Chapter 9

In which Timmy and Sid are recruited by P to become C Men for Mission E-known as Emission in some circles. Also in in which Felicity and Miss Diver check out our heroes' Resistence Quotient.

When Sid comes upon me-I used the expression wishing I hadn't-I am standing outside the Solarium in a state of considerable pain and exhaustion.

"There you are!' says Sid. 'Where the hell have you been?'

'Ooh Sid,' I say. 'I haven't half got a sore bum!'

Sid looks dead worried. 'Those bleeding poufs didn't get you, did they?' he says. 'You haven't been nobbled?'

'Nobbled, nibbled, everything,' I say. 'No Sid, it's the sunray lamp in that place. My back's been roasted.' It is a fact, too. By the time I got off Nadia my Cilia (Cilia Black: back. Ed.) has been exposed to more ultra violet rays than you get in half a lifetime's holidays at Cleethorpes. I can hardly bear to feel anything against it. The towel round my fife is agony.

'Solarium,' says Sid, looking at the door. 'Blimey, I think this is it!'

'What are you on about?' I say.

'What that bloke said to me!' says Sid getting all excited. 'It wasn't a Jewish geezer it was that place! Don't you see, I thought he was talking about somebody called Sol Arium but he was talking about a solarium.'

'Brilliant,' I say.

Of course, I am being dead sarcastical but Sid does not see that. 'Thanks,' he says. 'It's just reasoning ability, really. Either you've got it or you haven't. You, for instance. You could spend half an hour in that place and never come across anything.'

'llighly unlikely,' I say, thinking of the way Nadia spundried my action man kit.

'Let's get in there,' says Sid. 'Blimey, without me you'd be lost, wouldn't you ?'

I don't say anything but let him crash through the door.

Nadia is just pulling on her knicks and she looks up angrily.

'I'm sorry,' says Sid. 'I waser looking for theer-'

'It's down the end of the corridor on the right,' snaps Nadia. 'Now stop gawping and get out of here!'

'Er-the red dragon,' stammers Sid.

Nadia pulls down her knicks and gives Sid a flash that reveals all. 'Come inside and close the door,' she says. 'What kept you so long? I was getting bored waiting.'

"That's right,' I say. She was, wasn't she?

'Were you in on this?' says Sid.

'In a manner of speaking-yes,' I say. 'I got on to Miss Durrant half an hour ago.'

'It's not Miss Durrant,' says the bird. 'That's just a pseudonym. You can call me Friday.'

'Great,' says Sid. 'What do you fancy doing? A few pints of apple fritter down the rubber?'

'She's talking about her code name, Sid!' I explain. Honesdy, he takes so long to catch on that I get worried sometimes.

'Come on!' says Friday, tucking her knockers away into her bra with a gesture that makes percy perk up. 'We must go to P.'

'Funny you should say that,' says Sid. 'I was just feeling like a gypsy's kiss.'

'She's not talking about a Jimmy Riddle!' I say.

'Exactly,' says Friday. 'P is our leader. I will take you to him.'

'What's all this about?' says Sid. 'Why does P want to see us?'

Friday shakes her head. 'You will have to ask him that yourself,' she says. 'It is more than my life is worth to reveal anything to you.'

I would have thought different myself, but I don't say anything and half an hour later we are in the reception area of a large block of flats somewhere in the Fulham area. There are three lifts in front of us, one of them with an out of order notice on it.

'Is this where P hangs out?T say. 'I expected something more secret after all that palava about picking us up at the Turkish baths.'

'Ah,' says the shapely Friday. 'When you get in the lift you will find that everytiiing is not what it appears to be.'

'Say no more,' says Sid, tapping his hooter knowingly. 'I've got it. This is going to amaze you.' So saying, he opens the lift door with the out of order sign on it and falls ten feet into a pool of oil at the bottom of the lift shaft. Fortunately, he lands on his nut so no serious damage is done.

'What made you do that?' I say when we have fished him out.

'I thought the out of order sign was to conceal the existence of a special lift that took you to a floor not serviced by the other lifts. It was just a hunch.'

'You want to watch those hunches,' I say. 'They could be fatal. I can see the subscription for your gravestone-'

'You mean the inscription on my gravestone,' says Sid.

'I can see that as well,' I say.' "Gone to hunch".'

