SOAS: Chapter Six: Messages from Beyond, or, the Dead use Interflora.

"How's the hand?" Nics asked.

      "Well," said Chas wryly, "much as I hate to give the lie to my macho and hard exterior, it bloody hurts."

      "It's alright, I won't let on. Let me have a look. In the kitchen, where we can sit down and have a coffee."

      Chas' hand was badly swollen; one knuckle in particular had turned a very nasty shade of red and purple.

      "Alright," she said, handing him back the bag of peas. "Who did you hit?"

      "Look, I told you, it went and turned into a bloody riot last night. Nothing to do with me. A Maldovan supporter told a Slovenian supporter that his team was so crap they couldn't hit the ground if they fell over, let alone the ball. The Slovenian took a swing at him, and that's how it all started."

      "And you had to get involved..." Nics looked very disapproving indeed.

      "Had to, babes, it's my job."

      "Well, you're calling in sick tonight," she said, in no uncertain terms. "And we're going to see the doctor. I think you might have broken something there."

      Chas winced, tried whining.

      "But babes, you know how I feel about doctors..."

      She just looked at him, and he shut up abruptly.

      A thought struck him.

      "You've got flowers!" he said brightly. "In the living room."

      "What?" she said, totally surprised.

      It was a huge bunch of flowers, mostly carnations, but with a few lilies and roses chucked in with the greenery for good measure. It was gloriously tacky in its extreme focus on one colour - pink.

      Nics opened the card and looked at it. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and a tiny bit of worry.

      "Someone's having a laugh," she said as she handed Chas the card to read.

      It read, in very angular black fountain pen script:

      "Dear Nicola. Please hide the locket immediately in the safest place you can. Yours with best wishes, Mr James Bradford (deceased). PS. Sam says hello."

      "Who's Sam?"

      "Just a dog I know from choir practice. What's so special about that bloody locket?"

      All three pieces of it were still in her bag, she got them out and spread them across the coffee table.

      "Just looks like only a locket to me," said Chas, poking desultorily at it.

      "Then why would someone go to the effort of sending me flowers telling me to hide it? In the safest place I can? And pretending the message is from a dead guy we've never met?"

      "Dunno," said Chas. "But you should have seen the weirdoes showing up at the door all afternoon. I've never seen Spud look so worried about a fruit basket before."

      "I know," said Nics. "I got a phone call from that firm in London I was telling you about. They want me to go up to see them on Monday. I could bring the locket with me then, get it appraised or something at a jewellers, see if they can shed any light on its origins."

      Chas pulled a face and nodded.

      "Yeah, sounds good. What time you got to go down? I might come along, for the ride, so to speak."

      He grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows. She giggled.

      "Alright then, we'll make a day of it. It'll be fun. I only have to see them for an hour or two as it is."

      "Sorted."

      She stood up, gathering the pieces of the locket up.

      "In the meantime, let's put these back in my bag, so we don't forget them. And I'm starving. You hungry?"

      "Yup!"

      "Ok, I'll make us some dinner."

      Chas heaved a big inward sight of relief. Looks like she'd forgotten the whole doctor thing.

      "It'll be easier to hang around the hospital waiting room when we're both fed," she continued.

      His face fell. Damn.

      She took a step towards the door, and felt something squidge under her foot. She looked down to see a mess of mango chutney and semi-solidified egg yolk spurt out from underneath her shoe.

      "Spud!!"

SOAS: Chapter Five: "The minute you walked in the joint - baBoom!" or, the Trials of a Singing Telegram

The two lads were just back from breakfast at the local greasy spoon when the doorbell rang.

Spud, looking a lot less green now he'd managed to cage a lighter off the Hell's Angels at the next table, went to open it.

Outside was a gorilla in a monkey suit, and a girl carrying balloons dressed as Marilyn Monroe. As soon as the door was opened she launched into her song.

"Happy Birthday...Mr President... Happy Birthday...tooo yuuuooo!!"

The gorilla very solemnly blew a fanfare on a kazoo, and the girl handed Spud the balloons.

He was lost for words.

"Er... thanks. Bye!" And he closed the door.

Chas had come to see what all the fuss was about.

"Nice balloons," he said.

"Thanks. A gorilla in a dinner jacket gave them to me."

"And a fruit basket as well - someone's got an admirer!"

Spud looked around in confusion. "Fruit basket? Where?"

Chas walked over to the corner of the hall just inside the front door and picked up the basket.

