“Something I can’t ask you now. Not until I’ve got myself sorted out.”

“Don’t sort yourself out for me, Jim. I like you just the way you are.”

“But I’m a loser and I’m fed up with it.”

“You are an individual.”

“That word is beginning to grate on my nerves.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, I didn’t mean you. Here, have another chip.” Jim fumbled with the bowl. “I can’t even eat properly when I’m with you.”

“Nor me. It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very good.”

“Bad,” said Dr Steven Malone. “Very bad boys.”

The two boys looked up at him. One golden, one dark, but otherwise so very much alike. They stood in a downstairs room of that house in Moby Dick Terrace. The house where the old couple had died of natural causes.

“You mustn’t keep wandering off,” the bad doctor told them. “You might get yourselves lost.”

“We cannot get lost, father,” said the golden child, gazing up with his glittering eyes. “We remember everything, every moment, everything.”

Dr Steven smiled a twisted smile. “Digital memory,” he said, “total recall with absolute accuracy. And what about you?” he asked the dark one.

“I forget nothing,” the dark one replied.

“That’s good.”

“Father,” said the golden child. “You said you would choose names for us today.”

“And when did I say that?”

“Precisely one hundred and twenty-three minutes ago.”

“Very good. And so I have. You,” he pointed to the golden child, “will henceforth be known as Cain. And you,” he pointed to the other, “Abel.”

“As in the Bible,” said Cain. “Genesis chapter four, verse one.”

“Bible?” Dr Steven’s face, already ashen, grew more ashen still. “What do you know about the Bible?”

“All,” said Abel. “We go to the library and read the books.”

“We are hungry to learn, father. Everything there is to be learned.”

“I will teach you all you need to know. Stay away from the library. Do not go there again, or…”

“You will punish us,” said Cain. “Lock us away once more in the dark place.”

“I like the dark place,” said Abel.

“Do not defy me.” Dr Steven rocked upon his heels. “You are too precious to my purpose.”

“And what is your purpose?”

“My purpose, Cain, is my own affair. But by the end of this year all will be made known.”

“Given our unnaturally accelerated growth-rate,” said Abel, “by the end of this year we will be the equivalent of thirty-three normal years of age.”

“Precisely correct. And then I will do what has to be done. And then I shall know all.”

“No man can know all,” said Cain. “Only God knows all.”

“Go to your room.” Dr Steven turned in profile, something he hadn’t done for a while, and pointed off the page. “No, wait. You, Abel, go to your room and switch on all the lights. You, Cain, go once more to the dark place.” Bastard!

24

“Two gentlemen to see you sir,” said Young Master Robert’s secretary. “A Mr Pooley and a Mr Omally.”

Young Master Robert fell back in his highly cushioned chair. “Not those bastards. Don’t let them in here.”

“Morning, Bobby boy,” said John Omally, breezing in.

“Wotcha, mate,” said Jim. “Nice office.”

John Omally gazed about the place. “A regular fine art gallery,” he observed.

“Or a shrine,” said Jim. “It all being dedicated to a single young woman.”

“Get out of my office or I’ll call for security.”

“This one’s signed,” said Jim, pointing to a poster. “To my greatest fan, love Pammy.”

“And look at this bookcase,” said John. “He’s got the complete collection of Bay Watch on video.”

“What are all these boxes of Kleenex for?” Jim asked.

“Get out!”

“Relax.” John made the gesture that means relax. It’s not quite the same as the calming gesture, but there’s not much in it. “Relax and take it easy. We’ve come here to make you rich.”

“I’m already rich.”

“Richer, then.”

“What’s that sticking out from under your desk?” asked Jim. “It looks like a plastic foot.”

John took a peep over. “It’s an inflatable Pammy,” he said.

“Call security!” cried Young Master Robert. “Call that new bloke Joe-Bob, tell him to bring the electric truncheon.”

“Calm down,” said John, and he made the calming gesture this time. “We really have come to make you richer.”

“As if you have.”

“We just want you to sample something.”

“Sample?”

“Jim, the bottle and the glass.”

“Coming right up.” Jim produced a bottle and a glass from his pockets, placed the glass upon the Young Master’s desk, uncorked the bottle and poured.

“Sample,” said John.

“Yes I bet it is. Your wee-wee, probably.”

“It is ale. Just take a taste. Spit it out if you want. Over me if you want.”

“Over you?”

“That’s how confident I am.”

“No, it’s all a trick. Ms Anderson, call security.”

“Ms Anderson?”

“He made me change my name,” said the secretary. “And I have to wear this padded bra.”

“Suits you,” said Jim. “But I don’t know about the wig.”

“Just taste the ale,” said John. “Here, I’ll have a little taste first, to prove it’s not poison.” John took a taste. And then he took another taste and then another taste. “Magic,” said John.

“You’ve drunk it all,” said Young Master Robert.

“Jim, the other bottle.”

Jim took out the other bottle, uncorked it and refilled the glass.

“Trick,” said Young Master Robert. “The second bottle’s poisoned.”

“Oh dear me.” John took up the glass once more.

“No, all right, I believe you.” Young Master Robert took the glass, sniffed at it suspiciously, then took a taste. And then he took another taste, and then another taste.

“Yes?” said John.

“Well, it’s all right. It’s OK, I mean.”

John Omally shook his head. “It’s magic,” he said. “That’s what you mean. It’s the finest ale you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

“It’s fair to middling.”

John Omally shrugged. “Well, Jim,” he said. “I suppose I lose the bet.”

“What bet?” said Young Master Robert.

“Jim bet me that the master brewer in Chiswick was a better judge of beer than you were. Naturally I defended your honour. It looks like it’s cost me a fiver.”

“You took this beer to the rival brewery?”

“Chap called Doveston. He’s won several awards. Certainly knows his beverages.”

“The man’s a buffoon. Fizzy drinks merchant.” Young Master Robert tasted the last of the ale. “It’s pretty good,” he said.

“Pretty good?” John laughed. “Mr Doveston was quite ecstatic in his praise of it. Heaping eulogies upon every savoured gobful. What was that song he sang for us, Jim?”

“Wasn’t it ‘Money Makes the World Go Around’?”

“Yes, that was it.”

“It’s very good,” said Young Master Robert. “Do you have any more?”

“Crates,” said John.

“And you brewed it?”

“A colleague and I.”

“This bloke?”

“Another colleague,” said John.

“Well, I’ll have to get this analysed. Make sure there are no impure chemicals.”

John snatched back the glass and bottle. “Oh no you don’t. The only way you will get it analysed is by pumping it out of your stomach.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing that,” said Ms Anderson. “In an anal-ized fashion.”

“Do you have a sister called Celia?” Jim asked.

“Well, we must be off,” said John. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do business with you.”

“Not so fast,” said Young Master Robert.

“You certainly think fast, John,” said Jim, as they sat once more upon the concrete bench before the library. “A ten-thousand-pound advance. Incredible.”

“Not bad, is it?” John waved the cheque in the air. “I’ll have to open a bank account.”

“And on condition that he restore the Swan to its former glory by the end of the week. Genius.”

“We function best under pressure, Jim. I’ve always found that.”