A Beginning...

It was a dark and stormy night. The mysterious, black-clad figure leapt from the storm-tossed plane, package in hand and parachute on back. He plunged groundward, opening the parachute at the last possible moment. Guiding his descent with his free hand, he landed neatly in the driving seat of a waiting speedboat. Tossing his parachute to one side, he throttled up the boat and tore off into the night.

It was still a dark and stormy night. The other mysterious, black-clad figure leapt from the other storm-tossed plane, other package in hand and other parachute on back. He plunged groundward, opening the parachute at the last possible moment. Guiding his descent with his free hand he landed neatly in the driving seat of another waiting speedboat. Tossing his parachute to one side, he throttled up the boat and tore off into the night.

The black-clad figure leapt from the boat, creeping silently across the beach into the undergrowth. He emerged minutes later at the foot of a mountain, directly beneath a cable car. Swiftly he attached himself to the base of the vehicle, which picked that particular moment to venture forth to the top of the mountain.

The other black-clad figure leapt from the other boat, creeping silently across the other beach into the other undergrowth. He emerged minutes later at the foot of another mountain directly beneath another cable car. Swiftly he attached himself to the base of the vehicle, which picked that particular moment to venture forth to the top of the mountain.

The shadowy figure jumped from the cable car, landing his ski-shod feet neatly on the firm snow, slaloming down the black slope at a dizzying speed, dodging trees and rocks that threw themselves at him out of the darkness. A dozen men on snowmobiles emerged from the cover of one such tree, discharging all manner of artillery at the mysterious skier. Somehow dodging the bullets, he leapt a yawning, bottomless chasm with casual ease, turning his head briefly to watch the snowmobiles plunge into said chasm. Then he skied right off a cliff, deftly removing his skis while he tumbled through the air, and landing nimbly in the seat of a motorcycle, he tore once more into the night.

The other shadowy figure jumped from the other cable car, landing his ski-shod feet neatly on the other firm snow, slaloming down the other black slope at a dizzying speed, dodging other trees and other rocks that threw themselves at him out of the darkness. Another dozen men on other snowmobiles emerged from the cover of one such other tree, discharging all manner of other artillery at the mysterious skier. Somehow dodging the bullets, he leapt another yawning, bottomless chasm with casual ease, turning his head briefly to watch the snowmobiles plunge into said chasm. Then he skied right off another cliff, deftly removing his skis while he tumbled through the air, and landing nimbly in the seat of another motorcycle, he tore once more into the night.

The black-clad figure skidded to a halt near a house, discarding the motorcycle. Running across the road towards the house, he bumped into another mysterious black-clad figure who was running in the opposite direction. He apologised, retrieved his package from the ground where he'd dropped it, and completed his journey to the house. There he threw a grappling hook at the roof, climbed up the attached rope, abseiled down the wall of the house, and swung in through an open window. He laid the mysterious black package on a table and leapt out the window just moments before a woman entered through the door. She saw the package, picked up the accompanying card, and examined it. It bore a little picture of a black-clad figure and the words, "Message: Happy birthday, mum. Love, Nigel."

The other black-clad figure skidded to a halt near another house, discarding the other motorcycle. Running across the other road towards the house, he bumped into a mysterious black-clad figure who was running in the opposite direction. He apologised, retrieved his package from the ground where he'd dropped it, and completed his journey to the house. There he threw a grappling hook at the other roof, climbed up the attached rope, abseiled down the wall of the house, and swung in through another open window. He laid the mysterious black package on an other table and leapt out the window just moments before a man entered through the door. He saw the package, picked up the accompanying card, and examined it. It bore a little symbol made up of three circles, and nothing more.

Nigel's mum, a lady who loved Milk Tray, picked up the package with eager anticipation. She opened the lid to find that the box contained not chocolates, but a carefully wrapped piece of what looked like gold. Its shape was an approximate quarter-circle, with a small hole punched in it, and it was covered with mysterious inscriptions which were cut off rudely at the edges, suggesting that the object was only one part of some larger item. She regarded it thoughtfully and experimentally bit a corner.