It had a huge lime green bow tied to the handle, and was full of bright pink plastic strips that were supposed to resemble grass. Well, they would have, if they'd been green.

"Hmmm... no card. Mind if I nick a banana?"

"No!" yelled Spud, letting go of the balloons and making a grab for the basket. "Um... er... yes... er... bananas are my favourite," he explained weakly.

"Suit yourself," said Chas, looking up to where the balloons had stuck themselves to the very top of the stairwell.

Spud, looking extremely worried, ran up the stairs, clutching the fruit basket tight to his chest.

"Weirdo!" said Chas to himself. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, and winced. "I wonder if the peas are frozen again."

Over the next two and three quarter hours, Chas opened the door to a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman, three people collecting money for various raffles and charitable causes, the Interflora guy who delivered a huge bouquet of flowers with Nics' name on it, the postman, a male strip-o-gram dressed as a fireman and carrying a large inflatable banana, and no fewer than six pizza delivery guys.

With each ring on the doorbell Spud's music went up even louder, and no amount of hammering on the door would get him out to collect his pizzas.

The strip-o-gram was nearly the last straw as far as Chas was concerned. It eventually took threats of severe bodily harm to make him go away without performing on the doorstep. Chas had seen a lot over his time in the bouncing trade, but that took the biscuit. Or banana, as the case might be.

"Why are you holding a bag of melting frozen peas, mate?" one of the pizza guys had asked.

"Look, just fuck off and take your god-damned pizza with you!" Chas replied, slamming the door in the delivery guy's face.

He didn't answer the door for the next two hours. Until he heard someone very persistent hammering at it.

"Fuck off!" he yelled through the closed door. "We don't want it!"

"Let me in, Chas, you twat! I've forgotten my bloody keys!"

It was Nics' voice. Chas opened the door.

"Sorry, babes," he said quickly. "You would not believe who we've had coming to the door today."

Footsteps hammered down the stairs, and Spud pushed past both of them without any explanation, straight out the front door, and moving faster than either of them had ever seen him move before.

"Was it just me?" asked Nics, "or did Spud look like he had a gerbil glued to his chin?"

SOAS: Chapter Four: The Strange Story of a Woman Who Died as the Result of Complications Arising from an In-Grown Toe Nail.

      Normally, mornings after the nights Chas was working, Nics would go off to work without seeing him as anything other a shapeless mass huddled under the duvet. This morning however, when the alarm went off he opened his bleary eyes and actually sat up.

      Nics looked at him in surprise.

      "My God, are you alright?"

      It had obviously been a rough night last night, his face was slightly puffy on the left side, and he was holding his right hand with the other as if to cradle it. A random feather that had escaped from the pillows clung to his hair.

      "Match turned into a riot after all. And some bastard tried to bottle me," he said, his voice rough from second hand cigarette smoke and tiredness.

      "What's wrong with your hand?"

      "Dunno, might have just pulled a muscle or something. I'm going to get some ice for it, and go back to sleep."

      "Good plan. You stay put, I'll get the ice for you."

      He gratefully slipped back into the cavernous warmth of the duvet, closing his eyes.

      Nics skipped down the stairs, eyes narrowing in annoyance at the renewed mess in the kitchen. Seizing the black marker that hung from a string attached to the whiteboard that they used for messages she wrote "SPUD!!!" in very large letters.

      She wrapped the bag of frozen peas in a clean towel and brought it up to Chas.

      At the touch of the cold pack on his outstretched good hand he jumped.

      "Whaddafuck!"

      His head appeared over the edge of the duvet and he relaxed.

      "Oh, it's you... Thanks, babes."

      He sighed with relief as he placed the peas against his sore hand.

      "At the risk of not seeming very macho," he said to her, "it doesn't half bloody hurt."

      "Try to get some more sleep. I'll pick up some painkillers on my way home from work. If you need any before then, kick Spud."

      Nics kissed him goodbye for the day, but he was already drifting back to sleep.

      The bang of the front door closing jerked Spud from his sleep. He looked around guiltily, wiping the corner of his mouth free from egg and chutney.

      "Oh bollocks! She's going to kill me!"

      He'd just noticed the egg and chutney on the carpet.

      Four cups of coffee later, just as Spud was feeling strong enough to go after the carpet stain with extra strength bleach, Chas came down the stairs and into the kitchen, still with frozen peas wrapped around his hand.

      "Morning," said Spud. "You're up early."

      Chas's reply was muffled, due to the fact that he had his head stuck in the freezer. With a triumphant grunt he pulled out a bag of frozen mixed veg, threw the peas back in and wrapped the towel around his hand and the freshly frozen bag.

