‘Rivet,’ said the big bad wolf. ‘Rivet rivet rivet.’

The owl, seconded to Wolfpack by Avian Intelligence, translated. ‘What he’s trying to say,’ she chirped, ‘is that he’s going to, um, croak and wobble his cheeks in and out and then he’s going to blow your house down.’ She paused and pecked at her pin-feathers with her beak. ‘At least, I think that’s what he said,’ she added doubtfully. ‘Look, you in the bunker. Is any of this making sense to you guys? My frog’s a bit rusty.’

Inside the bunker’s command centre, Eugene made a great effort and forbore from making the obvious reply. ‘I get the message,’ he said. ‘You tell him from me he can save his breath.’ He frowned, reflecting that under the circumstances, he could have phrased that a whole lot better. ‘Frogs don’t frighten me,’ he went on firmly. ‘Who ever heard of a frog who—?’

Later, in hospital, once he’d come round from the coma, Eugene reckoned that the method the frog had used must have been something like blowing the yolk of an egg through a pinhole in the opposite end of the shell. He explained it to his brothers in those terms.

Julian closed his mouth, which had flopped open like the tailgate of one of those lorries they transport cheap televisions on. ‘A frog did that?’ he whispered.

Eugene nodded, as far as the neck restraint would allow. ‘Small green frog, about the size of an apple. Julian, what’s going on? This is all beginning to get out of trotter.’

Julian sat for a while, fidgeting with his nose-ring. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally admitted. ‘From time to time I think I’m starting to see a bit of the big picture, and then it all goes fuzzy on me again. Rather than understand it, let’s try doing something about it instead. I tracked down that dwarf.’

Eugene raised his eyebrow, the one that wasn’t trussed up in splints. ‘You mean the dwarf with no name?’

Julian nodded. ‘Actually, his name’s Dumpy. Anyway, he’s agreed to help us out, and he’s recruiting the other dwarves he says he’ll need.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Eugene sighed. ‘This is going to be expensive,’ he said.

‘Probably. But don’t worry, we’ll cope. You concentrate on getting better. You got any idea how much it’s costing us per day having you in here?’

‘It’s not exactly a fun place to be,’ Eugene replied bitterly. ‘It’s full of horribly mutilated people. One guy they brought in yesterday, he was so badly smashed up he came in six separate carrier bags.’

‘Jeez,’ Desmond muttered. ‘So what happened to him?’

‘Fell off a wall, so I heard. It was so bad they had to call in a specialist team of surgeons from the military. They got him fixed up, though, eventually.’

Julian looked up sharply. ‘They did?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. Wonderful job, by all accounts. That’s him, look, over there at the end by the wall. Big egg-shaped guy with no head.’

‘The one having his temperature taken by the polo pony?’

‘That’s the one. You know him?’

‘Heard of him,’ Julian replied. ‘I think.’ Doing his best not to be too obvious about it, he turned his head and took a long look. ‘Certainly seems to be in one piece now,’ he conceded, and the edge to his voice was sharp enough to cut rubber. ‘How about that?’

The patient in the next bed, who’d noticed Julian’s interest, grinned. ‘One hell of a show,’ she whispered. ‘He was in the theatre sixteen hours, so Sister told me. At one point they had a whole battalion of the Royal Engineers and seventy polo ponies in there working on him with rubber bands and glue. Wonderful, the things they can do now.’

Julian nodded, frowning. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, but don’t I know you from somewhere?’

‘I doubt it,’ the patient replied, ‘unless your line of work brings you in contact with hydraulic engineers, because that’s what I do. The name’s Jill, by the way. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ The pig looked away, then swivelled back sharply. Jill’s head was heavily bandaged. ‘Sorry if this sounds a bit personal,’ he said, ‘but do you work with somebody called Jack?’

‘My business partner. You’ve heard of us?’

‘I think so. Looks like a pretty nasty knock you’ve got there,’ he observed neutrally. ‘How d’you do it?’

Jill pulled a wry face. ‘Fell down a hill, of all the silly things to do. Jack was all right, but I wasn’t so lucky.’

‘Jack was all right…’

‘Oh yes. As in “I’m all right, Jack”, only the other way round. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason,’ Julian answered unconvincingly. ‘Just curious, that’s all.’

Not long afterwards, Sister came and slung the visitors out. As they walked home, Julian was unusually silent. Desmond, who’d been outlining his plan for a mobile home slung from the underside of a helium-filled airship (‘Away, yes. Away we can handle. Down, no.’) stopped dead in his tracks and waved a foreleg in front of Julian’s snout.

‘Julian?’ he said. ‘Snap out of it. You look like Uncle Claude just after they’d finished inserting the sage and onion.’

‘Sorry.’ Julian sighed. ‘I was just thinking about what Eugene said; you know, about things getting out of trotter. He’s right. Something very odd’s going on.’

‘So? Around here, it sort of goes with the territory.’

‘Maybe. I guess I need to think it through a bit more.’ He twitched his nose and sniffed, as if he’d just sensed truffles. ‘Suddenly I’m beginning to see things that probably aren’t there. You know, conspiracies and paranormal phenomena and cover-ups and everybody acting as if everything’s perfectly normal. There’s a word for it when you start doing that.’

‘American?’

‘Paranoid. Maybe I’m getting paranoid.’ He shook his shoulders. ‘The hell with it,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll buy us each a turnip down the Swill and Bucket.’

There was a new note on the front door of Avenging Dragon Cottage. It was written on scented pink notepaper, and it read:

‘Marvellous way with words she’s got,’ observed Mr Hiroshige, idly straightening the petals of a wind-blown flower with his mailed fingers.

Beside him, Mr Miroku nodded. ‘I particularly liked the way she used the image of spring, the time of renewal in nature, to suggest the need for a new dustbin bag. Whose turn is it?’

‘I did it last time,’ young Mr Akira pointed out. ‘And the time before that.’

The other two considered this. ‘In fact,’ pointed out Mr Miroku, ‘you already have considerable experience in emptying dustbins.’

‘True,’ said Mr Akira.

‘Expertise, even.’

‘I suppose so. Not that it’s all that difficult.’

‘To you, maybe not,’ said Mr Miroku gracefully. ‘Likewise, the trained ivory-carver has no difficulty creating a perfect netsuke out of a tiny scrap of waste bone, whereas you and I wouldn’t know where to start. I expect your children will find it easier still, and so on down the generations.’ He smiled. ‘You carry on,’ he said. ‘You don’t mind if we watch, do you? It’s always inspiring to watch a craftsman at work.’

Mr Akira shrugged and went off round the side of the cottage. A little later he came back holding two densely stuffed black plastic bags.

‘Observe,’ said Mr Hiroshige thoughtfully, ‘how he’s holding one in each hand, so as to equalise the weight distribution. The boy’s clearly got a flair for it.’

Mr Akira couldn’t help simpering a little with pride. They were, after all, fully accredited adepts in the Way, whereas he was little more than a novice. As he shifted his grip on the left-hand bag a little, there was more than a touch of conscious élan about the movement.

‘Correct me if I’m mistaken,’ said Mr Miroku, stopping him with a courteous gesture, ‘but isn’t this the point where you put the plastic bags in the big PVC dustbin up by the garden gate?’