The High Priest of the Order of Emyci, a man who loved serving the divine will of the Great One, picked up the other package with eager anticipation. He opened the lid to find that the box contained not the fragment of the sacred talisman of the Great One, but an assortment of milk chocolates.
"Chocolates?" he demanded out loud, hurling the box to the ground.
"No", piped up someone at the back, "Maltesers."

Meanwhile, somewhere on the outskirts of Paris, Jean-Claude and Pierre, the friendly neighbourhood Gendarmes, patrolled the dimly-lit streets.
The streets abruptly became even more dimly-lit as all the streetlamps went out.
«Merd!» declared Pierre, as he cracked his head on an unseen object.
«Qu'est-ce que?» asked Jean-Claude.
«J'ai mal ma tête sur l'arbre!»
«Nous parlons Français tres merd» remarked Jean-Claude.
Something made a strange sound in the darkness. Two little red lights, a few inches apart, appeared just in front of Pierre, about six feet off the ground.
«Qui vive?» asked Jean-Claude.
«Au secours!» screamed Pierre. «Il n'est pas un arbre! C'est le souris! Aaaaugh!»
«Pierre? Pierre?! Où est tu?»
«Aaaaugh! Mon cou!» replied Pierre, shortly followed by a sickening wet sort of snap and a thud.
At this moment the full moon emerged from behind a cloud to see what all the noise was about. Its light revealed a menacing, eight foot tall figure standing over Pierre's twisted and broken body. The horribly familiar figure focused its glowing red eyes on Jean-Claude and wrapped its gloved hands around his neck. Having seen enough, the full moon beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the cloud.

A few short hours later, Nigel awoke. The fourteen year old boy, resplendent in his Star Trek - The Next Generation pyjamas, looked around and wondered why he was awake at three o'clock in the morning. And come to think of it, it was unusually light outside for three o'clock in the morning. There was a light outside, but not bright enough to be sunlight. A sliver of the aforementioned light shone through the gap between the curtains, illuminating a patch of Star Trek poster on the opposite wall. Captain James Tiberius Kirk glared defiantly into the light, which gave up and moved on. Nigel watched it as it drifted over The Next Generation's Commander William Riker, hero and role model to the intellectually challenged everywhere. Riker regarded the light with the same vacant stare with which he regarded everything else. It continued to move, catching Tom Baker's Doctor Who by surprise.
At this precise moment it occurred to Nigel that if the patch of light on the wall was moving upwards, the light source was probably moving downwards. He climbed out of bed and promptly trod on his prized talking K9 toy.
"Shit", he declared.
"Affirmative, Master", responded the faithful reproduction of the aforementioned Doctor's erstwhile robotic companion.
Nigel hopped towards the window, his other foot landing on an equally prized talking Dalek toy.
"Exterminate!" responded the faithful reproduction of the aforementioned Doctor's erstwhile robotic arch-enemy.
"Scanners indicate presence of hostile alien life-form", K9 added.
"We are the supreme beings!" the Dalek replied.
Hobbling to the window, leaving the toys to make electronic zapping noises and flash red lights at each other, Nigel pulled back a curtain just in time to see a blazing fireball crash into the garden shed.

"I shall have to ask your father to do something about that", Nigel's mother declared as she surveyed the garden. Through the kitchen window she could clearly see the large red-hot rock laying at the centre of a large crater which had once been their garden.
Nigel agreed vaguely through a mouthful of cereal, spoon in one hand, pen in the other.
"I don't suppose the dustmen will take it away, either", she continued thoughtfully. "They won't take anything at all these days. I blame the Government, of course. It was never like this when the other lot were running things."
Nigel agreed again.
"We had proper dustmen who would take anything. Not like the workshy bunch we get now. Oh no, if you want them to take your rubbish it has to be in one of those politically-correct grey bin liners, in the green wheelie-bin, and waiting for them at the top of the road. I don't know why they don't just drive straight through with the back of the dustcart open and ask us to throw the rubbish in there themselves."
His cereal and letter-writing finished, he put down his Biro and got up to leave.
"Thank you for this lovely present, dear", his mother remarked, indicating the gold quarter-circle hanging from her neck by a piece of string. "It's very nice", she added, planting a kiss on his cheek.
But I gave her chocolates, thought Nigel, making a mental note to contact Fly-By-Night Courier Services plc, and heading for the front door.