      Only then he looked at Spud.

      "You look like shit, mate."

      Spud shrugged, only slightly green around the edges.

      "You should see the other blokes. What happened to your hand?"

      "Dunno, think I sprained it or something. It'll be fine. Soon as the swelling goes down."

      "Better be careful with it, it could turn out to be fatal..." Spud's voice, always slurred and slow, now took on a very doleful tone.

      Chas laughed. "Yeah right."

      "I'm serious, man," said Spud, fingers automatically rolling himself a cigarette. "Stranger things have happened."

      "Bullshit."

      "What, you never heard the story of the woman who died from an in-grown toe nail?"

      "No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me it now."

      Spud patted himself down, looking for a lighter. No joy, so he stuck the rollie behind one ear.

      "Make us another coffee then. And have you seen my lighter?" he said, settling himself back in the chair.

      Chas shook his head, no, and filled up the kettle. He tried not to feel guilty, sure he'd swiped Spud's bottle of lighter fluid, but not the lighter itself.

      "There was this woman, right, and she was a major hypochondriac. You know the type, the sort of person who if they develop a cold, it's the next flu epidemic that's going to wipe out half the population of the world. The sort of person who if she gets a scratch is completely convinced that it's going to get gangrene and mean her entire body will have to be amputated. The sort of person who favourite reading material is 'The Family Health Encyclopaedia', with a side order of 'New Diseases Monthly'."

      "Yeah, I know the type," said Chas good-naturedly. "Get on with it."

      "God only knows how her poor husband put up with it. Her kids were long gone, so they were well out of it. I think her bloke coped by having his regular pint of an evening down the pub, far away from her obsessive worrying about this mole, or that sniffle. Can't say I blame him at all.

      "She was more than just a hypochondriac though, she was a competitive hypochondriac. If someone dared say to her they had a cold, then she had pneumonia, if someone else had a slipped disk, then she was paralysed from the waist down. I'd hate to think what she'd have to say about herself if she heard that someone was dying of AIDS or something, probably would claim that she had a whole new fatal disease that her's was the first case of, and the doctors were baffled and gave her exactly five minutes less time to live than the poor sod who was genuinely dying. She was that sort of person. A right self obsessed cow."

      Chas stuck a fresh mug of coffee in front of him. Spud took a mouthful and pulled the rollie out from behind his ear.

      "Thanks. Now if I could only remember where I put my lighter...

      "Anyway, her GP, as you can imagine, was well and truly sick of the sight of her. And she'd only been going to see him for all of six months, after the other ten GPs she'd been to see had dared suggest that she might just be loopy instead of sick. This GP was a young lad, pretty much straight out of med school, and the truth be told, a bit crap. And she figured she could bully him unmercifully, and of course, she did. I swear, she had enough antibiotics in her bathroom cabinet to eliminate measles in the developing world. All of them with the courses half finished, 'cause no sooner would she start a different antibiotic, then out would come the side effects. Every single one, no matter how they contradicted each other. She was the only woman in the world who could have a lowered core temperature and a fever at the same time.

      "She gave up going to the doctors completely after he last GP decided to stop prescribing her proper pills and instead sent her home with sugar pills or something. Of course, as soon as she gets home, out comes the reference books, and she looks up her new pills. She goes completely ballistic when she discovers they're fake, and swears never again to go to the doctors.

     

      "She was as good as her word as well."

      He paused for another mouthful of coffee, looking mournfully at the cigarette in his hand.

      "You haven't seen my lighter, have you?"

      Chas shook his head, frozen veg help firmly against his hurt hand.

      "No, not since the first time you asked."

      "Anyway, in the fullness of time, she did actually develop something wrong with her. It was an ingrown toenail, but of course, she managed to convince herself that it was really an advance symptom of a particularly debilitating form of bone cancer or something.

      "She limped around on it for days, milking it for all she was worth, all the while refusing to go to the doctors. Have you ever had an in-grown toenail?"

      "Nope."

      "Hurts like a bastard, it does. And her not being good at coping with this pain thing, she takes to her bed, refusing to get up to do anything important like eat or drink.

      "Her husband, the first night he came home to discover her in bed and no dinner on the table, well, he simply put his cap and coat back on and went down the pub where he had pie and chips along with his evening pint."

      "That reminds me," interrupted Chas. "Fancy some breakfast? I could do some fried eggs?"

