“Followed by a slap-up lunch,” said Jack.

“Why, yes.”

“Followed by more, how shall I put it, indoctrination?”

“Well,” said the man in beige. And he removed his arm from Jack’s shoulders.

“Just so,” said Jack. “But I think not.”

“I do not fully understand you.”

“Then perhaps you will understand this.” And Jack pulled from his trenchcoat pocket the cleaver that he had used the previous day for the decerebration of the chickens.

“Oh,” said the man in beige. “What is this?”

“This,” said Jack, “is a cleaver, And if you do not take me, at once, to your leader, I will use it to cut off your head.”

Now this caused some alarm, not only from the man in beige and the lovely on the stage, but also from the seated chosen ones, who now unseated themselves, preparing to flee.

“And sit down, you lot,” shouted Dorothy. Pulling, much to Jack’s surprise, two pistols from her clothing. “Anybody moves and you’re dead.”

Jack looked at Dorothy.

Dorothy smiled. “Well, get a move on,” she said.

18

There are moments.

Sometimes.

Special moments. Magic moments. Moments when everything becomes as clear as the air and you can see right through it, into eternity.

These moments are often reached via the medium of alcohol. In England, for example, where most folk wear bowler hats, take tea at three and know the Queen well, there are public drinking houses. And those who frequent these sociable establishments respect something that is known as the ten-o’clock watershed. It is understood that before this time, talk is generalised and covers many topics – the day’s news, recent sporting events, trivial this and thats.

But beyond the ten-o’clock watershed, certain matters are deemed acceptable that would otherwise be considered taboo. Friendship is one of these and many is the time when two large masculine fellows will be seen putting their arms about one another and swearing to anyone who would care to hear, and many who might care not, that “this is my bestest friend”. And “I love this man”.

And although at nine fifty-five this would not be deemed the thing-to-do, beyond the ten-o’clock watershed it is A-okay.

This is but one example and the cynical reader might lean towards the opinion that it is in fact “the alcohol speaking”, rather than a moment. A special moment.

But who amongst us has not experienced a special moment? A moment of total clarity. A reality check. A revelation.

As Jack held his cleaver over the beige man’s head, Jack experienced such a special moment.

For Jack it was not peace, or love, or a semi-religious revelation.

For Jack it was more a case of WHAT IN THE NAME OF ANY GOD THAT I MAY CARE TO BELIEVE IN AM I DOING?

It was a special moment. Jack saw the audience cowering beneath the guns of Dorothy. The beige man cowering, too, beneath Jack’s cleaver. The great golden room with its Californian sunlight slanting through the slats of the window blinds.

The sudden terrible reality of it all.

And for one moment, and a special one at that, Jack thought of fleeing, dropping that cleaver and running away. This was real, these were people. What was all the rest of it? Chickens, spaceships, walking, talking toys? Eddie was gone and Jack was here and for one terrible, special moment Jack wondered whether all that stuff, all that mad unlikely stuff, really was real. Perhaps, Jack thought to himself, he, Jack, had gone insane, and perhaps now, at this moment, he had reawakened from the nightmare of insanity to this moment of absolute clarity.

Jack hesitated, all in confusion, for there is a problem with special moments: they play havoc with all your previous moments.

And Jack’s hand loosened on his cleaver.

And Jack stared into the fearful face of the man in beige.

“I’m …” Jack was about to say “sorry”.

“Hurry up, Jack,” shouted Dorothy. “Pull yourself together. Eddie is in danger – don’t forget that.”

Jack blinked and gazed towards Dorothy.

Had she known what he was thinking?

Jack didn’t say, “I’m sorry.”

Well, he did, but he didn’t. He said. “I’m sorry, Mister Man In Beige, but if you do not take me at once to your leader, I will chop off your ear.”

“No, please have mercy.” The man in beige sank down to his knees. “Don’t hurt me, please, I’m innocent.”

“No one is innocent,” called Dorothy. “Get a move on, Jack.”

Jack hauled the beige man back to his feet. “Your leader or your ear,” said he.

“No, please.” The lovely on the stage wrung her beautiful hands. The manicured nails of the slender fingers twinkled in the spotlight. “Please don’t hurt him, please.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jack, “but my best friend has been kidnapped by someone in this building. Someone in power. I demand to be taken to this someone. Now!”

“But we don’t have the authority,” said the lovely. “We don’t know who you should speak to. Mister Tinto here –”

“What did you say?” asked Jack.

“Don’t say anything, Amelie,” said the man in beige.

“Amelie?” said Jack. “Mister Tinto? What is this?”

And then Jack saw it. Because perhaps this was the special moment. In fact, the other special moment, which had seemed like a special moment at the time, was, in fact, only a warm-up sort of special moment.

Jack stared hard at the man in beige.

And then Jack saw it.

And had a special moment.

The man in beige was Tinto. Well, he wasn’t the Tinto, but he was, well, what was he? Yes, he was a human manifestation, a human counterpart – he was the human version of Tinto. And the lovely? The lovely? Yes! Jack glanced at her and his glance became a stare. She was Amelie. Amelie made flesh.

Jack fell back for a moment, gawping and shaking his cleaver about. It was them. Why hadn’t he seen it immediately? He’d known there was something …

But …

“Jack!” shouted Dorothy, most loudly, too. “Jack, get a grip on yourself.”

“But it’s them.” And Jack did foolish pointings all around with his free hand. “It’s Amelie and Tinto. It’s them. It’s them if they were people. It is.”

Jack’s confusion turned to anger. As is often the case.

“Elevator,” said Jack. “Upstairs,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said Mr Tinto. “Anything you say.”

“Dorothy?” called Jack.

“I’ll follow,” said Dorothy. “Once I’ve dealt with this lot.”

“You’re not going to shoot them?”

Chefs and managers ducked and flinched.

“I’ll just have a word with them.”

“You promise?” Jack had some doubts in his head.

“I promise,” said Dorothy. And as Jack led Amelie and Mr Tinto from the stage, one hand on the beige man’s collar, the other holding the cleaver high, Dorothy addressed the shaking, trembling audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I am so sorry that this talk, which I’m sure you were all looking forward to, has been brought to a premature conclusion. I suggest now that you vacate the premises and do so in an orderly fashion. I would also strongly advise that you say nothing about what has occurred here. We have two hostages and should you inform the police, we will not hesitate to kill them. Do you understand?”

Heads nodded thoughtfully. Eyes strayed to the exit doors.

“Ah, just one more thing,” said Dorothy, “before you leave. Which one of you is it?”

The crowd, as one, made a puzzled face.

“Come on,” said Dorothy. “You know what I mean.”

The crowd, as one, shook its head.

“The hero,” said Dorothy. “The one who will stay behind. The one who although working as a chef used to work for Special Ops, or something, but got sacked through no fault of his own, which led to the break-up with his wife, a bit of a drink problem. But who, rising to such a situation as this, will slip away from the departing crowd, crawl through air-conditioning ducts and bring my companion and me to justice. There’s always one. We all know that.”