Squirt

Timothy Ley

c 2009 Timothy Ley, Mandy Emett-Ley, Miranda Ley & Alexander
Ley
To Mum (of course), for support, encouragement and occasional
apple crumble.

5
6
Author’s Note

This story is set in the nineteen eighties. Change of cus-

toms and lapse of time have made many of the ideas and
beliefs of the characters seem strange, or at least eccentric,
to those of us who live in a wiser, more civilised age. But
there is some value, I believe, in remembering a time when
the mightiest personal computer was the I.B.M. A.T., and
communists lurked behind the counter in every pharmacy.

7
8
1

“I think,” said Desmond Fisher, “that I’d better go now.”

It wasn’t that it was a bad party, because it wasn’t. Lots of people
were having fun. The music was good, the wine was good, the peanuts
were covered in honey (Desmond had eaten far more than his fair share
of those), and he hadn’t noticed anyone being rude to him. Nor did
he mind that all the good looking women at the party already had
boyfriends (although he still hoped, as shy young men often do, to
meet a single woman one day). Nor was it that the group sex Colin had
promised he would find at the party had failed to appear. Desmond,
being shy, was in fact a secret virgin, so if the group sex he had come
to the party to find had actually been there he would probably have
left much earlier.
No, the problem was that Desmond, when he went to a party, liked
to know a large number of the people there. Or, failing that, he liked
to know what a large number of the people there were talking about.
He hadn’t enjoyed this party at all.
“Aren’t you enjoying yourself then Desmond?” asked Cathy. It
was her party.
“Oh,” said Desmond, “yes, very much. I’m just a bit tired, that’s
all.”
“Half-past nine start on Monday morning?”
“Eight o’clock, actually.”
“Poor you. My first lecture’s at eleven.”
Cathy and the other people at her party were university students.

9
Desmond worked in a bank. He thought that this was causing a prob-
lem. He thought they all found banks boring.
But Desmond was wrong. If he had been an internationally famous
film star he would still have hated the party. Because all the people
at the party found Desmond dull.
Desmond, as all his friends would have admitted, was something of
an acquired taste. He was well meaning, considerate and kind hearted,
but it took time for people to appreciate these qualities. He was all
right when you got to know him, but boring as hell at first.
For Desmond had a problem. It was not a problem he was aware
of. Nor was it one he could have done anything about if he had been
aware of it. His problem was quite common, quite serious and a little
bit tragic. He had no sense of humour.
This was bad enough. But by this time next week things would be
even worse. This time next week he would be suffering from an even
more terrible problem. This time next week he would be in love.
Meanwhile, at the party, the lack of a sense of humour was the
problem. He’d had a go at a couple of conversations, but none of
them had worked. Cathy’s friends tended to start out being friendly
enough, then Desmond would run out of things to say, and the person
he was talking to would start looking around for an escape route.
Finally the person would say: “What are you studying then?”
To which Desmond would reply: “I’m not studying anything. I
work in a bank.”
“Oh, how interesting,” the person would say, then walk off and
talk to someone else.
Desmond was sure his bank was putting people off. He decided to
stick to parties where some of the other people worked in banks. Then
he would have someone to talk to.
He could, perhaps, have talked to Cathy, if he’d tried. Cathy
was someone he liked, but he didn’t know her well enough to feel
comfortable with her. She was really Colin’s friend, or rather, she was
someone Colin was keen to sleep with. Cathy thought Colin was a
‘sleaze’, and had told Desmond so more than once.
“Oh well,” said Cathy, “if you’re feeling tired, you’re feeling tired.

10
Pity Colin couldn’t come.”
“Yes. Oh well. Bye Cathy,” said Desmond.
Actually it was odd about Colin not coming. He and Colin shared
a flat, and it had been Colin’s idea for him to go to the party. Colin
had told him about it, had arranged for him to go, and had told him
that it would be just his sort of thing. Colin even said that Cathy’s
parties were full of beautiful, single women who were bound to find
even banks interesting, when they were drunk enough. Desmond had
become suddenly interested.
Of course Colin had been wrong, at least about there being single
women. As for how the guests might feel about banks when drunk,
Desmond had been unable to find out. All the guests were respectable,
and since half of them were driving and the other half were teetotallers
not one of them was even slightly drunk.
“Wait,” said Cathy, “don’t go yet. You haven’t met Roz. You
can’t go until you’ve met Roz.”
Could this be a young woman without a boyfriend?
Cathy took Desmond to where an attractive young woman was
standing and talking to two young men.
“Roz,” said Cathy, “this is Desmond.”
“Hi,” said Desmond.
Roz smiled dazzlingly. “Hello!” she said. “I haven’t seen you
before. You’re probably the only person in the room who hasn’t seen
my badge yet.”
“What badge?” said Desmond.
One of the young men wandered off , but the other remained. He
wanted Roz to himself, but he had talked to Desmond earlier in the
evening and knew that he didn’t constitute serious competition. For
one thing he was pretty sure that Desmond would be too stupid to
express the slightest bit of interest in the badge Roz had been showing
to people all evening.
“Do you like my badge?” Roz asked Desmond, showing him a little
tin brooch pinned to her lapel.
Desmond thought it looked stupid. “Yes,” he said.
“I got it at Glastonbury.”

11
 “Oh.”
“In England.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you want to ask what it is?”
“What is it?”
“It’s a Chalice Well badge. It shows the Chalice Well. At Glaston-
bury.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you think that’s interesting?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what the Chalice Well is?”
“Er, no.”
Roz, during this exchange, had gradually smiled less and less. At
last she asked the fatal question.
“What are you studying then?”
Now Desmond knew he’d blown it. His last chance that evening
to find true love gone up in smoke. She had asked the question that
would doom him.
“I’m not studying anything,” said Desmond for about the tenth
time that evening. “I work in a bank.”
“Really?” said Roz. “I used to work in a bank!”
Desmond’s heart leapt. Hope at last!
“Yes,” said Roz, “I met my boyfriend in a bank. He’s not here
tonight, of course.”
Despair. Desmond left the party.

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2

It was very important to Miranda Catarini to look her best that night.
But as she sat at her dressing table applying her make-up she was
convinced that she was failing dismally.
She was a very pretty young woman, small and blond, with a pleas-
ant, open face and big, blue eyes. Yet somehow during the last twenty-
one years she had managed to develop into a young woman with al-
most no self-confidence at all. For this reason she was taking far more
trouble over her make-up than she could possibly need to.
It was probably the size of her eyes that had been her undoing.
When she was small her older brother had teased her about them,
saying she looked like Marty Feldman. Miranda had discovered at
an early age who Marty Feldman was. In spite of having a highly
developed sense of humour Miranda didn’t find her brother funny at
all.
As well as her eyes Miranda had a few freckles at the top of her
nose. These were also very attractive, but her brother had given her
hell about them too.
Miranda’s lack of self-confidence had led to her having Morris for a
boyfriend. Morris was a creep, something Miranda hadn’t spotted yet.
What made Morris a creep was not his looks, for he was very good
looking, nor his sense of humour, for everyone found him witty and
entertaining. What made him a creep was his utter disregard for other
people. He wasn’t exactly insensitive, for he generally knew exactly
how the people around him were feeling. He was a creep because he

13
used this knowledge exclusively to his own advantage.
For example, Miranda, although shrewd enough to avoid falling
in love with most of the other men she’d ever met, was in love with
Morris. Perhaps Morris was even in love with Miranda, in his way. At
least he found her extremely attractive, and enjoyed sleeping with her
just as much as he enjoyed sleeping with the other girlfriends Miranda
didn’t know about. What illustrates how evil Morris was is the way
he first made Miranda fall for him.
They originally met at a party. Morris hadn’t wanted to end up
talking to Miranda, largely because he suspected that anyone as good
looking as her would not be easy to pick up. Normally Morris would
have gone out of his way to secure a young woman like Miranda, but
on that particular night he was in too much of a hurry. He was looking
out for someone easier.
But Morris did end up talking to her. He hadn’t meant to. It
was just something that happened, as these things will at parties, and
something he at first wanted to stop happening. They were talking
about personality, and ways in which people hide their feelings. He
said something about eyes being the windows of the soul. It wasn’t a
very clever sort of thing to say, but it was a matter of principle with
Morris that whenever he ended up talking to a woman he had already
decided not to sleep with he never wasted creative energy by saying
anything original.
So all he said was: “The eyes are the windows of the soul.”
“Oh no,” said Miranda, “don’t talk to me about eyes. Mine are
awful, much too large. My brother says they make me look like Marty
Feldman. Don’t you hate my eyes?”
Now a less cunning or less callous man than Morris would have
taken this as a cue for a compliment. But Morris was not such a man.
Miranda, he realised, didn’t know how attractive she was. She might
do for him after all.
“Not hate, as such,” said Morris, “they’re hyperthyroid and a bit
odd, but I’ve seen worse.”
“Hyperthyroid?” said Miranda. “Just my luck. Not only ugly
eyes, but ones with a medical term to describe them. So much for the

14
windows to my soul!”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Morris. “Some men don’t mind
women with hyperthyroid eyes.”
Miranda smiled. “You’re very kind,” she said, and Morris realised
with joy that she meant it.
“Can I get you another drink?” he said.
“Yes please,” said Miranda, “more chardonnay. You know, it’s so
nice to meet an honest man for a change. Normally at parties you
can’t talk to a man for more than five minutes before he starts paying
you false compliments and trying to flatter you into sleeping with him.
It’s so disappointing to discover that he’s not the least bit interested
in you as a person.”
Morris nodded and looked very understanding.
He thought she had the sexiest body he’d seen all evening. After
they had slept together that night he made a major decision. He
decided he was still going to be there in the morning. He had found
the girl of his dreams at last, and there was only one thing for him to
do. He would have to add her to his list of regulars.
That had been some months ago now, and Miranda was still as
much in love with Morris as ever. Of course Morris was growing a
little bored by this stage, but not so bored that he didn’t want to keep
his options open. For this reason he had invited her to the Young
Liberals ball that night. And for this reason she wanted to look her
best.

15
16
3

William Pratt was going home. He did not know that, as a result of
what would happen to him that very evening, he would go out the
following Thursday to buy a water pistol.
Nor did Maria Pratt know that, as a result of her actions, her
husband would decide to buy a water pistol. This hardly matters
because Maria Pratt wouldn’t have cared even if she had known.
All she cared about was that her husband had come home drunk.
Again.
The real problem, from his wife’s point of view, was that William
Pratt suffered from a complete lack of ambition. His occupation, for
example, was that of shopping trolley collector. He was forty years old,
and what he did all day was drive a small tractor around a shopping
centre car park. His job was not altogether without power, he kept
telling her. His tractor pulled a cart, and on the cart were young
men who would run around the car park collecting the trolleys that
the shops’ customers had abandoned. William Pratt decided which
shopping trolleys these young men would collect.
As far as Maria Pratt was concerned her husband’s job was stupid.
It would be a tolerable job for a teenager out to earn some extra pocket
money, but not for a tall, distinguished looking man of forty. If he was
not more assertive with his employers, Maria thought, he would end
up driving that tractor for ever. So she told him to be more assertive
and competitive.
Unfortunately for William, who couldn’t see anything wrong with

17
the idea of driving the tractor for ever, he was not very good at being
assertive and competitive at work. He was quite good at being com-
petitive in the pub after work, when he would challenge all the men
at the bar to a drinking competition. But he couldn’t seem to apply
the same degree of assertiveness at work, where it might possibly win
him a pay rise or a promotion. His brother-in-law, Aristid, said that
the problem was to do with what he called ‘delayed action aggression’.
William had great respect for his brother-in-law, and always bowed to
his superior wisdom.
Another interesting thing about William was that while winning
drinking competitions he never seemed to become drunk. Only after
he had left the pub and returned home to Maria would he fall over, or
throw up, or do something even more embarrassing. As well as suffer-
ing from delayed action aggression he seemed to suffer from delayed
action intoxication.
Thus it was that William Pratt came home drunk. Again.
And as he fell into the rose bushes, and discovered once more that
roses have thorns, a chain of events was set in motion that would lead,
ultimately, to him buying a water pistol.
“William Pratt, is that you?” said Maria from inside the house.
He tried to separate himself from the rose bushes. “Yes dear,” he
said, speaking carefully so that his words would not be slurred, and
also to make sure they were the words they were supposed to be.
“Come inside at once William Pratt.”
“Yes dear. These roses are lovely. You have done a very good job
on them. Ow!”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Aargh!”
Maria’s head appeared through the window above the rose bushes.
“My roses! Get out of them at once!”
“Yes dear. I’m jush shrying. I mean, I’m just trying.”
“William Pratt, you’re drunk and you’re sitting in my roses. Get
out of them. Now.”
“Yes dear. Er, could you help me, perhaps? I seem to have forgot-
ten how to stand up, and I am also in terrible pain.”

18
 It then occurred to William that he would very much like to throw
up. So he did, on the roses.
Fortunately, Maria did not see this. She was making her way round
from the window to the door, in order to help him up. When she
arrived he smiled at her.
“Hello dear,” he said, “have you had a nice day?”
“No. Did you have a word with Mr Blenkham, about your salary?”
“Well dear, I was going to. But Mr Blenkham was very busy. I
will speak with him tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Then I will speak with him the day after tomorrow.”
“What if he’s busy the day after tomorrow?”
William thought about this. “Then I will speak with him the day
after the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh William!”
“I did, however, win fifty dollars at the pub afterwards.”
William reached into his pocket and produced the fifty dollars. He
handed the money to Maria, then threw up in her roses again.
Maria Pratt was not a harsh or intolerant woman. Very few things
her husband did could make her speechless with rage. One of those
things was winning money in drinking competitions. Another was
being sick in her roses.
Maria Pratt dropped the fifty dollars in disgust.
“William Pratt,” she said, “you are a failure, and I never want to
see you again.”
“Oh,” said William.
“How could you do this to me? What sort of life are you giving
me?”
“I will talk to Mr Blenkham on Monday, dear. I promise.”
“And why are you always drunk?”
“I am not always drunk. It’s just something that seems to happen
to me shortly after I leave the pub in the evenings.”
“Oh you . . . just go away. I’m not having anything more to do with
you.”
“Sorry dear?”

19
 “It’s finished, William. Over. Done. Goodbye.”
Maria turned to go back into the house. William tried to rise and
follow her, but fell over again. At least he was now on the path rather
than in the roses.
“Maria,” he said, “have I done something to annoy you?”
“Go away William.”
“Perhaps I should buy you a flower, dear. Would that help?”
“A flower?”
“Yes. A red one, perhaps?”
“You mean like the ones you just sat in and ruined?”
“Ah. Is that what’s wrong dear?”
“Go away William.”
Maria Pratt went back into her house and locked the door. She
also bolted the door. This meant that when William finally stumbled
to his feet and reached the door he was quite unable to get in. This
was especially irritating for him because he had been quite clever in
getting the key into the lock and turning it.
William Pratt knocked quietly on the door of his house. “May I
come in, dear?” he said.
“Go away William,” said his wife from inside.
“Please,” said William.
His wife didn’t answer.
“Are you still there dear?” said William.
Still his wife did not answer.
“Dear?”
No answer.
He sighed. There would be no bed for him at home that night. He
would have to go and stay with his brother-in-law, Aristid.
Maria didn’t approve of Aristid, even though he was her brother.
She was of the opinion that he was a little too strange for his own good.
William liked him though. Aristid was one of the few people who
appreciated the problems associated with delayed action aggression.
As William stumbled away from his house and down the street,
he began to feel a slight sense of indignation. What, he thought to
himself, did roses matter when compared to his happiness? Why did

20
she care more for what he had done to them than for what the thorny
little horrors had done to him? He decided that he hated roses. He was
almost inclined to turn round, return to his garden and rip the horrid
things out of the ground once and for all. But he kept on walking.
The fifty dollars began to annoy him too. It was good money,
fifty spendable dollars. Wasn’t money the one thing she was always
accusing him of not having enough of? Yet she threw it back in his face,
as if it were something sordid and unpleasant. He couldn’t understand
it at all.
Finally, as if all this was not enough, she had locked him out of his
own house. She had bolted the door from the inside. His house, a house
he had paid for, partly with money won in drinking competitions. It
was monstrous.
He knocked on the door of his brother-in-law’s house.
“Lock me out?” said William, miserably. “Why does she keep
locking me out? I wish I knew.”
“Good evening William,” said Aristid, who had just opened the
door. “Maria has locked you out again, has she?”

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22
4

Along the dark street walked Desmond Fisher. The flat he shared with
Colin was twenty minutes walk away from Cathy’s place, and he was
almost there. His complete (if predictable) failure to find even one
unattached girl to talk to at the party had left him feeling depressed
and lonely. Had he been a fan of Shakespeare he might have com-
mented on how weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seemed to him all
the uses of this world. But he was not a fan of Shakespeare. He was
a lonely young man with no sense of humour who worked in a bank.
As he walked along the ill-lit streets of a suburb far too fashionable
for his salary to comfortably pay the rent in, he thought about his ideal
woman. This was not someone he had ever met, just someone he would
like to. She was probably not even real. She was very patient, dark
haired, reasonably good looking, smiled a lot, worked in a bank and
was terribly interested in Star Wars films rather than Shakespeare.
Desmond, as previously mentioned, was not a fan of Shakespeare.
Desmond wondered why this dream girl never showed up at any of
the parties he went to.
As he entered the less fashionable parts of his suburb and wandered
past crumbling cement walls towards his flat he thought about himself
and his friend Colin, and how different they both were. Colin was tall,
dark and had a devil-may-care attitude to life. Desmond was shortish,
with pale brown hair and had no sense of humour (or, as he put it, had
a serious and thoughtful personality). There was also a difference in
the number of women they had. Colin, it seemed, had a new woman

23
every week or so, while Desmond had no woman at all.
This difference in degrees of success with women sometimes made
Desmond a little bitter. It wasn’t that he was jealous of Colin, for Colin
was a friend and he never felt jealous of his friends. The problem was
that Colin had developed a system.
When Desmond first moved up from the country to work in the
bank he found the city to be an awe inspiring place. It was not so
much the size that worried him, nor the ridiculously large number of
people. It was the noise. Desmond found that shortly after moving
into the city he had completely forgotten what quiet sounded like.
He needed a place to live, so he answered an advertisement in the
newspaper. The advertisement sought someone to share a small flat
in a rather fashionable part of town. As a result of answering the
advertisement he met Colin.
“Hi,” said Colin, “I’m Colin.”
“Hello,” said Desmond, “I’m Desmond.”
Desmond entered Colin’s flat for the first time to size the place
up. He needed a flat-mate who would be either good company or not
there, depending on how he felt at the time. Colin seemed all right to
him at first. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and brown eyes. He
also had a rather crooked smile which made him look friendlier than
a more conventional one would have done. Above all, he seemed to
have the right ideas about privacy.
“You know how it is,” said Colin, “when you don’t, for some reason,
want to have a guy about, then, well, you get pretty uptight if you’ve
got your flat-mate wandering around. You know? So, I guess, the best
sort of flat-mate is one who agrees not to be around at times like that.
Do you agree? I mean, when you don’t want me around, I shouldn’t be
around, and when I don’t want you around, you shouldn’t be around.”
“Yes,” said Desmond, “I agree with that. Sometimes you just want
to be alone.”
So Colin and Desmond agreed to share the flat. Desmond was
pleased to have found such a sensitive and understanding young man
to share with.
Desmond moved in. His few small suitcases fitted easily into the

24
room which was to be his. Colin showed him how to use the toaster,
the micro-wave, the washing machine, the television, the stereo and
all the other gadgets in the flat. Colin was the sort of man who didn’t
mind sharing his gadgets with others. Where electronic gadgets were
concerned his generosity knew no bounds. It seemed to Desmond that
this was further proof of his good nature.
The only gadget Desmond owned was a small electric pencil sharp-
ener, but he at once gave Colin free access to it.
From his frost free fridge Colin took two beers and gave one to
Desmond. Desmond thanked him, and drank his slowly. Sharing a
flat with Colin, Desmond thought, would enable him to feel at home
in the city at last.
While drinking his beer he sat in one corner of Colin’s long, white
sofa. It was the only item of furniture in the main room of Colin’s
sparse flat. The other rooms were two small bedrooms, a small bath-
room and a small kitchen. There wasn’t a lot of furniture (after paying
for the rent and the gadgets Colin didn’t have much left for furniture)
but it was comfortable. He had only known Colin for a few days, but
already he liked him. This was a man, he thought, who would be a
friend as well as a flat-mate. Then Colin explained his system.
“I have a system,” he said, handing Desmond another beer.
“A system?”
“Yes. We talked about it before you moved in. It’s a system for
what to do if you’ve got a girl in the flat and you don’t want your
flat-mate barging in and spoiling everything.”
“Oh,” said Desmond.
“Yeah. If you bring a bird home and I’m not already here, just put
this ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door.”
Colin held up a laminated card with a hook on one end. On one
side of the card was written ‘Do not disturb’, and on the other ‘Please
clean the room’.
“See?” said Colin. “I stole it from a hotel in America. You put
this on the door handle if you, er, how was it you put it? If you ‘just
want to be alone’,” Colin grinned and winked, “and I won’t come in.
I’ll stay the night with a friend.”

25
 Desmond was confused. “Oh,” he said, “thanks.”
“That’s okay,” said Colin. “And of course if I’ve got a girl here
and I think my chances are good I’ll just stick the sign on the door
and you’ll know to stay the night with a friend.”
That, from Desmond’s point of view, was the problem with Colin.
There were many things to like about him. He was friendly, cheerful,
and open-handed with beer and gadgetry. But being tall, dark, thin
and handsome as well, it was hardly any surprise that he managed to
attract so many women into his bed. Thus it was hardly any surprise
that Desmond often came home after a hard day at work to find a ‘Do
not disturb’ sign hanging on the door of the flat.
There were several reasons why this wasn’t fair on Desmond. Firstly,
he didn’t have a girlfriend, so he never got an opportunity to use the
sign himself. Sometimes when he got home from work before Colin he
felt tempted to put the sign out anyway, but he never did. He was
too honest. He could never put the sign out under false pretences.
Secondly he didn’t have any friends he could spend the night with.
Faced with Colin’s ‘Do not disturb sign’ he had no alternative but to
sleep on the stairs.
Colin’s flat was on the second floor of a large building, and the
concrete stairs were ill-lit and uncarpeted. But Desmond was quite
used to sleeping on them by now. They held no new terrors for him.
So as he wandered up these stairs again, tired and miserable after
Cathy’s party, he was hardly surprised to see Colin’s sign on the door.
Why else should Colin have sent him off to a party without going
himself?
He sighed deeply and curled up on the stairs to sleep. If he had
known that very soon he would be in love he would have made the
most of this moment of comparative happiness. But he did not know
this. He thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
He had not yet met Miranda Catarini.

26
5

A few miles east of where Desmond Fisher was sleeping on the stairs
Miranda Catarini was wearing a very expensive cream coloured strap-
less ball gown and looking like an anxious fairy-tale princess. She had
been waiting now for three hours, and there was still no sign of Morris.
She sat on her bed and worried about him. Where was he? What
had happened to him? Was he all right? Had he simply forgotten?
Her flat was in an even more fashionable part of town than Des-
mond’s, so, since she didn’t earn a lot more than him, it had to be a
lot smaller. It had one large bedroom (hers), one small bedroom (her
flat-mate had recently moved out, and she hadn’t found a replace-
ment), one very small living room, one small bathroom and a small
kitchen. She had more furniture than Desmond and Colin, but fewer
gadgets. Unless she found a new flat-mate soon she would have to
move out. She wanted to move in with Morris, but Morris said that
living together would stifle their independence. She didn’t agree with
this, but she hid her feelings because she loved Morris so much.
As a matter of fact, she worked for the same banking corporation
as Desmond. She worked in a different part of town, in the Electronic
Data Processing (EDP) division. Next week, however, she would not
be working in the main bank building as she usually did. Next week
she would be part of a team visiting various bank branches to promote
and test a new computer system designed to help bank customers to
open cheque accounts. Next week she would be assigned to one of
those branches. She would have to pretend to know far more about

27
computers than she really did. She would have to demonstrate a sys-
tem she didn’t know much about to people who would be watching
eagerly for any mistake she might make.
She felt very nervous. The more she thought about the terrible
unknown that constituted next week the more nervous she became.
What she really needed was to go out to the ball with Morris and
have her mind taken off things. Instead, Morris’s failure to turn up
was concentrating her mind on things wonderfully.
Of course she had told him how nervous she was. He simply told
her that if she didn’t like working with computers she should resign,
and if she didn’t intend to resign she should stop whinging. Miranda
loved Morris very much, but she was no longer under any illusions
about how understanding he was.
Once more she tried to phone him. Once more his phone went
unanswered. She suspected that he had probably just forgotten about
the ball and gone out somewhere else. But she tried not to think
those thoughts. If, in fact, Morris was lying in a gutter somewhere
after having been mugged, stabbed, shot and run over by a Holden,
she would feel awfully guilty for having doubted him.
Her mind was now divided between two possible courses of action.
She could fret about the non-appearance of Morris, or she could worry
herself into a state of extreme nervous tension by thinking about work
next week.
Miranda was not looking forward to Monday morning. She would
report, first thing, to the main bank building where Mr Jameson would
tell her how to behave when dealing with branch staff and customers,
for Miranda would be promoting Mr Jameson’s new computer system
to members of the public as well as to branch level employees of the
bank.
She wondered what sort of impression she was going to make on
the staff of the branch assigned to her. Not a good one, she suspected.
They would be busy actually running the bank, while she would just
be standing around waiting for someone to use a computer. And they
would know that she was earning more money than them for doing so.
She was faced with a choice between worrying about Monday or

28
worrying about Morris. So she opted for a third choice and lay down
on her bedclothes to be depressed. She should, no doubt, have taken
her dress off first, but it is very difficult to do being depressed properly
if you stop to make sensible plans about it first. So she lay full length,
and fully dressed, on her bed and felt miserable. She didn’t feel quite
miserable enough to cry, but she felt a lot more miserable than she
would have done if Morris had turned up to take her to the ball.
After half an hour of being depressed she fell asleep.
Her sleep was deep and dreamless. She slept for hours, the creases
in her ball gown growing deeper and more interesting as she did so.
At one o’clock in the morning she woke up and glanced vaguely at
the luminous hands of her alarm clock. Suddenly she sat bolt upright.
It was one o’clock and she still hadn’t heard from Morris. Quickly
she rolled over towards the telephone extension. Her hand fumbled for
the switch to her bedside lamp, and eventually she could see again.
There was sleep in her eyes, but she could see the phone well enough
to dial Morris’s number.
She heard the phone ring. She heard it being answered. Morris’s
voice spoke to her at last.
“Yes, what?” it said.
“Morris?” said Miranda.
“Miranda?” said Morris. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. What
are you phoning me for?”
“Are you all right? Where were you this evening?”
“I was at the Young Liberals’ Ball. You must have known I was
going.”
“I thought you were going to take me! You said you would.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. Last week. You said you’d pick me up at seven.”
“I thought you were busy tonight. I thought on Thursday you said
you were going out tonight.”
“I said we were going out. To the ball.”
“Oh, I see. Sorry, but you should have reminded me.”
“You went without me!”

29
 “Look, I said I was sorry. What do you think you’re doing phoning
me up at one o’clock in the morning anyway?”
“Who did you take to the ball? How could you possibly have
forgotten to take me?”
“Miranda, it’s one o’clock in the morning.”
“How could you forget?”
“Easy. You didn’t remind me. Now hang up and go to sleep. Jesus,
you’d think we were married or something the way you go on.”
“Oh Morris!”
“Look stop it Miranda. You’re being too possessive. If you’re
going to be this possessive at one o’clock in the morning I think you’ll
probably ruin our relationship. So just have a bit of concern for my
feelings, will you.”
“Your feelings?”
“Or do you want to ruin our relationship? You’re always saying
you love me, but what you really mean is you want me running around
after you like some feeble minded slave boy.”
“What?”
“Do you want to ruin our relationship or don’t you?”
“No. Of course not. I just wanted to see you, that’s all . . . ”
“Well if you keep ringing me up at one o’clock in the morning you
will ruin our relationship. If you really do want to see me again you’ve
got a funny way of showing it.”
“Oh Morris, I’m sorry. I was worried about you . . . ”
“God Miranda, don’t be pathetic. Go to sleep. Good night.”
“Wait Morris, will I see you tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. You know how difficult it is for me to make
plans at one o’clock in the morning.”
“Please. Come to lunch. I’ll make your favourite.”
“Maybe. Good night Miranda.”
Morris hung up. Miranda said good night to the engaged signal,
then hung up too. She turned her light out and went back to sleep.
She didn’t bother to take her ball gown off.
She’d had better nights.

30
6

On Sunday morning William Pratt woke up with a mouth made of

pebble-dash concrete and a head that seemed to have caved in at some
stage during the night. There was also far too much light finding its
way in from beyond the curtains.
He was not in his own bed. Had Maria locked him out again, he
wondered? Had she, once again, declared a general desire never to see
him again? Memory came flooding back, causing an intense pain just
behind his eyes.
He groaned, quietly.
The room he was in was the guest room of Aristid’s little wooden
house. The paint on the house was crumbling and the garden over-
grown, but inside the house it was remarkably clean and tidy. This
room was small, with only a single bed and a wardrobe, but it was
still more comfortable to sleep in than Maria Pratt’s rose bushes.
There was a gentle knocking on the door of the room, and William
thought his head would explode with the sound. Into the room stepped
his brother-in-law, Aristid, smiling tolerantly.
“Good morning William,” said Aristid, “I have made you a mug
of tea.”
Aristid was dressed already in black trousers, white shirt and dark
blue tie. Aristid always overdressed for the weekend. He was a man
of only average height, which made him considerably shorter than
William. He had jet black hair which he always wore plastered to his
head with hair oil. His eyes were piercing and small, and when he

31
smiled (which he did often) his mouth formed the shape of a ‘v’ rather
than a ‘u’. A smile like that when combined with eyes like those often
served to make people who met Aristid feel very nervous. His voice
had a middle European lilt to it, and he always spoke with a slow
politeness which would cause anyone who hadn’t already succumbed
to his eyes and his smile to break into a cold sweat.
But William liked Aristid anyway. He thought his brother-in-law
was both wise and profound.
“Hello Aristid,” croaked William. “Thank you for letting me stay.
Thank you also for the tea.”
William took the mug of tea from Aristid’s hand and sipped it
gratefully.
Aristid smiled. “Do not mention it, my dear brother-in-law,” he
said. “You know that my house is always open to you. Stay as long
as you wish.”
“You are very kind, Aristid. I wonder if I might ask you for some
headache tablets?”
“Feeling unwell? I will get you the tablets.”
Aristid left for the tablets and William suppressed a moan. He
was sure that his skull was too tight this morning, but how could he
loosen it? Any movement caused something sharp and heavy to roll
around the most sensitive areas of his brain. Most mornings at about
this time he decided to give up drinking forever. He did it again as
Aristid walked in with the headache tablets.
“Here you are, William,” said Aristid, handing him the tablets.
“Swallow these and you will soon feel quite recovered.”
William swallowed. He sipped more tea to make the swallowing
easier.
“Now,” said Aristid, “how long will you wish to stay? Do you
think Maria will soon forgive you?”
“It is difficult to say. She did seem rather angry when she bolted
me out of the house.”
“She has been angry before. Did you give her cause to be angry?”
“Not at all. On the contrary, I gave her fifty dollars. It was hard
earned as well. I worked hard for that fifty dollars.”

32
 “I’m sure you did.”
“This week we have a new tractor at work. It is powerful enough to
pull twice as many trolleys as the old one. Now it is possible to collect
all the shopping trolleys from around the car park in one journey
rather than two. However, until yesterday we had some difficulty
driving it. The steering wheel is adjustable, and no one realised this.
Its positioning was not satisfactory. It made turning the machine
difficult. But once I had discovered how to alter the position all was
well. Steering wheel positioning is of great importance in a job like
mine.”
“It is skilled work, William. Craftsmanship is required.”
“It is, Aristid, it is indeed. A lot of young people starting out in
the profession look upon it as mere manual labour, a foolish means
of occupying time. They fail to appreciate the skills required, or the
enormous responsibilities the work involves.”
“Responsibilities indeed. To manoeuvre so many trolleys between
so many parked cars, cars belonging to potential customers. Why, the
possible damage . . . ”
“That is a problem, no doubt Aristid, but I think you fail to un-
derstand the point.”
“Forgive me, my dear William, for I have little experience of such
things.”
“Shopping trolley management is an art, and all art involves sac-
rifice. Of course our patrons’ vehicles are valuable to us, but we need
not be overly concerned to protect them. The aisles in our car park
are wide, and the tractor’s speed is not great. Besides, our patrons are
advised by signs before they enter our car park that the management
takes no responsibility for loss or damages sustained by vehicles whilst
on the premises. No, our responsibility is to our art. We do not seek
to harm our patrons’ vehicles, but their protection is not the criterion
by which our success is judged. It is like a surgeon. Of course he hopes
that his patient survives the operation, but it is not, fundamentally,
what matters.”
“I begin to see. The surgeon cares more for the neatness of his
incisions. . . ”

33
 “Precisely Aristid. Provided he has not actually caused his pa-
tient’s death he cares not whether that patient survives. What mat-
ters to him, and what determines his reputation, is how beautifully
the operation is performed. So it is that, in the field of shopping trol-
ley management, the mathematical precision with which we divide up
the car park prior to setting out in our tractor matters more than the
damage caused to our patrons’ vehicles, or even than the number of
trolleys actually collected. It is the path you choose around the car
park, the way the tractor is driven, the way it is guided around the
car park in tune with mathematical precision, artistically right, that
matters. When I was a younger man the elegant simplicity of the
path I followed around the car park was enough to bring tears to my
superiors’ eyes.”
“Your soul is one of great beauty, William. I am humbled by the
sensitivity of your nature.”
“Yet now, with our new tractor able, as it is, to pull twice the
number of trolleys, a new path is needed. The old one, designed for
a simpler type of tractor, no longer feels right. Yet the young men
I work with do not appreciate this. They cannot see that we have a
duty to our art to discover a new path.”
“One whose mathematical form is better suited to the new trac-
tor?”
“Yes, Aristid, yes. The mathematical and the artistic are more
nearly related than people think, and nowhere is this relationship more
clearly seen than in the management of shopping trolleys.”
“So you have been working hard on designing a new path?”
“I have. All last week. As well as discovering how the steering
wheel may best be adjusted for driving comfort, I succeeded in devising
a new path around the car park that enables the new tractor to collect
its trolleys with previously undreamed of elegance and beauty.”
“Oh William! I am so proud of you.”
“Thank you Aristid. I call it my algorithm. I employed it for the
first time yesterday morning, and the other driver, Mr Wymer, was
most impressed.”
“And for this you were awarded an extra fifty dollars?”

34
 “Well, no. Not for that.”
“Ah,” said Aristid. “I thought that might be the case,”
“No, in fact he said that, although artistically preferable, my path
was not so special as I seemed to think it was. In fact, in discussing it
between themselves, Mr Wymer and the other young men who work
with us made my devotion to our art a subject of considerable mirth.”
“They laughed at you?”
“Yes Aristid. They laughed at me.”
“Alas! True visionaries are always laughed at by lesser men, Will-
iam.”
“Indeed, and of course I am aware of that fact. At first I treated
their contempt philosophically, thinking that future ages would re-
member me as a pioneer of my art while their names would be utterly
forgotten. But later, their scorn began to hurt. I fear I grew rather
angry with them. I began to desire a test, a demonstration to prove
at once that my worth was as great as theirs.”
“Tell me William, when did this desire take hold of you?”
“About half an hour after work. In the pub.”
“And the test you devised to demonstrate your greater artistic
worth? Was it, perhaps, a drinking competition?”
“Alas Aristid, I fear it was.”
“Hm,” said Aristid, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
“I was most impressive,” said William, “I challenged them not in
a group, but singly. One after the other.”
“And won?”
“Of course.”
“My goodness. That certainly demonstrates something.”
“Artistic worth?”
“Possibly, William, possibly. Tell me, this fifty dollars that you
gave Maria, did you win that in the drinking competition?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And did you tell Maria where you got it from?”
“Of course. Our marriage is based upon total honesty.”
“Hm. That could have been your mistake. I fear that my sister
might not altogether approve of this means of making money.”

35
 “You think that is why she threw the money back in my face?”
“It may well be.”
“Ah. Then that could be in part why she is angry with me.”
Aristid smiled sadly. “In part, William?”
“Yes. She may also have been somewhat annoyed by my appear-
ance upon arriving home.”
“Was something wrong with your appearance upon arriving home?”
“I might, possibly, have seemed a little drunk. I was not drunk
in the pub, during the drinking competition, but I did begin to feel
rather unwell as I went home. I fear that I fell over in Maria’s roses.
She is fond of her roses.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And of course, shortly after falling over in them I was violently ill
on them. This also may have upset her.”
“Ah. Yes. I can see how that might possibly be a source of annoy-
ance.”
“I begin to think,” said William, “that these circumstances may
have combined to make her rather more angry with me than she would
otherwise have been.”
“Oh? Would she have been angry with you otherwise?”
“I fear so.”
Aristid sat down in the chair beside William’s bed. He placed a
comforting hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder.
“Tell me,” he said, “why she would otherwise have been angry with
you.”
“Well,” said William, “before I went to work yesterday morning I
promised Maria that I would speak to Mr Blenkham about my salary.
Maria feels it is inadequate, you know.”
“Did you speak to this Mr Blenkham?”
“Well, no. I approached his office, and the door was slightly open.
Looking in I saw that he was speaking on the telephone. He seemed
extremely busy. I decided it would be best not to trouble him at that
moment.”
“So you have not spoken to him?”
“No.”

36
 “And you fear Maria would not have understood your failure in
this regard?”
“I fear she would not. I believe Maria feels I am not assertive
enough with Mr Blenkham. I cannot understand this. She must know
that I have often beaten him in drinking competitions.”
Aristid nodded sympathetically. William looked towards him with
hope. From the furrows in his brow it was clear that his brother-in-law
was thinking deeply on the matter. William drank the last drops of
his tea and wondered what plan the brilliant (if slightly warped) mind
of Aristid would evolve to help him. In spite of his several artistic
triumphs in the field of shopping trolley management, William Pratt
was not very good at coping with real life. Another indication of his
failure to understand the world around him was the absolute trust he
placed in the genius of Aristid.
“I think,” said Aristid, “that in spite of your many artistic tri-
umphs in the field, shopping trolley management is not a career in
which you can make a future for yourself. Do you agree?”
“I don’t know. Certainly that is Maria’s opinion.”
Aristid smiled and stared deep into William’s eyes. “Then William,
my dear brother-in-law, I feel it is time that you bought yourself a
water pistol.”
And with that Aristid left the room to prepare breakfast.

37
38
7

“Morning Desmond,” said Colin.

Desmond had a pain in his head. It was caused by the rusty iron
railing pressing against the back of his neck.
He was lying on the concrete stairs outside his flat and using the
iron railing as a pillow. He felt sweaty and cold at the same time, and
very thirsty. Being forced to sleep on those wretched concrete stairs
was not something Desmond enjoyed. Still, it was Colin’s flat.
The stairs were dusty and smelt of decay. Standing above him
Desmond could see Colin and a shortish, plumpish, attractive looking
girl with curly fair hair. She looked amused. In fact, she looked as if
she was trying very hard not to giggle. Colin was smiling a bit too.
“Desmond,” said Colin, “this is Angie. Angie, this is Desmond.”
Desmond stood up to shake the girl’s hand. He had gone to the
party the night before in a jacket and tie. These both looked rather
crumpled now. So did his short brown hair.
“How do you do?” said Desmond.
Without saying anything the girl shook Desmond’s hand. But her
smile grew broader even as she tried to keep her mouth closed.
Colin grinned. “Did you have a good night Des?” he asked, and
the girl burst out laughing.
It was hard for Desmond to know quite what to say, so he just
stood there looking as serious as possible. The girl laughed again.
“I’m sorry,” she said, giggling mercilessly. “Really. Um, are you
Colin’s professional doormat or something?”

39
 Desmond didn’t understand the question. “Sorry?” he said.
“He’s not a doormat,” Colin said. “He’s just sleeping out here until
we have a catflap put in the front door.”
Desmond was still baffled. “Catflap?” he said.
This was too much for the girl, who burst into positive hysterics.
Colin, laughing too, tried to calm her down.
Her laughter temporarily subsiding, the girl shook Desmond’s hand
again. “It’s been really, er, interesting meeting you,” she said. Then
another fit of the giggles overtook her.
Colin took her down the stairs to the street, and Desmond wan-
dered wearily into the flat. He felt miserable. He felt as if the world
had ended. Again.
The flat was sparsely furnished. There was no carpet, and the
telephone stood on the floor by the front door. Desmond collapsed
onto Colin’s sofa, and stared at the bare, white wall. In a minute,
he knew, Colin would come back in, having said goodbye to his latest
conquest, probably never to see her again. Until his return into the
flat Desmond was free to hate Colin as intensely as he could. After
that it would be impossible. As soon as he returned Colin would start
being nice to him again.
Colin came in. “Oh mate,” he said, “you must have had a terrible
time out there. All night! I really do appreciate it, you know. Every
time I find you out there in the mornings I think to myself: what a
great friend Des is; he understands how important it is for a guy to
be alone with the bird he’s after; he’s a really sensitive, understanding
guy, is Des. It’s really great of you. You’re, well, you’re just the ideal
flat mate.”
“It’s nothing, really,” said Desmond with a sigh, “I don’t mind.”
“I’ll make you a mug of tea. And bacon and eggs. How about
that? Sunday breakfast?”
“Thanks.”
The room next to the living room was a small kitchen, and Colin
disappeared into it. Desmond wondered if suicide hurt.
“Colin,” called Desmond.
“Yes?” said Colin from the kitchen.

40
 “Why are we getting a cat flap? We don’t have a cat.”
There was a pause. Then Colin’s voice came once more from the
kitchen. “Did you say: ‘Why are we getting a cat flap, we don’t have
a cat’ ?”
“Yes.”
“Des, has anyone ever told you that you’re an incredibly stupid
person?”
“Sorry?” said Desmond.
Colin appeared from the kitchen and handed Desmond a mug of
tea. He was smiling affectionately.
“You’re a nice guy, Des,” he said, “a really good friend, but dumb.
Very very dumb.”
“Oh,” said Desmond.
It was probably just his imagination, but sometimes he suspected
that Colin was laughing at him.
As Colin went back into the kitchen to start breakfast, Desmond
sipped his tea. It tasted horrible. There were at least three teaspoons
of sugar in it. Desmond didn’t like sugar in his tea. Colin always
forgot this. Desmond drank the tea anyway, so as not to hurt his
friend’s feelings.
“Des,” called Colin from the kitchen, “could you possibly make the
breakfast for me? I’m having a bit of trouble with the eggs.”
Sighing deeply, Desmond rose to his feet. Colin never could manage
eggs. Desmond didn’t know why his friend was always volunteering to
do things for him and then not doing them. Perhaps Colin believed
that it was only the thought that counted.
The kitchen was small, but fairly well equipped with gadgets.
There was a small microwave at one end by the door and a small
cook top, with a little oven underneath it, at the other end. There
was a large fridge by the cook top, and a single sink, embedded in
the work bench under the window. Best of all, there was a kettle.
There had been no kettle when Desmond first moved in. Colin had
bought it for him shortly afterwards, feeling guilty, perhaps, about the
first night Desmond had spent sleeping on the stairs. Since that night
Colin had hardened his conscience rather. All Desmond got now for

41
his pains was a mug of sweet tea.
“How was the party?” Colin asked as Desmond cracked a couple
of eggs and eased their contents into the sizzling frying pan.
“Good,” lied Desmond.
Colin moved away from the frying pan and leant against the mi-
crowave. Desmond took over the cooking.
“How’s Cathy?” Colin asked.
“All right, I think,” said Desmond.
“Do you want a beer with breakfast?” said Colin.
“I’d rather have orange juice,” said Desmond.
“So tell me about this party, Des, come on. What was it like?”
“All right. Fun, I suppose.”
The eggs and the bacon were sticking to the frying pan. Colin had
not put enough oil in. Desmond wrestled with the spatula.
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Any good birds there?” said
Colin.
“I think so. A few of the girls seemed nice.”
“Get anywhere with any of them?”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“Oh Des. You’re hopeless. You’ve got to try harder, mate. You
don’t want to be a virgin all your life, do you?”
Desmond blushed. How did Colin know he was a virgin?
“Look,” said Colin, “maybe I could find a bird for you? Would
you like that? I know plenty.”
“No,” said Desmond, “it’d be too much trouble for you.”
“No it wouldn’t. Not for a mate.”
“Oh, well, in that case . . . ”
“Though I guess perhaps you’re right. It wouldn’t be very romantic
for you, going out with someone I’d chosen, would it? No, I guess
you’d better just try harder at the next party you go to. Call me
when breakfast is ready, would you? And pour me a beer too, when
you’ve finished that. Thanks mate.”
Colin left the room.

42
8

The garden of Aristid’s house was quite large, considering that the
house itself was so small, but it was very untidy. The paint was peel-
ing off Aristid’s garden table and the lawn (which was mostly weeds)
needed mowing. A few trees slumped beside the fence, and before
them a murky green swimming pool stood deep and uninviting. Aris-
tid set two wicker chairs on the cracked concrete paving stones of his
weed infested patio.
Aristid gestured elaborately towards one of the chairs. “Please,
brother-in- law William,” he said, “sit with me and enjoy the sun.”
It was in a state of some confusion that William followed his
brother-in-law into the garden. He was still thinking about Aristid’s
curious comment about a water pistol. On the one hand he didn’t
know what his brother-in-law meant, and on the other hand he didn’t
want to appear stupid by having to admit it. The possibility that
Aristid had merely said what he said because he was a very strange
person never occurred to William. But then he wasn’t altogether nor-
mal himself.
The chair William sat in was surprisingly comfortable. Beside him
Aristid sat in another chair, eyes closed, smiling at the sun.
“Um, Aristid,” said William, “I hate to appear stupid. Appearing
stupid is something I have always taken particular care to avoid.”
“Of course,” said Aristid, “that is understandable. I take such care
myself.”
“Exactly,” said William, “So, in order not to look foolish, I have

43
avoided asking you a certain question.”
“What question, William?”
“This morning, when we were talking about Maria’s reasons for
kicking me out, you said you though it was time I bought a water
pistol.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“At the time, of course, in order not to appear stupid, I did not
admit that I didn’t know what you were talking about. Since then I
have racked my brains trying to discover what you could have meant,
but I fear my imagination has let me down.”
“A more common problem, William, than many are willing to ad-
mit.”
“Indeed. What were you talking about?”
“When I said it was time you bought a water pistol?”
“Yes.”
“I was talking about your future, William.”
“Ah. You thought that Maria and I should have a child, and that
in order to keep this child amused we should buy it a water pistol.”
“No. That was not what I thought.”
“Oh. If that had been what you thought, then I must say it is a
good plan. A child would certainly bring Maria and me back together.
In fact, separate, having a child might prove rather difficult. However,
we have been married for fifteen years, and in all that time we have
been quite unable to produce a child. I fear a water pistol would not
be quite the same without one.”
“Children were not the objects of my thoughts, William. No, I
thought that you might find a water pistol useful in furthering your
career.”
“Oh,” said William, feeling puzzled.
“Good,” said Aristid, and sat back to continue enjoying the sun.
For a few seconds William sat in silence, staring into the dark,
mossy depths of the stagnant swimming pool. How, he thought to
himself, could a water pistol contribute to the mechanics of shopping
trolley management?
“Aristid,” said William, after a pause.

44
 “Yes William?” said Aristid, eyes still closed.
“I hate to appear stupid, as I mentioned, but I’m afraid I must
confess that I do not see how a water pistol could possibly help to
further my career.”
“It would have to be a very special sort of water pistol.”
“Ah. Would it.”
“Yes indeed. It would have to be a water pistol designed to appear,
to the casual observer, to be a genuine firearm.”
“You mean you think that a water pistol, designed to look like a
real gun, would help me to manage the shopping trolleys? No doubt
you are right. A man with a gun at his side is a more dignified and
powerful figure, even if that gun only squirts water. Possibly if I were
to combine it with knee length jack boots and a peaked cap I would
be even more impressive.”
“No doubt, William, no doubt. But that is not quite what I had
intended.”
But William’s mind had already attached itself to the thought. He
could almost see himself, a handsome, jack booted figure, mounting
his powerful new tractor, chugging through the car park with a cart
full of shopping trolleys trundling after him, pulling his gun out of his
holster to squirt threateningly at Mr Wymer, or even Mr Blenkham.
William was not quite sure how powerfully the modern water pistol
could squirt, but he was sure the jet of water would be strong enough
to show them he meant business. Yes, a water pistol was the weapon
for him. Not lethal (for William would never wish to seriously hurt
anyone) but dangerous enough to command respect.
“William,” said Aristid, “are you still listening?”
“Yes, of course. I was just wondering about something.”
“What, my dear brother-in-law?”
“What is a water pistol’s squirt like?”
“What is a what?”
“I mean, will a modern water pistol command respect?”
“Oh yes. Provided it looks like a genuine firearm. And I have
heard there are some made nowadays that look very much like genuine
firearms.”

45
 “So the ones that look like real guns are the most powerful?”
“There is certainly power in them. They have the same threat
value as genuine weapons, without being, according to law, firearms.”
“So you think I should wear one of these marvellous new water
pistols to work?”
“Not exactly to work, no. I was thinking you might employ one
for extra-curricular activities. William, you are a man ill-treated by
life, are you not?”
“I suppose so. Certainly things are not going well at the moment.”
“You are, indeed, the sort of man who can achieve nothing by
continuing along your current path.”
“I suppose not. Though a pay rise is not altogether impossible.”
“Yet other men, no more talented or able than you, gain much
from life. For them there are rewards, financial and social, that are
denied to you.”
“But I still have my art, Aristid.”
“Art, William?”
“Of shopping trolley management.”
“Ah yes. But important as that is, William, other men have more.
Do you know why other men have more?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“Because they are willing to take more.”
“I am willing, under certain circumstances, to take. I have won
much during the course of various drinking competitions.”
“William, my dear brother-in-law, I have conceived a plan.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. And when the details of that plan have been completed I
will explain it to you. It is a plan for your future, a plan that will win
for you honour and glory.”
“Will Maria approve of this plan?”
“I hope so, William, I hope so.”
“Good. Then I will trust you, Aristid.”
“Excellent. I will tell you more when I have more to tell.”

