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Which left nobody in Derek's office to listen to the sounds that issued from the voice broadcaster attachment jobbie.

Which was probably all for the best, for those sounds were far from joyous.

Derek and Kelly watched as the ambulance drove away, joyfully ringing its bell.

'We'll be in trouble for this,' said Derek.

'We?' said Kelly.

'I mean you,' said Derek. 'You broke all the bones.'

'You should be grateful,' said Kelly. 'You could have been in that ambulance.'

'Along with Mr Shields and his two visitors. You were, how shall I put this, just a little harsh.'

'I was simply following the Dimac code,' said Kelly. 'It is not sufficient to defend yourself against an attacker. It is necessary that you punish them for their attack in the hope that they will think twice before making further attacks in the future.'

'You threw that man out of a first-floor window.'

'Pardon me, I kicked him out. The move is called the curl of the dark dragon's tail.'

'They were tough customers, though,' said Derek. 'That little one had me up off my feet with one hand. He was crushing my throat. Horrible. I hate violence.'

'So do I,' said Kelly. 'So do I.'

Derek gave her a sidelong glance. 'How odd,' said he. 'Because it really looked for all the world as if you were thoroughly enjoying yourself.’

'Looks can be deceptive.'

'In your case, certainly. So what are we going to do now? Mr Shields is out for the count once more…'

'I didn't hit him this time. I was defending him.'

'True. So what are we going to do?'

'Well,' said Kelly. 'I'm going to look through this.'

'And this is?'

Kelly held a wallet. 'Call it a trophy. I liberated it from the bigger visitor during the scuffle.'

'Shortly before you broke his leg.'

'He kicked me in the ankle.'

'Quite so. Let's have a look in this wallet then.'

'OK, but not here.'

In the Shrunken Head, at a table next to the Space Invaders machine, Kelly Anna Sirjan opened the wallet.

'A business card,' said Derek. 'Let's see.' And he read it. ' "Marcus Shadow. Project Development Associate. Cerean systems." Who or what is Cerean systems?'

'It's a division,' said Kelly. 'Of Mute Corp. But then isn't everything?'

'It's logical,' said Derek. 'I've heard of Data Reaction and if it does exist, Mute Corp would have it.'

'I didn't think that it did exist. I thought it was a Web Myth.'

'Well if it does, then it is about as near to artificial intelligence as anything is ever going to be,' said Derek.

'And basically it scans data, then makes its own evaluation of its commercial potential.'

'According to Web Myth, that's how old man Mute got rich. He invented it back in the 1990s to play the stock market. And the rest is history, as far as he's concerned. If the legend is fact.'

Kelly looked puzzled. 'And the Mute Corp mainframe had an inrush of potentially commercial information at eight minutes past eight the night before last.'

'Yes,' said Derek. 'And that rings a bell, for some reason.'

'Well, of course it does. That's the precise time that Mr Tombs, Mr Charker and the woman with the unpronounceable name vanished in front of Dr Druid.'

'I don't understand,' said Derek. 'You think there's some connection?'

'I know there's a connection,' said Kelly. 'But as yet I don't know exactly what it is.'

Derek looked wistfully towards the Space Invaders machine. 'Would you care for another game?' he asked.

'What I'd really care for would be a word or two with old man Mute.'

'You wish. He's a recluse, no-one's seen or spoken to him for years.'

'I'm sure that I could find a way.' Kelly fluttered her eyelashes.

'I'm sure that if anyone could, you could. But listen, I suppose I should be getting back to the office. I think I'd better take over the editor's desk until Mr Shields comes out of hospital.'

'If he comes out of hospital.'

'What?'

'The plague,' said Kelly. 'The Rapture. He might be the next to go.'

'You're joking. Aren't you?'

'Hopefully.'

'Good. So what are you going to do?'

'Think,' said Kelly. 'Think and then act.'

'I'll see you later then. Tell you what, the poets are on at Waterman's tonight. Do you fancy going?'

'What are "the poets"?'

'It's a Brentford thing. Founded in 1980 by a local writer that no-one can remember now. It's very entertaining. I think you'd enjoy it. It starts at eight, I could meet you there.'

'OK,' said Kelly. 'See you later.'

'OK,' said Derek and he upped and took his leave.

Kelly sat and thought a while. And then she ordered some lunch. The Shrunken Head did a special. Surf and turf. Deep-fried crispettes of scampi, grilled steak, double eggs, mushrooms, onion rings, fried tomatoes, chips and beans. Kelly also had the dessert. It was death by trifle.

Then she played the Space Invaders machine. Got the high score, as she often did on the one she had at home, the one she hadn't mentioned to Derek, and left the Shrunken Head.

She would return to that pub sometime in the future.

But not in any manner she could possibly have imagined.

8

Dum de dum de dum de dum

de dum de dum delight.

The Brentford Poets.

Founded sometime back in the early 1980s, by some local author, whose name no-one ever remembers. It might have been P. P. Penrose, creator of the world's greatest private eye, the now legendary Lazlo Woodbine. But of course it wasn't P. P. Penrose, because everybody remembers P. P. Penrose.

As to who it really was, it hardly mattered. The Brentford Poets came into being. An entity. A reality.

In 1982, Time Out wrote of the Brentford Poets, 'This is London's largest weekly poets' get-together. And possibly the strangest.' What was meant by the latter remark was lost on the good folk of Brentford. Poetry can be joyous. And joyousness rode high in Brentford's saddle, even back in 1982.

Kelly arrived a little after eight. She was impressed by the look of the Waterman's Arts Centre. It looked modern.