Nigel's mother surveyed the morning post. It was a letter from the Council notifying residents of a change in refuse collection arrangements. As of the following Tuesday, the domestic refuse collection operatives would drive their vehicle slowly down the road at 5am, and residents would be required to go and empty their rubbish into said vehicle themselves.
She had just finished reading when the doorbell rang. A domestic refuse collection operative stood on the doorstep, a huge smile on his face.
"Christmas box", he declared, holding out a hand presumptively.
"Aren't you the fella I gave money to last week? And the week before?"
The domestic refuse collection operative continued to smile.
"It's July", pointed out Nigel's mum. The smile wavered not a bit.
"Piss off", she suggested and slammed the door.
The domestic refuse collection operative stopped smiling, muttered something under his breath, and stomped down the garden path. On his way he stopped to very deliberately kick a gnome, who dropped his fishing line in fright and dived off his toadstool into the pond. A watching group of goldfish clapped their fins together and held up little bits of card with numbers on them. "A magnificent dive!" expounded an unseen voice. "Absolutely perfect! The judges are going wild! Surely the finest dive yet seen in this event!"
The domestic refuse collection operative kicked another gnome. It dived into the pond in a manner which was precisely identical to the first gnome's dive in every possible respect.
"Oh dear", groaned the unseen voice. "A terrible dive! He must be bitterly disappointed by his performance there. The judges most unimpressed. His chances of a medal totally ruined now."
The domestic refuse collection operative shook his head and returned to the dustcart.

Back in the kitchen, a hole opened up in the table beneath Nigel's Biro. Nigel's Biro obediently fell through it. The hole closed seamlessly, leaving no sign of ever having existed. It should be noted that there were no Biros lying on the floor beneath the table.

The man with the hardest job in the universe strode purposefully into a room. The room was full of people sitting at computer consoles, and the front wall was lined with large video screens. It conjured up phrases like "ground control" and "strategic air defense".
The largest of the screens contained an image of Nigel's mum's kitchen table. Several of the smaller ones contained little spinning computer graphics of a Biro.
The man with the hardest job in the universe watched the proceedings for a while. Finally he said, "is it just me, or is it a bit hot in here?"

After leaving the house, Nigel had proceeded down the garden path and out onto the pavement, whereupon he had promptly tripped over a sizeable bulge in the freshly-laid asphalt. Getting up he realised that there was a second lump next to it, and this one seemed to be the source of some kind of noise. Nigel crouched down and put his ear to the mound. He fancied that he could almost hear a muffled voice shouting "Help! Get me out of here!"
Dismissing this improbable occurance as a figment of his imagination, Nigel got up and made his way to the bus stop. There he examined the timetable, applying a formula of his own formulation: Note the alleged arrival time of the next bus, and of the following bus. Multiply the interval between the two by five, round up to the next whole hour, and the resulting period would be the maximum one could expect to wait for a bus.
In fact, Nigel was so engrossed in this calculation that he almost failed to notice the bus arriving. This would have been surprising had the bus been what is traditionally accepted as such - a noisy, red, hulking, double-decked behemoth of a vehicle - rather than what it actually was. What it actually was was some kind of stunted red minibus, only with less seats. The bus company called these curious contraptions Hoppas, because they did not hop in any sense of the word.
Fortunately, Nigel knew a foolproof technique for getting a seat on a Hoppa.
Unfortunately, Nigel wasn't old enough to be a bus driver.
Fortunately, there was by some miracle a vacant double seat.
Unfortunately, the moment Nigel sat down, a foul-smelling man sat next to him and proceeded to alternately talk to himself and pick his nose for the remainder of the journey.
Fortunately, the journey was a short one.
Unfortunately, upon trying to get up, Nigel discovered a patch of dark, sticky something which he had inadvertently sat in.
Fortunately, Nigel was more or less suitably prepared, and emerged from the bus moments later with a pair of scissors in one hand.
Unfortunately he also bore a large patch of tartan seat cover on the seat of his trousers.
The trials of bus travel over with for one morning, Nigel entered Hobbs End tube station and approached the ticket machine with some trepidation. Carefully he pressed the buttons relevant to his desired ticket type and destination.
The machine asked him to specify his desired ticket type and destination, which he did.
The machine asked for £1.50, which he duly inserted.
The machine gave him 50p back and asked him to specify his desired ticket type and destination, which he did.
The machine asked for £1.50, which he duly inserted.
The machine asked for £1.50, so Nigel kicked it.
The machine asked for Trafalger Square. Not being in possession of Trafalger Square, Nigel hoped the machine would settle for another kick.
The machine did not settle for another kick. It asked for "£NGE AVAI". Not being sure what that was, let alone whether he had one, Nigel kicked the machine again.
The machine gave him seventeen blank tickets and five US dollars in dimes. Nigel kicked it once more for luck.
The machine gave him a one-day Travelcard valid in no zones whatsoever. Nigel gave up and pressed the "Call for Assistance" button.
The machine lit up a big red sign bearing the words "BUY A CAR" and gave him a used fifty-unit Phonecard, a chewing gum wrapper, and a ten pence piece with bits of tinfoil glued to it.