46
9

That Monday morning Desmond Fisher went to work as usual.

There were two doors to the bank branch where he worked. Neither
of them was electronically operated. All the other branches of the bank
in the city had automatic doors, but not this one. All it had was a
sign on the outer door saying ‘PULL’, but it was the sort of door that
people invariably pushed anyway.
At half past nine the doors would be unlocked. Until then it didn’t
matter that they weren’t electronic. Until then there was only one
way for Desmond to get in. He pressed the button next to the doors
and hoped that someone would come along to open them.
From within the bank Sam, the security guard, appeared. He un-
locked the door and, after Desmond had slipped inside, locked it again.
He was a very big man, greying a little, but still formidable in his dark
blue shirt and black trousers. Desmond didn’t know what sort of gun
lurked in Sam’s large holster, nor did he want to. All guns made him
nervous. The origin of the scar down Sam’s face was another mystery
Desmond didn’t care to have solved. He had a square chin, a once bro-
ken nose and thick, stumpy fingers. He was a cheerful fellow, though,
even first thing on a Monday morning.
“G’day Desmond,” he said. “Have a good weekend?”
“Yes thanks, Sam,” said Desmond, smiling feebly.
“Get up to a bit of mischief, did you?” Sam asked, nudging him in
the arm and grinning. “I bet you did. You young blokes today don’t
waste any time, do you?”

47
 “Er, no.”
“You know how to spend a weekend. Eh? Partying, were you?”
Desmond sighed. “Yes. Sort of.”
Sam winked. “That’s the spirit. Make the most of your youth.
Only young once, you are. Should have seen me when I was your age.
I could have shown you a thing or two. Not now, of course. Now I’m
married I never do nothing. Same story for thirty years. My weekends
are spent mowing the lawn and watching TV. Bloody TV. You young
blokes don’t know how lucky you are.”
Desmond agreed that he wasn’t quite sure how lucky he was and
went into the bank.
The bank building itself contained one large rectangular room.
There were a few offices upstairs, where the manager and the assis-
tant manager had their offices, and some toilets downstairs near the
car park. But basically the bank was just the rectangular room. Any-
one walking through the doors would see the enquiry counter on his
left and a wall of brochures, deposit slips, writing surfaces and seats
on his right. At the moment this wall was covered with Easter pictures
painted by children from the local primary school. They had been up
there for a long time, and wouldn’t be seasonal again for even longer.
The counter behind which the staff members worked was ‘L’ shaped.
The long arm of the ‘L’ was where Desmond worked. First there was
the enquiry counter itself. This was where customers came to make en-
quiries, offer advice or complaints, ask directions to the nearest restau-
rant, and so on. Behind this he had his own small desk, where he sat
to fill in forms, count deposit slips, mislay cheque books, answer tele-
phones, and perform various other routine tasks. Several desk lengths
away from this desk was the vault, with its huge, time locked door and
wide range of ingenious alarms. The door was open now, but it would
be thoroughly closed and locked by the time the bank opened at nine
thirty.
The bank had an automatic teller machine built into the outside
wall, and the back of it extended into the branch. Desmond didn’t like
to have anything to do with this machine. He had a horrible feeling it
was trying to put him out of a job.

48
 Further down the long arm of the counter were the tellers’ booths.
When he wasn’t working behind the enquiry counter he worked in
one of these. They were growing more and more computerised as the
electronic machinery they held for the convenience of the tellers grew
more sophisticated. Desmond, a part-time teller himself, would have
been just as happy with a pocket calculator. In spite of being a member
of the Star Wars Appreciation Society he didn’t trust computers at
all.
He wandered through the open gate in the enquiry counter and
put his briefcase down behind his desk. He was the only person in the
bank who had such a large briefcase. He had never needed half the
things he kept in it, but, as he always said, the possibility remained.
“Good morning Desmond,” said Anne Cameron.
Of all the examiners behind the enquiry counter Anne was the most
feared. She was about thirty five years old and the same height as he
was. She wore tinted glasses and always had her dark brown hair tied
in a severe bun at the back of her head. She was wearing the new dark
grey uniform of the bank. Desmond’s uniform hadn’t arrived yet, so
he wore light grey trousers and a business shirt, with the best cheap
tie he owned.
After saying good morning Anne returned to sorting out the ap-
plication forms behind the enquiry counter. Marc was helping her.
Marc was about Desmond’s age, and always looked tired and vaguely
disgusted about something. He was quite tall and thin, and he walked
with a stoop. He had long dark hair and a long thin nose. When
he first started working in the bank he had been nick-named ‘Speed’
because of the great length of time it took him to actually do anything.
Desmond went to help Anne.
“Go and help Julie with the cash, Desmond,” said Anne, with a
scowl. “Marc’s going to learn how to do this, aren’t you Marc?”
Marc shrugged his shoulders. “I know how to do it. Anyone can
do it. It’s easy.”
“You can’t do it apparently,” said Anne, “because you’re too care-
less. Last time I let you do this by yourself we ended up with a
counter full of forms for the under-twelves’ poetry competition and

49
not a BankCard or Savings Account form in sight.”
“I said I was sorry. Why do you always treat me like a three year
old?”
“Because if I treated you like a five year old you’d get confused.
Now concentrate.”
Anne had a reputation in the bank for being a bit fierce, which was
probably why so many people were afraid of her, but Desmond liked
her. She had always been good to him.
There were six desks in the enclosed space behind the enquiry
counter , and another two behind the tellers booths. So, given that it
was crowded already, Desmond could hardly fail to notice the pile of
large sealed boxes with the letters ‘I.B.M.’ on them.
“What are they?” Desmond said.
Anne looked up. “They’re bits of a computer. This week we’re part
of a ‘pilot test’ apparently. We’re going to be testing that computer
on our customers. Stupid waste of time, if you ask me. As if we didn’t
have enough to do already.”
“Another computer?” said Desmond in alarm.
“Yes Desmond. Another computer,” said Anne. “Worse than that,
the EDP department’s going to assign us a ‘computer expert’ to show
us how to use it. Now go and help Julie with the cash.”
A computer expert. He was stunned. The only thing worse than
a computer was a computer expert. He was sure he wouldn’t like this
person at all.

50
10

Miranda woke up with a start. She reached over to her alarm clock,
which was dancing angrily on her bedside table, and turned it off. She
didn’t need it to ring anyway. She was wide awake.
Normally it would take her quite a while to come to in the morn-
ings. But not this morning. This morning was Monday morning, and
it was to be her first day visiting her bank branch to promote the new
computer system.
Of course Morris had not appeared on Sunday. She had tried
telephoning him but no-one had answered his phone. So, since she
hadn’t felt like seeing or talking to anyone else, she had spent Sunday
alone. As a result of this, Sunday hadn’t been a lot more fun than
Saturday.
Now, however, it was Monday morning, and she would have to get
up and face the awful ordeal of work. She didn’t want to. It suddenly
seemed very cold outside her bedclothes, so she curled herself up into
a warm ball and lay shivering under them.
If only she had been taller. Tall women, Miranda believed, could
always face the world with poise and confidence. This was the other
of the two big problems in her life, she decided. Fundamentally it was
her inches and her boyfriend that were letting her down.
When another three minutes had passed she got up to prepare for
work. She managed to do this without thinking, but as she walked
towards the bus stop thought processes began to start up in spite of
all she tried to do to stop them.

51
 One month ago she had started working in the EDP division of
the bank. For three weeks she had been trained on the fourth floor
of the main bank building in the city. This had told her (roughly)
how to programme computers and how to cope with the simpler as-
pects of the computer processing of bank business. Before that she
had been a student at the university, studying English Literature and
reading lots of Shakespeare. Unfortunately there wasn’t a lot of call
for Shakespeare in her new job.
During a special week of interviews organised by the University
Careers and Appointments Service she had been interviewed by rep-
resentatives of the EDP division of the bank. They had been seeking
to employ graduates with qualifications in a wider range of subjects
than just computer science. They offered her a second interview at the
main bank building and then a job. They would train her thoroughly,
they said, before they set her to do anything difficult.
She was about to do something difficult, and she didn’t feel thor-
oughly trained at all.
She had had three weeks of basic computer training, then one week
assigned to the ECAS team. This was a small group of people who had
developed the Electronic Cheque Account Service, a computer software
system designed to help bank customers open cheque accounts. They
had developed it and tested it under hypothetical conditions. Now
they wanted to test it under real conditions, in real bank branches,
with real bank customers. And they wanted her to be one of the
people conducting this test.
Personal computers had been sent out to various branches of the
bank. Each member of the team would go out to one of these branches
to help the staff and customers use the system, to monitor its perfor-
mance and to survey the staff and customers on their attitudes towards
the system. They might also be required to promote the system to
branch management who (she had been told) were sometimes a little
hostile to change.
When the time for this final test was drawing near, the team, led
by Mr Jameson, had decided it needed two more members. They chose
two of the newly trained graduates to join them. One was Russell, a

52
bright young mathematician. She was the other one. They had been
given a week to familiarise themselves with the system. That week
was over. Now they would have to be able to pass themselves off as
experts, on their own, promoting and testing the system in distant,
mysterious and, possibly, hostile bank branches.
The system was not that complicated, but she didn’t know much
about computers. After her week of trying to figure it out she didn’t
feel she understood the ECAS system at all. If anyone in her bank
branch asked her what it actually did she would probably just grin
and look stupid.
The sun shone brightly on the grey concrete of the street as she
walked along. In spite of the cold morning it was going to be a warm
day. Around her other people rushed towards their places of work.
Some were as smartly dressed as her, others were not smartly dressed
at all. Some, no doubt, were as nervous as she, for reasons of their
own. Some, perhaps, were looking forward to their work. Probably
most of them wished they were still in bed.
That morning she had decided to wear a blue pleated skirt, a blue
blazer and a white blouse. She was also wearing high heels. She didn’t
like high heels very much. There is nothing, she thought, worse than
wanting to run away from life while trapped in shoes that prevent you
from running away from anything at all.
The bus stop was at the end of Miranda’s road, just outside a
chemist’s shop. On the opposite corner was a pub, and when the wind
blew in the right direction the scent of concentrated beer rolled down
the street. The other buildings were small blocks of expensive flats
that effectively blocked out any view. There were grey bushes in front
of them, and small ill looking trees. The road was dirty, and every
time a heavy truck thundered down it dust blew in her eyes.
Eventually the bus arrived, and at a quarter to nine, her usual
time, she arrived at the main bank building. She waited patiently for
the lift that would take her to the eleventh floor. It might well be the
only time she visited the office this week. The rest of the time she
would be out at her branch. she felt a sudden pang of terror. The
office was where she had learned what little she knew about the ECAS

53
system. This week she would be out in branch land, facing the horrors
of real bank customers, with only her thin disguise of computer expert
to protect her. The sense of shrinking dread grew worse.
At the eleventh floor she left the lift and walked down the corridor
beyond. She would have liked to put a bit of authority into her stride,
but she had never learnt how to do that in high heeled shoes.
In the cramped office of the ECAS team Mr Jameson was waiting.
There were several I.B.M. personal computers sitting on desks, and
Mr Jameson was playing space invaders on one of them. He looked up
and smiled as Miranda came in.
“Common room, Miranda,” he said. “The others are there. Here’s
a pile of survey forms for you. The questions are all laid out.”
He pointed to a pile of photocopied sheets in one corner of the
room. She picked them up and put them in her briefcase.
Mr Jameson was about forty, and quite short. His hair was dark
and his shoulders broad. Disconcertingly, he wore John Lennon glasses
with his dark business suit. Miranda liked him.
“Is everyone else here?” she asked.
“No,” said Mr Jameson, “we’re still waiting for Angela. When she
gets here I’ll come down to the common room and brief you. A bit of
pre-pilot test pep-talk eh?”
Miranda smiled. “Some of us need it,” she said.
“Are you feeling nervous about visiting your branch?” Mr Jameson
said.
“A little, yes.”
“Well, that’s understandable. Meeting the general public for the
first time, and having to deal with potentially hostile branch staff all
by yourself. I don’t blame you for being nervous. But don’t worry too
much. I’m sure you’ll cope. You might even enjoy yourself.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course. I have every confidence in you. And you, I hope, have
every confidence in the ECAS system.”
She had plenty of confidence in the ECAS system, she just didn’t
know how it worked. This was something she hoped the people in her
branch wouldn’t notice.

54
 The common room wasn’t really a room, it was more of a large
windowed alcove set off from the main corridor of the tenth floor. It
contained a large, fitted lounge suite, and a couple of small tables, on
which some polystyrene cups of coffee left over from last week could
be seen.
On one end of the sofa sat Russell, her fellow graduate. She sat
down next to him to wait for the others. After a minute or two Mr
Jameson arrived, with Angela Martin, the missing team member in
tow. She was a very professional young woman who had been on the
ECAS project for about a month. She thus knew the system very well.
Miranda was of the opinion that everyone knew the system far better
than she did.
She’d had four weeks of computer training and she hadn’t even
managed to kill her first orc in Castles and Creatures yet. Some com-
puter expert she was.
Mr Jameson stood facing his team.
“All right,” he said, “listen carefully. You’ve got four main areas of
responsibility: firstly, care and maintenance of the computer; secondly,
surveying staff and customers; thirdly, answering queries; and, finally,
supervising the ‘end of day’ routine. It will be the branch staff who
will actually use the computer when dealing with customers. You are
not authorised to do their job. You must make sure they use the
machines properly, without seeming too critical of them. Tact here is
important. If something does go wrong with the system try to cope
with the problem yourself. If you get into real difficulties call us here
at base. Oh, and don’t try to alter the software. Any software changes
we feel are required will be made here at base and then transferred to
the branch computers. We want all the computers to be running the
same programme.
“As far as surveying staff and customers goes, you have your survey
forms now, and they tell you what questions to ask. Try to survey
every customer who has an account opened by the computer. We
want as many customer opinions of the system as possible. Also try to
survey every member of staff who uses the computer. Here diplomatic
skill is important. I want you to get to know the people in your

55
branch, make them like you. That way they’ll be more forthcoming
about the system. They’ll talk to you quite openly about its faults and
advantages. They’ll feel that the survey is checking up on the computer
rather than on them. Another point to consider if you can make some
friends in the branches is what they tell you in casual conversation.
They may well bring up points not covered by the survey questions.
Similarly, when answering queries about the system, make a note of
the questions branch staff members ask you. These questions may
help us to improve the system at a later date. Oh, but make sure staff
members don’t see you writing things down. We don’t want them to
think they’re being spied on.
“Finally, ‘end of day’ procedures. Just make sure that the diskettes
from the computer containing the new account information, and the
hardcopy summaries of the computer’s business for the day, get placed
in the internal mail bag for overnight dispatch to us here at base. Any
questions?”
There were no questions.
“Okay,” said Mr Jameson. “One final point. Always look busy.
The branch staff will know that you get paid more than they do, and
they’ll expect to see you working for your money. Take some training
manuals with you for when you’ve nothing else to do, and when you’re
reading them and writing in them make it look as if you’re doing vitally
important work. No one is to sit around in their branch reading novels.
Okay?”
“What about lunch?” said Russell.
“Of course you can take an hour off for lunch,” Mr Jameson said,
“but try not to take it between one and two o’clock. That’s when the
branches will be busiest, so that’s when the computer will be most in
use. All right? I’ll assign you to your branches now, and off you go.”
Mr Jameson handed cards to everyone. On Miranda’s card was her
name and the address of her branch. She knew where it was.
This was it. The responsibility had begun. She took a deep breath
and popped the card into her blazer pocket. She picked up her brief-
case.
“Oh, Miranda?” said Mr Jameson, coming up to her, “you’re

56
assignment might be rather tricky, I’m afraid.”
“Tricky? How?”
“Well, we’ve assigned people to branches closest to where they live,
of course, and I only met the senior branch staff for the first time at
the meeting on Friday. One of the women from your branch might be a
problem. She’s very aggressive and very hostile. She’s an examiner, so
she carries a lot of weight in her branch. Her name’s Anne Cameron.
She’ll give you a hard time. Try to win her over to our cause, if you
can. That can be your special challenge.”
Miranda felt miserable. The last thing she wanted her job to be
right now was a challenge.

57
58
11

Behind the enquiry counter Desmond stood staring at the boxes of

computer equipment. With him were Marc, Julie, Bruce and Andrei.
Julie was a pleasant girl, with long blond hair and a friendly smile,
but unfortunately not very bright. Even Desmond could speak to her
without feeling intellectually threatened. Bruce was a big man, broad
shouldered and fair haired. He had blue eyes and was friendly enough,
in his way. Andrei was smaller, darker and rather less friendly. The
bank was due to open in ten minutes, and they were all standing and
staring at the boxes of computer equipment.
“Bloody liberty, they are,” said Bruce. “Bloody computer getting
in our way. What right have they to stick another computer in our
bank without even consulting us?”
“It’ll be put on the enquiry counter,” Andrei said, “you’ll see. I
reckon management thinks we’re not crowded enough in here already.”
“I wonder,” said Julie, “what the computer expert will be like. I
bet he must be dead brainy, to be a computer expert.”
“I hate ‘brains’,” said Marc. “They think they’re better than us.
Just ’cause they go to balls instead of discos.”
Bruce scowled. “They probably are better than you, Speed. What’re
we going to do about this bloody ‘computer expert’ ?”
“Why do we have to do anything about him?” Desmond said. “He
might be all right. If he’s all right, we should help him.”
“Don’t be stupid Desmond,” said Andrei.
“Yeah Desmond, shut up,” said Bruce. “It doesn’t matter whether

59
he’s all right. It’s the principle of the thing. We didn’t ask for this
computer. We’ve had it forced on us against our wills. It’s the principle
of the thing that matters. Even if this computer expert’s the best bloke
in the world, he won’t get any help from us. You heard what Anne
said, they expect us to use the machine under the supervision of this
‘expert’. I reckon that’s not on.”
“Too right,” said Andrei.
“I reckon,” said Bruce, “that even if this ‘expert’ begs us for help
we don’t help him. We treat him like he’s not there.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Marc.
“But he might need help with his computer,” said Desmond. “It’s
all in pieces in those boxes. He might need help putting it together.”
“Desmond,” said Andrei, “you help him and you’re dead.”
“Yeah,” said Bruce, “we’ve got to stick together on this one. All
right Desmond?”
Desmond sighed. “All right,” he said.
“Good,” said Bruce. “We treat him like he’s not there.”
“I hope,” said Julie, “that he wears glasses. I reckon brainy men
should wear glasses.”
Anne appeared. She gazed levelly at the conference gathered around
the boxes, then hissed loudly.
“Work,” she said. “You’ll have enough time to worry about that
computer later.”
The doors of the bank opened. Customers poured in. Business-
suited executives, already late for work, were the first in the queue for
the tellers’ booths. Behind them came the mothers, on their way to the
shops after delivering their children to school. Then came two school
teachers, presumably with no classes to teach at that moment. Finally
there were a couple of old aged pensioners. The enquiry counter was
also pretty busy. Desmond had already taken one enquiry (from a
woman wanting an entry form for the under twelves poetry competi-
tion) before Miranda arrived.
The first impressions Desmond had of Miranda were quite different
to the ones he was to develop later. He had returned to his desk, and
looked up to see her standing on the other side of the enquiry counter.

60
 Anne’s voice boomed loud and clear. “Enquiries please!”
Being the only person free, Desmond stood up to take the enquiry.
The girl he saw before him was very pretty. She was small and slim,
with big blue eyes. She also looked slightly nervous about something,
which brought out the protective instinct in Desmond (no stranger to
nervousness himself). But he didn’t fall in love with her at first sight.
From the way she was dressed she was obviously some sort of young
executive. Not the sort of person he would fall in love with at all.
After placing his ‘customer being attended to’ marker on the counter
before her, Desmond smiled his friendliest smile. “Can I help you?”
he said.
At once the girl started to look less nervous and returned his smile.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m from EDP. I’m with the computer.”
Desmond jumped in alarm. This was the computer expert. This
pretty, nervous young woman was the person he had agreed to be nasty
to. He was stuck for something to say. Being nasty to someone like
this would be awful. But still he had to do what his friends had told
him.
His friends had noticed her. They were staring at her (particularly
his male friends) with considerable interest. Anne was looking in his
direction as well.
“Anne,” said Desmond, nervously, “the computer expert’s here.”
Anne came over to the counter and gazed imperiously down her
nose at the girl.
“You from EDP?” she said.
“Yes,” said the girl, looking nervous again.
“We’ve got to look after you and hold your hand, have we? Well,
you’ve been a nuisance already. The blokes who delivered your box of
tricks dumped it on our floor. My staff members have been tripping
over it all morning.”
“Sorry,” said the girl, sheepishly.
“Sorry!” snapped Anne. “Sorry’s no good to me. Get your stupid
computer off my floor, and try to stay out of my way this week. I’ve
got enough to do without having to wet nurse some EDP so-called
expert fresh out of high school. If you have any problems, don’t come

61
crying to me about them. Desmond, let her in.”
As Anne marched back to her desk Desmond opened the gate in
the enquiry counter to let the EDP girl in. She didn’t look very happy,
but Desmond tried to avoid her eyes. Whatever he might feel about
the matter, it was his duty to be nasty to her.
Between the crowded desks and fast moving enquiry staff Desmond
led her, to where the pile of I.B.M. boxes stood blocking a passageway
between two desks. He pointed at them, carefully not saying anything.
The girl stared at the boxes and looked desolate. Her shoulders
slumped, and Desmond thought for one horrible moment that she was
going to cry.
The girl sighed. “Oh dear,” she said. “Mr Jameson told me the
computer would already be set up. The delivery men must have for-
gotten to do it. Could you possibly help me to put it together?”
Desmond ignored her. He avoided her eyes and tried not to blush.
“Please,” said the girl. “I really don’t think I can do it by myself.”
“Not my problem,” said Desmond, every inch of his generous na-
ture struggling against the words. “Your job, not mine.”
He went back to his desk and sat down. He tried to look busy, but
his heart wasn’t in it. He stole a quick glance at the girl, who was
staring hopelessly at the boxes of computer. He must not help her,
he told himself, his friends would never forgive him. He had to think
of her simply as a computer expert out to steal his job. He had to
remember that she’d had far more advantages in life than he had, and
was better paid than him as well. It wasn’t necessary for him to feel
sorry for her. But he did feel sorry for her. He stared at the forms on
his desk. The boxes were her problem, not his.
From beyond the tellers’ booths Anne’s voice boomed loudly. “Com-
puter girl!” she said, “Don’t just stand there, get on with unpacking
those boxes!”
Desmond watched as the girl fiddled halfheartedly with the corner
of one of the boxes. He wanted to help her, wanted to open the boxes
and unpack the computer for her, wanted to tell her that Anne was all
right when you got used to her, but he couldn’t. She looked so lonely
and so sad, but Desmond had his duty to his friends to consider. He

62
did nothing.
It was obviously too much for the girl. She stopped fiddling with
the corner of the box and stood up straight. She took a deep, nervous
breath, then said loudly: “Could someone please help me with these
boxes?”
Desmond ignored her. The poor girl, he thought, no one would
help her. She would probably lose her job.
On both counts he was wrong. Bruce, Andrei and Marc, eyes
shining brightly, stopped what they were doing and rushed to her
assistance.
“Hi,” said Bruce, “I’m Bruce.”
“Hi,” said Andrei, “I’m Andrei.”
“Hi,” said Marc, “I’m Speed.”
“Can we help?” said Bruce.
The girl smiled with relief. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I’m
Miranda Catarini. If you could help me get the console out of its box
we can pop it onto your counter and I can try to connect the rest up
to it properly.”
“Try?” said Bruce.
“Yes. I’ve never actually put an AT together before.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bruce, “I’m sure you’ll manage. We’ll help.”
“Yes,” said Andrei, “we’ll help.”
“Yes,” said Marc, “we’ll help.”
They helped. Soon the large, heavy computer console was resting
securely on the enquiry counter just in front of Desmond’s desk.
Bruce spoke. “Some of us go out to lunch about twelve. Do you
want to come too?”
“Thank you,” said Miranda, “that would be nice.”
So Bruce, Andrei and Marc helped Miranda to set up the computer.
Half an hour later it was all completed, and Miranda produced a disk
with which, she said, she would load the ECAS software onto the
machine. Bruce pretended to be interested, but Desmond knew what
was really on his mind.
Thus the business of the bank continued. Everyone except Des-
mond gave Miranda all the help she needed. Bruce was particularly

63
attentive. Once ECAS was up and running several customers came
over to look at the computer screen, which displayed brightly coloured
advertisements for the bank’s services when the computer was not in
use.
Two customers actually used the machine to open cheque accounts.
Bruce took the first one, typing away at the computer keyboard while
Miranda showed him what to do. The second customer was handled
by Anne. Desmond could see that Miranda was a bit nervous about
helping Anne, but all went well. When the customers had finished
telling their personal details to the computer Miranda took some pho-
tocopied forms out of her briefcase and started asking them questions.
Both customers said they liked the machine.
“You’re doing well,” said Anne, when Miranda had finished with
the customers.
“That’s nothing,” said Miranda, “watch this.”
She pressed a button on the computer keyboard, and the computer
printer, previously silent, began to churn out pieces of paper.
“What’s all this?” said Anne with a scowl.
“New account forms,” said Miranda. “The computer records the
customer’s details electronically for EDP, but it also prints out the
filled in new account forms for you.”
“Filled in? All the account forms?”
“Yes. All of them.”
“But that usually takes us ages! That’s marvellous.”
Miranda grinned. “You really like it?”
Anne’s scowl softened. “It’s not bad. Not bad at all. You EDP
blokes aren’t as stupid as you look.”
“No. Not all of us anyway.”
Miranda’s morning was a great success. Desmond’s could have
been better. At twelve o’clock Bruce, Andrei and Marc took Miranda
out to lunch. Desmond was not invited.

64
12

At work William Pratt was trundling around a half empty car park
in his new tractor trying to see if his new shopping trolley collecting
algorithm worked. As far as he could tell it did. But of course the
real test would come when he and it were faced with a full car park to
navigate rather than a half empty one.
On his travels William carried Alan and Jim, two sixteen year olds
fresh out of high school, whose job it was to assist him. They were
doing their best, hopping on and off the cart to collect the trolleys, but
they were a problem factor in his calculations. His own behaviour, and
the behaviour of his tractor, were constant factors, but the behaviour
of Alan and Jim could not be predicted. They tended to vary their
shopping trolley collection strategies from day to day, and William
found it impossible to accurately account for them.
The car park covered a large area, and sloped steeply downhill.
This slope provided an extra challenge for William. If his cart was
piled too high with shopping trolleys, or if he took an uphill bend too
quickly, the whole train would fall over.
Not that his tractor and cart ever did fall over. If nothing else,
William was a craftsman.
As well as the steep open air car park plastered firmly onto the side
of the hill, William had to cope with the smaller, two storey covered
car park which lay to one side of the main car park. There was no
slope to contend with in this car park (except, of course, for the ramp
between levels), but it could still be quite tricky. For one thing, during

65
summer, coming out of the bright sunlight of the open air car park
into the relative gloom of the covered one could cause a few seconds of
blindness. This might force the tractor driver to reduce his speed by
a variable amount — another random factor in the calculations. Then
there was the tightness of some of the bends, especially those leading
up and down the ramp. It was vital not to miscalculate the approach
to these bends. If it should become necessary to reverse and take the
bend again in order to get round it, a further random factor would be
introduced into the calculations.
The lower floor of the indoor car park consisted of three rows of
cars with two passageways between them. William’s plan of attack
had him entering the lower floor at one end, making a half circuit
of the parked cars, going up the ramp at the other end, making a
complete circuit of the upper floor, coming down the same ramp and
then finishing off the lower floor. It was a remarkably simple plan, but
William felt its simplicity lent it extra beauty.
This morning, just as he had finished his half circuit of the lower
floor and was about to proceed up the ramp, he noticed Mr Blenkham
standing by the pedestrian exit waving at him. He wondered what his
employer wanted.
“William,” Mr Blenkham yelled, “come here at once.”
Mr Blenkham was a solidly built man of about fifty. He was broad
shouldered, but grey faced and continually out of breath, perhaps
because he smoked too much. Everyone at the shopping centre had
great respect for this man, a respect born of fear, for his wrath was
terrible indeed. The fact that he had descended from his high office
to the lower reaches of the car park indicated that something serious
had happened. His reasons for wanting to see William must, therefore,
have been important.
William had as much respect for his employer as anyone, but his
duty to his art came first.
“I’m sorry Mr Blenkham,” called William, “but my trolley collect-
ing algorithm does not take me back to where you are standing for
another forty minutes. If you move about fifteen feet to your left,
however, you will intersect with my path in five minutes and twelve

66
seconds. I will talk to you then.”
William drove up the ramp to the upper floor. He caught a last
glimpse of Mr Blenkham staring at him in disbelief, then carried on
with his work. He hoped Mr Blenkham would understand that loyalty
to one’s algorithm came before loyalty to one’s boss.
In the cart behind him William could hear Alan and Jim laughing
at him.
“You’re really for it now, Mr Pratt,” said Jim. “Blenkham’ll have
you for that.”
“Collect your trolleys,” said William, “and do so quickly. Mr Blen-
kham expects us back on the lower floor in five minutes and twelve
seconds. We must not disappoint him.”
They did not disappoint him. William and his team finished their
tour of the upper floor in exactly five minutes. In another eleven and
a half seconds William’s tractor, with its cart in tow, was trundling
along the floor to where Mr Blenkham’s grey suited figure was standing
waiting for it. William was quite surprised by how angry Mr Blenkham
looked. In fact, his employer was fuming visibly.
“Hello Mr Blenkham,” said William, slowing down slightly as he
passed, “what can I do for you?” He could hear Alan and Jim trying
to suppress their laughter as he did so.
“Stop that tractor at once!” Mr Blenkham thundered, wheezing
violently.
“But the algorithm . . . ” said William.
“Just stop the bloody tractor!” said Mr Blenkham.
William stopped the tractor. “Do you think you should use such
language in front of younger employees, Mr Blenkham?” he said.
“Shut up and listen William,” said Mr Blenkham. “Vegetable
World has run out of shopping trolleys. Why haven’t you delivered
any shopping trolleys to Vegetable World?”
William was puzzled. “Run out? According to my calculations
they should have enough to last for a further fifteen minutes. Are you
sure about this, Mr Blenkham?”
“Of course I’m sure! Vegetable World’s manager phoned me in a
panic ten minutes ago.”

67
 “Oh. I suppose I must have miscalculated my algorithm. I will
work on a new one tonight.”
“Stuff your algorithm William, just get some trolleys over to Veg-
etable World now.”
“But I’m not due up at that end of the car park for another ten
minutes. If I go there now I will violate the algorithm.”
“Just do it.”
“It will not be very efficient, violating the algorithm.”
“William, they’ve run out of trolleys. They’re losing customers.”
“I still don’t understand it. I was sure the algorithm was perfect.”
“Just go!”
“Yes Mr Blenkham. Oh, Mr Blenkham?”
“What?”
“There are a couple of points I would like to raise with you.”
“What? Now?”
“Yes, if I may.”
Mr Blenkham sighed deeply, coughing slightly as he did so. Will-
iam could never understand why his superior always looked so ex-
hausted when talking to him. “All right William,” said Mr Blenkham,
“but be quick. Vegetable World is waiting.”
“I will be quick. Firstly, do you think it would be possible for me
to wear a firearm while working?”
“What!?”
“A gun. In a holster.”
Mr Blenkham stared at him. Alan and Jim looked pretty surprised
as well.
“You want a gun?” said Mr Blenkham.
“Yes,” said William, “in a holster. And possibly a pair of jack
boots as well. They would give me an added air of authority.”
“What do you mean? Are you planning to shoot at the customers?”
“Only when absolutely necessary, sir.”
Mr Blenkham stared at him. His mouth fell open.
Jim spoke. “Can we have guns too, Mr Blenkham?” he said.
“No. Shut up. William, you’re mad. Just go and deliver the
trolleys. I think I need to lie down.”

68
 “But the other point, Mr Blenkham?”
“What other point?”
“Do you think that you might consider giving me a pay rise?”
“A pay rise? Bloody hell. Just deliver those trolleys. Pay rise? I
don’t know why I bother to pay you at all.”
Mr Blenkham stormed off in the direction of his office. William
watched him go. It occurred to him that perhaps he would have to
wait a bit longer for his pay rise.
Jim and Alan were talking.
“I reckon we should have guns,” said Jim. “We could shoot any
customers who got in our way.”
“Yeah,” said Alan, “and we could blow Mr Blenkham’s brains out.”
“No we couldn’t,” said Jim, “you can’t hit targets that small.”
Up to Vegetable World, the big greengrocer’s at the top of the hill,
William drove. He was heartbroken. To perform such a huge violation
of the algorithm was a terrible thing indeed. For the rest of the day
nothing would work properly. The whole system would be thrown out
of joint.
The trolleys were delivered. As he continued working, trying to
salvage as much of his beloved algorithm as he could, William’s un-
happiness began to turn to anger. What right had Mr Blenkham to
deprive him of his chosen path around the car park? What did Mr
Blenkham, as general manager of the whole shopping centre, know
about trolley management?
As William drove along, growing more and more heated, even Alan
and Jim didn’t dare to poke fun at him. In such a mood as this
William might actually have opened fire on a few customers, if he’d
had a gun by his side. In fact, the principal result of his mood was
that the morning rounds were completed in record time, in spite of
the violation of the algorithm.
All the time he tried to think of ways of getting back at Mr Blen-
kham. Then he remembered the pub. Mr Blenkham would be there
after work. William would challenge him to a drinking competition.
Then he would be sorry.

69
70
13

It had been a rather depressing sort of afternoon. There had been very
little activity in the bank, and what activity there had been hadn’t
concerned Desmond at all. He had done his shift in the tellers’ booths,
and had answered one or two queries about term deposit accounts
from behind the enquiry counter. He had even managed to avoid
using the new computer. He simply watched while the EDP girl,
Miranda, showed poor baffled Julie how to use it. Julie obviously
didn’t understand it at all. Neither did Marc when he had a go.
To Desmond the computer looked perfectly simple to use. Yet he
didn’t dare go near it. After the way he had treated the EDP girl he
felt far too embarrassed to ask her to show it to him.
Early that afternoon Anne had told him that he had to use the
machine. She didn’t want it said that members of her enquiry staff
had refused to participate in an EDP project. Everyone, Anne said,
had to use the machine. Elizabeth, one of the older women who worked
behind the enquiry counter, told Desmond that she quite understood
how he felt. She was afraid of the machine too, she said.
At half past one Marc used the machine. After this it didn’t see
much activity.
The EDP girl had explained her job to Bruce. “I’m not just here
to show you how to use the machine and to survey people,” she said,
“I’m also here to promote the software.”
“Promote it?” said Bruce.
“Yes, promote it to staff and customers. Staff members who are

71
worried by the machine should be encouraged by me to use it . . . ”
“I’m not worried,” said Marc, who joined them at that moment,
“I think the machine’s great.”
Desmond wasn’t worried by the machine either. But he didn’t say
anything. Even though the others were standing four feet in front of
him he was trying to make it look as if he hadn’t noticed them.
“Oh no,” said the EDP girl, “I didn’t mean to imply that any of
you were worried by the machine. Not at all. You’ve all been very
good. It’s just that if you had been worried, my job would have been
to make you less so. And if you’re a member of the public, then I
should try to encourage you to use the machine, to open a cheque
account if you don’t already have one. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds good,” said Bruce, “though I haven’t seen you doing any
of that stuff yet.”
“No,” said the girl, “I haven’t, yet. I suppose I’d better go out onto
the other side of the enquiry counter and mingle with the customers.”
“If you can find any,” said Marc.
“Yes, if I can find any. Also I’ve got some highly important manuals
to read, so if I go and sit down on that seat out there and read them,
I’ll be able to pounce on the first customer who comes in. Also I’ll be
out of your way.”
“Don’t sit out there for too long,” said Bruce, “we’ll get lonely.”
Marc opened the gate in the enquiry counter for her, and Miranda
carried her small pile of books over to the customer courtesy chair that
stood against the wall opposite the enquiry counter. It was a small
chair, and Desmond could see that she would have difficulty balancing
the books on her lap. But at least she had a clear view of the entrance.
She could see all the customers who might come or go.
“Jesus,” said Bruce, once she was out of earshot, “that little chick
is so hot.”
“Yeah,” said Marc. “Pity she’s only here for a week.”
“A week’s enough,” said Bruce, “you’ll see. I’ll have her eating out
of my hands by this time tomorrow. Chicks have a thing about me.
It’s my easy charm that drives them wild.”
“You reckon she fancies you?”

72
 “I reckon. She’s got a fantastic pair of . . . ”
This was too much for Desmond. “I don’t think you should talk
about her like that,” he said. “She seems like a nice person, and you’re
being cruel.”
“I was only going to say she’s got a fantastic pair of eyes,” said
Bruce.
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. Anyway, you’re being crueller than we are, not talking to
her and treating her like she’s got AIDS or something.”
Desmond bristled. “You said we were supposed to ignore her . . . ”
“You can ignore her if you want to, mate,” said Bruce, “though I
reckon that if you want to ignore a chick as hot as that there must be
something wrong with you.”
Marc spoke. “Hey Bruce, if you reckon you’ve got somewhere al-
ready, do you think I’d have a chance with her?”
“Not much. More than Desmond, anyway. Look, you can try if
you like. But I reckon she’ll only have eyes for me. Uh oh, look busy.
Anne’s coming.”
Anne was indeed coming, bearing down on them with the remorse-
less tread of a suspicious policemen on his beat. Only Desmond was
sitting at his desk. The other two had no chance of looking busy.
“You boys boasting about what you’re going to do with that EDP
girl?” Anne said, humourlessly.
“No,” said Bruce, “of course not.”
“I don’t know,” said Anne, “sometimes I think you blokes really
believe the things you boast about.”
“We weren’t even talking about her,” said Bruce, “honest.”
“Well let me tell you something,” said Anne, “I’ve been talking to
that girl, and she’s a smart young lady, much too smart for the likes
of you three. A pretty girl with brains like hers isn’t even going to
look at boys like you.”
“No?” said Bruce. “You reckon brainy chicks only like brainy
blokes? Well you’re wrong. Brainy chicks don’t like brainy blokes at
all.”
“You hope! Now get back to work. Catch up on some paperwork,

73
and no more lusting after the EDP girl. She’s too good for the likes
of you. And Desmond?”
“Yes Anne?”
“The next time a customer wants to open a cheque account you’re
going to use that machine to help him. Clear?”
“Yes Anne.”
“Good. Because I’ll be watching you.”
Even after Anne prowled off to her desk, Desmond could feel her
eyes boring into the back of his head. The others ambled slowly off
towards their own desks, when a sudden movement caught their atten-
tion. A customer was entering through the doors and making his way
towards the enquiry counter. He was a big customer, large and phys-
ically dangerous in appearance, and the EDP girl, with an important
looking clipboard clasped in her arms, was making her way towards
him. Desmond could see from the look on her face that she was about
to try promoting her computer to the customer. She looked nervous,
of course, since this was the first time she had tried this part of her
job, but she also looked determined. What she didn’t know was that
this was no ordinary customer. This was Mr Bailey.
All the enquiry staff moved rapidly towards their desks and tried
to look busy. They knew Mr Bailey of old, and none of them dared
to face him. None of them wanted to be the one forced to speak to
him. Desmond didn’t look. He didn’t want to catch Mr Bailey’s eye
so he buried his nose in his paperwork. Just the same, he listened with
fascinated horror as the EDP girl accosted the terrible customer. She
might be safe, he knew, as long as she didn’t mention cheque accounts.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Miranda Catarini and I
represent the EDP division of the bank. I am part of a team assigned
to test a new computer system.”
“You what?” said Mr Bailey, loudly.
“I wonder,” said the EDP girl, “if you were considering opening a
cheque account, and if so, if you would care to try using the machine?”
Desmond felt a wave of terror pass through him.
“Cheque account?” thundered Mr Bailey. “Cheque account? Bloody
hell! I’ve already got a bloody cheque account!”

74
 “Oh,” said the EDP girl, nervously, “well then . . . ”
“Cheque account! I opened my bloody cheque account two bloody
months ago with your bloody bank and every time my bloody pay
goes into my bloody account you bloody idiots lose it. That’s every
bloody fortnight. Are you listening to me?”
“Er, yes . . . ”
“Then what are you bloody going to do about it? It’s not good
enough. Every bloody fortnight I come in here and you people say
you’ll do something, but you never bloody do. I want my bloody
money. What are you going to do about it? Well? Answer me, for
God’s sake!”
“Um, I’m, er, sorry to hear it . . . ”
“You’re sorry to hear it! Christ Jesus, what do you bloody mean
you’re sorry? If you’re sorry why do you keep doing it? Come on, tell
me why. Tell me what you’re going to do about it. Well? Tell me!”
At his desk Desmond cowered with terror. On the one hand, he was
glad the EDP girl was taking the brunt of this attack rather than him,
but on the other hand, well, it wasn’t fair. Desmond knew what he
had to do, knew that no one else would move to help the EDP girl, not
against Mr Bailey. But the fear Mr Bailey inspired was very powerful.
Desmond took a deep breath, one of the deepest of his career, rose to
his feet, picked up his ‘customer being attended to’ sign, and stepped
up to the enquiry counter.
Summoning up every last ounce of his courage he said: “Can I help
you, Mr Bailey?”
He could see where they were standing, the EDP girl, timid and
frightened in her blue skirt and blazer, and Mr Bailey, in his singlet
and shorts, beer belly and massive shoulders, towering over her. His
eyes were small and fierce, his face was red and unshaven, his dark
hair (what remained of it) was greasy and unkempt. At Desmond’s
words the terrible face turned towards him.
“I was just talking,” he said, “to this bloody stupid young woman.”
“Cheque account management is not one of Miss Catarini’s respon-
sibilities,” Desmond said.
“Then who do I bloody talk to?” Mr Bailey thundered, clenching

75
his fists until knotted veins stood out round his neck.
Desmond swallowed. “You’d better talk to me,” he said, and his
whole life flashed before his eyes.

76
14

For nearly a quarter of an hour Desmond talked to Mr Bailey. For

what seemed like an age he wrestled with the unfortunate customer’s
problem. Why did Mr Bailey’s account keep emptying when it should
have been filling up? Was there some terrible case of fraud going on,
or was one of the bank’s computers going mad? More important to
Desmond was this question: why couldn’t Mr Bailey be more relaxed
about it? Just because he had been into the bank once every fortnight
for the last two months with exactly the same complaint, and nothing
had been done about the problem yet, was no reason to get excited.
As time wore on, he began to fear the possibility of physical vio-
lence. It was hardly any wonder that everyone else in the bank tended
to run away and hide whenever they saw Mr Bailey coming. If it
hadn’t been for that EDP girl, Desmond would have been running
and hiding with the best of them.
In fact there was one person behind the enquiry counter who was
not afraid of Mr Bailey. Before Desmond could suffer any serious
damage she appeared by his side.
“Hello Mr Bailey,” said Anne, “still having trouble with your ac-
count are you?”
“Yes I bloody am,” Mr Bailey thundered, “and you better do some-
thing about it.”
Anne’s facial expression grew slightly menacing. She was not a
large woman, but she could be quite as intimidating as Mr Bailey.
“We’re still investigating the matter,” she said, “as I told you last

77
time you came in. Until the problem is solved we are handling your
account manually. You’re not losing any money, I promise you.”
“According to my bloody bank statement I am . . . ”
“The bank statements are handled by the central office computer.
But we correct the information regularly from here. If you check your
account balance with the automatic teller machine outside, you’ll find
it’s exactly what it should be.”
Mr Bailey cooled down a bit. “I should hope so. But if I get
another cock- eyed statement like the last one I’m closing my account
and taking my business elsewhere.”
“That is quite understandable, Mr Bailey,” said Anne, icily, “but
the problem is well in hand. Goodbye Mr Bailey.”
The customer was already walking out as she finished speaking.
To Desmond she didn’t look the least bit rattled by the experience.
He wished she had come to his assistance earlier, but understood why
she had not. Since she was not afraid of Mr Bailey herself, Anne had
no idea that other people might be.
“What does central office make of his problem?” Desmond asked.
“Beats them,” said Anne. “Some of them reckon it’s something
to do with the way the computer stores the customer information.
Something about Mr Bailey’s address or telephone number or whatever
sets off a strange reaction in the central computer.”
“Then perhaps he would be better off taking his money elsewhere?”
“None of that talk,” said Anne. “We don’t want to lose a cus-
tomer.”
“But if his account keeps getting mixed up . . . ”
Anne shrugged her shoulders. “That’s life, Desmond, or rather, it
is now life’s run by stupid computers. Anyway, back to work. Fun and
games are over for now.”
They were indeed. What remained of the afternoon passed without
incident. Desmond noticed that the EDP girl, in spite of having been
badly shaken by her experience with Mr Bailey, was not afraid to
continue promoting her computer to the customers. Desmond was
impressed by her courage. He had been forced to sit down for ten
minutes in order to recover from Mr Bailey, she just kept on working.

78
She spoke to three more customers that afternoon before she gave up
and came back behind the enquiry counter. None of the customers
had wished to use the computer, but on the other hand, none of them
had wished to shout at her either.
Eventually it was time for the bank to close. Doug, one of the
security men, locked the front doors and stood by them to let the
last of the customers out. Packing up, sending off and stowing away
commenced as the bank staff hurried to finish their final chores. All
the younger members of staff wanted to get home in time to watch the
latest episode of Neighbours.
In all this rush the EDP girl and her computer were forgotten. Yet
she stood patiently by it, waiting for someone to come and be shown
how to switch it off.
For a moment Desmond wondered if he should volunteer to be this
person. It would show Anne he was not afraid of the computer. But
he had too much last minute paperwork to do. Before he had finished,
Anne herself was being shown the technical details of what the EDP
girl called the ‘end of day’ procedure. Anne had to put a diskette into
the slot in the ‘console’ part of the machine and press a button on
the computer keyboard. After a few whirring noises from the depths
of the computer, a message appeared on the screen instructing Anne
to take the diskette out. As she did so the computer printer started
churning out sheets of paper.
“What’s all this?” said Anne.
“Hardcopy summary of the day’s business on the computer,” said
the EDP girl. “You keep one copy and dispatch the other off to central
office with the diskette.”
“Keep one copy?” said Anne, “where? Are we going to get one of
these every day?”
“Yes.”
“Well where are we going to keep the stupid things? I’m not having
them lying around here making my enquiry area look untidy.”
“Oh, well, haven’t you got a spare manila folder somewhere you
could use?”
Anne scowled. “I’m not using one of my manila folders for your

79
pieces of paper. If you want your stupid pieces of paper kept you can
keep them in your own manila folder.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll bring one tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Anne, still scowling, “we’ve got enough pieces of
paper littering this place as it is without you EDP blokes giving us
more of it. I suppose you’ll be wanting to go home now? All finished
for the night?”
“Um, yes.”
“So you get to sneak off early while we’re still working? And get
paid more than most of us as well, I expect.”
“Oh, I, er, don’t know . . . ”
“Well, you’ve earned it today at any rate. You’ve done a good job
girl. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Get one of the security
blokes to let you out.”
Anne wandered back off to the tellers’ booths and the EDP girl
watched her with her mouth hanging open. Desmond knew how she
felt. Anne had that effect on him too from time to time.
As the EDP girl made her way towards the gate in the enquiry
counter, Desmond tried to avoid her gaze. He still felt too embarrassed
to talk to her, but she stopped as she passed his desk. He didn’t look at
her face, just at the belt of her skirt. He could see her hands clenched
by her sides.
“Um,” said the EDP girl to Desmond, “I just wanted to thank you
for, er, rescuing me from that man this afternoon. It was very very
kind of you.”
“Oh,” mumbled Desmond, “it was nothing. It was just my job.”
“It was everyone else’s job as well, but they didn’t do it, you did.
I just wanted to say thank you. I think you must be a really nice
person.”
This was not an opinion Desmond had expected her to have. It
took him rather by surprise. He looked up from his desk and was even
more surprised to see that she was smiling at him. He grinned back,
and was pleased to see her smile broaden.
“Bye bye,” she said to him, “see you tomorrow.” She picked up
her briefcase and left.

80
 The grin on his face continued to grow as he watched her go, though
he wasn’t quite sure why. He saw Sam, the security man, open the
door for her, and he watched her brush through onto the street. Then
she was gone, but she would be back tomorrow. He would see her
again then.
Two desks away Bruce was scowling resentfully at him. “I bet it’s
still me she likes really,” he said.
Desmond didn’t say anything, but he still couldn’t stop grinning.
When he finally left the bank and started on the route for home
his grin was still with him. He kept thinking about the EDP girl.
Miranda Catarini, she was called. Miranda was such a lovely name,
and she was such a wonderful person. Not that he was going to get
too carried away by all this thinking about her, Desmond decided. He
knew from past experience that getting carried away could only lead
to heartbreak.
So as he walked along he determined to think about her, and about
her good qualities, only as one might think of a potential friend.
Ten minutes later he was in love with her, and no power on earth
could save him.

81
82
15

Sitting in his favourite battered green armchair, smiling fondly at the

book he was reading (Dracula, by Bram Stoker, Oxford Classics paper-
back edition), Aristid was not the least bit surprised to hear a human
body fall over his doorstep and bang its head on his front door. In
fact, Aristid had half expected that something like this might happen.
That morning he had advised William to try going home to Maria
after work. He had also advised him not to get drunk again, as this
might prejudice Maria against him. William had told Aristid that he
would only get drunk if it was absolutely necessary to do so.
Evidently it had been absolutely necessary to do so.
The very short passage that led to Aristid’s front door was off to
the left of his lounge room. Aristid picked up his bookmark and placed
it carefully in his book (so as not to damage the spine). Then he stood
up, straightened his tie, and ambled towards the front door. Before he
could reach it the front door bell rang. Aristid was relieved. If William
was capable of ringing the front door bell then he had obviously not
yet succeeded in knocking himself out.
Aristid opened the front door. William was lying on the doormat,
one long arm reaching up towards the door bell button.
“Good evening William,” said Aristid.
“Hello Aristid,” said William, groggily. “I did remember that there
was a concrete step leading up to your door, but I’m afraid I thought
it was six inches further up the path than in fact it is. I think it was
probably that that I fell over.”

