Lenny couldn’t move. All he could do was lay there and stare upwards. Everything felt numb. He couldn’t swallow; everything was brittle and hard and weak all at the same time; his throat felt so dry, like it had sealed up, like every ounce of moisture had been pulled from his body. Was he even breathing?

He’d just wanted to send a message. He’d just wanted to make a point to people. And Sarah. He hadn’t seen that coming. He thought he knew her, and that she knew him and would understand. He hadn’t known her at all. That she could do this to him!?

“I’ve killed one of the Scarecrows,” he’d told her. “I shot it. It was in the precinct. That’ll keep the others away. Scare them.” He’d laughed a little.

Sarah had cried and then she’d gotten furious. Lenny couldn’t quite remember what she’d screamed at him. Remembering was harder now too. “They’re just like us,” she had said, afterwards. “You’ve gone too far. Everyone’s gone too far. The real message isn’t getting through at all.” And then she’d had that look in her eyes that made Lenny afraid and he hadn’t seen her again.

Lenny couldn’t move but he could just see to the tip of his arm. Straw. Sarah could have just talked to him. Not this.

Meeting Medusa in the park hadn’t been the best thing that had ever happened to Mike. The shock, the realisation that this was it, the sudden lack of sensation spreading out from his face just slow enough to realise it was happening, just fast enough to do nothing about it. But he’d gotten used to it. He watched the people come and go and live their lives, and he listened to the muffled conversations that vibrated in what had once been his ears when people sat nearby or leaned near him for shade, and he made up stories about the people across the park whose names he never caught. No, it hadn’t been the best thing that had ever happened to Mike but it had a peacefulness to it. He could live with it and even enjoy it and not really wonder about ever going back to how he was. Except maybe to hunt down that bastard who’d stolen his umbrella.

Grace waited silently beside Geoff, the warm ocean currents light enough to allow her to sit still without anchoring her pincers into the sea bed. Geoff was similarly unbothered by any attempt of their surroundings to shift them from this spot around the coral, but little could move someone of his size and mass anyway.

Grace’s attention shifted. The water was clear enough to see some distance and she thought she might have spotted the Angel twins over at Hermit’s Hideaway. She turned to Geoff to mention it but he spotted her slight movement out of the corner of his eye and shushed her. “Look!” he said, excitedly. “The attacking team are running the pod!”

Grace gazed back upwards, where the light beams flickered and danced and sparkled in the shallows, and where a shoal of the black fish – whose name she’d filed away and forgotten as soon as she’d been told – were chasing a sinking seed pod that spiralled and drifted down towards the sandy bottom. The chase looked like a form of controlled chaos. Grace thought she understood why Geoff liked this on some level but it just did nothing for her. Sport, he called it. The latest thing. Maybe it would grow on her but Hermit’s Hideaway sounded more appealing right now.

“Touchdown!” yelled Geoff, raising his flippers. “Did you see that!?”

Grace looked at the seed pod, come to rest in the sand, a small cloud of debris smoking up and partly hiding it from view and the shoal of black fish darting around it. Apparently this would be happening every week for the next seventeen or so. “Yay!” said Grace, but Geoff was too energised to recognise her tone.

“Occupied, mate, you’ll have to… what’s that?”

“My flag. I’m claiming this flower for Flydonia. You’re going to need to leave.”

“I was here first. And what’s Flydonia?”

“Flydonia’s the kingdom I’m claiming this flower for. Makes it sovereign territory once you stick a flag on it. You’re going to need to leave.”

“Yeah, that’s stupid. No, I’m not leaving. I’ve never even heard of the kingdom of Flydonia. Who’s the king?”

“That’s me. Thought it would be fairly obvious.”

“On account of your regal status, flying around with a flag, bothering other flies who are just minding their own business, and staking a claim to flowers? That sort of obvious, you mean?”

“You wouldn’t understand. For a Flydonian – that’s what we call ourselves – this is part of our national make-up. A character trait. It’s that attitude that allows people to say ‘Oh, yeah, that’s a Flydonian.’ Assertive. Impulsive.”

“Have you thought about renaming your country Loon? I’m only asking because the character trait I’m picking up is ‘loony’.”

“Bit rude.”

“You’re the one trying to usurp a fellow fly’s flower.”

“Are you going to leave?”

“I am not. This is my flower. If you’d looked carefully you’d have seen it’s already got a flag in it. United States of Flytopia. Highly advanced country, powerful air force.”

“I can’t see a flag.”

“Stealth technology. Latest thing. You don’t want to mess with us Flytopians.”

“Right. Well. Okay then. I’ll just leave.”

“Good decision. Unusual for a Flydonian.”

Ed gave some thought to hindsight. He decided very quickly that it was a curse; a facet of human thought processes that served one purpose only, and that to dump a bucket full of the emotion of regret on a person, dousing out anything positive. Ed pictured regret dripping down his head and gathering in a pool at his feet, all that happiness he’d come away with from a fabulous evening at the nightclub drenched and unrecognisable. He regretted buying the boat. He hadn’t really been able to afford it but impulsiveness had got the better of him. Ed regretted not taking better care of the boat because then he might have pulled it up at the front with the other patrons, unafraid of how its appearance might be sneered at. His biggest, most recent regret where the boat was concerned was that he’d parked it in a field. He still couldn’t quite remember what he was thinking at the time, and, worryingly, how he’d even managed it.