The man with the hardest job in the universe was still looking at the big screen. It now contained an image of the very same ticket machine.
"Excellent", he said, sitting down. The chair collapsed.

Nigel took his seat on the train, putting next to him his schoolbag and the Sainsbury's carrier bag which contained his PE kit. He extracted a carton of drink from his bag, plunged the straw into the carton, and began sucking.
Sitting opposite Nigel was a gorgeous blonde who appeared a few years older than her school uniform suggested. Their eyes met, and hastily crept back to their respective sockets. She smiled at him. He smiled back. As they gazed into the depths of each other's souls, everything around them seemed to glide to a silent stop. For a long moment the world consisted of only the two of them.
The romantic spell was abruptly broken when Nigel choked on his Ribena. The girl looked on with concern while Nigel frantically waved his arms. Finally he signed to her in broken BSL⁽¹⁾, "Help! I have eaten straw in throat!"
Fortunately the girl got the message, leapt from her seat, shoved her hand down his throat, and pulled out the plastic drinking straw.
"Thankyou", said Nigel weakly.
"That's alright", said the girl. "Are you okay?"
Nigel nodded.
They both looked around. Despite the romantic spell having been broken when Nigel choked on his Ribena, no-one had told the rest of the world, which was still frozen in time. Nigel kicked the nearest commuter in the shin. Everything sprang into normal motion, and the man clutching his shin said something very uncomplimentary.
"Sorry", Nigel said, sitting down, "foot slipped."
The injured commuter got to his feet in order to facilitate the application of a swift beating.
"Oh dear", said Nigel.
The train picked that particular moment to screech to a sudden halt roughly adjacent to a station. The angry commuter lost his balance, toppled over, and landed in a heap on the floor.
Nigel hastily got up and dashed out onto the platform.
Two minutes later, as the train was halfway out of the station, it screeched to another sudden halt. Minutes later two men in railway uniform stormed in from the next carriage and looked around.
An elderly lady, her hand still on the emergency stop lever, pointed her walking stick at the Sainsbury's carrier bag which contained Nigel's PE kit. "That's a bomb", she declared.
A number of people leapt out of their seats and huddled together at the far end of the carriage.