83
 “That seems most likely,” said Aristid.
“You haven’t had the step moved recently? It’s always been where
it is?”
“Yes William, it has always been where it is. I suspect it is your
memory that is at fault here, not the doorstep.”
“You’re right, of course. The step is probably not to blame. Tell
me, Aristid, do you suppose I could be drunk? It would explain why
I have so thoroughly fallen over your step.”
“It would indeed. Have you been drinking at all?”
“Yes.”
“Then your being drunk is probably the explanation. Would you
like to come in, and if so, do you feel you can perform the operation
without aid?”
As an experiment, William tried to untangle his long legs from
Aristid’s doormat, then, with Aristid’s help, he succeeded in rising to
his feet and stumbling through the front door. Wobbling precariously
towards Aristid’s other green armchair (the non-battered one, not Ar-
istid’s favourite), William made his way into the sitting room. He
managed to avoid tripping over the television, and only banged his shin
once on the coffee table before collapsing into the chair. He pointed
his slightly bloodshot eyes at Aristid’s faded print of Dali’s Swans re-
flecting Elephants and looked as if he was concentrating fiercely on
it. Aristid looked too. He loved that painting with its grey leath-
ery swans and weird twisted trees. He loved the way the swans and
the trees were reflected unnaturally by the water into the shapes of
elephants. He loved the mismatched rocks with their fiery outcrops,
and he loved the tall thin clouds that hovered at the edge of the sky.
The painting fascinated William too. He was the only one of Aristid’s
friends who couldn’t see anything odd about it.
Once more Aristid sat down in his favourite armchair. He glanced
towards his book. Would it be more interesting to continue reading
or to start talking to William? Aristid’s plans for William’s future
success were still not completely formulated, though he was sure that
the answer lay in water pistols.
“Tell me, William,” said Aristid, “did you go home to Maria after

84
work?”
“Not immediately after,” said William. “First I went to the pub to
challenge Mr Blenkham to a drinking competition, then, after I had
beaten Mr Blenkham and one or two other people, I went home to
Maria. She hasn’t forgiven me yet Aristid. She kicked me out again.”
“You don’t think that it was perhaps a mistake to go home drunk
again?”
William looked puzzled. “Maria’s complaint on Saturday was that
I had won fifty dollars in a drinking competition and failed to ask Mr
Blenkham for a pay rise. Today I did neither.”
“But William, you said you had won a drinking competition . . . ”
“I did. But this time I did not drink for money. Today I drank
only for honour, as a true sportsman should. Therefore I won nothing,
although I am still something of a champion. But I am an amateur
now, no longer a professional. I thought Maria would be proud.”
“It is possible, my dear William, that you still fail to appreciate
the objections of your wife. While it is no doubt better to enter these
competitions for honour rather than for money, it is possible that
Maria would rather you did not enter them at all. My sister has
always taken a dim view of those who drink to excess.”
“Do you think I drink to excess, Aristid?”
“I think that perhaps you spend rather more of your life in gutters
than Maria would like. I am quite sure that it was your paralytic
condition rather than your status as a professional that caused Maria
to throw you out in the first place.”
“Hm. I hadn’t thought of that. In future I had better challenge
people to competitions drinking non-alcoholic substances.”
“You could try that, William, yes, but I think it might have less
appeal for your drinking companions.”
William looked depressed. It was obvious to Aristid that he needed
cheering up.
“Tell me,” said Aristid, “how was your request for a pay rise
treated? Has Mr Blenkham agreed to increase your salary?”
“No, I’m afraid he hasn’t. But I did ask him. And I told Maria
that I asked him.”

85
 “Did he say why he wouldn’t give you a pay rise?”
“No. Nor did he say why he wouldn’t let me wear jack boots or
carry a gun. Sometimes I don’t understand Mr Blenkham at all.”
“So you did ask him if you could carry a gun at work?”
“Yes. Well, it seemed like such an excellent idea.”
“Perhaps he feels that if anyone should be armed it should be him.”
“He should be armed also, of course. In fact, he should be armed
with a more powerful weapon than mine, as befits his superior station.”
Aristid smiled to himself. “Alas William, I fear that Mr Blenkham
lacks your creative imagination. Tell me, did you ask him about the
gun before or after you asked him for the pay rise?”
“Before, I think.”
“Ah. Did you also tell Maria that you had asked about a gun and
failed to gain the pay rise?”
“Of course. It was at that point she told me to go away. Odd,
don’t you think?”
“Women are notoriously strange in their opinions, William, and
in their behaviour. I would not worry about it if I were you. But in
future I would not discuss armaments with Mr Blenkham, nor with
Maria. Possibly they do not appreciate these things as you do.”
“No. The prophet is never appreciated in his own land. They do
say that, don’t they Aristid?”
“It’s in the Bible, William, or words to that effect.”
“In the Bible, eh? Well, it’s true. Even my algorithm is not ap-
preciated by Mr Blenkham.”
“This is your new algorithm for picking up shopping trolleys, is it
not?”
“Yes, that’s right. Mr Blenkham does not appreciate it.”
“Why ever not?”
“It doesn’t work.”
“Ah.”
William sighed. “I can see why he should object to that, of course,
and I have promised faithfully to design a new algorithm for him that
does work, but he’s not satisfied.”

86
 “Is he not? That seems strange. Can he not accept that any new
algorithm is bound to have teething problems?”
“Oh these are not teething problems, Aristid, far from it. The
algorithm is totally useless and will have to be abandoned. Mr Blenk-
ham is right about that. What is really distressing is that he doesn’t
want me to use the algorithm at all.”
“Well if it doesn’t work . . . ”
“But what will I do until I’ve designed a new algorithm? I must
use something. An algorithm is required.”
“What does Mr Blenkham say you should do?”
“He says I don’t need an algorithm at all. He says my job is to drive
around the car park collecting the trolleys for the shops and making
sure that none of the shops run out. He says the car park area isn’t
big enough to require all the thought I give to it.”
“Well, perhaps the job could be done more simply if . . . ”
“It’s not just a case of collecting trolleys, Aristid!”
“Ah. No. Of course not.”
“There is far more to it than that, there must be more to it than
that. If I thought that all my job consisted of was collecting shopping
trolleys, well, I’d have gone mad by now. No no. What matters is
the elegance with which the job is done. It’s so hard to explain to
someone else, to make them understand. Have you ever heard of Tai
Chi Aristid?”
Aristid looked vaguely surprised. “Yes. I believe it is some sort of
Chinese dance.”
“I know all about it. It was on the television some nights ago.
What is important is the concept of flow. Tai Chi is not just dance
steps. It’s movements must flow from a sense of inner calm, and flow
spontaneously from that sense. My job is like that. The algorithm
flows outwards from my sense of inner calm. I transmit my sense of
inner calm to the tractor, which then flows outwards from the centre of
the car park and engulfs the trolleys in its wake. There is the beauty
of my work. There is its joy. Yet Mr Blenkham cannot see it.”
“Poor Mr Blenkham. Perhaps he is more to be pitied than cen-
sured.”

87
 “Perhaps. But I think it is tragic for society when incompetent
people rise to positions of power.”
“Indeed it is, William, indeed it is.”
Now more than ever, Aristid thought to himself, William has need
of a water pistol.

88
16

It was Tuesday morning. Colin had been out the previous night, so
Desmond had not been able to tell him about the truly wonderful girl
he had met at work.
During the night Desmond had dreamed about Miranda. In his
dream they had been walking together towards a small thatched cot-
tage. It was a sunny day, and the sun shone brightly off the cottage’s
yellow roof and white walls. Beyond the cottage gentle green hills
rolled on beneath the blue of the sky. Wispy white clouds could be
glimpsed hugging the horizon. A silver stream sparkled and bubbled
beside the path on which Desmond and Miranda were walking.
As they walked, Desmond put his arm around Miranda, and she
rested her head on his shoulder. Desmond felt more contented than
he ever had in his life.
“You must be a really nice person,” said Miranda.
Then Desmond’s alarm clock went off and he woke up. It was time
to get up and go to work.
Work was the same as ever when Desmond arrived. Anne was
there, ordering everyone around, and Marc was sitting at his desk
pulling elastic bands off deposit slips, and looking both exhausted
and fed up at the same time. Bruce was trying to chat up Julie,
presumably making do with her until the EDP girl arrived. Andrei
was scowling furiously at the back of the Automatic teller machine.
Desmond wondered what was wrong with it this time, but he didn’t
ask in case he got roped into trying to fix it. There was no sign of

89
Miranda.
His desk was unusually full of paperwork when Desmond arrived
at it. With a deep sigh he placed his over-full briefcase on the floor
behind it and sat down. Anne appeared behind him and scowled.
“Why are you looking so glum?” she said.
“It’s all these forms,” said Desmond. “Where did they come from?”
“Dumped there by all your friends no doubt,” said Anne. “If you’re
going to be ten minutes late you must expect to be landed with every-
one else’s paperwork. Now hurry up. Fifty minutes and we’re opening.
That lot’s got to be finished by then.”
Desmond stared at the pile. Working at his normal pace it would
take at least an hour to fill in and file so many forms, and some of
them would have to be countersigned by Anne. It was going to be a
hard morning.
“Anne,” said Desmond, “do you know if Miranda’s coming in to-
day?”
Anne looked at him. “Miranda? Our computer girl? As far as I
know she is. Probably stopping off at central office first. Why do you
ask?”
“Oh, just wondering.”
“Hm. I suppose we’d better get her computer working. She told
me how to do it yesterday. If you didn’t have so much work to do I’d
show you how to do it.”
Anne moved to the side of the computer and rubbed her chin
thoughtfully. “Which bit did she say to turn on first?” she said to
herself. “Marc!” she added, “come here and learn how to do this.”
The computer was on the enquiry counter just in front of Desm-
ond’s desk, and Marc’s desk was the one next to his on the right. Marc
pulled off the last of the elastic bands and looked warily towards the
computer.
“Do I have to?” he said.
“Yes,” said Anne. “Come here. I don’t know what’s wrong with
you. Sometimes I think we should call in a vet to put you out of your
misery.”
Marc rose to his feet and lurched towards the computer. “Can’t

90
Desmond learn it instead?”
“No,” said Anne, “he’s busy.”
“Yes,” said Desmond, “busy doing your paperwork.”
Marc looked hurt. “It’s not mine,” he said. “Bruce said we should
all dump our forms on your desk, but I’d already done mine.”
“Thanks Speed,” said Bruce from the other end of the room. “Just
tell everyone about it.”
“All right,” said Anne, “back to work. I don’t know what it is with
you people. All this team work and group loyalty. Desmond, give half
those forms to Bruce, then get back to work.”
“Ah, no!” said Bruce, “I’ve got too much other stuff to do.”
“Well now you’ve got even more, and only three quarters of an
hour to do it in. Congratulations. You’re going for the record.”
Desmond got up and handed half his papers to Bruce. “Sorry
mate,” he said.
“Not your fault,” said Bruce, and he glowered resentfully at Anne.
“Oh, and Desmond,” said Anne, “stop looking so glum. Your
computer girl will be here soon, don’t you worry.”
So work resumed. Marc tried to understand how to turn the com-
puter on, and Bruce and Desmond struggled through their piles of
forms. All the time Desmond thought of Miranda. All the time he re-
alised how futile it was to like her so much. She must have a boyfriend.
She couldn’t possibly be interested in someone like him. Yet she had
said he was a nice person. Perhaps there was a chance for him after
all. This faint glimmer of hope kept his mind thoroughly concentrated
on the subject of Miranda Catarini, in spite of all the other things
going on around him.
The doors of the bank opened, and the morning customers poured
in. Desmond’s last form was finished, and the first customer needing
his attention had appeared. It was Mrs Simons, an elderly woman
who came into the bank every other Tuesday in order to be told that
pension day was on Thursday. Then Miranda arrived.
The first thing Desmond did was rush to the gate in the enquiry
counter to let her in. She smiled at him and his heart leapt. She didn’t
stay to talk, however. Placing her small briefcase next to his she made

91
straight for the computer. Desmond couldn’t go with her because he
had another customer to see to.
This customer wanted to apply for a MasterCard. He looked semi-
literate and impoverished, not the sort of person whose MasterCard
application could possibly be accepted, but Desmond helped him fill
in the form anyway.
Sometime soon he was going to have to confront Miranda. Desm-
ond had conceived a desperate plan. He was going to ask her out to
lunch. He didn’t quite know how he should go about this. Should he
try to start a conversation on some other topic and then work up to
a lunch date, or should he just blurt it out? Probably just blurting it
out would be disastrous. Desmond had tried that sort of approach to
the problem with other girls and it had never got him anywhere. But
the more subtle approach was fraught with dangers of its own. For one
thing, Desmond wasn’t very good at subtlety. Then, even assuming he
could start a conversation on some other topic, how could he possibly
bring it round to a lunch invitation afterwards? The subtle approach
was impossible for him, yet it was the only one that had the slightest
chance of working.
The customer gone, Desmond prepared to meet his doom. Miranda
was still fiddling with her computer. He had to go and be subtle to
her, and he had to do it quickly before Bruce or Andrei or one of the
others beat him to it. Desmond had made his decision. He felt a sense
of creeping dread flow up from his chest through his neck and into
his brain. He took a deep breath and strode over to Miranda and her
computer.
A voice came from the other side of the enquiry counter. “Er,
excuse me,” it said.
Desmond and Miranda looked round. There was a customer, a
little man with glasses and slightly thinning grey hair. He was wearing
a brown suit, several sizes too large for him, and a brown tie made of
some corrugated material. He had his little hands up on the enquiry
counter, and his little eyes were darting nervously between Desmond
and Miranda, obviously unsure which to talk to.
“Er, excuse me,” he said to Miranda, “I wonder if perhaps you can

92
help me? If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”
Desmond felt strangely relieved. He had a customer to deal with.
He wouldn’t be able to talk to Miranda after all, at least not for a
while.
“I’m sure I can help you,” said Desmond, “if you’ll just tell me
what the problem is.”
The man turned his attention to Desmond. “Ah,” he said. “Yes.
Thank you. I, er, I wonder if it might be possible for me to open a
cheque account?”
Miranda grinned. “It certainly is possible,” she said. “Do you
mind using a computer?”
The man looked suspicious. “Er, no.”
Miranda’s grin broadened. “And after you’ve opened your account,
perhaps you’d like to answer a few questions for me on your attitude
towards computers in banking.”
The man started. “Questions? Oh. Ah. Er, all right, I suppose.”
“Good,” said Miranda. She turned towards Desmond. “Would you
like to learn how to use the computer?”
Desmond nodded.
“Good,” said Miranda. “We’ll change places. I’ll tell you which
buttons to press and you stand here and press them.”
Desmond was overjoyed. His attempt at subtlety was working bril-
liantly and he hadn’t even said anything yet.
The space between the enquiry counter and Desmond’s desk was
very narrow. In order to change places it was necessary for Desmond
and Miranda to squeeze past each other. Desmond had never expected
today to be the best day of his life.
After a brief moment of secret happiness Desmond reached the
computer. On Miranda’s instructions he pressed the button labelled
‘F10’. The advertising pictures that had been appearing one after the
other on the computer screen suddenly disappeared, and in their place
appeared a series of questions written in bright green letters on a dark
background. Next to each question were a number of labelled boxes,
and in the first box was a flashing dash.
“Ask the customer the first question,” said Miranda, “and type in

93
the answer.”
“What is your name?” Desmond said.
The man looked round nervously. “Thomas Smith,” he finally said.
“Right,” said Miranda. “The first box after the question is labelled
‘First Name’, so type in ‘Thomas’.”
Desmond typed in ‘Thomas’. The word appeared in the first box.
“Now press ‘Return’,” said Miranda.
“Sorry?”
“The big button with the bent arrow on it.”
Desmond pressed it. The flashing dash moved to the second box,
the box labelled ‘Surname’. Desmond, ever ingenious, typed in ‘Smith’
without even being told to. He pressed the large button with the bent
arrow again, and the flashing dash moved into the third box, the box
labelled ‘Title’.
“Good,” said Miranda, “you’re doing well.”
And so they carried on, Desmond questioning the customer and
typing in his answers, and Miranda watching him carefully and telling
him what to do. Soon all was finished. The customer had, somewhat
reluctantly, answered all the questions the computer asked, and Mir-
anda showed Desmond which button to press in order to store the
information and print off the filled in forms. Then, retrieving her
clipboard from her briefcase, she turned to ask the customer some
questions of her own.
Paper poured out of the computer printer. As he watched it, Des-
mond listened to Miranda questioning the customer. She had a lovely
voice, quiet and slow and gentle. She spoke so beautifully, and had
such charm. Even the nervous customer was not disturbed by her.
Desmond thought she was wonderful. In fact, the more he thought
about it, the more wonderful he thought she was. It was quite clear
that she was not merely the most wonderful person he had ever met
but the most wonderful person he was ever going to meet. He had to
tell her that. He had to find a way to tell her at least that he really
liked her.
The final question asked, the customer turned to go. He was di-
rected towards the tellers’ booths where Desmond would have to go to

94
take his money for the account. Miranda bent down to put her clip-
board away, and Desmond knew that he would have to say something.
It was now or never.
“Um,” he said.
She looked up at him and smiled. Her eyes were so lovely.
“Your eyes . . . ” said Desmond.
“Oh God,” said Miranda, “I know. Aren’t they dreadful?”
“Are they?”
“Yes. It’s called hyperthyroid or something. Very ugly.”
“Oh,” said Desmond. “Sorry.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Miranda. “Some men don’t mind,
or so I’m told.”
“I don’t mind,” said Desmond. “I don’t think your eyes look ugly.
In fact, I quite like them, really. I suppose.”
Miranda’s smile broadened. “You are nice,” she said. “You say
such kind things. Would you like to go out to lunch with me today?”
“What?”
“Lunch. About two o’clock? I mean, if you’re not doing anything.”
Desmond was stunned. “Did you say lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! I’m not doing anything. Lunch sounds, er, great.”
“Good. I’ll come and find you at two o’clock.”
With that Miranda went back to her computer. Desmond, in some-
thing of a daze, stumbled over to the tellers’ booths to finish opening
the new account. He decided not to sing a happy song, in spite of the
enormous temptation to do so.

95
96
17

It was half past one. Miranda Catarini was sitting on the customer
side of the enquiry counter reading her training manual and listening
to her stomach rumbling. She was very hungry.
Before her a line of customers, waited to be served by the tellers.
Beyond the customers, cut off from them by their enquiry counter,
were the people who worked in the bank. They weren’t quite what
she had expected before coming to the bank branch. The only people
she had really met so far were the obviously sleazy Bruce (and his
friends) and the dominant and domineering Anne. But there was also
the shy young man who had saved her from the homicidal customer
the day before. He was odd, but kindly, and she was determined that
he should be her friend. She would get to know him over lunch and
see if she could make him less shy.
Meanwhile there was still half an hour to go until lunch time, and
her empty stomach was dropping loud hints. She wished it would be
more patient. It would get fed soon.
The bank was indeed full of customers. The hour between one and
two was a very busy time indeed. So perhaps it was sensible to obey
Mr Jameson’s instructions and wait until the rush died down before
leaving for lunch. But on the other hand, although there were a lot
of customers, none of them seemed to want to open an account. Her
computer was lying idle and she was reduced to reading her training
manual. She decided to have a go at doing some promoting. She put
her training manual back into her briefcase and pulled out her clip

97
board. Looking both competent and professional she approached a
customer who had just walked in.
The customer was a small Eurasian woman in a dark dress.
Miranda smiled what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Good after-
noon,” she said. “My name is Miranda Catarini, and I represent the
EDP division of the bank. I am part of a team testing a new computer
system . . . ”
“Hello,” said the woman, “I don’t speak English.”
“Oh,” said Miranda.
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Hello,” she said again, then
turned away.
Undaunted, Miranda approached another customer who had just
arrived. He was a tall, good looking young man in a blue suit. He
joined the end of the queue.
“Good afternoon,” said Miranda. “My name is Miranda Catarini,
and I represent the EDP division of the bank. I am part of a team
assigned to test a new computer system . . . ”
“Computer system?” said the man. “Don’t tell me about com-
puter systems. I work with computer systems all the time. Computer
systems stink.”
He turned away.
Another customer came in, a middle aged, dark haired lady in a
plain dress. Miranda squared her shoulders for a last try.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Miranda Catarini . . . ”
“Hello, my name’s Liz, Liz Campbell. I like your clipboard. Are
you selling something?”
“Oh. No, not really. I’m promoting computers in banking.”
“I’m all for that. Do you mean like that automatic teller machine
outside?”
“Yes. That sort of thing.”
“Thought so. Yes, I’m all for that. Not much point in it at this
time of day though.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Everyone’s off work for their lunch hour, love.”
“So?”

98
 “So there’s a longer queue out there than there is in here.”
Thanking the woman for her time, Miranda went back to her seat.
At least she now had something to write on her report sheet: ‘Need
more automatic teller machines’. But she still had nothing to write
about ECAS. Customers who had used the system thought it was a
good idea, but those who hadn’t didn’t seem the least bit interested.
It was only the second day of the pilot test, and already Miranda
felt things were not going as well as they should. Hers was not the
only branch at which the computer had not been assembled by the
delivery men. In fact, none of the computers at any of the branches
had been. Every member of the ECAS team had thus, like her, been
faced with the task of assembling one. Mr Jameson had told her this
that morning when she had come into the central office to get a manila
folder. He thought it was probably a good thing in the long run, since
every team member had been forced to display competence to branch
staff by putting a computer together.
The real problem, from Miranda’s point of view, was the lack of
work. If things kept up at their current rate she would have read the
last of her training manuals by ten o’clock on Thursday. When that
happened she would have nothing else to do but sit around and wait
for the computer to be used. What she needed was a sudden rush on
the computer, or, failing that, more training manuals.
Then, of course, there was Morris. She had tried to phone him
again the night before. Again she got no answer. It was hard for her
to avoid considering the possibility that he was deliberately avoiding
her. If something bad had happened to him she would have heard by
now.
With a brief sigh, Miranda turned her attention back to the train-
ing manual on her lap. She managed to read two pages in record time
before she remembered that she was supposed to be slowing down.
Someone was approaching the computer. She stood up and walked
towards him.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Miranda Catarini, and
I represent. . . ”
“Is this your computer?” said the customer. He was a tall, middle

99
aged man in a dark suit. He looked vaguely amused.
“It’s the bank’s computer,” said Miranda, “but I’m responsible for
it, yes.”
“You really want to take full responsibility for it?”
“Why do you ask? Shouldn’t I? Is there something wrong with the
computer?”
The man grinned. “Just a little something. I’ve been watching it
for the last couple of minutes. It’s just flashing through a sequence of
advertising slides for the bank at the moment. Does it do anything
else?”
“You can use it to open a cheque account.”
“Oh? Well, I’ve already got a cheque account. The slide that
interests me is the one that says: ‘Better terms of interest for your
savings? Apply at the conter for further details’.”
“The what?”
“The conter. I think it should be counter. It’s rather funny, don’t
you think, that you highly trained computer people can’t spell? You
should employ someone who knows something about the English lan-
guage.”
Miranda smiled faintly. She decided not to mention her degree in
English Literature.
When the customer had gone Miranda ran to the gate in the en-
quiry counter and called for someone to let her in. The slow moving
Marc dragged himself up to it and pulled the catch.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Miranda, trying to hide her panic. “Do you have
a phone I could use?”
Marc glanced at the phone on his desk. “Use mine,” he said, “I
won’t disturb you. I’ve got an enquiry to deal with. Dial ‘0’ for an
outside line.”
Quickly thanking him, Miranda dashed for the phone. She dialled
‘0’, then the number of the ECAS office on the eleventh floor of the
main bank building. She heard the phone ring.
“Hello?” said the voice of Mr Jameson.
“Mr Jameson?” said Miranda. “Miranda here. Something terrible

100
has happened. You know the slide show the computer displays when
it’s not in use? Well one of the slides has a spelling mistake in it.”
“Whoops,” said Mr Jameson. “Which slide is it?”
“The one about higher interest savings accounts. It spells ‘counter’
with no ‘u’.”
“‘Conter’. Oh dear. We’ll get working on it right away. When
we’ve fixed the problem we’ll send you a diskette with the programme
changes on it, and you can load it onto the hard disk.”
“It’ll be the same at the other branches . . . ”
“And we’ll send diskettes to them too. Don’t worry. All will be
well. Oh, and Miranda?”
“Yes Mr Jameson?”
“Good work. I knew it was wise to have a literature graduate on
our team.”
Miranda put the phone down and sat on the side of the desk. She
breathed deeply. After that little panic she very much wanted a break.
It was two o’clock. Time for her lunch appointment. She looked
around for the shy young man she was due to go to lunch with. When
she spotted him she smiled. He smiled back and came over to her.
“Lunch?” she said.
“Yes please,” he said.
“Do you have a favourite place to go for lunch?”
The young man looked slightly embarrassed. “I usually just take
my sandwiches to the park and eat them there.”
“That sounds like fun, but I don’t have any sandwiches. Let’s find
a café or a tea shop or something instead. Okay?”
The young man smiled shyly. “Okay,” he said, and together they
left the bank.

101
102
18

It was two o’clock, lunchtime, and for once Desmond was not going to
eat sandwiches in the park.
Out into the bright street Desmond Fisher walked with a beautiful
girl by his side. He felt a strange mixture of contentment and pure
terror well up inside him.
The EDP girl, Miranda, turned to him and smiled. Her smile was
so lovely that Desmond felt his knees going weak. But he couldn’t
help smiling back.
“I think I know somewhere we could go,” said Miranda, “I saw it
on the way to work. Come on.”
Off up the street Miranda went, leading the way. Desmond tried
to walk beside her, but it was hard when she was the only one who
really knew where they were going.
She wasn’t dressed as she had been on Monday. Today she was
wearing a grey chequered skirt with a black blazer. She still looked
good though, professional, poised, businesslike and neat. The sun
sparkled off her golden hair, and Desmond wondered if there might,
possibly, be a chance that someone like her might fall for someone like
him.
Walking down the street Desmond noticed that Miranda didn’t
walk very elegantly in her high heeled shoes, but he didn’t hold that
against her. No one was perfect, and he didn’t expect that he would
walk very elegantly in high heeled shoes either.
The tea shop Miranda led them to was small and sufficiently dark

103
on the inside to qualify as a restaurant. It was called Elevenses, and
Desmond had never noticed it before. He was not a very observant
individual, as a rule.
Miranda smiled. “All right with you?” she said.
“Fine,” said Desmond. “It looks great.”
Miranda slid open the tea shop’s door (it looked like a door that
was designed to open automatically, but at some stage the mechanism
had broken down) and they stepped inside. Inside was a large number
of small tables, all of them occupied. The walls of the tea shop were
decorated with fake oak-panelling. It didn’t look nearly as bad inside
as it might have done.
“There are more tables downstairs,” said a passing waitress.
Desmond thanked her, and he and Miranda sought a way down.
There was a narrow, steep staircase leading down at one side of the
room, and they made their way towards it. At the top of the staircase
Desmond paused to allow Miranda to pass.
“After you,” he said.
“Coward,” she said, with a smile. “I wonder what it’s like down
there?”
After descending the stairs, they emerged into a slightly more tacky
version of the room upstairs. Here the walls were decorated with black
and white posters, some of film stars like of Humphrey Bogart and Lau-
ren Bacall, and some copies of faded turn-of-the century photographs.
Only half of the tables here were occupied. They selected a very small
one, with only two place settings, and sat down opposite each other.
Miranda smiled sweetly, and Desmond scanned the area in a des-
perate search for something to talk about. He had to get the conver-
sation started somehow. It was more important than it had ever been
before in his life.
Miranda looked at him. “I’ve just thought of something,” she said.
“Here I am, out to lunch with you, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh?” said Desmond.
“Yes,” said Miranda.
Desmond tried to think of something to say.
“Well?” said Miranda.

104
 “Sorry?” said Desmond.
“What’s your name?” said Miranda.
“Oh! Er . . . Um . . . Desmond. Desmond Fisher,” said Desmond.
Miranda’s smile turned into a grin. “Are you sure about that?”
Desmond was puzzled. “Yes,” he said, seriously, “of course I’m
sure.”
Miranda started to giggle.
Desmond was even more puzzled. “Is something funny?” he asked.
Miranda’s face straightened for a moment. “No no,” she said,
“nothing,” then started giggling again. “I’m sorry,” she said, when
the giggle had settled back down into a grin. “Really. By the way, my
name’s Miranda, Miranda Catarini.”
“I know,” said Desmond.
Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Oh?” she said. “So you have the
advantage of me.”
Desmond was puzzled again. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh?” Desmond scratched his head. “How?”
“By knowing my name before I know yours.”
“But I just told you my name.”
“Yes, but. . . Oh, never mind.”
Desmond concentrated. He tried to look as if he understood what
Miranda was talking about and agreed with it. The result of his con-
centration was not encouraging. Miranda started giggling again.
“You are funny,” she said. “Shall we see what there is to eat?”
This sounded like a good plan to Desmond. He picked up the
menu card from his place and started hunting for something he might
recognise, like fish and chips.
Miranda glanced briefly at her card. “I think I’ll have a wiener
schnitzel,” she said, “and a cappuccino. How about you?”
“Oh,” said Desmond, “I’ll have the same.” He hoped he wasn’t
letting himself in for anything unpleasant.
A waitress appeared and Miranda gave her their order. When the
waitress had gone she turned back to Desmond with a smile.

105
 “I wonder how many hours it’ll take them to bring us the food,”
she said.
“Hours?” said Desmond, in some alarm. “I have to be back at the
bank by three.”
“Don’t worry,” said Miranda, “I was only joking. I’m sure we’ll be
back at the bank by three.”
It occurred to Desmond that he might not be making a very good
impression. He looked desperately round the restaurant for something
to talk about. The situation had to be saved somehow.
A picture hanging on the opposite wall caught his gaze. It was
a copy of a photograph taken about a hundred years ago. It showed
a nude woman, rather more plump than would be considered attrac-
tive nowadays, reclining on a couch. She was lying back and smiling
wistfully at the camera. She was just the sort of woman Desmond
would have thought beautiful, before present company caused him to
completely change his idea of female beauty.
Miranda followed his gaze and smiled. “She’s a big girl,” she said.
“Yes,” said Desmond.
“Do you like your women with big breasts?”
“Yes,” said Desmond, without thinking. “Oh,” he added in alarm,
“well, of course, I prefer women with medium sized breasts . . . Ah, no,
er, actually I’m not interested in breasts at all and . . . oh dear. I’m
sorry.”
Desmond hung his head in embarrassment, but Miranda was not
offended. She smiled and reached out her hand to touch his arm.
“Desmond,” she said quietly, “you don’t have to try so hard. Just
relax.”
“I’m sorry,” said Desmond, without looking up.
“And stop apologising. I’m the one who should apologise if I’m
making you nervous.”
“Oh no,” said Desmond, “it’s not you. Women always make me
nervous. I thought maybe I wouldn’t be so nervous with you, but I
am. Sorry. It’s just me.”
“I understand. You don’t have many female friends, I guess. Is
that right?”

106
 “Yes. I think I get so nervous I frighten them away.”
“Well, you won’t frighten me away. I know you’re nice, even if you
are behaving like an idiot at the moment. That business with the mad
customer yesterday was a pretty impressive piece of courage.”
“It was just my job . . . ”
“Come on Desmond, you wouldn’t have gone near that customer if
he hadn’t been picking on me. You were rescuing me, not just being
a loyal enquiries officer.”
Desmond blushed.
“Don’t think I don’t know that,” said Miranda, “and don’t think
I don’t appreciate it. I think it was a very kind, selfless thing to do.
And to show how grateful I am, I’ll even pay for lunch.”
“Oh no . . . ”
“No, I insist. I probably earn more than you. It’s only fair. Espe-
cially since I chose the restaurant.”
Desmond shrugged his shoulders. “All right,” he said, “if you
insist,” but he still couldn’t meet her gaze.
Miranda laughed gently. “You really are shy, aren’t you?” she
said. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll get used to me.”
Desmond looked up and tried to smile. “You’ll like me too,” he
said, “when you get to know me. I hope.”
“I’m sure I will.”
A waitress arrived with their drinks. She put a cup in front of
Desmond that contained what looked like a melted chocolate sundae
on top of which someone had sprinkled some brown granules.
Miranda thanked the waitress and turned back to Desmond. “First
cappuccino?” she said.
Desmond nodded.
“You’re in for a pleasant surprise then,” said Miranda. “You’ll like
it.”
She sipped at her cup. Desmond copied her with his. The drink
didn’t taste too awful, no worse than coffee in fact. Desmond thought
he might survive his lunch hour after all.
“My advice to you,” said Miranda, “when dealing with women, is
to be yourself.”

107
 “That’s easy enough for you to say,” said Desmond, “but when I’m
being myself I never concentrate hard enough to know how to be it
when I’m not. I mean, it’s easy enough to be myself when I’m in an
ordinary situation, but when I’m not in an ordinary situation I can
never remember what myself is.”
“But this is an ordinary situation.”
“Not for me it isn’t.”
“Oh Desmond. You get on well enough with that Anne Cameron
woman. She doesn’t seem to make you nervous at all, but she terrifies
me.”
“Anne’s different. Anne makes everyone nervous, but when you
realise she’s all right underneath you stop being afraid of her.”
“But every young man is nervous the first time he’s alone with a
young woman . . . ”
“This is not the first time I’ve been alone with a young woman.
I’ve been alone with young women before. My previous record was
five minutes continuously with the same one.”
Miranda laughed. “You do have a sense of humour after all! I
knew you’d start being yourself eventually.”
But Desmond had not been joking.
The food arrived, and Desmond was pleasantly surprised to see
that the wiener schnitzel, in spite of its strange name, was really quite
a normal looking dish. He could embark on his meal free from terror.
“Yum yum,” said Miranda, “food. And we’ve still got thirty five
minutes to eat it and get back to the bank in.”
Desmond smiled. Things were beginning to go properly at last.

108
19

For William Pratt lunch had been less than enjoyable. In the continued
absence of sandwiches from Maria, he had been reduced to having a
meat pie and a beer at the local pub. It was hardly the lunch for a
grown man, but he had no alternative. He had tried making himself
sandwiches at Aristid’s house before leaving for work that morning,
but his efforts had been in vain. In spite of being a very creative man
William Pratt was quite incapable of making sandwiches.
At least the meat pie provided him with protein. The barbecue
sauce he spread on it provided him with something as well, though he
wasn’t quite sure what. The beer was good for him too. In fact, beer
was his favourite drink. So all in all, things could have been worse.
Of course, William’s real concern was for his tractor, buzzing around
the car park collecting trolleys with Mr Wymer at the controls. Mr
Wymer was the other tractor driver, and his job was to drive the trac-
tor one half of the time, while William drove it the other. He felt
that Mr Wymer did not fully appreciate the responsibilities of shop-
ping trolley management. Normally he had sandwiches for lunch, so
he could sit and eat them in the car park where he could keep an eye
on Mr Wymer to make sure he didn’t do anything too drastic. But
for the last two days he had been unable to keep his lunch time vigil.
The strain of all this worry was making him decidedly nervous and
irritable. He was glad when he finished the meat pie and the beer. It
meant he could get back to his beloved car park.
Walking down the road to the car park William hoped that Mr

109
Wymer had not done too bad a job while he had been away. Mr
Wymer wasn’t totally incompetent, of course, but he did lack convic-
tion. William was seriously worried about the state he might find the
car park in when he arrived. Yet his concern did not show in his stride,
which was as dignified and carefully measured as ever.
As he reached the car park a terrible sight met William’s eyes. A
worse disaster had occurred during his absence than he could ever have
imagined. All the trolleys in the car park were gathered together at
the end of the car park furthest from the shops. Mr Wymer and the
lads Alan and Jim had spent the time while he was away gathering
all the trolleys together at this obscure point. As he approached them
they stood by the trolleys smiling mischievous smiles.
He stormed towards them, waving his arms about furiously. “What
have you done?” he cried.
Mr Wymer grinned and folded his arms. He was a short man, fat
bellied and balding, but with a fairly thick beard to compensate. He
didn’t seem at all dismayed by William’s display of anger.
“Hi mate,” he said, “just thought I’d make your job a bit easier
for you.”
“How?” thundered William.
“We’ve collected all the trolleys into this one spot for you, all the
trolleys from around the car park. And here’s your tractor and cart
standing right next to them. All you’ve got to do is load the trolleys
up onto the cart and you can have them delivered to the shops in no
time at all. Good thing that, because the shops are going to be crying
out for trolleys soon. You know how it is after the lunch time rush.”
William knew how it was, but he had a problem.
The tractor, with its cart, was indeed standing right next to the
trolleys, but it was positioned in such a way that in order to satisfy
his algorithm he would have to drive all the way round the car park,
stop the tractor ten feet behind where it now was, and then load up
the trolleys. Sticking to his algorithm in this case would cause huge
delays to the smooth running of the shopping centre, while breaking
it would cause no trouble at all. He was torn by doubt. What should
he do?

110
 The problem was also of interest to Mr Wymer, Alan and Jim.
They stood watching him carefully, the expressions on their faces only
slightly evil.
William scowled ferociously at them, then marched towards his
tractor. He climbed into the seat, and noticed that the engine was
still running. If he violated his algorithm now he could have all the
trolleys delivered to their correct shops within five minutes. On the
other hand, if he stuck to his algorithm it could take up to half an
hour. William made his decision.
“Alan, Jim,” he said, “get into the cart.”
“Don’t you want us to load up the trolleys first Mr Pratt?” said
Alan.
“No,” said William, “we must stick to the algorithm.”
Mr Wymer grinned. Alan and Jim both looked shocked.
“All right lads,” said Mr Wymer, “that’s five bucks each you owe
me.”
Alan turned back to William. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just load
up the trolleys now?”
“No Alan,” said William, “that would violate the algorithm. We
must complete a circuit of the car park before we pick up the trolleys.
The position of the tractor demands it.”
“But Mr Pratt . . . ”
“I’m sorry Alan. We have our duty to the algorithm. But at least
with all the trolleys here we will be able to complete our circuit of the
car park without stopping. We should be back here quite quickly.”
“But if you just backed up the tractor ten feet it would have the
same effect. . . ”
“The algorithm, Alan.”
Mr Wymer laughed out loud. “It’s no good lads,” he said, “pay
up.”
Alan and Jim reached into their pockets and each produced a five
dollar note.
“You’re a bloody lunatic, Mr Pratt,” said Alan.
Jim agreed.
“Into the cart,” ordered William. “And no more insolence. You

111
shouldn’t mock your elders and betters just because you’re too young
to appreciate the importance of algorithms.”
Alan and Jim dragged themselves into the cart, and William drove
off at full speed. As he headed away up the hill of the car park, he
heard Mr Wymer calling after him.
“You are a bloody lunatic, William mate,” he said, “and so am I
for not putting more money on you.”
Up to the top of the car park (where all the shops were) William
drove, in accordance with his algorithm. There were no trolleys up
here (since they were all at the bottom of the hill) so he was able to
drive his tractor around at break-neck speed. Once he almost hit a
woman and her young son, but they jumped out of the way in time.
The top of the car park was covered in two minutes. If he’d had to
stop for trolleys it would have taken him twice as long. Next he hurtled
towards the undercover car park. Its two floors were also covered in
record time because again there were no trolleys to collect. But on
emerging from the covered car park he still could not head down to
the bottom of the hill to pick up the trolleys. His algorithm had been
designed on the assumption that trolleys collected more quickly at the
top of the hill, where the shops were, and in the undercover car park,
where people preferred to park, than they did at the bottom of the
hill, where as a matter of fact they all were. So his algorithm’s circuit
of the car park covered the top of the hill and the undercover sections
three times for every time it covered the bottom.
Each time William passed the shops, empty of shopping trolleys,
with his equally empty cart, assistant managers and packers stared
out at him in disbelief. But he still stuck to his algorithm. He was
nothing if not loyal.
When he finally did return to the trolleys at the bottom of the car
park he had completed the whole algorithm in a little less than fifteen
minutes. This was, he felt, a truly remarkable achievement. The small
crowd of people who had gathered around Mr Wymer and the trolleys
seemed less than impressed, however.
The crowd included managers and assistant managers from several
of the shops William was supposed to deliver trolleys to, as well as one

112
or two curious bystanders. Prominent in the crowd was Mr Blenkham,
wheezing and puffing fit to burst. His face was also an extremely
bright shade of purple. Beside him William’s colleague Mr Wymer
was smiling amiably.
Mr Blenkham rushed forwards towards William. “My God Will-
iam, what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Collecting trolleys, Mr Blenkham,” said William. “Alan, Jim,”
he added, “load up the cart.”
Alan and Jim leapt from the cart and began grabbing trolleys. But
Mr Blenkham was not satisfied.
“You’ve been driving backwards and forwards up there like a de-
mented school kid playing trains!”
“It’s my job, Mr Blenkham,” said William.
“But your cart was empty William.”
“Yes Mr Blenkham. My cart was, as you said, empty.”
Mr Blenkham clutched his sides and coughed painfully. “Why was
your cart empty, William?”
“Because all the trolleys were down here.”
“Then why didn’t you come down to get them?”
“It would have violated the algorithm.”
“What?”
“The algorithm, Mr Blenkham. It would have violated the algo-
rithm. Mr Wymer brought all the trolleys down here, and left the
tractor near them, to see if he could tempt me into breaking the algo-
rithm. But my will was too strong for him, too strong for temptation.”
“It’s true,” Mr Wymer said, helpfully. “William drove off and left
all the trolleys down here. He is truly a man of iron will.”
“Iron will?” wheezed Mr Blenkham. “Lead brains more like. What
in God’s name were you thinking of William?”
“As always,” said William, “I was thinking only of my algorithm.”
Mr Blenkham staggered slightly.
“Oh,” said William, “speaking of the algorithm, I have just com-
pleted it in record time. I was wondering if perhaps you might consider
that worthy of a pay rise?”

113
 “Record time, William, record time? You didn’t deliver any trol-
leys!”
“True, but the algorithm . . . ”
“No William, I am not giving you a pay rise. You’re a waste of air,
a waste of petrol, a waste of space and definitely a waste of money.
On top of all that you’re a bloody lunatic!”
“That’s what I said,” said Alan.
“You shut up,” said Mr Blenkham. “William, you’re fired. Report
to me tomorrow morning for your outstanding pay and your contribu-
tions to the superannuation fund. For now, go away.”
William stared at him in disbelief. “But Mr Blenkham, the trolleys
...”
“Wymer will deliver the trolleys. You go away.”
Now Mr Wymer looked surprised. “Not me,” he said, “I’ve finished
my shift for today.”
“You’ll work two shifts until William’s been replaced,” said Mr
Blenkham.
“But it’s not fair,” said Mr Wymer.
“Tough,” said Mr Blenkham. “The way you’ve behaved you’re
lucky I don’t fire you too. William, you’re still sitting on the tractor.
Get off it and go away.”
“But Mr Blenkham,” said William, “Mr Wymer is quite incapable
of replacing me.”
“Why?” said Mr Blenkham.
“He never follows the algorithm,” said William.
Mr Blenkham took a large metal fountain pen out of his pocket
and threw it at William.

114
20

After their meal Desmond and Miranda left the tea shop and headed
towards the bank. During the meal Desmond, after his initial false
start, had found himself able to talk to Miranda. He had chatted
about the various things, good and bad, that had happened to him at
the bank, about Anne Cameron and Mr Bailey’s account, about the
automatic teller machine and why Marc was called ‘Speed’. All the
time Miranda seemed genuinely interested, and sometimes amused,
by descriptions of events that had never struck him as being funny
before. She even contributed one or two anecdotes of her own about
her experiences being trained by the EDP division of the bank. As
she spoke he realised that he was in the presence of someone of great
intelligence. Miranda, he discovered, had even been known to read
Shakespeare, He felt humbled, and even more in love than he would
ever have thought possible.
So they walked along the busy street towards the little bank branch.
In Desmond’s happy mind the traffic noise was transformed into bird
song. It would have been better, perhaps, to have had real bird song,
but in an emergency the noise of an Urban Transit Authority bus
letting out diesel fumes was better than nothing.
At last he had met a human being he would gladly have spent the
rest of his life with. At last he had met that someone really special
he kept hearing about in songs. Now the purpose of his existence was
clear. The next step, of course, was to ask for her telephone number,
but Desmond was far too shy to do that.

115
 They went into the bank. Anne, who had watched them come in,
opened the gate in the enquiry counter for them. Desmond went back
to his desk, and Miranda returned to her computer. Bruce came up
to them.
“Good lunch?” he asked.
“Yes thanks,” said Miranda, “you should have come. It’s always
more fun with more people.”
Desmond’s heart fell. He stared in some disbelief.
“Hey, Miranda,” said Bruce, “you were going to give me your tele-
phone number, weren’t you?”
Miranda cocked an eyebrow. “Was I?” she said.
Bruce grinned. “You sure were. The deal was that you’d give me
yours, and I’d give you mine.”
Miranda smiled, slightly, at him. “All right,” she said. She turned
to Desmond. “Have you got a piece of paper we could borrow?”
In a shocked daze, Desmond handed her a piece of paper, and she
exchanged phone numbers with Bruce. Then Bruce opened the gate
for her to pass out of the enquiry area back to her seat on the other
side of the counter. There she sat down and returned to the perusal
of her important looking manual, waiting for the next customer who
might appear to need the computer.
Bruce took his half of the piece of paper, folded it, and placed it
in his wallet. Andrei and Marc gathered round and stared admiringly
at him. He grinned back, and leaned casually on Desmond’s desk.
“Well,” he said, “what do you reckon?”
Andrei shook his head. “I don’t understand it mate,” he said.
“What does she see in you?”
Bruce shrugged his shoulders. “Natural charm, I guess.”
“You must have something pretty good,” said Marc.
“Don’t worry about it, Speed,” said Bruce. “It’s like I told you,
Chicks only have eyes for me.”
“Bird like that,” said Marc, “I reckon you’ve got something good
there. I reckon you ought to make the most of her.”
Bruce shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll have finished with her by Thurs-
day,” he said. He took a quick look at Miranda. “Maybe,” he added.

116
 Desmond felt like death. He buried his head in his paperwork and
just tried to concentrate on bank work for the rest of the day. His
desk-bound afternoon was interrupted only by two enquiries he had to
answer, and by Anne, who appeared behind him.
“You all right, Desmond?” she said, in a gruff but friendly voice.
Desmond sighed deeply. “Yes thanks, Anne,” he said.
“Come on, Desmond,” she said, “snap out of it. You look as if
your budgie just died.”
Desmond sighed again.
“Have you got a budgie, Desmond?” she said.
“No.”
“Then cheer up! It’s a lovely day.”
“There’s not much sunshine in here,” Desmond said.
“That’s too deep for me,” said Anne. “Come on, have a break
from all that paperwork. Take some account statements down to the
service branch in the shopping centre for me. A bit of fresh air will do
you good.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
“What, and do more paperwork?”
“Yes.”
Anne stared at him in disbelief. “You having a nervous breakdown
or something?”
“Can’t you send Marc?”
“Send Marc? Don’t be stupid. He’d never find his way back.”
“Well send Andrei then. But please, leave me to my paperwork.”
“You should see a doctor, you should. You’re going mad. I’ll send
Andrei, but if that paperwork gets too much for you come and see me.
I’ll give you something else to do. I don’t want you becoming a martyr
to new account forms. I’ve got enough problems to deal with round
here already, without stupid martyrs getting under my feet.”
So Desmond was left to finish his paperwork alone. He got quite
a lot done that afternoon before the doors of the bank closed and he
had to attend to the tidying up. Money had to be counted and blank
forms placed in cupboards and draws. Articles for mailing had to be
put in the overnight bag, articles to be kept in the branch had to be

117
filed away correctly. And now, of course, Miranda’s computer had to
be shut down properly as well.
Desmond watched while Marc, under the supervision of Anne and
Miranda, performed the ‘end of day’ procedure. A diskette was re-
moved and placed, with some computer print-outs, in the overnight
bag. More computer print-outs were filed away in the manila folder
Miranda had brought with her that morning. Then it was time for her
to leave.
The task of opening the front doors for Miranda was assigned to
Desmond by Anne. He did as he was told and opened them.
As he held the doors open for her, Miranda smiled at him.
“Bye bye, Desmond,” she said, “see you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” said Desmond, but his heart wasn’t in it.
A short while later Desmond left too. He walked down the streets
towards his flat, the dazed look still on his face. A gang of hideous
muggers, escapees from a Mad Max movie, could have leapt out at
him with machine guns blazing, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye
lid.
Without bothering to look, Desmond crossed the road to his flat.
No cars ran him down. He listened to the noise of the traffic. Its
horrible howling suited his mood perfectly. One thing Desmond was
really beginning to appreciate about living in the city was the con-
stant sound of motor vehicles. Someone in the city was always going
somewhere, even if it was never him.
The steps to his flat were before him. He dragged himself up them.
Desmond hated these steps, not merely because he often found himself
sleeping on them. They were grey and cracked and old, and the rust
covered railings beside them smelt of garbage.
Desmond put his key in the lock of the door and opened it. He
lumbered into the flat and collapsed onto the sofa. He heard movement
coming from the kitchen.
The tall, thin figure of Colin appeared, a beer in each hand.
“Hi Des,” said Colin, “fancy a beer?”
Desmond stared miserably at his own feet. “Yes please,” he said.
Colin handed him one of the beers and sat next to him on the sofa.

