The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1189 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I invited the agents into the house once I’d seen what looked like reasonable identity cards. I put the kettle on and while it was boiling for teas and coffees, I had a text from Jim:

‘Don’t tell the cops or MI5 about the keys. JB’

So I didn’t. They asked who the villains were and I referred them to Jim as he’d previously told me to do. The interview lasted an hour, and I was informed that my ‘friends’ had routed a criminal gang, known as The South Bank Show, in a parody to an arts and culture show that was hosted by Melvin Bragg.

They spoke briefly to Julie who was still recovering from her ordeal and had very little memory of anything. I was congratulated for pulling her off the bonfire to which I answered that any woman would have done it. They chose to disagree. I suppose they’re entitled to their own opinions even if they are wrong.

I asked if the children were safe to go back to school without risk of being attacked or abducted, and was told to wait until the next Monday. Soon after they went, I had the police return to ask questions and I referred them to Jim as well or to MI5. I was evading the issue but so would anyone.

The police left and Jim arrived in a perfectly posh Porsche, Danny and Simon were well impressed. Me–it’s a means to getting from A to B and probably uses twice as much fuel as my little Mercedes.

He gave me a few minutes to change into some trousers and top, throw on a jacket and grab my bag when he whisked me off in his German chariot. “Where are we going?” I asked him.

“You’ll see.”

“I’d prefer to be told before we get there.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I hardly know you, James.”

“Oh, James is it? You sound like my mother. She always calls me James when she’s about to carpet me.”

“Okay, Jim, but I still hardly know you.”

“Didn’t stop you fancying me, though did it?”

I thought I was going to die from embarrassment I was glowing bright red like the stop light of a car. “I don’t know what you mean,” I lied.

“Your body language told me the truth even though your lips don’t.”

“What?” I spluttered.

“Anyway, don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe–unless you revert back to your previous sex. You see, I’d fancy Charlie more than Cathy.”

“You’re gay?” I wasn’t sure if I felt relief or disappointment.

“Why d’you think I left the services?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“I had to investigate a supposed Homosexual Circle at a naval shore base. I decided I couldn’t hack the deception any more. I told them and they asked for my resignation.”

“I thought the UK forces were okay with gay soldiers and sailors–it’s the ‘Mericans who aren’t.”

“I was a Royal Marines major being fast tracked, when they found out they decided they didn’t really need my services any longer. I threatened to sue for discrimination and they settled out of court. I did quite well out of it and set up my own agency investigating any and everything–do mostly industrial espionage or stopping it. Did you bring the keys?”

“I can’t believe you’re gay,” I said looking with unfocused eyes through the tinted windscreen as he hammered up the motorway. “And you egged me on,” I sighed, “I can’t believe it.”

“That’s okay, I didn’t believe you were supposed to be a boy.”

“I wasn’t–well only in dress, because my father kept destroying my secret wardrobe until they did Macbeth in school and I got landed playing Lady B. He made me dress as a girl all the time until the rehearsals and the play finished.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Not really because I wasn’t doing it because I wanted to–but I did enjoy pissing him off by appearing to enjoy it. I was so girly it was untrue.”

“You got some good reviews though, didn’t you?”

“How d’you know that?”

“I’ve seen them in the Bristol Evening Post, archive.”

“You do do your homework, don’t you?”

“My life may depend upon it–being one step ahead of the rest.”

“D’you play chess?”

“Sometimes, why?”

“I don’t think I’d like to play you.”

“I’m not that good, you know.”

“No, but you’re a better planner than I am. I’m a half baked Sagittarian who does things after seeing the big picture but sometimes trips up over the small print.”

“Isn’t it Sagittarius now?” he asked.

“I suppose it is, shows how much I was thinking–see, fine detail let me down again.”

“You have had other things to worry about–so when’s your birthday?”

“Friday, why?”

“I just wondered.”

“Hey, we’re heading for London–you could have told me.”

“Would you have come?”

“No.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see in about twenty minutes, traffic permitting.”

“I always knew when we were getting close to London on the M4 because of the increasing numbers of posh cars you see as you get closer.”

“Like Rolls Royce and big Mercedes?”

“All sorts, sports cars too.”

“Like this one?”

“Yeah, what is it again?”

“It’s a Porsche Boxster.”

“Is it? It’s quite comfortable–are these real leather seats?”

“They’d better be. For what I paid for it, I should have got the meat from the cow as well.”

“I have no idea about the price of cars, Simon buys them–I just drive them.”

“What are you driving at the moment?”

“A little A class Mercedes–it’s lovely.”

“So that wasn’t your Jag, then?”

“No, that’s Simon’s–the kids love it.”

“You don’t?”

“He rarely lets me drive it.”

“That’s a shame–would you like a go in this?”

“What–like drive this?” I gasped.

“Yes, would you like to?”

“I don’t know if I could.”

“If you can drive a Mercedes, you could drive this, I’ll pull over at the next services.”

I blushed–I’m not that good a driver and what if I bent his pride and joy? “Can we just get on and do what we have to do–I’m not that interested, really I’m not.”

“Cathy, please don’t lie–you’d love to give it a burn up the motorway–but you’re scared of it, aren’t you?”

“If you say so–you like to be right don’t you?” I sulked for the next ten miles while he chuckled to himself every so often.

He pulled into the next service area, and I refused to get out and drive his car. So we went for a coffee instead. “Go on, have a go–only take it as far as the next service area if it worries you.”

“What if I bend it?”

“I doubt you will, I suspect you respect lovely things–besides it’s insured for everything except nuclear war.”

Reluctantly, I got in and adjusted the driver’s seat–his legs were longer than mine. I started it after moving the mirror. I crept out of the car park and out into the slow lane of the motorway.

“Put your foot down girl, it won’t fall apart.”

I gave it a bit of wellie and it shot off like a rocket, so I took my foot off the throttle. It slowed down and after a couple of miles I got the idea of controlling this powerful beast.

Then as I was getting the hang of it, a car drew level, a large 7 series BMW and I thought I heard pops–I looked and some bugger was pointing a gun at us. Jim, told me to take evasive action, and I began to drop back and then accelerate past the gunman and his limo.

“I suspect that’ll be the one member of the inner circle we didn’t pick up last night.”

“See, I told you, you should have driven.”

“You’re doing fine–here he comes again.”

This time I did accelerate and meant it, weaving in and out of traffic at a hundred and forty miles an hour. The sweat was pouring off me as steered this earth bound fighter jet through the increasingly congested traffic. I pulled off at the next services and jumped out of the car–“You can drive, my nerves won’t stand anymore,” I yelled at him.

“You can take the gun then,” he put his hand into his pocket.”

“Oh no, that’s even more illegal than my driving.”

“Oh-oh, he’s spotted us, quick drive,” he said and I jumped into the car and reversed round the car park at forty miles an hour turning suddenly and straightening up just in front of the pursuing Beamer, who had to avoid us or get a paint job. He still needed the paint job as a Ford Transit van, bashed into the side of him as he swerved.

“Woo-hoo, ride it cowboy,” yelled Jim and I screamed out on to the motorway at about a hundred miles an hour, hoping the plod weren’t too close. They weren’t and by the time we hit South London, I’d got quite used to the car and the traffic.

“Pull in here.” I followed Jim’s instruction and even managed to park it tidily.

“Where are we going?”

“In here,” he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a building.