Arthur had been coming to this particular barber shop for decades. There were newer shops along the street; the sort with fancy seats and free coffee and thumping music and pretty people with trimmers and scissors and combs. But Arthur liked this one. The building was a familiar spot in a world that kept changing. When Gerry or Tom – whoever happened to be running the shop that day – set about their work with their typical, quiet but professional style, Arthur would gaze out of the window and try to see what was different from the last time he’d been here. A shop closed down, a new shop, a new budding relationship for that lovely young woman who did regular surveys of passers-by and whose name he could only guess at – Lisa, he imagined. In the summer months the old sash windows would be open because the barber shop could get warm, and Arthur would soak in the noise of traffic outside the pedestrianised zone and the chatter of hundreds of couples and families and people on their phones passing below. Arthur liked this barber shop a lot for all those reasons, but mostly because it was the only place that could keep his wild pubes in check.

“Albert’s girth!” I exclaimed. “Elizabeth!? Is that you?”

“It is, doctor,” she said, stepping inside without invitation and allowing me to cast my eyes over Carruthers’ niece from a more favourable angle. She was a sight for sore, watering eyes, and more besides, but I regained my composure quickly and glanced outside. Of Carruthers there was no sign; only a tandem penny farthing stood propped against the wall that mostly surrounded my country retreat in Sussex.

Over my best attempt at a cup of tea – one really doesn’t appreciate a housekeeper as good as Mrs Amersham until she is of necessity called away to attend a family bereavement; a cousin killed just the weekend past by an anti-suffrage mob in Brixton – Elizabeth told me that it was imperative I accompany her to her uncle as he was certain he had found the fabled City of the Amazons and felt the chance of success in such a mission would increase with my accompaniment. It was difficult to say no to Elizabeth and I suspected that had been Carruthers’ intention.

“Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth,” I said, trying to find the right words. “As you know I have not been well ever since that horrible incident that saw the three of us set foot on Saturn. I have self-administered a dose of trepanning but the mental ailment that yet still afflicts me has left me with little desire” – I choked on this word and blushed, I’m sure – “for adventure or the company of man. I find myself thinking dark thoughts from time-to-time and I have not fully gotten over the loss of Mr Hawkes, I’m certain.” I glanced at the empty picture frame on the mantelpiece; it ashamed me that my intention to sketch my former spacefaring companion in tribute had been scuppered by a frightening inability to recall his features. “I am sure your uncle can cope without me. Indeed, he may be better off without worrying over what I might say or do next as it’s a constant threat at the back of my own mind.”

“My uncle wouldn’t ask this lightly,” answered Elizabeth. “And neither would I,” she continued, fixing a stare at me that I hurriedly broke. “Normalcy may be just what the doctor should be ordering.”

Carruthers and his niece made a compelling argument even when one of them wasn’t present but I mustered whatever fortitude I still retained and both apologised and gently refused. Eventually, the beautiful Elizabeth stood and slowly flattened the front of her skirt where it had crumpled on her lap during the short stay. “I hope you’ll reconsider and I wish you a speedy recovery in the meantime,” she said with a sad smile. “At the very least my uncle will be pleased when I tell him you’ve taken up mechanising insects as it’s long been a hobby of his too.”

My puzzled look immediately led to Elizabeth pointing to the small book case by the open bay window on which there was quite clearly a butterfly flexing its white wings; strapped to its back was a piece of brass equipment that resembled a gramophone shrunk to appropriate proportions. I took a step towards it and the thing immediately lifted clumsily into the air and escaped outside. Realisation dawned on me.

“Victoria’s stilts!” I shouted. “The lepidopterists!” I spun around to face Carruthers’ niece. “I’ll warrant that contraption was a recording mechanism and right now the bug is making its way back to its masters. They’ll know your uncle’s plans before nightfall. He could be in mortal danger!”

With my previous affliction miraculously seeming to have been vanquished there was nothing else for it and I quickly took leave of Elizabeth to freshen up and pack a few things. Inside one half of an hour I was mounted behind Elizabeth on the bike – though, for once, my mind was so sharply focused on the task at hand very few thoughts of a lustful nature found their ways into my head – and we were pedalling as swiftly as the nation’s road laws and conditions allowed towards Carruthers.

* * *

There were pleasantries, of course. Carruthers told me that I had changed when we met up at his new house in Wimbledon. I explained that I’d had a rough time mentally but that I felt I was on the mend. I then told Carruthers that he too had changed.

“Oh, this?” he asked, pointing with his good hand at the brass object protruding from his features fashioned to resemble the ear that had once adorned the left side of his head. “A punishment from a tribe of pygmies in deepest Devon for delving where I probably ought not to have delved.” It had never stopped him before and I suspected it wouldn’t slow him down in future either and we both smiled as we recognised this truth without speaking. He continued: “It was on that very quest that I happened on the map that I suspect reveals the secret location to the entrance to the lost City of the Amazons!”