'Come on,' says Friday. 'We are late and P does not like to be kept waiting.'

'I know how he feels,' says Sid. 'I don't like being kept waiting for a P either.'

Friday and I exchange sympathetic glances and I sense that she is grateful to know that there is someone around with my comparative suavity and innate good breeding. We go into another lift and Sidney eventually stops yukking at his terrible joke.

'Right,' says Friday. 'You are now at the threshold of Mission E.'

'Emission,' says Sid. 'Blimey! I've heard of that.'

'You practically invented it,' I say. 'What I-' Before I can say anything else, Friday pushes one of the buttons on the panel and we hear the sound of a door opening. Sid who has been looking towards me, steps forward and flattens his boat race against the lift doors which are still shut. It is the back of the lift that has opened. A narrow corridor goes off at right angles to the lift and it is clear that we have been cunningly conv-eyed into the building next to the one we entered.

'Help your friend and follow me,' says Friday.

I lead Sid, who has his hand wedged over his hooter, down the corridor and we come to another lift. It is much smaller than the first one and it is a squeeze for us all to get in it. I have already been pressed up against Friday so I give Sid a go. I am busy trying to keep my roasted back away from the wall, Friday is trying to keep away from Sid's grease-stained suiting and all in all, it can't be the most comfortable journey any of us have ever made. We practically fall in to the corridor when the door slides open.

The decor is a lot different to what it was at the bottom of the lift. Bright lights and thick carpets compared to shabby lino. Friday moves swiftly down another corridor and we follow her into what turns out to be an outer office occupied by a redheaded bird carrying her knockers like she is trying to smuggle cannon balls. She gives Sid and me what you might describe as a cool, level look.

'Hello, Jenny,' says Friday. 'I'm delivering the merchandise. I'm sorry I'm so late but there was a cock-up at the Solarium.'

'I know there was,' says Jenny disapprovingly. 'We saw it going up on close circuit television.' She nods towards a screen set in the wall, and Friday blushes. 'Come this way, er-gendemen. P is expecting you.'

'So much for the secret service,' sighs Friday.

'Goodbye Friday,' I say. "Thanks for showing us the way.'

'You showed me the way too, darling,' coos my erstwhile belt seductively. 'It was lovely. Let's hope we get to meet on an assignment.'

'Did you have it off with her?' says Sid as we are shown into the main office. 'You crafty sod! All I got was half a dozen pouf s flicking my bum with wet towels.'

'At least they had a whip round for you,' I say.

The room we have been shown into is heavy with wood paneling except on a wall that is completely covered in books. In front of the window is a large desk with a globe standing on it. Behind the desk is a distinguished looking geezer with silver hair brushed back from his forehead he would look bloody stupid if it was brushed forward, wouldn't he?-and at his elbow a thick-set bloke wearing his hair in the Kojak fashion-that is, somewhere where it is not connected to his head. They seem to be saying goodbye to someone because, in front of them, a bloke in frogman suit, oxygen cylinder and flippers rips off a racy salute and bounds towards what we soon see is a private bathroom. He leaps on to the toilet pedestal, tears off another salute, and drops into the lavatory bowl pulling the chain as he goes. There is a familiar noise and he disappears from sight.

Silver Bonce turns to us with a catch in his voice. 'There goes one of our best agents,' he says.

'He was certainly flushed with success,' says Sid.

'Probably effluent in several languages,' I chip in.

An expression akin to pain ruckles Silver Bonce's features but he shrugs it off and extends a hand towards Sid. 'P,' he says.

'No thanks,' says Sid. 'I've just-' Fortunately, I manage to stamp on his foot before he can say anything else and he starts to hop round the room screeching and cursing.

"Timothy Lea,' I say. 'I'm sorry we're late. It's quite difficult to get here, isn't it?'

'Especially if you've come from an oil rig,' says P looking at Sidney with a puzzled expression on his mug. 'Is that where your associate learned his highland dancing? I've always wondered what you did in the evenings.'

'Pull yourself together, Sid,' I say. 'The gentieman's talking to us.'

Sid cools down and P waves us towards a couple of chairs. It is a bit unfortunate that we both decide to sit in the same one but, then these things always happen when you're trying to make a good impression-like the way you always piss over your boots when you've put on a new pair of suedes.

