the auction had hardly settled into Edison’s gut before there was a ‘ping’ as an email dropped into his inbox.  He stared at it for a moment before opening it.

“Dear loser, bad luck on losing the Enterprise.  Guess I will just have to sell it on for a big profit.  Bye bye, sad little man!  Boo hoo…”

‘Oh dear,’ said Jimmy, who had been reading over Edison’s shoulder.

           ‘Oh dear indeed,’ replied Edison, who was staring darkly at the monitor.  ‘Someone has just made a big mistake.’

Chapter Two

Two weeks later in Mr “Big Mistake’s” warehouse

           ‘So what you’re saying, Ed, is that we’re here to get revenge for losing the Enterprise to Mr X?’

                ‘Yes.’

                ‘Fair enough.’

                ‘But not just that,’ added Edison.  ‘There’s more.  I hacked into a few places and dug up some info on this guy.  He’s got his dodgy fingers stuck in all sorts of criminal pies.  He works on the local council and his latest scam was to start a collection for Christmas toys for children in hospitals and care homes.’

                ‘Doesn’t sound so bad,’ offered Jimmy.

                ‘No, it wouldn’t if the toys had actually been delivered to the kids.’

                ‘Oh, right.’

                Edison shushed Jimmy as Mr X walked back toward them, accompanied by someone else.

                ‘This is my son,’ he said as a boy stepped forward and stopped by his side.  ‘Say hello to the gentlemen, Blake.’

                ‘I’m not Blake, dad, I’m Raven.’

                Mr X rolled his eyes at Jimmy and Edison.

                ‘Okay, Raven, say hello.’

                The boy stared at Jimmy and Edison, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed.  He was around Edison and Jimmy’s age but did not appear like he would be interested in a play date anytime soon.  Everything from his dark, slicked-back hair to his entirely black clothing, to his calculating glare made Edison uncomfortable.

                ‘Anyway,’ said Mr X, sensing that the greeting would not be coming, ‘shall we move on?’

                They continued through the warehouse and then turned a corner.  Before them was large roller-shutter door and in front of that was a sizeable van, which looked like it was reaching the end of its usefulness.  They walked up to the rear of the vehicle and stopped.

                ‘Keys, Blake,’ said Mr X, holding out his hand.

                ‘Raven!’ cried the boy.

                ‘Keys, Raven,’ growled his father.

                The boy took them from his pocket and thrust them into the man’s palm, who then placed a key into the lock in one of the van’s rear doors, turned it and swung it open.

                ‘There!’ he said, gesturing at piles and piles of boxes, games, consoles, soft toys, books, TVs and much more.  It was like Santa’s sleigh – if Santa was a criminal entrepreneur and drove a battered van.

                ‘Wow,’ said Jimmy.

                ‘Too right,’ said Mr X, chomping the end of his fat cigar.  ‘Worth a very tidy bundle, this lot.  It was supposed to go…elsewhere, but as we couldn’t verify the country of manufacture we couldn’t send it on.  You know how it is.  Trading standards and all that.’

                Edison looked at the grin on Mr X’s face and forced himself to swallow what would be his truthful response.

                ‘Understandable,’ he replied through a clenched jaw.

                ‘Hey, I had plans for this lot!’ declared Raven, his hands on his hips.

                ‘Not now, son,’ warned Mr X.

                ‘But-‘

                ‘Office,’ said his father, pointing the way with his cigar.  The boy gave all of them one last glare before stomping away.  ‘Kids,’ said Mr X.  ‘Personally, I blame his mother.’

                Jimmy and Edison nodded knowingly.

                ‘So what do you think, ready to make a deal?’

                Edison stroked his chin thoughtfully.

                ‘Well,’ he said, drawing the word out for effect, ‘you’re asking for a lot of cash; I’d need to know it’s going to be worth my while.’

                ‘Oh, it will be,’ said Mr X, putting a hand on his shoulder in a reassuring way and waving his cigar at the haul.  ‘This little lot will bag you at least twice what I’m asking.’