“Elizabeth told me about this,” I confirmed. “In fact, in the doing so we uncovered a potential plot to usurp your plans by my old foes, the lepidoterists. It’s why I’m here. I know I’ll never talk you out of going and I’d never forgive myself were something to happen so your best chance is to have me along as protection if possible, as a decoy if necessary, and for us to reveal this wonder to the world before they can claim its discovery as their own.”

“Brunel’s hat! There’s no time to lose!”

Thus it was that Carruthers, his niece, and I headed to the Clapham Pneumatic and took the tube to the Ryde terminal, arriving at its cushioned end a mere fifteen minutes after ensconcing ourselves within the velvet upholstery of the cylindrical vessel. On the high velocity journey I had my first look at the map to the Amazons’ lost city and we discussed what we knew of the mythical race. It transpired that it was very little and common decency prevented Carruthers and I from saying half of that as there were women present in the carriage. Our plan, therefore, became of necessity one that relied on us using our wits to discern the best outcome from any incident that arose; oddly enough, the same plan we employed on most of our adventures together.

At Ryde we discovered the winds were favourable and there was just enough light in the day to take an air balloon to Blackgang Chine, it being the swiftest means of travel on the rather backward island off the coast of Portsmouth. With the sun starting to dip the lower edge of its golden orange disc into the sea on the western horizon we arrived at the coastal ravine and peered into its shadowy mouth.

“If the map is right,” said Carruthers, stating what we all already knew, “then the entrance lies at the base of the chine, exposed only at low tide. If my memory is correct then low tide will occur in a little under an hour.” The ability of Carruthers to recall and calculate UK coastal tide times never ceased to amaze me.

“And even if the lepidopterists are hot on our tails they’ll be forced to wait until the next low tide giving us an unassailable advantage,” I beamed.

We clambered down the ravine. Fortunately, its sides were not so steep that we had need of the stout rope that I had wrapped around my torso beneath my undershirt. Only once – a pity! – did I need to assist Elizabeth down some tricky scree. In that increasing gloom I could still pick out her magnificently handsome features silhouetted as they were against the deepening blue of the sky above.

As the tide receded to its lowest point we donned the bowlers that Carruthers had completed modifying just prior to the arrival of Elizabeth and me on the tandem bike earlier that day. Into a shallow recess at the front of each hat was a clockwork and sprung contraption not far removed from the innards of a fine timepiece. Suspended from the rear of each bowler – and attached through a gearing system around the hat’s rim to the clockwork – were chains wound through toothed pulleys that were hooked both at the heels of our shoes and at the waistband of our trousers, in the men’s case, or bustle, in Elizabeth’s. Taking a step would engage the chains and pulleys with the power ultimately winding the clockwork at the front of each hat, storing the energy in the spring, then releasing it to rapidly strike flint set around the mechanism’s recess. The result was a sparkling glow that illuminated several feet ahead of the wearer and which would be powered by human movement, a most ingenious solution to the problem of not knowing just how long we would be underground.

“I see it!” said Elizabeth suddenly, pointing towards what looked to me like nothing more than a jagged shadow against some recently wet rocks. Still, trusting to her younger eyes Carruthers and I led the way and found, not surprisingly but most excitedly, a cleft descending below ground level; a doorway of sorts! With our hats sending out flickering beams of light ahead the three of us squeezed into the gap – I was required to breathe in somewhat, a legacy of my lazy recuperation after Saturn; I vowed to engage in a regime of fitness upon our safe return to the surface world – and into that darkness we descended.

Immediately we brushed up against and then slowly through the unsettling mass of a great amount of seaweed; its arrangement seemed somewhat unnatural, forming multiple layers that took several seconds to slip through. Elizabeth remarked it was possibly the method by which the Amazons prevented the sea from encroaching on their hidden city and Carruthers and I could find no fault with the statement. I quite fancy that I saw my old friend smile with pride at his niece in the dingy surroundings. It was possibly being enclosed as we were but I envied him his close relationship and a wave of loneliness flashed over me before I brushed it off with a thrusting out of my chest and renewed determination to uncover our prize.

* * *

Progress was slow, as you might expect. The rocky corridor we traversed felt as if it were winding downwards slowly, spiralling beneath the crust of the Earth, although it was not possible to be very certain in those conditions; at times the path would climb sharply or take a sharp left, yet still I couldn’t shake the sensation that like a corkscrew breaking into a fine bottle of port we were twisting down and right. The coolness as we had entered the subterranean world quickly gave way to a more humid atmosphere.

We stopped for a snack, opening up one of the prepared packages of ham sandwiches and apples from the bag I carried across my back. To ensure we had enough illumination to eat – my doctor’s training telling me that consumption of food in pitch blackness was bad for the digestive tracts – one of our group marched on the spot as quietly as a person connected to a mechanical lighting system can to power the bowler beam. Carruthers and I were probably comical sights during our bout of enforced exercise but as for Elizabeth, well, I dared not look.