118
He grinned. “Had a hard day at the office?” he said.
Desmond looked at him. He envied Colin. With his soft brown
eyes and thick brown hair he was the sort of man any woman would
fall for.
“Come on mate,” said Colin, “tell me what’s up.”
“I’m in love,” said Desmond.
“Not again!” said Colin, laughing slightly.
Desmond bristled. “What do you mean, ‘not again’ ? I’ve never
been in love before.”
“What about that Julie you were getting depressed about a few
weeks ago, or that girl Angelica, or Sheila, or whatever her name was,
at Christmas?”
“That was different,” said Desmond. “That was just attraction.
This is love.”
“Oh yeah? What’s this one’s name?”
“She’s the only one. Her name’s Miranda.”
“Nice name. Have you known her long?”
“I met her yesterday.”
Colin burst out laughing.
“I wish you wouldn’t keep laughing at me,” said Desmond.
“I’m sorry mate, really,” said Colin, “but you’re just so . . . well,
you’re incredible. How can you be in love with a girl you only met
yesterday? Was it love at first sight?”
“No,” said Desmond. “I wasn’t even interested when I first saw
her. I fell in love with her when I got to know her. I love her for her
mind.”
Colin laughed again. “You met her yesterday, got to know her,
and fell in love with her for her mind?”
Desmond started to blush. He could feel his face heating up. “I
shouldn’t tell you things,” he said, “you always laugh at me.”
“Hey, stop being so paranoid, mate,” said Colin. “Tell me what
happened. Did she ask you out to lunch or something?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I bet you hardly even talked to her before that. Jesus, Des, you’d
fall in love with a female hippopotamus if it asked you out to lunch.”

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 “It’s not like that Colin, you just don’t understand. Miranda is
someone very special. I mean she’s lovely, and kind, and clever. Just
talking to her’s like reading a really complicated book.”
“She can’t be that bright if she’s working in a bank.”
“She’s from the EDP division. She a graduate, like you. Anyway,
lots of bright people work in banks . . . ”
“But Des, you always say you have nothing in common with edu-
cated women, why do you . . . ”
“She works in the bank Colin, so I do have something in common
with her. She’s really clever and she works in the bank. She’s perfect.
What’s more, she even said she thought I was a nice person.”
“She said she thought you were a nice person and you’re sitting
here as if you’ve already lost her!”
“I have already lost her. Remember my friend Bruce? Well he’s
interested in her as well.”
“Des, your friend Bruce has got the shoulders of an African moun-
tain gorilla and the brains to match. If this girl’s as bright as you say,
she won’t be interested in him.”
“But she is interested. She gave him her phone number.”
“Did she? Bad sign, I agree. Did she give you her phone number
too?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her for it?”
“No.”
Colin laughed again. “Des, when a girl takes you out to lunch and
tells you you’re a nice person, ask for her phone number.”
“I couldn’t do that. It might offend her.”
“It won’t offend her Des. You already said she thinks you’re nice.
Even if she’s not interested in you she won’t be offended that you’re
interested in her. Trust me, I know about these things.”
“You don’t, Colin, you don’t know what it’s like to be rejected all
the time.”
“Rejected all the time? How many girls have you actually asked
out in your vast experience of life?”
“About five,” said Desmond.

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 “I thought it was more like three.”
“All right then, three. But I get rejections, you don’t.”
“Listen mate, I’ve had more than three rejections in my time. But
I don’t let it worry me. If a girl says ‘no’ to me I just say ‘goodbye’ and
move on to the next one. You just don’t try hard enough. You always
assume a girl won’t like you and then get really depressed about it.
By the time you get around to actually asking her out you’ve made
yourself so miserable that the poor girl thinks there’s something wrong
with you. She thinks you’re going to ask her to marry you or try to
rape her or something.”
“Miranda won’t think that. She understands that I’m shy and
nervous around women. She said so.”
“Jesus, Des, and you haven’t even got her phone number. Sounds
to me like you’ve actually found someone who’s keen on you, and
you’re too stupid to see it.”
“But Bruce . . . ”
“Bruce is just moving more quickly than you. But it’s still not too
late. Sounds like she’s more interested in you than Bruce. You’ve got
to get her phone number and ask her out. You’ve got to move fast.
If you do, she’ll forget all about Bruce. But you’ve got to move fast,
Des.”
Desmond sighed. “It really is no use,” he said.
“None of that talk. Get her phone number. I shall check up on
you tomorrow evening, and if you haven’t got her phone number by
then I’ll want to know the reason why.”
“But . . . ”
“No buts Des. Remember what they say: ‘Faint heart never won
fair lady’. Go to work tomorrow, my son, and be a man.”

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122
21

After another surprisingly successful day at work, Miranda Catarini

arrived home. No disasters had occurred, the branch staff were helpful,
the customers had been reasonably friendly and co-operative, and even
the food she had had for lunch had not been unpleasant. The only
things wrong with the day had been the spelling mistake in the slide
show and the speed with which she was getting through her training
manuals. Now she was at home, alone in her flat. Any moment now,
she knew, she would start to think about Morris.
It was time for dinner. Miranda decided that making dinner would
keep her mind from working. But she didn’t want to cook anything
difficult. A frozen lasagna in the oven, and some carrots, beans and
boiled potatoes on the stove would do for today. She turned the oven
on to heat up, then went to her bedroom to take off her work clothes
and put on a pair of jeans and a jumper.
Dinner was dull and lonely for Miranda. She wondered why Morris
had not phoned her for so long. Was he really just annoyed with her
about her little display of petulance at the weekend, or was something
else the matter? She knew Morris to be very strong willed. If she had
offended him on some minor point he would never forgive her until she
had figured out what it was and apologised very thoroughly for it.
After dinner she had a cup of coffee and went to the telephone.
Once more she dialled Morris’s number. She waited, listening to the
phone ringing at the other end of the line.
“Hello?” said Morris’s voice.

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 Her heart leapt. Morris was at least alive. “Morris?” she said.
“Are you all right?”
“What do you mean? Is that you Miranda?”
She was so happy to hear his voice again. “Of course it’s me! I’m
so glad you’re all right. I was worried about you when you didn’t come
round on Sunday, and then when I tried to phone you I got no answer
...”
“Are you being possessive again Miranda? Because if you are . . . ”
“Oh no, nothing like that Morris, really. I mean, I’m not saying
you should have come round on Sunday, because after all, you never
said you definitely would, and I’m not saying you should have been
home to answer the phone, because that would be unreasonable. It’s
just that, well, I’m glad to hear your voice because I was worried about
you. I guess it’s just that I love you so much.”
“Yes? Well I’m not all right, actually.”
Miranda’s happiness paused briefly. “You did have an accident!”
“Accident? No I didn’t have an accident. Jesus Miranda, you’re
getting weird. I’ve just got a bit of a cold, that’s all.”
“A cold? Oh, poor you. Shall I come round and nurse you? I could
bring you a bunch of flowers or something.”
“No, I don’t think you should. Thanks for the thought, and all
that, but I’d rather you didn’t come round. You might catch whatever
it is I’ve got. You wouldn’t want that would you?”
“Don’t be silly Morris. If you’re ill I want to come and comfort
you . . . ”
“Christ Miranda, we’re not going to have an argument about this,
are we?”
“I . . . ”
“I’m only thinking of you, for God’s sake. I don’t want you catching
this cold and blaming me for it.”
“I wouldn’t . . . ”
“Just stay away, Miranda. Understand?”
“Yes Morris. Sorry Morris.”
“Right. Sometimes I just don’t understand you Miranda.”
“How long for, Morris?”

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 “What?”
“How long do you want me to stay away for?”
“I don’t know. About a week, I suppose.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll think about you all the time and hope you get
well. I’ll phone you tomorrow to see how you are.”
“No, don’t phone me either.”
“What?”
“Don’t phone me either, until next week.”
“Oh Morris, why not?”
“There’s no point, that’s why not. Jesus Miranda, you’re starting
to make arguments out of everything.”
“I’m sorry Morris. It’s just that I miss you and . . . ”
“Don’t be such a wimp. I can’t stand it. Bye Miranda.”
Morris hung up.
Miranda said goodbye to the engaged signal and hung up too. She
decided to have another cup of coffee.
Returning to her kitchen she briefly considered the possibility of
going to see Morris anyway. She could take him a box of chocolates
or something that might cheer him up. Being ill, he might appreciate
a friendly cuddle and a chat. She could talk to him, make him cups
of coffee, bring a sandwich or two to his bedside, maybe even do his
washing for him. That way he could just lie back and relax, knowing
that she was looking after him.
Actually, Morris’s illness was more likely to be flu than just a cold,
because he hadn’t sounded at all ill on the phone. His voice hadn’t
changed in the least. But Miranda could look after a boyfriend with
the flu just as well as she could look after a boyfriend with a cold. She
was flexible that way.
Then she thought again. Her scheme was doomed from the outset.
Morris had ordered her not to come and see him. If she disobeyed him,
even with the best of intentions, he would be very angry with her. He
probably wouldn’t let her into his flat anyway, being Morris. He would
just shout at her through the closed door and tell her how awful she
was for disturbing him when he was ill. She could see extreme misery
for her lurking round every corner.

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 The phone rang. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” she said.
“Miranda? Morris here.”
“Morris?”
“Just wanted to say sorry for being a bit rude just now. Really,
it’s just that I’m not well, and, well, you know how it is.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“But still, I’d rather you didn’t come round or phone me, at least
until next week. If I start to feel a bit better I’ll phone you. All right?”
“Yes. All right.”
“Good girl. I do love you, you know.”
“I know.”
Morris hung up. Miranda said goodbye to the engaged signal again,
now at least reasonably happy. Morris’s love tended to display itself
in rather unusual ways, but at least he did love her. That was all she
cared about. That was all she really wanted to know.

126
22

In one of his brother-in-law’s green armchairs William Pratt sat and

stared at the floor. Deprived of livelihood and wife in the same week,
things were starting to get him down.
Into the room came Aristid, carrying a tray. On the tray were two
steaming mugs of tea and some chocolate biscuits.
“I have made us some supper, William,” said Aristid.
“Thank you, Aristid,” said William. “I think I need something.”
He took a mug of tea and a chocolate biscuit.
Aristid sat down in his own chair and smiled benignly at William.
“You are stone cold sober tonight, William,” he said. “What is the
reason for this?”
“I was feeling extremely miserable and depressed, Aristid. I never
touch alcohol when I am feeling miserable and depressed.”
“Indeed? Most people would.”
“But I am not like most people.”
Aristid sipped his tea and nibbled a biscuit. “True, William. Very
true. So tell me why you are feeling miserable and depressed.”
“I fear, Aristid, that I am simply growing paranoid in my old age.”
“Paranoid William? Why do you think that?”
“I keep imagining that people dislike me.”
“Which people William?”
“Mr Blenkham, for example. I keep imagining that he finds me
disagreeable.”

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 “Nonsense William. He has worked with you for years. Why do
you think he finds you disagreeable?”
“Oh it’s just one or two things that happened today, and, of course,
my overactive imagination.”
“Tell me about the things that happened today. Perhaps I will be
able to tell you if they are as bad as you imagine them to be.”
“Well, Mr Blenkham did say he thought I was a bloody lunatic.”
“Perhaps he was just a bit cross, William. These things pass.”
“He also said I was a waste of air, a waste of petrol, a waste of
space and a waste of money.”
“Hm. Not good, I agree. Did he say anything else?”
“Yes. He said that in the performance of my duties I was like a
demented school kid playing trains, and that I had lead brains.”
“Ah. I see. It does sound as if he might have been rather upset
with you about something.”
“Then he gave me the sack. I know it is quite irrational of me
to become paranoid under these circumstances, but somehow I just
cannot help imagining that perhaps Mr Blenkham doesn’t like me.”
“Yes, well, in fact William, I am afraid that it does seem, in this
particular, isolated case, that you might be right. Weighing carefully
the evidence you have presented to me, it does indeed seem possible
that perhaps Mr Blenkham does not like you. But maybe it will pass.”
“So you think I am right to believe that everyone hates me?” said
William, glumly.
“Oh no, William, you are far from being universally disliked.”
“But sometimes I feel I am universally disliked. Mr Wymer also
said he thought I was a bloody lunatic, as did Alan and Jim on separate
occasions. And every time I go home to Maria she shouts at me and
throws me out.”
“But you are not universally disliked, William.”
“No?”
“No,” said Aristid. “I like you.”
“Do you Aristid?”
Aristid smiled. “Of course,” he said.

128
 “Ah,” said William, feeling better already, “then I have nothing to
worry about.”
Aristid leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He placed
the tips of his fingers together, and appeared to be immersed in deep
thought. William watched him closely. He greatly admired Aristid’s
intelligence, and as his brother-in-law sat there in his neat suit with his
finger tips together, calmly staring at the ceiling, he felt sure that the
great mind before him would somehow find a solution to his problems.
“Tell me,” said Aristid, “have you considered further the conver-
sation we had on Sunday morning?”
“Which conversation was that?” said William.
“The one in which I suggested you should purchase a water pistol.”
“Yes Aristid, I recall it. But now that I’ve lost my job I can’t
possibly have a use for a water pistol.”
“You are still missing the point I was trying to make, William. I
never meant to suggest that a water pistol might aid you in your task
of shopping trolley management.”
“Ah. What did you mean to suggest, Aristid?”
“Tell me, William, what sort of men are most admired by society
in this day and age?”
“Oh, well, er . . . I have great admiration for Mr Blenkham of course
...”
“No no. I mean the sort of men commonly admired. I am sure you
admire Mr Blenkham, but then you are not an ordinary man.”
“Hm. I don’t really know, Aristid. What sort of men are commonly
admired?”
“Would you say that society in this day and age favoured intellec-
tual men, such as yourself, or men of violence?”
William thought carefully. “Well, great philosophers such as Mike
Carlton and John Laws are admired, as are others such as Richard
Attenborough and, of course, Mr Blenkham . . . ”
“But are these men more or less admired than, say, a man of vio-
lence such as Sylvester Stallone’s character of Rambo? Or the charac-
ters portrayed on screen by Clint Eastwood or Charles Bronson?”

129
 “Hm. I suppose that, on the radio and the television, one does
hear rather more about Rambo than about Mr Blenkham, but . . . ”
“It was, William, with thoughts such as these in mind that I sug-
gested you should purchase a water pistol.”
William understood at last. “So,” he said, “you think I should
purchase a water pistol, travel to the jungles of Vietnam and, using my
water pistol, endeavour to rid the world of communism? It is a good
plan, and a noble ambition. Yes, I think I will do it. There will not
be, perhaps, the artistic satisfaction of shopping trolley management,
but I’m sure that, in other respects . . . ”
“No no, William, you misunderstand me still . . . ”
“But Aristid, the plan is a good one. Communism is still a major
threat to the world today. I heard a gentleman say so on the radio
only last week. It is a threat that decent, ordinary people, such as you
or I, should make every effort to defeat.”
“Yes William, but . . . ”
“For example, did you know that in China they do not have shop-
ping trolley management?”
“Are you sure about that, William? Where ever did you hear such
a thing?”
“I forget, but I am assured that it is true. Such stifling of individual
creative achievement is not to be encouraged.”
“No indeed, but . . . ”
“Perhaps it would be better if I took my water pistol to China,
rather than to Vietnam. I could do battle with the Chinese Army and
fight for the freedom to manage shopping trolleys.”
“Quite so,” said Aristid, “but . . . ”
“Ah!” cried William, “wait! There is a flaw in the plan!”
“A flaw? Indeed?”
“Yes,” said William. “How will I get to Vietnam or to China? I
expect the air fare will be quite expensive, and then the immigration
authorities might be suspicious of my carrying a water pistol . . . ”
“Indeed they might. Perhaps this is a plan best postponed for
now.”
William felt sad again. A whole future of great achievements in

130
the cause of freedom seemed to have disappeared. “Yes,” he agreed.
“I suppose the plan had better be postponed. A pity, as it was an
excellent plan.”
“Perhaps you will like my real plan as much, William,” said Aristid.
“You have another plan Aristid?”
“Well, yes, though in fact the other plan was yours, not mine. From
the very beginning this has been my only plan.”
William sat forward. “Tell me this plan, Aristid. I am eager to
hear it.”
“You have agreed that fictional characters of violence are very pop-
ular in society.”
“Yes indeed. Figures of violence are popular. And golfers.”
“Golfers?”
“Yes. Greg Norman is very popular.”
“Yes yes,” said Aristid, “I’m sure he is, but . . . ”
“Perhaps,” said William, “I should become a golfer . . . ”
“William!”
“Yes Aristid?”
“Can we please return to the topic of my plan?”
“Of course. As I said, I am very eager to hear it.”
“We have agreed,” said Aristid, “that men of violence are more
popular than men of intellect.”
“We have indeed,” said William.
“And, in the newspapers, are not the real men of violence more
dashing and romantic figures than the real men of intellect?”
“Which real men of violence do you mean, Aristid?”
“Gangsters, William. Organised criminals. ‘Prominent business
men’ and ‘racing identities’, as they are euphemistically called. It is
the exploits of these men that sell the most newspapers.”
“I agree, Aristid, that these individuals have a certain fascination
for the public, but are they altogether approved of?”
“Approved of? Does that matter, as long as they are popular?”
“Perhaps not, Aristid, perhaps not. But I had always thought that
gangsters, in their own way, were just as bad as communists. Even if

131
they are popular, I’m not sure that we should support them, or use
our water pistol to become like them.”
“It is true that the disagreeable nature of these individuals reflects
badly upon them, but what if their natures were not so disagreeable?”
“What do you mean, Aristid?”
“The robber who robs from the rich to give to the poor is not
merely popular, he is approved of.”
“Like Robin Hood?”
“Exactly. Like Robin Hood. We will become modern gangster
versions of Robin Hood, performing violent crimes in the service of
our fellow men.”
This sounded quite exciting to William. “So you think we should
buy ourselves a water pistol, use it to commit armed robbery, then
donate the proceeds to our favourite charity?”
“Well yes, essentially, except that we must keep enough of the
money to cover our operating costs and individual expenses.”
“So what proportion of the money we steal do we actually keep?”
“Well William, I was thinking that, at first at least, we should keep
all of it. Then, when we become established, we can start donating to
charity.”
“We could also use the money we stole to finance our trip to Viet-
nam to rid the world of communism.”
“We could certainly think about it . . . ”
“It would be acceptable behaviour, because ridding the world of
communism would be a sort of charity. Keeping the money in order
to finance our expedition against the communists would be equivalent
to donating it to charity.”
“Well, yes . . . ”
“Just so long as we only rob rich people.”
“Of course William.”
“Rich people are wicked and use their wealth to exploit the rest of
us. A man on the radio said so only the week before last. It’s time
something was done about them.”
“Yes William. And perhaps we are the people to do it.”
“We will become very popular, Aristid.”

132
 “And glamorous. Men with guns are always glamorous.”
William agreed. Fame and glory, and, of course, a place in the
history books, awaited him. He began to feel more confident. Already
the glamour and power of the water pistol were beginning to affect
him. He would become truly important for the first time in his life, fa-
mous for ridding the world of communism. And all thanks to Aristid’s
marvellous plan.
William Pratt had decided to buy himself a water pistol.

133
134
23

Wednesday morning found Miranda Catarini and Desmond Fisher in

quite different moods. Miranda was happy that Morris, if not willing
to see her, did at least still love her. Desmond, meanwhile, was nervous
and desperate about his plan to ask Miranda for her phone number.
Desmond’s morning began with him feeling anxious and developed
to the stage where he was feeling miserable. Then it was time for
him to go to work. As he walked to work he became convinced of the
futility of his plan, and grew more and more certain that he would be
sensible to forget the whole thing. If he did ask Miranda for her phone
number she would only be disgusted with him and probably tell him
to drop dead. At the moment she at least liked him. Did he want to
jeopardise that by making a fool of himself in front of her? Perhaps
it would be best if he didn’t ask for her phone number. Perhaps he
should just be friendly towards her and not presume too much.
At the outer door of the bank Desmond stood waiting for Sam the
security guard to let him in. He had almost decided not to ask Miranda
for her telephone number, but always one fascinating possibility lurked
in his mind. What if he asked for her telephone number and she, with
a smile, gave it to him? What if he asked her out and she, with an
even bigger smile, said yes? What if he leant over to kiss her and she,
grinning like a Cheshire cat, leant over to kiss him back? If he never
attempted any of these things he would never know. On the other
hand, what if he asked for her telephone number and she, snarling like
an angry werewolf, spat in his face and told him to get lost?

135
 Sam opened the doors and grinned at him. “G’day, Desmond,” he
said. “You all right mate?”
“Yes thanks, Sam. How’re you?”
“You look shattered mate. Hard night, was it?”
“Not really, no.”
Desmond entered the bank, went through the gate in the enquiry
counter and made his way to his desk. He dumped his bulging briefcase
behind it and sat down to begin pulling elastic bands off deposit slips.
The tall, handsome, well built and irritatingly blond figure of Bruce
appeared behind him. Bruce was smiling.
“G’day Desmond,” he said, “how’re you going mate?”
“Good,” said Desmond, wishing that either he or Bruce would drop
dead. “How’re you?”
“I’m good too,” said Bruce. “I haven’t phoned that EDP bird yet.
Don’t want her to think I’m desperate, do I?”
“Don’t you?”
“I’ll probably phone her tonight or tomorrow, ask her out. Really
casual, like. I told Speed I’d have finished with her by Thursday, but
now I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to linger over her, really
enjoy her before I get rid of her.”
“Bruce,” said Desmond, “will you do something for me?”
“Sure, mate.”
“Get lost. Go away. Die. Kill yourself. Kick your own bloody
head in. Throw yourself off a bridge. Shoot yourself. Get lost!”
“You can get lost too, you little creep!”
“Morning boys,” said a grim voice behind them.
It was Anne, arms folded, dark hair tied back in its usual bun,
scowling at them through tinted glasses.
“Hello Anne,” said Desmond.
“Hello Anne,” said Bruce.
“Morale at an all time high this morning, is it?” said Anne. “I
want you two working hard, and no more swearing behind my enquiry
counter. You can swear outside working hours, even kill each other for
all I care, but not in here, and not when there’s work to be done. Oh

136
yes, you two can see to the automatic teller machine. It needs some
more cash.”
“Oh no,” said Bruce. “Not the automatic teller machine. That’s
not fair.”
“Fair?” said Anne. “Fair? You stand there having fights with
young Desmond over a girl who wouldn’t look twice at either of you
and accuse me of not being fair? Life isn’t fair.”
“She would look twice at me,” said Bruce, “she gave me her tele-
phone number.”
“Good with numbers, are you?” said Anne.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll be good at loading more cash into the automatic teller
machine. Off you go.”
So Bruce and Desmond found themselves wrestling with the auto-
matic teller machine. The huge, ungainly metal back of the machine
contained many secret compartments, all cunningly locked, and weird,
unexpected springs and catches. One wrong move on the part of the
people loading the cash could cause the whole machine to have a fit
of hysterics. Many a customer complaint concerned the weird idiosyn-
crasies of the automatic teller machine.
After a brief struggle, Bruce managed to pull open the slot for
adding extra money. The noise it made as it opened was far louder
than it should have been. Bruce and Desmond looked nervously at
each other. This noise did not auger well for the future.
“This is all your fault,” said Bruce. “Just because you fancy my
bird.”
“It’s nothing to do with that,” said Desmond. “I just don’t like
you talking about her as if she was some sort of object. It’s cruel. She
happens to be a really nice person, and I don’t want you hurting her.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t a nice person, did I? I just think she’s hot
and I bet she thinks I’m hot too. What’s wrong with that?”
“Bastard,” said Desmond.
“Boys!” came Anne’s voice from far away. “No more bloody swear-
ing.”
Bruce and Desmond put the money in the machine, then closed

137
and locked the slot. As they did so they thought they heard a rattling
sound from inside the machine, as if some small metal component had
come loose and fallen through the inner workings of the device. This
was something else that did not auger well for the future.
“I think that automatic teller machine’s broken,” said Desmond to
Anne.
“You and every other person in this bank,” said Anne. “But until it
actually falls apart management won’t do anything about it. Typical
that, because we’re the ones who have to deal with the stupid thing. I
want to see withdrawal forms and deposit forms on the enquiry counter
in fifteen seconds. Off you go.”
Off Desmond went. He removed the last elastic bands from the
forms, and placed the forms in their slots in the counter. He put the
elastic bands back in his drawer. Andrei and Marc came up to him.
“You and Bruce having a fight over that EDP girl?” said Andrei.
“No,” said Desmond.
“Bruce says he’s frightened you off her,” said Marc.
“Bruce,” said Desmond, “has the shoulders of an African mountain
gorilla and the brains to match.”
Marc grinned, but Andrei scowled.
“Bruce is all right,” said Andrei. “You’re just jealous because you
fancy his bird.”
“It’s not that . . . ” said Desmond, but Andrei had gone.
“I like that bit about Bruce’s brains,” said Marc. “I’m going to
remember that. I reckon it would be good if you got the EDP bird to
fancy you. It’d make Bruce less of a poseur.”
“It’s not a question of birds and fancying,” said Desmond.
“Sure,” said Marc, and with a quick wink he went back to his work.
Desmond sighed.
The next person to raise the issue with Desmond was Julie. She
also thought it would be a good thing if Desmond won Miranda away
from Bruce. But this, Desmond suspected, was largely because she
fancied Bruce herself.
When the customers first came in that morning Desmond was doing
his bit in the tellers’ booths, handing out cash and punching informa-

138
tion into the little computer terminal that lived in his teller’s booth.
Desmond couldn’t see the computer that really mattered, the one over
which Miranda had jurisdiction, and he heard Miranda’s voice before
he actually saw that she had arrived.
“Can I have it in tens and fives?” said the customer he was at-
tending to, a stout, middle aged woman who had come in to withdraw
some money.
But Desmond was not listening. All he was aware of was the sound
of Miranda Catarini’s voice, coming from somewhere beyond his range
of vision.
Someone had opened the gate in the enquiry counter to let her in,
and now she was fiddling with her computer and talking to Bruce. He
was asking her how her evening had been, and telling her about a new
disco he had discovered. She was replying to him with enthusiasm
and what might have been affection. Desmond could feel his chances
slipping away.
Desmond moaned, weakly.
“Sorry?” said his customer.
Desmond was startled. “What?” he said.
“I want it in tens and fives,” said the customer, “or I shall want to
speak to the manager.”
Desmond gave it to her in tens and fives, but still he listened to
Miranda and Bruce.
“How about tonight?” said Bruce. “That disco’s something spe-
cial.”
“Oh I’m not really into discos,” said Miranda. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said Bruce. “We’ll just go out some other night.”
“Well . . . ”
“There’s no problem,” said Bruce, “I’ll give you a call.”
Desmond greatly admired Bruce’s charming way with women.
When the morning rush was over and he was no longer needed at
the tellers’ booths, Desmond moved despondently back to his desk.
Bruce was nowhere to be seen, but Miranda was there, standing on
the other side of his desk, checking her computer.

139
 Desmond sat down, and the movement attracted Miranda’s atten-
tion. She turned round, saw him and smiled.
“There you are!” she said. “I was worried you might not be coming
in today.”
“No,” said Desmond. “I’m in today. I have a day off next week
though.”
“Good,” said Miranda. “Have you noticed this spelling mistake in
the computer slide show? See, it says ‘conter’ instead of ‘counter’.”
Desmond looked at the computer screen. The slide soon changed
to another picture, with different text, but he had noticed the error.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Can you do anything about that?”
“Central Office is going to send me a diskette with the correction
on it. Until then there’s nothing I can do about it, except wait and
hope that nobody notices.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” said Desmond, loyally.
“Shall we go to that café again for lunch?” Miranda said.
“Oh, yes please,” said Desmond, in some surprise.
“Good,” said Miranda, “we can carry on curing you of your woman
nervousness.”
Desmond grinned. “You tease me, don’t you?”
Miranda nodded and grinned back. “Do you mind? I can be a bit
rude some times.”
“I don’t mind,” said Desmond.
“Good,” said Miranda. “We’ll sneak off at about two o’clock
again.”
“Sneak off?” said Desmond, “why ‘sneak off’ ?”
“We don’t want that Bruce person seeing us go,” said Miranda,
“he might want to come with us.”
Desmond was surprised. “I thought you liked Bruce!”
“God no! Oh, perhaps he’s not too bad if you get to know him.
But I for one don’t want to get to know him. That makes me sound
awful, doesn’t it? Have I offended you?”
“No,” said Desmond, trying not to smile. “I think I understand.
We’ll sneak off at about two then.”
“Good,” said Miranda. “I’ll come and find you.”

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 Miranda asked Desmond to open the gate in the enquiry counter
for her so she could go and sit on the other side. Desmond returned to
his desk and smiled happily to himself. Perhaps he would ask Miranda
for her telephone number after all.

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142
24

In his rather rickety chair behind his ancient, coffee stained, chipboard
desk, Mr Blenkham sat, wheezing painfully. William Pratt, sitting
opposite, watched him.
They were in Mr Blenkham’s small office on the first floor of the
shopping centre. Untidy piles of paper overflowed from the small filing
cabinet by the door, and Mr Blenkham himself looked as rumpled
and disorganised as ever. The blinds on the windows overlooking the
shoppers were down, and it was very gloomy in the office. William
didn’t care. Losing his job was simply not something that mattered
any more.
After coughing violently for a few seconds, Mr Blenkham lit an-
other cigarette. Fumes wafted around William’s head, and he felt a
moment of fear. Could passive smoking spoil his chances of ridding
the world of communism? He decided it could not, and felt relaxed
again.
Mr Blenkham was hunting through the papers on his desk. William
didn’t know what he was looking for, nor did he care.
“Thanks for getting here so promptly, William,” said Mr Blenk-
ham. “I’ve got your final pay cheque here somewhere, and a cheque
to return your contributions to the superannuation fund.”
William didn’t say anything.
“You do understand, don’t you William?” said Mr Blenkham sadly.
“You’ve worked for me for a very long time, but enough is enough. You
do see, don’t you?”

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 “Not really,” said William. “But I am sure you have your reasons.
I have always respected and admired your wisdom. It is not for me to
question it.”
“Oh William, I’m only the manager of a shopping centre . . . ”
“And, of course, your modesty.”
“What?”
“I have always admired your modesty.”
Mr Blenkham looked miserable. “You’re a decent man, William,”
he said. “You’re polite, gentle and dignified. I don’t know anyone else
like you. But you’re also a raving lunatic. I am sorry, but I can’t keep
you. I’ve got to have someone who actually does the job.”
William was baffled. “As I said, I will not question your wisdom. If
you can find someone more dedicated to shopping trolley management
than I, then of course you must employ him.”
“Don’t be silly, William. No one could be more dedicated to shop-
ping trolley management than you. Normal people aren’t dedicated
to it at all.”
“I have always considered it to be among the highest of art forms.”
Mr Blenkham coughed again, then drew deeply on his cigarette.
“I know you have William. God knows why or how, but you always
have.”
“It is an art form, Mr Blenkham. What more perfect tribute could
there be to order and harmony than the passage of a tractor around
a car park? Even the fascination of randomness is represented by the
uneven distribution of the trolleys.”
“No William, that’s just stupid. Can’t you see it’s stupid?”
William thought very carefully. “No,” he said. “For all my working
life I have been paid to manage shopping trolleys. How could it be
stupid?”
“I didn’t say managing shopping trolleys was stupid. I said your
attitude to managing shopping trolleys was stupid.”
“My attitude is stupid?” said William. “Have I not always excelled
in my art?”
“Excelled in it? No of course you bloody haven’t. Yesterday you
left all the trolleys in the car park at the bottom of the hill while you

144
went trundling backwards and forwards across the top with an empty
cart.”
“So?”
“So how could you have been excelling at your job when you weren’t
even doing it?”
“I was excelling in my art, Mr Blenkham. Free expression is too im-
portant to be abandoned for mere pragmatic devotion to the shopping
trolley.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. Shopping trolley management isn’t really about shopping
trolleys in the same way that War and Peace isn’t really about the
Russian revolution.”
“William, War and Peace is about the Napoleonic wars.”
“Exactly. So you do understand.”
Mr Blenkham sighed deeply and began to cough again. He had
another look for the cheque he was supposed to sign for William.
“I could re-employ you,” said Mr Blenkham, “if you just promised
to devote yourself to the needs of the shops rather than to your stupid
‘algorithm’.”
“What?” said William. “Betray my art? I could never do that.”
“But William, can’t you see any artistic excellence in actually de-
livering shopping trolleys to shops that need them, when they need
them?”
William thought about this. “No,” he said.
“Think about it William, think of how artistically right it would
be to actually manage shopping trolleys as your contribution to the
art of shopping trolley management. Wouldn’t that give you a sense
of achievement?”
“Well, it might Mr Blenkham. But wouldn’t it be rather like paint-
ing a picture of a man that actually looked like that man, or writing
a poem that scanned and rhymed?”
“Er, yes,” said Mr Blenkham. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” said William, “except that it’s too old fashioned. No
one does it any more.”

145
 “My God!” cried Mr Blenkham. “You’re not just an artist you’re
a bloody modern artist!”
William smiled proudly. “Thank you, Mr Blenkham,” he said. “I
knew that one day you would notice.”
Mr Blenkham collapsed back in his seat in despair. “I’m trying to
help you, for God’s sake,” he said. “But how can I help you? I don’t
want to give you the sack. Who else would employ you? But I can’t
keep you if you won’t do the job. Just say you’ll do the job and you
can carry on doing it.”
“But Mr Blenkham . . . ”
“It’s a very easy job, William, really. You’re warped, but you’re
not that stupid. You must be able to do this job, you must. Even an
idiot like Wymer can do the job.”
“But not with my flair . . . ”
“You don’t have flair, William. You don’t even do the job properly.
But you could do it properly if you tried, it’s not that hard. Please say
you’ll try. Please say you’ll just concentrate on collecting trolleys from
now on, and I’ll give you your job back. I’ll even give you that pay
rise you’ve been asking for. Just say you’ll try to do the job properly
from now on.”
“Well, I don’t know . . . ”
“Come on, William, please.”
William thought. He was suddenly faced with two immensely ex-
citing possible futures. On the one hand, there was the future career
outlined by Aristid, that of crusading avenger robbing the rich to give
to the poor. He very much wanted to try his hand at ridding the
world of communism, and at saving it in general. With a water pistol
in his hand he would be another John Wayne, albeit a rather thin,
stooped and short of breath John Wayne. Adventure and excitement,
he thought, could be his.
Then he looked at Mr Blenkham, gazing earnestly up at him from
behind his battered desk. Surely Mr Blenkham deserved something.
Mr Blenkham had always been good to him, and even now, after a
fashion, was trying his best. Shopping trolley management was, after
all, William’s life. He had devoted all of his energy to pursuing his

146
art. Could he give it up now? Mr Blenkham wanted him to change
his approach to his art. Would that be any less difficult than giving it
up altogether?
“Tell me, Mr Blenkham,” said William, “how much would you
require me to change my algorithm in order for me to come back to
work for you?”
“Just as long as you actually collect the trolleys and deliver them
as needed,” said Mr Blenkham.
“For example,” said William, “during one point in the algorithm
I stop to pick up trolleys by the entrance to the undercover car park.
Now, the most mathematically pleasing place for me to stop is right in
front of the entrance, thus preventing customers’ vehicles from getting
in or out, though only until I have loaded up my cart. I have been
doing this for a considerable number of weeks now . . . ”
“My God, have you?”
“Yes. Would you require me to stop doing it?”
“Yes of course I would. Why can’t you stop outside?”
“Well, I suppose I could. But somehow it wouldn’t feel quite right.”
“You are a bloody lunatic, William, aren’t you? If you come back
to work you have to stop doing that.”
“Ah.”
“Customers have to come first. And trolleys. Customers and trol-
leys have to come first.”
“And art? Where does art come?” said William.
“Art,” said Mr Blenkham, “doesn’t come anywhere at all.”
“Ah,” said William, “I see.”
“Well?” said Mr Blenkham.
“Well what?” said William.
“Will you come back to work?”
“Under the conditions you outlined?”
“Yes. Under the conditions I outlined.”
“No,” said William, “I’m afraid I can’t. It would be betraying my
art.”
“Oh William!”

147
 “If you could allow me to come back to work under the old condi-
tions I would return . . . ”
“No, I’m not bargaining with you. It’s either my way or not at
all.”
“Then I’m afraid it will be not at all. Do you have those cheques
for me yet?”
Mr Blenkham had found the cheques at last, but he hesitated before
signing them. “What will you do, William?” he said. “Where will
you go?”
“I plan to go into, er, business with my brother-in-law. We have
worked out some fairly advanced plans.”
“What sort of business, William?”
“Oh, this and that. Charitable works, ridding the world of com-
munism and other little things like that.”
“What?”
“In fact, how much money are those cheques for?”
“Everything that you’re owed . . . ”
“Do you think, Mr Blenkham, that it might be enough to pay my
air fare to Vietnam?”
“It might be, just. Why do you want to go to Vietnam?”
“I thought I might imitate the actions of the fictional character
Rambo and rid the jungles of Vietnam of communism.”
Mr Blenkham stared at William’s thin, bony figure in disbelief.
William’s hollow chest and greying hair had never made him look
much like Rambo.
“Are you serious William?” said Mr Blenkham, “or are you just
trying to frighten me into giving you your old job back under any
conditions?”
“You don’t have to be frightened of me,” said William, “you’re not
a communist.”
“Oh William,” said Mr Blenkham, “you won’t . . . you won’t do
anything stupid, will you?”
William was baffled by the question. “Of course not,” he said.
“When have I ever done anything stupid?”

148
 With a slight shudder, Mr Blenkham signed William’s cheques. He
had a horrible feeling that something bad might happen as a result
of his firing of William, but he didn’t like to think too hard about it.
Thinking about William was dangerous at the best of times, and this
was not, Mr Blenkham suspected, one of the best of times.
Mr Blenkham handed the cheques to William. “Good luck,” he
said. “Use the money wisely.”
William opened the door to leave. “I will,” he said, “and when I’m
ridding the world of communism, I’ll think of you.”

149
150
25

The morning wore on, until, strictly speaking, it was afternoon. But
to Miranda and Desmond, who had not yet eaten lunch, it still felt
more like late morning than anything else.
When two o’clock came Desmond was sitting at his desk. The
bank was usually at its busiest between half past twelve and half past
one, but today hardly any customers had come in. Desmond, poring
over some new account forms, was in danger of falling asleep. Then he
heard a quiet voice from beyond the enquiry counter saying: “Psst”.
Desmond looked up. It was Miranda, her face illuminated by a
conspiratorial smile.
“It’s two o’clock,” she whispered, “and Bruce isn’t looking. Let’s
go.”
“Right,” whispered Desmond. He quickly tidied his desk and made
for the gate in the enquiry counter.
Beyond the enquiry counter Miranda took his arm. “Last minute
dash to freedom,” she said, and winked at him.
They ran quietly from the building and into the street, Miranda
hiding behind the first available lamp-post and looking back to see if
they were being followed.
Desmond had noticed her behaving in a slightly manic way all
morning. He wasn’t sure why, but he smiled anyway.
“You seem happy today,” said Desmond.
“I am,” said Miranda, “but only on the grounds that life is pretty
wonderful. Aren’t you happy?”

151
 “Yes. I suppose I am. I like going to lunch with you.”
“Good. Then let’s find our tea shop.”
Miranda, with Desmond in tow, found the tea shop, and in they
went. Again the ground floor was full, so they had to go down to the
lower section. They sat at the same table as before and, just to be
on the safe side, Desmond ordered the same meal for himself. Having
found something he knew he could eat he didn’t want to abandon it
too quickly.
“Coward,” said Miranda, when Desmond had placed his order.
The waitress, hovering over them with her pad and biro, smiled
indulgently.
Miranda ordered something that sounded rather odd to Desmond,
but which, according to the menu card, was largely chicken and mush-
rooms. They each ordered a pot of herbal tea (Miranda’s idea) and
waited for the food to arrive.
“Tell me,” said Miranda, “why is your briefcase so huge? I mean, I
noticed it bulging behind your desk before we left the bank. I wondered
what could possibly be in it.”
“Oh,” said Desmond, “well, this and that. You know.”
“Yes,” said Miranda, with a grin, “go on. What, exactly?”
“Well,” said Desmond, “er, a rain coat, in case it rains. An um-
brella too . . . ”
“In case it rains twice?” said Miranda.
“What?”
Miranda laughed gently. “Sorry Desmond. Go on.”
“Well, a rain coat and an umbrella . . . ”
“In case it rains . . . ”
“Yes. Er, a street directory, in case I get lost. A set of train and
bus timetables, in case I need a train or bus. Writing paper, in case I
run out at work. Pens, pencils and rulers . . . ”
“In case you run out of those too?”
“Yes. Sandwiches, of course, and a flask of water . . . ”
“In case there’s a drought?”
“Sorry?”
“Only joking,” said Miranda, “go on.”

152
 “Well, I also have a pocket calculator, in case I need one, and an
Oxford dictionary, because my spelling’s not very good. Oh, and an
encyclopaedia.”
“What? No, you’re joking!”
Desmond was not joking. “No, I do have an encyclopaedia in my
briefcase. I might want to look something up at work.”
Miranda grinned. “Britannica? Or something with only twenty
volumes?”
“No, don’t be silly. It’s a little one, one volume and quite small at
that. It doesn’t have as much in as a proper encyclopaedia, of course,
but it’s better than nothing.”
“Oh Desmond, you’re serious! You really do have an encyclopaedia
in your briefcase!”
“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Do you have the phone book too?”
“No, there wasn’t room. Anyway, we’ve got several at the bank.
Are you all right, Miranda?”
Miranda was laughing. “Oh Desmond,” she said, “you are funny.”
“Am I?” said Desmond.
“Yes, I’m afraid you are. In a nice way, of course.”
“Everyone in the bank thinks I’m strange for having so much in
my briefcase,” said Desmond, “but they always come to me when they
want to find something out.”
“Of course,” said Miranda, “your briefcase knows a lot more than
most people.”
“It does,” said Desmond, “it really does.”
Miranda was still laughing slightly. “And it’s quite sensible of you
too, in a way. But don’t you get tired of always carrying it backwards
and forwards from home?”
“Yes,” Desmond confessed, “I do. Sometimes I think to myself
that I can’t possibly need all that at work, that I should leave some
of it at home. But every time I try to take some of it out, I can’t bear
to do it. What if I need an encyclopaedia at work and I haven’t got
it? I’d feel really stupid then, wouldn’t I?”
The tea arrived, and shortly after that, the food. Desmond ate

153
slowly. He had two things he wanted to ask, and he still wasn’t sure
that he should ask either of them.
“Er, Miranda,” said Desmond.
“Yes, Desmond?” said Miranda, chewing on a mushroom.
“If, er, if you don’t like Bruce, um, why did you give him your
telephone number?”
Miranda giggled. “Did I?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, well, my boss told me to make friends at your bank branch,
so I can win people’s confidence and find out what they really think
of the computer.”
Desmond was shocked. His face fell. “Is that why you’re having
lunch with me?”
Miranda grinned. “Got you worried now, haven’t I? No, you’re
too shy to tell me what you really think of the computer. I’m having
lunch with you because I like you, because you’re funny and you were
really kind to me on Monday. Happy now?”
“Um, yes. Except I don’t think you should have given your phone
number to Bruce.”
“Why not? It won his confidence, didn’t it? Anyway, it wasn’t
my phone number I gave him. It was very nearly my phone number,
though. Only one of the digits was wrong.”
“You gave him someone else’s phone number? What if he tries to
use it?”
Miranda shrugged her shoulders. “He won’t. He knows I’m not
interested in him. He only wanted my number to show off in front of
the rest of you. Don’t worry about Bruce. He probably hasn’t even
kept the piece of paper I wrote it on.”
“But what if he has kept it? And what if he does try to use it?”
“Well, maybe he’ll get a chance to speak to some really interesting
new person. I don’t know. And I don’t really care.”
“But he might just look you up in the phone book.”
“I’m not in the phone book. My number’s ex-directory.”
Desmond smiled. “Poor old Bruce,” he said.
Miranda smiled too. “Do you think I’m evil?” she said.

154
 “Not really,” said Desmond. “It’s only Bruce, after all.”
Miranda laughed and they carried on eating.
The other question Desmond wanted to ask was the really impor-
tant one. He took a deep breath, had a sip of tea, and started to
ask.
“Er, Miranda?”
“Yes Desmond?”
“Um, could I, er, have your telephone number, perhaps?”
Miranda grinned. “My real one?”
“Yes please. I mean, if I may.”
Miranda pulled a piece of paper and a biro out of her handbag.
She tore the piece of paper in half and wrote a phone number on one
of the halves.
“There you are,” she said to Desmond, handing him both halves
of the paper. “Now you give me yours.”
Desmond wrote his number on the blank piece and handed it back
to Miranda. His heart was racing. Everything was going right. Could
it be, was it possible, that he had a chance with her? Might she like
him enough to want to be his girlfriend?
“Er, Miranda?” said Desmond.
“Yes Desmond?” said Miranda.
“Thanks very much.”
“For the phone number? Don’t mention it.”
“No, for being you.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Miranda, “I do it all the time.”
“I mean, I really like you.”
Miranda smiled. “And I really like you too,” she said.
“I, er, I’ve never had a girlfriend, or anything like that, so I was
wondering if, er . . . ”
Miranda started.
“Would, er,” said Desmond, “would you like to go out with me?”
“Oh, Desmond,” said Miranda, in some confusion, “you shouldn’t
have said that. I do like you, really, but . . . ”
“Yes?” said Desmond, his mouth suddenly dry in spite of the tea.
“I can’t go out with you,” said Miranda, “I really can’t. Sorry.”

155
 Desmond’s eyes drooped. “I guess I expected you to say that,”
he said. “Sorry for asking. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or
anything . . . ”
“Oh, you didn’t do that.” Miranda put out her hand and gently
touched Desmond’s arm. “It’s not that I don’t like you or anything.
I do. It’s just that I’ve got a prior attachment. I already have a
boyfriend. His name’s Morris, and he’s a medical student.”
“Oh?” said Desmond, staring into his lunch and trying to sound
interested. “Is he nice?”
Miranda smiled gently. “Well, I like him,” she said. “Oh, poor
Desmond. I am sorry, really.”
“That’s okay,” said Desmond, still concentrating on his plate, “I
don’t mind.”
“If I didn’t have a boyfriend I’d love to go out with you,” said
Miranda, “really I would. And I am flattered that you asked, I really
am.”
“It must be embarrassing for you,” said Desmond, looking embar-
rassed, “and I am sorry.”
Miranda laughed an affectionate sort of laugh. “You don’t have to
apologise, you really don’t. I am sincerely and genuinely flattered.”
Desmond blushed. “You say such kind things,” he said, still staring
at his half empty plate. “Shall we go now?”
“You haven’t finished your lunch . . . ”
“I know,” said Desmond, “but you’ve finished yours. And I sud-
denly don’t feel hungry.”
“Okay,” said Miranda, “we’ll get the bill. I’ll pay again.”
“Oh no . . . ” said Desmond.
“Oh yes,” said Miranda. “I still earn more than you, and you’ve
had a bit of a disappointment.”
Miranda paid the bill and they walked out into the street together.
Desmond tried to seem happy and cheerful, but it was hard. He felt
as if someone had just pulled the world out from under him, and he
didn’t care where he fell to.

156
26

It was not the best of afternoons for Desmond Fisher. Somehow, since
he had met Miranda Catarini, his life seemed to consist of moments
of great happiness and hope alternating with moments of great misery
and despair. It was very unsettling for the poor young man. He had a
vague memory of being unhappy just before meeting Miranda for the
first time, but he couldn’t, he felt, have been more unhappy than he
was now.
Throughout the afternoon Miranda had been particularly attentive
to him, in a concerned, maternal sort of way. She was obviously wor-
ried about him, and concerned for the feelings she might have hurt.
In a way this made things worse. Now Desmond was acutely aware of
how kind she really was, and of what he had lost in losing her.
Several times during the afternoon Miranda came up to him to
make sure he was all right. He tried to be friendly and charming to-
wards her, he didn’t want her to think he resented her for not wanting
to go out with him. It was not as if it was her fault that he had fallen
in love with her. But he could tell from her continued concern that
he must still have been looking badly hurt. This made him feel more
miserable still.
Once she asked if she could see his encyclopaedia, and he fetched it
from his briefcase to show her. She had a brief look at it and laughed
at him for having it at all, but even being teased by her failed to cheer
him up.
They had to hide the encyclopaedia away when Anne appeared,

157
prowling around looking for people not working hard enough.
“You keeping my staff away from their paperwork?” said Anne to
Miranda.
“No, really,” said Miranda.
“Good,” said Anne, holding up a small plastic container, “because
this plastic thing’s arrived through the internal mail. It’s addressed to
you. I don’t know what it is, what it does, why it’s addressed to you
rather than to someone important, or why I have to carry it around
for you like some stupid messenger boy . . . ”
Miranda took the container from Anne’s hand. Inside was the
diskette Mr Jameson had promised her. “Thank you very much,”
said Miranda, then turned back to Desmond. “This is the update
diskette,” she said. “I told you about it this morning. I have to load
the information on it into the computer.”
“That’s interesting,” said Desmond, miserably.
“Come on, Desmond,” said Anne, “try to show a bit more enthu-
siasm.”
“It’s not Desmond’s fault,” said Miranda, “he’s just had a rather
unpleasant experience, that’s all.”
Anne cocked an eyebrow. “Shows how much you know,” she said.
“Desmond’s always getting depressed about something. Just getting
up in the morning’s an unpleasant enough experience for Desmond.”
“Poor Desmond,” said Miranda.
“Never mind poor Desmond,” said Anne. “If you’ve got something
to do with that piece of plastic and your computer then I wish you’d
just do it instead of disturbing Desmond.”
Miranda went to work.
“Come on, Desmond,” said Anne, “cheer up. It’s not the end of
the world.”
This was true, but of little importance to Desmond. After today,
he thought, the end of the world might make a pleasant change.
Later that afternoon Desmond did another shift in the tellers’
booths. He tried very hard to look cheerful, but still several of his
customers asked him if he was feeling ill. Once, just before Desmond
went home, Bruce came up to him looking genuinely concerned and

158
asked him if there was anything he could do to help.
Finally Desmond went home. His feet dragged on the pavement
and his shoulders slumped (partly under the weight of his briefcase).
The darkening sky above him seemed to be filled with vast contempt,
all of it for him, and he was sure the bustling people who hurried past
him in the street were staring at him, intimately aware of the futility
of his existence.
As he passed the tea shop he glanced miserably through its win-
dows. It was a place he would never forget, but also a place he could
never bear to visit again. Its dark, but cosy interior would always re-
mind him of lunch with Miranda. Even if he had lunch with Miranda
again it would never be the same, not now that all hope was dead.
The worst thing for Desmond was the knowledge that he had made
poor Miranda unhappy. He had expected her to be mildly annoyed
at worst, but in fact she had been deeply concerned for him. Being
friends with him must have meant something to her after all, and now
he’d gone and ruined it. She’d been so happy in the morning, but he’d
managed to change that by lunch time.
The concrete of the pavement seemed an even less pleasant shade
of grey than it usual. Suddenly the cracks in it had come to symbolise
the utter futility of life. And one of his shoelaces was coming undone.
This was typical of his shoelaces. They had no respect for his feelings.
Desmond didn’t bother to bend down to tie it.
Outside the building that contained his flat stood two small green
trees. Once they had been sources of hope to Desmond, as they grew
strongly and vigorously amid the crumbling oppression of the city.
Now their cheerful green just seemed offensive. Desmond began to
hate the little showoffs. If he’d had an axe just then he would have
shown them a thing or two.
Desmond pulled himself up the stairs to his flat. The door opened
even before he could put his key in it, and there was Colin staring
eagerly out at him.
“Hi Des,” said Colin, “how did it go?”
“Hello Colin,” said Desmond.
Desmond went into the flat and collapsed on the sofa. He dropped

159
his briefcase on the floor in front of him and stared miserably at it.
Colin handed him an open can of beer and sat down next to him.
“Well?” said Colin.
“Well what?” said Desmond.
“This girl of yours . . . ”
“Miranda.”
“Yes, this girl of yours, Miranda. Did you ask her for her phone
number?”
“Yes,” said Desmond.
Colin slapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad,” he said. “Did she
give it to you?”
“Yes,” said Desmond.
“Excellent!” said Colin. “Progress! One in the eye for old Bruce.
Anything else? Did you ask her out?”
“Yes. We went out to lunch together and I asked her if she’d like
to be my girlfriend.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did.”
“You idiot! Brave, but dumb. You meet a girl on Monday and by
Wednesday you’re asking her to marry you!”
“I didn’t ask her to marry me. I just, you know, asked her out and
told her I’d never had a girlfriend before.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she already has a boyfriend. His name’s Morris and he’s
a medical student.”
“So she’s not going out with you?”
“No.”
“Oh well. At least that fixes Bruce as well.”
Desmond was exasperated. “That’s not the point, Colin, and you
know it’s not.”
“No, of course,” said Colin. “You were interested in this Miranda
person for yourself, not just to get her away from Bruce. Was she cross
with you when you asked her out?”
“No. She was quite sympathetic really. I think I made her sad for
me rather than angry.”