      Spud swallowed convulsively, turning that little bit paler.

      "Um, no, not for me thanks. Not just at the moment."

      Chas grinned. "You won't mind if I make myself some then?"

      He opened the fridge.

      "Hey! Who ate all the eggs?"

      "Where was I," Spud asked himself hurriedly. "Oh yeah. By now, see, she had convinced herself that she was too weak to do anything, even breathe, so she was hyperventilating. Which, along with her not having eaten or drunk very much for a few days, made her feel all dizzy and light-headed. There's no one in the house, so what does she do?"

      "You ate all the eggs, didn't you Spud?"

      "Out goes the oath about the doctors, she weakly grabs the phone and calls for an ambulance. And the fire brigade, because the paramedics are going to need help getting her down the stairs."

      "And the bacon as well..."

      "Picture the scene now. Her poor husband, coming back from the pub to be greeted by an ambulance parked on top of his prized rosebushes and a pack of fire fighters having just smashed his front door in. He loses his temper in a big way, runs inside to where the paramedics and fire-fighters are just preparing to rush up the stairs to grab his missus. He takes a deep breath and yells at them:

      "'For Christ's sake, the woman only has an in-grown toe nail!'"

      Chas burst out laughing, blatting his head on the inside of the fridge as he tried to stand up without moving his head first.

      "Ow, fuck!" he said, still laughing. "Bastard, that hurts. And you've ate all the breakfast."

      "Have some toast," said Spud. "and I'll buy you lunch, promise."

      "Ow, oh, alright. Bastard."

      "Anyway, his wife, lying on her deathbed upstairs, hears this, and gets so furious with her husband that up she jumps, yelling and screaming like you wouldn't believe. All about how she's dying and how her husband is an uncaring bastard, leaving on her own in so much pain. She fairly runs out of the bedroom, shouting abuse, and stubs the toe with the ingrown nail on one of her big thick medical books that she's left at the top of the stairs. She screams like she's being murdered, and trips, falling down the stairs and landing on top of the poor firemen who were on their way up to get her.

      "One fireman with a sprained ankle, and a paramedic with a nasty knock to the head later, she's had the toe examined and has been told in no uncertain terms not to go wasting ambulance time like that again, and thank you very much, that will be three hundred quid for the emergency services call-out.

      "She sulks, and goes back up to her bed, refusing to speak to her husband at all. He just shrugs and goes and sleeps in the spare room, which is a lot comfier, and less full of medical books."

      "That it?" said Chas. "She just gets told off? I thought you said she died from that toe nail of hers."

      "Give me a chance to finish," said Spud. "You'll see.

      "In the middle of the night, this woman wakes up. And she's half asleep, so she forgets that she's supposed to be really weak and ill. She's also starving, so she goes down to the kitchen to find herself something to eat.

      "She scoffs down half a loaf of bread, some fish paste and three chocolate bars before starting on a bag of peanuts. But the silly woman is so intent on shovelling food into herself that she takes too big a mouthful of peanuts, breathes on in, and ends up choking to death on one. She falls down dead on the floor with a very loud thunk, and that's the end of her.

      "Didn't half give her poor husband a shock the next morning when he came down for his Weetabix..."

      Spud trailed off with a wide grin on his face. Chas burst out laughing.

      "You are so bullshitting me," said Chas in between guffaws.

      "No, I'm not," Spud protested. "Woman that happened to was my second cousin, twice removed by the police."

      They were interrupted by a knocking on the door. Chas went to open it, it was a pizza delivery guy.

      "Medium pepperoni pizza with extra garlic and banana?"

      "Not me, mate, hang on. Spud?"

      "Yo!" came the rather eighties reply from the kitchen.

      "Pizza?"

      "God no! Er...yes! It's mine!"

      And Spud staggered out from the kitchen looking very ill indeed.

      "How much do you need?"

      "Been paid for."

      "Hunh?"

      "Last night," said the pizza delivery guy.

      Chas was pissing himself laughing, trying desperately to not show it.

      "Oh," said Spud, clearly incredibly confused. He reached out and took the pizza. Suddenly a thought occurred to him.

      "Say," he asked the pizza delivery guy, "have you seen my lighter?"

      "No," came the reply, and the delivery guy left.

      "Damn" said Spud, "I'm dying."

      "Come on, you sad bastard, you owe me breakfast."

      "Fancy some pizza?"

      "Garlic and banana? Fuck off."

      They went back into the kitchen without noticing the little basket of fruit that had been slipped inside the front door.