Not long after we had resumed our push into the planet’s bowels we entered a wider section of cavern and Carruthers brought us to a silenced halt with the merest waving of one hand. We stood still and waited while the whirring of the winding mechanism in our hats slowed, quietened, and reduced eventually to darkness. It wasn’t perfectly without sound, of course; blood pumping through my veins thumped and rocked the inside of my head and seemed loud enough for all to hear yet I assured myself it couldn’t possibly be the case. I became aware of the sound of the breathing of all three of us and toyed with holding my breath only to discard the thought as pointless as the deep inhalation and exhalation that must surely follow would render useless whatever environment Carruthers was hoping to create. Cocking my head this way and that I strained, trying to coax any sound to enter from outside but could discern nothing I felt wasn’t natural in some form or other.

“My ear,” said Carruthers after a couple of minutes, stamping up and down to bring some light into the situation, “is rather more sensitive these days and I could hear something ahead. Quiet, yes, and human almost certainly. I warrant that we are within a few hundred feet of discovering our Amazons and their lost city and that we should proceed with more caution for there is no telling how they will welcome strangers.”

A few hundred feet does not seem like much now that I write it down yet, even as we intended to make a more cautious approach, we encountered a far more difficult path that slowed us even further. Stooping often, by necessity removing our various bags and packs on occasion, and even at one point encountering a small cavern containing a near vertical passage along one edge that, had we not been wearing our illuminated inventions, might have led to one or more of us falling to a fate we dared not imagine.

As it happened we did not need Carruthers to warn us when we were approaching what we assumed must be the city for there grew by stages a change in our surroundings. The rocky walls had hitherto appeared as oil, deeply black and wet, seeming to slide and shift as we stepped past and our head-mounted lighting threw out shadows and reflections, the stuff of nightmares no doubt to those of less stern minds; yet now we observed in whispers that there was some faintly green luminescence in the rock surface growing in intensity the further on we pressed inwards and downwards. I chipped a piece of rock off – accidentally, I should admit; clumsiness and a strong toecap on the shoes by Mr Pettigrew, the only cobbler I entrusted with my feet’s care, being far more than a match for millions of years of nature’s pressures – and toyed with it in my hand before offering it to Elizabeth.

“It’s warm,” she remarked, and thanked me before pocketing it.

“I recalled you had an interest in geology,” I answered as we crept on.

“I am a member of a women’s letter-writing group and we’re interested in all the sciences. I have a friend in Poland who may find this far more interesting than me if you’ll allow me to pass on your gift.”

I had no objection, naturally, and again we moved on.

The green of our enclosed surroundings continued to push back the boundaries of the black such that at my suggestion we disconnected the pulleys from our bowlers. The silence that blossomed in that place without the whirring of gears and shuffling of clothing on legs was quite disconcerting. Added to the colour of our environs we could easily have been on another planet rather than in the alien underworld of our own. Then, suddenly, Carruthers – who had maintained the lead for most of the trek – brought us once more to an abrupt standstill with the wave of a hand and instant crouching. Like him, Elizabeth and I sank down too.

“Look!” whispered Carruthers with such excitement in his voice that I’d not heard since our trip to Mercury. Elizabeth leaned forward over her uncle’s shoulder. I stood a little, then leaned over Elizabeth and tried with only partial success to think of things other than those that jumped unbidden to mind. The three of us were at the end of a narrow passage that suddenly became the edge of a ledge that opened up on a cavern of such enormous size it made the brain swim trying to contemplate it. Green light filled the landscape or, rather, that part of the landscape that was not some immense city of rocky domes and houses and towers appearing to grow out of the floor and the roof so very far above, sometimes joining together, as often as not passing by like stalactites or stalagmites of gargantuan proportions scraping the ground in one direction, scraping the sky in the other. Our certainty that this was no natural phenomenon came from the myriad shapes of windows that festooned the buildings and yet as we gazed with awe we saw not a single sign of life.

“Did you not say you had heard sounds, Carruthers?” I asked as the three of us moved out onto the ledge into view of the lost but dead-looking city. We hoped to encourage a reaction from the natives if one was to be had.

“Darwin’s beard! A foul curse on this confounded ear!” muttered Carruthers, slapping the prosthetic on his head with the flat of his hand before mumbling an apology for his outburst to his niece.

“I am a doctor,” I said. “And while this marvel of modern mechanics is most likely beyond my understanding in its specifics, I imagine the general working – by which I assume it is fashioned on the human auditory system – should be familiar enough to me for me to gather an insight into why it has malfunctioned so.” With that I leaned towards Carruthers’ ear and peered inside. To my complete shock something emerged at the same time and I stepped back in most unmanly fright. Elizabeth clasped a hand to my back to prevent me stepping off the platform on which we stood quite precariously and the two of us stared at my friend’s face while he remained perfectly still, aware of some activity yet maintaining sense enough to not disrupt whatever it may be.

“It is an insect of some sort,” said Elizabeth after a few seconds.