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 Colin grinned. “So she actually likes you?”
“Yes,” said Desmond, “and I was so ungrateful I made her un-
happy.”
“Don’t be silly. She’s probably happy rather than unhappy. Think
about it. If a girl you liked, even if you didn’t fancy her, told you she
fancied you, you’d feel pretty good about it, wouldn’t you?”
“Not if I had to hurt her feelings.”
“Sure, you’d have to be careful about that. But, basically, you’d
be flattered, wouldn’t you?”
Desmond considered this. “I suppose so,” he said.
Colin slapped him on the shoulder again. “That’s the spirit, look
on the bright side. So, she doesn’t fancy you, but she does like you.
That proves you’ve got something to offer a girl. Now you go on to
the next one armed with that knowledge.”
“What next one?”
“The next girl. You want a girlfriend don’t you? Well, go out and
find one. There are all sorts out there Desmond, all sorts. You’ve
already found one willing to like you. The next step is to find one
willing to love you.”
Desmond sighed. “It’s not just a girlfriend I want, it’s Miranda.”
“I know you fancy her . . . ”
“It’s more than that. I love her.”
“It’s the real thing then, is it?”
“Yes.”
Colin grinned. “I suppose it must be. After all, you’ve been out
to lunch with her twice now.”
“I am in love. Really. You don’t know Miranda, so you don’t know
what it’s like. Until I met her I never really understood love, I never
really knew why so many men felt they needed a woman in their lives.
You could almost say Miranda awakened my interest in women for the
first time.”
“Desmond, you’re always going on about women. You fall in un-
requited love with a different woman every other week.”
“But not like this. The others have just been infatuations. This
is love. This is something worth living for and, yes, something worth

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dying for.”
“Again.”
“No, this is the first time.”
“If this is the first time, why do you say it about every girl who
takes your fancy?”
“That’s just making conversation.”
Colin laughed. “Pretty boring conversation. Face it Des, this is
just the same old Desmond-in-love behaviour as it usually is. Even
the hang-dog expression’s the same.”
Desmond bristled. “All right,” he said, “maybe the behaviour’s the
same, but the motive’s not. In the past I’ve behaved this way because
I was a bit sad about a girl and I thought this was the way people are
supposed to behave in those circumstances. But this time it’s different.
This time I feel the way I’m behaving. This time I understand the pain
of heart-break. This time I couldn’t behave differently even if I wanted
to.”
“You always say that as well,” said Colin. “Drink your beer.”
Desmond sighed. How could he make Colin understand? Colin
was right that he did always say he had discovered love for the first
time, so what words could he use to describe how he felt now that he
really had discovered love for the first time?
“Perhaps,” said Desmond, “I do always say that as well. But that
was only because it was what I thought people were supposed to say.
But this time I really do feel . . . ”
“Desmond,” said Colin, “shut up and drink your beer.”
Desmond shut up and drank his beer. Talking to Colin was com-
pletely failing to cheer him up.
Colin stood up and wandered round the room.
“Des,” he said, “I think I know what would take your mind off
things.”
“What?”
“A party! I’ve been invited to one on Friday night. You could
come with me.”
Desmond shook his head. “No, I only get in the way at parties.
You go by yourself. It’ll be more fun for you that way.”

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 “Don’t be silly. I’ll make a special effort to find you a nice, single
girl to talk to.”
“You’re very kind, Colin, but I’m not interested in girls now, not
after Miranda. No girl could ever replace her in my affections.”
“Remember Liz Abbot, the rather cute little girl you were going to
throw yourself in front of a train for as a token of undying love? Well,
I heard today that she’s just split up with her boyfriend. She’ll be at
the party.”
“You just don’t understand, do you Colin? You just don’t under-
stand love.”
“So you don’t want to come?”
Desmond paused. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Thought you’d say that,” said Colin, and he and his grin left the
room.

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164
27

When Miranda got home there was no one there to give her a beer or
ask her how her day had gone. She had no flat mate. She was planning
to advertise for one, but Morris kept telling her not to. He said he
didn’t want her sharing with anyone. She could afford the place by
herself, he said, without having to invite strangers in to live with her.
Morris didn’t want to live with her either, because he felt that living
together would stifle their independence.
It was time for her to start cooking dinner, because once again
dinner with Morris was impossible. Morris was too ill to see her, and
too mean to let her come and comfort him. She took off her blazer
and dumped her bag on the floor of her flat.
Since she was sick of frozen lasagna, she decided to stick a pork
chop in the frying pan. First she took off her hated high heeled shoes.
She was too tired to get changed tonight. She would just have to cook
and eat her dinner wearing her work clothes.
At that moment her mind contained a bewildering mixture of feel-
ings. On the one hand, Morris had told her he loved her, so she should
have been happy. But on the other hand he had told her not to see
him, so being happy was going to be difficult. Then there was poor
little Desmond at work. He was such a shy, sincere young man. She
had wanted to be friends with him, because he looked like he needed a
friend. But she had given him the wrong idea, and had been forced to
hurt his feelings. Sometimes it occurred to her that life was just too
complicated to be lived peacefully. What she needed was a lot less of

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most people and a lot more of Morris.
As she watched her chop sizzling, she nibbled a raw carrot. She
had decided not to bother with other vegetables today. Just peeling
this single, solitary carrot used up all her available energy. Anyway,
carrots were nicer raw. They helped people to see in the dark, Morris
said.
One good thing had happened today. The update disk for ECAS
had arrived. Miranda had been able to fix the spelling mistake in
the slide show simply by sticking the diskette in the computer console
and pressing three buttons. The other people in the bank branch had
been most impressed. She was grateful for these computer short-cuts
that enabled her to seem competent without having to actually know
anything.
Of course the real problem would occur tomorrow when her train-
ing manual ran out of steam. That would be the moment for her to
start worrying. She would have to find something else to do while
waiting for the computer to be used, something other than reading a
novel. On the other hand, what Mr Jameson didn’t know wouldn’t
hurt him.
Dinner ready, Miranda carried it to her tiny dining table. She cut
the fat of the chop and popped the tiny morsel of meat that remained
into her mouth. Once this was gone she began to regret her decision
to have such a small meal.
She thought about Morris, at home feeling ill and, probably, lonely.
If they were both lonely there was surely no reason why she shouldn’t
go round to visit him. She decided that what she needed to cheer her
up was to see Morris. It was probably what he needed too.
In fact, if Morris had been asked what he most needed at that
moment he would probably not have said it was a visit from Miranda.
He was not, in fact, ill. He wanted Miranda to keep away from him that
week because he was attempting to seduce a fellow medical student.
The student’s name was Virginia, and she was a tall, red headed girl
with long legs and a dazzling mind. Morris didn’t want to replace
Miranda with her, but he had no objections to a brief change, just for
a week or two.

166
 That very moment Morris and Virginia were having dinner at his
flat. He had fed his visitor lots of champagne in the belief that cham-
pagne was an aphrodisiac.
“I like the champagne,” said Virginia, with a knowing smile, “I
can’t imagine why you’re giving me so much.”
Morris found Virginia very different to Miranda. Miranda, after
three glasses of champagne, simply fell asleep.
“Can’t you?” said Morris. “Shall I pour you some more anyway?”
“If you like,” said Virginia, “though I hope you won’t expect me
to become too abandoned after this.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I probably will become too abandoned, but I’d hate you to
be expecting it. I think you’ll prefer it if it’s a surprise.”
Morris grinned. “I like surprises,” he said. “You’d better have
some more.”
Neither Morris nor Virginia were terribly inhibited people, and by
the time they finally made it to Morris’s bed they were feeling less
inhibited still. They found themselves having so much fun that if
Miranda had come to visit she would probably have been quite upset.
Fortunately for her, Miranda decided to phone first.
From Morris’s point of view it was one of the worst moments of
his life. There he was, lying in increasingly excited happiness under
Virginia’s most intimate caresses, when the phone started to ring. By
the third ring he found his manhood, normally a source of great pride,
diminishing rapidly. Sex, for Morris, was quite impossible when the
telephone was ringing.
Virginia laughed. “I’ll answer it for you,” she said.
Morris watched her dismount to reach for the phone. He was a little
angry with himself, but very angry with whoever was telephoning.
The telephone was by the bed, and he listened as Virginia spoke
into the receiver.
“Hello,” said Virginia, “this is Morris Atkins’s personal sex thera-
pist speaking.”
Morris watched Virginia’s face as the unheard telephoner answered.
Virginia’s already broad grin broadened. She cocked a quizzical eye-

167
brow as she handed the phone to Morris.
“It sounds like one of your girl friends,” said Virginia, “and you
said you only had eyes for me. Naughty Morris . Says her name’s
Miranda. Do you know her?”
Morris’s heart leapt. He grabbed the phone from Virginia.
“Hello,” said Morris.
“You bastard!” said Miranda.
“Hi Sis,” said Morris. “Nice to hear from you. Hope to make it up
there to see you and Mum and Dad soon.”
“Oh?” said Virginia, “it’s your sister is it?”
“Yes,” said Morris.
“Tell that woman I’m not your sister!” said Miranda.
“That is good news,” said Morris, “Mum must be very proud of
you.”
“Morris!” said Miranda. “You bastard! I don’t . . . I don’t under-
stand how you could . . . ”
“Oh do you?” said Morris. “That might be interesting for you.
Let me know how it goes.”
“Family reunion’s take ages, don’t they?” said Virginia, “shall I
put the kettle on?”
“No no,” said Morris, “I’ve almost finished.”
“I heard all that,” said Miranda, “you bastard!”
“Well,” said Morris, “good to hear from you. Bye.”
“No Morris!” cried Miranda. “Please don’t hang up. I just want
...”
Virginia grabbed the phone. “Bye Morris’s sister,” she said, “he’ll
have to call you back. He’s sort of busy now.”
Virginia hung up. It occurred to Morris that the last bit probably
wouldn’t go down very well with Miranda. It was possible that he had
just sacrificed unlimited sex with Miranda for what might possibly
turn out to be only a one night stand with Virginia.
“Now then,” said Virginia, “where were we? Ah yes, I remember.
I was going to show you another little trick of mine, wasn’t I?”
On the other hand, thought Morris, Virginia was probably worth
a one night stand. As Virginia’s expert guidance helped his manhood

168
to re-assert itself, Morris felt his doubts slip away. Virginia was cer-
tainly worth it. And what of Miranda? He knew her perfectly well by
now. He could bring her back to her senses at any time he liked. He
would work out an apology for her and use it when required. For now,
Virginia was all he needed.
Thirty seconds after that Morris wasn’t thinking about Miranda
at all.
Some miles away in Miranda Catarini’s flat things were very dif-
ferent. Miranda sat with the telephone receiver in her hand listening
to the engaged signal and staring at the telephone dial in horror. She
suddenly knew how the eggs she’d had for breakfast must have felt
when, shortly after being split in half, they had been emptied of ev-
erything they contained and then thrown into the bin. Miranda even
tried phoning Morris back, but someone had very sensibly taken his
phone off the hook.
Miranda decided that instead of going to bed that night she would
just sit in an armchair and cry. It seemed under the circumstances to
be the most sensible thing to do.

169
170
28

Aristid poured William another glass of champagne.

“Here, William,” he said. “More drink for you. We have much to
celebrate.”
It was after dinner, and William and Aristid were sitting at Aris-
tid’s dinner table. Aristid had served chicken, in an ingenious sauce
of his own invention, and they were now onto their second bottle of
champagne. Now that William had severed his connections with the
shopping centre they considered themselves to be genuine adventurers
at last. All they needed was a water pistol, and their life of crime
could begin in earnest.
To William, a seasoned beer drinker, the champagne came as a
rare and pleasant surprise. Aristid had warned him not to devour it
at his usual beer drinking rate, and William had halved his speed to
oblige him.
So the pair sat, drinking to future success, in Aristid’s darkened
dining room, the rounded light shade casting strange shadows on the
walls. William drained another glass, and tried to generate a celebra-
tory feeling. It was hard. For William, the real time for celebration
would be shortly after ridding the world of communism.
“You will not appreciate the taste if you drink it so fast,” said
Aristid.
“Sorry Aristid,” said William, as his brother-in-law poured another
glass.
“Now then,” said Aristid, “have you absorbed the fine points of

171
the plan?”
“Yes Aristid,” said William. He moved to drain his glass, then
remembered not to. He drained half of it instead.
“Well William?” said Aristid. “Repeat them to me.”
“The plan,” said William, “is to buy a water pistol and rob some-
where with it.”
“Yes,” said Aristid, “but the fine points? You remember them,
surely?”
“Fine points, Aristid?” said William, drinking the rest of his glass.
“My dear William, we have been discussing them! You could not
have forgotten already.”
“No no. Of course I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.”
“But, er, could you remind me anyway? Also, my glass seems to
have become empty again.”
Aristid sighed. “Oh William,” he said, as he filled the glass once
more.
“Sorry Aristid,” said William.
“The plan,” said Aristid, “is as follows. Tomorrow morning you
will go to a toy shop . . . ”
“Which toy shop, Aristid?”
“It doesn’t matter William.”
“But which shop is best for water pistols? Surely only the best will
do . . . ”
“You could try K-Mart, William.”
“K-Mart is very general, Aristid, it may not have the range. I
think perhaps it would be better if I studied the yellow pages before
embarking on my expedition.”
“No doubt, William. Now, at this toy shop . . . ”
“Do you have a copy, Aristid?”
“What William?”
“Do you have a copy. Of the yellow pages, I mean.”
“Of course. At this toy shop . . . ”
“Where is it? The copy of the yellow pages, I mean.”

172
 “It is by the telephone, William. I keep all my telephone directories
by the telephone. In anticipation of your next question, the telephone
itself is in the hall, beside the front door.”
“Thank you, Aristid. That will be most helpful.”
“Not at all, William. Now, once in the toy shop you must purchase
a water pistol. Not any water pistol, mind you, but a very carefully
chosen one. Do you remember what sort of water pistol you are sup-
posed to be buying?”
“Er, I suppose I should buy the one with the most powerful squirt.”
Aristid blinked. “The what?”
“The most powerful squirt. I should buy the water pistol capable
of producing the strongest jet of water, though not so strong that it
might hurt anyone, of course.”
“No William, I don’t think we need to consider the water pistol’s
ability to squirt water.”
“But Aristid, we want a water pistol that will frighten people with-
out hurting them. You said so yourself . . . ”
“No William, you are missing the point. We do not plan to shoot
anyone with the water pistol.”
“Ah!”
“We merely plan to frighten them.”
“Oh. So we merely tell them the water pistol has a powerful
squirt?”
“No no. We don’t mention the squirt at all.”
“Oh?” said William. “Then how do we use the water pistol to
frighten people?”
“Simply by not telling them it is a water pistol.”
“Not telling them?”
“Correct,” said Aristid. “If we tell them anything at all it will be
that the water pistol is a real gun.”
“You mean a bullet firing gun?” said William.
“Exactly,” said Aristid.
“Ah,” said William. “But what if it doesn’t look like a bullet firing
gun?”

173
 “It will look like a bullet firing gun, William. That is your job for
tomorrow morning, to buy a water pistol that looks like a bullet firing
gun.”
William thought about this. “I suppose,” he said, “that the plan
makes sense. A water pistol that looks like a bullet firing gun could
be quite effective, as a psychological weapon.”
“It could indeed, William. I am glad that you grasp the first stage
of the plan.”
“Is there another stage of the plan, Aristid?”
“There is, William.”
“Is that, by any chance, the second stage?”
“It is, William. You are grasping the fine points of plan design at
last.”
“I knew I would, Aristid. Plan design is a lot like shopping trolley
management. What is the second stage of the plan?”
Aristid smiled. “The second stage is our first robbery, William.”
“What will we rob?”
“There are a number of possibilities. I have yet to make my final
choice. I will decide tomorrow morning, while you are buying the water
pistol. Then tomorrow afternoon we will actually do the robbery.”
“The second stage sounds very exciting, Aristid. How will we get
to the robbery?”
“In my car, William. I will be the getaway driver You will do the
actual robbery, and I will drive you to safety afterwards.”
“So,” said William, “stage two of the plan, the second stage in
other words, involves me doing the actual robbery while you wait in
the car?”
“Exactly William.”
“Ah,” said William. “Hm. I see. Aristid?”
“Yes William?”
“Is that . . . is that altogether fair, do you think?”
“What do you mean, my dear brother-in-law?”
“Do you think it altogether fair that I should do the actual robbery
while you wait in the car?”
“Well . . . ”

174
 “I mean, won’t that result in me gaining all the honour and glory?
I think you should be allowed to share in the honour and glory too.”
“Ah. I see what you mean. No, my dear William, it is quite fair.
I am perfectly happy for you to have all the honour and glory.”
“You are very kind, Aristid. But I would still feel very guilty doing
the robbery all by myself and thus gaining all the honour and glory.”
“It is quite all right, William.”
“But I insist. You must have some honour and glory.”
“The plan is my plan, William. If it is successful I will have all
the honour and glory I could want. You may do the robbery all by
yourself with a clear conscience.”
“Of course. I was forgetting that point. But just the same . . . ”
“No, William. The plan is made, and we must stick to it. My plan
is as important to me as your algorithm is to you. It must not be
violated.”
“Sorry, Aristid. Forgive me for criticising you.”
“I forgive you. It was a very minor criticism, after all. Now, do
you know what to say while committing the robbery?”
“I suppose,” said William, “that I should go up to the man I plan
to rob and say: ‘Good afternoon. My name is William Pratt and I am
a robber . . . ’”
“No, William, I don’t think you should give your name.”
“Oh? I thought it sounded more professional that way.”
“No. Rather less professional, I think.”
“Oh. All right. ‘Good afternoon,’ I will say. ‘I am a robber. If you
hand over all your money I will leave you in peace and not squirt you
with my water pistol.’”
“I don’t think you should mention the water pistol, William.”
“Very well. Then I will just say: ‘I will not squirt you.’”
“No William, don’t say ‘squirt’, say ‘shoot’.”
“Ah, of course. I was forgetting to pretend that the water pistol is
a bullet firing gun. I will say: ‘Good afternoon. I am a robber. If you
hand over all your money I will leave you in peace and not shoot you
with my bullet firing gun.’”

175
 “That is better, William, but it lacks menace somehow. How
about: ‘Hand over all your money or I will shoot you. I have a gun
and I am not afraid to use it’ ?”
“What about ‘Good afternoon’ ?” said William. “Shouldn’t I say
‘Good afternoon’ first?”
“No.”
“How about ‘hello’ ?”
“No, William. No greeting at all.”
“But won’t it be rather frightening for whoever I rob if there’s no
greeting?”
“Yes, William. That is the whole point.”
“Ah. We are trying to frighten the person we rob?”
“Exactly William. Well done.”
William thought about this for a while. “Aristid,” he said.
“Yes William?” said Aristid.
“Is it altogether a good idea to frighten the person we rob?”
“Of course it is,” said Aristid. “If we don’t frighten our victims
they won’t give us their money.”
“I suppose you know what you’re doing. I’m simply worried about
what might happen if we frighten someone with a weak heart. We
might cause them to have a heart attack. We might accidentally kill
someone, Aristid.”
“Yes, but . . . ”
“I don’t think we should risk any lives in our efforts to rid the
world of communism. That wouldn’t be the right thing to do at all.”
“Quite. But . . . ”
“I think we should make sure the people we rob don’t have heart
conditions before we rob them. We should say: ‘Excuse me, do you
have a heart condition?’ and only if they say no should we go on to
rob them.”
“All right William. If you insist.”
“And also I think we should say ‘Good afternoon’, because people
are likely to give more money to polite robbers than to impolite ones.”
“Very well. I suppose there may be something in what you say.”
“We will still be a bit frightening, won’t we, Aristid?”

176
 “Yes, William, I am sure you will.”
“And I will buy the water pistol tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon we will stage our first
robbery.”
“Good. I’m sure we’ll be a big success, Aristid.”
“I do not see how we can fail, William.”

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29

On Thursday morning Miranda got up to go to work. This surprised

her because she didn’t remember going to bed the night before. The
whole of Wednesday evening was a little difficult to recall. After learn-
ing of Morris’s betrayal her conscious mind had simply turned itself
off. Her subconscious mind must have taken charge at this point and
made sure that she took herself to bed properly, changing into her
night clothes and brushing her teeth along the way. This suggested
to Miranda that her subconscious mind had its priorities wrong. Why
was it worried about her teeth when her heart had been broken?
Nevertheless, she let her subconscious guide her, on automatic pi-
lot, through the chores connected with getting up, while her conscious
mind fretted about Morris. There seemed to be only one explanation
for what she had heard on the phone last night. It was an explanation
that shattered her world and seemed to reduce to zero all possibility
of future happiness. The best emotion she could hope for from now
on was a sort of neutral misery. Smiling again was absolutely out of
the question.
She walked to the bus stop that morning amid the fumes and dust
of the suburb. She noticed with some disgust that the morning sky
was blue and cloudless. It was going to be a lovely day, which was a
pity, because what she really wanted at that moment was a particu-
larly violent thunder storm. She glanced fleetingly at the ridiculous
brightness of the sun.
Miranda made her way through the doors of the bank branch

179
shortly before they were opened to the public. The person who let
her in was Anne Cameron. She scowled gruffly as she wished Miranda
good morning.
“You here again, are you?” said Anne.
“Yes,” said Miranda, “I’m here.”
“And planning to compete with Desmond in the long faces depart-
ment as well, I see. You miserable as well, are you?”
Miranda realised she was looking unhappy, and quickly made an
effort to smile. “No no,” she said, “I’m fine.”
“Good,” said Anne. “It’ll make a nice change in this bank to have
someone around who’s happy.”
Miranda went over to the computer to turn it on. Anne dealt
quickly with a customer enquiry, but was soon back at her side.
“Are you going to use that computer of yours today?” she said.
“I hope so,” said Miranda, flicking the red ‘on’ switch at the side
of the console. She had already activated the computer screen and the
printer.
“It’s just that I noticed you didn’t use it much yesterday,” said
Anne.
“No, it was rather quiet yesterday. I expect you have days when
not many people open accounts, and days when lots of people open
them.”
“We certainly do,” said Anne, grimly. “Sometimes it’s like a mad
house in here, everyone rushing around trying to keep up with all the
work; other times you could sleep all day and no one would notice you
weren’t here. Sometimes I think the customers organise it deliberately.
My staff’s pretty aggravating at the best of times, but when it’s a busy
day they drive me mad.”
“Well, it should be easier to cope on busy days now we have the
machine.”
“You say!”
“In fact, I rather hope we do have a busy day today or tomorrow,
so we can really test the machine.”
“Oh do you?” said Anne. “Well I’ll try to oblige you, though I
don’t see what I can do.”

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 “Which day of the week is usually busiest?”
“Wednesday.”
“But yesterday was Wednesday!”
“That’s right, and hardly anyone came in at all. That’s the way it
is in this business, unpredictable. But don’t you go wishing too hard
for a busy day young lady. Some days things in here move so fast you
won’t know what hit you. Friday might be one of those days. I have
a feeling about Friday. Friday or Monday.”
“You stay open an extra hour on Fridays, don’t you?” said Mir-
anda.
“We do,” said Anne. “Hope that won’t inconvenience you. I know
you young people like to go to bed early on Friday nights.”
Anne wandered off to see to some more customers, and Miranda
gave her machine a quick check. The slide show was now going through
its paces on the computer screen. She noticed that ‘counter’ was now
spelt correctly. All she had to do was check the paper supply for the
printer, then she could go and sit in her chair on the other side of the
enquiry counter and worry about what to do when she finished reading
the last few pages of her training manual. But as she turned to check
the paper supply she saw something odd.
Sitting behind the pile of printer paper, and looking entirely out
of place amongst the leads and connectors attached to the computer
equipment, was a bunch of flowers. They were roses. They were red.
They had a note attached to them.
The stems of the flowers were wrapped in crêpe paper, and Miranda
carefully extracted the bunch from the tangle of wires and paper. The
note was on a folded up piece of paper. Miranda unfolded it. It said:
‘Dear Miranda, these flowers are for you. I hope they will help you to
forgive me for making a fool of myself and upsetting you. I would very
much like to be friends with you even though you have a boyfriend
because I think you’re wonderful. I promise not to get carried away
again. Love, Desmond.’
This note was utterly ridiculous. Miranda frowned. The last thing
she wanted to do right now was to ease that weird little idiot Desmond
through the agonies of unrequited love. On the other hand, she didn’t

181
want to hurt his feelings either. Weird he might be, but he was at
least sincere. All in all, she decided, it would have made life easier for
her if Desmond had decided to take the day off work rather than to
give her flowers.
She detected a nervous presence behind her. She sighed impa-
tiently, and without turning round said: “Yes, Desmond?”
“Oh,” said Desmond. “Hello, er, Miranda. You found the flowers?”
“Yes, Desmond.”
“Do you, er, do you forgive me?”
Miranda took a deep breath. She could feel anger welling up inside
her, but she didn’t want to direct it at Desmond. He couldn’t help
being an idiot. He meant well.
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Desmond,” said Miranda, still with-
out turning round. “You don’t need to ask me to forgive you.”
“Oh,” said Desmond. “Right. Can we be friends again then?”
Miranda wanted to hit him. She kept telling herself that he didn’t
deserve hitting, but she wanted to hit him anyway, preferably with a
brick.
“We are friends, Desmond,” she said, noticing with some surprise
that her voice had taken on an unaccustomed note of icy menace.
Desmond had obviously noticed it too. She heard him step back.
“Oh dear,” he said. “I’ve just made you even angrier. I had hoped
...”
Miranda span round and glared at him. “Hoped what?”
“Well . . . ” Desmond’s eyes were staring at her with horror. He
was looking more nervous than she had ever seen him look before. “Er
. . . ” he continued, “even though you, um, already have a boyfriend I,
er, thought maybe you’d like to have lunch with me in the park.”
“Look Desmond,” said Miranda, “please don’t take this the wrong
way, but I’m afraid I don’t feel much like lunch with anyone today. So
would you please go away?”
There was something distinctly insensitive and stupid about men.
They never seemed to behave the way she wanted them too. She
thought of Morris, and wondered if he still constituted a boyfriend.
If not, did she really want another boyfriend to replace him? Was

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a boyfriend worth all the heart ache and stress that went with one?
Would a boyfriend as ridiculous as Desmond be worth any amount of
stress at all?
“I made you some sandwiches,” said Desmond.
“What?” said Miranda.
“I made you some sandwiches,” said Desmond, “just on the off
chance that you might want to have lunch with me in the park . . . ”
Miranda scowled furiously. “Oh did you?” she said. It seemed
utterly incredible to her that a man could presume so much as to
make her sandwiches. Did he think he was so wonderful that all he
had to do was throw together two slices of bread to have her wilting
at his feet with gratitude?
“Here,” said Desmond, “I’ll show you.”
He knelt on the ground beside his briefcase and opened it to show
her. Miranda gazed disdainfully down into it, only to get a consider-
able surprise. She stared in disbelief.
“Of course,” said Desmond, “I had to leave my encyclopaedia and
my street directory at home to make room . . . ”
The briefcase was full of sandwiches. They were divided up into
groups of eight little squares, and each group of eight was in its own
individual plastic bag. She couldn’t help staring. She had never ex-
pected to see a briefcase so completely full of sandwiches.
“But Desmond,” she said, “there are so many!”
“Yes,” said Desmond, “of course. I didn’t know what sort you
liked so I made a variety you could choose from. There’s ham, chicken,
lettuce, Mil Lel cheese, Cottage cheese, Kraft cheese, hard boiled egg,
paté, some with just butter (sorry), pork, salmon, tomato, caviar dip,
some with different combinations of those things, some with rye bread,
some with garlic, none with fairy bread (sorry), and the triangular ones
I got from a sandwich shop on the way to work. I don’t know if they’re
any good. They looked nice.”
Miranda couldn’t help smiling. “They look fine to me,” she said.
“All the ones I made I cut into squares. I didn’t think of triangles.
I hope you don’t mind.”

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 “Squares are okay,” said Miranda. “It was very sweet of you Des-
mond. So many sandwiches! It must have taken you hours!”
“I did some shopping and cooking last night, and got up especially
early to do the rest.”
“And flowers too. And all I did was shout at you!”
Desmond shrugged his shoulders. “I understand,” he said. “I know
I can be pretty irritating at times. I’m just grateful to you for being
so tolerant of me . . . ”
Miranda grinned. “I’m not tolerant, I’m rude. And you’re not
irritating. Not after doing so much for me.”
“The sandwiches?” said Desmond. “Oh, that was nothing. Just a
token of friendship.”
“Well they made me smile, anyway. I didn’t think anything would
do that again.”
“Does this mean you’ll have lunch with me?” said Desmond, and
the expression on his face was so eager Miranda couldn’t have refused
him even if she’d wanted to.
“Yes,” she said, “I’ll have lunch with you. We’d better have it in
the park since you’ve made so many sandwiches for us.”
Desmond’s eyes lit up, and a grin began to spread out across his
face.
“But,” added Miranda, “we’re only going to lunch as friends. Noth-
ing more than that.”
Desmond’s face fell slightly, but only slightly. “Of course,” he said,
“I understand.”
The grin still on his face, Desmond closed his briefcase and went
back to his customers.
Miranda shook her head and smiled slightly. She had never ex-
pected to encounter anything quite as odd as Desmond in her career
in banking. He had still left her with one problem, however. Where
was she going to put the flowers?

184
30

The shopping centre was filled with busy people of all shapes and
sizes. Although most of them were women, there were enough men
about for William not to look conspicuous as he walked along, in his
dignified, upright manner, in search of a water pistol. Nevertheless,
he felt decidedly odd walking as a customer through areas he had
previously only visited as an employee.
Beside him a plump, harassed young woman pushed a shopping
trolley full of groceries from Coles New World towards the car park.
Around him were more full trolleys being pushed in all directions by all
kinds of women and men. It gave William a whole new perspective on
his previous career. Never before had he thought of shopping trolleys
as things to actually do shopping with.
This part of the shopping centre was indoors, and the shops were
ranged beneath a high ceiling in an area filled with neon light and
muzak. Here and there a plastic tree stood in a small patch of artificial
soil. The outside world, the real world of shopping trolley management
and drinking competitions, could be glimpsed only rarely through the
handful of openings that led out from the shopping centre to the sun-
light.
The tiles on the floor were a creamy colour that clashed with the
pink of the ceiling, but this did not bother William. His perception of
colour was sketchy even at the best of times. What he was looking for
was a toy shop, and he was fairly sure that the shopping centre had
a toy shop in it somewhere. He had decided to buy the water pistol

185
at the place of his former employment so that he could have one last
lingering look at his beloved car park before leaving it forever.
Sure enough there was a toy shop. It was called Mr Toys. It was
rather small, perhaps, but at least it was a specialist shop. The people
inside were bound to know everything there was to know about water
pistols.
Inside the shop he found himself surrounded by shelves of toys. On
one side of him was a rack of cuddly black and white dogs, while on
the other was a series of futuristic plastic tanks driven by little plastic
soldiers with rivets through their elbows. William walked further into
the shop.
Along one wall was a display of revolting pink and purple teddy
bears with multi-coloured hearts tattooed on their stomachs. Their
plastic faces were frozen into sickening smiles, and on their chests they
wore little badges with the words ‘I LOVE YOU’ written on them in
clear, disturbing capitals. The next display contained a number of six
inch plastic muscle men, each clutching a three inch plastic battle axe
and snarling menacingly at the pink and purple teddy bears. William
began to feel out of his depth.
Further into the shop he encountered a tray in which little plastic
farm animals were mixed up with slightly larger plastic dinosaurs. He
thought this was unnecessarily cruel to the farm animals, but at least
it was approaching a more traditional sort of toy.
It seemed strange to William that so many children were in the
toy shop. The place seemed unreasonably full of them. Surely some
of them should have been at school? He noticed the young woman
behind the sales counter eyeing with considerable suspicion a group of
eight year old boys gathering furtively around the dolls’ dress section.
William walked up to her desk and nodded politely. If he had been
wearing a hat he would have taken it off.
“Good morning,” said William, “how do you do?”
“Hello,” said the woman, taking her eyes briefly off the boys. “Can
I help you?”
“I hope so,” said William. “I was looking for a water pistol.”
“A water pistol? For your son, is it?”

186
 “No no, for me. Preferably one that looks like a real gun and also
possesses a formidable squirt.”
“Possesses a what?”
“A formidable squirt. That is to say, a squirt that is formidable.”
The young woman was now eyeing him with even more suspicion
than she had eyed the small boys. “Hold on, sir,” she said, “I’ll just
get Mr Matthews.”
The young woman disappeared through a door behind her counter,
leaving William the run of the shop. He watched as the eight year old
boys grabbed two Barbie doll ball gowns and ran off through the exit.
That, he thought to himself, was very wrong of them. If he had only
had his water pistol by that stage he could have avenged the theft of
the ball gowns.
There was a slight noise as the door behind the counter opened
again. The young woman stepped through, followed by a somewhat
older man. He was a small, round faced, cheerful looking fellow with
dark hair and glasses. William nodded to him.
“Good morning,” said William.
“Good morning sir,” said the man, amiably, as he stepped to Will-
iam’s side of the counter. “I understand you’re looking for a water
pistol?”
“Yes,” said William, “that is correct.”
“And you want one that looks like a real gun?”
“Yes,” said William. “I’m told that sort is the best.”
The man looked thoughtful. “I’m sure you mean well, sir,” he said,
“but I think you’ll find that children nowadays prefer these little laser
guns to water pistols.”
The man held up a clear fronted box from the rack beside the
counter. Inside the box William could see what looked like a black,
solid plastic headband, as well as a distinctly odd looking black plastic
gun. It didn’t seem to be at all the sort of thing Aristid had suggested.
“It doesn’t hurt people, does it?” said William. He felt that the
black plastic gun looked rather too menacing.
“Not at all,” said the man. “It merely makes a little light flash on
people who are wearing the special head band.”

187
 William was interested. “Oh?” he said. “Does it make a little
light flash on people who are not wearing the special head band?”
“No,” said the man, “of course it doesn’t.”
“Ah,” said William, “then I’m afraid it’s of no use to me. Do you
have any water pistols that look like real guns?”
The man looked thoughtful as he placed the box back on its rack.
“Chris,” he said, turning to the woman behind the counter, “have we
got any of the Authentic Replica Western Six Shooters left?”
“We might have,” said the woman. She pointed. “They’ll be on
the shelf over there.”
“Good,” said the man. He turned back to William. “Follow me,
sir,” he said.
He led the way past a shelf of large plastic space ships to a small
rack, well hidden in a corner of the shop. On it hung a white and
black box with a photograph of a gun on it. The man reached up to
lift it down.
“You might be interested in this, sir,” he said. “It’s the last one we
have. We generally find fathers are more interested in this line than
their sons!”
He opened the box and extracted a toy gun. It was no ordinary
toy gun, however. Its brown plastic handle had the texture of real
wood, and the rest of the gun was made of heavy, dark grey metal. It
looked like a real gun, and felt very solid in William’s hand. The man
pointed to a hinge.
“See?” he said. “You can click it open and put little caps in its
genuine rotating cylinder.”
William was impressed. “What’s its range?” he asked.
“Range, sir?” said the man.
“Yes,” said William, “how far does it fire?”
“It doesn’t fire any distance,” said the man, “it’s just a cap gun.
It only makes a loud noise.”
“It doesn’t squirt water then?”
“No sir.”
“Not even if you put water in its genuine rotating cylinder?”

188
 “Not even then sir. If you put water in this gun all you do is make
the caps soggy.”
“Oh. What a shame. I fear it won’t do either.”
William handed the gun back to the man, who put it back in its
box and back on the shelf.
“So you really are after a water pistol?” said the man.
“Oh yes,” said William, “one that looks like a real gun.”
“Hm,” said the man, “I don’t think we have one of those. We have
toy guns that look like real guns, and we have water pistols, but I
don’t think we have any that combine both features. Which is most
important to you sir? That your gun should squirt water, or that it
should look real?”
William thought carefully. “That it should squirt water, I sup-
pose,” he said. “A gun that just makes a loud noise is of no use to me
at all.”
“Very good sir,” said the man, “so you want a genuine water pis-
tol. Well we do have several. They don’t look much like real guns,
however.”
This news disappointed William, but he tried to look on the bright
side. “I suppose that if they do have powerful squirts they’re better
than nothing,” he said.
The man walked over to another shelf and took down a box. It
was filled with water pistols, each made of transparent plastic tinted
a different colour. The man pulled out a green one and handed it to
William.
“You pour the water in through the hole in the top,” the man
explained. “Then you put the plug in and pull the trigger.”
“Is the squirt formidable?” said William, dubiously.
“Sorry sir?”
“What’s the range like?”
“Ah,” said the man, “I see. The range is, I believe, quite good, for
a water pistol.”
William eyed the gun carefully. It was very light in his hand and
not at all menacing. He failed to see how anyone could be frightened
of a gun like this. Even if, as the man said, its squirt was formidable,

189
no one would believe it to look at it. It didn’t seem to meet William’s
requirements for a truly modern looking weapon at all.
“This model is normally very popular, sir,” said the man. “Being
transparent, you can see the water inside, so you know when it needs
to be refilled.”
“Hm,” said William, “I fear this isn’t exactly what I’m after ei-
ther.”
The young woman behind the counter suddenly spoke up. “Mr
Matthews,” she cried, “what about the Gordon and Hailey Secret
Agent Spud Gun?”
“Of course,” cried the man, and he rushed back to the counter.
William followed him, still in some doubt. He was surprised to
hear that spud guns were still made, but even so, a water pistol was
what he was after.
“Yes yes,” said the man, “I’d forgotten the Gordon and Hailey
Secret Agent Spud Gun.”
“But I don’t want a spud gun . . . ” said William.
“Nobody wanted one,” said the man, “we didn’t sell any. The
children had never heard of spud guns and their parents didn’t want
their offspring to have toys capable of shooting little bits of potato all
over the house. So we’ve still got hundreds in our store room!”
“But I don’t want a spud gun,” said William. “I want a water
pistol.”
“The Gordon and Hailey Secret Agent Spud Gun,” said the man,
“is also a water pistol.”
William’s eyes lit up. “Does it look like a real gun?”
“Yes,” said the man, “it’s made of water resistant grey metal. It
looks exactly like a real gun, except for the bright red plastic nozzle
at the end of the barrel.”
“Oh? Does it have a bright red plastic nozzle at the end of the
barrel?”
“Yes, but the rest of it is exactly like a real gun.”
“Then I’m sure it will do,” said William.
The young woman had disappeared through the door behind the
counter. She returned carrying a small box. The man opened the box

190
and passed the contents to William.
There, in his hand, was the water pistol of William’s dreams. It
was small, though no smaller than many real guns, and made of very
solid grey metal. The weight was exactly what William had hoped it
would be. Even the red plastic nozzle at the end of the gun didn’t
spoil its appearance. It looked like a water pistol all right, but a
technically very sophisticated one. With such a weapon by his side,
William thought, nothing could stop him.
“If you want to use it as a spud gun you click the nozzle open,”
the man explained.
“I don’t want to use it as a spud gun,” said William. “I want to
use it as a water pistol.”
“Then I’ll tell you how to fill it,” said the man. “First you click
open the nozzle, then you immerse the whole gun in water. Squeeze
the trigger a few times to get all the air out, then release the trigger,
click the nozzle closed and take the gun out of the water. Your water
pistol is then ready to squirt.”
“Is it a good water pistol?” William asked.
“Yes and no,” said the man. “It’s got a good range . . . ”
“Ah?”
“Yes, but a rather small capacity. After three or four squirts you
have to refill it.”
This didn’t matter to William. He planned to use the water pistol
to commit robberies. One squirt would be enough to convince his
victims he meant business.
“I’ll take it,” said William, reaching for his wallet.
“Excellent,” said the man. “Chris, how much is the Gordon and
Hailey Secret Agent Spud Gun? We’ve sold one at last!”
Thus it was that William Pratt bought himself a water pistol.

191
192
31

The sun shone brightly over the willow trees as the waters of the little
lake, shocked by the sudden impact of a dozen or so splash landing
ducks, lapped at its stone banks. In the centre of the lake, on a
small island, a statue of Cupid stood on one leg, pointing its arrow
menacingly at a large pigeon. The grass in the park was healthy and
well tended, and the path that led down from the street to the lake, in
spite of being covered in bird droppings, was free of cracks and weeds.
There was a gentle slope down through the park to the lake, and
higher up, Desmond knew, there was a tiny bandstand that rarely
saw use. But Miranda wanted to find a seat by the lake. There they
would sit, in the shade of the willows, and work their way through
the sandwiches. Any they couldn’t eat they would feed to the ducks.
That way, Miranda said, none of his efforts would be wasted.
They walked down the path towards the lake together. The traffic
noise behind them could still be heard, but now it was largely replaced
by bird song. Even the air here seemed cleaner, though Desmond knew
this to be an illusion. They were no further from town now than they
were at the bank. As he walked beside her he wondered if he should
hold Miranda’s hand. He knew he wanted to hold her hand, but
suspected that she wouldn’t like it if he tried.
There were other couples in the park, he noticed, and most of them
were holding hands. Desmond was still surprised by how few people
did come to the park at lunch time. The park was one of his favourite
places, and the weather, while not very warm, was pleasant. Perhaps

193
most people preferred crowded cafés to parks at lunch time.
Of the people who were in the park, most were wearing neat busi-
ness clothes. Miranda looked fine among these people, but he felt out
of place, as always. It was one of his ambitions to somehow discover
a part of the world he could feel comfortable in. Being with Miranda
made him happy in nearly every way, though he was painfully aware
that she was much too good for him.
They wandered around the lake for a while, basking in the reflection
from the silver waters and listening to the gentle quacking of the ducks.
At last they came to a free seat. Desmond waited for Miranda to sit
down, then sat down beside her.
A small duck with a black head swam over to the edge of the
lake closest to them. It was eyeing Desmond’s pile of neatly wrapped
sandwiches with what might be called a wild surmise.
“Give it some bread,” Miranda advised.
Desmond broke up a cheese sandwich and tossed it to the duck.
The animal devoured it as quickly as it could, and was soon joined by
more ducks. Ducks, it seemed, were not animals inclined to miss out
on a potentially good thing.
Miranda too was nibbling at a ham and lettuce sandwich. “These
are nice,” she said. “Try one.”
“Well,” said Desmond, “I basically made them for you, and . . . ”
“Desmond,” said Miranda, firmly, “if you think the ducks and I
are going to force ourselves to eat all these sandwiches all by ourselves
then you’ve got another think coming. Have one. Go on. You made
them, after all.”
Desmond ate a cheese sandwich just to oblige her. “It’s good here,
isn’t it?” he said, between mouthfuls.
“Yes,” said Miranda, “I can see why you like to come here. The
ducks seem pleased to see you, as well. Give them some more bread,
Desmond.”
Desmond threw another piece of bread into the water. A dozen
or so ducks dived for it. The rest looked hopefully up at him, clearly
wanting him to throw some more, this time closer to where they were.
He obliged them, but again the original twelve got to it first. Life, for

194
certain ducks, seemed terribly unfair.
“The ham and lettuce sandwiches are very tasty,” said Miranda.
“Have one.”
Desmond had one. He felt a huge amount of gratitude towards
Miranda simply for being there with him, but he didn’t know how to
tell her. He was sure that if he tried he would frighten her away. He
had noticed her getting pretty annoyed with him earlier that day. If
he did anything else to offend her he would lose her forever. On the
other hand, the whole point of taking her to the park had been to try
to find an opportunity to ask her to the party on Friday night. If he
didn’t ask her all his efforts would have been in vain.
“You’re looking thoughtful, Desmond,” said Miranda. “What are
you thinking?”
This was the time for Desmond to ask. The moment was right.
What did he have to lose? Only her friendship. Love was impossible,
as she already had a boyfriend. Did her friendship mean that much to
him?
He decided it did. “I wasn’t thinking anything,” he said, sadly.
The ducks quacked, and he threw them some more bread. This
time the second group reached it first, quacking and flapping their
wings, and swallowing it down as quickly as possible. The first group
turned on them and tried to chase them away, but the second group
had grown confident after their victory, and would not be moved.
Battle was joined briefly, then both groups turned towards the humans
and quacked for more bread. Miranda threw them some.
“I had a terrible night last night,” said Miranda.
Desmond brightened at the prospect of a conversation. “Really?”
he said.
“Yes,” said Miranda. “I phoned my boyfriend, and he . . . ”
She stopped. Desmond waited for her to finish what she was saying,
but she didn’t bother. Instead she turned back to the ducks and threw
them more bread.
“I wonder,” said Desmond, “if the ducks would like a chicken sand-
wich?”
“Wouldn’t that make them cannibals?”

195
 Desmond threw the ducks a chicken sandwich. They fell on it, and
with much splashing and quacking the sandwich disappeared.
“I think,” said Miranda, “that there’s a lot of the essential vulture
in those ducks.”
Desmond agreed. “Miranda,” he said, “could I ask you some-
thing?”
“Yes,” said Miranda. “What?”
He tried to marshal his intelligence, but it didn’t seem to be work-
ing at that moment. “Oh, nothing,” he said.
Miranda laughed gently. “I know,” she said, “it’s just too pleasant
a day for conversation, isn’t it?”
This wasn’t exactly Desmond’s problem, but it seemed a good
enough excuse to be going on with.
He and Miranda threw some more sandwiches to the ducks before
deciding that the ducks were getting more than they were. They had
two more sandwiches each to even up the score.
“Desmond,” said Miranda, “if you loved someone, and you had a
relationship with them, would you trust them?”
“Trust them with what? How do you mean?”
“I mean, would you still love them and be theirs if you found out
they were sleeping with someone else? What sort of freedom would
you allow them?”
Desmond though about this. He loved Miranda so much that if she
were his girlfriend he would allow her to do anything, however much
it hurt him.
“I think,” said Desmond, “that I would allow them as much free-
dom as they wanted. If they were sleeping with someone else I’d still
love them and be theirs.”
Miranda sighed deeply. “That’s how I used to feel.”
“I mean,” said Desmond, “if someone loved me I would be faithful
to them. I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else, or even think of sleeping
with anyone else, or at least I hope I wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t stop
them from sleeping with someone else if they wanted to. I guess if I
really loved them I couldn’t stop them, even if it hurt me.”
“That’s exactly how I used to think,” said Miranda. “I always

196
thought that that was my attitude. But now . . . I’m not saying that
anything like that has happened. But now I know that if the man I
loved ever slept with anyone else I’d feel angry and shocked, not just
unhappy. And empty. Perhaps more so because I couldn’t think of
sleeping with anyone else.”
Desmond nodded. “I know that empty, shattered feeling myself
...”
“No you don’t,” said Miranda.
“Oh,” said Desmond.
“You told me you’d never had a girlfriend!”
“I haven’t . . . ”
“So how could you have been hurt by someone?”
“I’ve been in love and been rejected. I’ve asked several girls out
and they all . . . ”
“So you have been in love?”
“Well, sort of love. A bit in love, I mean. Not as much in love as
I . . . ” Desmond paused.
“Not as much in love as you what?”
“Oh, er, well . . . not as much in love as, er, as you obviously are
with your boyfriend.”
“You are sweet Desmond. My problem is that I think my boyfriend
might have . . . ”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing. Just feed the ducks.”
Desmond fed the ducks, or at least the strongest, fastest ducks.
The other ducks tried to gain access to Desmond’s discarded bread, but
their fellows beat them to it. Meanwhile Desmond pondered Miranda’s
words. Was she dropping him hints? If she was he should ask her to
the party, and quickly. If she wasn’t he should say nothing at all. He
decided to err on the side of caution and keep his mouth shut.
“Life is sometimes so complicated,” said Miranda. “I envy you.
You seem to have found the perfect solution to life’s problems.”
Desmond was surprised to hear this. “Have I?” he said.
“Yes,” said Miranda. “I wish I could be as happy as you are, just
sitting there feeding the ducks. You must like animals very much.”