'I expect you're wondering what this is all about?' says

P.

'If it's anything to do with our tax returns when we were cleaning windows, then that was the time when I had all the trouble with my memory,' says Sid. 'My brother-in-law here will vouch-'

'No,' says P. 'We're nothing to do with the tax people.

This is Mission E. E for emergency. Britain's last line of defense against those many perils that now threaten our island home. The super elite of the British Intelligence Service.'

'Blimey,' says Sid. 'Well, you don't have to worry about us. We've always been very patriotic. I've still got my World Cup Willy. And we'd have murdered those bleeding Krauts if we'd been allowed to play them in the last final. Those fluid ball skills of the Dutch fellers were all very well but what your Kraut needs is Norman Hunter tattooing his ankles.'

'I don't know what you're talking about but your patriotism has never been exposed to scrutiny,' says P. 'I'm glad to hear it,' says Sid.

'I've had you brought here because, to the best of our knowledge, you're the only organisation of your type in this country that hasn't been infiltrated by the Ruskaes. Isn't that so, Boris?'

P turns to the menacing-looking geezer by his side who nods like one of those Alsatians lunatics have in the back windows of their cars. 'That is indeed true, Commde Chief.'

He smiles to himself and wanders across the room, humming 'The Vulgar Boatman' or some such melody with a lot of 'Yo-o heave ho's!' in it. I can't put my finger on it but there is something about him that makes me feel uneasy.

P turns to Sid. 'To the best of your knowledge you've never been infiltrated have you?'

Sid looks uncomfortable. 'I came bloody close this afternoon,' he says. 'I don't reckon that Turkish bath as a pickup joint, it's more like a prick-up joint. Know what I mean? All right if you want to enlarge the circle of your friends but I wouldn't bend over to pick up a box of matches.'

'I think you'll find we're free from taint,' I say hurriedly. 'What exactly did you have in mind for user, Mr. P?'

'Not so fast, young man,' says P, leaning across his desk and fixing me with a steely eye that seems to dig into me like one of those knives that horses use to get boy scouts out of their hooves. 'There are more questions to be asked before you become one of our happy band.'

'Not Nat Temple's lot,' says Sid. 'I used to like them. Always good for a giggle.'

P finds it easy to ignore Sid and his voice grows even more serious. 'Have either of you ever been members of the Communist Party or plotted to overthrow the government of this country-even when you were at nursery school?'

'No,'I gulp.

'No,' says Sid.

'Promise?' We nod our agreement. 'Good, then that's settled. I'm sorry I had to ask you that question but we can't afford to take any chances.'

That's all right,' I say. 'We quite understand. When the security of our country is at stake you can't be too careful.'

'I'm glad you-' P breaks off our conversation and shouts across the room to Boris who appears to be photographing a folder full of papers marked 'Jolly Secret' with a tiny camera that looks more like a cigarette lighter. 'Boris! Don't bother to do that. How many times do I have to tell you? Records put everything on microfilm.'

'Smileski.' P smiles obediently and Boris clicks off another shot before putting away the camera in the breast pocket of his smock. 'Sorry, Commde Chief. I forget. I always think it best to have two copies of eveiything to be on safe side.'

P shakes his head in admiration. 'Damn efficient chap, that. The country could do with more like him.' Boris smiles modesdy and P turns back to us. 'One more very important thing. Are either of you homosexuals?' I shake my head firmly and Sid does the same. 'Damn!' says P. 'Still, you can't have everything. You don't get a Burgess and Maclean every day of the week.'

"Too true, Squire,' says Sid who clearly has no idea what the gendeman is talking about-dental hygiene never being his strong point.

'Right,' says P. 'Now we have dispensed with the formalities, I can start filling you in.'

'You fancy your chances a bit, don't you ?' says Sid.

'Dicing with death, I'd call it. I'd only have to give you my old one-two, followed by my three-four and you'd be getting your head down without any of the fringe benefits.'

'Sid!' I say. 'Pull yourself together. Surely it's obvious that the gentleman wishes to discuss the possibility of us undertaking an assignment.'

"There's no possibility involved,' says P with a new cold edge to the voice. 'You're now C men and there's only one way you can be discharged.'

'C Men?' I say.

