‘Osmosis.’
‘In the flesh.’
Daybreak. Osmosis answered his door to find General Biggshott-Phaffing, seventy-five, in full uniform. His leather-gloved hands clutched a swagger stick. His handlebar moustache was white. ‘Army reporting for duty.’ He saluted. He had the voice of a bronchitic seal.
‘Where are they?’ Peering over the man’s shoulder. Osmosis saw just a near empty street. A woman went by, walking her Chihuahua. Was she supposed to be an army? He grabbed Biggshott-Phaffing’s lapels and shook him. ‘You fool! You’ve forgotten to bring them! I knew I should never have trusted you!’
‘Forgotten ‘em? Not at all. Parked ‘em out back awaiting orders.’ He tapped the side of his hawk nose. ‘Wouldn’t want Johnny Public spotting ‘em.’
‘General.’ Osmosis released him and set about re-straightening his lapels. ‘How could I have doubted you?’
‘Things bound to get heated in times of war.’ From behind his monocles, he looked Osmosis up and down, admiring the entrepreneur’s new outfit. ‘And you’re dressed as a general too. How marvellous. Yes. Yes. You’re right. We’re partners in this, we should both be generals. I, of course, am the better general, having seen off the fuzzie wuzzies in ‘94.’
‘Fuzzie wuzzies?’
‘Squirrels. Mildred so enjoyed that holiday. Pity I had to kill her.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Over breakfast. Took her head off with a shovel.’ He mimed the swinging action, almost toppling in the process.
‘Isn’t decapitating one’s wife illegal?’
‘It is?’
‘And premature?’
‘Premature?’
‘Didn’t you try Relate first?’
Biggshott-Phaffing retrieved a cigarette from a trouser pocket. He tapped it on the back of his wooden hand, then lit it. He inhaled deeply, coughed, then, eyes watering from the smoke, said, ‘Had to top her.’
‘But why risk drawing attention to ourselves before the proper time?’
‘Nosferatu.’
‘Signs were unmistakable to an old vampire killer like me.’
‘Signs?’
‘Mildred was always talking. Poetry, literature; no subject was out of bounds for her.’
‘General?’
‘Yes?’
‘Talking is not a symptom of vampirism.’
‘It’s not?’
The devil you say. Then what are the symptoms of vampirism?’
‘Blood sucking and turning into bats.’
‘Blood sucking?’ He thought about this. ‘No. Can’t remember her ever doing that. And what was the other thing?’
‘Turning into bats.’
‘Cricket or rounders?’
‘Flying.’
‘Numerous or single?’
‘Single.’
‘Big or small?’
‘Either.’
He again trawled his memory. ‘Fair game to her, Mildred never turned into a bat. She knew I wouldn’t stand for it.’ Then it hit him; ‘Good Lord, man. What have you let me do?’ Horror seized his face. ‘I’ve ruined a perfectly good shovel.’
‘General you’re even madder than everyone says.’
‘Barking. I’ve more certifications than Hannibal Lecture. Want to see ‘em?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Brought ‘em all with me.’ He reached for his uniform’s inside breast pocket.
‘No!’ Osmosis grabbed the arm and wrestled it away from the pocket. The old man was stronger than he looked.
But this was perfect. Now sure he had the man he needed. Osmosis stepped back from the door. He tried not to let his enthusiasm betray the fate he had planned for Biggshott-Phaffing. ‘General?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t you come in?’
The general stepped inside and wiped his feet on the doormat. ‘Let me just say – ’
Osmosis’ thugs leapt out from behind the door, put a sack over Biggshott-Phaffing and bound his arms to his sides. They gave him a thorough going over. Each punch produced an agonized ‘oof, an ‘ow’ or an ‘argh’. Their vigour was remarkable.
But why were they saying ‘oof’ and ‘ow’ and ‘aargh’ as they hit him? If Osmosis didn’t know better he’d think they hadn’t spent hours hardening their knuckles on sandpaper as ordered but had spent their time reading that Stanislavsky fellow they were so keen on.
Finally, the thugs gave up and stood back.
‘Osmosis, is this part of the plan?’ The general stood in his sack, seeming none the worse for his beating. Osmosis resolved never again to hire his thugs from Equity.
Regardless, the general was no threat tied up. And the thugs could always be … ‘rested’. Now Osmosis had Biggshott-Phaffing’s hat and his army, he could carry out his master plan. Rule England? The senile old fool. Why should he want to rule England when there were greater prizes in this very town?
He took the general’s hat from the floor. As planned it had fallen off during the attack. He placed it atop his bucket. And, with a sharp tug at its peak, he straightened it.
Then went to meet his army.
In a droning plane high above a storm-struck Paris, two rats urgently set about chewing through their safety belts.