Jeremy Granville's head tentatively emerged from under the duvet.
"Jeremy!" his mother once again yelled from downstairs. "You'll be late for school!"
"I don't wanna go", protested Jeremy.
"I shan't tell you again", his mum yelled.
"Good", said Jeremy, disappearing once again into the depths of the duvet.
"Jeremy Granville, get out of bed this instant or I'll come up there and drag you out!"
Jeremy snivelled from his bed.
"Right! I warned you!" yelled his mother and stormed up the stairs.
"Now get out of that bed!" she added, grabbing what she took to be a leg and pulling hard. For her efforts she was rewarded with a large teddy bear wrapped in a duvet, which she threw to one side.
"I don't wanna go to school", wailed Jeremy. "The boys in my class keep picking on me and I keep getting into trouble for it like the other day when I had to go to the headmaster and he told me off and it weren't my fault it was their fault because they keep calling me names and pushing me round and picking on me and I don't wanna go to school."
Jeremy's mother glared at him while he sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his pyjamas.
"I'm not going", Jeremy declared.
"Jeremy, you can't stay at home just because you don't get on with the boys in your class."
"And the girls", Jeremy added between sobs. "They pick on me too."
"I don't care who it is, you can't stay off school all the time."
"Why not?" demanded Jeremy indignantly.
"You're their teacher."

Nigel stood up. Mr Drymoult looked at him expectantly.
"I said I haven't got my maths homework", repeated Nigel.
"It's not maths", said Drymoult. "This month's National Chrysanthemum says it's called Numerical Technology. So why haven't you got it?"
"It's like this", said Nigel. "The cable TV company were digging up our street last night and they inadvertently punctured the water main with the sharp end of their JCB. The ensuing deluge flooded the ground floor of our house, where my homework question sheet was unfortunately situated. When the waters had subsided I was most distressed to find it reduced to a small dollop of papier mâché, its contents rendered quite unreadable."
Drymoult opened his mouth to say something, but Nigel continued. "Naturally my first thought was to telephone one of my classmates and obtain the necessary information from them. Sadly it transpired that the wayward JCB had also severed our telephone line. Thus I was forced to make my way on foot to the abode of a friend who could furnish me with the questions. By the time I returned home night had fallen. Upon operating my bedroom light switch I discovered that the electricity supply had also met with certain death. I would have lit a candle or two, but for the smell of gas issuing from the roadworks and permeating the house.
"Even had I been able to see, concentration was almost impossible with the noise of the Gas Board outside, especially when the Electricity Board sent their contingent of workmen along and a heated argument began with regard to the matter of whose repairs were more important. When two burly Irishmen from the Water Board arrived and sided with the gasmen, a fight broke out. Then a funny-looking man pulled up in a British Telecom van and everyone turned on him. I'm not sure where the cable TV men were during all this, but I did notice a couple of suspicious lumps in the pavement this morning.
"Anyhow, this matters not one jot, for I did my homework in the garden shed, well away from all the action. Unfortunately when the gas board temporarily evacuated the street, I was in too much of a hurry to pick it up, and it thus resided in the shed for the remainder of the night."
Drymoult gave him a look. The look said where is it now then?
"Regrettably", Nigel continued, "the shed and its contents were rendered inaccessible, if not utterly destroyed, by the impact of a large meteorite at approximately three o'clock this very morning."

