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Authors: Stanley Donwood
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little guy. He put up an umbrella. He looked straight into my eyes.
“What is your name?” His voice was curt, and still showed no emotion at all. He sounded like an automaton. I wondered what to say.
“Bob Jones.”
He seemed to consider this for a minute.
“Who are you working for?”
“I’m a journalist. I work for the local paper. Want to see my press card?” He nodded. Well, he moved his head slightly. I reached slowly into my pocket and got my forgery. I wished I’d spent a little more time on it. The little guy took it and examined it. Then he passed it in to the driver.
“Check this name,” he said. And we stood there in silence, cars rushing past us on their way to somewhere else. Rain was running down my forehead into my eyes, but the gorillas held my arms at my sides so there wasn’t anything I could do about it. A couple of minutes went by, not as quickly as I’d have liked. Then a hand emerged from the driver’s window, holding my card.
“There is no record of any ‘Bob Jones’ working for any newspaper within two hundred miles,” said the driver’s voice. “And this card is fake. Not even a good fake.”
Oh, shit. The little guy’s eyes left mine for an instant while he glanced at both the gorillas. Then I was marched through a gate into a field, and flung into the soaking wet grass. They didn’t give me a chance to get up. A heavy foot encased in a shiny shoe stood on each of my upper arms and it wasn’t too nice being face down either.
“Who are you working for?” said the little guy again.
“I don’t know,” I shouted into the grass. “I’m being fucked about and I don’t know what’s going on and can I please get up
for fuck’s sake
?”
The shoes got off my arms and one of them rolled me over. Rain poured into my face.
“Look, I’m being set up by someone. I don’t know who or why. I’m trying to find out what’s going on.” I tried to get up, but I was pushed back onto the ground.
“Mister Jones, if that is indeed your name,” said the little guy, “if you have any interest in living a comfortable life I suggest you stop trying to find out, as you say, what’s going on. Cease your puerile enquiries.” He said the words with disgust, as if he was talking about sewage. I sat up, cautiously. I’d been wetter and more uncomfortable before. When I’d drunkenly stumbled into a canal one February night. But I had to admit it. This was pretty bad.
“Do I have your agreement?” It was less a question, more a statement. I reckoned the easiest course of action was to nod. I nodded. He stared shrewdly at me, then turned back towards the car. I looked at the gorillas, and tried to get up again. No dice. Those shiny new shoes had other ideas.
Chapter 11
Very Large Drink
I lay there in the rain for quite a while, groaning and stuff. An expert kicking had been delivered, and I couldn’t fault the twins’ technique. They hadn’t said a word. They hadn’t grunted, hadn’t got out of breath, and they hadn’t even laughed as they walked back to the car after an action-packed three minutes. Okay. I watched raindrops trickling down the broken stems of the grass and wondered what to do. If they’d wanted to hurt me really badly, then they could have. As it was, parts of me hurt, but nothing was too badly damaged. Nothing broken. It had been a warning.
Delicately I eased myself into a standing position. Parts of me definitely hurt. But I could walk. I made my way out of the field. The lay-by was empty. Yeah, well. Wearily I trudged to the edge of the road and stood with my back to the city for a time. I had nowhere else to go, so I faced the oncoming traffic and stuck my thumb out. I wasn’t an ideal hitcher. I was wet through, muddy, and didn’t look very happy.
After about three centuries a pickup truck slowed to a halt. I ran to catch up with it, stated my destination, and made to get in the passenger seat. The driver, a squat sort of guy with a checked
“What is your name?” His voice was curt, and still showed no emotion at all. He sounded like an automaton. I wondered what to say.
“Bob Jones.”
He seemed to consider this for a minute.
“Who are you working for?”
“I’m a journalist. I work for the local paper. Want to see my press card?” He nodded. Well, he moved his head slightly. I reached slowly into my pocket and got my forgery. I wished I’d spent a little more time on it. The little guy took it and examined it. Then he passed it in to the driver.
“Check this name,” he said. And we stood there in silence, cars rushing past us on their way to somewhere else. Rain was running down my forehead into my eyes, but the gorillas held my arms at my sides so there wasn’t anything I could do about it. A couple of minutes went by, not as quickly as I’d have liked. Then a hand emerged from the driver’s window, holding my card.
“There is no record of any ‘Bob Jones’ working for any newspaper within two hundred miles,” said the driver’s voice. “And this card is fake. Not even a good fake.”
Oh, shit. The little guy’s eyes left mine for an instant while he glanced at both the gorillas. Then I was marched through a gate into a field, and flung into the soaking wet grass. They didn’t give me a chance to get up. A heavy foot encased in a shiny shoe stood on each of my upper arms and it wasn’t too nice being face down either.
“Who are you working for?” said the little guy again.
“I don’t know,” I shouted into the grass. “I’m being fucked about and I don’t know what’s going on and can I please get up
for fuck’s sake
?”
The shoes got off my arms and one of them rolled me over. Rain poured into my face.
“Look, I’m being set up by someone. I don’t know who or why. I’m trying to find out what’s going on.” I tried to get up, but I was pushed back onto the ground.
“Mister Jones, if that is indeed your name,” said the little guy, “if you have any interest in living a comfortable life I suggest you stop trying to find out, as you say, what’s going on. Cease your puerile enquiries.” He said the words with disgust, as if he was talking about sewage. I sat up, cautiously. I’d been wetter and more uncomfortable before. When I’d drunkenly stumbled into a canal one February night. But I had to admit it. This was pretty bad.
“Do I have your agreement?” It was less a question, more a statement. I reckoned the easiest course of action was to nod. I nodded. He stared shrewdly at me, then turned back towards the car. I looked at the gorillas, and tried to get up again. No dice. Those shiny new shoes had other ideas.
Chapter 11
Very Large Drink
I lay there in the rain for quite a while, groaning and stuff. An expert kicking had been delivered, and I couldn’t fault the twins’ technique. They hadn’t said a word. They hadn’t grunted, hadn’t got out of breath, and they hadn’t even laughed as they walked back to the car after an action-packed three minutes. Okay. I watched raindrops trickling down the broken stems of the grass and wondered what to do. If they’d wanted to hurt me really badly, then they could have. As it was, parts of me hurt, but nothing was too badly damaged. Nothing broken. It had been a warning.
Delicately I eased myself into a standing position. Parts of me definitely hurt. But I could walk. I made my way out of the field. The lay-by was empty. Yeah, well. Wearily I trudged to the edge of the road and stood with my back to the city for a time. I had nowhere else to go, so I faced the oncoming traffic and stuck my thumb out. I wasn’t an ideal hitcher. I was wet through, muddy, and didn’t look very happy.
After about three centuries a pickup truck slowed to a halt. I ran to catch up with it, stated my destination, and made to get in the passenger seat. The driver, a squat sort of guy with a checked
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