197
 Desmond threw another piece of bread at the ducks. He wished
some of them would drown fighting for it. “I would quite like to have
a girlfriend,” Desmond said.
“Then why don’t you find yourself one?”
“Oh, well, I’ve just never met a girl who felt she could love me.
You know how it is,” said Desmond, sadly.
Miranda smiled gently. “Don’t worry. You will.”
“I’d far rather have a girlfriend than feed ducks,” said Desmond.
“You might be better off without one,” said Miranda. “Love’s
overrated.”
“So’s duck feeding,” said Desmond.
Miranda laughed. “You made a joke!” she said.
Desmond was puzzled. “Did I?” he said.
“Yes,” said Miranda, “but love’s still worse than duck feeding. Love
makes you miserable. I don’t see how duck feeding could do that.”
Desmond had to agree with her there.
They fed the ducks for a bit longer, then Miranda suggested they
should return to the bank. At no stage did Desmond come even close
to asking her to the party on Friday.
As he stood up to leave he cast one last look at the ducks. The
two groups that had fought for the bread were eyeing him carefully,
perhaps hoping he still had more to give them. Separate from the two
groups, however, was one lone duck. It was small and rather crumpled
looking. It had watched its fellows eating the bread without once
attempting to get any for itself. It had just sat there waiting, perhaps
hoping that when the others had finished there would be some bread
left over for it to take without a fight. It looked very hungry. Desmond
did have one piece of bread left, so he took it out of its plastic bag and
threw it to the lone duck. Instead of taking it the duck swam quickly
to one side and watched as the other ducks fought for it. Desmond
felt sorry for the duck, but there was nothing he could do to help it.
It lacked the necessary personality for survival.
He noticed Miranda watching the duck too. She smiled, but her
eyes were sad.
“That duck’s a bit like me, in a way,” she said. “Aren’t animals

198
funny?”
Desmond looked once more at the duck, then he and Miranda
turned to go.

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200
32

The car was an elderly Volkswagen, and it rattled and hissed as it

drove along. William had agreed to meet it on the park road, near the
fountain. There he stood, clutching the little paper bag the toy shop
had given him, trying to look relaxed and ordinary. He did not want
any of the people who passed him to realise he was a notorious robber
about to pull off a raid. The bag had ‘Mr Toys’ written on it.
On the side of the road stood a stone wall, and beyond this was the
park. If William turned round he could see the trees (willows mostly,
and some smaller native trees), the grass, and the few scattered rose
beds. There were wide paths leading between the trees and the rose
beds, and there were park benches on which visitors could sit to talk
or admire the green and red around them. Beneath the rich blue sky,
with its few puffs of thin white cloud, the park looked beautiful. He
decided that, today at least, he and Aristid should rob somewhere
other than the park. That way the beauty would remain undisturbed.
There were buildings on the other side of the road. They were
buildings of moderate height, and most of them seemed to be shops.
There was a fast food restaurant, a library and a newsagent’s. A tiny
travel agency sat wedged between a french patisserie and a small liquor
shop. As well as these William noticed several video hire stores. Their
windows advertised the latest video releases, and he looked at all the
posters of overly muscled, rather dirty young men clutching various
large and powerful looking weapons. He had a weapon of his own,
concealed in the little paper bag, and now it was loaded it was making

201
him feel very confident indeed.
Next to the largest of the video shops was a fast food restaurant.
He wondered if perhaps they should rob that. He had once had a very
unpleasant experience attempting to eat a very strange and greasy
looking meal in a fast food restaurant not entirely unlike that one. A
quick route to fame and public approval, he thought, would surely be
to rob a fast food restaurant.
Several cars passed by, until Aristid’s grubby white Volkswagen
rattled into view. It drove up to where he was, stopped and shuddered
briefly. William opened the passenger door.
“Hello Aristid,” he said.
“Good afternoon William,” said Aristid from behind the steering
wheel. “If you will just climb in we will head off to our appointment
with destiny.”
William folded his long body into the passenger seat and closed the
door. With a grinding of gears Aristid started the car up and drove
off, merging into the stream of traffic that was making its way round
the park.
“Where are we going, Aristid?” said William.
“We are going to a small chemist shop further out in the suburbs. I
have done a lot of thinking about this, and have come to the conclusion
that this will be the best place to start.”
William sat back and thought about the coming adventure. On
his left the park whizzed by, slowly coming to a halt as Aristid’s car
approached a red traffic light.
“Do I know this chemist’s shop?” said William.
“No,” said Aristid, “it is in a suburb where neither of us is known.”
William was shocked. “Then how will they know who’s robbing
them?”
The traffic light changed to green and Aristid started his car once
more. “They will not know who is robbing them,” he explained. “That
is the whole point.”
“Ah,” said William, “I see.”
“Good,” said Aristid.
“Aristid?” said William.

202
 “Yes William?” said Aristid.
“If they don’t know who’s robbing them, how will we win honour
and glory?”
“I do not see the problem, my dear brother-in-law. Is it necessary
for them to know who we are for us to gain honour and glory?”
“I think so,” said William. “Certainly I would find it hard to
honour a hero without a name.”
“Perhaps, William, perhaps. But if the people we rob know who
we are they will tell the police and we will be arrested.”
“Arrested? But we will be robbing in a good cause . . . ”
“Even so, we are likely to be arrested.”
“Oh,” William was disappointed. The police had suddenly gone
down in his estimation.
“Do not worry, my dear William,” said Aristid. “We will not be
arrested if the police do not know who we are. That is why we are
robbing a chemist where we are not known.”
William was still unhappy. “Perhaps,” he said, “I could rob the
chemist using a false name. I could win honour and glory under a false
name.”
“What name would you use?” Aristid said.
William thought. “John?” he suggested.
“I don’t think so,” said Aristid. “It is not altogether unusual
enough.”
“Albert?” suggested William.
“No,” said Aristid. “I do not think that sounds right either.”
“How about Aristid?” said William.
“Aristid is my name,” said Aristid.
“It’s a very good name,” said William. “It’s dignified, unusual,
exciting, memorable . . . ”
“But it’s my name,” said Aristid. “Don’t you think that using my
name would rather defeat the purpose of the exercise?”
“No,” said William. “As long as it’s not my name.”
“I think,” said Aristid, “that we had better postpone the winning
of honour and glory until we have built up a secure financial base. For
now, we will rob anonymously.”

203
 William’s face fell.
“Tell me,” said Aristid, “how did your quest for a water pistol go?”
“Quite well, I think,” said William. “I have bought a water pistol
that satisfies nearly all of our requirements.”
“Nearly all? What is wrong with it?”
“It’s capacity is not large, I’m afraid,” said William. “The man in
the shop said that after three or four squirts it has to be refilled.”
Aristid looked slightly alarmed. “No no, William, that really
doesn’t matter. We’re not worried about how well it squirts . . . ”
“I thought you wouldn’t mind. That’s why I bought it.”
Aristid looked relieved. “Well done, William,” he said. “Does it
look like a real gun?”
“Very much,” said William. “Should I show you?”
“Please do,” said Aristid.
William removed his mighty looking water pistol from its bag. The
grey metal looked solid and powerful in the light of day, and William
felt very proud.
“William,” said Aristid, gently. “It has a red plastic nozzle on the
end of its barrel.”
“Yes,” said William, smiling happily. The red plastic nozzle, he
felt, was the perfect finishing touch to the gun.
“Do you think,” said Aristid, “that it is an altogether good idea
for the gun to have a red plastic nozzle on the end of its barrel?”
“Oh yes,” said William. “Without the nozzle all the water would
fall out.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, and besides that, without the nozzle we’d only be able to use
it as a spud gun, which would be no use to us at all.”
“No, quite. I see. William?”
“Yes, Aristid?”
“You do remember that we plan to use the gun only as a psycho-
logical weapon, don’t you?”
“Of course.” William would never have dreamt of hurting anyone,
even in the pursuit of honour and glory.

204
 “So, don’t you think it might be a better psychological weapon
without the red plastic nozzle?”
“Without the nozzle it would look quite boring.”
“But William . . . ”
“It’s all right Aristid. I assure you that the red nozzle in no way
detracts from the appearance of the gun. If anything it makes it more
impressive.”
“Does it?”
“Yes. It makes it look more technically advanced. People seeing
this gun will assume, from its red nozzle, that it is more sophisticated
than other guns, and thus more to be feared.”
“Well . . . ”
“Trust me, Aristid. I have thought very carefully about this red
nozzle, and I’m sure it is to our advantage.”
“But . . . ”
“In fact, I don’t think we can manage without it. There are a lot
of millionaire chemists, aren’t there, Aristid?”
“I beg your pardon, William? What did you say?”
“I asked you if there are a lot of millionaire chemists.”
“Well, I’m not really sure. Now, about this gun . . . ”
“I think there are a lot. I read it in a magazine once. It’s something
to do with vitamin tablets.”
“I’m sure it is, William, but . . . ”
“I expect this chemist we’re going to rob is a millionaire. We will
strike our first blow for honesty and decency by stealing from him.”
“Er, William, I’m not sure he’s a millionaire . . . ”
“Not sure?”
“No. Does it matter?”
William was shocked. “Does it matter? Of course it matters. You
said yourself that we should rob from the rich to give to the poor.”
Aristid smiled. “My dear William,” he said, “you do not have to
be a millionaire to be rich.”
“Ah,” said William. “So even though he’s not a millionaire he is
rich?”

205
 “Of course,” said Aristid. “Or at least, he is richer than we are.
Probably. So you have no need to worry.”
William was relieved. “That’s all right then,” he said. “As long as
we’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Of course we’re not,” said Aristid. “Not morally wrong, anyway.
You realise, of course, that, strictly speaking, what we intend is legally
wrong, don’t you?”
“Owing to faults and confusions in the law?”
“I imagine so.”
“But it’s in the national interest in the long run, isn’t it Aristid?”
“Of course.”
William thought about this. “That’s a sign that our legal system
is inadequate,” he said. “I must write to John Laws about it.”
The car drove on to beyond the centre of town. Gradually the
shop fronts that lined the street grew fewer, to be replaced by the tiny
gardens of town houses. The streets narrowed, as Aristid turned the
car at first one crossroad, then another. Soon William was thoroughly
lost, but he trusted his brother-in-law to guide them safely to the end
of their journey.
The town houses grew smaller, and began to separate. The road
they were on widened briefly, then narrowed again. Aristid turned off
onto a wider, busier road, and William saw a street of small shops up
ahead. There was a shop advertising genuine Italian pizzas, a small
off licence and a chemist’s. Aristid slowed the car as they approached.
A sudden wave of terror passed through William, and he realised
with some surprise that he was suffering from stage fright. As the
chemist’s shop drew closer, and he noticed the name ‘Jones’ written
on the crumbling red sign hung over the door, William began to feel
very nervous at the prospect of robbing it. In spite of the moral
justification of what he planned to do, the actual prospect of doing it
was a little too much for him.
Aristid drove the car into the small side street by the chemist’s and
parked. Using all his strength he pulled the hand brake into place.
“Well, William,” he said, “I will wait here. I can see the chemist’s,
and will have the car started and ready to go as soon as you emerge

206
with the money.”
“Oh,” said William.
“Off you go then.”
“Ah,” said William.
“William? Are you all right, my dear brother-in-law?”
William was staring sadly at the chemist’s. His heart was beating
far faster than it usually did. Even when Mr Blenkham had presented
him with a new tractor he had not felt as nervous as he did now. He
wondered if it was too late to call the whole thing off.
“Aristid,” said William, “what did we come here to do again?”
“To rob the chemist, William.”
“Ah yes. I remember.”
“Well? Off you go then.”
“Aristid?” said William.
“Yes, William?” said Aristid.
“Don’t you think it might be better if I drove the car and you
robbed the chemist?”
“It’s my car, William.”
“Yes, but . . . ”
“And you do not know how to drive it.”
“I know how to drive tractors . . . ”
“Not the same, William. Not the same at all.”
“Well,” said William, “I could wait here, and you could rob the
chemist and drive the car. That way all the honour and glory would
be yours . . . ”
“But that would hardly be fair, would it William?”
“Ah. No. I suppose not.”
Aristid smiled gently. “You’re not nervous, are you William?”
“No,” said William.
“Good. Off you go then.”
“Aristid?”
“Yes William?”
“I am nervous, actually.”
Aristid’s smile broadened. “Ah,” he said, “I suspected as much.
To be nervous at this stage is quite normal.”

207
 “It is?”
“Oh yes, so you should not let it worry you.”
“Good. I feel better now,” said William, looking worried.
“Besides,” said Aristid, “I will be here, to help if anything goes
wrong.”
“Ah,” said William. “Good. I think.”
Aristid leaned over and opened William’s door. “Off you go,” he
said. “Good luck.”
Looking miserable, William unfolded himself from the car. He
hid the water pistol in his pocket and walked, hesitantly towards the
chemist. He disappeared round the corner, Aristid eyeing him eagerly
as he went. For a moment Aristid’s knuckles whitened as he gripped
the steering wheel of his car. Then the sound of a bell tinkling was
heard. Aristid relaxed briefly. It was the sound made by someone
opening the chemist’s door.
Three minutes passed, and William finally reappeared. He moved
very slowly as he rounded the corner and walked back in the direction
of the car. Aristid started the engine. He noticed that William was
holding a small red paper bag with the name of the chemist printed
on it.
William climbed into the car, and Aristid released the hand brake
and slammed the gear lever into first. With screaming tyres and rat-
tling wheels the car hurtled off down the street.
“How did it go?” said Aristid.
“How did what go?” said William.
“The raid. How did the raid go?”
“Oh. That. Not well, I’m afraid,” said William. “I forgot the plan,
the fine points anyway. So I didn’t bother.”
“What?”
“I didn’t bother to rob the chemist.”
“William!”
“But the journey wasn’t entirely wasted.”
“No?”
“No. I bought you a toothbrush.”
William handed the paper bag to Aristid.

208
33

It was half past eight in the evening. In the flat of Morris Atkins
Virginia had just noticed a lack of milk. She had searched Morris’s
fridge most thoroughly, and there wasn’t a bottle or a carton to be
found.
“You’ve run out of milk,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Morris.
“Yes it does,” she said. “Milk’s good for you, and I absolutely
refuse to drink black coffee.”
“So we won’t make any coffee tonight.”
“Yes we will,” said Virginia, “and mine will be white.”
“But . . . ”
“I’ll just drive down to the garage and buy some milk. Give me
your car keys please.”
Morris gave her his car keys.
“And some money,” said Virginia. “I’m not going to pay for your
milk.”
Morris gave her some money.
“Good,” said Virginia. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Bye Morris
darling.”
Virginia skipped delicately out of the flat, slamming the door hard
behind her. Morris shuddered. Virginia was the first girl he had ever
had who knew herself to be his intellectual superior. This made him
very nervous. There were physical problems too. Although she was
fantastic in bed she had nearly twice as much energy as him. She was

209
exhausting him, to say nothing of what she was doing to his ego.
The whole point of sleeping with Virginia in the first place had
been to improve his ego, Morris felt. Every other male student in
the department wanted to sleep with her, and there was no denying
how attractive she was. She was tall, slim and energetic. She had
long, wavy red hair and the most perfect legs Morris had ever seen.
Miranda, for all her other attractions, did have slightly knobbly knees.
So Morris felt that if Virginia was everyone else’s fantasy she should
be one of his conquests.
The problem was Virginia’s air of effortless superiority. Morris
didn’t mind women who were strident feminists, he could enjoy pa-
tronising them. He was also fairly fond of women like Miranda, who
treated him with a sort of passive admiration. He had even more fun
patronising them. He didn’t know how to patronise Virginia. Worse
than that, she spent a lot of time patronising him. It was no good at
all.
If only he still had Miranda, he thought. If he had his devoted
little drip to return to, Virginia wouldn’t bother him at all. He could
simply enjoy her body until her mind became too much for him, safe
in the knowledge that Miranda would be prepared to leap into his bed
as soon as he told her to.
It was roughly at this point that he considered testing Miranda, to
see if perhaps it wasn’t too late to re-establish communications with
her. He had done some pretty lousy things to her in the past, and she
had always come crawling back for more. Perhaps even this was not
too much for her. He went to the telephone and dialled her number.
“Hello?” It was Miranda’s voice.
“Hello Miranda,” said Morris. “Morris here.”
“What? Morris?”
“Yes. About last night. You aren’t going to let what you heard
bother you, are you?”
“Of course I am! How could you Morris!”
“Now don’t get excited, Miranda.”
“Excited? You bastard! Go away!”
He waited, but Miranda did not hang up. He smiled to himself.

210
He knew this young woman better than she knew herself.
“Morris?” it was Miranda’s voice. “Are you still there?”
“Of course,” said Morris.
“I . . . I just don’t understand. I suppose I should forgive you. I’ve
always said that I wouldn’t be too possessive in this relationship, that
I wouldn’t let myself tie you down or anything . . . ”
“I understand Miranda. Don’t blame yourself. You’re taking it
pretty well under the circumstances. I guess that’s why I love you so
much.”
“Oh Morris! How can you say you love me?”
“Don’t you trust me, Miranda? Don’t you believe me when I say
something?”
“Of course I do . . . ”
“Then trust me now. Jesus, Miranda, if you’d trusted me in the
first place none of this would have happened.”
“What?”
“I told you not to ring me. I said I’d ring you. But you didn’t
listen, did you? You rang me anyway. That’s how you found out.
That’s why you’re upset. The blame really rests as much with you as
it does with me.”
“Oh Morris!”
“Think about it. If you hadn’t found out you’d never have been
upset.”
“But Morris! You’ve left me . . . for someone else . . . ”
“I haven’t left you, Miranda. This is just a holiday from you.”
“A holiday! Are you saying you’ll come back to me?”
“I never really left you, Miranda. I love you, and I always have
loved you.”
“But what about . . . what about her?”
“Virginia? I just sleep with Virginia, I don’t love her. All I feel for
her is lust.”
“Oh Morris! That’s awful!”
“There were women before you, you know that. All I ever felt for
any of them was lust. It’s the same with Virginia. You’re the only
woman I’ve ever loved. You’re the only woman I ever will love.”

211
 “So . . . you won’t see her again?”
“I will, and sleep with her too, until I’m tired of her.”
“How awful! You . . . you’re just . . . ”
“Now don’t go getting excited. Think about it. What sort of
relationship do you think we could have if I still felt lust for Virginia?
I’ve got to work the lust out of my system first. Then I’ll come back
to you. All right?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . ”
“Are you saying you want to end our relationship?”
“No . . . ”
“Are you? If you do, just say so. I don’t want to end it. I still
love you, but if you want to end it, just go ahead and say so. But
remember, it will be your doing, not mine.”
There was a pause. “Morris?” Miranda’s voice was hesitant, al-
most apologetic.
Morris grinned. “Yes Miranda?” he said, firmly.
“I . . . don’t want to end our relationship. You can see this woman
if you want to.”
“Good girl.”
“But . . . but you will come back to me, won’t you? Soon?”
“Of course.” It was true, as well.
“All right. I’ll trust you,” said Miranda.
“Good. And to show you I appreciate it I’ll take you out tomorrow
night.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Just for one night, mind. Then I go back to Virginia until
I’ve finished with her. All right?”
“Oh Morris . . . ”
“All right?”
“All right.”
“Good girl. I’ll call for you about eight thirty. Bye Miranda.”
He hung up before Miranda had a chance to respond. All was
going well. He rubbed his hands together. A sexual change of pace for
tomorrow night was just what he needed. He could hardly wait. The

212
best thing was that Miranda didn’t make him wear a condom the way
Virginia did.
The door opened. It was Virginia.
“Hi,” she said, “I got the milk. I’ll just put it in the fridge.”
Virginia made her way to the kitchen. Morris followed her.
“Virginia,” said Morris.
“Yes, Flower?” said Virginia.
Morris wished she wouldn’t keep calling him that. “Virginia,” he
said, “I’m starting to feel a bit ill. I think I might have caught a cold.”
“Oh yes? What’re the symptoms? They must have started pretty
quickly.”
“Yes, well, colds are like that sometimes. It’s just that it might be
better if we didn’t see each other tomorrow. Just in case I’m infectious.
You know.”
“Don’t be stupid, Morris. If you are getting a cold then you’re
probably infectious already. It’s far too late for me to start running
away and hiding now.”
“But Virginia . . . ”
“Besides, I know an ancient Chinese cure for colds.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It’s a bit like acupuncture, except that instead of needles
you use massage.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Take your clothes off.”
“Pardon?” said Morris.
“Take your clothes off. You have to be naked or it won’t work
properly.”
Morris bent over to take off his shoes. Virginia started unbuttoning
her blouse.
“What are you doing that for?” Morris said.
“I have to be naked too,” said Virginia. “It’s more fun that way.”
Morris took off his shoes.
“Ah Morris,” said Virginia, “you are going to enjoy yourself. That
cold virus of yours just won’t know what’s hit it.”

213
 Morris made a decision. Virginia was just too good to waste. Mir-
anda would just have to wait until next week.

214
34

It was early on Friday morning. The sun had thoroughly risen and
some of the shops were preparing to open. In the little side street
beside the chemist’s shop a small battered Volkswagen rattled to the
side of the road and stopped. Inside were William and Aristid. Aristid
was mildly annoyed.
There had been little chance of sleep on Thursday night. If the
robbery on Thursday afternoon had gone according to plan sleep would
have been easy. But the robbery had not gone according to plan.
Instead it had changed into an expedition to buy a toothbrush.
So the plan had been postponed until Friday morning. Now Friday
morning had come, and both William and Aristid were feeling nervous,
tired and miserable.
“Do you think you will be all right today?” Aristid said.
William looked hurt. “Of course,” he said. “Provided I remember
the fine points of the plan.”
“And what are the fine points of the plan?” said Aristid.
“Er . . . ”
“You have forgotten again!”
“No no. I’m sure it will come back to me once I’m inside the shop.”
“William.”
“Yes, Aristid?”
“I really have no need of another toothbrush. We will go over the
plan again.”
“All right, Aristid.”

215
 Aristid took a deep breath. “First,” he said, “you go into the shop.
Then what do you do?”
William thought carefully. “Rob it?” he said.
“Yes, but precisely what do you do in order to rob it?”
William closed his eyes to concentrate. “I go up to the person
behind the counter, I look threatening, I draw my water pistol and I
ask for the money. I do not give my name, but I do say ‘good morning’.
Oh, but first I ask the person if they have a heart condition.”
“Good, William.”
“Aristid?”
“Yes William?”
“How much money do we take? Twenty dollars? Thirty perhaps?”
“All of it, William. All the money they have.”
“And if they don’t have any should I ask for a cheque?”
“No . . . ”
“A cheque might be better anyway. Easier to carry. I will tell them
it’s in a good cause and, of course, give them a receipt.”
“William! That is not how robbers behave!”
“But we aren’t ordinary robbers, are we Aristid? We don’t want
them to be afraid of us. Do we?”
“Yes! Yes we do want them to be afraid!”
“Oh? Well, I’m not sure . . . ”
“William, if they’re not afraid they won’t give us anything.”
“But . . . ”
“If you are to rid the world of communism you must be ruthless.”
“Must I?”
“Yes. You must go in there, with your water pistol, and make them
believe that these could be their final moments on earth . . . ”
“After first making sure they don’t have heart conditions . . . ”
“Well yes, if you like. But after that you must be ruthless, and
terrifying.”
“All right,” said William, “I’ll be ruthless and terrifying. Could I
borrow five dollars?”
“What for?”

216
 “In case I forget the fine points again and have to buy another
toothbrush. No, wait, I’ve just remembered. I already have five dol-
lars, so . . . ”
“William!”
“Yes, Aristid?”
Aristid took another deep breath. “I think it might almost be
better if I did the robbery.”
“All right.”
“But I really think you should be the one to do it, if only you could
remember the plan.”
“It is quite complicated.”
“No it isn’t. Not really. Oh William, William, don’t you want
to rid the world of communism? Don’t you want to win honour and
glory?”
“Of course I do. But, well, it’s not as if this chemist is a communist,
is it? No, I think you’re right. You’d better rob the chemist. I’ll just
wait until we get to the bit of the plan where we rid the world of
communism.”
“But William, how will you be able to rid the world of communism
if you don’t get some practise now? You must learn how to threaten
people. You must know how to wield your water pistol in such a way
that men will fear you. You must, in short, learn how to cope with
the action and violence that will engulf you while ridding the world of
communism.”
“Will action and violence engulf me?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Oh. Couldn’t I just trust my instincts and improvise when action
and violence engulf me?”
“No, William. You will need practise.”
“Ah. Couldn’t we find a communist chemist to rob instead? That
might be better practise.”
“This chemist is perfect, William.”
“But . . . ”
“Do not fear, William. There is justice in what you do. Remember,
we rob from the rich to give to the poor. This chemist deserves to be

217
robbed.”
“Does he?”
“Of course. You remember how much he charged you for a tooth-
brush yesterday?”
“Yes. It was quite expensive.”
“Indeed it was! This chemist has made his fortune by overcharging
innocent members of the public for cotton wool and toothbrushes. He
is clearly an evil man.”
“Aristid.”
“Yes William?”
“I once paid more for a toothbrush in Woolworths. Should we rob
there instead?”
“No William, or at least not now.”
“I have a plan Aristid. We could go round to all the chemist shops
and supermarkets and compare the prices they charge for toothbrushes
...”
“William!”
“Then we could rob the one that charged the most.”
“William!”
“Or write a letter about it to John Laws. I’m not sure which would
be best.”
“William!”
“Yes, Aristid?”
“We must rob this chemist and we must rob this chemist this morn-
ing. If we fail at this early stage in our plans we might as well abandon
them altogether. Failure now would be total failure.”
“I suppose so . . . ”
“You took a moral stand over your shopping trolleys didn’t you?
You stuck to your algorithm then. Your courage was great indeed.”
“Thank you, Aristid.”
“But where is that courage now?”
“Oh, well, it takes a different sort of courage to rob chemists.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”

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 “Oh.” William glanced thoughtfully at the chemist’s shop. He
drew his gun from his pocket and held it before his eyes.
“Remember your trolleys, William,” said Aristid. “Remember your
algorithm, and go forward with courage and strength.”
William gazed at his water pistol. Aristid was right. Courage came
from within. If he concentrated his energy, William knew, he could
make as glorious a career of robbery as he once had of shopping trolley
management.
“I will rob the chemist,” he declared. He stowed his water pistol
back in his pocket and opened the car door.
William climbed from the car. He stood on the narrow street,
resolutely facing his destiny. Then he leaned back into the car.
“Aristid,” he said, “what size toothbrush do you actually prefer,
in case I get confused again?”
“William,” said Aristid. “Please get back into the car.”
“Why, Aristid?”
“I want to talk to you, William. I want to run over the plan a few
more times.”
“That’s all right, Aristid. I very nearly know what to do. I’m sure
I’ll be able to rob the chemist this time.”
“William, please get back into the car.”
“Really, Aristid, I’m all right now . . . ”
“William, the chemist’s doesn’t open for another half hour.”
“Ah.”
“Please get back into the car.”
William got back into the car.

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220
35

It was the time in the morning when Miranda usually caught the bus.
But this morning, instead of waiting at the bus stop, she was at the
next corner of the street, running as fast as her high heeled shoes
would carry her, towards the bus that was just pulling out from the
stop.
Very rarely did Miranda Catarini miss the bus. Never before while
working for the bank had she overslept. This morning was the first
time. Worst of all, she had managed to oversleep after having gone to
bed early the night before.
Fortunately the bus driver, who was a kind hearted soul, saw Mir-
anda running for his bus and waited for her. She thanked him breath-
lessly as she climbed aboard and paid her fare. Then she stumbled to
the nearest available seat and collapsed into it.
The bus took her close to the bank head office and she got off
there. She made her way into the building and caught the lift to
the eleventh floor. Out of the lift she turned left and made her way
towards the ECAS office. Inside, the old familiar jumble of computers
and cardboard boxes made her feel at home. She climbed over a
pile of printer paper to where Mr Jameson was sitting, staring at the
computer screen and trying to figure out how to use the help function
on the word processor.
“Good morning,” said Miranda.
Mr Jameson looked up and smiled. “Hello Miranda,” he said.
“Last day today, eh?”

221
 Miranda smiled back. “Yes,” she said. “Pity, in a way.”
“You’ll miss the people in your branch?”
“Some of them, certainly.”
“Even that Anne Cameron woman? You know Miranda, I’m very
impressed with the way you’ve handled her.”
Miranda grinned. “She’s not bad, really,” she said, “just a bit
gruff. She’s very good at her job, too.”
“Well,” said Mr Jameson, “that’s probably true. But she still
frightens me.”
He turned from his computer screen to a pile of diskettes on his
right. One of them had Miranda’s name scrawled on its label in biro.
When Miranda had first done her computer training course one of the
things she had been told was never to write on a diskette in biro.
“This is for you,” said Mr Jameson, handing the diskette to her.
Miranda took it and stowed it with the other diskettes she had in
her briefcase. “Is this the shut down diskette?” she said.
“Yes,” said Mr Jameson. “Use it tonight on your machine, after
you’ve run ‘end of day’ for the last time. Just boot off that disk and
it’ll wipe all the software from the machine and leave it ready for the
delivery men to pick up and take away on Monday morning.”
“Will I need to pack the computer back into its boxes?”
“No. The delivery men will do that. Your job for today is to get
as many last minute customer applications on the computer as you
can, then run ‘end of day’, run the shut down programme and finally,
say goodbye to the people at your branch and thank them for their
co-operation. On Monday morning all the ECAS team will be back
here, and we’ll get together to compare findings and analyse results.
Okay?”
“Okay Mr Jameson,” said Miranda. “See you on Monday.”
She left the office, her new diskette safely stowed away, and made
for the lift. It was the last day of the ECAS test, the last day on which
she would call in to her little branch, the last day on which she would
see Anne Cameron and the amiable, if odd, Desmond.
The lift stopped at the ground floor, and she got out. She still had
her final training manual. She had not finished reading it yesterday in

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spite of what she had thought. Fortunately for her the computer had
been used a lot that day, and when it hadn’t been in use she had been
too depressed to concentrate on the manual anyway.
At least, she thought, she was going to see Morris tonight. But
even that didn’t make her feel very happy. Morris had claimed to love
her, but he didn’t love her enough not to want to see other women
as well. Every time Miranda thought of the mysterious woman, the
woman Morris liked to sleep with more than he liked to sleep with her,
her heart was filled with sadness and anger. Perhaps she wouldn’t even
enjoy seeing him tonight. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the same any more.
There was a bus stop just round the corner from the main bank
building. She decided to take the bus to her branch. It wasn’t that
far, but it was just a little bit farther than she liked to walk.
Arriving near the branch, she got off her bus and walked down the
street towards the glass doors. It was the last time, she thought to
herself, that she would arrive for work in this place. She had only been
there for a week, but already she felt she had gained from her experi-
ence. All those customers she had talked to, all the branch staff she
had interviewed, all the new people she had successfully encountered
in the space of merely a week. It occurred to her that perhaps she had
fairly good social skills after all.
She walked through the doors and into the long, narrow, customer
area in front of the enquiry counter. To her right was a long wall,
decorated with pictures by local primary school children. She won-
dered if any of the children would grow up to be famous artists, and
had a quick look to see if she could spot any early talent. Under the
paintings a number of bank customers were filling in forms.
Miranda waited by the gate in the enquiry counter until Bruce
appeared to let her in. He smiled at her.
“Hi,” he said, “you made a bit of a mistake.”
“Did I?” said Miranda. It sounded to her like a plausible accusa-
tion.
“Yes,” said Bruce, “you gave me the wrong telephone number.”
“Oh yes?” Miranda made her way to her computer.
Bruce followed. “Yes,” he said. “I tried to phone you last night,

223
but I kept getting through to the wrong person, some woman who told
me she definitely wasn’t you.”
“Really?” said Miranda. “Was she nice?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t talk for long enough. Could you give
me your phone number again, because you must have written it down
wrong.”
Miranda smiled sweetly. “Sure,” she said. She took a piece of
paper out of her briefcase and wrote another wrong number on it. She
handed it to Bruce.
“Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hassle you or anything, but,
you know, you and me just won’t be able to get together if I don’t
have your telephone number.”
“I know,” said Miranda, and she turned to see to her computer.
Bruce drifted away. Someone had already turned her computer
on, Anne Cameron probably, and it seemed to Miranda to be running
smoothly. She was impressed by how quickly the apparently hostile
Anne had learned to use the system. The only problem now was
that, with the computer already on, there was nothing for her to do.
She would have to go to her seat on the other side of the enquiry
counter and read her final training manual. She had hoped to make
the remaining five pages last all day, but that plan now seemed doomed
to failure.
“Hi Miranda,” said the voice of Desmond behind her.
Miranda turned round. “Hello, Desmond,” she said. “No flowers
today?”
“Er no,” said Desmond. “Today I bought you a box of chocolates.”
Anne appeared. “Desmond,” she said, “get back to the tellers’
booths. You can talk to your little EDP friend later.”
“Yes, Anne,” said Desmond, and he disappeared.
“I started your computer for you again,” said Anne. “I hope you
don’t mind.”
“No,” said Miranda. “You did a good job.”
Anne scowled. “Well it’s not exactly difficult, is it? I don’t know,
you EDP blokes think you’re the only ones qualified to flick switches.”
“Sorry,” said Miranda.

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 “Who’s in charge of you?” said Anne.
“Sorry, what?” said Miranda.
“Who do you report to?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. I report to Mr F. P. Jameson, EDP
division.”
“Right. I’ll remember that. This is your last day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right. I shall miss working here.”
“Don’t be stupid, you’ve only been here a week. I thought I might
write a letter to your boss, full of glowing praise for you and the way
you’ve handled this machine. That’d be all right with you, wouldn’t
it?”
“Oh! Of course it would, I mean, if you think I deserve it . . . ”
“Of course you deserve it. Just because you’re young and pretty
doesn’t mean you haven’t got brains. You ought to be more self-
confident. There’s no reason for you not to be. Excuse me, looks like
I’ve got a customer.”
Anne walked away to deal with a customer at the other end of
the enquiry counter and Miranda stared after her. She found Anne
Cameron to be a continual source of amazement.
Turning back to her computer Miranda bent down to examine
the space behind its supply of computer paper. Sure enough, lodged
among the cables from the computer, there was a small box of choco-
lates. She shook her head in disbelief. Why did Desmond keep doing
things like this? Was he trying, in some barely competent way, to
seduce her? Or was he just going mad?
“Hi Miranda,” said Desmond, appearing once more behind her.
“Desmond,” said Miranda firmly, “you must stop doing this. You
must stop buying me things.”
“But it’s your last day here. I just wanted, you know, to show my
appreciation of all you’ve done for me. You’re just so . . . special.”
Miranda tried to smile, but all she felt was great exasperation. She
genuinely liked Desmond, but she couldn’t help wishing that he liked
her a bit less. “It’s a nice thought,” she said, “but I wish you hadn’t
done it. You know I’ve already got a boyfriend, so you know I can’t
go out with you.”

225
 “It was just, you know, a token of friendship.”
“Friendship doesn’t need so many tokens, Desmond, you should
know that. I hope you haven’t made me a briefcase full of sandwiches
as well.”
“No,” said Desmond. “I was going to, but I overslept and didn’t
have time. Sorry.”
“Well that’s a relief,” said Miranda. “We’ll go to our little tea shop
for lunch today instead of the park.”
“So you will have lunch with me today?”
“Of course.”
“You are so good to me. Thank you.”
Miranda tried not to get angry. “Desmond, it’s no big deal.”
“Not to you, perhaps, but it is to me,” said Desmond. “I think
you’re . . . ”
This was going too far for Miranda. “I’ve changed my mind,” she
said.
“What?”
“I don’t want to have lunch with you. Sorry Desmond, but this is
all too much for me. I’m only human. I’ll have a quick coffee with you
after work if you like, but I don’t think I could face an entire lunch
hour.”
Desmond’s mouth dropped open. “What?” he managed to say
without closing it.
“Sorry Desmond,” said Miranda. “It’s not you, really, it’s me. But
I can’t face the thought of lunch. Hadn’t you better get back to your
teller’s booth?”
“What?”
“Teller’s booth. Your job. Remember?”
“But I was going to . . . ”
“What?” said Miranda.
“I was going to, er, ask you, er, if . . . ”
Miranda started. He wasn’t going to ask her to marry him, was
he? Even Desmond wouldn’t do that, would he?
“Er,” said Desmond, “I was going to ask you if, er, you’d like to
go to a party, tonight, near my place . . . ”

226
 “Oh Desmond!”
“If you’ve got nothing else planned, I mean . . . ”
“Well I have got something else planned, actually. I’m going out
with my boyfriend tonight.”
“Ah.”
“Look, I’ll talk to you later. But not now. Please go back to your
booth.”
He went back to his booth. Miranda picked up the chocolates and
put them in her bag. They were actually her favourite brand. She did
feel sorry for him. In some ways he was better than Morris, gentler,
more caring, more sensitive and, it seemed, much more loyal. But he
was also so serious and so odd. She didn’t like that. It was ridiculous
and it was embarrassing. Worst of all this business of following her
around was probably making him miserable. She thought that it was
a good thing for Desmond that he was never going to see her again.
Desmond, she suspected, would not have agreed with her.

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228
36

It was only with great caution that William approached the chemist
for his second attempt to rob it. It was not that he was afraid as such,
for he had a water pistol with which to defend himself, it was more a
case of him being painfully aware of how easy failure would be. Just
one slip on his part and disaster would follow. He knew that he had let
Aristid down once already. He had no intention of letting him down
again.
Outside the open door of the chemist’s William lingered. Inside he
could see shelves of drugs, tights, toiletries and even one of soft toys.
He wondered how much money the chemist had on the premises, and
whether it could possibly be right for him to ask for all of it.
Aware of the significance of the moment, he stepped into the
chemist’s shop. On his right was a small rack displaying boxes of
condoms; on his left was a rack of disposable nappies. But William
was interested in neither of these. With purpose in his stride he made
for the rack of toothbrushes.
It was best, he thought, not to draw attention to himself too
quickly. Only when the customer currently being attended to had
left would he act. For now he would pretend he was looking for a
toothbrush.
The customer being served was a large woman carrying a bag of
groceries. She was waiting for a prescription to be filled, and he had
no idea how long this process would take. As he examined a couple of
angled toothbrushes he fingered the water pistol in his pocket. It was

229
loaded, and ready to fire if needed. William was both eager and afraid
to test it on this chemist. The butterflies in his stomach, he felt, were
only making things worse. He wished they would go away.
A young woman in a white tunic came up to him. “Can I help you
at all?” she said.
William started. “Ah,” he said, “er, I don’t think so, thank you.”
“Was it a toothbrush you were after?”
“No no,” said William, as he stared at the toothbrushes on the
display rack. “Ah! Er, yes. I am after a toothbrush.”
“Well we have some more over here.”
The woman led him to another rack a little to the left of the first.
It too contained toothbrushes, but these ones were straight and made
of transparent plastic. William eyed them cautiously.
“What size would you like?” the woman asked.
“Ah,” said William. “What?”
“What size would you like?”
“Oh, er, what is the smallest size?”
“The size thirty has a head of three bristles by ten, while the size
thirty two has four bristles by eight. It depends whether you want a
short thick head or a long thin one.”
“What?” said William, who was too busy concentrating on the
customer to notice what the woman was saying.
“Would you prefer to have a short thick head or a long thin one?”
William stared at her. It seemed such an odd question to ask. “I
rather like the head I have at the moment,” he said.
“But is it short and thick or long and thin?”
“Well, er, long and thin, I suppose.”
“A thirty then. Would you like this toothbrush?”
“What toothbrush?”
“The one I have in my hand.”
“Ah. That toothbrush. Er, yes please.”
“Right,” said the woman, and she walked to the sales counter.
William followed her.
There was also a man behind the sales counter, a middle aged,
balding gentleman in a long white coat. He handed a packet of pills

230
to the customer who had been waiting. She paid him for them and
walked out. William saw that his opportunity had come.
“Are you looking after this gentleman, Gia?” the man asked the
woman.
“Yes, Mr Sampao,” she answered.
“Excuse me,” said William, while the young woman started wrap-
ping his toothbrush, “but do either of you have a heart condition?”
The man and the woman looked at him in some surprise.
“Er, no,” said the man.
“Not that I know of,” said the woman.
“Good,” said William, and he drew his gun.
The effect was remarkable. No sooner had William removed the
water pistol from his pocket and pointed it in the general direction of
the two people behind the counter than the woman stopped wrapping
the toothbrush and the man stuck his hands in the air.
William tried to remember his lines. “Er, good morning,” he said.
“I am a robber.”
“Good morning,” said the man and the woman, nervously. They
both had their hands in the air now and they looked terrified.
William was concerned for a moment. “Are you sure neither of you
has a heart condition?”
“Er, quite sure,” said the man.
“I don’t either,” said the woman.
“Right,” said William. “Hand over all your money or I’ll squirt
you.”
The man stepped nervously towards the till, then stopped. “Sorry,
what did you say?” he said.
“Oh,” said William, “I meant to say, ‘I have a gun and I’m not
afraid to use it.’”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the man, “but your gun seems to have a red
plastic nozzle on the end of its barrel.”
“Yes,” said William, determined not to be sidetracked now that he
remembered his lines, “and I’m not afraid to use it.”
To demonstrate that he was not afraid to use it, William fired a
warning shot over the head of the man. A thin jet of water shot out of

231
the gun, a few drops of it landing on the man’s shoulder. William was
disappointed. The squirt of his water pistol wasn’t nearly as impressive
as he’d hoped it would be.
Nevertheless, William stuck to his plan and continued to point his
weapon at the man and the woman. But the moment of power seemed
to be fading fast. Both the man and the woman had put their hands
down now, and neither looked as nervous as they had done. The
woman spoke to the man.
“Shall I carry on wrapping the gentleman’s toothbrush now?” she
said.
William knew that he had to do something to save the situation.
He tried his best to look menacing, but with his light grey hair and
his slight stoop he was not successful. He looked no more menacing
than an elongated sheep, and not a very aggressive or energetic sheep
at that. A blade of grass might possibly have been afraid, but the two
humans behind the sales counter were clearly made of sterner stuff.
“Tell me,” said the man. “Is that gun of yours a water pistol?”
William tried to bluff it out. “It might be,” he said. “Now hand
over the money.”
“Let me show you something first,” said the man. He reached his
hand under the sales counter and pulled out a metal object.
The object looked a lot like William’s water pistol, except that it
seemed rather heavier, and it had more moving parts. Also it did not
have a red plastic nozzle on the end of its barrel.
William began to suspect that his first attempt at robbery was not
going to be an unqualified success.
“Er,” said William, “is that a real gun?”
The man smiled malevolently. “It might be,” he said. “Do you
have a heart condition?”
William, still pointing his own gun, began to feel a little nervous.
“Er, excuse me for asking,” he said, “but does this mean that you’re
not going to give me your money?”
“It does,” said the man. “I might possibly blow your head off, but
I definitely won’t give you any money.”
“Ah,” said William.

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 They stood there for a few seconds, William and the man, pointing
their in some ways quite different guns at each other. William tried to
think of a way out. He wondered if firing another warning shot might
help, then decided that probably it would not.
“Does the gentleman still want his toothbrush?” the woman asked
the man.
“Do you?” the man asked William.
“Er, yes please,” said William, not wishing to give offence.
“Right,” said the man, “that’ll be two dollars fifty.”
William, whose right hand was still holding the water pistol, reached
into his pocket with his left hand. He extracted a five dollar note and
handed it to the man.
The man, whose right hand was holding his own gun, took Will-
iam’s money with his left hand and passed it to the woman.
“Give the gentleman his change,” said the man.
The woman gave William two dollars fifty in change, a till receipt
and a toothbrush.
“Good bye, sir,” said the man.
“Oh, good bye,” said William. With his gun in one hand and his
money, receipt and toothbrush in the other, William backed towards
the open door.
The man’s gun covered him all the way.
“Have a nice day,” said the man, as William finally got through
the door.
William ran down the street and leapt into Aristid’s car. With a
squeal of tyres the car hurtled off.
William put his seat belt on.
Beside him Aristid was concentrating on the road ahead as he drove
furiously along. Escaping was clearly the part of robbery that Aristid
enjoyed most.
When they were a safe enough distance away from the scene of the
crime Aristid slowed the car down slightly.
“Well?” he said to William, “how did it go?”
“Er, you remember that the toothbrush I gave you yesterday was
bent in the middle?”

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 “Yes.”
“Well the one I got you today is straight. And it only cost two
dollars fifty.”
“Oh William!”
“Sorry, Aristid.”
“What happened this time? Did you forget your lines again?”
“No. This time I remembered my lines. This time I was out-
gunned.”
“Out-gunned?”
“Yes. Everything was going well until the man in the shop pro-
duced a gun of his own. It was slightly larger than mine, and it also
looked as if it might have been real.
“Ah,” said Aristid, “I see.”
“And I got the feeling from the man’s tone of voice and what he
said that he was considering using it on me. The prospect of serious
injury seemed imminent.”
“In that case I do not blame you for leaving the shop empty
handed.”
“I did think that perhaps I should have tried shooting the gun out
of his hand, but I’m not sure you can do that with a water pistol.”
“I think perhaps you cannot.”
“In that case it’s a good thing I didn’t try. Aristid, I think our
plan requires some fine tuning.”
“Yes William, I think perhaps you are right.”

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37

The final customer to use the computer finished opening her account.
Miranda asked her survey questions for the last time. The customer
said that using the computer speeded up the process of opening an
account, but being asked a lot of questions about it afterwards didn’t.
Miranda thanked the customer politely for her time.
It was half past five on Friday, and the doors of the bank branch
were about to be closed to the public. The computer had been used to
run ECAS for the last time. Now all she had left to do was to run the
‘end of day’ procedure and, using her diskette, to remove the system
software from the machine.
Anne Cameron came up to her. “What are you going to do with
that machine of yours now?” she said.
“Well,” said Miranda, “now I just have to perform the ‘end of day’
routine, then shut the system down.”
“Shut it down?”
“Yes. Wipe the programme from the machine.”
“That seems a bit of a waste of a programme,” said Anne.
“Well, we’ve got other copies at Central Office,” said Miranda, “so
it’s not as if the whole programme’s being abandoned.”
“Okay,” said Anne, “I’ve got a spare five minutes. Let’s run that
‘end of day’ thing of yours for the last time.”
Miranda pressed the function key on the machine that started the
‘end of day’ procedure. For the last time the computer copied its new
account information for the day onto a floppy disk. For the last time

235
the printer churned out two summaries of the computer’s business for
the day, one for Central Office and one for the branch to keep. She put
the second copy in the manila folder she had provided for the branch.
“What do we do with all those pieces of paper now?” Anne said,
pointing at the folder.
“Er, keep them?” Miranda suggested. “You could think of them
as a sort of souvenir.”
“Souvenir indeed,” said Anne, but she did smile slightly.
Miranda put the diskette copy and the printed summary into an
internal mail envelope for dispatch to Central Office. Then she put
her shut down diskette into the computer’s disk drive. She pressed
the three keys on the keyboard that had the effect of turning the
computer off and on. The computer would then read the disk and,
acting on instructions found there, erase ECAS from its memory.
“You were right about one thing,” said Miranda to Anne, “it was
busy today. We used the computer to open five new accounts.”
Anne grunted. “Not as busy as I thought it would be,” she said.
“I had a sort of feeling, as if something big was going to happen. Oh
well, perhaps it’ll happen on Monday.”
“When I’m not here,” said Miranda.
“You might be lucky not to be,” said Anne sharply. “I suppose
you’ll be going now, won’t you?”
Miranda took the shut down disk out of the machine. It’s job was
done now. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I will.”
“And what do we do with all this useless computer equipment
we’ve got left on our enquiry counter?” said Anne.
“The delivery men will come here on Monday morning and take it
away for you,” said Miranda.
“Are these the same blokes who brought it here last week and
wouldn’t put it where I wanted them to?”
“Er, probably.”
“And you’re willing to trust them with your machine twice are
you?”
Miranda shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not my decision,” she said.
“I guess the bank’s already paid them to deliver the computers to the

236
test branches last Friday and to pick them up again next Monday. It
probably just wants to make sure it gets its money’s worth.”
“Well I hope it won’t regret it,” said Anne, “and I hope I won’t
regret it either. Anyway, good bye Miranda. Best of luck in your
future career.”
“Thanks,” said Miranda. “Bye bye.”
Miranda picked up her briefcase and walked through the gate in
the enquiry counter towards the doors of the bank. A security guard,
Sam, opened them to let her out. He winked in a friendly way as she
passed him, and she smiled back. On Monday she would have rather
less to do with security guards, and bank branches in general, as she
returned to the main bank building to help analyse the week’s results.
She stepped out into the street and turned in the direction of the
bus stop . Then she heard someone running after her. She turned back
to see Desmond, out of breath and clutching his enormous briefcase,
desperately trying to catch her up.
“Have you come to say good bye?” said Miranda.
Desmond nodded sadly.
“Well, good bye, Desmond,” said Miranda. “It was nice to have
met you.”
“Er,” said Desmond. He looked as if he wanted to say something.
Miranda waited patiently. “Yes?” she said.
“Er,” said Desmond, “I’ll miss you.”
Miranda smiled slightly. “No you won’t,” she said. “You’ll have
forgotten me by next week.”
“No I won’t,” said Desmond. “I’ll never forget you.”
Miranda had a horrible feeling that he was going to start to cry.
She began to panic slightly. “I’ll try to remember you too,” she said.
“Bye.”
“Er . . . ” said Desmond.
“Bye,” said Miranda, and she turned to go.
“Wait,” said Desmond, “please don’t go. I absolutely have to tell
you something first.”
Miranda waited.
“Er,” said Desmond, “I . . . ”

237
 Miranda continued to wait.
“The thing is . . . ” said Desmond.
Miranda waited a bit longer.
“You . . . ” said Desmond.
Miranda decided to stop waiting. “What exactly did you want to
say?” she said.
Desmond’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Sorry.”
Miranda did feel sorry for him, but she didn’t know what to say
or do. “Oh Desmond,” she said. “You know, in a funny sort of way, I
might miss you too.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes, I do. My boyfriend’s quite nice in some ways, very charming
really, but he’s not always good to me. He does take me a bit for
granted.”
“I don’t take you for granted.”
“I know.”
Miranda smiled gently at Desmond, and was pleased to see him
looking slightly less miserable in return.
“About that party tonight,” said Desmond.
“What party?” said Miranda.
“The party I asked you if you’d like to go to with me.”
“Oh. That party.”
“Yes. Well, if you change your mind and decide you’d like to go
with me, just phone me. Any time up to eight o’clock won’t be too
late.”
“I probably won’t change my mind.”
“But if you do . . . ”
“If I do I’ll phone you.”
“Okay. Well, er, bye Miranda.”
“Bye Desmond.”
Miranda wondered if perhaps she should kiss Desmond good bye,
but she decided against it. If he had been a normal person she would
not have hesitated, but he was not normal. If she kissed him it would
probably cause his brain to malfunction. Even shaking hands with

238
him might be dangerous. Instead she just smiled again and turned to
walk away.
Desmond turned too, and without saying another word to each
other they walked, in opposite directions, towards their homes. Mir-
anda intended never to see him again. She hoped that he wouldn’t
be too upset about this, for she was genuinely fond of him. But she
couldn’t see a continuing friendship getting anywhere. He would only
grow even more attached to her, and make himself even more miserable
because of it.
In particular, she didn’t want him to end up feeling the same way
about her as she felt about Morris. She didn’t want him to feel worth-
less and detestable simply because she preferred another man to him.
The bus left the bus stop at twenty to six. It was too crowded for
her to sit down, so she stood, sandwiched between a large, fat man in
a black singlet who clearly hadn’t washed or shaved for about a week
and a small, neatly dressed woman who didn’t seem to have brushed
her teeth for about the same period of time.
The journey was soon over, however, and she found herself walking
up the street towards home. Once home she turned the kettle on,
pulled off her clothes and had a shower. Then she put on her favourite
dressing gown and made herself a cup of coffee.
As she sat drinking coffee, alone in her kitchen, Miranda considered
the problem of what to wear tonight. She wanted to look her prettiest
for Morris, as always. She would leave her hair hanging free, because
this made her eyes look smaller, and she would wear a long skirt rather
than a short one because Morris preferred that.
With great care Miranda dressed for the evening. She didn’t know
where Morris was planning to take her, so she didn’t know whether
to dress formally or informally. In the end she decided on a compro-
mise, and put on a brightly coloured blouse with a patterned skirt and
matching shawl. She went to the bathroom and examined herself in
the mirror. Her appearance was quite acceptable, she decided, but it
would probably be best to check with Morris first. She went to her
telephone and dialled his number.
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice on the other end of the line. Mir-

239
anda recognized the voice and it stung her heart.
“Is . . . is Morris there?” Miranda said.
“Yes,” said the woman, “he’s here, but he can’t come to the phone
right now. He says he’s got a cold, so I’m making him lie down.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The silly idiot told me to keep away from him in case I
caught it, but I managed to talk him into letting me stay.”
Miranda heard Morris’s voice in the background asking who was
on the phone.
“It’s your sister,” said the woman, in reply.
“Hello, Miranda?” it was Morris’s voice now.
“Oh Morris,” said Miranda, “have you really got a cold?”
“It’s great to hear from you, Sis,” said Morris.
Miranda sighed deeply. “Sorry Morris,” she said, “but I’ve just
decided I never want to see you again. Bye.”
Miranda hung up before Morris could answer. She felt a curious
lack of emotion about this incident. She didn’t even want to cry,
perhaps because she had done too much crying over Morris already.
Instead she went to her handbag and fished around in it for a small
piece of paper with a telephone number on it. She went back to the
telephone and dialled the number.
“Hi,” said a man’s voice she didn’t recognize.
“Oh,” said Miranda, “could I speak to Desmond please?”
“Desmond? Sure. Hold on. I think he’s busy hanging himself or
something at the moment.” The voice grew fainter. “Des!” she heard
it call from a distance. “Stop trying to kill yourself and come here.
There’s a girl on the phone. She wants to talk to you, and she just
might be the sweet Miranda of whom we hear so much.”
Miranda heard footsteps rushing towards the phone.
“Miranda?” said Desmond breathlessly.
“Hello, Desmond,” said Miranda. “Is it still all right for me to go
to that party with you?”

