2am

"Would you like a lift, Dennis Brent?" asked Bignell.

"Yes" I said reluctantly. I had barely stepped in the direction of the car when he sped away. I sighed. Then I thought to myself that if I rushed into the bushes and hid, Bignell wouldn’t be able to ask me closed questions and I wouldn’t be wager-bound to answer in the affirmative. Even someone as limited as Bignell would get bored after a while without a puppet to tug the strings of. I was nestling in a convenient roadside bush when I heard Bignell’s car reverse as per his previous "jokes".

"Dennis Brent?" he called. "I’m sorry for japing you like that. I really would like to offer you a lift to wherever it is you are heading. Dennis Brent? Dennis Brent?" he called out and I was tempted to forgive him – this time he sounded sincere – but a voice in my head suggested that I would be better served staying in my bush. Then he would get the message. My plan was foolproof. Although, in reflection, I may have made it a little too foolproof.

"I’m hiding in a bush, Bignell, and won’t come out and let you play another practical pleasantry on me" I shouted. "I’m going to stay hidden until you’ve driven away and I can resume my walk back to Brent Towers."

"Oh, Dennis Brent, I can see I’ve gone too far with my rakish sense of humour. But I promise – Beaver’s Honour – that I will not leave here without you at my side. Two sensible colleagues in search of your home."

These were strong words. I knew I could trust Bignell. I clambered out of my bush, gave him a warm, understanding smile, and walked over to the passenger door of his car.

"SUCKAHHHHHHHHHHHHH" he cried as he roared off into the night.

"Oh hell" I swore. "He must’ve pressed the wrong peddle by accident again." But I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t rationalise Bignell’s behaviour as merely the contortions of fate. He was a cad with a mutated sense of humour and I was a man about to be ridiculed in our shared circles.

"Oh double hell" I swore again as I saw his brake lights flash, followed by his reversing lights, and finally his rear end returned to whence it had stood just moments ago. He let his window glide down.

"Leave me, Bignell, I would be alone" I told him.

"Dennis Brent, I have been a little over excited. I would consider it the smallest possible act of forgiveness if you would do me the honour of letting me give you the lift I promised you several hilarious minutes ago."

"Bignell, it is hard for me to say this but I have lost all faith in you. You have proved yourself to be a witless prole and I am going to cancel your membership of the Bendaton Beavers Old Boys Club as soon as I return to Brent Towers. Your two pounds will not be refunded. Good evening." I turned and walked away. It mattered not that each step was almost certainly taking me away from my home. It was taking me away from Bignell and that is all that mattered.

"Dennis Brent" he called but I pretended to ignore him. "Dennis Brent…"

I started humming to drown out the siren-like qualities of his cries. I mean siren in the classical sense of luring men to their doom. I don’t mean to imply that Bignell had become insensible and had started going "Wahhh wahhh wahhh wahhh wahhh wahhh".

"Dennis Brent" he called one last time. "Can you forgive me?"

Oh bother. Another direct, closed question. Double bother and an appendix of hell.

"Yes" I muttered, hoping he wouldn’t hear me. I thought I might’ve stumbled onto a fascinating and useful loophole in the terms and conditions of my wager with Philip Stiffit.

"Excellent – hop in" he said, evidently possessing keener hearing than I had given him credit for. I made a mental note to ask him round to check that my 7.1 surround sound system was giving me all the sound channels I had paid for and turned to face him. It was like a wild west stand off except that he was in his car and I was holding a satchel. I decided to match cunning with cunning. I walked, very slowly, towards his car. Then, at the critical moment, I converted to full sprint and tried to catch him unawares. My sudden gust of speed wouldn’t give him time to race off. Had I not tripped over my feet as soon as I passed "brisk walking" pace I am sure my plan would’ve been successful. I landed face-first in the mud. I raised my caked head up to see whether Bignell had noticed my lapse (he had) and got a face full of exhaust fumes. I decided to do literally the only thing one could do in such a situation.

"Dennis Brent?" called Bignell after five minutes of silence (on my part, he had laughed heartily until throwing up in the lay-by’s rubbish bin). I pretended to be dead. Or at least very badly injured. I snuck a look and estimated how far it was from my current position to the passenger door. I then calculated how long it would take Bignell to get from my side (assuming he came to check if I was alive or not) to the driver’s seat. The odds were very much in my favour. After ten or so minutes he wandered over and kicked me.

"Dennis Brent? Are you ok?" he asked between draws on his cigarette. Evidently my possible demise was just an excuse for him to get out of his car and smoke. I let out a groan. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"Yes... my… my leg…" I gasped with all the conviction of a man who has trod the boards of the Bendaton Meat Fanciers Club stage. Bignell moved round to have a look at my legs. When he was as far from his car as I could reasonably expect he would get I leapt to my feet and threw myself at the passenger door. I rattled the handle, forced open the door and slid into the passenger seat. I closed the door, put on my seat belt and waited for Bignell.

"Do you want a lift somewhere?" he asked as though innocent of past crimes.

"Yes" I said, pleased to be able to use the word honestly for a change.

"You should’ve said" he added with a smug twinkle in his eye. "You live in Shagford don’t you?"

Curse the man. I hated Bignell at that moment and I am, as you well know, about as tolerant a man as you’ll find.

"Yes" I said painfully and we drove off.