She peered up at the ceiling, rocking, slowly, backwards and forwards, blinking back the tears. ‘Pray with me, Carla,’ she whispered. ‘Pray with me that we’ll both do our level best for the darling child. You’re my lightning conductor, Carla, so you are. I always feel especially close to our little angel when you’re around.’

30

Mr Clifford Bickerton

Shimmy has no idea about the Brighton bombing (poor, old Norman ‘on your bike’ Tebbit carried from that crumbling seafront hotel in his blue and white flannel jim-jams), which is odd (is this part of some strange sub-plot she’s hatching?) considering how he’s got his radio blaring out, full blast, in the kitchen.

He’s called me over because Carla has gone AWOL (something to do with Sorcha and filming (?) Up at Mulberry (?)) and the badgers have been hard at work overnight digging up the giant, rotting corpse of dear old Rogue.

‘Ipish!’ He waves his hand around in front of his face as we gaze down at the mess. ‘Look at mein poor Rogue! A shtik fleish mit tzvei eigen, eh? A piece of meat viz two eyes! Farfoylt! Farshtuken! Vat a shtink!’

I confess to Shimmy that I can’t really smell anything.

‘Ech!’ he exclaims, and gazes heavenward.

I wander off, looking for the shovel, but it isn’t where I left it just thirty seconds before (is this her again?).

Shimmy is in an especially bad mood because of the pains in his legs (I can’t remember the name of his condition offhand, but Carla – the little tart – says it’s neurological. The brain sends his feet and his legs the idea that they’re cramping. There’s some involuntary movement. Sudden spasms. Sometimes a burning sensation. St Anthony’s Fire? Is that it?). As Shimmy oversees my activities he kindly keeps up a sarcastic commentary (in case any of the neighbours, or the birds, or the insects aren’t yet fully aware of what a dick I am).

‘Look at zis fool!’ he mutters (with a bitter laugh) as I search for the shovel. ‘Vandering around like a fart in a barrel!’

‘Did you move the spade?’ I demand.

‘Of course I moved ze spade, schmuck!’

(Dramatic throwing up of hands – I’m hazarding a guess that this is sarcasm.)

‘Well if I can’t find the spade …’ I mutter.

‘Yah, yah: if I don’t come today I come tomorrow, hah?’ he grumbles.

(I’m guessing that this is some kind of an attack on my levels of enthusiasm … which are low – very low, quite frankly.)

‘Are you sure you didn’t …?’ I repeat.

‘Ech! Someone else’s arse iz easier to kick!’ he snorts.

As he speaks, I spot the spade leaned up against the fence directly behind him. I grab it (some quiet muttering – on my part) and start piling the dirt back on to Rogue’s giant body.

‘Leck, shmech!’ Shimmy grumbles.

(I’m guessing that this is an attempt to tell me that my work is slapdash.) I stop what I’m doing. ‘There’s about two foot of soil here and then it’s all solid rock,’ I explain. ‘This is as deep as I could dig the original hole.’