The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2340 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I collected the girls after school and asked them to wear their best playing clothes, Danni asked if that meant her Chelsea strip. I knew I should have stayed in bed that morning.

David was making the dinner which looked very complicated—turned out he was boiling his hankies—I know too much information. I thought I didn’t recognise the saucepan (or sospan, if you’re Welsh). In response to my asking if we were having boiled bogies for dinner, he had to run out to the loo.

It transpired we were having meat loaf, which is my fault as I asked him if he knew anything about them as they feature in loads of American books and films. I presumed this was his response to my question. The hankies smelt mainly of bleach and soap powder, the smells emanating from the oven were much more wholesome, so possibly I might try some of the Yankee fare—apparently, the term Yankee tends to annoy a significant number of ’Mericans—a hangover from the Civil War, the Yankees being the Unionist troops/supporters as opposed to the Confederates from the more southern states.

Of course the English Civil war happened much longer ago, and it’s also a misnomer as it was fought in Wales and Scotland too, though the major battles were fought on English soil. There were ramifications in Ireland as well, and Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of Great Britain, carried out a rather ruthless campaign in Ireland which is still mentioned today. It seems some people have longer memories than others, or is it folk memory? As they seem able to talk about ‘Butcher Cromwell but can’t remember the name of the priest who was abusing children a few years ago.

I recalled in Bristol a teacher who when I misbehaved in junior school put me over his knee and spanked me. It upset my dignity more than it hurt. He was jailed for paedophilic activities, so my imagining a lump in his trousers as he smacked me was based on reality. Glad one of us enjoyed it, I didn’t but then I didn’t become a hardened masochist until I went to grammar school.

Was Henry right in my not saying anything to Stella about Mitchell, or whatever his name really was—Ernst Stavro Blofeld, for example—I was concerned that if she was the only one not aware of what he was up to, assuming he was up to something, she had a higher risk of falling apart than if she did know. Well, that’s what I thought, but they never listen to me anyway.

I hid a web cam in my study just in case we went in there, with the large number of books on shelves there, I thought it would be easier to conceal. If he spotted it, too bad. I could suggest I’d left it running from practising some script from my next film.

At six he arrived followed by Simon and Tom. They spoke for a moment in the driveway as they parked cars and wondered what their impressions would have been. All three men arrived in the kitchen and I switched on the kettle and invited them to have a cuppa. Surprisingly, Mitchell said he would which meant the others would have to as well. He was polite if nothing else. He chatted amicably with Simon about cars, and Si asked him about the BMW he was driving and they chatted about cars while I made and poured the teas.

“I’ve never met a spy before,” I said before I could stop the words falling out of my stupid gob. The look Simon gave me was probably best described as withering.

“Cathy, isn’t it?” said our visitor and I nodded. “I’m not a spy, I’m afraid, just a simple civil servant.”

“Pity, that doesn’t sound half as romantic,” I sighed playing the game.

“It isn’t, I spend much of my time analysing data, it’s tedious in the extreme.”

“So do I, Roger, but I find it quite interesting.”

“Oh?” he said.

“Yes, I’m one of the analysts for the national mammal survey.”

“Ah, the dormouse lady, I enjoyed your film.”

“Nah, more Lady Dormouse,” suggested Stella, “an’ that’s Lord Dormouse,” she indicated Si, “and Professor Dormouse,” she introduced Tom. They shook hands.

“So where you taking my sister?” asked Si.

“That Italian place near the Spinnaker, I’ve heard it’s quite good.”

“Don’t think we know that one, do we Cath?”

“Didn’t know there was one there,” was my informed opinion.

“Went there with a colleague when we were on a training course about six months ago,” qualified Mitchell.

“Oh from the spy school,” I said and blushed.

“If I answered that, I’d have to kill you,” he said back smiling, except his eyes weren’t smiling—he meant it. I’d have to avoid giving him the chance. This man was just as ruthless as Bond, even if he didn’t have double 0 status. Mind you until I read James Bond at about eleven, my only experience of double rating applied to my electric train set which my father had more fun from than I did.

“If you do kill her, can you leave the body somewhere we’ll find it, makes an insurance claim easier,” Simon’s joke wasn’t very funny and Mitchell gave him a momentary sneer. If this guy was a killer, Simon may well be above me on the hit list.

“Aye, weel hae a guid meal, I’m awa’ tae ma study.” Tom excused himself.

“I’d better go and get changed, some bloody shitehawk crapped on my bonnet, have I got time to do it before dinner, babes?”

“I can give you half an hour,” I replied feeling that Stella was definitely at risk, my solar plexus was spinning like a windmill.

“Be back in a mo,” said Stella dashing upstairs.

“I’d better get that washing on, nice to meet you, Roger,” I offered him my hand and the energy I received back felt like it was made of used axle grease it was so dark. I shot up the stairs after Stella and caught her on the landing.

“Be careful, Stel, there’s something nasty about young Roger.”

“You what?” I repeated what I’d said and she gave me a disdainful look, “You’re at it again, aren’t you? Never satisfied with what you’ve got, always got to go for my man, haven’t you?”

“Stella, please, I don’t want him, but watch him, there’s something about him that isn’t nice.”

“Well you’re not going to spoil this one, you man eater.” She stormed off.

“Oh well done, Cathy, tell her why don’t you? Don’t you ever bloody listen?”

“He’s not nice, Simon.”

“We all know that, you numpty.”

“No, I mean tonight, I suspect he’s got anything but honourable intentions towards Stella.”

“ How d’you know that?”

“He’s carrying a gun.”

“Ah, is he licensed for it?”

“I doubt it, darling.”

“Somehow, I suspect you’re probably right.”

We heard the car start and it drove off. “Stella’s in grave danger,” I said feeling quite ill.