A Nother Episode

Subtitle: No blowdarts please, we’re British

After my white-knuckle ride on the Tea-Tray Express, I found myself in a small, darkened room, filled with esoteric memorabilia. From shrunken heads (I’m sure one of them was Lorraine Kelly) to huge dusty tomes filled with mystical incantations, Jonathan covered the whole world of the occult.

As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I became aware of the faint sound of rhythmic chanting. I couldn’t work out where it was coming from, but as I moved further into the murky room, I discovered that it was coming from behind the panelled wall at the far end of the fireplace. I briefly wondered whether or not to investigate further, but a sharp pain in my thigh brought me back to my senses.

Jonathan was lying in the footwell of the antique desk into which I’d just walked. He appeared to be unharmed apart from a gash above his left eyebrow. He sat up, bashing his forehead on the underside of the desk, and collapsed back to the floor. As he came round, I manoeuvred him to a sitting position, propped against the drawers of the desk.

‘How long was I out?’ he asked blearily, gingerly rubbing the large bump on his forehead.

‘Oh, only a few seconds,’ I replied. ‘What on earth is happening? Dawkins is upstairs. He’s been shot in the leg. Tarquin is tending to him as I speak.’

Jonathan hesitated for a few seconds before answering, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he pondered his reply.

‘I suspect that the Cosa Nostradamus has tracked you from the moment you returned home after the atrocity at the carnival.’

‘But… but… how?’ I spluttered. ‘We were hidden in your car the whole way. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the smell of that travel rug out of my hair.’

Jonathan suddenly stretched out a hand and plucked a stray sequin out of my hair.

‘How about this?’ he murmured.

I was just about to point out that it would be fairly impossible to track anyone with the aid of one measly sequin when I was suddenly grabbed from behind. Fortunately it was Tarquin, who’d taken advantage of the unexpected ceasefire to creep downstairs.

He peered at the sequin and asked, ‘Is that a Track-o-matic 5000 Mk III? Where did you get it? They’re very difficult to obtain these days.’

‘I fear it was planted on young Kats during the confusion of the carnival. We’re dealing with extremely dangerous people.’

I gaped at Jonathan and Tarquin in open-mouthed astonishment.

‘But... but… I… I… ‘ I stammered, for the moment unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

Tarquin gulped nervously and revealed that he had been (some time ago) a member of the elite security wing of MFI, a crack unit dedicated to solving crimes involving flatpack furniture.

‘It’s more widespread than you might think. We worked closely with the Homebase Guard and on an international basis with Ikeapol.

‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say before something flew through what was left of the window and struck me on the side of the neck.

I shook my head as the room seemed to shift ever so slightly out of focus and I put my hand to my neck and plucked out a small feathered dart. I stared at in confusion for a moment before everything started to grow dim and I sank slowly to the floor…