on the sunken doorstep, hammering. The flat emanated light and the Rocky Horror soundtrack. A door opened; a guy in a green singlet decorated with question marks hugged the marine, then looked over her tooled-up primates.
‘Sergeant Grit and His Gorilla Guerillas,’ said the Riddler, ‘ZC Comics, 1942 to 1948, revived 1964. Created by Zack Briscow...’
The platoon struck towards the kitchen, firing spark-guns. Sally was left behind. She didn’t know the Riddler by name but recognised him from the shop. She slipped off her coat and waited to be identified.
‘No,’ the Riddler said, shaking his head. ‘Afraid I don’t know you.’
‘Olive Oyl,’ she admitted.
‘Not a comic, really. Newspaper strip, Thimble Theatre, E.C. Segar.’
She dumped her coat on an overburdened stand. The Riddler moved on to a couple of hairy blokes tarted up as the Fat Slags. Dolar, the Wizard of Id, was hustled past by two eleven-year-old Amazon Queens, to a front room where music throbbed. He tried to stop but the Amazons, black armbands over their toffee-paper-jewelled Circlets of Power, pummelled him until he agreed to demonstrate the Time Warp.
On the wall, cards were strung; snowy demons and bobble-hatted dragons outnumbered robins and Santas. In a nook, Top Cat nodded as a beergutted Green Lantern explained where John Major had gone wrong. Sally didn’t know anyone, masked or not, but it didn’t matter. Blending in was a speciality.
In the kitchen, she added her Australian red to a bottle forest covering every surface. A trim, prematurely grey woman with a lightning-streak T-shirt over her leotard poured a polystyrene cup of rose. She introduced herself: Janet of Planet Janet fame, mother of the Amazon Queens, significant other of the Wizard of Id.
‘I’m Sally,’ she said, lost for self-description. ‘From the other side of the wood.’
Janet had heard about the Invasion. Sally found herself in one of those Dreaded Baby Conversations that sprang like traps. She didn’t want to run through the backstory. At Christmas, Connor’s parents, so tactful she was irritated with herself for squirming, had sent a hamper of presents. The DBC died. Janet saw to the Fat Slags. Shunted aside, Sally dipped into Kettle Chips. When pregnant, they had been her craving. Having worked up to a three-bag-a-day habit, she was tapering off.
‘Lois Lane?’ someone asked.
‘Olive Oyl,’ she said.
Neil Martin was perched on a tall stool, drinking steadily, bottle of Jack Daniels in his elbow-crook, long legs twisted under him. He was in civilian dress: baggy jumper hanging from wide shoulders, hair flopped over his forehead.
From her usual distance, he was a bear who’d recently been ill and lost weight. Hunched into the wind, knuckly hands shoved into corduroy pockets. His date of birth was July 31, 1959 but she thought of him as pushing forty. Unexpectedly close now, he was younger than she’d perceived. His longish face was unlined, heavy-lidded eyes unsurrounded even by the faint crinkles she increasingly saw in her own face. He looked a bit like one of her earliest crushes, David Warner in Morgan, A Suitable Case for Treatment.
‘You’re not in costume,’ she commented, needing something to say.
‘Yes I am, child,’ he replied. ‘I’m Cary Trenton.’
She frowned, missing the reference. These people were so deeply into their world of comics and science fiction and old television.
‘The Streak?’ he prompted.
Janet was vaguely dressed as the Streak, an American hero from the 1940s who was still running. Literally; he had superspeed.
‘Well...’ Neil opened his arms and looked down at himself. He’d sloshed Jack on his jumper.
It clicked and Sally couldn’t help shivering.
‘Cary Trenton,’ she remembered. ‘The Streak’s secret identity.’
Neil made a one-sided grin and tipped whiskey into it.
‘Got it in one, Olive.’
No matter how feeble Amy McQueen was, Cary Trenton was a loser she could (and did,
‘Sergeant Grit and His Gorilla Guerillas,’ said the Riddler, ‘ZC Comics, 1942 to 1948, revived 1964. Created by Zack Briscow...’
The platoon struck towards the kitchen, firing spark-guns. Sally was left behind. She didn’t know the Riddler by name but recognised him from the shop. She slipped off her coat and waited to be identified.
‘No,’ the Riddler said, shaking his head. ‘Afraid I don’t know you.’
‘Olive Oyl,’ she admitted.
‘Not a comic, really. Newspaper strip, Thimble Theatre, E.C. Segar.’
She dumped her coat on an overburdened stand. The Riddler moved on to a couple of hairy blokes tarted up as the Fat Slags. Dolar, the Wizard of Id, was hustled past by two eleven-year-old Amazon Queens, to a front room where music throbbed. He tried to stop but the Amazons, black armbands over their toffee-paper-jewelled Circlets of Power, pummelled him until he agreed to demonstrate the Time Warp.
On the wall, cards were strung; snowy demons and bobble-hatted dragons outnumbered robins and Santas. In a nook, Top Cat nodded as a beergutted Green Lantern explained where John Major had gone wrong. Sally didn’t know anyone, masked or not, but it didn’t matter. Blending in was a speciality.
In the kitchen, she added her Australian red to a bottle forest covering every surface. A trim, prematurely grey woman with a lightning-streak T-shirt over her leotard poured a polystyrene cup of rose. She introduced herself: Janet of Planet Janet fame, mother of the Amazon Queens, significant other of the Wizard of Id.
‘I’m Sally,’ she said, lost for self-description. ‘From the other side of the wood.’
Janet had heard about the Invasion. Sally found herself in one of those Dreaded Baby Conversations that sprang like traps. She didn’t want to run through the backstory. At Christmas, Connor’s parents, so tactful she was irritated with herself for squirming, had sent a hamper of presents. The DBC died. Janet saw to the Fat Slags. Shunted aside, Sally dipped into Kettle Chips. When pregnant, they had been her craving. Having worked up to a three-bag-a-day habit, she was tapering off.
‘Lois Lane?’ someone asked.
‘Olive Oyl,’ she said.
Neil Martin was perched on a tall stool, drinking steadily, bottle of Jack Daniels in his elbow-crook, long legs twisted under him. He was in civilian dress: baggy jumper hanging from wide shoulders, hair flopped over his forehead.
From her usual distance, he was a bear who’d recently been ill and lost weight. Hunched into the wind, knuckly hands shoved into corduroy pockets. His date of birth was July 31, 1959 but she thought of him as pushing forty. Unexpectedly close now, he was younger than she’d perceived. His longish face was unlined, heavy-lidded eyes unsurrounded even by the faint crinkles she increasingly saw in her own face. He looked a bit like one of her earliest crushes, David Warner in Morgan, A Suitable Case for Treatment.
‘You’re not in costume,’ she commented, needing something to say.
‘Yes I am, child,’ he replied. ‘I’m Cary Trenton.’
She frowned, missing the reference. These people were so deeply into their world of comics and science fiction and old television.
‘The Streak?’ he prompted.
Janet was vaguely dressed as the Streak, an American hero from the 1940s who was still running. Literally; he had superspeed.
‘Well...’ Neil opened his arms and looked down at himself. He’d sloshed Jack on his jumper.
It clicked and Sally couldn’t help shivering.
‘Cary Trenton,’ she remembered. ‘The Streak’s secret identity.’
Neil made a one-sided grin and tipped whiskey into it.
‘Got it in one, Olive.’
No matter how feeble Amy McQueen was, Cary Trenton was a loser she could (and did,
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