'Sorry,' said the customer.
'I don't care about sorry. I want one of those dogs like yours. I've gotta have one of those dogs like yours. What's it called?'
'Well,' said the customer. 'I call it a short-eared, long-nosed, bald-haired, bow-legged spaniel. But my wife calls it a crocodile.'
Oh how we laughed.
I ordered a Death by Cider, was called a 'country twat' and settled for a lager. I took myself over to a darkened corner and sat myself down. Johnny's barmaid got a mop and bucket and cleaned up Ganesha's remains. The bloke with the crocodile drank his half and left the bar.
I gave the place a good looking over. It defied description so I do not attempt to give it any. I sipped at my lager instead.
Presently the bar door swung open, and in walked three young business types. I suppose it should really have been an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman, but it wasn't. It was just three young business types. They were your standard business types. Those horrible dark suits that seem never to have been in fashion. Those portable phones they carry like symbols of power. The pink sweaty faces, the premature balding. You always have the feeling that they probably do really unpleasant things to the women they get into bed. And they do talk so very loudly. And always about their holidays.
'Bring me something long and cold with plenty of gin in it,' one said to Johnny. Johnny brought out his wife.
'I'm off for three weeks' seal-culling this year,' said one of the business types.
'Done that,' said another. 'I'm off hunting snow leopard. New seat covers for the Porsche.'
'њWhite tiger are better for that,' said the third. 'Bagged three last year. Two in a game reserve and one in a zoo.'
Bastards! I thought. People with money have all the fun.
'I was surfing the net the other day,' said business type one. 'And I came across this web site called Murder Inc. They advertise the ultimate sporting holiday for the weapons enthusiast. Fly you out to a trouble spot somewhere and let you take pot shots at the natives. You can't bring back trophies, obviously - you won't get them through customs. But they video it all for you, so you can relive the fun.'
'I've heard of that,' said business type number two. 'Apparently they've been in business for more than one hundred years. They claim that all the major assassinations of the twentieth century were actually booked through them.'
'What, do you mean JFK, people like that?'
'Chap from a gun club in Leeds took him out on a two-week package.'
'Do you have their number?' asked business type three, priming up his portable phone.
'Not on me, sorry. I have it back at my business, though.'
'And where is your business, exactly?'
'Elsewhere.'
Elsewhere? I squinted at the business types and then I saw him. It was Billy Barnes. I hadn't recognized him at first. He looked so like the other two. Just like them. But it was definitely him. Well, as definitely as it could be, anyway.
I rose to say hello, and then thought better of it.
My uncle's dream had been pretty specific. Beware of Billy Barnes, and here he was, right here in the Green Carnation.
I would play things safely, listen to his conversation, follow him and see what he was up to.
'Of course,' said Billy. 'The real thing in holidays this year is to take the supreme trip.'
'Supreme trip?' said number two.
'Virtual tours,' said Billy. 'Go anywhere, do anything and experience everything, without ever leaving your armchair.'
'What, a computer simulation?' asked number three.
Billy nodded. 'That's what I've heard.'
'It's not perfected yet,' said number two.
'You know about it, then?' Billy asked.
'My company are working on something similar. It's very hush hush, the commercial potential is vast. I'm in crypto-encodement, top secret stuff, I can't talk about it.'
'You're full of shit,' said number three.
'I'm not,' said number two.
'Tell me more,' said Billy.
'Can't,' said number two. 'You might be a spy from Necrosoft for all I know.'
'Necrosoft?' said Billy. 'What's Necrosoft?'
'The opposition. They'd give a lot to get their hands on what I know.'
'Sell it to them, then.'
Number two laughed. 'No way. I copyright everything I do. I'll be onto big wonga when it all goes on-line.'
'Good luck to you, then,' said Billy. 'Let me get another round in.'
And I watched him all through the evening. He got plenty more rounds in, but he only drank fruit juice himself. The bar filled up with Englishmen, Irishmen and Scotsmen, Grenadier Guards, blokes with parrots on their shoulders, a man with a twelve-inch pianist and a chap with a head the size of an orange. But I ignored the gags and kept my eye upon Billy. Business type number three staggered off around ten, but Billy kept number two talking and kept on buying him drinks. At closing time Billy offered him a lift home.
I followed them outside. Billy said something about his car being just around the corner, put his arm about the young man's shoulder and led him away.
I followed, stealthily.
They wandered down Moby Dick Terrace, crossed the High Street and then turned into Horseferry Lane.
And I followed with further stealth.
They were almost at the lock gates, where the Grand Union Canal meets the River Thames, when the young man began to express his doubts. I ducked down behind a dustbin and watched. There was something of a struggle, though rather one-sided, and then Billy hit him. The young man went down and I watched from hiding as Billy began to assemble some kind of electronic apparatus from pieces he'd been carrying in various pockets. It looked almost like a 1950s ray gun to me. Billy held the thing to the temple of the young man and squeezed the trigger. The young man twitched horribly and then went limp. Billy dismantled his ray gun and placed the parts back in his pockets. And then he lifted the young man's body, carried it to the river bank and dropped it into the water. And then he turned, grinned and called, 'Come out, then, I know you're there.'
I was all crouched down behind a dustbin and kept very still.
'I know you're there,' said Billy. 'I know you followed us.'
I rose as silently as I could amongst the shadows and prepared to take my leave at the hurry up. And then something hit me very hard on top of the head.
I turned and staggered and took- in the image of a beautiful woman with haunted eyes, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform. And then I found myself tumbling down once more into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion so beloved of the 1950s American genre Private Eye.
And it didn't half hurt.
Sundown on Jim the Wooller