      From across the street, a duck was watching.

SAOS: Chapter Three: The Dog in the Chapel.

      The church was a good half an hour's walk away, in one of the old villages that had since been absorbed into the suburbia of the city. Most of the old cottages were long gone, replaced by the ugly terraced houses that had been built. But you could still see the village, mainly because of the roads, they went from dead straight to all twisty turn-y. Perfect for a game of hide and seek.

      Blasted lampposts were ancient too, Nics mentally swore as the one just outside the church gate blinked out as she walked underneath it. Still, the lights were on inside.

      It was a lovely church, dating back to the seventeenth century, with high old-fashioned stained glass windows. It was a pity, Nics thought, that they had to be protected from vandals by a thick wire mesh. The churchyard was a mass of old gravestones, all of them leaning at various angles of drunkenness in the knee-high grass.

      Her toe caught a loose bit of gravel, sent it skimming into the long grass. She nearly jumped out of her skin when it prompted a loud and irate quack.

      Inside, the church was all hard surfaces and echoes, with a wheezy old church organ. The only decorations were the plaques commemorating the dead of the parish on the walls, the wilting flowers from the previous Sunday's services, and the wonderfully intricate and ornate wrought ironwork of the knee height railing in front of the altar.

      During the services, the place would be a little brighter, the candles would be lit and the altar cloths would reflect the light from their hand worked embroidered threads. The candles would be fresh, and people would mitigate the harsh echoing of footsteps on the cold floor tiles. But Nics preferred the church as it was then, colder and emptier, but infinitely more peaceful and serene.

      She wasn't in any way religious, she just came for the music. For all the shabbiness of the church they had the best choir in the area.

      She spent most of the church services reading the memorials on the walls. Especially when the sermons started repeating themselves....

      When she first joined the church choir two weeks ago, she had noticed something very odd. Every time the choir got together for their regular practices on Thursday nights, a golden Labrador would be waiting outside the door of the church. As soon as the door was opened to let the choristers in, in he'd trot, right up to the very first pew of the church, and he'd sit, bolt upright on the left hand side of the central aisle.

      He'd sit there for the entire choir practise, all one and a half hours of it, and wait very patiently until everyone had moved from the choir stalls out the door of the church. Then he'd quietly trot down the aisle again, the click of his nails sounding loud against the hard tile of the floor. The choir mistress, who was always the last person out, would hold the door open for him, and out he'd trot, to disappear down the rows of terraced houses that surrounded the church.

      During the mid rehearsal break for tea and biscuits, again, he'd patiently wait until all the choir had gone down the back of the church to the tea room, and then he'd follow them. He'd take up a sitting position in the far left hand corner of the tearoom, next to one end of the old overstuffed paisley patterned sofa, and would watch the people as they chatted and drank tea.

      He was an accepted member of the choir, every so often during the tea break, one or other of the choir members would go over to him and give him a pat. Nics did the same that evening, even going so far as to offer him a biscuit. He had sniffed it very politely, but had left it on the floor.

      That evening, after her curiosity had got the better of her, she deliberately hung back with the choir mistress while the heavy door of the church was locked after practise. Out the dog trotted as usual, and Nics said to the choir mistress:

      "Seems we've got a devoted fan there."

      "Who?" she said, "Sam?"

      "Is that his name? I never caught it before now."

      "Oh, Sam's a sweetheart. He's no bother at all. And it is nice to have an audience, isn't it?"

      "Oh, yes. How long has he been coming?"

      "Well, it's a bit of a sad story really. You see, there was this elderly gentleman who lived in the parish, Mr Bradford his name was, and he was a very big member of the choir for many many years. But the poor man ended up with something going very wrong with his eyes, bless him, so he couldn't see the sheet music to sing anymore. That didn't stop him coming though, not a chance. As soon as he was mobile again, him and his guide dog, that'd be Sam, would be to every single choir practise. And he was amazing, he'd learn whole choral pieces simply by listening to them a couple of times. Of course, I'd help him out by making tapes for him to bring home and stuff.

      "The dear man passed away about a year ago now. And Sam went to live with his daughter who lives a few blocks away. But he still comes to choir practise every week, bless him, and still as polite and well mannered as he always was. That's why he wouldn't take your biscuit, by the way, he doesn't eat while on duty unless he's given permission by his owner."

      Nics was touched. She'd never admit it, but she was a big softie when it came to animals.

      "Oh, that's so sweet, the poor dog! He must be missing his master terribly."