Meanwhile, in a dark and sinister castle at the summit of a nearby hill, an archetypal mad scientist stood in his laboratory, masterminding his plan of vengeance against the world.
It was a pretty good laboratory, as laboratories go. It had the rough stone walls. It had tiny slits of window lit by flashes of lightning, and if you looked out through one of them you would even see a large crowd of villagers marching upon the castle, bearing burning torches and a variety of agricultural handtools.
The lab boasted miles of contorted glass tubing, through which bubbled various coloured liquids. It also had big metal spheres and antennae with megavolts of electricity arcing across them with Bzzzzzzt noises. It also had what looked like a brass satellite dish, pointed down at a clear space in the centre of the room. And of course, there was a big panel on the wall with lots of switches on.
None of your nice neat little domestic push-button light switch nonsense here, mind you. These were real switches, great big lever affairs with dangerously exposed metal contacts. When you threw one, it went ka-chunk and great big sparks flew everywhere⁽²⁾.
"Igor!" the mad scientist yelled. No lab would be complete without one.
"Yes Master?" said the hunchback, who had been lurking in a corner.
"Throw the switch, Igor!"
Igor squinted at the panel with his good eye⁽³⁾. There were an awful lot of switches.
"Which one, Master?"
"That one, imbecile!"
Igor tore the switch off the wall and threw it. It hit the opposite wall with a thunk.
"Not that sort of throw, fool!" yelled the scientist, making a mental note to get onto that employment agency in the morning.
"Sorry Master."
"Now throw the other switch!"
Igor operated the switch. It went ka-chunk and big sparks flew everywhere. The coloured liquid increased its bubbling, and the metal spheres and antennae went Bzzzzzzzt with a vengeance.
"Now, Igor! Activate the time displacement unit!"
"Yes Master", said Igor, throwing another switch. The Bzzzzzzzt was almost deafening. In the middle of the room, the brass satellite dish began to glow. The air beneath it began to crackle and glow, and for a moment the space was filled with a blinding ball of light.
The scientist shielded his eyes. Igor stared at the light, and drooled a little.
The light faded. In its place stood a figure. A figure which looked not unlike a naked Arnold Schwarzenegger. The figure grabbed a convenient Uzi 9mm from a nearby table.
"Again Igor, again!" yelled the scientist.
Arnie aimed at him and said, "Hasta la vis-", before vanishing in another ball of light.
"Perfect!" yelled the scientist. "It works perfectly! Now, Igor, reset the projection co-ordinates to the target site!"
Igor gave him a somewhat misshapen puzzled look.
"Point the projector out of the window!"
"Yes Master", said Igor, carrying the brass satellite dish to the window.
"Now Igor, we shall summon them!"
"You mean I shall summon them while you stand there giving orders", muttered Igor.
"What was that, Igor?"
"Nothing, Master."

Of all the endangered species in the world, one we hear very little of is the Nice PE Teacher. This can be differentiated from the more common Nasty PE Teacher by its distinctive behaviour. The Nice PE Teacher wouldn't even dream of sending children out in the pouring rain, advocate the use of warm water in showers, and should you ever forget your kit, will ask you to please try and remember it next time, and leave you to sit in a corner to watch the lesson.
Nigel was currently standing in front of a member of the more common species, explaining that his PE kit was currently occupying an unspecified location somewhere on the Central Line.
"It's not PE", pointed out Gordon de Sade, teacher of PE and number one fan of The Next Generation's Commander William Riker. "This month's National Circumcision says it's called Competitive Physical Technology."
Telling de Sade that he'd forgotten his kit was a rather pointless formality. Even before the tracksuited gorilla told him, Nigel had already known what to do, and now headed for the cupboard.
The cupboard, attached to the changing room, boasted a varied range of contents. The more disruptive elements of the class had once taken very briefly to grabbing one of the more disrupted elements of the class, throwing him in, shutting the door, and leaning against it to prevent his escape. The extreme brevity of this particular fad owed much to the fact that the cupboard door opened inwards.
More usually the cupboard was home to a variety of sporting accessories: decaying and/or deflated balls of various shapes and sizes, shapeless chunks of splintered wood purporting to be bats, mouldering crash mats with the physical properties of reinforced concrete, stringless corpses of tennis racquets, torn nets, sticky wickets, broken hurdles, bent javelins, and much much more. And in the corner, squatting in the darkness, was a large black plastic sack of the type more accustomed to carrying domestic refuse. No self-respecting household rubbish, however, would have been seen dead in this bag. It held the Spare PE Kit, the most filthy, disgusting collection of garments anywhere in the world.
Nigel opened the bag tentatively, as if expecting something to leap out and grab him. Nothing did, but if any item of clothing in the world was capable of such a feat, this is where it would be. Instead a damp, slightly muddy smell slunk out and filled the cupboard. Unperturbed, Nigel peered inside. Well, okay, actually he was exceedingly perturbed, but he had very little choice in the matter. So: Exceedingly perturbed, but very short of alternatives, Nigel peered inside. Very, very carefully, he took the nearest item between thumb and forefinger, pulled it out of the bag, and examined it at arm's length. It seemed to be a lump of mud with a football sock stuck to it. Deciding he wouldn't be any worse off without it, he dropped it back in the bag. The next object he pulled out was a rough approximation of a plimsoll, which he put to one side in the rather vague hope of finding its companion. Following that was not the other plimsoll, but a small pink leotard. He frowned at this, wondering how it had ever found its way into the boys' changing room, and dropped it back. Next was a football boot with no lace, which he left with the plimsoll; another sock, quickly discarded; half a T-shirt, also useless. Finally, he found a pair of shorts. Damp, muddy, but shorts nonetheless. He put these to one side and was about to continue the search in the hope of at least finding a little more footwear when de Sade's voice yelled at him to hurry up. Nigel hated it when this happened. Every time he forgot his kit, and found himself kneeling in the cupboard rummaging through the bag, its contents seemed to be completely different. Last week he'd found a matching pair of trainers, almost new, in his size and all.
He looked at the boot and the plimsoll. They didn't match by any stretch of the imagination, but there was no reason why he couldn't wear them - except that he didn't have two left feet. Nevertheless he somewhat reluctantly changed into the items he had uncovered and made his way onto - or rather into - the school field.
Nigel had never quite figured out the point of the game they were playing. He knew it involved at least two teams and a funny-shaped ball, but beyond that he was mystified. His current favourite theory was that the team whose members rolled around in the mud the most, won the game. Nigel played to lose.

