11pm

"Really?" he asked when confronted with my terrorist confession. "What is your next target?"

I mentally consulted my reading list and said "The Time Warrior." He didn’t seem impressed. I would’ve explained that this year I was doing them in alphabetical order, something no one had ever done before. Or if they had I didn’t know about it which is exactly the same thing.

"Have you blown anything up recently?" he demanded.

"I didn’t attend to it personally but I gave Ian Devine a box of pies to inflate my life-size season 19 Tardis Team. Sadly he got a bit excited when I opened the box in an effort to motivate him. He blew too hard and burst Adric’s head."

"Look, this is serious. Would you like to see a lawyer?"

"Would it cost me money?"

"No."

"Then I would very much like to see a lawyer."

He unbuttoned his tunic and took out a photograph. I looked at it. It was Leo McKern.

"Happy now?"

"Do you happen to have the date and time this picture was taken? It could be missing from my archives…"

"Just answer the question, sonny" he said.

"Yes" I replied. He took the picture from me – thereby reducing my happiness to almost zero (the fact that I wasn’t at home adding to the wear and tear on my carpets and furniture being my only spark of comfort) – and peered down at me.

"I can hold you here for a very long time. I could make you disappear all together. You are scum. You hear me? Scum. People like you should be ashamed of yourself and locked up and the key should be thrown away. If I had my way you’d be hung and then exported to Australia never to return."

He paused for breath and I wiped the spittle from my face with my monogrammed handkerchief.

"Look, I’m sure we can be friends" he continued. "You look like a sensible, clever man. I’ve no doubt we could sort this whole misunderstanding out without resorting to unpleasantness. Then maybe we could go for a drink and a meal together."

I was a little confused and was about to say something when his face reddened.

"Answer the questions or I’ll beat you to such a pulp that your own mother wouldn’t recognise you. I’ll tear out your years, break your teeth and do things to your legs that would shock even a historian."

"An historian" I corrected but he ignored me.

"If you don’t do exactly what I tell you I’ll make you wish you had never been conceived."

"Hold hard – that’s dangerously close to filth" I warned him. "I’m not above a bunch of fives if standards slip."

"Look, mate, why don’t we go to the canteen and get a bite to eat? Then we could have a chat about all this nonsense. Off the record, see?"

The cell door opened.

"How’s it going, constable?" asked a man in a raincoat.

"Not bad, sir. Potter is off today – he fell on a light bulb while hoovering – so I’m filling in for him. Normally he’d be the good cop and I’d be the bad cop but it’s actually working out quite well this way."

"An excellent potential economy, Opiate." The senior officer was about to leave us to it when he looked down at me.

"Sir?" asked the constable.

"Do you know who that is?" asked the officer.

"No sir.

"That’s Dennis Brent. You’ll have to let him go."

"Why’s that sir?"

"Are you new to the area, son?"

"My sister in law and I moved to the area a few weeks ago, sir."

"And you weren’t briefed about Dennis Brent? I shall have to have words with Sergeant Cardiff. Dennis Brent is well known in these parts. Best leave the man alone – he’s not worth the hassle. We once tried to imprison him but the inmates threatened to walk out. Don’t get involved with Dennis Brent, constable."

"No sir."

"What brought him to the station this evening?"

"Drunk in charge of a conga, sir. And I think he’s a terrorist."

"Firstly, drunk in charge of a conga isn’t actually a crime. It’s mildly annoying but if mild annoyance was grounds for arrest then every weatherman in England would be in our cells. Secondly, the most militant group Dennis Brent associates with is the Campaign for Real Sherry."

"Yes, sir."

"Let Mr Brent get to his feet, take him out to the car park and put him in a car."

"Yessir."

"Can we give you a lift, Mr Brent?"

Although the police station was within walking distance of Brent Towers I felt compelled to answer in the affirmative.

"Yes" I said.

"Splendid. Drop him off somewhere and make sure you’re back here in time to iron my trousers for tomorrow. I’d ask the wife to do it but I’m not married."

"Yesr"

Constable Opiate and I boarded the police car and he drove me off into the night.

"Anywhere along here would be fine" I told him as we approached Brent Towers.

"I’ll have to drive you to Shagford" he replied.

"Shagford? Have you run mad. That’s miles from here" I protested.

"I only learned to drive once I’d joined the force. I’m only qualified to park in police station car parks. Something about insurance and depth perception and me being colour blind."

"But I don’t want to go to Shagford" I repeated. I tried to jump from the car (he was only doing fifteen miles an hour at the time) but the doors were locked. Eventually he found the control which turned on the headlights. This spurred him into action and he pressed his foot hard on the accelerator. We lurched forward and sped towards Shagford.

I think my watch must’ve been damaged during my interrogation. Either that or he drove over the speed of light as it was five minutes earlier when we arrived at Shagford police station. Constable Opiate ran out of the car towards the station. He stopped half way, tossed me the keys, and asked me to lock up for him. I did so and left the keys on the roof. It would be a long walk back to Bendaton. I could’ve tried to find a late night bus but it would’ve meant throwing money away foolishly and a penny saved is a penny earning compound interest.

I had walked perhaps ten minutes when a voice hailed me from the darkness. Fearing an attack I gripped my satchel and I called out to them.

"Show yourself, I am not afraid" I announced. A woman, barely dressed, came out of the shadows.

"Are you looking for a good time?" she asked. She winked at me. What on earth did she mean? I looked at her with justified confusion. "Are you after a bit of business?" she said in what I can only assume was a poor attempt at clarification. I still stared at her, only half sure that she wasn’t some kind of nefarious robber in disguise. She handed me a piece of paper.

"Look, mate, that’s me price list. Do you wanna f-u-c-k or not?"

I was shocked. She’d used the ‘Impact’ font which surely everyone knows is unforgivable for basic text. Suddenly everything fell into place. She was a lady of the night. A woman of commercial virtue. A w-h-o-r-e. But morals are only morals whereas a wager is a wager. There was only one thing I could do.

"Yes" I said unsurely.