'Combat Men,' snaps P. 'Combat Men for Mission Emergency. The highest calling a British man or woman can aspire to. You only sever your connection with the service upon death.'

'What about my old age pension?' says Sid. 'If I'm not allowed to retire, I'll never to able to get it, will I?'

'Old age will be one of the least of your problems,' says.

P.

'What you're trying to say is that we're in whether we like it or not,' I say. 'There's no turning back.'

'Right,' says P. 'C Men never turn back. If you hadn't agreed to my terms I would have had no alternative but to liquidate you.'

'You dirty old sod,' says Sid. 'I thought the chalk stripe in your suit was a bit wide. You're a raving poufdah, aren't you? I can't get away from them. Come on Timmo, let's get back to the gutter where we belong.'

'Not so fast, Mr. Noggett.' Sid has only taken one step towards the door when P's hand darts to a button at the side of his desk and there is a sound like a refrigerator switching itself on. Sid's arms claw the air but his feet remain rooted to the carpet. It is as if they have been paralyzed or-yes! A powerful magnet must be restraining him via the nails in the bottom of his shoes. What a diabohcally complicated and expensive idea. No wonder we pay so much income tax.

'Boris, make sure that Mr. Noggett does not go anywhere in a hurry.' P's voice is as cold as a snowman's arsehole and my blood freezes when I see Boris produce a wicked looking flick knife from his Lucy Locket and take a step towards my unfortunate brother-in-law. Could this be the unkindest cut of all? Yes! As I close my eyes in horror I hear the telltale snipping noise and Sid's pitiful cry of distress-Boris has cut through his braces.

The current is switched off and Sid hobbles towards P's desk with his hands deep in his trouser pockets. 'Right,' says P. 'Now that we know where we all stand, let's get down to business. First of all I'm going to show you some photographs.'

Sid whips out a hand and his trousers fall down. Oh dear.

I know that if I were teamed up with Roger Moore, none of this would be happening. I must ring his agent when I get back to the office. Sid bends down, cracking his nut on the side of the desk, and I take a gander at the photos. no

Blimey! Or, to be more specific-phew! I have never seen anything like it.

'I can see that you're disgusted,' says P.

'Oh yes,' I say, hoping that percy is not appearing above desk level. 'They're a bit near the knuckle, aren't they?' In fact, they are nowhere near the knuckle. They are near a lot of other places of a far more intimate nature. Places that don't usually arrive at the cakehole with quite the force and frequency of knuckles.

'Let's have a look,' says Sid. 'Blimey!' He snatches at one of the photographs and his trousers fall down again.

'You might as well leave them there,' says P. 'I'll have the carpet shampooed when you've left.'

"These photographs!' gasps Sid. 'They're all of famous people. I mean, that's the Prime Minister!-I wonder how he manages to do that with his pipe in his mouth. And that bird hanging from the chandelier. That's-ooh, what's her name? It's on the tip of my tongue.'

'It's on the tip of her tongue and all,' I say. 'Amazing, I never knew Jerry Thorpe was like that.'

'He isn't,' says P. 'That's skilful retouching.'

'It is when you're balancing on a one-wheel bicycle,' says Sid. 'I have to give him that.'

'What I'm trying to say is that they're forgeries,' says P. 'None of those pillars of the establishment actually took part in those disgusting acts of group depravity.'

'Not even Tony Booth?' says Sid. 'Surely, he must have done.'

'No,' says P. 'Not even him. We're up against a master craftsman.'

'Just like the bird in this one,' says Sid. 'You'd never think you could get it from that angle, would you ?'

'It's easier when you rest your feet on the suit of armour,' I say.

'Silence!' shouts P. 'You don't seem to realise how serious this is. At the moment, these skilful forgeries-the faces of well known people retouched on to photographs of orgies-are appearing all over the country. Somebody is trying to subvert the democratic procedure.'

'I don't get it,' I say.

'You would if you were standing where Margaret Thatcher is in this one,' says Sid. 'Ted Heath's-'

'Shutupl'yellsP.

'All over the deck,' says Sid as P rips the photographs from his hand.