De Sade stood watching at the edge of the field, complete with wellington boots, umbrella, woolly hat, three jumpers, thick overcoat, two pairs of trousers, gloves, scarf and cup of hot coffee. A little boy emerged from the building and waded towards him with a note in his hand. De Sade read the note and followed the little boy back inside. He returned ten minutes later looking deeply troubled.

A hour and a half later Nigel crawled out of the field and into the changing room. He removed his shorts and threw them back into the cupboard whence it came, crawled into a piping cold shower, and from there crawled to the corner where he'd left his school uniform. It wasn't there. "Oh dear" said Nigel.

Nigel emerged from the changing room wearing naught but his trusty green anorak with the furry orange lining. With the day's lessons over, he headed to the boys' toilets.
No sooner had he taken up his position at the urinal, than he heard a voice from behind a nearby cubicle door.
"Ow", said the voice. "That's my foot."
"Quit shoving", said another voice from the same cubicle.
"You started it", said a third.
"I did not."
"Will whoever's standing on my foot please get off!"
"It isn't me."
"Or me."
"It must be one of you."
"Nope."
"Not me."
"Oh, sorry, it's my other foot."
"Give me a leg up."
"Ow."
"Sorry."
"Can you see anything?"
"Only the door. Can't you get me up any higher?"
"I'll try."
"Ow."
"How's that?"
"I - aaargh!"
There was a soft thud like a person landing on another person, followed by a sharp thunk like someone's head hitting a toilet bowl.
"Ow."
"My head."
Nigel crept very slowly and very quietly towards the cubicle.
"Go up and have another look", one of the three voices said.
"No fear", said another. "You almost killed me just now."
"Rubbish. You're fine."
"Only because he landed on me."
"You're fine too."
"No I'm not. I bashed my head."
"Oh shut up."
"But it hurts."
Nigel, in his slow and quiet creepings, placed his bare left foot squarely in a puddle of dubious content. "Eeurgh", he remarked a little too loudly.
"Shhh!" said one voice.
"What?" whispered another.
"There's someone out there", whispered the first.
"I'll take a look", whispered the third.
"Ow."
A head, largely hidden in a black hood, rose over the top of the cubicle door. It carried on rising until neck and sholders became visible, then hit a pipe and vanished back behind the door.
"Ow."
"What did you do that for?"
"Sorry."
"Shhh."
"It's him."
"Who?"
"Him. Outside."
"Oh."
"What, now?"
"Yes, now."
"Well what are we waiting for?"
"Where's the lock?"
"I've got it."
"Ow."
"No I haven't. Sorry."
"Here it is."
The little panel on the door clicked over from 'ENGAGED' to 'VACANT', the door swung open, and three men in black cloaks tumbled out.
Nigel turned and made to run for the door, slipped over on the very same puddle of dubious content, and fell over. Two of the three men grabbed him, hauled him roughly to his feet, and searched his anorak. The third man emptied Nigel's bag and examined the contents.
When the three men had satisfied themselves that Nigel was not carrying whatever they were looking for, they stuck his bag over his head, shoved him to the ground and kicked him a few times.
A minute or two later, someone helped him to his feet and pulled the bag off his head.
"Are you alright?", asked the very same girl he'd met on the train that morning. The three men were nowhere to be seen.
"What are you doing here?" asked Nigel.
"I heard your screams."
"But you can't come in here", complained Nigel. "You're a girl", he added, adjusting his anorak.
"Oh, don't mention it. No thanks necessary. Glad to be of service."
"Um, thankyou", said Nigel.
" 'Sokay", said the girl. "What happened?"
"Three men in black cloaks. They were hiding in this cubicle here."
Nigel led her to the appropriate cubicle.
"Did you get a look at their faces?"
Nigel looked in the bowl. "No", he said. "They must have flushed it. Oh, sorry, faces. No. Their cloaks had hoods."

