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datatime: 2022-12-03 23:08:30 Author:sPlqvJkW

Omally awoke with a start, something was pressing firmly into his throat and stopping his breath. 'Ow, ooh, get off, get off.' These imprecations were directed towards Jim Pooley, whose oversized boot had come snugly to rest beneath Omally's chin. 'Will you get off I say?'

'I mean we might tell the police about what we saw; it might start an investigation into what is going on in the Mission.'

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

'What's that,' asked Neville.

'I have no other suggestions,' said Jim. 'I can only counsel caution and the maintaining of the now legendary low profile.'

'But there isn't a photograph of the wheelbarrow?'

'We might simply make a clean breast of it,' said John.

Pooley groaned anew. 'I was having such a beautiful dream. I can't go on here,' he moaned, 'I can't live out my days a fugitive in an allotment shed, I wish Archroy had never rebuilt it. You must give yourself up, John, claim diminished responsibility, I will gladly back you up on that.'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

'Here it is,' said Jim, '"Wheelbarrow Clue in Double Slaying. Chiswick Police leading an investigation into the matter of the two bodies found on the foreshore upon the fall of the Thames last week believe that they now have a lead regarding the owner of the wheelbarrow discovered at the scene of the crime. Detective Inspector Cyril Barker said in an exclusive interview with the Brentford Mercury that he expected to make an early arrest".'

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

Pooley jerked himself awake. 'Where am I?' he groaned.

'I mean we might tell the police about what we saw; it might start an investigation into what is going on in the Mission.'

'Where you have been for the last two days, in my bloody allotment shed.'

'I have no other suggestions,' said Jim. 'I can only counsel caution and the maintaining of the now legendary low profile.'

'What's that,' asked Neville.

Norman's shop was closed for the half day and a few copies of the midweek Mercury still remained in the wire rack to the front door. Jim took one of these and rattled the letterbox in a perfect impression of a man dropping pennies into it. He and Omally thumbed through the pages.

'I was just talking about that to Pooley,' said Neville, gesturing towards Jim's table.

'Yes, I can't see the Mercury's ace reporter getting the journalist of the year award for it.'

'I mean we might tell the police about what we saw; it might start an investigation into what is going on in the Mission.'

Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. 'It is spud for breakfast,' said he.

'What's that,' asked Neville.

But naught, however, remained to signal that either Jim Pooley or John Omally had ever been there, naught but for two half-consumed pints of Large going warm upon the table and a saloon-bar door which swung quietly to and fro upon its hinge.

Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. 'It is spud for breakfast,' said he.

Norman's shop was closed for the half day and a few copies of the midweek Mercury still remained in the wire rack to the front door. Jim took one of these and rattled the letterbox in a perfect impression of a man dropping pennies into it. He and Omally thumbed through the pages.

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