"No no" beamed Francois Devine. "I told you I was going to sort out the slight misunderstanding about Raymond Cusick’s black and white photographic blow-up and I have. I put out an appeal on the internet and these fine message board users were kind enough to volunteer."

"Volunteer for what?" I demanded.

"They’re going to colour in the photographic blow-up. I had to promise them curry afterwards but they were more than happy to come along and lend a hand."

"But they’re zombies" I insisted.

"I hardly think ‘Smasher’ would allow zombies to become members of his forum. Zombies cannot be sycophantic – that was clearly established in one of those old films. The undead can roar and stomp and kill people but they cannot gush, praise or lick boots."

"That sounds logical" I conceded. "How long will it take?"

"They should be done in about an hour – look – they’ve brought their own crayons."

The zombies waved their crayons.

"Will I be expected to join you on this curry outing?"

"Oh yes – they aren’t choosy at all."

"Hmm" I said before going inside to escape the smell.

I had quite a lot of tidying up to do what with one thing and another. It had been a disturbing few hours and the presence of Francois Devine, the blackmail man, Doctor Flapjack, the nose chap with the poor line in puns and the spectral form of my Uncle Gaylord had left my drawing room in quite a state. I picked over the remains of my bonfire (not actually touching anything with bare hands as I remembered how it had been put out). I held a shard of the rather severe portrait of my Uncle Gaylord in a latex covered hand and said a final farewell to the old fool.

"This isn’t goodbye" he snarled. "The terms of my will still state you have to keep my portrait up in the drawing room. It means you’ll have to get one of the other ones out of the attic."

"There’s more than one? I thought there was only the even more severe portrait of you, Uncle Gaylord."

"Nonsense – there are thirty eight of them and they cover the full range of both my facial expressions. Actually, I think you’ve burned the only friendly one. Yes, I remember the day it was painted. My wife – your Aunt Miffy – had tripped over a donkey while out painting and I laughed so hard that rum came out of my nose. I was in a good mood that day and the artist captured it to a tee."

I threw the shard of painting into the waste paper basket and hoped the madness would now stop. There was no place for insanity in the world of telehistorical research. Personality disorders were acceptable but out and out madness was strongly frowned upon.

I was sifting through more of the ashes and listening to the bickering from the zombies when Francois Devine came in to give me an update.

"They’ve fallen out again" he said.

"Well put them back in before coming to see me" I scolded.

"No no – not Barry and Terrance – the zombies as you like to call them."

"Barry and Terrance?" I asked, afraid of the answer.

"I thought everyone named their gentleman’s bits and pieces?"

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"Oh well – must just be Melba and I then."

"You’ve discussed your gentleman’s bits and pieces with Melba?" I was appalled.

"His are called Jamie and Zoë. I did try and explain that Zoë is a girl and therefore completely unsuitable but he insisted. He said one was smaller than the other."

"Yes yes – that’s quite enough of that" I snapped. "What progress is being made?"

"Well, one faction has started from the left of the photographic blow-up and the other has started from the right side. Unfortunately their choice of colour schemes is totally incompatible and they are arguing about who gets to do the middle section linking them together. The left hand faction has now split into two smaller factions with one claiming they are independent and should be allowed to do the middle bit in their own, totally different again, colour scheme while the right hand faction is united in their belief that no one from the left hand faction should be allowed anywhere near the middle. I’ve provisionally booked three separate tables for the curry."

I fumed in silence for a while. The blithering idiot had managed to make an already bad situation considerably worse. My black and white blow-up was now a Technicolor blow-up which from the sounds of it wouldn’t fool a Star Trek supporter.

"I tell you what "I said, "why don’t you go out there right now and tell them all off for being pathetically stupid."

"I will" he said.

"I’m burning with rage, Francois Devine, simply burning with rage."

"I’m burning with rage too, Dennis Brent." He turned to go out through the door but I stopped him.

"Come on – we’ll go through the hole – it will be quicker" I said. "We don’t want your rage to dissipate on the way round."

"Very good idea" he said. "I’m not an angry man by nature and might easily become calmed."

I lead the way with Francois Devine in hot pursuit. He pushed his way through the hole and suddenly came to a halt. "Dennis Brent?"

"Yes?"

"I’ve become wedged."

"Good. I hoped you would."

"You tricked me" he wailed.

"Yes. Yes I did. Sorry about that – you’ll be receiving a letter about it in three days time. If you’re still wedged I’ll bring it round to you."

"Well thank you very much" he said indignantly.

"I’m glad you appreciate it" I said wittily.

"Appreciate it? APPRECIATE IT?" he wailed. You commit mass deception and wedging on a scale that's almost inconceivable and you ask me to appreciate it?"

"Devil st…" I began but thought better of it. "Yes. Yes I did."

"But why, Dennis Brent? What's it for? Huh? What are you doing? What could possibly be worth all this?"

"Now that the hole is securely blocked I can go to bed at last. Hang the zombies, hang the photographic blow-up and hang the curry."

"You can’t leave me…" he said before falling silent. Or until I closed the back door and stopped listening to him.

Cruel to be kind.

Kind to myself. Cruel to Francois Devine.

It was his fault anyway.

THE END~!