'What somebody is trying to do is to make a mockery of British institutions and the august personages who invest them with the dignity and sense of purpose that makes them the envy of nations throughout the world. Once we lose respect for those who govern us we are doomed! The doors of the Augean stables will be thrown open wide and it will be impossible for the rule of law and order to prevail.' He snatches one of the photographs from the pile. 'How could you ever take Harold Wilson seriously again when you had seen him running stark naked behind Barabara Castie with his meerschaum in one hand and a tickle stick in the other?'

Sid nods. 'You're right. I don't think I will ever feel the same way about him. It's diabolical, isn't it? You wouldn't be able to watch a party political broadcast again, would you?-mind you, I find it pretty difficult at the moment.'

"They're no respecters of persons, are they?' I say, point-'ing to the photograph now on the top of the pile.

"They've even got you there-with the six choirboys that's very unpleasant, isn't it?'

'Give me that!' P snatches the photo and stuffs it inside his jacket. 'I don't know how that got there. You can forget about that one.'

'I'd be glad to,' says Sir. 'Tell me, P, have you got any idea who's behind this?'

'None,' says P. 'We've reached a dead end. That's why Boris here suggested that we brought you in. He said that we needed some new blood.'

Boris nods and smiles. 'New blood. Oh yesk. Ho ho.'

'Of course the Ruskies are at the bottom of it, you need have no fears about that,' says P. 'The Reds are everywhere.'

Boris nods and gives another of his strange smiles. I wish I knew what it was about that man. It is certainly not his after shave lotion. He smells like a ferrets' fall out shelter.

'Do the police know about this ?' I say.

"They are pursuing their own investigations. There is no question of collaboration. When you leave this building you will be on your own.'

'What support will we get?' asks Sid.

'None. The secrecy of this mission demands that we will have to disown you publicly if your cover is blown.'

'Great,' says Sid. 'Do we get luncheon vouchers ?'

'You will be taken care of,' says P. 'Yes, Boris?'

'Oh yes,' says Boris. 'They will be taken care of. Have no fear of that.' He starts laughing again and I wonder why he has USSR embroidered on his smock. It must stand for something and it can't be his initials. Underwater Stoat Stranglers Reunion? It doesn't seem very likely.

'I'll hand you over to Miss Diver. She'll show you the rest of the photographs. Some of them feature dogs and that might give you a lead.' P stands up and pounds a fist against the palm of his hand. 'At all costs these swine must be apprehended. It's up to you. Good luck and remember, if there's anything you need, don't bother to ask for it because you won't get it.'

The door closes behind us and Miss Diver wrinkles her nostrils like a whiff of Canal No 5 has attempted to force its way up her delicate hooter. 'Come this way,' she says coldly. 'I'll take you to the debriefing room.'

Sid is obviously excited by this news because he steps forward briskly and collapses on his face when his trousers fall down again. What a prize nana he looks! I watch him shuffling down the corridor, covered in grease from the lift shaft, his boat race a mass of bumps and bruises and try and prevent my heart sinking into my daisies. How can this man save Britain in her darkest hour? He doesn't look as if he could lug a sack of coal up your front steps without tipping half of it into the basement.

'Here we are.' Miss Diver's brisk, efficient voice jerks me back to the present. We are in a thickly carpeted room dotted with comfortable armchairs. 'Take a seat.'

"Ta,' says Sid. 'Nice place you've got here. You don't have a bit of string on you, do you ?'

Miss Diver is wrestling with the door of a metal cupboard and she ignores Sid's question.

'Can I-?' I begin but Sid pushes me aside and grabs hold of the offending handle.

'Allow me,' he says. 'I am perfectly equipped to deal with this situation. Muscular dexterity allied to a physical strength that is almost terrifying in its controlled simplicity.'

So saying, he wrenches open the door, and a body and a lot of photographs fall out. Sid's trousers fall down as he catches the corpse and for a few moments they stagger round the room as if competing in a dance marathon. I almost expect to hear Victor Sylvester in the background. Sid is gibbering with terror, which is not surprising, and I have got the mockers up me something horrible, but Miss Diver remains very much in control of her emotions.

'Damn!' she says. 'I do wish people would file things in the right places. Over here.' She opens another cupboard door and I look down to see a shaft like a coal chute running off at an angle. 'Pop him down here.'

'But-'

'Come on!' Miss Diver plucks at the corpse's sleeve and, with Sid's help, drags it to the cupboard before giving it a final push into the yawning darkness. There is a few seconds' pause and then the faint but unmistakable sound of a heavy object making contact with water. 'Right!' says Miss Diver dusting her hands together. 'To business.'

