'One for me first,' said Old Pete.
'All right, first. So what do I say?'
'Say "Large dark rum over here for Old Pete,'" said Old Pete.
'That isn't Runese.'
'But it will work, trust me.'
Derek sighed. 'Large dark rum over here for Old Pete,' he called to the busy and professional barman.
'Coming right up,' called the barman. And Old Pete's rum came right up.
'That will be one pound, two and sixpence,' said the barman.
'Pay the man,' said Old Pete.
'And a large red wine and a large vodka and tonic.'
'One pound, two and sixpence,' said the barman once more.
'Pay the man,' said Old Pete. 'Then I'll tell you how to do yours in Runese.'
Derek paid the man and once the barman had turned away to the cash register, Old Pete spoke certain words in Derek's ear.
'Ah,' said Derek. 'Thank you very much.'
The barman returned. 'Your change, sir,' he said.
'Ravata nostromo, digitalus, carberundam,' said Derek.
'Pardon me?' said the barman.
'Ravata nostromo, digitalus, carberundam,' shouted Derek.
'That's what I thought you said,' said the barman, and drawing back a mighty fist, he swung the thing forward and punched Derek right in the face with it.
Derek fell down to the bar-room floor in a bloody-nosed confusion.
An elderly gent seated next to Old Pete chuckled into his ale. 'Although I must have heard you do that at least a hundred times,' said he, 'it never fails to crack me up.'
'Cheers,' said Old Pete, raising his glass.
Kelly helped Derek up from the floor and helped him back into his chair.
'He hit me,' Derek mopped at his bloody nose. 'That barman hit me in the face.'
'I'm not surprised,' said Kelly. 'I'd have hit you too if you'd said that to me.'
‘I thought Runese was the Universal tongue of Peace.'
'That wasn't Runese. That was Brentford Auld Speke and you really don't want to know what you said.'
'You're laughing,' said Derek. 'You're laughing.'
'I think we'd better go,' said Kelly. ‘I’ll treat you to a chicken pie and chips and then I'll take you back to my digs and you can make sweet love to me.'
'Can I?' said Derek. 'Can I really, please?'
'No,' said Kelly, laughing some more. 'But I will treat you to the chicken pie.'
5
The morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of Kelly Anna.
The suburban bedroom where she awoke wasn't white though, it was puce. Whether puce really qualifies at all as to being a colour, is a subject for scholars to debate upon. But hopefully in some hall of academe where the walls aren't painted puce. Puce and beige are closely related.
Pink and puce are not.
Kelly yawned and studied her watch. It was nearly nine fifteen.
Kelly rose, and had she been observed by a waking companion, he, or possibly she, would have seen that this golden girl slept naked. But then he, or possibly she, would have known that already. Sunlight, entering through the puce net curtains, fell upon the sweeping curves of Kelly's voluptuous body. Connoisseurs of the female form remain in disagreement regarding the way that a woman's body should be lit to its most pleasing effect. Many favour candlelight and many more the glow of the full moon. But few would argue that a warm and tousled female, lately risen from the bed and caught in the first rays of the sun, is not an article of such supreme beauty as to raise eulogies from poets and other things from hot-blooded males, which make them late for work.
Kelly showered in the puce-tiled en suite. Dried and dressed and attended to the minutiae of make-up and hair-combing.
Young and assured, golden and girl, she went downstairs and ordered the full English breakfast.
It was a little after ten of the joyous sun-kissed morning clock that Chief Constable Peter Westlake, son of the infamous Don and brother to the sinister Arkon Lucifer Abraxus Westlake (who spoke only in iambic pentameter and ate the food upon his dinner plate in alphabetical order), looked up from the duty desk of the Brentford nick to cast a connoisseur's eye in the direction of the beautiful creature that had lately entered the establishment.
In the opinion of the chief constable, a woman's naked body was lit to its most pleasing effect by a single naked light bulb in a small and naked cell.
But, as he was very good at his job, Chief Constable Westlake's superiors overlooked his little peccadilloes, only making sure that he was accompanied by at least two women officers when interviewing a female suspect.
'Ah,' said the chief constable, as Kelly Anna approached the duty desk. 'Come to give yourself up. Very wise.'
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' said Kelly.
Chief Constable Westlake shook his head slowly and surely. It was a very long head. It rose almost to a point. It was one of those rare heads that can actually fill a policeman's helmet. Which meant that he'd never had to wear the chinstrap when he'd been a constable. Which had been handy, as he didn't have a chin.
'You've come to make a full confession,' said the chief constable.
'I haven't,' said Kelly.
'No matter. We have many techniques at our disposal.'
'I've come to report a missing person,' said Kelly. 'And I'd like a printout of all persons reported missing in the London area during the last two months.'
'Indeed?' said the chief constable, resting his elbows upon the desk and cradling the chinless area of his face between his upturned palms. 'Well, you're certainly at liberty to report a missing person. But I cannot allow you access to police databanks.'
Kelly Anna Sirjan smiled upon Chief Constable Westlake.
Chief Constable Westlake smiled back upon her.
'Oh dear,' said Kelly. 'This puts me in a bit of a dilemma.'
'It does?' said the chief constable.
'Yes it does. I don't know whether to employ my womanly charms, flutter my eyelashes and brush my breasts lightly across your desk.'
The chief constable's pointy head began to nod up and down.
'Or quote the Freedom of Information Act, which clearly states that the general public are entitled to view any, or all information held within the police databanks that does not refer directly to named criminals or suspects.'
The chief constable's pointy head ceased nodding. Most men secretly fear intelligent women. Some men openly hate them. CC Westlake was one of the latter.
'This could take some time,' he said. 'You'd better sit yourself down for a couple of hours.'