Stubbing out the cigarette after a valedictory drag the taste is flat, Busner meets the Chaplain on his way out of the ward. What? he says. That was quick. And meanly persists: Y’know, Reverend, there’re plenty more in here in need of some, ah, Christian comfort. The man is not to be guyed, nor is he apologetic: I’ll be back, he says, but right now I have to take the Salvation Army visitors round — they come up weekly to check the acute wards for missing persons, but you probably knew that, Doctor? Touché. The Chaplain’s brown eyes may be mild — but they’re insistent and unblinking, better to drown in their tepid tea than bite down on this fucking cavity full of poisonous smoke and die in my Nuremberg cell. I thought you might like to know, the Chaplain continues, that Miss Death was really quite chatty — a remarkable lady, bears no resentment or rancour, one would say saintly if it weren’t such a damn cliché. Busner resurges: Family — did she mention any? The Chaplain resumes satisfiedly: She told me of two brothers, one she thinks will have kept the, um, unusual family name — the other, Albert, she says Frenchified it — her expression — to De’Ath. Busner, appalled by this conscientious — if waspish — pastoralism, aims a jibe: In point of fact, Reverend, Death is fairly common —. Patrick, please, the Chaplain says, and motors on: Miss Death told me Stanley was reported missing in action on the Somme in 1916, so there’s probably not much point in trying to track him down, or the other brother, Albert, who, if he were alive, would be in his mid-eighties by now. . The cavity
big enough to fit the Chaplain inside, he could preach to the exposed nerve-ending, Rock of ages cleft for thee. . however, he was a prominent civil servant, and married with at least one child. It shouldn’t be difficult to find the family and who knows — the Chaplain smiles, steeples his fingers an allusion to prayer? — they may have Christian comfort to give and welcome the opportunity to help out their poor old auntie —. — Okay, good. Thank you. Busner hopes his abruptness conveys his own spiritual inclinations: holy speed, in mens sano, shit off a shovel . . — Okay, good. Thank you, he says again, backing away towards the day-room. — At the hastily convened press conference Mimi and Miriam are placed centre stage in drag of dull suit with clip-on sideburns — Whitcomb with them, the eggheaded Professor who wears an explosive string vest. Phallic microphones probe at their unyielding mouths as they announce the mainland bombing campaign, but the real supremo, the diabolic mastermind, sits to one side lost in a donkey jacket too large for him, his small head shrunken still more beneath that ice bag of a tweed cap. Busner knows that look, has seen that wary look, fears that look —. He had a house in the Paragon, the Chaplain calls after Busner. D’you know it — at Blackheath? Frightfully pretty — of course, that would’ve been a very long time ago — before she fell ill. Busner calls back: Okay, good. Thank you — I’ll look into it and, wrenching round at last, succeeds in unbolting himself from the Chaplain’s mild steel threads. — Every Wednesday, together with the Guardian, a comic is delivered for Mark: The Beezer. Miriam beats up a soft-boiled egg in a teacup and feeds it to the baby — the egginess is unbearable to Zack: all-in-one human and chicken ovulation. . Chicks eatin’ eggs and this is what you get, Aaaargh! Whoopee! Cripes! P’yong! Antics the seven-year-old scans with tremendous seriousness, his eyes entrapped in just the way they were when we left the ABC . .Ho-ho! Phew! Tum-ti-tum! LOOK AT THESE SUPER PRIZES! PEN AND PENCIL SET — TENNIS RACKET — ROLLER SKATES — CRICKET SET — RECORD TOKEN — FLYING MODEL AEROPLANE. The winner of the Star Prize — a Record Token and a 50p Postal Order — is Mark Busner, South Grove, Highgate N6, for this: Man (in psychiatrist’s office) — ‘Please help me — I think I’m a pair of curtains.’ Psychiatrist — ‘Now, now, pull yourself together!’ Shadowing the Ooh-err! bum, or Oi! bonce, there are invariably a few black strokes to provide a sense of movement — movement, and so time within which a small boy may be