                Edison poked and prodded at a few items and made sceptical “hummm” noises.  This was always the difficult part of the scam; he needed to look genuine and interested, but not too interested.  He needed to sow enough doubt that the other side will try harder to negotiate, so make the deal come to him and not the other way around.  His palms began to sweat and he could feel his heart rate climb.  There was a loud series of beeps from his watch as the heart rate monitor thought he was overdoing his exercise and wanted him to slow down.

                ‘Sorry,’ he said, jabbing the device into silence.  ‘Just a text reminder to pick up the Mercedes from the shop.’

                Mr X nodded but was starting to look a little concerned, as if he could feel the deal slipping away.

                ‘Hey, you want a little sweetener, Mr McCoy?  Something a bit special to show you I mean business?’

                He didn’t wait for an answer before whipping out his phone and pressing a speed dial number.

                ‘Blake,’ he said down the receiver, ‘get the thing.’

                There was a loud response from the other end that made Mr X pull the phone away from his head for a moment.

                ‘Ok, Raven then. Get the thing.  What thing?  You know – the thing.  Yes, that thing!’

                This time the yell could be heard all the way from the office without a phone.  Mr X gripped the device like he was trying to strangle it.

                ‘Kids, eh?’

                There was the sound of shoes being marched angrily across the floor as Raven approached.  Stopping before his father, he swung up his arm and handed him something that Mr X had to wrestle from his grip.  Edison could practically feel the heat coming off the boy’s glare.  After the short battle of wills, Raven spun on his heels and marched off again.

                ‘Here you go, Mr McCoy!’ said the man, turning around and holding out his hands.

                Edison’s jaw dropped.

                ‘Isn’t that the-‘ started Jimmy, pointing.

                ‘Yes,’ said Edison quickly, stopping him from saying something they would both regret, ‘it looks like a-‘

                ‘Signed model of the Starship Enterprise!’ declared Mr X, smiling as if he were holding a Nobel prize.

                ‘Signed?’ asked Edison, as if he didn’t already know.

                ‘Signed!’

                Edison smiled a smug smile.  This was an unexpected cherry for the top of the scam cake.

                ‘Mr X,’ he said, ‘you have yourself a deal!’

Edison held out one hand for the man to shake whilst grabbing the Enterprise with the other.

           ‘All that remains now is the payment,’ said the man.

Edison pulled out his phone and opened a banking app, which was already set up to access Mr X’s personal bank account.  The same bank account into which Edison had just tricked the bank into loaning Mr X a sizeable amount of cash without him knowing.  Edison was about to pay Mr X a lot of his own money, which the bank just happens to want back within days.

           ‘Where would you like me to transfer funds to?’ asked Edison.  Mr X gave him the details for his business bank account, which he tapped into the app.  ‘There, done.’

Mr X shoved his glowing cigar into his mouth and dug deep into a pocket, pulling out his phone and selecting a number from the speed dial list.

           ‘Hey, Franky, it’s Mr X.  Can you check the account?  We’re expecting a payment any minute.’

Edison tried to act casually as he wiped a bead of sweat from his temple.  Next to him, Jimmy was bouncing up and down on his feet and staring anywhere but at Mr X.

           ‘Yeh?  Really?  Thanks, Franky.’  Mr X ended the call.  ‘Well, Mr McCoy, it looks like this lot is all yours.  Pleasure doing business!’

Edison smiled and nodded whilst next to him, Jimmy giggled like a seven-year-old girl.

           ‘Here,’ said Mr X, and he threw Edison a key.  ‘Keep the van; another little perk for doing business with Mr X!  I’ll get the door.’

Edison handed Jimmy the key.

           ‘Are you sure you can drive this thing?’ he asked, throwing both Jimmy and the van a worried look.

           ‘Yeh, sure, Ed.  Like I said, I used to drive my aunty Muriel’s Property Maintenance Vehicle.’

           ‘And exactly what type of vehicle was that?’

           ‘Well, I suppose it was more of a ride-on lawn mower, but how different can it be?’

Edison nearly bludgeoned Jimmy with the Starship Enterprise, but thought better of it and just settled for cursing under his breath instead.  ‘Just…just don’t mess it up.  We’re running out of time.’

