“Yes,” said Dorothy. “Fancy that.”

“If I believed in a God,” said Jack, “I would believe that he, she or it was smiling right down on me now. That he, or she, or it, had provided me with the miracle that I’d hoped for earlier.”

“Would you?” said Dorothy. “Would you really?”

“Yes,” said Jack. “I would.”

“Hey, officer,” the tall drab grey man with the short hair called out to Jack from the garage. “Your auto’s all done. Shall I bring it out?”

“Thanks,” said Jack. “Please do.”

Sounds of engine revvings were to be heard and then the tall man drove the black-and-white from the garage.

Jack gawped somewhat at the black-and-white. It had been totally repaired. The bodywork was perfect, resprayed and waxed, too. The windows had been replaced. There was a shiny new back bumper.

The tall man climbed from the car and tossed the keys to Jack.

Jack was all but speechless.

“There’s still a bit of rust inside the tailpipe,” said the tall mechanic. “I hope you don’t mind about that.”

Jack shook his head. “You fixed it all up,” he said. “That is incredible.”

“It’s nothing,” said the mechanic, getting to work on his hands with an oily rag. “After all, this is America.”

“Yes,” said Jack. “Quite so. So, er, what do I owe you?”

The tall mechanic winked. “Nothing at all,” he said. “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, if you know what I mean.”

“Not exactly,” said Jack.

“Well,” said the tall mechanic, “I have been guilty of one or two minor misdemeanours, and if you, as a police officer, could turn a blind eye to them, then we’re all square. Is that okay with you?”

“Absolutely,” said Jack, settling himself back behind the steering wheel and taking a sniff at the Magic Tree that now hung from the rear-view mirror. “This is America, after all. Consider yourself forgiven in the eyes of the law.”

“Why, thank you kindly, officer.” The tall mechanic closed the driver’s door upon Jack. Dorothy sat herself down on the passenger seat and patted at the refurbished upholstery.

“I mean, it’s no big deal,” said the tall mechanic. “And I only did twenty-three[43] of them.”

“Twenty-three,” said Jack, sticking the key into the ignition and giving it a little twist. The engine purred beautifully.

“And they all had it coming, those daughters of Satan. High-school girls with their skirts all up to here,” and he gestured to where these skirts were all up to. “Flaunting themselves. And those nuns, too.”

“Excuse me?” said Jack, looking up at the tall mechanic. All shadow-faced now, the sunlight behind him.

“Killed ’em quick and clean. Well, some not so clean, perhaps, but after all the torturing was done, they was begging for death anyway,” said the tall mechanic. “And I only ate the good bits.”

“Right,” said Jack. “Well, we have to be on our way now. Thank you for fixing the car.”

“No sweat!” The tall mechanic took a step back.

“Goodbye,” said Jack, and he drove away.

The tall mechanic sidled out onto the road, where he waved farewell with his oily rag.

“Twenty-three,” said Jack to Dorothy. “Did he just say what I thought he just said?”

Dorothy said, “Yes, he did.”

“That’s what I thought.” Jack halted the car.

The tall mechanic stepped out into the middle of the road. “Everything okay up there?” he called. “No trouble with the engine?”

Jack looked at Dorothy.

And Dorothy looked at Jack.

And then Jack put the car into reverse, revved the engine, let out the clutch and reversed at considerable speed over the tall mechanic.

And then, to be sure, as you have to be sure, drove over the body once more.

Then backed up a couple more times to be absolutely sure.

And then proceeded on his way.

No words passed between Dorothy and Jack for a while.

And when words did pass between them once again, these words did not include any reference to the tall mechanic.

“Slow down a bit,” said Dorothy. “We must be almost there.”

Jack slowed down a bit. “There?” he asked. “That dirt road, do you think?”

That dirt road had a big signpost beside it. The signpost read:

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT DRIVING UP HERE.

“I think we should drive up there,” said Dorothy.

Jack steered the spotless police car onto the dusty dirt road.

“What are you planning to do,” asked Dorothy, “when we get there?”

“Rescue Eddie,” said Jack.

“But we don’t know for certain that he’s there.”

“I do,” said Jack. “He is.”

“But you can’t know for certain.”

“Oh yes I can,” said Jack. “I can feel him. In here.” And Jack tapped at his temple. “The closer we get, the more I can feel him. I can feel him, and he’s hurting.”

And Eddie Bear was hurting. He’d been kept waiting about in a concrete corridor outside a big steel rivet-studded door for quite some time now. The other Jack had passed this quite some time by kicking Eddie up and down the corridor. So Eddie was really hurting. And hurting more than just from the kickings.

Eddie felt decidedly odd. Slightly removed from himself, somehow, as if he didn’t quite fit into his body any more. It was a decidedly odd and most disconcerting sensation. And it was not at all helped by the kickings.

The other Jack squared up for another boot. Bolts clunked and clanked and the big steel door slid open.

“Thanks for that,” said Eddie.

The other Jack ticked him through the opening.

Eddie came to rest upon a carpeted floor. It was most unpleasantly carpeted. With poo. Chicken poo.

“Urgh,” went Eddie, and he struggled up from the floor.

Eddie was now, it had to be said, a somewhat unsightly bear. He was thoroughly besmirched with sewage and cell dust and now chicken poo. Eddie was not a bear for cuddling, not a bear to be hugged.

“So,” said a voice, and Eddie searched for its source, “So, Mister Bear, we meet at last.”

Eddie could make out a desk of considerable proportions and behind this a chair, with its back turned to him. Behind this chair and affixed to the wall were numerous television screens and upon these were displayed numerous scenes of American life. Most being played out via the medium of the television show.

The shows meant nothing to Eddie and so he did not recognise George Reeves as Superman, Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy, Phil Silvers as Sergeant Bilko or Roy Rogers on Trigger.

On one TV screen, Eddie viewed a newscast. It showed scenes of devastation, crashed police cars, a wrecked AC Cobra and a Ford Mustang called Sally. And a photograph was being displayed also. A mugshot of a wanted man. Eddie gawped at the mugshot: it was a mugshot of Jack.

The desk and the chair back and the TV screens, too, were all besmutted with poo. Chicken poo. Eddie Bear sniffed at the air of this room. It must have smelled pretty bad. But Eddie Bear couldn’t smell it. Eddie Bear had no sense of smell left whatsoever.

“Who are you?” asked Eddie. “Who is this?”

The chair behind the desk swung around and Eddie Bear viewed the sitter.

The sitter on the chair was no chicken.

The sitter was Eddie Bear.

“Whoa,” went Jack and he shuddered.

“Are you all right?” asked Dorothy.

“Yes,” said Jack. “I suppose so. I went all cold there. Have you ever heard that expression about feeling as if someone just walked over your grave?”

“I’ve heard it, but I’ve never understood it.”

Jack peered out through the windscreen. He had the wipers on now – there was a lot of dust. “Are we nearly there yet?” he asked.

Dorothy did peerings also. “There’s something up ahead,” she said. “It looks like some big military installation with a big wire fence around it. What are you going to do?”