“Surely that is a racist remark,” said Jack.
“Not when it’s said by a black woman. Which I am, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I thought you said you were Jewish.”
“I did.”
And Now Things Really Start to Happen
“You will just have to deliver the package yourself,” said the boss of Jack. “Do you think you can manage that?”
“On foot?” asked Jack. “And without an armed guard?”
“It’s only two streets away.”
“But Mr Felix led me to believe it was in another Brentford, somewhere in Ethiopia.”
Leslie arched her eyebrows and bridged her nose.
“The thieving nigger,” said Jack.
“Enough of your racist jive, white boy.”
A Roller-coaster Ride to Hell
Jack trudged along Horseferry Lane, past the Shrunken Head and up to the High Street. He looked both ways before crossing and reached the other side in safety. There he sat down upon the bench outside Budgens and studied his A-Z. A lady in a straw hat sat down beside him. “Are you lost?” she asked Jack.
Jack clutched his package to his chest. “Certainly not,” he told her.
“Only I get lost sometimes. I have who’ja vu.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the opposite of déja vu. I can be in the middle of the supermarket and suddenly I get this feeling, I’ve never been here before.”
“I have to go,” said Jack. “I have a very important package to deliver.”
“The doctor’s put me on a course of placebos,” said the lady in the straw hat. “But I don’t take them. I’m saving them all up for a mock suicide attempt.”
“Goodbye,” said Jack.
“Goodbye,” said the lady in the straw hat.
How Much More Can We Take?
Jack tugged upon a brass bell pull. Somewhere within a brass bell rang and presently the front door opened.
Jack found himself gazing up at a gaunt black and white figure who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Sidney Paget drawings of Sherlock Holmes.
“Dr Steven Malone?” asked Jack.
“No,” said the figure, “he lives next door.”
Jack went next door and tugged upon another bell pull. A gentleman of identical appearance to the first opened the door.
“Dr Steven…”
“Malone,” said Dr Steven Malone. “And you would be?”
“Jack,” said Jack. “From SURFIN’ UFO.”
“Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
Dr Steven Malone led Jack along a sparsely furnished hall and into a room of ample proportions. Here, upon boards of golden oak, spread faded kilims and upon these ponderous furniture of the Victorian persuasion. A gloomy room it was.
“You have my package. Do you want me to sign something?”
“I do, indeedy-do.” Jack pulled papers from his pocket. Dr Steven unscrewed the top of his fountain pen.
“Just there,” said Jack and Dr Steven signed.
“And there.”
“Here?”
“Just there. And there if you don’t mind.”
“Here?”
“No, there.”
“Sorry.” Dr Steven signed again.
“And if you’d just put your initials here.”
“Certainly.”
“And tick this box.”
“Of course.”
“And put today’s date.”
“My pleasure.”
“Then if you’ll be so kind as to fill in the details here and sign this.”
Dr Steven raised his eyebrows and lowered his ears.
“Did you learn that in Tibet?” Jack asked.
“There’s an awful lot of paperwork,” said Dr Steven.
“There is,” Jack agreed. “And all of it unnecessary. I only insist upon it to be officious. Would you mind repeating all that you’ve just done on the carbon copy, please?”
“Actually I would.”
“How very trying for you. But you can’t have the package if you don’t.”
“What blood type are you?” asked Dr Steven Malone.
Hang on to your Hats
“AB negative,” said Jack. “I used to bleed a lot as a child.”
“Nosebleeds?” Dr Steven asked.
“No, the top of my head.”
“How unusual.”
“Not really. My brother wanted to be a musician.”
“I don’t think I quite follow you.”
“He wanted to play the xylophone, but my dad couldn’t afford one, so my brother, my older brother, used to line up all us younger brothers in descending order of height, then go round behind us and strike each of us on the top of the head with a tent peg mallet. A sort of human xylophone, you see. He could do almost the entire Lennon and McCartney song book. I was Middle C. I used to suffer a lot from concussion.”
“Does your brother play the xylophone now?”
“In Broadmoor, yes.”
“I wonder if I might take a sample of your blood.”
“I don’t see why not. What do you want it for?”
“It’s a top secret experiment.”
“How interesting. What’s it all about then?”
“It’s top secret.”
“I can keep a secret,” said Jack. “Listen to this one.” He whispered words into the still lowered ear of Dr Steven.
“She never does,” said the doctor.
“She does too, but don’t tell anyone.”
“I certainly won’t.”
“So what’s the top secret then?”
Dr Steven Malone waved Jack into a fireside chair and seated himself upon another. “For the last two years,” said he, “I have been engaged upon a groundbreaking project. From all over the world I have gathered dried blood samples. From the Shroud of Turin, the Spear of Longinus, the purported crown of thorns in Troyes, nails from the true cross scattered in cathedrals across Europe, even an item claimed to be the holy prepuce. I have cross-matched two and I am certain that they come from the same being.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Jack.
“The very same. It is now my intention, using a reagent of my own formulation, to liquefy this blood and extract the DNA. With this I intend to clone…”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Exactly. And not just the one. I am going to clone at least six.”
“Like in that film,” said Jack. “The Boys from Brazil. Where they cloned Hitler.”