      "Oh no, don't think that. Mr Bradford's daughter has two kids, both boys, and they worship Sam. He loves them to bits as well, you can tell. But sometimes they can get a bit, well rambunctious. And personally, I think he likes the choir practise as a chance to get away from them for a bit and relax. They're good kids, just a bit high-spirited, that's all. You know how kids can get."

      Nics nodded assent, though the closest she'd even been to kids had been limited to the screaming brats shoved into shopping trolleys down the local supermarket.

      They'd gotten to the end of the church drive now.

      "See you on Sunday? Morning service starts at ten, but we've a bit more of a practise about half an hour beforehand," said the choir mistress.

      "Ok, I'll be there," agreed Nics as she turned and began the walk home.

      Sam was waiting for her at the gate.

      "Hello boy, you going my way?"

      He wagged his tail happily and fell into step beside her. Together they walked along her normal route, until Sam turned into a path that went under a stone bridge in between two terraces.

      "Bye then," said Nics, and waved.

      He stopped, and looked at her, tail wagging, then nodded his head down the path.

      "What, you want me to come with you?"

      He barked encouragingly.

      "Oh, ok then."

      It wasn't really so much of a path as it was a tunnel, about the same length as a terraced house was wide. It was quite dark, the glow of the streetlights at the other end quite eerie.

      She walked through it quickly, Sam close by. Not only because she had no idea of what was lurking inside the tunnel. But also because inside the tunnel it was raining, and she didn't have a waterproof coat on.

      The tunnel led into a little triangle of open ground, bordered on all sides by the most picturesque thatched cottages Nics had ever seen. None of them were more than a single storey high and all were hemmed in by the looming three storey townhouses that populated this particular region of the suburbs. Each cottage had its own tiny little kitchen garden out in front, with white picket fences and rambling roses climbing up the walls. In the centre of the triangle was a large oak tree, and next to it a single old fashioned lamppost.

      Sam led her across the triangle, and toward the point opposite where the tunnel had come in. Across the point was an old black wrought iron gate that swung open on silent hinges when Sam nudged it.

      He wagged his tail at her, and she walked through, to find herself just around the corner from her house, underneath another lamppost that cast a glow of sickly orange over the whole scene.

      Sam escorted her to her door, but very politely refused to come in for a drink. She thanked him kindly regardless, and stood in the open door until he ambled around the corner and out of sight.

      In the distance she could hear police sirens.

      Amazingly enough, Spud was true to his word and had cleaned the kitchen. There was an empty pizza box in the bin, along with a crushed can of beer. That was the only sign of him though, he wasn't home, and there was no sound of Rasta music. Probably off down the pub to watch the match, she thought. There's no way he'd be asleep at that early hour.

      She left her bag under the stairs and sheet music on the coffee table, and went up to bed.

      Spud staggered in around midnight, very drunk. He made himself a fried egg sandwich with mango chutney and passed out with it half eaten on the couch. The egg yolk and chutney made a nice little multicoloured spot where it dripped on the carpet. Another half eaten pizza in a greasy box lay on the living room floor where he'd dropped it, along with his coat, keys, map of Amsterdam and a very battered traffic cone.

SAOS: Chapter Two: The Secret Life of Ducks.

They walked back through the park slowly, 'cause Chas couldn't wait until they got back to the house to eat their chips. It had turned into a lovely evening now that the wind had blown itself out to sea. They sat themselves down on a park bench that overlooked the duck pond and ate, watching the antics of the ducks, and the people feeding them.

      "We're going to get mugged in a minute," Nics warned watching as a group of half a dozen ducks waddled towards them menacingly.

      Chas was too busy scoffing chips to be able to say anything coherent.

      A young boy caught Nics’ attention. He was about four or five, and was running along the path, a slice of bread clutched in one hand. He was chasing two or three ducks that were frantically waddling along at top speed in front of him, his other hand was occupied with ripping bits from the slice of bread and throwing them at the ducks with all the force in his young arms.

      He was laughing uproariously the whole time. Behind him, keeping one eye on him, and busy gossiping intently, was a pair of middle-aged women. One of them was pushing a pushchair with a baby in it, sound asleep. The other carried an empty bread bag.

      A shrill scream from the baby made Chas look over at it.

      "Damn," he said in a low voice to Nics. "Is it just me, or does that brat look like a piglet in a romper suit?"

      "Shhh..." Nics giggled.

      The ducks dove for the water, and the boy stood at the edge, still throwing bits of bread at them. They obviously felt safer there, because they didn't swim away, but gobbled at the bread as it rained down on them.