           ‘What for, Ed?’

           ‘The last stage of the plan.’

There was a clatter as Mr X raised the roller-shutter-door to allow the van out.  Edison and Jimmy trotted over and let themselves in, Edison checking his watch carefully as he climbed into the cab.

           ‘Ok,’ said Jimmy, as if he were reading back what he had read in a manual on the internet, ‘they key goes in this slot and I turn it clockwise-‘

Edison took a deep, shuddering breath.

           ‘-and then the engine starts.’  There was loud cranking noise before the engine spluttered into life.  Edison looked into the passenger side wing mirror and noticed that the warehouse behind them had disappeared into a fog of exhaust smoke.

           ‘I then put my foot on the accelerator pedal-‘

           ‘Clutch pedal!’ shouted Edison.

           ‘-Clutch pedal,’ continued Jimmy, ‘and push the gear lever into first.’

There was a grinding noise that sounded like someone had dropped the contents of aunt Muriel’s cutlery draw into her tumble drier before the van clunked into first gear.

           ‘-and then we gently pull away,’ finished Jimmy.  Edison just had time to release the handbrake before they suddenly shot out of the warehouse at a speed that would have put the Starship Enterprise to shame.  They screamed across the tarmac, trailing smoke like a Exocet missile.  The guard had only just managed to open the gate before they barged through, smashing off the van’s wing mirrors and leaving them spinning on the floor.  Jimmy’s lips were flapping as an odd whining noise came from them, or it could have been that the noise was the gearbox getting ready to spit its cogs out all over the road.

           ‘It goes quite well, doesn’t it,’ shouted Jimmy over the noise of the engine.

           ‘Just slow it down, Jimmy; we don’t want to get pulled over.’

Suddenly, from around a corner came several police vehicles, sirens blaring and lights turning everything blue.

           ‘Oh cripes, it’s too late!’ yelled Jimmy and he jammed on the brakes as hard as he could.  A small figure of Yoda detached itself from a chain around the sun visor, did several somersaults and landed head first in the van’s cup holder.  Jimmy’s fake nose jettisoned itself again, this time turning in midair and sticking itself to the windscreen, pointing back at Jimmy like a admonishing finger.  When Edison had regained the power of speech, he put out his hand to indicate that they should stay where they were – halfway up the curb and wedged between two bins.

           ‘No, they’re not here for us, Jimmy.’

They stuck their heads out and peered back down the road as the police vehicles stormed through the gates they had just left.  People scattered from the warehouse like cats from a firework.  As the police jumped from their cars, a searchlight shone down from above.

           ‘Wow, Ed, they’ve even bought out the helicopters!’

‘Yeh, well, a little bit over the top but maybe Mr X’s criminal ventures go deeper than just ripping off children.  Let’s go, Jimmy; our work here is done.’

With that, Jimmy crunched the van into reverse gear, which was actually forward gear, sent the two bins cartwheeling across the pavement, spilling litter like a Catherine Wheel on bonfire night, and drove down the pavement toward home.

Chapter Three

The next day, Edison’s house, ten-past dinner time

           ‘Get the door, Edison dear, that’s a good boy.’

           ‘Yes, mother,’ sighed Edison, rolling his eyes.

Jimmy laughed silently as Edison made his way to the front door and opened it.  There on the step was a skinny, knock-kneed old man that was leaning precariously on a walking stick that looked very much like an old World War One rifle.  The top of his head was bald but he had a thin halo of grey hair circling his crown, sticking out so straight that he looked like chimney sweep’s brush.

           ‘Hello there, laddy me boy!’ he exclaimed, smiling up with a mouth that had very few teeth.

           ‘Hello, Grandad Bert,’ replied Edison, who looked over the old man’s head to where a taxi sat at the end of the path, engine idling.

           ‘You’ve seen him now,’ shouted the driver.  ‘He’s all yours!’  With that, the taxi screeched off rapidly, as if the driver was glad to be gone.

           ‘Bloomin’ taxi driver,’ grumbled Bert.  ‘In my day, we’d’ve have ‘im scrubbing the bilge pumps with a toothbrush lashed to a frozen mackerel.’

