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head arose from behind a nearby water-butt. Apart from its lack of teeth and eyebrows, it bore a striking resemblance to Sir Lawrence Olivier in his famous portrayal of Othello.
    A broad and slightly lunatic smile cleft the blackened face in two and a wicked chuckle rose in the throat of the watcher.
    “Success indeeds,” whistled Norman, rubbing his hands together and dancing out from his hiding place. With a quick glance about to assure himself that he was now alone, he skipped over to the cabbage-chewing camel and snatched up its trailing halter line. “Huts, huts,” he said. “Imshees yallahs.” With hardly the slightest degree of persuasion and little or no force at all, Norman led the surprisingly docile brute away.
    From behind Soap Distant’s padlocked shed, yet another figure now emerged. This one wore a grey coverall suit, was of average height, with a slightly tanned complexion and high cheek-bones. He looked for all the world like a young Jack Palance. Through oval amber eyes he watched the shopkeeper and his anomalous charge depart. Drawing from a concealed pocket an instrument somewhat resembling a brass divining rod, he traced a runic symbol into the dusty soil of the allotment and then also departed upon light and silent feet.

7
    When the lights returned once more to the Flying Swan, a moment or two after the holocaust in Norman’s kitchenette, they exposed a frozen tableau of deceit and duplicity, which was a sad indictment upon the state of our society.
    Neville stood poised behind the counter, knobkerry at the ready, to defend his optics against any straining hands.
    Pooley held Omally’s glass above his own, a stupefied expression upon his guilty face. Two professional domino players each had their hands in the spares box. Old Pete’s dog was standing, leg raised, to the piano, and a veritable rogues’ gallery of similar deeds was exposed the entire length of the bar.
    Neville shook his head in disgust, “You miserable bunch,” was all that he could say.
    The only patron who had not shifted his position during the unscheduled blackout was a green-haired youth, who had been so engrossed in his war against the aliens that he had been totally oblivious to the entire event.
Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow
crackled the machine.
Bitow, Bitow…
“Bugger!” The lad restrained a petulant foot and slouched over to the bar counter. “Where’s me drink gone, Nev?” he asked.
    The part-time barman shrugged. “Ask this mutinous crew,” he suggested. Raffles Rathbone turned towards the assembled multitude, but they had by now returned to their previous occupations. Conversations hummed, darts whispered and glasses rose and fell. All was as it had ever been.
    “Same again then is it?”
    “Why not? Got sixteen thousand, personal high score, got me initials up there three times.”
    “Oh goody goody,” sneered Neville. “Are you sure you only want the half of shandy, I shouldn’t crack a bottle of Bollinger, should I?”
    “The half will be fine, thank you.” Neville did the honours.
    The Swan settled down once more to its lunchtime normality, and such it would no doubt have enjoyed, had it not been for certain distant screams, which were borne upon the light spring breeze to announce the approach of a certain small and disconsolate postman.
    “Camels! Camels on the allotment!” The cry reached the Swan shortly before Small Dave.
    Omally choked into his beer. “No more!” he spluttered, crossing himself. Pooley shook his head; it was proving to be a most eventful day and it was early yet. Neville reached once more for his knobkerry and Raffles Rathbone stood before the video machine, oblivious to the world about him.
    Small Dave burst into the Swan, looking very much the worse for wear. He lurched up to the counter and ordered a large scotch. Neville looked down at the distraught postman, and it must be said that the makings of a fine smirk began to form at the edges of his mouth. Turning away he