      "He's going to be for it, when he grows up," Nics said to Chas, indicating the boy. "One day, when he least expects it, the ninja ducks will be after him. One quack, and that's it, he's a goner. And no one will ever find out the reason."

      "You've been watching that Badly Drawn Boy video too often," said Chas, before taking a large mouthful of his pie.

      Nics looked blank.

      “You know,” he prompted, “the one where the duck ruins the entire life of the lead singer?”

      Nics still looked blank.

      “Oh, nevermind,” Chas said.

      "No," she said, carrying on as if that brief conversation on pop culture had never happened. "I'm serious. Ducks are part of a vast conspiracy to rule over the universe and make every living thing bow to their every wish. They're a lot cleverer than people think."

      "I thought it was cats who were the real danger."

      "Well, no, not really. I mean, everyone knows that cats are evil and out to take over the world, and that's because the cats are just too damn smug for their own good. That comes through, and it means people end up watching them. So cats'll never take over the world. Humans are onto them. And so are the dogs, for that matter."

      "Go dogs! But you were saying that it was bunnies last week..."

      "Bunnies, well, they used to be creeping up on the ducks in the world domination league tables. They had it down perfect, they're cute, and fluffy, and pets in thousands of homes all over the world. They've also got wild breeding colonies in the damndest of places! Have you seen the amount of rabbits hanging around the biology department? I'm sure they're using the latest gene splicing techniques to breed unstoppable killer mutant radioactive bunnies. You've seen the damn things, they're huge!!"

      Chas nodded, not very surreptitiously snaking his hand across to grab Nics's can of coke.

      "Confusion to your enemies," he said by way of a toast, putting the can back down again.

      Their attendant ducks tracked the movement of his hand. One quacked, almost like a question.

      "And if you've ever seen anyone who's been brainwashed by them, well, it's not a pretty sight at all, let me tell you! Case in point?"

      Their eyes met, and they spoke simultaneously:

      "Rachel."

      "You betcha. But bunnies had a bit of a slip up, not so long ago. A really really damaging bit of press got leaked about them. Sure, they managed to salvage the situation somewhat by claiming it was fiction, but "Watership Down" cost them big time. I think it was the cats' work myself, that bit of skulduggery practically reeks of them. A dog would just eat you, a cat will play with you, then destroy you in the most painful manner possible."

      Nics paused, picked up the can and had a drink, then went back to her original topic.

      "Ducks now, they're the unquestioned kings of the world domination league. Because no one ever suspects them! Over the years they've carefully cultivated this aura of air headed innocence. Water off the duck's back, they say, nothing bothers them. At all, ever. And yet, they're the sneakiest fowl around. Have you ever seen any ninja ducks?"

      "Nope," said Chas, grinning widely.

      "There!" she said, waving her hands wildly, one hand clutching a drooping chip. "Proves my point completely!"

      By now they had an even bigger audience. The little boy had been dragged off by the two women with the piglet in the pushchair, and the ducks that he had been tormenting had ventured back onto dry land. They joined the group already crowded around the couple, beady avian eyes staring at the white paper on their laps, and each chip that went from lap to mouth.

      "Why do you think ducks are the only wild animals on the road that cars have to give way to? Why do you think there are swarms of humans who go down to the ponds and rivers every day to throw their offerings of bread?"

      The hand with the chip swept the area in a grand gesture, spoilt only by the chip breaking it in half and falling to the ground. A younger duck darted forward and grabbed it, gulping it down quickly. It didn't retreat again, just kept watching Nics's hand as it waved about in time with her declarations.

      "Do you really think ducks fly south for the winter?"

      Chas shrugged. "'Spose so."

      "Don't be silly," she retorted. "It's all a cunningly engineered ploy. Sure, ducks can fly, but they much prefer to swim. And when you see a duck feeding bottom up next time, watch very carefully. If you're very lucky, you might see one dive and not come up again, he's gone down into the duck secret underwater hidden lair."

      Another chip dropped from her lap to the ground. This time there was a veritable melee at her feet as ducks raced in to grab it. A feather floated up in front of her nose, and she sneezed.

      "Of course, you'll be very lucky to see that happening," she snuffled, searching in her pockets for a tissue and shuffling her feet gingerly away from the ducks. "Ducks are masters of disguise and confusion. And they always travel in groups. That's so that they can slip off one by one, without causing any comment from us oblivious humans.

      "And baby ducklings being cute is a cynically derived and manipulated trait, designed to take advantage of practically everyone."

