Overtime. Part 41

The man leaned forward and whispered. 'It's OK,' he said, 'you can tell me, I'm a reporter. Is something going on around here?'

'Yes,' Guy replied.

The man stared - at least, he stared even more. 'You mean -'

'It's a ... a plot of some kind,' Guy said. 'And I've got to go and tell someone something terribly important, so if you'd just -'

'Can I come?'

Guy turned his head and stared. 'You want to come?' he said.

'Sounds to me like there's a story in it,' the man replied. 'You know, like a scoop or something.'

Guy narrowed his eyes for a moment. 'Are you from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle?' he asked.

'You what? I'm from the BBC.'

'The BBC,' Guy repeated. 'You mean the British Broadcasting Corporation?'

'Yes, of course I mean the -'

'What date was it when you left home this morning?'

The man gave him a look of almost liquid bewilderment. '5th April 1994,' he replied. 'Look, what is

'Thank you,' Guy said. 'Have you nearly finished with that rope?'

'There,' the man answered, 'try that.'

Guy flexed his arms and felt his hands come free. He dived forward, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the club sandwich from where it had fallen, and ate it, very quickly.

'That's better', he said. 'You have no idea how much better I feel now.' He grabbed the bread knife and started sawing through the ropes that constrained his ankles.

'Don't mention it,' the man said. He had reached into his pocket and taken out a notebook. 'Now, then,' he said, 'what's happening?'

Guy cut the last strand of rope, put down the knife, and levered himself gingerly to his feet. 'Don't worry about it,' he said, 'it's nothing, really. Just a little -' he searched for the right word - 'temporary problem. Soon get it sorted out. Have a sausage roll, they're really good. Really good.'

'No thanks. Look

'Suit yourself,' Guy replied, and he tipped the rest of the plateful into his pocket, shoved a jam tart into his mouth, and started to run. The man tried to follow him, but fell over a packing-case, banged his head and pa.s.sed out.

This was a pity, because if he hadn't he would have been the only reporter to have witnessed one of the most crucial events in history - in all history, past, present and future. As it was, he came round to find himself fast asleep on a bench in Central Park, with a sore head and a calf-bound copy of Silas Marner in his left hand, where his reporter's notebook had been when he fell over.

Some people are just plain unlucky.

Guy ran out of the room into what turned out to be a corridor, stopped and looked both ways. Nothing. Nor any indication of which way he should go. He could hear the music, which seemed to be coming from directly above his head. A great deal of help that was.

Being one of those people who automatically turns left unless firmly directed to do otherwise, Guy ran down the left branch of the corridor, and so arrived at a gla.s.s fire door, which was locked.

Oh good, he thought, I've always wanted to do this.

He picked up a nearby fire extinguisher, ate a sausage roll, and attacked. The gla.s.s was much tougher than it looked, but not nearly tough enough, and when Guy had quite finished, he reached through, found the bolt on the other side, drew it back and opened the door. Easy.

Standing on the other side of the door, hands on hips and looking decidedly unfriendly, was La Beale Isoud.

'There you are,' she said. 'I've been looking for you everywhere.'

Guy noticed that he was still holding the fire extinguisher, and that he had slightly grazed his hand on the gla.s.s. He put the extinguisher down slowly and found a weak smile from somewhere.

'You have?' he said.

'Yes,' replied La Beale Isoud. 'You've got to warn Blondel.'

'Why can't you do it?'

'What?'

'You've got the message,' Guy replied. 'You probably know what's going on. You tell him.'

'Don't be stupid,' La Beale Isoud replied. 'You're supposed to be a man, aren't you?'

'What's that got to do with -'

'It's probably dangerous,' said La Beale Isoud, fiercely. 'Are you saying you'd just stand there and leave a defenceless woman to -'

'All right, all right,' Guy said. 'You tell me how to find Blondel and I'll give him the message.'

'He's up there,' said La Beale Isoud, pointing to where the sound of someone singing Floret Silva n.o.bilis, rather well, was coming from, 'on the stage.'

'Yes,' Guy replied, 'thank you, I had actually worked that one out for myself. How exactly am I supposed to -'

'Go back down the corridor,' La Beale Isoud replied coldly, 'the way you came. It leads straight out into the wings. I suggest you wait for him to come off stage at the end of the first half.'

'What a truly brilliant plan,' Guy said. 'All right, what's the message?'

'Come on,' said Isoud, 'Follow me, and I'll tell you as we walk. But for heaven's sake don't dawdle.'

She turned and trotted briskly away. After a moment's instinctive thought, Guy ran after her and caught her up.

'I was sitting at home,' said La Beale Isoud, 'looking at the hyperfax -'

'What's a

'When the message came through which I couldn't make out. It said, Beware the one-armed man. Now even you'll agree that that's a very unusual message to get out of the blue like that.'

Guy ignored the even-you bit. 'Odd,' he agreed politely. 'Perhaps it was an advertis.e.m.e.nt for something.'