           ‘Come in, grandad,’ suggested Edson, holding the door for him to pass through.

As the old man shuffled down the hallway, Jimmy stepped back out of his way to avoid a slow speed collision.

           ‘Hello, Bert!’ he said.  The old man stopped and squinted at him.

           ‘Ah, hello again, Timmy.’

           ‘Jimmy,’ corrected the boy, his grin wide.

           ‘Billy?’

           ‘Jimmy.’

           ‘Jimbo?’

           ‘Close enough!’

They made their way to the dining table and sat down.

           ‘Ooooo, me knees,’ sighed Bert, who plonked his rifle walking stick across the table, almost upending a tureen of gravy and leaving the shooty-end pointing directly at a photograph of his dearly departed wife, Edison’s grandmother, which just happened to be glowering at them from the mantlepiece.

           ‘Hello, father,’ said Edison’s mother.

           ”Ello, Patty!’

           ‘Patricia!‘

           ‘You’ll always be Patty t’me, Patty!’

           ‘And you’ll always be late to me,’ she replied, ladling out food with a rather stern look on her face.

                ‘Back in my day, makin’ it on time didn’t matter a hairy biscuit.  If you made it at all, that’s  what mattered.  The more limbs the better!  I remember this one time-‘

                ‘Well unless I am much mistaken,’ interrupted Patricia, ‘today is still your day so can you please see fit to waste no more time on old war stories and put your “remaining limbs” to good use and eat your dinner.’

                They all tucked in, Bert making quite the show of sucking a brussel sprout with his gummy chops.  Jimmy, who was finding it hard to chew whilst grinning so much at Bert, turned to Edison.

                ‘Ed,’ he whispered, ‘can we go down to the lair later?’

                ‘It’s not a lair, Jimmy,’ replied Edison under his breath.

                ‘Ok, how about Bat Cave?’

                ‘It’s not a cave and it has no bats.’

                Jimmy went to offer another description but was hastily hushed by Edison.  ‘Maybe.  We’ll see.  Quiet.’

                ‘How is school, dear?’ asked Edison’s mother, trying to ignore the slurping sounds coming from her father.

                ‘Ok,’ replied Edison.  ‘A little unchallenging if I’m honest.’

                ‘When I were a lad,’ chimed in Bert, ‘if we wanted a challenge, we’d jam ourselves into a barrel of eels, nail on the lid and tip ourselves over a waterfall whilst singing God Save the Queen!’

                Jimmy laughed so hard he almost spat Yorkshire pudding all over the tablecloth.

                ‘Sounds like fun,’ offered Edison.

                ‘It was, laddy me boy, and I always made it back for me tea!’

                ‘No doubt late,’ suggested Patricia.

Jimmy leaned over to Edison and whispered in his ear.

           ‘Are you sure these two are related?’

           ‘I sometimes wonder,’ he replied.

           ‘Haven’t you got a school trip next week, boys?’ asked Edison’s mum.

           ‘Yes,’ he said replied, handing back Bert’s roast potato, which he had launched across the table whilst attempting to skewer it with his fork.  ‘It’s a two-day trip to London.  I think we’re going to the zoo at some point and some tech facility.’

           ‘That will be nice, dear.’

           ‘Do they have tigers there, laddy me boy?’ asked Bert, his wrinkled face alive with interest.

           ‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ replied Edison.

           ‘The stories I could tell you about tigers,’ started Bert.  Patricia would certainly have interrupted her father again had she not just taken mouthful of beef from her fork.  ‘There was this one time,’ continued the uninterrupted Bert, ‘we was on a training mission on the banks of the Mississippi Delta.  I remember it as clearly as if it were yesteeday; hot it was.  So hot that me pants had melted to me buttocks and I ‘ad to chisel ’em off with Ernie the Cook’s fish slice.’

There was a choking noise as Edison’s mother tried to accelerate her chewing so she could cut this story short, and a snort from Jimmy, who looked like he may pass out from trying to hold in his laughter.