'Who was that?' gasps Sid.

"The last man that P interviewed for a job with the Mission,' says Jenny Diver. 'We found out that he had been buying Polish bacon at Sainsburys.'

"The swine,' says Sid. 'It just shows you can never tell about people, doesn't it?'

Miss Diver does not reply but drops to her hands and knees and starts picking up photographs and a variety of masks, false moustaches, tutus and ballet skirts that have fallen out of the cupboard.

'Disguises?' asks Sid.

'No,' says Miss Diver. 'We used them in the staff pantomime. "Little Red Hiding Good." It was tremendous fun. Now, study these. They may give you a few ideas.'

She is not kidding! They are even worse than the other ones. And very high class, too. None of the blokes are wearing socks.

'If we could find out where these were taken we might be on to something-like that bloke, for instance. Cor!'

'It must be somewhere posh,' I say. 'All those suits of armour and that. Hey! What's that up there?'

"The same as what's up down there,' says Sid. 'The same as what's up in every blooming photograph-acres of hampton!'

'I was referring to the flag,' I say. "That's the frog job, isn't it?'

'You're right!' says Sid. 'This could be a valuable lead. We've narrowed the search down to France.'

'Mr. Boris asked me to give you this and your survival kits.' A slim, groovy chick has come into the room and her cashmere cardigan brushes against my cheek as she hands Sid an envelope and each of us a small packet. I don't know what kind of perfume she is wearing but it is the sort that upper class birds always splash behind their lugholes and reminds me of freshly laundered knickers laid out on a shelf sprinkled with lavender. It goes with Hernia scarves and all that clobber.

I open my package and find two small Elastoplasts, a packet of Ovaltine Tablets and a tube of something called Xylocaine Gel. I can see myself surviving for about five minutes on this lot.

'What's this?' I say, waving the tube under the new bird's hooter.

'Oh that's wonderful,' she says. 'If you're in agony at any time-and let's face it, most of our agents are-rub some of this ointment on and you won't feel a thing.'

'Sounds great,' I say. 'Live now, pain later.'

'You've arrived just in time, Felicity,' says Miss Diver.

'As you know, L and N have just been recruited to the organisation. You can help me put them through their C Men Test.'

'You mean, ascertain their resistance quotient?' says the bird addressed as Felicity. 'How ripping? Where are we going to do it?'

'Look at this!' says Sid who has opened the envelope.

"Two plane tickets to Cannes. That's nice, isn't it?'

'No,' I say. 'Nice is about fifteen miles down the coast. They're quite different.'

'Shut up!' says Sid. 'You know what I mean. It's funny, isn't it? You noticing that flag and these tickets arriving. It could be more than a coincidence. I think Boris knows something and he's trying to tip us off.'

'You could be right,' I say. 'It's strange but I didn't take to him at first.'

'You're like that about everybody,' says Sid. 'Dead suspicious. There's something almost unhealthy about the way you find fault with everything-why are you taking your clothes off?' He is not talking to me but to the two birds who have got down to bra and panties while we have been nattering.

'We have to find out how liable you are to succumb to female blandishment, and take appropriate counter measures,' says Jenny Diver smoothing down the front of her coffee-coloured slip. 'We can't afford leaks with C Men.'

'We've lost some of our best agents because they allowed themselves to fall into the clutches of beautiful foreign spies who set out to enmesh them with their bodies. We have to find out if you can remain icy calm when exposed to provocation.' Felicity licks her lips. 'It's all jolly good fun really.'

'What were those counter measures you were talking about?' I say.

'Don't worry about those, darling,' purrs Felicity. 'We may not need to take any. I expect Mummy's boy's got oodles of yummy-wummy self control, hasn't he?' So saying the crude cow shoves her mit down the front of my trousers and helps herself to a handful of hampton.

'One-point-five seconds,' says Miss Diver looking from the outline of my erect prick to a stopwatch that has jumped into my hand. 'That's a record.'

'I wasn't ready,' I say. 'I didn't have time to turn my emotions off.'

'He's always been the same,' says Sid. 'No control. I'm afraid he's going to be a dead loss at this caper.'