“I concur,” I added. “An insect inside your latest brass appendage that has been undergoing some form of metamorphosis as it now appears to be making its way out of a cocoon. It was that activity which you heard. I shall rid you of it once it has hatched from its habitat.”

“No! We should kill it!” said Elizabeth sharply.

“Tsk, tsk, niece of mine,” said Carruthers with a smile. “That is no way to treat our lesser creatures. It has as much right to live as any other creature in Ra’s realm.” I suppressed the urge to continue our long-running argument over which deity had divine right over the universe for it seemed the occasion was not quite right.

“I’m thinking of this environment,” continued Elizabeth. “We have seen no insects or birds or creatures of any description since we have been below ground. “The introduction of a foreign species might cause untold damage and ruin any future exploration.”

“You are right, of course,” I said, agreeing with the youngest member of our trio. “We all remember the attempt to arrest Ireland’s potato famine with laboratory-constructed, blight-killing clover and the terrible impact this had on the nation’s cattle.” We bowed our heads in unison for a second as a sign of respect for those who fell in the bloody Cowpocalypse, as the gutter press had proclaimed it.

I retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket in my trousers with which I planned to wrap the interloper, dispatch it from this mortal coil, and carry it with us when we left. I plucked the wriggling form from the edge of the brass ear on Carruthers’ head and placed it on the handkerchief held out in my other hand. As I made to fold over the cotton the insect gave one last squirm, shaking itself free from the pupal casing that had still formed a shell around half of its body. Two wings rolled out from the brown and cream-coloured body (tinged with green, as with everything, of course) and all three of us stared first with scientific curiosity at the markings, then with dawning realisation at what was without doubt a moth bearing the symbol of the Imperial Lepidopterists Society.

“They have tinkered with the husbandry of moths!” exclaimed Carruthers. “Ra will not stand for this!” I sighed and rolled my eyes. This was a mistake.

That moment of delay was too much and the animal abomination flapped its silk wings and lifted away from us. I leapt and attempted to swat it but missed by some way. Carruthers – whose brass hand afforded him greater strength than most men – clambered quickly up the rocky face above our ledge. He leaned out to grab the insect as it fluttered by in its jerky, uncoordinated motion but the fiendish beast avoided his outstretched arms.

Then he fell.

I reacted swiftly and reached for my friend as he tumbled. By some miracle my hands gripped onto his coat and held him in place as he threatened to hurtle past the ledge. He lay there for a moment and panted a fearful thanks. Some instinct caused me to turn around at that instant and I saw Elizabeth, her eyes wide, her arms flailing. “Doctor!” she said quietly, then slipped backwards and disappeared. In my haste to save Carruthers I had nudged his niece. We scrambled to the edge of the ledge and looked down. Fifty feet below us in the cavern of the City of the Amazons lay the crumpled, seemingly lifeless body of our young adventuress companion.

Such anguish washed over me yet I knew beyond any doubt it was as nothing to that which Carruthers felt. His face even in that green murk was ash white. Elizabeth was injured at best, at worst something not to consider. The moth had vanished. The city looked deserted.

To be continued…

“An absolute pleasure,” said the orchestra’s conductor, beaming widely.

“How ever can I thank you?” asked the priest.

“Well…” said Alberto. “Um… Er…”

Zebra knew what he was going to ask for.

Kangaroo knew what he was going to ask for.

Ostrich knew what he was going to ask for.

“Well,” continued Alberto Frog. “I wouldn’t say no to a coffee.”

There was a clang as cymbals fell to the floor and a loud gasp was heard from most of the orchestra.

“Coffee?” asked Father Leopold. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a milkshake?”

“No,” said Alberto quickly. “Coffee. Please. Coffee.”

“Er, okay. Any particular flavour?”

Tiger thought Alberto might choose Bounty Island Cream.

Flamingo thought Alberto might choose Blueberry and Vanilla.

Elephant thought Alberto might choose Toasted Pecan.

And Monkey thought Alberto might choose Chocolate Cherry.

What do you think?

“Anything. Anything will do,” said Alberto.

“Come now, Alberto, you must have a favourite flavour of coffee.” Father Leopold’s smile was thin and forced.

“I. Don’t. Care,” said Alberto through gritted teeth. Father Leopold was taken aback as he didn’t realise frogs had teeth. “Coffee. Any coffee. I just want a coffee.”

“Would you like Blueberry and Vanilla coffee?” asked Flamingo, keen to be proven right.

“JUST GIVE ME A FUCKING COFFEE!” screamed Alberto Frog. “I JUST WANT A FUCKING COFFEE!”

“Steady now Alberto!” said Coelacanth, wary of how much much the baton was shaking in the conductor’s hand.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” yelled Alberto. “WHY IS THERE A FUCKING COELACANTH IN MY ORCHESTRA?”

“Hippo’s on maternity leave,” said Squirrel timidly.

Alberto stared at the rodent with fury in his eyes.

“Here!” said Father Leopold suddenly. “Here’s a coffee.”