           ‘Our mission was t’ steal a code machine from the enemy and to get away without ’em noticin’.  We made a fake one out ‘o old bandages and spit to put in its place and we was a dressed as the enemy as a disguise.  Waltz right in an’ swap it out from under their very nozzles, was our plan.  Bold as brass.

           ‘Anyways, there we was, a creepin’ down the banks with packs on our backs and our guns in our hands when there came a commotion in the bushes.  I had just enough time to bellow my best curse word when a hairy great tiger comes a leapin’ from the bushes.  Tangle we did and I pounded upon his bones.  With a swift kick up the nether regions, I sent him into the watery depths, but not before he delivered upon me a chomp from his toothy jaws.’

           ‘Really?’ said Jimmy, his face alive with intrigue.  ‘Where did he get you?’

           ‘Hold y’self there, young Jimney, and I’ll a show yeh!’

At that point, several things happened at once.  Bert climbed to his feet and turned around; Edison’s mother spat her beef into the gravy tureen and yelled ‘NO!’, and Jimmy bellowed so hard that he fell off his chair and became wedged under the table in a heap of hysterics.

It took a good while to settle the table down after that; Bert was not interested in suggestions that there was no such thing as tigers in the Mississippi Delta and Jimmy had to take a full ten minutes out breathing into a paper bag.  Edison’s mother decided that in every sense a change of course was required and so swiftly removed the mains and dished up the pudding instead.  As Bert had not got a sweet tooth, or even much in the way of teeth for that matter, he skipped pudding and went straight to Patricia’s port and sherry cabinet instead.

                When sat in front of News at Ten on the TV later that evening, everyone was satisfied in their own way.  Edison was happily full of food; Jimmy had laughed more than the day he had got his head stuck through the cat flap and had been throughly licked by Flea Bag the dog; Edison’s mother was satisfied that her father had finally stopped telling stories and was in a quiet, drunken stupor and Bert was happy that he was finally in a quiet, drunken stupor.

                “And in the News at Ten tonight,” announced the newsreader, “Mr Rogue of the Regal and Rogue bank was fired today after admitting being hoodwinked by so-called internet sensation ‘HashtagDude12’, who took out a loan for fifty thousand pounds in someone else’s name.”

                Edison and Jimmy snickered as they showed video of Mr Rogue being marched out of the building whilst holding a pile of matchsticks.

                ‘…and they destroyed my model of HMS Victory!’ cried the ex-manager to the assembled crowd of onlookers.

                “And in other news, a raid on the Stash ‘n Save warehouse site last night smashed a stolen goods racket that had thousands of pounds worth of goods hidden away.  The ring leader, Mr X, was taken into custody along with his son and several of his associates.”  More video was shown, this time with a handcuffed Mr X being led to an awaiting police car.

                ‘They swindled me!’ bellowed the big man as he was jostled toward the car.  ‘Forty thousand pounds’ worth of goods they took!  I even gave them my Starship Enterprise!’  The video cut as the man tried to make a run for it and was pounced on by what looked like the entire police force.

                After a few more moments of chuckling, Jimmy suddenly stopped, an odd look on his face.

                ‘Hey, Ed.  Doesn’t that mean there’s a missing ten thousand somewhere?’

                Edison smiled slyly.  ‘Possibly.’

                “And finally, in happier news, St Bartholomew’s hospital was surprised today to find a truck-load of toys and games left outside their doors.  The van had a note to wish the children a belated Happy Christmas from their friendly neighbourhood Santa.  A spokesman for the hospital said they were overwhelmed by the kind gesture but were a little unprepared for what could be an tidal wave of requests on how to solve the Rubik’s Cube!”

                ‘Looks like everything’s worked out fine, Jimmy,’ said Edison, stretching out and putting his hands behind his head.

                Jimmy smiled and then laughed out loud.  Bert had let out an enormous snore, which startled him so much that he threw the remainders of his glass of port into his own face and slipped off his chair.

                ‘I think you had better help your grandfather up the stairs to the guest bedroom, Edison,’ said his mother.  ‘No taxi’s for him tonight.’