      Chas was grinning widely.

      "Aren't you talking a bit too much about ducks and their plans for world domination? Look who's listening."

      To her credit, there wasn't even a hint of mental gear clashing.

      "Ah, to be fair, ducks are probably the one species that I wouldn't mind too much having world domination. It's not like they're rabid carnivores or anything. Now cats would be absolutely terrifying! I think I'd try to leave the planet if the cats ever stopped in-fighting long enough to get organised. Let myself get used as a scratching post? Urgh! No thank you!!"

      "Hmmm," mused Chas. "I'm with you on that. Being ruled by Catbert - no thanks!"

      "I can't see ducks being tyrants," she said, throwing the remnants of her chips to the group at her feet. A particularly vicious attack by one duck on another with regards to ownership of a chip made her wince.

      "Although, I could be wrong..."

      All the food eaten, they both stood up, scrunching the chip paper up into balls, and wiping their greasy fingers on the paper napkins provided. The ducks waddled off, their next target acquired, an elderly gentleman with a six-foot long walking staff and a small wheelbarrow.

      Chas chucked their rubbish into a nearby litterbin.

      "I thought Douglas Adams said that it was mice who ruled the world."

      "No, they don't rule the world, they're just experimenting on it. It's ducks who are trying to take it over. Trust me."

      "Alright, I trust you. Even when you're being weird."

      He grinned at her as she squealed in mock outrage. Laughing, they walked home arm-in-arm, past a young woman blowing bubbles for her very overexcited and happy Springer spaniel.

      Once in the door Chas was all business. He was straight up the stairs as Nics went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

      There was a pan full of water in the sink, with the burned on remnants of baked beans encrusted on the inside. The counter top was covered in stuff, a pat of butter half melted in its wrapper, three dirty coffee cups and an opened jar of coffee competed with the toast crumbs for mastery of the kitchen surface.

      Nics took one look and raised her head to yell to the room directly above her head:

      "Spud!"

      The loud Rasta music didn't change in volume. She tried again:

      "SPUD!!"

      The music still didn't change, but she heard footsteps upstairs and a door being hammered on.

      A few minutes later the volume dropped dramatically, and feet could be heard coming down the stairs.

      Spud showed his sleepy-looking face at the door, rolled up cigarette still hanging from the corner of his mouth.

      Nics didn't have to say anything, she just looked at him deliberately, then switched her gaze to the mess in the kitchen. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest and she did not look happy.

      "Sorry," Spud mumbled as he tried to shuffle around her. "Thought you'd gone to choir, and I'd have time later to clean up."

      "All I want," she said in a very even and measured tone, "is a cup of herbal tea before I do go out. That's all."

      Spud gratefully seized his opportunity.

      "I'll make you one, don't worry. And the place will be spotless by the time you get back - promise!"

      "Alright," she said. "I'll be in the living room."

      She turned to walk out of the kitchen, remembered something.

      "Spud?"

      "Huh?"

      "Please don't smoke in the kitchen."

      He snatched the offending dog-end from his mouth and hid it futilely in his hand.

      "Sorry..."

      Chas met her in the hall, dressed in his work clothes, a black suit and white shirt. He saw her glower and said:

      "It's alright, I've had a word. He'll clean it up before you get back."

      "He'd better! Or I'll set the ninja ducks on him!"

      "He will - he's too scared of you not to!"

      Despite herself, she smiled.

      "Got to go now, babes," he said. "You have a good time singing now!"

      "You too, have fun bouncing people."

      "Oh, I will," he said, flexing his hands and trying to look evil. She couldn't help but laugh, he didn't look evil so much as mischievous.

      His expression changed to wounded innocence, then an impish grin. With a kiss and a wave, he was out the door and gone until some ungodly hour the next morning.

      A cracked mug of steaming tea was waved in front of her.

      "Your herbal tea," said Spud.

      "Thanks," she said, favouring him with a brilliant smile.

      He fled up the stairs, back to his room, a mixture of worry and pleased confusion.

      Nics just grinned to herself. Then she took a mouthful of the tea, grimaced and poured it down the sink. Peppermint tea is lovely, but not with half a pint of cream in it.

      She opened the door to a bored looking pizza deliveryman.

      "Pizza?" he asked.

      "Not me," she said. "SPUD! Pizza!"

      And she left the house as Spud legged it down the stairs.

      "Medium pizza with extra garlic, hot sausage and banana mate?"

      "Cheers!"

      She grimaced.