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datatime: 2022-12-03 06:04:38 Author:KLezTtKR

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

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.

Norman prodded at his paper. 'Wheelbarrow clue in double slaying.'

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

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

Norman prodded at his paper. 'Wheelbarrow clue in double slaying.'

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

'I don't think the Professor would appreciate that, it might interfere with his plans. Also the police might claim conspiracy because we didn't come forward earlier.'

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?'

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.

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

'But "early arrest", what do you think that means?'

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

'No, either the reporter had no film in his Brownie or the police didn't think it necessary.'

'What's that,' asked Neville.

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

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

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?'

Norman prodded at his paper. 'Wheelbarrow clue in double slaying.'

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

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

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

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.'

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.

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