“Finally!” said Alberto, grabbing the offered mug from the priest’s hands and taking a loud slurp. The orchestra’s conductor’s shoulders relaxed immediately and Alberto closed his eyes, savouring the taste of the hot liquid. “Was that so fucking difficult?” he said quietly.

Suddenly Alberto Frog felt a sharp pain in his left arm and a crushing weight on his chest. He clasped a hand to his heart even as it gave up beating to one of the many rhythms in the conductor’s head. Father Leopold and the orchestra looked on as the amphibian died from a massive heart attack.

“Stress,” said Raccoon, breaking the silence that followed. “I told him coffee was no good for him.”

“What coffee was it?” asked Elephant.

“Toasted pecan,” answered Father Leopold as he made the sign of the cross over Alberto’s stiff corpse.

“Boom!” said Elephant. “I knew it! Pay up bitches!”

“Well,” the doctor said, after quite a long wait. “Well, you’re not all ears,” he continued. “There’s a mouth there.” He pointed at me with the mouthpiece of the pipe, a far better use for the item than using it to smoke in my opinion, though I kept the thought to myself.

“Yes,” I answered with a sigh. “This right here is a mouth. Technically, I’m not all ears but for all intents and purposes I am.”

“Hmmm.”

We sat in silence for as long it takes a doctor to inhale and exhale from a pipe three more times.

“How did you know who I was and where I was?” he asked.

I shrugged my ear-covered shoulders. “I’m not sure what you’re asking there.”

“You don’t have any eyes,” the doctor continued.

“I’m over 90% ears,” I replied. “Despite not having any eyes my hearing prowess enables me to build up an in-depth view of the world that’s probably better than every other person on the planet.”

“A bit like that superhero in that bloody awful movie?”

“Daredevil? Yes, I suppose so. I suppose you could say I’m just like Daredevil if Daredevil was a walking bush of ears. Do you think there’s much call for a comic book adaptation of a mostly-ear bit of shrubbery? Is that the sort of superhero kids will want to be?”

The doctor looked uncomfortably at his pipe.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” I said. “I’m just after some help. I’m tired of being this way. Can you help?”

The doctor took another deep puff. “My doctorate is honorary,” he said, punctuating the sentence with a smoke ring and barely-concealed look of joy at the O-shaped cloud. “And it’s in philosophy.”

“Damn.”

“Hmmm.”

I slumped, defeated.

“Have you thought about taking up pipe-smoking?”

“No hands,” I said. “I’m all ears.”

“Hmmm.”

The doctor tried his best to ignore me, tried his best to concentrate on smoking, and I sat in silence for a few moments more. After what seemed a satisfactory amount of time to convey my disappointment and send waves of what I hoped was guilt over the man in some petty way of spreading misery I lifted myself off the tree stump and walked back down the mountain away from the cabin. I crossed the brook and made my way along the barely-a-path that wound its way through the young conifers.

A minute or so later the doctor finished his pipe, stood up, stretched his legs, and muttered how much of a freak I was.

“I heard that!” I shouted up the slope, my voice echoing with a mix of menace and depression.

There’s a hand gripping the crook of my arm.

“You’re not going are you?”

I know this guy by sight; a recent transfer to the local police department from some out-of-city place I never bothered to learn. Some kind of big-shot detective, only unlike me he’s the kind that gets a regular paycheck.

“Are you buying?” I figure I’ve got nothing to lose by asking.

Mister Big-Shot gets Brett’s attention behind the bar straightaway – not a difficult job seeing as this cop is built like one of those new upright refrigerators; bulky, long-faced, distinctive nose – and indicates three whiskeys. He’s either being very generous, needs to drink twice as much to maintain his fluid levels, or he’s got a partner here I haven’t spotted yet.

“Let’s take them outside,” he says, handing me one of the glasses. “We might be able to hear ourselves speak.”

I don’t have much to say but I’m happy to listen if he wants an ear. It’s not that much quieter outside, truth to tell. The rain’s pelting down on the sidewalk and the guttering of the bar’s blocked, sending a waterfall crashing onto an iron chair not quite under the canopy out front. Still, it’s a little cooler and that’s something. The third guy in our group who was waiting outside has the look of a rookie cop and I figure if I get close enough to him he’s probably got that new cop smell too.

“Cheers!” I say, nodding appreciation and taking a sip of my gift. It could do with a little water and fortunately there’s plenty of that around so I stick the glass out from under the covers. I wait for an automobile to pass and for the waves in the surface water to hit the kerb. “You’re after my help with something, I take it,” I say, since nobody else seems to want to chat.

“Yeah,” says Big-Shot while chewing his lip. “People say you’re quite good at your job and we could do with a fresh look at a case. Any information, insights, ideas. That sort of thing.”

I raise the glass against one of the lights outside the bar to see if the colour looks about right. “I appreciate the drink,” I say, “but even I don’t work this cheap.”

“No sense of civic pride, Mister Rake?” That’s the rookie and I’m glad to see there’s a warm smile on his face. It’s quickly followed by a grimace as he tries to swallow the least amount of whiskey possible.

“The city will pay for your services,” I’m assured by the walking chiller cabinet. He then starts telling me about a series of murders that have been kept out of the press to avoid a panic or give any other lowlife an idea.

