Thursday December 6th

Roles

He never got to play

the part of Joseph;

he was one of those kids

that no one noticed.

The type barely seen

and more rarely heard,

no Innkeeper, Herod,

or Second Shepherd.

Not once did he wear

the crown of a king

nor wings of an angel

(although he could sing).

Instead he would be

Brown Cow Number Four,

A Rock or A Bauble,

The Stable Door.

And now – forty years on –

it still made him wince,

for it seemed that his life

hadn’t changed that much since.

With the exception of once being a rather pivotal turnip in a vegan nativity play at primary school, I don’t think I’ve ever played the role of ‘hero’ before. But I suppose that’s what I must have been to Toby Salt, not that he could quite bring himself to say it – not even after I’d pressed him several times on the matter after he’d been unchained from the letterpress.

The print shop was situated at the rear of a quiet Victorian terraced house in a secluded Mumbles backstreet. There was no sign of DI Lansbury or Sergeant Tuck yet so I thought I’d take a quick look around myself. The house itself was locked but on the left-hand side was an entrance leading into the back yard. This side-door had also been secured but, by climbing up precariously onto the neighbouring fence, I was able to reach over and slide the bolt over to open it.

The outhouse door had been left slightly ajar. There was somebody talking inside. I slipped in quietly. A man stood with his back to me, leisurely loading up various items of crockery onto a tray.

‘And how was your breakfast this morning, my bestselling poet?’ he said.

Django. I’d recognise his adenoidal tones anywhere. And there, in front of him, sitting on a bench and chained to a nineteenth-century letterpress, was Toby Salt. The top of his head was bandaged but the rest of him appeared to be disappointingly bruise-free. His head was bowed and he appeared utterly unresponsive to all of Django’s attempts at conversation.

‘I must apologise for the continued absence of Lapsang Souchong,’ Django went on. ‘But I can assure you that I’m on the case. The shopkeeper has high hopes of a delivery this Friday!’

Toby Salt continued to stare at the floor.

‘But do not despair,’ said Django. ‘I bring you better news.’ He flourished a newspaper in front of Toby Salt. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘the non-fiction top 10 – you’re now at number 4!’

Django, undeterred by the silence which greeted every utterance, pressed on:

‘And you are fast closing in on the Lean and Healthy Cookbook. Who knows, by Christmas, you could be number o—’

‘WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO LET ME GO, YOU MONSTER!?’ shouted Toby Salt, livid with rage.