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“You know,” said Maeve helpfully, “I’m in a room behind the bookcase. I’m in there.”
They ignored her.
The woman crouched down and rummaged in the bin. “Bingo,” she said, and pulled out a man’s white shirt, spattered with dried blood. She placed it into a plastic bag. The stout man pulled out his phone.
“I want Forensic down here,” he said.
FAT CHARLIE NOW FOUND HIMSELF VIEWING HIS CELL AS A refuge rather than as a prison. Cells were deep inside the building, for a start, far from the haunts of even the most adventurous birds. And his brother was nowhere to be seen. He no longer minded that nothing ever happened in cell six. Nothing was infinitely preferable to most of the somethings he found himself coming up with. Even a world populated exclusively with castles and cockroaches and people named K was preferable to a world filled with malignant birds that whispered his name in chorus.
The door opened.
“Don’t you knock?” asked Fat Charlie.
“No,” said the policeman. “We don’t, actually. Your solicitor’s finally here.”
“Mister Merryman?” said Fat Charlie, and then he stopped. Leonard Merryman was a rotund gentleman with small gold spectacles, and the man behind the cop most definitely wasn’t.
“Everything’s fine,” said the man who wasn’t his solicitor. “You can leave us here.”
“Buzz when you’re done,” said the policeman, and he closed the door.
Spider took Fat Charlie by the hand. He said, “I’m busting you out of here.”
“But I don’t want to be busted out of here. I didn’t do anything.”
“Good reason for getting out.”
“But if I leave then I will have done something. I’ll be an escaped prisoner.”
“You’re not a prisoner,” said Spider, cheerfully. “You’ve not been charged with anything yet. You’re just helping them with their inquiries. Look, are you hungry?”
“A bit.”
“What do you want? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?”
Hot chocolate sounded extremely good to Fat Charlie. “I’d love a hot chocolate,” he said.
“Right,” said Spider. He grabbed Fat Charlie’s hand and said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“It makes it easier.”
Fat Charlie closed his eyes, although he was not certain what it would make easier. The world stretched and squeezed and Fat Charlie was certain that he was going to be sick. Then the inside of his mind settled down, and he felt a warm breeze touch his face.
He opened his eyes.
They were in the open air, in a large market square, somewhere that looked extremely un-English.
“Where is this?”
“I think it’s called Skopsie. Town in Italy or somewhere. I started coming here years ago. They do amazing hot chocolate here. Best I’ve ever had.”
They sat down at a small wooden table. It was painted fire-engine red. A waiter approached and said something to them in a language that didn’t sound like Italian to Fat Charlie. Spider said “Dos Chocolatos, dude,” and the man nodded and went away.
“Right,” said Fat Charlie. “Now you’ve got me into even deeper trouble. Now they’ll just do a manhunt or something. It’ll be in the papers.”
“What are they going to do?” asked Spider with a smile. “Send you to jail?”
