long story. You see, once upon a time, there was a man called Ali Baba …’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Skip!’
No reply.
‘Skip! ‘
Echo sang back the word, adding her own trace element of mockery. Aziz flopped down on a ledge of rock near the mouth of the cave and scratched his head. The boss was nowhere to be found. He had gone, leaving a giant-sized hole in the Story. Although Aziz’s minuscule intelligence couldn’t begin to comprehend the vast implications of this, even he could feel that something was badly up the pictures and in urgent need of rectification.
Nature abhors a vacuum, preferring to clear up its loose ends with an old-fashioned carpet-sweeper. The loose ends thirty-nine of them, with all the cohesiveness and sense of purpose of the proverbial headless chicken - were doing their best, but it plainly wasn’t good enough. That’s what happens when you take both the hero and the villain out of a story. It’s a bit like removing the poles from a tent.
‘He’s not in the treasury,’ grunted Masood. ‘And his bed hasn’t been slept in.’
‘His camel’s still in the stable,’ added Zulfiqar. ‘And there’s no footprints in the sand, either. If he’s gone, he must have flown.’
Masood and Zulfiqar looked at each other. ‘The carpet,’ they said simultaneously.
Sure enough, it wasn’t there. Neither, of course, were the oil lamp, the phoenix’s egg, the magic sword, Solomon’s ring and half a dozen other supernatural labour-saving devices; Ali Baba had taken them with him to Reality. No way, of course, that the thieves could know that.
‘Why’d he want to do a thing like that?’ Aziz demanded.
‘Maybe it was something we said.’
Aziz frowned. Nominally the second-in-command of the band, he was fanatically loyal to Akram in the same way that the roof is loyal to the walls. ‘He wouldn’t just go off in a huff,’ he said. ‘Must be a reason. He’ll be off on a Quest or something, you mark my words. Give it a day or two and he’ll be back, with some priceless treasure snatched at desperate odds from its unsleeping guardian.’
Thoughtful silence.
‘Anybody looked to see if the Thrift Club kitty’s still there?’ asked Hanif. ‘Not,’ he added quickly, as Aziz treated him to a paint-stripping scowl, ‘that I’m casting whatsits, aspersions. Someone might just have a look, though.’
‘It’s still there,’ replied Saheed. ‘And the tea money. Beats me what can have happened to him. Unless,’ he added darkly, ‘he’s been kidnapped.’
‘Get real,’ snapped Mustafa, from behind his sofa-thick eyebrows. ‘Who’d be stupid enough to kidnap the Skip? It’d be like trying to lure a man-eating tiger by tying yourself to a tree. No, he’s gone off on a bender somewhere. Give it a couple of days and they’ll bring him home in a wheelbarrow.’
Another thoughtful pause; nearly a whole year’s ration used up in five minutes. The thieves were, after all, born henchmen.
Henchmen are, quite reasonably, designed for henching; thinking is something they wisely prefer to leave to the professionals.
‘Well,’ said Aziz, trying to appear nonchalant and laid back about the whole thing, and making a spectacularly poor job of it, ‘in the meantime, we’d better just carry on as normal. Agreed?’
Muttering. ‘Suppose so,’ Masood grunted uncertainly. ‘After all, caravans don’t rob themselves. What’s first up for today, anyone?’ ‘
There was an awkward silence, broken by Hanif saying, ‘Well, don’t look at me.’ Not that anybody had been, or was likely to, if they had any sense.
‘This is daft,’ said Zulfiqar. ‘I mean, we’ve been thieving and looting together, oh, I don’t know how long, we should all know the bloody ropes by now. It’s not exactly difficult, is it? We find someone with lots of money, we take it off him, and if he gets awkward we bash him.’
‘Yeah?’ Aziz retorted angrily. ‘All right, then, Clever Effendi, go on. Who’s
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Skip!’
No reply.
‘Skip! ‘
Echo sang back the word, adding her own trace element of mockery. Aziz flopped down on a ledge of rock near the mouth of the cave and scratched his head. The boss was nowhere to be found. He had gone, leaving a giant-sized hole in the Story. Although Aziz’s minuscule intelligence couldn’t begin to comprehend the vast implications of this, even he could feel that something was badly up the pictures and in urgent need of rectification.
Nature abhors a vacuum, preferring to clear up its loose ends with an old-fashioned carpet-sweeper. The loose ends thirty-nine of them, with all the cohesiveness and sense of purpose of the proverbial headless chicken - were doing their best, but it plainly wasn’t good enough. That’s what happens when you take both the hero and the villain out of a story. It’s a bit like removing the poles from a tent.
‘He’s not in the treasury,’ grunted Masood. ‘And his bed hasn’t been slept in.’
‘His camel’s still in the stable,’ added Zulfiqar. ‘And there’s no footprints in the sand, either. If he’s gone, he must have flown.’
Masood and Zulfiqar looked at each other. ‘The carpet,’ they said simultaneously.
Sure enough, it wasn’t there. Neither, of course, were the oil lamp, the phoenix’s egg, the magic sword, Solomon’s ring and half a dozen other supernatural labour-saving devices; Ali Baba had taken them with him to Reality. No way, of course, that the thieves could know that.
‘Why’d he want to do a thing like that?’ Aziz demanded.
‘Maybe it was something we said.’
Aziz frowned. Nominally the second-in-command of the band, he was fanatically loyal to Akram in the same way that the roof is loyal to the walls. ‘He wouldn’t just go off in a huff,’ he said. ‘Must be a reason. He’ll be off on a Quest or something, you mark my words. Give it a day or two and he’ll be back, with some priceless treasure snatched at desperate odds from its unsleeping guardian.’
Thoughtful silence.
‘Anybody looked to see if the Thrift Club kitty’s still there?’ asked Hanif. ‘Not,’ he added quickly, as Aziz treated him to a paint-stripping scowl, ‘that I’m casting whatsits, aspersions. Someone might just have a look, though.’
‘It’s still there,’ replied Saheed. ‘And the tea money. Beats me what can have happened to him. Unless,’ he added darkly, ‘he’s been kidnapped.’
‘Get real,’ snapped Mustafa, from behind his sofa-thick eyebrows. ‘Who’d be stupid enough to kidnap the Skip? It’d be like trying to lure a man-eating tiger by tying yourself to a tree. No, he’s gone off on a bender somewhere. Give it a couple of days and they’ll bring him home in a wheelbarrow.’
Another thoughtful pause; nearly a whole year’s ration used up in five minutes. The thieves were, after all, born henchmen.
Henchmen are, quite reasonably, designed for henching; thinking is something they wisely prefer to leave to the professionals.
‘Well,’ said Aziz, trying to appear nonchalant and laid back about the whole thing, and making a spectacularly poor job of it, ‘in the meantime, we’d better just carry on as normal. Agreed?’
Muttering. ‘Suppose so,’ Masood grunted uncertainly. ‘After all, caravans don’t rob themselves. What’s first up for today, anyone?’ ‘
There was an awkward silence, broken by Hanif saying, ‘Well, don’t look at me.’ Not that anybody had been, or was likely to, if they had any sense.
‘This is daft,’ said Zulfiqar. ‘I mean, we’ve been thieving and looting together, oh, I don’t know how long, we should all know the bloody ropes by now. It’s not exactly difficult, is it? We find someone with lots of money, we take it off him, and if he gets awkward we bash him.’
‘Yeah?’ Aziz retorted angrily. ‘All right, then, Clever Effendi, go on. Who’s
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