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38

The party was within easy walking distance of Colin’s and Desmond’s
flat, but quite a long way from Miranda’s. So Colin and Desmond
picked Miranda up in Colin’s car.
This car was an ancient Passat that had definitely seen better days.
Most of the instruments on the dashboard had either fallen out or
decayed to the point of uselessness. The whole car clearly had only a
few years of life left to it, and Colin’s driving style was not improving
its life expectancy at all. The passenger seat where Miranda sat was
draped with loose wires that had somehow found their way out of the
dashboard. The glove compartment didn’t shut properly.
When Miranda first got into the car Desmond introduced her to
Colin.
“Hi,” said Colin to Miranda. “You look almost as beautiful as
Desmond said you were.”
Miranda smiled, but this was exactly the sort of compliment she
distrusted.
Desmond climbed into the back seat of the car, and they drove off
towards the party.
“You’ll like Jenny,” said Colin to his passengers, “she’s a nice girl.
Her boyfriend Mat’s pretty interesting too. He’s into computers, like
you, Miranda, but more on the creative side. He designs computer
adventure games. Jenny’s a hot shot Law student, very clever. I
guess they’re holding this party to celebrate something. Maybe they’re
getting married.”

241
 “I hope,” said Desmond, nervously, “that the people at the party
won’t be too intelligent.”
Colin grinned at Miranda. “Is he like this at work too?”
“Sometimes,” said Miranda, looking round to make sure Desmond
wasn’t offended.
“Don’t worry, Des,” said Colin. “If there are any intelligent people
at the party, we’ll protect you, won’t we Miranda?”
“Yes,” said Miranda. “We’ll fight them off for you.”
“We’ll tell them that you’re very clever really, but that you’re
suffering temporary brain damage at the moment so it doesn’t show.”
“I don’t mind clever people if they’re friendly, like Miranda,” Des-
mond admitted.
Miranda laughed. “Oh Desmond, you are silly,” she said.
“Am I?” said Desmond, anxiously.
“I’m afraid you are, mate,” said Colin. “In the nicest possible way,
of course.”
“Don’t worry really,” said Miranda, “I’m sure that lots of the clever
people will be friendly to you.”
The car drove on, down first one street then another.
“That’s where we live!” Desmond cried, as they drove past his
house.
“Very nice,” said Miranda, and Colin laughed.
They turned into another street, this one wider, with more trees.
Down the middle of the street were concrete traffic islands, where
shrubs and small trees grew. There were a lot of cars parked outside a
large, red brick building with a crenelated roof. Desmond and Miranda
were impressed by this.
“That’s where Mat and Jenny live,” said Colin. “It costs them a
fortune in rent, but they seem to think it’s worth it. They share it
with a few other couples.”
Colin parked the car a little further down the street and the three
got out. Colin and Desmond had brought along some beer and Mir-
anda had bought a bottle of white wine from the off-licence near her
flat.

242
 “Whatever you do,” Desmond said to Miranda, “don’t tell the
people at the party you work in a bank.”
“Why ever not?” said Miranda.
“Desmond has a theory that uni students are automatically bored
by people who work in banks,” Colin explained. “Most of the people
at the party will be students.”
“It’s true,” said Desmond. “Every time you talk to a student at a
party you get to a stage in the conversation where they ask you what
you’re studying. If you say you’re not studying anything, that you
work in a bank, they get bored and stop talking to you.”
“Then you shouldn’t tell them you work in a bank,” said Miranda.
“You should tell them you’re an astronaut.”
Desmond looked thoughtful. “Do you think they’d believe that?”
he said.
Colin laughed, and led the way to the front door.
The front door was huge, with a large glass panel in its top half.
Beyond it they could see a long, wood lined hallway with a telephone
on the floor. Colin rang the bell.
An attractive young woman with short hair appeared at the other
end of the hall and came to let them in. She opened the door and
smiled at Colin.
“Hi Jenny,” said Colin.
Jenny kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, hello,” she said. “Nice to
see you.”
“Jenny,” said Colin, “these are my friends Miranda and Desmond.”
They said hello to her.
“Well, come in,” said Jenny, “the others are in the ball room.”
“Ball room?” said Miranda.
“Yes, we’ve got a large room that we haven’t put any furniture in
yet. We call it the ball room.”
Jenny led them to her ball room. It’s name was appropriate. It was
a huge, high ceilinged room, with steps leading up to another room
at one end and a huge fireplace at the other. Someone had scattered
cushions around the edge of the room, and various people stood in the
room talking, drinking and eating peanuts. The music was not as loud

243
as it often was at parties like this, but that seemed to Miranda to be
an advantage.
Off to one side of the ball room was a door that led to a little
room. Here Desmond, Colin and Miranda stowed their beer and wine.
A young man with curly hair and glasses offered them a drink.
“Punch or chardonnay?” he asked.
Miranda looked at the punch bowl before her. It seemed as if the
punch makers had poured everything they could think of into it.
“I think I’ll have the chardonnay,” she said.
“Chardonnay sounds good to me too,” said Colin. “Desmond will
have the punch.”
Desmond nodded reluctantly. “All right,” he said.
The man poured the drinks they had requested into plastic cups
and handed them over. “Enjoy,” he said.
Taking their drinks, Desmond and Miranda went off to mingle.
Colin stayed behind to talk with the young man about what exactly
had gone into the punch.
For Desmond, taking a girl he liked to a party was obviously a new
experience. Miranda tried to make things easy for him.
“How’s the punch?” she said.
Desmond sipped carefully. “It’s not bad,” he said.
“Can I have a sip?” said Miranda.
He handed her the cup.
“Mm,” said Miranda, “that is rather nice. I’ll swap you for the
chardonnay.”
Desmond swapped cups.
“Do you recognise anyone here?” Miranda asked.
He looked around. “Yes,” he said. “There’s a friend of mine,
Cathy.”
Desmond introduced Miranda to Cathy, and Cathy introduced
both of them to Monica, an Asian girl.
“I’m studying law with Jenny,” Monica explained to Desmond.
“What are you studying?”
“He’s not studying anything,” said Miranda brightly, “he works in
a bank.”

244
 “Really?” said Monica.
“Yes,” said Miranda, “but after he’s been there for a year he’s
going to be an astronaut.”
Now Monica was interested. “Really?” she said.
Miranda left them talking together while she went to get some
more punch. In the little alcohol room she met Colin, who had taken
over from the man with glasses in serving drink.
“Punch please,” said Miranda.
Colin poured her some punch. “I wouldn’t have too much of this
stuff if I were you,” said Colin. “I’ve been counting the empty vodka
bottles in the bin. Give it to Desmond instead.”
Miranda smiled. “What an awful thing to say.”
“No, really,” said Colin, “with a few glasses of vodka inside him
Desmond can become quite interesting.”
“I like Desmond.”
“So do I, but you must admit he’s a bit boring.”
“No,” said Miranda, “I think he’s funny.”
“Well,” said Colin, pouring himself a cup of punch, “if you do get
bored with him, come and find me. Then, if the whole party gets
boring, we could go back to your place, just you and me.”
“Leaving Desmond here?”
“Yep.”
“What an idea! Are you Desmond’s best friend then?”
Colin grinned. “Have some more punch,” he said.
Miranda eyed him narrowly. “Was that a serious proposition just
now?”
Colin’s grin broadened. “I like to keep my options open,” he said.
Miranda went back to find Desmond.
More people came to the party as the evening wore on, and some
left. Desmond, having failed to convince Monica that he was not go-
ing to be an astronaut, went back to Miranda. Colin found himself
an attractive young woman who claimed she could read minds. He
asked her to guess his star sign and lied to her when she got it wrong.
An earnest young man started talking to Desmond about a superan-
nuation scheme of his own invention and a fat young man with a big

245
nose and sweat running down his forehead propositioned Miranda. He
explained that his father was a major shareholder in I.B.M. and that
he would never have had the courage to proposition her if he hadn’t
been drunk.
Three hours into the party Desmond and Miranda found them-
selves talking to Cathy about Colin’s car and the dangers of going
anywhere in it. Cathy said that for young women there were added
dangers in being driven home by Colin, even supposing his car reached
its destination in one piece. As they were talking two tall women, deep
in conversation, came up to Miranda.
“Look,” said one of them to the other. “This girl is pretty. You
don’t mind me talking about you like this, do you?”
“Er, no,” said Miranda.
“I suppose she is,” said the other.
“Right. Why?”
“Er, well, she’s got a pleasant face. She looks like a nice person.”
“It’s her eyes.”
“Oh?”
“She’s got big eyes. It’s the single most attractive feature a woman
can possess, to men as well as to women. All the research shows that.”
“Excuse me,” said Miranda, “but don’t you think my eyes make
me look a bit like Marty Feldman?”
“Marty Feldman? No. Not at all. Marty Feldman had hyperthy-
roid eyes.”
“And I don’t?”
“No. Why, do you want to look like Marty Feldman?”
Miranda didn’t answer. She was lost in thought. Why had Morris
told her she had hyperthyroid eyes when she didn’t? Why had he told
her that large eyes were ugly if research said they were not? He must
have known these things, being a medical student.
Back at the conversation with Cathy, Desmond was trying to de-
fend Colin’s reputation against charges of lechery. It was the sort of
thing that Desmond, being soft hearted, would do. Miranda offered
to get him another drink.

246
39

Also consuming alcohol at that moment were William and Aristid.

They were back in Aristid’s house pouring themselves large helpings
of a very cheap and noxious whisky that Aristid had once bought for
the purpose of mixing with things and then forgotten about. Between
them, on the coffee table, next to the whisky bottle, lay the water
pistol. William, in spite of the morning’s failure, was still convinced
of its power.
“I still maintain,” said Aristid, “that the red nozzle should be
removed. Real guns do not have red nozzles.”
“But I like the red nozzle,” said William. “It gives the gun char-
acter.”
“Perhaps, William, perhaps. But the gun needs more than char-
acter. It needs menace.”
“I think,” said William, “that we were wrong to try robbing a
chemist. Chemists are a notoriously savage and dangerous breed of
people.”
Aristid took another swig of the appalling whisky. “But William,”
he said, “if you want to rid the world of communism you will meet far
more savage and dangerous people than chemists.”
“Chemists,” said William, drinking more of the whisky without
flinching, “have a reputation for evil going back through history.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” insisted William. “Nostradamus was a chemist.”
“I thought he was an alchemist.”

247
 “That’s what they used to call chemists, Aristid.”
“Ah.”
“Nostradamus was partly responsible for Hitler. I read it in a
magazine.”
“I have heard something along those lines too, William, but . . . ”
“And Mrs Thatcher is a chemist.”
“But, William, Mrs Thatcher is against communism.”
“Is she?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Perhaps she’s not a chemist after all.”
William was beginning to feel confused. He swigged down another
glassful of whisky to clear his head, but for some reason it had the
opposite effect.
“Aristid?” said William.
“Yes William?” said Aristid.
“Why is it, do you suppose, that I am beginning to feel drunk? I
don’t usually feel this drunk after only four drinks.”
Aristid poured his brother-in-law another glass of whisky. “I can-
not imagine,” he said.
“I suppose,” said William, “that it might be something that chemist
did to me . . . ”
“It might.”
“Some fiendish psychological weapon known only to chemists and
for use exclusively against innocent robbers.”
“No doubt, William.”
William swigged down another glass. “On the other hand,” he
said, “it might be something to do with the whisky. Perhaps whisky
has stronger effects on me than beer. Each glass seems to make my
thinking progressively less clear.”
“I noticed that you were speaking rather slowly.”
“That’s what I meant to say. Each glass makes my speaking less
clear, not my thinking. My thinking is quite unaffected by the alcohol,
my speaking is at fault. Alcohol only affects the muscles of the mouth.”
“Only the mouth, William?”

248
 “And, occasionally, the legs. In spite of popular belief it does not
affect the brain.”
“If that is the case, William, why is it that the morning after you
have been drinking you can never remember anything of what you said
the night before?”
“Can’t I?”
“I am afraid not.”
William looked puzzled. “I don’t remember forgetting anything.”
“You never do, my dear brother-in-law. Would you care for another
glass?”
“Thank you, Aristid, I believe I would. Probably my current diffi-
culties in thinking are due to too little alcohol rather than too much.”
“Are you having difficulty in thinking William?”
“What? No no. I meant difficulties in speaking.”
Aristid poured him another glass.
“Tell me,” said William, “do chemists have anything to do with
the preparation of alcoholic drinks?”
“Sometimes, William, sometimes.”
“I suspected as much,” he said.
“The influence of chemists is indeed great.”
“It’s a conspiracy, Aristid, as great as the communist one. When
we have dealt with the communists we will deal with the chemists.”
“In the jungles of Vietnam, William?”
“Wherever they may be hiding, Aristid. Chemists are wicked.”
“Indeed.”
“Aristid?”
“Yes, William?”
“Why were we talking about chemists?”
“We were discussing the reasons for our failure this morning. I
suggested that we failed because of the red nozzle on the end of the
water pistol’s barrel; you suggested that it was in the intrinsic nature
of chemists that the problem lay.”
William felt confused. He was beginning to have difficulty getting
Aristid’s face into focus. “Did I say that?” he said.
“Not in those exact words.”

249
 “Ah. What exact words did I use, Aristid?”
“Something about the savagery and danger of chemists, William.”
“Really? I don’t remember that. Perhaps you’re right about alco-
hol affecting my memory.”
“Perhaps.”
“Aristid?”
“Yes William?”
“If we were talking about chemists, how did we get on to the effects
of alcohol?”
“I cannot quite remember, William. But I do remember you sug-
gesting that perhaps it was drinking too little and not too much alcohol
that caused the problem.”
“Ah. In that case you had better pour me another glass.”
“Do you think that wise? We have nearly finished the whole bottle,
and I am still on my first glass.”
“My dear Aristid, I am sorry. Do you mind?”
“Oh it’s not that, William. It is not as if it is very good whisky,
after all. I am more worried that you may have drunk rather too much
of it.”
“You are kind, Aristid, to think of me so much,” said William. He
reached forward to pat Aristid on the shoulder, but missed by several
feet. “However,” he said, “I cannot have had too much, as I still feel
drunk.”
Aristid smiled. “Very well William,” he said, and he poured the
rest of the whisky into his brother-in-law’s glass.
“We must,” said William, “think of somewhere else to rob.”
“Somewhere,” suggested Aristid, “that does not sell toothbrushes.”
William thought about this. “That rules out Franklins then,” he
said, and swigged the whisky down.
“Well, William,” said Aristid, “that is the last of the whisky. How
do you feel now?”
“Still drunk, I’m afraid. Do you think we should go out to the
off-licence and buy some more?”
“No, William. In fact I think that would be a particularly bad
idea.”

250
 “I suppose so. You haven’t finished your glass though . . . ”
“Nor do I intend to. It is not, as I said, very good whisky.”
“Ah, then could I possibly ..?”
“You want the rest of my glass?”
“Well . . . if it’s not . . . ”
“Very well William. On your own head be it. I have plenty of
headache tablets for you for tomorrow.”
William reached towards Aristid’s glass. On the third attempt he
managed to take hold of it. He swigged the contents down.
Aristid watched him carefully. “How do you feel now, William?
Any better?”
William thought carefully. It was a considerable effort. “No,” he
said, “I can’t honestly say that I feel a lot better. If anything, I think
I feel rather worse. . . ”
“Ah William. Such is the way with those who consume a whole
bottle of whisky alone and unaided in the space of twenty five min-
utes.”
William sighed deeply. It came out as a burp of considerable vol-
ume. “I do beg your pardon, Aristid,” he said. “I haven’t done that
since I was a child.”
“I will not take it personally, William.”
“You are very kind, Aristid. Aristid?”
“Yes William?”
“I don’t feel very well. Do you think my theory about more alcohol
making me feel less drunk may have been mistaken?”
“I think it is a distinct possibility.”
“Oh dear,” said William. He could feel movements beginning in his
stomach. He did hope he wasn’t going to do anything embarrassing.
“Now,” said Aristid, “about our next robbery.”
“Could we possibly discuss it tomorrow?” said William, “I really
don’t feel very well.”
“I think we should discuss it now. Tomorrow you will not be in a
fit state to discuss anything.”
“Oh dear.”

251
 “What we need is an ideal victim, one with enough money to make
our robbery worth while, but also one willing to hand that money over
without resistance.”
An idea suddenly occurred to William. It took him completely by
surprise as he had thought himself beyond ideas at this stage.
“Aristid!” he declared, “I have had an idea!”
Then he threw up over Aristid’s carpet and passed out.

252
40

The party continued into the night. The hostess, Jenny, and the host,
Matt, wandered among their remaining guests making sure that they
were all happy. Desmond at least was particularly happy. In fact, if
he had been honest with himself, he would have admitted that he had
never been happier in his life.
The pace of the party had slowed down a good deal by this time.
The music was even quieter and the alcohol, unusually for a party
these days, had all been consumed. Most people were now sitting
on the floor or lying comfortably on the cushions provided for that
purpose. Desmond was lying on the cushions too. What made him
particularly happy was that Miranda, who seemed to have got herself
mildly inebriated, was lying on some cushions next to him with her
head on his shoulder.
It was one of his secret sexual fantasies, and here it was being
fulfilled. Admittedly, it was a rather tame sexual fantasy, but he had
to start somewhere.
Miranda had her eyes closed and was smiling contentedly. He re-
alised with joy that she was almost as happy to be with him as he
was to be with her. He wondered if she was asleep. He wished that he
could somehow manoeuvre his arm to place it round her shoulders, but
the way she was lying on it made that difficult. He wanted to reach
over with his other hand and touch her cheek, but he decided not to.
That, he felt, would be pushing things a bit. Instead he turned his
head towards her and smelt her hair. It had a marvellous Miranda-like

253
fragrance. He decided that the smell of roses had been overrated for
centuries.
“Are you asleep?” he said, quietly.
Miranda giggled. “Yes,” she said.
“You can go to sleep if you want to. I don’t mind. I rather like
having you there.”
Miranda giggled again. “Desmond,” she said, “I think I’m drunk.”
“Only a bit.”
“Why am I drunk when you’re not? I don’t normally get drunk,
you know.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You’re sweet. Can we go home now?”
“Sure,” said Desmond, “if you like.”
“It won’t offend you?”
“No, of course not.”
“It’s just that I really fancy a bed to sleep in. Sleeping is what I
very much want to do. Your shoulder is a nice shoulder, but I can’t
lie on it for ever.”
“You can if you want to.”
“Desmond, you’re lovely. You’re kind and funny and comfy. But I
think I ought to go home.”
“Okay,” said Desmond. “If you’ll let me get up I’ll go and find
Colin.”
Miranda rolled off Desmond’s shoulder. “When I get home,” she
said, “I’d better have lots and lots of water to drink.”
“I love you,” said Desmond, but very quietly, so that she couldn’t
possibly hear him.
Desmond went back to look for Colin. He wandered among the
remaining guests in search of his flat-mate, but Colin was nowhere to
be found. Would he have left without them? He found Jenny.
“Jenny,” he said, “do you know where Colin is?”
“I saw him leave with Cheryl about an hour ago. He might be
outside somewhere, but he’s not in here. Sorry.”
Desmond went outside briefly. There was no one visible out in
the street. Colin’s car seemed to have gone. He went back inside to

254
Miranda.
“Help me up, Desmond,” said Miranda, offering him her hands.
He helped her up. He was surprised by how light she was.
“Colin’s gone,” said Desmond. “He’s taken the car and every-
thing.”
“Abandoned!” said Miranda. “I knew I didn’t trust your friend.”
“Colin’s all right,” said Desmond. “He must have just forgotten
we were here. Or something.”
Miranda sighed. “You’d better call me a taxi then. I think I’ve
got enough money for one. Unless, of course, there’s a spare bed at
your house.”
“Yes, there is,” said Desmond, “or at least, you can sleep in my
bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“Would you mind doing that? It would be awfully good of you.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Then tomorrow we could go out together or something. That
would be fun.”
“Yes,” said Desmond. “That would be fun.”
Desmond and Miranda said goodbye to Jenny and Matt, then
walked out into the street together.
It was a short walk to Desmond’s house, but the pace Miranda
set was slow. The sky was clear, and even against the competition
from the street lights the stars shone down brightly. It was strangely
romantic for Desmond in that half lit street, with Miranda leaning on
his arm and walking, very slowly, beneath the few dark trees. The
night was quiet, the stillness complete (for a change), save for the
beating of Desmond’s heart. He was going to spend the night with
Miranda! Admittedly, they weren’t going to sleep together, but they
were going to go out tomorrow. Miranda clearly wanted to see more
of him. He could hardly believe his good fortune. He wanted to dance
down the street, but he didn’t. He was afraid that if he let go of her
Miranda might fall over.
“I hope your bed’s comfortable,” said Miranda, “I want to sleep in
a comfortable bed.”
“I’ve always found it comfortable,” said Desmond.

255
 “I hope the sofa’s comfortable too,” said Miranda. “I wouldn’t
want you being uncomfortable.”
“The sofa’s very comfortable,” said Desmond. “In fact, I’m looking
forward to sleeping on it.”
Miranda laughed. “You are funny,” she said.
She nestled closer to Desmond as they walked along, and he ex-
perimented with putting his arm round her shoulders. She did not
resist.
Together they turned the corner into his street. They walked past
the houses that stood next to Desmond’s house until they came to the
concrete steps that led up to his front door. Miranda extracted herself
from Desmond and sat down on the steps.
“So this is where you live?”
Desmond sat beside her. “Yes. Me and Colin. This is where we
live.”
“It’s a nice area. It’s got more trees than I have.”
“Yes.”
Miranda laughed. “Say something romantic about the stars, Des-
mond.”
“The stars?”
“Yes, the stars. You know, the twinkling things in the sky.”
“I know what the stars are, Miranda, I just can’t think of any-
thing.”
“Try.”
“Um . . . the stars are . . . very beautiful?”
“Oh Desmond! You can do better than that.”
“The stars are like your eyes?”
“No they’re not. Anyway, that’s silly.”
“Er . . . I’m very interested in stars, actually.”
“Really? Do you know their names?”
“No, but I like to dream about them. Did you ever see the film
Star Wars?”
“Yes. When I was eleven. I thought it was strange.”
“I’ve seen it hundreds of times. I like to think of the stars, and
the people who might live on other planets. I like to think of all the

256
possibilities. I like to look at the stars and think how small we are in
the universe, how little the bank and work and worries really matter.
I’d like to voyage to the stars, just so that I could know, for certain,
that there are better possibilities somewhere away from earth.”
“That’ll do Desmond. That was almost romantic. You can show
me to my bed now, make me a cup of tea and wish me good night. I
feel so tired.”
Desmond led her up the steps and through the front door. Up
the concrete stairs beyond they went until they reached the door to
Desmond’s flat. Desmond pressed a button that turned a light on.
Miranda laughed. “There’s a ‘do not disturb’ sign on your door.”
Desmond started.
“What’s it doing there?” said Miranda.
“Colin must have put it there.”
“Why?”
“It’s a system Colin invented for us. He says it protects our privacy.
If one of us brings a girl home it protects him from being interrupted,
Colin says.”
Miranda looked startled.
“I should have known he’d be here,” said Desmond.
“And if we’d got here first I suppose you’d have put the sign out
to warn him to keep away?” said Miranda.
“What?”
“Oh Desmond, I thought you were different.”
“How do you mean, Miranda?”
Miranda started backing down the stairs. “I thought you were
shy and innocent, I should have known. If you’d really been shy and
innocent it would have taken you longer than a week to get me into
your flat. I really liked you, Desmond, I really thought we might have
fun together.”
“We might. Mightn’t we?”
“I don’t want another man who’s into one night stands. I don’t
want a man who puts ‘do not disturb’ signs on his front door be-
cause he brings girls home. I’m sorry Desmond. I want a . . . a more
conscientious man.”

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 “But Miranda . . . I am shy and innocent. I’ve never used that sign.
Honest.”
“Bye Desmond.”
“But Miranda . . . please don’t leave me like this . . . ”
“Don’t worry Desmond. There are plenty more girls where I came
from.”
“That’s not the way I talk, Miranda. Colin talks like that, I don’t.”
“You did talk like that, Desmond. Goodbye.”
“Wait!”
Miranda was at the bottom of the stairs now, heading for the street.
“You can’t go out there,” said Desmond, “it’s not safe for a young
woman . . . ”
“I’ll be safer out there than I would be with you. Don’t worry. I’ll
just go back to the party and phone for a taxi.”
“I’ll come with you . . . ”
“No Desmond. Sorry, but I don’t trust you enough. Bye.”
Miranda skipped off down the street. Desmond was baffled and
confused. He was suddenly aware that he should have told her he
loved her, should have sworn he’d never been near another woman. It
was true, after all. He ran after her.
The suburb in which he lived was, in general, short of taxis. If you
planned to hail a passing taxi you could stand on a street corner for
ever and never see one. Normally, if you wanted a taxi, you had to
phone for one and then wait around for a few hours until it showed up.
But today things were different. As Desmond rounded the corner he
saw Miranda climbing into a vacant taxi. It was the only vacant taxi
he had ever seen in this area. It drove off in the direction of Miranda’s
flat. Desmond’s mouth fell open. This was not the sort of miracle he
had been hoping for.
He walked back to his flat with his head hung low. He didn’t
understand what had happened at all. First Miranda had been drunk
and fond of him, then she had been sober and upset. And now she
had gone.
On his way back up the street he saw Colin’s car parked by the
curb. He wished he’d noticed it earlier. With a final rueful sigh, he

258
climbed the steps to the door of his flat and curled up on the concrete
outside.

259
260
41

That night, while Desmond slept on the stairs outside his flat, he
dreamt of Miranda. He dreamt that he sat at his desk in the bank
checking some new account forms. Miranda came up behind him. He
turned around and smiled at her, but she did not seem pleased to see
him. She was clutching a large carving knife.
“I’m sorry Desmond,” she said. “I do like you, but I’m afraid
you’re just not good enough for me.”
Miranda attacked him with the carving knife.
At that stage he woke up, and was very glad to discover that he
had not been stabbed to death during the night. It was now quite
late in the morning. He looked around groggily, then remembered the
events of the night before and began to wish he had been stabbed to
death after all. The door of his flat was open, but Desmond couldn’t
see anyone around.
“Colin?” said Desmond.
Colin’s head popped out of the flat, closely followed by the rest of
him. “Morning Des,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Where’s the woman you brought home last night?” said Desmond.
“Cheryl? She’s gone to work. She works Saturdays as a check-out
chick. Weekdays she studies theoretical physics.”
“Theoretical physics?”
“It takes all kinds to make a world. Can I get you a beer?”
Desmond rose to his feet. “I’d rather have tea,” he said.
Colin grinned. “You know where the tea bags are. You’d better

261
come in.”
Desmond came in and stumbled towards the kitchen. Colin fol-
lowed him. From the cupboard over the stove Desmond extracted a
tea bag and a mug. He turned the kettle on.
“What time is it?” said Desmond.
“Half-eleven,” said Colin. “I found you sleeping out there about
ten-thirty, when I said goodbye to Cheryl. You were sleeping so peace-
fully I didn’t like to disturb you.”
Desmond groaned. “Half eleven,” he said, dismally.
“What were you doing out there anyway?” said Colin.
“You put the sign on the door,” said Desmond. “I didn’t like to
disturb you.”
“No. I meant why did you come home at all last night? I thought
you’d go back to that cute little Miranda’s place for a night of un-
precedented passion.”
“Well, I didn’t. In fact I invited her here and she accepted.”
“Whoops,” said Colin. “I should have told you I was bringing
Cheryl back here. So you were with your little Miranda when you
found the sign on the door?”
“Yes,” said Desmond, “I was.”
Colin looked puzzled. “So why didn’t you go back to her place
when you found the sign?”
“The sign offended Miranda,” said Desmond. “She didn’t like our
convention of using a ‘do not disturb’ sign when we’ve got a girl inside.”
“Why not?”
“I think she thought it was sexist or rude or something.”
“So she’s sensitive, is she?”
“Yes. I’m afraid she is.”
The kettle had boiled. Desmond made himself a cup of tea.
“It’s still odd, though,” said Colin. “I thought your intentions
towards her were honourable.”
“They are!” said Desmond.
“And the sign is mine, not yours,” said Colin. “To the best of my
knowledge you’ve never even used it.”
“I haven’t!”

262
 “In fact, I’ve always got the feeling that you didn’t exactly approve
of my little sign.”
“Well . . . ”
“So why,” said Colin, “did she get angry with you because I used
the sign?”
Desmond sipped miserably at his tea. “I think,” he said, “that
there may have been some terrible misunderstanding.”
Colin laughed. He went over to the fridge and extracted a beer for
himself. “Now that’s sorted out you’d better phone her and explain
things,” he said.
Desmond leaned on the draining board and stared sadly through
the tiny window of the kitchen. “There’s no point,” he said. “She was
never interested in me. I was fooling myself thinking she might be.”
Colin laughed. “Fooling yourself? You said she was planning to
spend the night with you!”
“Only to sleep. She was too drunk to make it home.”
“Oh yes? She’s not here now, though, is she?”
“So?”
“So if she was as drunk as you say how did she get home?”
“When she saw the note on the door she ran off and caught a taxi.”
“Des, she wasn’t nearly as drunk as she seemed. She was just
pretending, to get you to invite her home. She was probably planning
a night of gentle love making with you. When she saw my sign she
felt cheapened and got upset.”
“Do you think so?”
“Sure. My sign affects some women like that. I’ve never been able
to work out why.”
Desmond was stunned. “Do you mean I almost lost my virginity
last night?”
“Perhaps Des.”
“And with Miranda?”
“Maybe.”
Desmond moaned.
“Or maybe not,” said Colin. “Look, whether or not she was plan-
ning to sleep with you last night she is very fond of you.”

263
 “Is she?”
“Yes. She told me she was. So you must phone her, Des, you really
must. Why spoil what is at least a beautiful friendship over something
as stupid as that?”
Desmond drank his tea.
“Well?” said Colin. “Are you going to phone her?”
“No,” said Desmond, “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I had a dream,” said Desmond.
“A dream?” Colin laughed. “What dream?”
“I dreamt Miranda stabbed me. First she said I wasn’t good
enough for her, then she stabbed me. You see what this means, don’t
you?”
“What what means? The dream?”
“It means I’m not good enough for her.”
“No, it means you’re a neurotic little twit who’s desperately in love
with a bird he’s also terrified of.”
“But . . . ”
“She won’t stab you Des. She’s far too kind-hearted to do some-
thing like that. You can tell that just by talking to her. She’s really
nice and she likes you. If you don’t phone her you’ll regret it for the
rest of your life.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Because of the dream?”
“Yes.”
“Or because you’re frightened of telephoning her?”
“Well, there’s that too.”
Colin shook his head and left the room. Desmond followed him.
“You just don’t understand,” said Desmond.
“No,” said Colin, “you don’t understand. That Miranda of yours
is absolutely gorgeous. I fancied her myself as soon as I laid eyes on
her. But there’s a lot more to her than just looks. She’s fantastic in
every possible way. And she likes you.”
“Even if that’s true . . . ”

264
 “It’s true Des. She likes you. Aren’t you the Desmond Fisher
who’s always moaning around the flat complaining that he hasn’t got
a girlfriend? Well, you’ve almost got one now. All you have to do is
to make one phone call.”
“It’s not as simple as that . . . ”
“Sorry mate,” said Colin, “but it is. I’m going to have a shower
now. If you’ve got any sense you’ll make that call.”
Colin went off to have a shower leaving Desmond to wrestle with
his conscience. Sitting hunched up on the sofa Desmond tried des-
perately to find ways to justify his coward’s decision not to phone
Miranda. His best ones had all been answered by Colin, and those
that remained were overwhelmed by his desire to see Miranda again.
He loved her more than he could possibly talk his way out of. He went
to his briefcase and extracted the piece of paper with Miranda’s phone
number on it.
The telephone was on the floor by the front door. Desmond went
over to it.
Terror and desire competed for control of his index finger as he
tried to dial Miranda’s number. On the first few attempts terror won
out, and just before he finished dialling he hung up. Before the last
attempt he rehearsed his lines.
“Hello Miranda,” he would say. “It’s Desmond here. About last
night. I’m really sorry. It was a terrible thing for you to see, but its
Colin’s sign, not mine. I never even use it. Please forgive me. Please
see me again. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Colin came out of the shower and grinned. “Talking to yourself
now Des? Hurry up and make that phone call.”
Desmond forgot his lines. He decided to ad lib. When Colin had left
the room Desmond dialled the number on Miranda’s piece of paper.
“Hello?” said a man’s voice on the telephone.
“Oh,” said Desmond, “hello. Could I speak to Miranda please?”
“Who?”
“Miranda.”
“Sorry son, you’ve got the wrong number. Bye.”
The man hung up. Desmond hung up too. His dream had not

265
quite come true. Miranda had not in fact stabbed him.
Instead she had given him the wrong number, which was not a lot
better.

266
42

Meanwhile Miranda, who had completely forgotten giving Desmond

the wrong telephone number, was sitting by her phone hoping he might
call.
She had got up at her usual time that Saturday morning and gone
to the shops. She had wandered around the supermarket buying this
and that, stocking up on flour and sugar, coffee and tea, cooking oil and
corn flakes, and all the other things she might have need of during the
coming week. As she shopped she considered Desmond, and thought
that perhaps she had been unfair to him. Seeing the sign on the door
had made her panic. It seemed to suggest that Desmond’s interest in
her was purely selfish and that he had no real affection for her at all.
But now she thought that perhaps she had been mistaken.
When she came home she decided to wait and see if Desmond
would phone her. She put the shopping away, grabbed her copy of
Shakespeare’s comedies and sat by the phone to wait. If Desmond
was true to her, she decided, he would phone her.
Unfortunately Desmond did not phone her. She sat for an hour
and a half by the phone, reading As You Like It and waiting for his
call. When she got to the end of the play she began to feel very sad.
Desmond still hadn’t phoned her, and it was beginning to look as if
he wasn’t going to.
At one stage she considered phoning him. Perhaps if she apologised
to him he would apologise to her and they would be friends again. But
it was his door the sign had been on. He was the one who should have

267
been apologising first. So why didn’t he call? There was clearly a
lot of good in Desmond, despite this latest set-back. Miranda decided
that she would like to see him again, but not unless he phoned up to
apologise within the next few hours.
Around midday she had a boiled egg for lunch. Desmond still
hadn’t phoned her, and she began to feel lonely. She decided to have
a nap that afternoon, and went to her bed to lie down.
At about five o’clock in the evening Miranda woke up. Someone
was knocking on her front door. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes
and dragged herself out of bed. She thought that perhaps the knocker
was Desmond, coming round to apologise because his phone was out
of order.
Miranda stumbled to the front door and opened it. There was a
man standing outside clutching a large bunch of flowers. The man was
Morris.
“Hi Miranda,” said Morris, “can I come in?”
Miranda wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or happy. She de-
cided to remain fairly neutral, though the sight of Morris was actually
a little cheering.
“Yes,” said Miranda, “you can come in.”
Morris came in. He handed the flowers to Miranda.
“These are for you,” he said.
Miranda took the flowers and thanked him politely. She wasn’t
sure why he was here. Was he going to apologise to her? An apology
from Morris would be worth far more than an apology from Desmond
because apologies from Morris were so much rarer.
Miranda found a vase for her flowers. She put the flowers in, then
stood the vase on her tiny dining table. She sat down in one of her
chairs.
“Well?” she said to Morris, “what can I do for you?”
Morris sat down opposite her. “Miranda,” he said, “we’ve got to
talk.”
“Have we?”
“Yes. I’ve changed my mind.”
“What about?”

268
 “About Virginia. I’ve decided you’re the only girl in the world for
me. I want you back, Miranda. If you’ll be mine again I can promise
you lots of fun.”
Miranda frowned. “It’s not as simple as that, Morris. You can’t
use someone the way you’ve used me and then just walk into her flat
and expect to have her back.”
“But Miranda . . . ”
“I’m sorry Morris, but you must understand. I can’t be won over
that easily.”
Morris shrugged his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Bye.” He got up
and walked towards the door.
Miranda was alarmed. “Where are you going?” she said.
“Back to Virginia. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Miranda ran to his side. “Don’t go,” she said.
“Jesus Miranda, don’t you even know what you want? First you
tell me to go, then you tell me to stay. I think there’s something wrong
with you.”
“I’m sorry Morris. It’s just that . . . ”
“Let’s not talk about it. We’ll only confuse ourselves if we do. Do
you want me back, or don’t you?”
“Can I just explain how I . . . ”
“Do you want me or don’t you? Come on, Miranda, I can easily
find someone else. You know I can.”
“I want you.”
“Good girl. Now go to your room and put on something pretty.”
“Why?”
“We’re going out together. And put a toothbrush in your handbag.
We’re going back to my place afterwards.”
“All right Morris.”
“I love you, you know that don’t you?”
“Yes Morris.”
Back to her room Miranda went to change. It was true that she
still loved Morris, though she wasn’t really sure that he loved her. She
didn’t want to love him. She wanted to be able to tell him to get out
of her life forever. But she couldn’t. If she tried she would always

269
wonder if she had done the right thing, always worry that if she had
trusted Morris a bit further he might have become the man she wanted
him to be. She didn’t like being ordered around by him, but even that
was a relief. At least when she was obeying his orders she had a way
to demonstrate her loyalty. At least when he was giving her orders he
was talking to her.
When she had finished changing she got another nice surprise.
Morris was still there. He hadn’t got bored with waiting and gone
home, something he’d done on one or two occasions in the past. He
even looked relatively happy. Miranda did love him, but she still had
certain doubts.
“Morris,” she said, carefully, “are you still seeing that other woman.”
“Don’t you trust me Miranda?”
“Well . . . ”
“Miranda!”
“Of course I do, it’s just that . . . ”
“If you trust me, Miranda, I promise that you will be the only
woman in my life, and you will continue to be so until you stop trusting
me. How’s that?”
“I didn’t mean to sound resentful or anything . . . ”
“Well you’ve got my promise now, haven’t you. Let’s leave it at
that.”
“Yes Morris.”
“Good girl. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a restaurant. Bridger’s! A special treat for us.”
Bridger’s was Morris’s favourite restaurant. Miranda didn’t like it
very much, but Morris was not to know that. He led her out to his car,
which he admired greatly. She had dressed herself in something pretty,
as Morris had told her to, but he hadn’t commented on her choice.
Morris didn’t believe in paying people compliments. He always said
there was something weird about people who needed to be flattered
all the time. Morris had washed his car that morning. She told him
how nice she thought it looked, because he would have been offended
if she hadn’t.

270
 Morris drove them to the restaurant. Once there he ordered sea
food for both of them, having forgotten that Miranda didn’t like sea
food. The white wine he had bought to go with it was pleasant, but
she didn’t drink too much. She knew how angry Morris (who was
driving) would get if she drank more than he could. During the meal
Morris dominated the conversation. He had completely forgotten how
important Miranda’s week at work must have been, so he didn’t even
ask about it. Instead he told her about his week, though he didn’t
mention Virginia except to say that from now on he had sworn off all
other women except Miranda. She was grateful for that.
After their meal they went back to Morris’s flat together. Morris
told Miranda to brush her teeth (which she was going to do anyway)
then checked with her that she had been taking her contraceptive pills.
She told him she had.
Morris undressed Miranda and made vigorous love to her. She
did not enjoy it much. It was a little too vigorous for her liking.
Afterwards she wondered if Morris had made love to her in that way
because he had not enjoyed sex with his Virginia. She wondered if
that was the only reason he had come back to her at all.

271
272
43

At first that night Miranda had difficulty getting to sleep. She lay
awake and listened to the sound of Morris breathing. Not so long ago
that sound would have filled her with comfort and happiness. Now she
felt strangely alone beside it. It simply wasn’t the same now, lying
naked beside Morris in his bed. It was as if she had just had sex
with a total stranger, not her Morris at all. Just before she finally fell
asleep she wondered if perhaps she didn’t love Morris anymore. That
thought made her sad. Poor Morris, she thought.
Quite late on Sunday morning she woke up to hear the telephone
ringing. Knowing that telephones rarely woke Morris, she answered it
for him.
“Hello?” she said.
“Oh, hi,” said a woman’s voice. “Is sexy bum there?”
“Who?”
“Morris. I have got the right number, haven’t I?”
Miranda recognized the voice. It was Morris’s Virginia. “Yes,”
said Miranda, “you have got the right number.”
“That’s Morris’s sister, isn’t it,” said Virginia. “I thought I recog-
nized your voice. Have you come down from Katoomba to see him?”
Miranda didn’t answer.
“I hope I’ll be able to meet you,” Virginia said. “Morris is so
secretive about his family, especially about you. I only found out he
had a sister at all when you telephoned the other day.”
“Really?”

273
 “Yes. Well, I just phoned Morris to say that I’ll be back in town
sooner than I thought, tomorrow in fact. So lucky Morris won’t have
to wait a whole week before seeing me again. And lucky me, of course.
Perhaps we could all get together some time?”
“Perhaps. Do you want to speak to Morris?”
“Yes please.”
Miranda poked Morris in the ribs with the telephone hand piece.
He woke up with a scream.
“Your girl friend’s on the phone,” said Miranda.
Morris looked startled. He took the phone from Miranda.
“Virginia?” he said. “Hi love. Look, is it all right if I call you
back? Oh, you’re in a hotel, right. Well then . . . oh, you get back
tomorrow? Well, phone me when you get home. I can’t really talk
now. It’s my sister. She’s a bit upset. I think she’s got a cold or
something . . . ”
“You bastard!” said Miranda. She scooped up her clothes and her
handbag and ran for his bathroom.
Morris spoke to the telephone. “Look, I’ve really got to go now.
Bye Virginia. Yes, and you.”
Miranda slammed and locked the bathroom door. She heard Morris
come towards the door. He knocked.
“Go away!” said Miranda.
“Come on Miranda love. I told you, Virginia means nothing to me.
You’re the only one who matters in my life.”
“In that case why do you wait until she’s said goodbye to you
before you hang up?”
“What?”
“You never do with me.”
“Don’t I?”
“No.”
“Look Miranda, come out of the bathroom. It’s irrational to talk
to each other from opposite sides of a locked door.”
“Get lost.”
“Come out at once Miranda!”
“No.”

274
 “I’ll break the door down.”
“Suits me. It’s your door.”
“Yes. It’s my door. So you have no right to lock yourself behind
it.”
“Tough.”
“Miranda.”
“Go away Morris.”
Morris continued knocking.
Miranda was dressed now, so she checked her hair in the mirror.
She gripped her handbag and unlocked the bathroom door.
“Ah,” said Morris, “decided to come out, have we?”
“Bye Morris,” said Miranda. She rushed past him to his front door.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” said Miranda. She opened the front door.
“How? I’m not going to drive you.”
“Then I’ll go by bus.”
“On Sunday morning?”
“Then I’ll walk.” Miranda rushed out into the corridor beyond
Morris’s door. She headed for the lift.
“I’ll come after you,” said Morris. “I’ll come after you and bring
you back, by force if I have to.”
“You’ll have to get dressed first,” said Miranda, “or you’ll be ar-
rested.”
Miranda got into the lift which took her to the ground floor. She
walked out of Morris’s huge apartment block and turned into the street
that led to her home. She sighed deeply at the thought of the walk
before her. She was wearing high heels because Morris liked her to
wear high heels, and she hated walking long distances in such shoes.
Her ankles would be crippled by the time she got home.
There were several palm trees outside Morris’s apartment building,
and Miranda found them offensive as she walked beneath them. Morris
had once told her that life for him was like living in a tropical paradise.
Yet at the same time he had told her she couldn’t come and live
with him on a permanent basis, that such a move would stifle their

275
independence. What he had really meant was that if she lived with
him she would find out about his other girl friends.
As she walked along the street Miranda grew sadder still. She
turned into a very long, steep street that led up to the next suburb.
She wondered if Morris had perhaps had another girlfriend when he
first met her, a girlfriend who loved him as much as she had once
done. She wondered if this mysterious girlfriend’s heart had been
broken when Morris abandoned her for someone else. She felt guilty
just in case it had.
At the top of the street Miranda turned a corner. There was a
bus stop with someone waiting at it. The woman was middle aged
and looked vaguely bored. Miranda asked her if there were any buses
today that might take her home. The woman handed her a copy of
the timetable.
There was a bus due in about five minutes. Miranda thanked the
woman and gave her back her timetable. She wouldn’t have to walk
after all. Morris had lied to her about that too.
As she waited for the bus Miranda began to think about Desmond.
She wondered if he had tried to phone her at all yesterday while she
was out. Perhaps he would phone today. But she doubted it. He was
a man, like Morris. Men didn’t seem willing to put any effort at all
into a relationship.

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44

“I really am going to kill myself this time,” said Desmond.

Colin sighed. “I wish you’d stop saying that,” he said. “it’s be-
coming extremely boring.”
Colin was trying to read the Sunday newspapers. Desmond was
trying to gain some sympathy by threatening to kill himself. He had
first begun to suspect that he wasn’t getting very far when Colin came
back from the newsagent’s that morning. Colin had given Desmond a
copy of Playboy.
“There you are,” Colin said, grinning wickedly, “I bought this for
you. I thought it might cheer you up.”
Desmond threw the magazine at Colin, and announced that he was
going to kill himself again.
By half past eleven Desmond still hadn’t killed himself, but he was
now starting to look miserable enough to try.
“Look,” said Colin, “why don’t you borrow the car and go and visit
her? You never know, she might be really missing you. She might be
planning to kill herself too.”
“She gave me the wrong phone number,” said Desmond.
“Sure,” said Colin, “but she gave you the right address. You know
where she lives, even if you don’t know the phone number.”
“But you don’t understand . . . ”
“She probably just made a mistake writing it down. It’s easily
done.”
“Miranda does these things deliberately.”