                With a little help from Jimmy, Edison lifted Bert from the floor and walked him toward the staircase.

                ‘Did I ever tell yeh the story o’ the night I got drunk with Elvis Presley and Muhammad Ali?’ slurred Bert as they negotiated each step as if it were a mountain.

                ‘The boxer?’

                ‘That’s the chappy.  We sang some knockout songs tha’ night, I’ll tell yeh.’

                Eventually Edison and Bert climbed their way to the guest room and Bert collapsed onto the bed like a sack of spuds.  Edison pulled what blanket he could over his grandad and wished him a good night.  As he reached the door, Edison switched off the light.  He glanced back at his grandad; by the glow of the landing light he could see a suddenly sad look on the man’s face.

                ‘Eddie, m’boy?’ he said.

                ‘Yes, grandad?’

                ‘I miss him, you know.’

                ‘Who do you miss, grandad?’

                ‘Your father.  He were a good man.’

                Edison’s gaze fell to the floor and he simply nodded.  When he looked back up Bert’s eyes were closed and there was a contented smile on his face.  Edison turned to leave.

                ‘Eddie?’

                ‘Grandad?’

                ‘Love your t-shirt, m’boy!’

                There was a chuckle from the bed and then the room filled with gentle snores.

11:37pm, somewhere over London

Above the sprawling, high rise skyline of London, the clouds parted gently as a shape pushed its way through from above.  Nothing of the cause of this disturbance could be seen, just a gentle shimmer as the thing moved through the dampness.  Down it went until it came to a stop and hovered silently above a dark and litter-strewn alleyway below.  There was beam of light and a figure appeared amongst the drifts of old newspapers and abandoned cardboard boxes.  Despite the futuristic arrival, their appearance was of someone tall, dressed in a dark cloak with the collar turned up whilst upon their head sat a large fedora-style hat, which plunged their face into utter darkness.  It was as if someone had Googled ‘Old London Town causal dress’, had clicked on the ‘1920’s fictional detective’ link and went with it.

                There was another burst of light and several small devices floated down from the invisible craft above.  They hovered in the alleyway until their master gestured them forward.  All but one accelerated down the dark avenue, also turning invisible as they went.  When they reached the end, they split into different directions and were gone.

The visitor strode through the darkness toward the street beyond, the remaining device from the ship following on like a well trained floating puppy.  When they reached the end of the alleyway, they took a cautious look in both directions before stepping out and turning right.  Keeping to the shadows of the looming buildings, the cloaked one strode on, not slowing their pace at all.  Suddenly they stopped and turned, looking directly across the road to a modern building that was all tinted windows and security cameras.  The cloaked figure gestured toward the building and the floating device moved forward,  fizzling out of the visible spectrum as it went.  Moments later, all the activation lights on the building’s security cameras went out.

                The figure strode purposefully across the road to the building, where a dark, narrow access way ran down its left side.  Scanning around for witnesses, the figure slipped in.  Moving through the darkness, the fedora-wearing stranger made for a point half way down the building before stopping and facing it’s wall.  The floating device became visible once again, turned to the wall and then started to glow.  It shook slightly for a moment before a blaze of red light burst out and started burning into the brickwork.  Again the hidden face turned, glancing up the darkness of the alleyway to the street beyond.

A small circular hole of brickwork started to melt and drip like molten lava from a volcano.  For several moments, the device burrowed deeper but then there was a crackle of electricity and a series of violent sparks.  From somewhere inside the building a loud alarm sounded.

The device cut off it’s beam.  High on the wall above, an alarm panel started to flash, filling the dark alleyway with intermittent flashes of blue light.  The cutting device immediately vanished from sight and the figure turned and strode up the alleyway to the street, the flashing light catching every other step like some sort of faulty movie reel.

Out on the street, the front of the building was also flashing with blue lights.  The cameras were still out, but there was activity beyond the windows as security guards sprinted down staircases toward to main doors.  The cloaked figure moved swiftly across the road, strode away from the building, passed an all-night pizza shop, stopped, sniffed, shrugged and went back, entering the door and grabbing a menu on the way in.

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