Auntie Annie was the first victim, attacked with an axe in the alley at the back of the brothel she runs – sorry, ran – down near the quay. I’d heard about her death but not the grisly manner in which it took place and like everyone else who knew her or her girls I’d figured it was probably someone upset at the cost or the crabs who’d finally flipped out. A butcher named Brian was then found beheaded at the back of the bus depot and this was quickly followed by the discovery of the cut-up corpse of Carlos, head chef at one of the few legal gambling venues in the city centre.

“I ate at that casino once,” I tell my cop friends. “Sick for a couple of days after. You sure this wasn’t just an upset customer with an upset stomach too?”

Detective Big-Shot shrugs. “Anything’s possible and I’m learning that in this city that is literally true.”

Two more killings are described to me. Some drifter forcibly drowned and then dragged up into the dunes to be discovered, and Edward Edwards, an engineer for the Eastern Express rail company, tied up and electrocuted in his apartment.

“I may be spotting a pattern,” I say sarcastically. My whiskey needs a little more water in it.

“Those people who said you’re good at your job weren’t joking then?” asks the rookie with a glint in his eye. I like him more than his partner.

“Obviously, you may well have a vested interest in this case now,” says Big-Shot sticking his head out from under the canopy and briefly squinting up into the sky. If he’s wondering if the rain will stop then I could let him know the bad news but I figure if he’s as good as his reputation then he should be given a chance to work it out for himself.

I swallow the end of my glass. “I reckon I can start to worry in around ten murders.”

*

I’ve learnt a lot in the past couple of months. Police pay isn’t great, for one. Still, it’s regular and it all adds up. Rookie’s name is Tommy Simpson. Big-Shot’s got a real name too but he’s not easy to get along with so I keep choosing to forget it. He’s not exactly police either but rather part of a unit dealing with serious interstate crimes – he’s been tracking and catching or killing people like this for years – and what we’re dealing with is something he classifies as a “serial killer”. For my own records I’m still labelling the perp as “sick nutter”. I’ve learnt that this sick nutter is nasty, nobody I know knows a damn thing about him, and that what he did to Larry the Leper in the library will give me nightmares to the day I die.

Even as I slam the door on the cab up I realise it’s going to be difficult to keep this particular death out of the papers. J.P. Patricks, publisher of the City Press is lying in the middle of the road, face down, arms spread. The rain’s diluting his blood and brain matter, washing bits of both down the overflowing drains. Even without the inherent media interest in this killing there have been witnesses this time and I guess that Big-Shot is talking to one of them. I sidle over as they’re standing in a doorway of an old city council building so it’s got the two benefits of being sheltered and not being quite so close the mess on the tarmac.

Make that three benefits: the witness is a blonde with perkiness in all the right places. Her eyeliner’s smudged and she looks pale but that more-or-less describes every dame in the city.

“This is Rick Rake, Miss Johnson, assisting us in this investigation,” says Big-Shot as he sees me. I’m silently grateful that he doesn’t emphasise “assisting” in quite the same way that everyone else at the police department does which makes it clear I’ve not been the great help I was made out to be. “She saw Patricks getting pulled out onto the parapet up there,” says Big-Shot, jerking his thumb upwards. “Large guy, dressed in black. Patricks was tied up and shouting. Knife used to silence Patricks, then pushed off.”

“Pushed off a parapet in public,” I say quietly. I can see Rookie a bit further down the road talking to some beat cops. “That must have been horrible to see, Miss Johnson,” I offer. “Can I ask where you were at the time?”

“Over there,” she says, pointing at a corner deli. Through the window I can see the owner giving a statement to a junior inspector. By the ground at Miss Johnson’s feet is the brown paper bag containing whatever she’d bought, soaked through now. For some reason, in spite of everything, it’s making me hungry.

“She says nobody’s come out of the building since the incident but there are too many windows around the back and two fire escapes to be certain. Uniforms have been in and combed the place; I’ve taken a quick look at the Patricks’ office too. Nothing.”

I’m looking at Miss Johnson’s lower lip. It’s dry and cracked and trembling slightly.

“You look like you could do with a drink and something to eat, Miss Johnson,” I say with not the greatest expectation of a positive answer but she surprises me with an emphatic yes.

Big-Shot then surprises me further by pointing down a side street. “There’s a French place I’ve tried a few times down there,” he says. “Why don’t you see if you can come up with any new questions for Miss Johnson. She’s an eye-witness so we’ll need to arrange protection for her anyway. I’ll go speak with the chief.”

*

“Call me Victoria.”

She’s drawing in deep on a cigarette and it’s creating some beautiful dimples in her cheeks. Throwing that first gin and tonic down her neck has given her a lovely bit of colour too. I’m smiling for a lot of reasons.

“So, Victoria, what sort of look did you get at the attacker?”

She shrugs and blows a cloud over the restaurant table. With her free hand she lifts her second gin. “Nothing of the face. He was muscular under the coat, a lot bigger than Patricks.”

“And did you know Patricks at all?”