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 “Oh yes?”
“Yes. If a man she doesn’t like asks for her phone number she gives
him the wrong one. She did it to Bruce.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. She told me.”
Colin laughed. “The little bitch,” he said, and there was respect
in his voice.
Desmond bristled. “Don’t talk that way about the woman I love,”
he said.
Colin laughed again. “Sorry mate,” he said. “So this little Miranda
of yours gives people the wrong phone number, does she?”
“Only people she doesn’t like. So the fact that she gave it to me
proves she doesn’t like me.”
“Really?” said Colin.
“Really. So what am I going to do?”
“You could kill yourself,” said Colin. He went back to his newspa-
per.
Desmond felt so unhappy. It was terrible to have lost Miranda,
and to be despised by her. He didn’t know what to do. It occurred to
him that killing himself might not be such a bad idea.
“Look,” said Colin, “I’m sure you don’t need to be so miserable.
I’m sure the whole thing’s just some terrible misunderstanding. She’s
got the wrong idea from my sign on the door and you’ve got the wrong
idea from her not giving you the right phone number. When you see
each other on Monday you can explain your mistakes to each other
and have a good laugh about it.”
“But I won’t see her on Monday.”
“Why not? Aren’t you going into work on Monday? Are you going
to have some hysterical illness instead?”
“I won’t see her on Monday because she won’t be there. She was
only assigned to our branch for one week. The week is over. I’ll never
see her again.”
“Desmond! You idiot! Get in that car and go and see her.”
“I can’t. There’s no point.”
“Get going. You’ve got her address. Visit her.”

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 “No. I mustn’t.”
“You must! Think about it, Des. She went out with you on Friday.
She must have had some sort of tiff with her boyfriend. If she makes
things up with him before you get around to visiting her you really
will have lost her forever.”
“But Colin, the wrong phone number. She gave me the wrong
phone number deliberately.”
“What if she did?”
“It means she doesn’t like me.”
“It means she didn’t like you when she gave you the number, or at
least not enough to want to see you again. But that was on Wednesday,
wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well since then she’s phoned you up, asked you to take her out,
confessed to me that she likes you, and tried to get you to sleep with
her. Maybe she didn’t like you that much when she gave you the phone
number, but she’s sure as hell started to like you since.”
“I don’t know . . . ”
“Trust me. One thing I do know is women.”
“Do you? If that’s so why haven’t you got a regular girlfriend?”
Colin grinned. “Maybe I don’t want one. Maybe the way I do
things is more fun.”
Desmond sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “What if she gave me
the wrong phone number because she doesn’t want me to see her again
ever?”
Colin shrugged his shoulders. “Go and see her anyway,” he said.
“It might make her angry . . . ”
“It might make her happy.”
“But what if it makes her angry?”
“What if it does? She won’t beat you up, or at least not badly.
She’s too small.”
“Yes but . . . ”
“The worst she can do is tell you to get lost and slam the door in
your face. Not nice for you, I agree, but it wouldn’t make you any
more upset than you already are.”

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 “I love her, Colin.”
“I know you do mate.”
“I couldn’t face going to visit her and being shouted at by her.”
“She might not shout at you.”
“I think she would. She wouldn’t have given me the wrong number
if she’d wanted me to visit her.”
“Des, she gave you her address on the phone on Friday. She
wouldn’t have done that if didn’t want you to visit her. Go and see
her.”
“That would be the worst possible thing to do.”
“Would it?”
“Yes,” said Desmond, “of course it would.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. She might beat you up badly after all.
You’re not too large yourself, are you?”
“That’s not it. It would just make her unhappy.”
“Des it might make her unhappy, or it might make her very happy
indeed. You don’t know what she thinks of you.”
“But I can’t take the risk.”
“So that’s it is it? You’re determined not to visit her?”
“I suppose so.”
“In other words, you’re determined never to see her again even
though you love her?”
Desmond’s head slumped. “Life is terrible,” he said.
“Des,” said Colin, “you’re weird. Do you fancy a beer?”
Desmond shook his head sadly.
“And do you still plan to kill yourself?” said Colin.
“I don’t know,” said Desmond. “Probably.”
“Well, if you do decide to kill yourself could you possibly go outside
to do it? There’s nothing worse than having dead bodies cluttering
up your flat, especially if you’re planning to bring birds home.”

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45

Morris was patrolling the streets in his car.

He had dressed himself as quickly as he could and run out of his flat
in pursuit of Miranda. It was not the first time his bedside telephone
had caused trouble for him between one girlfriend and another. If
only he didn’t keep forgetting to take the phone off the hook, Morris
thought. Certainly if Morris had been a tragic hero his tragic flaw
would have been his habit of letting his girl friends sleep on the side
of the bed closest to the phone.
When he got into the street there was no sign of Miranda, so he
rushed to his car to give chase. Then he rushed back to his flat, found
his car keys, rushed back to the street and rushed to his car to give
chase.
Morris drove one route to Miranda’s house, but couldn’t see her
anywhere along the way. She couldn’t have got home already, so he
decided she must have gone a different way. He tried driving back
along another route, and this time saw her waiting at a bus stop. Also
approaching the bus stop was a bus. He watched as she got onto the
bus and the bus drove off. He cursed the bus violently, then turned
his car round to follow it.
As he drove along he wondered if all this rushing around was worth
it. He didn’t want to lose Miranda, but he also didn’t want to spend
the rest of his life chasing buses in order to keep her. This bus, he
knew, would drop her off close to her flat. He would have to move fast
if he was going to catch her before she had time to get into her flat

281
and lock him out.
So Morris followed the bus, and at the last minute, overtook it. He
parked his car in time to watch Miranda get off the bus and wander
towards her front door. He leapt out of his car to intercept her.
“Miranda!” he yelled, and ran towards her.
Miranda turned towards him, looking quite surprised. He managed
to position himself between her door and her. He placed his hands on
her shoulders.
“Miranda,” he said, “we’ve got to talk.”
“Please go away,” said Miranda. “You’ve got to get out of my life.
You make me too unhappy.”
“Don’t say that, Miranda. You know you’d be lost without me.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“Well I’d be lost without you.”
“Oh Morris, how can you say that?” Miranda struggled from his
grasp and tried to get past him to the door, but Morris wrapped his
arms around her so that she couldn’t move.
“I love you,” said Morris. “I can’t live without you.” It was a
slight exaggeration, Morris knew, but it was in a good cause. Virginia,
without Miranda to come back to, would be no fun at all.
“Do you really mean that?” said Miranda.
“Of course,” said Morris, holding onto her for all he was worth.
“When I thought you’d gone I was heart broken. I knew I might have
lost you forever, and for what? For Virginia. I could never love anyone
as much as I love you, never. Please forgive me, Miranda. I love you
so much, but I’m too weak to show it. If you’ll forgive me Miranda I’ll
try harder to show it in future. I’ll try to be as good a lover to you as
you’ve always been to me. Please forgive me, my darling, please.”
It was the first major apology Morris had ever made, and he was
not enjoying the experience. He didn’t think he sounded convincing,
and it wasn’t easy to summon up the right words. He hoped he would
never have to apologise to any of his other girl friends.
“Will you really try Morris?” said Miranda, putting her arms
around him. “If only you would. . . ”
“I know I’m not a good man,” said Morris, “I know I let you down

282
all the time. Sometimes I can even feel myself doing it, but I can’t
help myself. I’m a monster, and I’m selfish, but I do love you. You’re
so special, and so wonderful, because you understand me and don’t
criticise me.”
“I do try to understand, Morris.”
“You do. You’re so patient. With you by my side I feel complete
and special. I feel there’s nothing in the world I couldn’t do. I feel
that life is good and that the future is filled with promise. But without
you. . . without you life would be completely empty. Grey, hopeless and
futile.” This last bit was rather good, and Morris wished he had a pen
and paper so he could write it down.
“Do you really feel that way?” said Miranda.
“Yes,” said Morris, “I do. You’re a necessary part of my life, of my
existence. If you left me I wouldn’t merely be a broken man, I would
cease to exist altogether.” This last bit seemed rather too strong to
Morris, so he tried being a bit more down to earth. “Please come back
to me, Miranda, please.”
“Oh Morris, I don’t know. . . ”
“Just on a trial basis. Please. Give me a chance. You’re. . . well,
I’ve had lots of girls, Miranda, you must know that, but you’re the
only one I’ve ever really loved. I’d be lost without you. I really would.
I just love you so much.”
“Oh Morris.” Miranda hugged him and buried her face in his chest.
“You’ll come back then? You’ll give me another chance?”
“Yes Morris.”
“Good girl. We’ll go out again, to another of our favourite restau-
rants, for lunch and for dinner. We’ll spend the afternoon together
and have lots of fun. Then this evening, at my place, we’ll make love
and it’ll be as great as it was last night. Then, at ten o’clock tonight
I’ll drive you home and see you safely tucked up in bed.”
“Why? Why can’t I stay the night with you?”
“In case Virginia gets home early and pops in to see me. She’d
hate to find you in my bed.”
“Oh Morris!” Miranda tried to pull away, but Morris was prepared
for that. He held on even more tightly.

283
 “Don’t struggle, Miranda, and don’t be upset. You know Virginia
means nothing to me. She’s just something I’ve got to get out of my
system.”
Miranda stopped struggling. “Oh Morris,” she said.
“When I’ve got her out of my system, and I will have done soon,
I’ll be all yours, like I will be for the rest of today. And even when I’m
with her, making love to her, I’m yours really. You know that, don’t
you?”
Miranda didn’t say anything. She seemed to be sobbing, quietly.
He tried not to smile. Everything was going according to plan. He
could hardly believe his good fortune. There was no doubt about it
in his mind. He knew he must be a wonderful guy. No woman could
resist him. The old charm was still there.
Suddenly Miranda struggled violently. She stamped the high heel
of her left shoe into the canvas toe of his right, and, as he leapt back
in pain, she ran through her front door and locked it behind her.
Morris stood still for a moment, three of his toes throbbing slightly.
This was something of a setback. Perhaps mentioning Virginia hadn’t
been such a good idea. But Morris was nothing if not an optimist.
The situation had simply become more challenging, that was all. He
would get Miranda back. It just might take a little time.
Limping slightly, he returned to his car.

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46

“’State-dependent’ learning, William, whatever is that?” said Aristid

as he poured his brother-in-law a cup of after dinner coffee.
William took the cup and sipped gratefully at it. Although his
excessive drinking binge had been on Friday night its effects had not
yet worn off. He had spent the whole of Saturday and most of Sunday
morning announcing that he was dying, and swearing that he was
never going to touch another drop of alcohol as long as he lived.
As the day wore on William began to feel a little better. Soon
all that concerned him was the vague recollection of having forgotten
something. When Aristid began asking him for details of the marvel-
lous idea he had apparently had on Friday night William realised that
this must be what he had forgotten.
“state-dependent learning,” William explained, “is something I
heard about on the radio some time ago.”
“Ah,” said Aristid, “tell me more.”
“Well,” said William, “the idea, as I understand it, is that if you
learn something in one biochemical state, if you are under the influence
of a certain drug, for example, then you can only recall it again when
you are in the same biochemical state. When the influence of the drug
wears off you forget it. When you take the drug again you remember
it.”
“Most interesting.”
“That is probably why I failed all my exams at school,” said Will-
iam.

285
 “Really?” said Aristid.
“Yes,” said William. “You see, when I revised for my exams I was
relaxed, but during the exams I was nervous. So I was in a different
biochemical state. Thus I forgot everything. After the exams I became
less nervous.”
“And remembered everything again?”
“Well, no. In fact I still couldn’t remember anything. But I’m sure
that something very like state-dependent learning was responsible for
my failure.”
“No doubt, William, no doubt. You bring this novel concept up
now, I suppose, because it has some relevance to the issue at hand,
namely this marvellous new idea of yours that you have completely
forgotten.”
“That is correct, Aristid. Your mind is as sharp as ever.”
“Thank you, William. Well? Would you care to explain?”
“Explain what? The idea I have forgotten?”
“No, William, the relevance of state-dependent learning.”
“Ah yes. Well, I thought that if there is such a thing as state-
dependent learning then there may also be such a thing as state-
dependent idea having.”
“Ingenious, William. Tell me more.”
“It occurred to me,” said William, “that if you have an idea when
in one biochemical state then perhaps you can only recall it when in
the same biochemical state. I am no longer in the same biochemical
state as I was when I had the idea.”
“Because when you had the idea you were blind drunk whereas
now you are sober?”
“Precisely Aristid. The result of this is that the only thing I can
remember about my idea is having forgotten it.”
“Hm,” said Aristid. “An interesting theory. If this is indeed your
problem, what solution do you propose?”
“Well, basically, I need to reproduce the same biochemical state.”
“Ah. You mean you plan to get drunk again?”
William shuddered. “It may be the only way,” he said.

286
 Aristid sipped his own coffee cup thoughtfully. “It is an ingenious
solution,” he said, “but we have no more whisky.”
“That’s quite all right,” said William, “I don’t intend to repeat the
excesses of Friday night. I noticed that you had a few small bottles of
beer in your refrigerator.”
“Surely you cannot produce the same biochemical state on only a
few small bottles of beer? You drank nearly a whole bottle of whisky
on Friday, William, single handed.”
“You flatter me, Aristid. You helped, in your way.”
“Nonsense. I only had a few sips. But the point I was making was
this: beer is firstly a different drink to whisky; Secondly: a few small
bottles of beer has hardly the same alcohol content as a whole bottle
of whisky.”
“Nevertheless, it might be enough to approximate the biochemical
state, to tip the balance, as it were, and jog the memory. I think it is
a scheme worth pursuing.”
“So you plan to drink all my beer, William?”
“Yes please, Aristid.”
Aristid sighed. “Very well,” he said.
“It’s in a good cause, Aristid. The idea I am trying to remember
is a very good idea.”
William and Aristid made their way to Aristid’s fridge and Aristid
got out the beer for William.
“Here you are,” said Aristid, handing it to him.
“Thank you Aristid,” said William. He took the top off the first
beer bottle and swallowed the contents down.
“Has the idea come back to you now, William?” said Aristid.
William thought carefully. “No,” he said, “it is still only a blur.
I’d better have another bottle.”
William removed the top from another bottle and poured the con-
tents down his throat.
“How is it now?” said Aristid.
“Still blurry,” said William. “I’ll have another bottle.”
William swallowed down another bottleful, then, just to be on the
safe side, one more. There was one bottle left.

287
 “Well William?” said Aristid.
“Still nothing,” said William.
Aristid sighed. “Then I suppose you had better have the last bottle
as well,” he said.
“Thank you,” said William, “I would like that very much.” He
drained the last bottle.
“How do you feel now, William? Are you drunk?”
“I am a little unsteady on my feet, Aristid, and of course much
more relaxed than I was, but I do not feel drunk.”
“And the idea, William?”
“What idea?”
“The idea you were trying to remember, about the robbery.”
“Oh. That idea. I didn’t know I’d forgotten it.”
“So . . . you remember it now?”
“Of course. It’s a very good idea Aristid. I don’t mean to insult
you or anything, but I must say that it’s a much better idea than your
idea of robbing a chemist.”
“Tell me more, William. I am eager to hear.”
“Let’s go back to our coffee first, Aristid. I feel a need for coffee.”
“Very well, William, but don’t drink it too quickly. We don’t want
to change your biochemical state.”
“Sorry Aristid?”
“We don’t want to spoil the state-dependent idea having.”
“State-dependent idea having?” said William. “Whatever is that?”
Aristid smiled. “William,” he said, “has anyone ever told you that
you are a marvel? A human miracle?”
“I expect so,” said William, with pride.
“Good,” said Aristid, “because you are. Let us go back to our
coffee, then you can tell me your idea.”
“What idea?”
“The robbery idea.”
“Ah. That idea.”
William and Aristid returned to their coffee. William sat down
comfortably and Aristid poured him some more.
“Well?” said Aristid. “Do tell me your idea.”

288
 “Of course,” said William. “We decided, did we not, that the
robbery of the chemist failed because the savage nature of chemists
prevents them from handing over their money without a fight.”
“That was our theory.”
“And you suggested that what we needed was somewhere to rob
in which the staff would not put up a fight. In other words, we need
somewhere where the staff will simply hand over the money as soon
as we threaten them with the water pistol.”
“Yes William, I agree.”
“But we also want somewhere financially profitable, somewhere
with a lot of money.”
“On that point also I agree. But where will we find somewhere
embodying both of these ideals?”
“Some time ago,” said William, “I read in a magazine that the
staff members of certain large financial institutions are told that, in
the event of a threat of violent robbery, they should hand over all their
money to the robbers without a fuss.”
“Large financial institutions, William? What exactly do you mean?”
“Banks, Aristid.”
Aristid looked startled. “Banks?”
“Yes,” said William, smiling proudly, “banks. You and I, Aristid,
with our water pistol and your getaway car, are going to rob a bank.”
“Hm. Do you think that is an altogether wise thing to do?”
“Oh yes Aristid. Banks are easy to rob.”
“Are you sure about that, William?”
“Of course. Banks are much easier to rob than chemists.”
“But I had always heard that banks were very difficult to rob,”
said Aristid. “I understood that banks tended to have armed security
guards whose job it is to shoot any robbers attempting to rob the bank
...”
“But security men are employees of the bank,” said William.
“So?” said Aristid.
“The magazine article I read said that bank employees are in-
structed to give all the bank’s money to robbers without putting up
a fight. So security men must be instructed to do the same. They

289
probably only carry guns in order to keep the bank’s customers under
control.”
“Are you sure about that William?”
“Of course.”
“Anyway, I have also heard that there are little buttons behind the
counters of banks that, if pressed, alert the local police to the robbery
in progress.”
“That’s not a problem, Aristid. By the time the police arrive we
will have escaped with all the bank’s money.”
Aristid still looked worried. “Some banks have bullet proof shields
that come crashing down at the touch of a button and protect bank
employees from the threat of armed robbery.”
“Bullet proof shields, eh?”
“Yes, William. If a robber draws a gun a bank employee presses a
button and the shield comes down before the robber can do anything.”
“Are these shields also water proof?”
“I imagine so.”
“Hm. So our water pistol would be powerless against them.”
“William . . . ”
“But not all banks have such shields, do they, Aristid?”
“No . . . ”
“Then we have merely to find one that is shield-free. We will rob
a bank tomorrow morning.”
“William?”
“Yes, Aristid?”
“Don’t you think we ought to get a bit more practice as robbers
before we attempt to rob a bank?”
“More practise? No Aristid. I don’t think we need more practise.
Bank robbery is, after all, extremely easy.”
“But William . . . ”
“Trust me, Aristid. Tomorrow’s robbery will be simplicity itself.
This time we will use my robbery plan. This time we will be success-
ful.”
“And what is your robbery plan, William?”
“My robbery plan is to improvise, Aristid.”

290
 “Oh dear.”
“I think,” said William, “that tomorrow will prove very interest-
ing.”
“I think,” said Aristid, “that you are probably right.”

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292
47

When Monday morning came Desmond was still alive. His suicide
plans had not yet got anywhere.
In spite of still being alive, the last thing he wanted to do that
morning was get up and go to work. But he was a conscientious
young man, so he got up and went to work anyway.
Outside in the street the weather was distinctly unpleasant. The
sky was a watery grey colour and a light drizzle was falling. Desmond
did not know that the drizzle was an omen. When great events are
due to occur rain pours from the clouds, and thunder and lightning
crack the sky. Similarly, Monday’s unusual events were signified by a
light drizzle.
At his usual time Desmond reached the bank, grateful, for once,
for the umbrella he always carried in his briefcase. Sam opened the
doors of the bank for him.
“G’day Desmond,” he said, “have a good weekend?”
“Yes thanks, Sam,” said Desmond, wearily, “how about you?”
“Can’t complain,” said Sam. “Get up to your usual tricks did
you?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“I don’t know. You young blokes today. I don’t know where you
get your energy from.”
Desmond went through the gate in the enquiry counter. He stowed
his umbrella back in his briefcase, and put his briefcase behind his desk.
“Morning, Desmond,” said Anne as she passed him.

293
 “Morning, Anne,” said Desmond, sorting out some new account
forms.
Marc dragged himself up to his own desk and collapsed into the
seat behind it.
“Hi Desmond,” he said.
“Hi Speed,” said Desmond.
“Desmond,” said Marc, “you just won’t believe what happened to
me this weekend.”
This turned out to be perfectly true. As Marc told him a highly
improbable story of sexual exploration and adventure Desmond found
he was quite unable to believe any of it.
Behind them Bruce and Andrei had arrived. Bruce heard the last
part of Marc’s story and he didn’t believe it either.
“Speed,” said Bruce, “you’ve got a sick mind.”
The enquiry staff got down to their work. Desmond glanced up
from his desk and saw Miranda’s computer, sitting deactivated on the
enquiry counter. He wanted to reach out and touch it, as the last thing
he would ever see to remind him of her. Soon, he knew, even that last
trace of Miranda would be removed from his view.
“Did you have a good weekend Desmond?” said Bruce.
“What?” said Desmond.
“Did you have a good weekend?”
“Oh. Yes thanks,” said Desmond, sadly. “I went to a party.”
“Oh yeah? Any good chicks there?”
For a moment Desmond considered boasting that he had gone to
the party with Miranda. But he decided against it. Thinking about
Miranda was something he should try very hard not to do.
“No,” he said, “no good chicks.”
“Typical that,” said Bruce. “I went to a couple of discos, but the
only girls there were ugly too.”
This news meant nothing to Desmond. Ugly or beautiful, any girl
who wasn’t Miranda was of no interest to him. He took one last look
at her computer, sighed deeply, and returned to his paperwork.
Once the early morning preparations were over the bank’s doors
opened to the public. A handful of middle aged men in business suits,

294
six housewives, one school teacher and two old-age pensioners with
walking sticks came in to do their banking. Anne scanned the turn
out suspiciously.
“Not as many people as I was expecting,” said Anne.
“What do you mean?” said Desmond.
“Well I told that EDP girl to expect something big to happen on
Monday, I thought it would be one of those days when you can’t sit
down for customers.”
“Perhaps,” said Desmond, “something else big is going to happen.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Anne. “All right, Desmond, get to work. There’s
customers to be seen to.”
“Yes, Anne,” said Desmond, and saw to some customers.
The first customer Desmond saw to was someone who wanted to
apply for a MasterCard. This was a long operation, and kept Desmond
busy for twenty minutes. The gentleman in question wasn’t sure where
he worked, or at least he didn’t know the address of the place, and
was pretty vague about its name. Desmond, who was helping the man
to fill in his form, wondered how he managed to get to work in the
mornings.
At about ten fifteen the delivery men from the EDP department
arrived.
“We’re the delivery men from the EDP department,” they told
Desmond and Anne. “We’re here to collect some computer equipment
from you.”
Desmond opened the gate in the enquiry counter. The delivery
men came through. Anne showed them to Miranda’s computer, sitting
lonely and deactivated on the enquiry counter. The chief delivery man
looked at it suspiciously.
“It’s not in boxes,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Anne, “it’s not in boxes. You’ve got good
eyesight.”
The chief delivery man shook his head. “If it’s not in boxes we
won’t touch it. We were told to collect boxes of computer equipment.
Computer equipment out of boxes isn’t our responsibility. Someone
else’s job to handle computer equipment out of boxes.”

295
 Desmond spoke. “Should we put it back in its boxes for them?”
he said.
“No,” said Anne, “we’ve got too much work to do to be wasting
time putting things in boxes.” She turned back to the delivery men.
“Can’t you put it back in its boxes and then take it away?”
“Sorry,” said the chief delivery man. “We were told to handle
boxes. We can’t handle it if it’s not in boxes. If it was in boxes
already we could put it in bigger boxes for you, but as it’s not we
can’t touch it.”
Anne frowned. “So what are you going to do?”
“We’ll just go back to our depot,” said the chief delivery man.
“Been a bit of a waste of time for you then, hasn’t it?” said Anne.
The chief delivery man shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t bother
us,” he said, “we get paid by the hour.”
The delivery man left, and the computer remained standing on
the enquiry counter. Desmond felt sad. He had hoped that this last
reminder of Miranda would be taken away. He had hoped not to keep
seeing it, not to be perpetually reminded of her. But now, it seemed,
he was stuck with it.
“I knew that stupid computer would cause problems,” said Anne.
“It’s another typical EDP division foul up.”

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48

Monday morning also meant a return to work for Miranda. She got
out of her bed at her usual time and thought sadly of Morris, who
might even now be waking up to find his Virginia in bed with him.
She wanted to trust Morris and to believe him when he said that
this Virginia meant nothing to him, but she couldn’t. It seemed that
Morris was far more willing to give her up for Virginia than he was to
give Virginia up for her.
The bus was on time as usual, and transported Miranda towards
town and the central office of the bank. At the main bank building
she took the lift to the eleventh floor and there, in the little ECAS
office, she found most of the ECAS team sharing jokes and swapping
anecdotes about their experiences in the branches.
Miranda wandered in with a half-hearted smile. Several of the
team members said hello to her.
“Hi,” said Russell, “did you have fun?”
“Lots of fun, thanks Russell,” said Miranda.
“Some of the people in those branches are pretty dumb, aren’t
they?” said Russell.
“You ought to know,” said Miranda, sweetly.
Some minutes later Mr Jameson came in.
“Good morning everyone,” he said. He sat down on a desk next
to one of the computers. “Now then,” he said, “before we get on with
analysing the results of the experiment I just want to thank you all
for the tremendous effort you’ve put into this project. You’ve all done

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an excellent job. This morning what I thought we should do is begin
going through the survey questionnaires and also start analysing the
statistical data from the experiment.”
The ECAS team sorted through their filled in survey forms. The
telephone rang. Josephine, a member of the team some years older
than Miranda, answered it.
“Hello,” she said, “ECAS office.”
The team watched as Josephine’s expression grew first puzzled,
then angry. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks for telling us.”
Mr Jameson looked concerned. “What is it Jo?” he said.
“It’s our beloved delivery men,” she said. “They’ve let us down
again.”
“How?”
“They’ve left all the computers in all the branches. They haven’t
collected any of them.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because they’re not in cardboard boxes, apparently. If someone
puts the computers back in their original cartons then the delivery
men will be able to collect them, or so I’m told. What should we do?”
Mr Jameson sighed. “There’s only one thing to do,” he said. “You
must each go back to your individual branches and pack the computers
back into their boxes. Then we’ll send the delivery men out again and
see if they can bring themselves to actually collect something this
time.”
Miranda started. Her mind flew instantly to thoughts of Desmond.
He was positively the last person she wanted to see again, especially
after Friday night.
“Mr Jameson,” she said, timidly, “do we actually have to go back
to our own branches?”
“I think so,” said Mr Jameson “That would probably be best.”
“I mean, wouldn’t it be a more interesting experience for us if we
sort of swapped branches, just for packing up the computers?”
“I think it’s best not to do that,” said Mr Jameson. “The branch
staff would be happier dealing with someone they know.”

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 “What’s wrong, Miranda?” said Russell. “Don’t they like you
much at your branch?”
“On the contrary, Russell,” said Mr Jameson, “Miranda’s branch
have sent in glowing reports of both ECAS and Miranda. I expect
they’ll be extremely glad to see her.”
Some of them will, thought Miranda. She vaguely remembered
Desmond saying something about having a day off one day this week.
She hoped it was today.
“Right,” said Mr Jameson, “you’d better all get off to your branches.
The sooner you get there the sooner you’ll get back, and the sooner
you get back the sooner we can get on with this work. You’d each
better stop off at the fourth floor on your way out and pick up some
packaging tape. You might want to seal up the boxes once you’ve
packed the computers into them, just in case the delivery men have
something against handling unsealed boxes.”
So Miranda and her colleagues headed for the stores on the fourth
floor to pick up rolls of packaging tape. They all felt annoyed at
having to go back to their branches after having said goodbye to the
staff there, and they all had a suddenly increased dislike of the delivery
men. Only Miranda felt nervous as well. She had wanted to put her
branch, and Desmond, out of her mind forever.
“Did they give you a hard time at your branch?” Josephine asked
gently. “Was Russell right?”
No one else was listening, and Miranda was grateful for her concern.
“No no,” Miranda said, “I’m just a bit depressed at the thought of
going out into this weather again. I thought I might be able to swap
my branch for one a bit closer.”
“I can sympathise with that,” said Josephine. “It’s a miserable
day.”
What Miranda did not realise was that the light drizzle outside was
an omen. Even when, a few minutes later, she was running through it
towards the bus shelter she still didn’t realise.
Once the bus had deposited her in the street with her branch
in Miranda still failed to realise the significance of the drizzle. She
also failed to realise the significance of the battered little Volkswagen

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parked just outside the bank. In fact, she ignored it completely as
she headed for the doors of the bank and prepared to face the ordeal
beyond.

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49

“Tell me, Aristid,” said William, “would you care for a peanut?”
“What, William?”
“In the pocket of my jacket I’ve just found a packet of peanuts.
I’m not sure how old the packet is, but it looks quite fresh. Would
you care for one?”
“No thank you, William.”
“Are you sure? You look a little nervous. A peanut might help to
cheer you up.”
In fact, thought William, Aristid looked almost as nervous as he
must have done just before the raid on the chemist. He couldn’t imag-
ine what was troubling him. It wasn’t as if robbing a bank was nearly
as difficult or dangerous as robbing a chemist.
They were sitting in Aristid’s car outside the bank William had
decided to rob and watching the drizzle come down. If William had
known that the drizzle was an omen he might have abandoned his bank
robbing plans there and then. As it was, he was filled with immense
confidence. Only Aristid had his doubts.
“There is a lot of complicated machinery in that bank,” Aristid
said. “Some of it could be dangerous.”
Aristid had been into the bank a few minutes before to look around.
As before, it was William who would perform the actual robbery.
“Yes,” said William, “so you said. But no sign of a water proof
screen?”
“No. No sign of one of those.”

301
 “Good. Then I’d better pop off and do the robbery.”
“William?”
“Yes Aristid?”
“Don’t you think you had better wait a bit before you do the
robbery?”
“Aristid, you look distinctly nervous. Are you sure you wouldn’t
like a peanut?”
“Quite sure, William.”
“You won’t mind if I have one, though, will you?”
“Not at all.”
“Then I think I will.”
William had a peanut. It didn’t taste at all bad.
“About the complicated machinery,” said Aristid, “I still believe it
might prove dangerous to robbers.”
“Nonsense, Aristid. If the bank had machinery dangerous to rob-
bers it would not instruct its employees to hand money over to such
robbers. So you see, the machinery must be harmless.”
“But the security guards, William . . . ”
“You said there are only two of them.”
“There are only two . . . ”
“Well that’s all right then.”
“But they are both large men, William, and they are armed. Their
guns look to be considerably larger than the one I imagine that chemist
had.”
“Ah, but will they use those guns?”
“I see no reason why they should not . . . ”
“They will be afraid to, Aristid. Trust me.”
“Why should they be afraid when the chemist was not?”
“Because when I attempted to rob the chemist I was not wearing
a stocking over my head. Robbers are supposed to wear stockings
over their heads. I read it in a magazine. It makes them look more
frightening.”
“So,” said Aristid, “you plan to rob this bank wearing a stocking
over your head?”

302
 “Yes. I bought one especially for that purpose this morning. Un-
fortunately it is pink rather than black, but I don’t think that will
matter too much.”
“So William, if I understand you correctly, you plan to rob this
bank while wearing a pink stocking over your head?”
“Yes, Aristid. I expect I will look truly terrifying.”
“I think I will have that peanut after all.”
William gave his brother-in-law a peanut. Aristid ate the peanut
and looked nervously at the double doors of the bank.
“Do you have your water pistol with you?” said Aristid.
“Yes, Aristid,” said William.
“And does it still have the little red nozzle at the end of its barrel?”
“Of course.”
“I thought it might.”
“It is also fully loaded.”
“Oh good,” said Aristid, nervously. “That is a great relief to me.”
“And best of all, I have had time for plenty of target practise.”
“Target practise, William? Why did you need target practise?”
“I want to become a crack shot. I can already hit an empty beer
bottle at a distance of four feet.”
“That is most impressive, William. When did you do all this target
practise?”
“This morning. I got up especially early for it.”
“But it was raining this morning . . . ”
“Oh that’s all right, Aristid. I did my target practise indoors.”
“Ah. I thought the lounge room carpet seemed a little damp.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Aristid?”
“Not at all, as long as you think the target practise was useful to
you.”
“Useful to me?” said William. “Why, Aristid, if this bank is as
dangerous as you claim, my target practise may very possibly save my
life. Sharp shooting is always useful in life or death situations.”
“My dear William, you will be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course. But I still think you worry needlessly. Bank robbery,
as I’ve said, is a remarkably simple business.”

303
 “I’m sure it is,” said Aristid. “I’ll have the car running for a quick
getaway when you come out.”
“Thank you Aristid.”
“Do you have your lines rehearsed? Do you know what you’re
going to say?”
“I thought that this time I would just try bursting in and waving
my water pistol around.”
“Do you think that will be enough, William?”
“Oh yes. Provided the people in the bank are well trained they
will know at once to hand all their money over to me.”
“Yes,” said Aristid, “I suppose they will.”
“Right,” said William. “If you will help me to find my pink stocking
I will get on with the robbery.”

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50

“Oh, it’s you,” said Anne Cameron. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Yes, sorry about this,” said the voice of Miranda Catarini, “but
we’ve had a bit of a problem.”
Desmond started. He was sitting at his desk and looking at his
paperwork, so he hadn’t seen who Anne was talking to. At the sound
of Miranda’s voice he felt a sudden terrible sense of dread.
“Desmond,” said Anne. “Let Miranda in.”
Desmond got up from his desk and went to the gate in the enquiry
counter to let Miranda in. She was dressed in scarlet today, and she
looked very nice. The expression on her face as their eyes met was not
kindly, however.
“Hello Miranda,” said Desmond.
“Hello Desmond,” said Miranda.
The time had come, Desmond knew. He should try to apologise to
her now, while he had the opportunity. But he couldn’t bring himself
to. His basic shyness got the better of him, and once he had opened
the gate for Miranda he went back to his desk without saying a word.
Miranda went straight to her computer and started unplugging
things.
“What’s it all about, this extra visit?” said Anne.
“Oh, it’s the delivery men,” said Miranda. “They won’t collect the
computer unless it’s packed up in its boxes.”
“So you’ve come back here to pack it away, have you?”
“Yes,” said Miranda. “You put the boxes in that storeroom at the

305
back, didn’t you?”
“Someone did. Think you can find them again?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t know,” said Anne. “The bank sends you, on your salary,
out here to pack a computer into boxes while the delivery men sit
around waiting for you to do it. There’s something wrong with the
way this bank operates.”
“It gets along all right most of the time,” said Miranda. “Now, I
think it’ll be easier to pack if I take the computer to the boxes in the
storeroom rather than the other way round. That way I’ll have room
to spread out while I’m packing.”
“Not much room,” said Anne, “but please yourself. If you can’t
manage on your own get Desmond to help. He’s not doing anything
important.”
“I can manage on my own,” said Miranda.
Again and again as Miranda passed his desk, fetching first one
piece of computer equipment to take to the storeroom, then another,
Desmond was forced to hide under his paperwork to avoid meeting her
gaze. Once Bruce offered to help her, but Miranda said quite firmly
that she could manage on her own.
She was wrong though. The last bit of computer equipment she
tried to carry was too heavy, and she almost dropped it. Fortunately
Andrei was on hand to help her with it. They went back to the store-
room together and Desmond supposed that Andrei was helping Mir-
anda to put the computer back in its cartons.
There were few customers, just two young mothers with their chil-
dren at the tellers’ booths, so Desmond didn’t have a lot to do. He
decided that when Miranda came out of the store room he would
approach her and apologise. He was quite firm in his resolve until
Miranda actually did come out of the store room. Then shyness got
the better of him and he just sat at his desk without saying anything.
“Well?” said Anne, coming up to Miranda.
“All packed now,” said Miranda. “I don’t know when the delivery
men will be back, but they should be willing to take the computer
now.”

306
 “Good,” said Anne. “I’ll come and let you out.”
“Miranda,” said Desmond, suddenly.
Both Miranda and Anne looked at him. Miranda scowled. “Yes
Desmond?” she said.
“Er,” said Desmond, “bye.”
“Goodbye Desmond,” said Miranda.
Anne went to the gate in the enquiry counter and opened it briefly
for Miranda to pass through. Miranda thanked her and did so.
Thus Desmond Fisher watched sadly as Miranda Catarini, briefcase
in hand, made for the main doors of the bank. He watched her very
closely because he believed this was the last he would ever see of her
and he wanted to make the most of it.
For this reason Desmond Fisher was the first person in the bank
to see the masked bandit who burst in through the doors and bumped
into Miranda.
The bandit apologised politely, then pointed his gun at Miranda.
This bandit was a terrifying sight. He was tall, thin and stooped,
and he wore a pink stocking on his head. His gun was of cold, grey
metal, save for the red nozzle on the end of the barrel. Desmond
supposed this to be some sophisticated form of silencer.
Everyone in the bank was terrified. The two customers cowered
and wrapped their arms around their children. The security guards,
Sam and Doug, froze, though they looked poised for action should the
bandit stop pointing his gun at Miranda. Even the staff, trained for
such an emergency, looked horrified. Desmond had completely forgot-
ten what he was supposed to do, though he noticed Anne Cameron’s
hand secretly pressing the button that would alert the police.
Miranda looked terrified. Her face had gone completely white and
she was backing towards the enquiry counter. The bandit, gun still
trained on her, followed.
“Do you have a heart condition?” said the bandit.
“No,” said Miranda, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Good,” said the bandit.
This was all too much for Desmond. Miranda was, after all, the
girl he loved.

307
 “Don’t worry Miranda,” he cried, completely forgetting his train-
ing, “I’ll save you!”
Desmond attempted to leap over the enquiry counter to Miranda’s
assistance, but his foot slipped and he ended up sprawling on it instead.
Because he was busy sprawling he didn’t see what happened next.
Alarmed by Desmond’s shout, the bandit had fired his gun. A jet
of water squirted out of it, passed Miranda, and formed a small puddle
on the floor.
For a split second everyone in the bank froze, shocked by the enor-
mity of what they had just seen. Then the truth began to dawn on
them, and the atmosphere in the bank at once grew less tense. The
bandit’s gun, everyone realised, was just a water pistol. The young
mothers unwrapped their offspring from their arms, and the security
guards, smiling happily, began to un-clip their own guns from their
holsters.
Now it was the bandit’s turn to look nervous. He glanced around
cautiously, as if wondering why no one was frightened anymore. Mir-
anda, standing in front of him, folded her arms and glowered at him.
At that moment Desmond managed to untangle himself from the
enquiry counter. With his heart thumping wildly he rushed towards
Miranda and the bandit.
He threw himself between them, and stood facing the bandit with
his arms spread wide.
“If you want to shoot her,” Desmond declared, “you’ll have to
shoot me first!” He closed his eyes and braced his body for the impact
of the bullets.
Some people in the bank laughed.
“Oh God, Desmond,” said Miranda, “that’s pathetic.”
Faced with Desmond’s attempt at self-sacrificing heroism the ban-
dit grew even more confused. He had a go at shooting Desmond with
his water pistol, but missed by several feet. On a sudden impulse he
turned and ran for the doors.
Sam and Doug, the security guards, drew their guns and ran after
him.
“Please stop now, Desmond,” said Miranda, grimly, “you’re em-

308
barrassing me.”
Desmond cautiously opened his eyes. The bandit was nowhere to
be seen. Desmond was shocked. He had somehow saved Miranda from
the bandit without becoming even remotely dead in the process. His
relief at still being alive took him so completely by surprise that the
blood in his body decided to stop supplying his brain with oxygen for
a moment.
From Desmond’s point of view this lack of oxygen caused the room
to grow polka dot around him and then to disappear completely, as he
fainted for the first time in his life.

309
310
51

When Desmond recovered consciousness he found he was lying on the

floor of the bank with his head resting on something soft. The some-
thing soft turned out to be Miranda’s lap.
“He’s coming round,” said the voice of Bruce.
All his friends were standing round him looking concerned. Mir-
anda was kneeling on the ground with her lap under his head stroking
his hair.
“Someone get poor Desmond a glass of water,” said Anne, who
looked as concerned as anyone.
Miranda smiled gently. “Desmond?” she said. “You thought that
was a real gun, didn’t you?”
Desmond was confused. “What happened?” he said.
“Nervous tension,” said Anne, “followed by relief. You fainted.
Didn’t you see that bloke only had a water pistol?”
“Did he?” said Desmond.
Miranda laughed. “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid he did.”
“Oh,” said Desmond. “Did you know it was just a water pistol?”
“Everyone did except you, apparently.”
Desmond moaned. “How embarrassing,” he said.
Miranda laughed gently. “It was rather,” she said. “But it was
also very brave. That man only had a water pistol, but you didn’t
know that. You thought it was a real gun.”
“So . . . you’re not cross with me?”
“Of course I’m not. This is the first time anyone has ever tried to

311
sacrifice his life for me. Admittedly, you didn’t do a very good job,
but the thought was there. I am sincerely honoured. I could look all
over the world and never find another friend as devoted as you.”
“All right,” said Anne, “this conversation is getting silly. There’s
two police men in the manager’s office here to take statements. I’ll
go and see them first, then I’ll send the rest of you in one by one.
Meanwhile, let’s get back to work. Miranda, take Desmond to the
spare office and look after him. I don’t think we’ll be needing an
ambulance after all.”
Desmond drank the water Marc had brought him and stood up
groggily. Leaning on Miranda’s shoulder, he made his way back behind
the enquiry counter and towards the spare office.
“I still can’t believe you were willing to die for me,” said Miranda,
laughing happily.
“Sorry,” said Desmond, sheepishly, and was surprised when Mir-
anda gave him a sudden hug.
They reached the spare office, and Desmond slumped in a black
padded chair. Miranda sat behind the desk as if she was interviewing
him. She reached for the telephone and dialled a number.
“Hello, Mr Jameson?” she said. “Miranda here. I might be a bit
late getting back to the office. The police want to talk to me. We’ve
had an attempted armed robbery here. Yes, I’m fine. No one was
hurt, no money was taken, and the computer’s back in its boxes. I’ll
tell you more later. Bye.”
Miranda hung up.
“Miranda,” said Desmond, “about that sign on the door of the flat.
I know you must hate it. I hate it too, but it’s Colin’s flat, so I guess
he’s entitled to put it out if he wants to. I never use it myself, honest.
I don’t even have a girlfriend, I’ve never had a girlfriend and, er, I’m
still a virgin.”
Miranda smiled. “I believe you,” she said.
“Also, er, Miranda I . . . I think I’m in love with you.”
“I believe that too. I didn’t believe it until you fainted, but when
you fainted your face was so white I thought you’d died.”
“I thought I was going to die.”

312
 “I know. I guess you’d never sacrifice your life except for someone
you loved. I could be wrong, but I don’t think many people have ever
loved me that much before.”
“So . . . do you think you might be willing to go out with me again
some time?”
“I think that might be arranged.”
“Gosh.”
Miranda took a deep breath, then came round to Desmond’s side
of the desk and sat in his lap. She kissed him. It was a move that
took Desmond completely by surprise. He blushed.
“That’s better,” she said. “A bit of colour in your cheeks. Are you
still wanting a girlfriend?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“Would you like it to be me? Think carefully before you answer.
I’m a lot of trouble, as a girlfriend.”
Desmond thought carefully for about a tenth of a second. “Yes
please,” he said.
“Good,” said Miranda. “How about dinner at my place tonight?
Pizza and champagne? Not very adventurous, I know, but less work
than cooking.”
“Oh. Er, fine.”
“Do you have a toothbrush in your briefcase?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then it’s all settled.”
“But . . . what about your boyfriend?”
“Oh, he’s more of a brother than a boyfriend. Even he gets con-
fused about the relationship sometimes. I think I could live quite
happily without him for a while.”
Anne came into the office. She looked suspiciously at the scene
before her.
“Can the police see you now Miranda?” she said.
“Sure.”
Anne looked at Desmond. “You’re looking well,” she said. “I’ve
never seen you looking better. Fainting must agree with you.”
Desmond blushed again.

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52

It was quite late in the afternoon when William and Aristid finally
decided that they must have escaped their pursuers. Aristid wondered
if the two armed security guards had made a note of his car’s licence
number while they were shooting at it.
“Do you think,” said William, “that it will be safe to go back to
your house now?”
“The only way we’ll find out is to try,” said Aristid.
“Do you think the police will be there?”
“They might be, William.”
“And if they are will we have to shoot it out with them?”
“Not with a water pistol, no.”
Aristid drove his car back to his house and he and William went
inside for a cup of tea. There was no sign of the police.
Into Aristid’s lounge room they went. William made himself com-
fortable in one of the chairs while Aristid went off to get the tea.
William pulled the water pistol out of his pocket and stared sadly at
it.
Aristid returned with a tea tray. “Well, William,” he said. “Not
an unqualified success?”
“No,” said William, “not really. Bank robbery is not as easy as I
thought it would be.”
“Never mind, William. Here is some tea for you.”
William sipped his tea.
“Well?” said Aristid. “What should we rob next?”

315
 William sipped some more tea. “Aristid,” he said.
“Yes, William?” said Aristid.
“I thought, perhaps, we might stop being robbers, just for a while.”
“Very well, William. But what about the fight against commu-
nism?”
“Yes,” said William, “that has worried me too. I thought that
perhaps sending a charitable donation to the Salvation Army would
help.”
“To rid the world of communism? Yes, I suppose it might. Would
you care for some more tea, William?”
“No thank you. I have not yet finished this cup.”
“You drink tea very slowly, William.”
“Tea drinking should not be rushed, Aristid.”
“Unlike whisky and beer drinking?”
“Exactly.”
They finished their tea.
“I thought,” said William, “that I might try going back to Maria.”
“Do you think she will have you?”
William looked sad. “Perhaps,” he said, “or perhaps not. But still
it will be worth trying.”
“I shall miss you, when you return home,” said Aristid.
“Will you?” said William.
“Of course. Life is much more exciting when you are here.”
“And we will not be able to have our philosophical discussions.”
“No indeed. That will also be a sad loss.”
“Still, I’m sure we will see each other again soon.”
“No doubt, William, no doubt.”
“Perhaps,” said William, “I will also be able to get my old job
back.”
“Perhaps,” said Aristid. “Would you be willing to sacrifice your
algorithm to do so?”
“Oh no, Aristid. That would be going too far.”
“I thought as much.”
“Still,” said William, “we have learnt an important lesson from our
recent activities.”

316
 “Indeed William? What lesson is that?”
“From now on if we have an idea when drunk we should always get
drunk again when we want to remember it.”
“Ah yes,” said Aristid, “an important lesson indeed.”
Outside the house the drizzle stopped.

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53

That evening Desmond sat alone in Miranda’s flat waiting for either
Miranda to return with the champagne or the pizza delivery man to
arrive with the pizza. He was trying to read a copy of The Tempest,
which Miranda had said was a lot better than Star Wars. Desmond,
who had read almost as far as act one scene two, was not inclined to
agree with her. The telephone rang. Desmond answered it.
“Hello?” said Desmond.
“Oh?” the man’s voice sounded surprised. “Have I got the right
number?”
“I don’t know,” said Desmond, helpfully.
“Is, er, that Miranda Catarini’s flat?” said the voice.
“Yes,” said Desmond.
“Can I speak to her then?”
“No,” said Desmond.
“Oh. Why not?”
“She’s not here. She’s out. She’ll be back soon though. Can I take
a message?”
“Yes. Tell her Morris phoned and . . . ”
“Morris? Oh, I know. You’re Miranda’s ex-boyfriend.”
“Her what boyfriend?”
“The one who’s more like a brother. The medical student.”
“Er, yes, that’s me.”
“How interesting,” said Desmond. “Miranda’s told me lots about
you. I think she used to be very fond of you.”

319
 “Did she?” said Morris. “Who are you exactly?”
“I’m her new boyfriend, Desmond.”
“Really? Could you ask her to phone me, when she gets back?”
“Sure. Bye.”
Desmond thought that Miranda’s ex-boyfriend sounded intelligent.
It seemed odd, though, that anyone who had Miranda for a girlfriend
would have treated her just like a sister.
The pizza delivery man and Miranda arrived at virtually the same
time. Miranda paid the man, and she and Desmond sat down at her
little table to eat the pizza and drink the champagne.
“Tell me,” said Miranda, “do you like pizza?”
“Oh yes.”
“And champagne?”
“Oh yes.”
“And me?”
“Oh yes. Oh, someone called Morris phoned. He wants you to
phone him back.”
“Does he? Well, I will. But not now. Tomorrow perhaps.”
Miranda took the phone of the hook and returned to her pizza.
“Well Desmond,” she said, “it’s been an interesting day.”
“It certainly has. It was my first armed robbery, you know.”
“And mine. Let’s drink a toast to the robber!”
“The robber?”
“Yes. After all, he brought us together. And he was a very polite
robber.”
“Okay,” said Desmond.
They drank a toast to the robber.
“Tell me, Desmond,” said Miranda, “where do you go of an evening
when your friend Colin puts his ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door?”
“I sleep on the steps. I told you that before.”
“Ah yes. So you did. I just wondered if you liked sleeping on the
steps.”
“Not much.”
“Then stop doing it. Find yourself somewhere else to live.”
“Where?”

320
 “Here.”
“Where!”
“Here. I don’t have a ‘do not disturb’ sign.”
“Are you saying I should move in with you?”
“Yes. We could split the rent. If it doesn’t work out you could
easily find somewhere else.”
“Gosh.” Desmond swigged down some champagne.
Miranda laughed. “Careful Desmond,” she said.
“Sorry,” said Desmond.
“I was thinking,” said Miranda, “that you might like to stay the
night.”
“What. . . in the spare bed you mean?”
“No. In my bed.”
“And you in the spare bed?”
“No. Both of us in my bed. Well?”
Desmond swallowed down some more champagne. “Yes please,”
he said.
“Okay. You’d better come round here and kiss me then.”
“Er,” said Desmond, “I’ve never actually kissed anyone before. I’m
not sure that I know how to do it.”
Miranda smiled. “Come here anyway,” she said.
Desmond came over to her side of the table.
“Now,” said Miranda, “kiss me.”
Desmond hesitated.
“It’s very easy,” said Miranda. “I’m sure you can do it. Come on,
try.”
Desmond tried. His first attempt didn’t feel right somehow, so he
tried again.
A few minutes later he got the hang of it completely.

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