Miss Diver glances from her stopwatch to the front of Sid's trousers. 'Take your hands away,' she says.

'But they'll fall down,' whines Sid.

Take your hands away"

Sid does as he is told, his trousers drop to the floor and his Mad Mick stands out proudly like the bow of a schooner.

'What do you know?' says Sid. 'It must be the central heating.'

Miss Diver shakes her head seriously. 'I don't know if we've got enough serum,' she says. 'These are the worst cases I've ever seen in the service.'

'Serum?' says Sid.

'It's an anti-sex drug that will render you free from temptation,' says Felicity. 'Once you've had the injection-'

'Injection?' I say.

'Only a little one,' says Miss Diver. She opens a drawer and produces a syringe like the one my Aunty Daisy uses on her roses.

'Have we got enough serum?' says Felicity.

Miss Diver disappears behind the desk and comes up with a smallish oil drum. She sloshes it about and it sounds almost full. 'Just enough,' she says.

I look at Sid and Sid looks at me. For both of us it is clearly a case of serum-scare 'em.

Miss Diver puts her can on the desk and sighs. 'It's a distasteful fact but the serum is applied most effectively directly after sexual intercourse. For that reason I must ask you to accompany me to the escritoire.'

'I don't feel like going,' says Sid.

But Miss Diver is clearly talking about the antique desk she has just climbed on to. Lying back against the tooled leather, she arches her back and slips off her knicks. 'Come,' she says. I can see that Sid is weakening-not in the hampton department, of course. That is still in what might be described as a state of rude health.

"This serum,' he says. 'It's not permanent, is it?'

'Not in every case,' says Miss Diver, parting a very shapely pair of legs and dangling them over the edge of the desk.

'Oh my gawd,' says Sid. Like a doomed man making his way to the scaffold, he stumbles towards Miss Diver who guides him between her legs and jerks forward like a trout snapping up a fly. There is a slapping noise which could be his bum-buffers making contact with Miss Diver's sit feature and the china mug holding half a dozen biros and a letter opener begins to ratde.

"This could be the last time!' groans Sid. 'Oh why did I ever allow myself to get into this ?'

I don't attempt to answer this question because Felicity is playing the crumpet voluntary on my hampton and her technique is such that you have to pay it the respect of total attention. By the time that Sid has got the lids of the silver inkpots clicking like castanets, Felicity has finished her solo and is tucking my tingling tonk into her squidge box.

'Are you going to come quietly ?' she purrs.

'It's very unlikely,' I gasp. 'Ooooooooooohhhhhh!!'

I never see either of these birds again so I don't have the chance to ask them about it, but I reckon that they must have been taught some special kind of muscle control. I can usually keep the cream of the British Empire in check until the time comes to send them in to No Man's Land but on this occasion there is an ugly rush for the saddle before I can get my bugle to my lips. Talk about the charge of the Light Brigade. The balls on the eve of Waterloo have nothing on my two when it comes to a mass exodus at the first sound of cannon fire. Sid tells me afterwards that it is exactly the same with him. It is over almost before it has begun.

'Right,' says Miss Diver, briskly swinging her legs off the desk-perhaps too briskly as far as Sid is concerned.

'I hope you were thinking of England, Felicity ? Let's get down to business.' She plunges the syringe into the can and draws back the plunger with a loud slurping noise.

'Look,' says Sid. 'We don't have to go through with this, do we? We'll be good boys. I never liked girls much anyway.'

Miss Diver advances on Sid with her syringe at the on guard position. 'It's only a tiny prick,' she says.

"That's got nothing to do with it,' says Sid. 'It's sensitive just like any other prick.'

'I was referring to the injection itself,' says Miss Diver.

Sid seems unconvinced and backs towards the cupboard in which we disposed of the stiff. I am no hero when it comes to copping a shot of dick-deadener and I get behind Sid. I suppose that is part of the trouble. I step on his trouser leg, he stumbles back against me, I grab hold of him, and together we fall backwards into the cupboard. For a fraction of a second I catch a glimpse of Felicity's horrorstruck face and the wicked glint of Miss Diver's syringe as she lunges at Sid's cluster. Then we are falling, falling, falling. A small square of light grows smaller and smaller AND WE PLUNGE TOWARDS THE NEXT

CHAPTER.