Nigel and his companion made their way to the station. They got there just in time to see the bomb squad executing the controlled explosion of a suspicious package.
A piece of debris from the explosion fluttered down out of the sky and landed squarely on Nigel's head. His friend pulled it off. It was a smouldering football sock.
She laughed. "This sock must belong to someone so stupid that they need instructions for putting it on. There's a little tag inside with LEG IN written on it."
"Actually it's mine", confessed Nigel. "And those aren't instructions. My mum sewed the name tag in back to front."
"Oh", she said as they made their way to the platform. "You're a Nigel, then?"
"Yes", Nigel confessed. "What's your name?"
"Fanny", the girl replied.
"That's a nice name", said Nigel.

The three cloaked figures, having completed their search of Nigel's house, congregated in the kitchen. One looked thoughtfully at the smoking rock in the back garden.
"Here, you two", he said, "what's that out there?"
"Don't care", said another.
"Let's go and take a look", said the first one again.
They all trooped into the back garden.
"Looks like a meteorite or something", said the first man, stepping forward for a closer look.
"So what?" asked the second sullenly.
"What's wrong with you?" the third man asked the second.
"It's that bloody tuck shop they put me in charge of."
"What about it?" asked the second.
Unseen by the three men, a tiny hole opened up in the top of the meteorite.
"It's that order we placed a couple of months ago."
"Which order?"
"From them people who make the Mars Bars and stuff."
"Oh, you mean Mars Confectionery."
Something peered cautiously from the hole in the meteorite.
"Yeah, that's them."
"Have you tried asking them what's going on?"
"Yes, we tried. But they won't answer the phone and just ignore all our letters. They haven't sent us a reply or anything. If they don't send us something soon we'll have to give up on them."
"You don't think them sending anything is very likely, then?" said the third man to the second.
"The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one", he said.
The thing sticking out of the meteorite pointed itself at the three men and vaporised them on the spot.

"This is my house", announced Nigel, rooting around in various anorak pockets for the front door key.
The door open, he led her inside and gave her the quick guided tour.
"Hallway. Living room. Kitchen. Garden. Smouldering meteorite. Three empty cloaks. Stairs. Bathroom. Bedroom...Hang on", he said, running back downstairs to the garden.
There were indeed three cloaks lying in the garden. Each one had a pair of shoes and socks poking out the bottom.
"They're just lying there", said Nigel.
"Almost as if their occupants had been vaporised on the spot."
"These are the cloaks those three men were wearing. The ones who attacked me."
"Let's look inside", said Fanny. "We might find some clue as to who they were."

⁽¹⁾ Every time Nigel was ill he spent the day off watching the schools programmes on telly, several of which incorporated the little man in the corner of the screen doing British Sign Language. Over the years he had consequently picked up a useful smattering of said language.

⁽²⁾ Technically they are known as knife switches, because like knives they are bloody dangerous. They have two known uses. One is demonstrating to children how electricity works, the other is sitting on the walls of labs like this one looking impressive. The old movies just wouldn't be the same if Dr Frankenstein powered up his famous monster with a nice little moulded plastic light switch, now would they?

⁽³⁾ Well, at any rate, the eye which wasn't quite as bad as the other one.