“Everyone who works down this area knows him a bit. I’ve never spoken to him if that’s what you’re asking.” She looks thoughtful for a few seconds. “I’ve never seen anyone killed before. I thought I might feel different. Have you seen many people killed Mister Rake?”

“Lots of dead bodies,” I say. “That comes with the territory. Not so many killings but, yes, a few. People react differently. You might be feeling fine now but later… who knows?”

“Will you be protecting me then?”

I shouldn’t be thinking the things I’m thinking but this is my sort of broad. Gutsy, forthright, and right now out-drinking me. I’m trying to think of something funny to say but the waiter’s turned up with our food. I’m eating steak because I want to see if the Europeans can do it better than Mickey’s Grill over on Fourth Street.

“What did you pick?” I ask, looking at the pastry dish Victoria’s busy slicing. She shows me the menu, her thumbnail pointing out her choice as she blows gently and prepares to take a bite. It’s turning out to be a day full of surprises for me. This time it’s my reactions that impress me as I grab the fork before she’s got a chance to put it in her mouth.

“Hey!” She begins to say something else but I cut her off.

“What do you do for a living Victoria?”

“I work for a family construction business. I thought we were done with questioning.” She’s trying to force the forkful of food towards her face again but I’m stronger than I look, take it off her, and put it down on the plate. She’s giving me a look that says that the chance of anything hot happening later is cooling down faster than her untouched meal. “Cost analysis, if you’re really interested,” she continues. I’ve got this horrible prickling sensation down my neck and spine. It’s that old detective’s hunch finally kicking into gear so I ask for her specific job title and she tells me. Damn.

“Any chance you were named after Queen Victoria?” I ask next and this time it’s her turn to look surprised.

“My mother was a British historian,” she tells me by way of explanation. “Are you going to tell me what the problem is?”

I’m thinking it through in my head, finally putting all the pieces together, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that we’re both in serious danger but I don’t want to create a panic. I’m about to say something when I see her glance over my shoulder. I start to turn but feel a hand press around the back of my neck. I’ve felt this hand on me before, only then it was in a crowded bar.

“We need to have a quick word,” says Detective Big-Shot. I can’t quite turn my head around or up enough to face him but I can tell there’s no suitable negative answer he’ll accept on account of a hard prodding in my upper back. Victoria’s looking confused but not overly concerned and I don’t think I’m going to be able to convey “get out of here and bring as many police officers as you can back with you” in a glance since we’ve only just met.

“Stay right there Miss Johnson. Someone’s coming to look after you in just a minute.” And now he’s leading me into the men’s rest room.

“A gun?” I ask when the door’s closed. “I felt sure it was going to be the rope you took off Patricks’ body. Miss Johnson said his arms were tied but they were spread when I arrived. I guess you just waited in the building until the regular cops arrived and then started searching with them.”

“You are smart Rake. I’ll give you that.” The hand not holding the weapon pats his pocket and then pulls out the climbing rope that earlier had been used to restrain the deceased publisher. “Be smart a little while longer and don’t struggle too much. Rick Rake in the restaurant with a revolver works for me just as well.”

“You’ve missed out Q though. Sorry to disappoint you but the quantity surveyor named after a queen never ate poisoned quiche. Why don’t you think about starting from A again?” I doubt he’s going to take up my suggestion.

“If Miss Johnson happens to die out of order… well, it’s only me who’ll know and I think I can live with that.” He’s gesturing for me to kneel down and I can’t see a way out of this so I do as he says. In a flash I feel the rope around by neck and I reach to pull it away but there’s a knee in my back keeping me still. I’m trying to breathe but the pressure on my windpipe is too much. I can feel the rope twist a little, burning slightly as it tears at my skin, and then it loosens enough for me to get a finger in place. I manage to get some air into my lungs.

There’s a loud bang and a crushing weight falls on me. A sharp pain in my head and then blackness.

*

The rain’s coming down much like it always does but there’s a make-shift shelter outside the restaurant which is keeping me dry. A medic from the police department is wiping blood off me. Some of it’s mine from the cut on the temple I received from the toilet bowl but most of it is Big-Shot’s. I don’t know for certain why he did what he did. Maybe he just spent so long tracking the insane he thought he could do it better.

I’ve shaken the hand of the rookie already and he’s off being congratulated by his colleagues and superiors for ending the life of this sick nutter or serial killer; whatever you want to call him.

“You saved my life,” says Victoria. I hadn’t heard her approach. She’s smoking in every sense of the word.

“And he saved mine. And probably yours too,” I reply, nodding at my saviour’s back.

Victoria shrugs and looks at her cigarette with disinterest. She drops it and stubs it out. “You’re still my hero Rick Rake.” She touches the mark on my neck gently and then kisses me on the cheek. It’s less than I hoped for and more than I deserve. Blind luck that the rookie came down to the restaurant and needed to use the conveniences. I’ll take blind luck. “I heard them say he’ll probably be promoted to Sergeant for this.”

I nod. Saved from strangulation by Sergeant Simpson. On this case I shouldn’t have expected anything else.