Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls Read Free Page A

seemed to have the time to see me. I told him that I intended to journey to the centre of the Earth and he agreed that when and indeed
if
I returned from doing so he would print my story. I offered him an exclusive. He was all for it. Said he’d hold the front page and everything.”
    “I suppose he would have,” said the editor.
    “And when I returned, successful, just two days ago, I telephoned this office and spoke once more with Mr Bacon and made an appointment and now I’m here.”
    “I suppose you are,” said the editor.
    “But you’re not Mr Bacon,” said Soap.
    “No,” said the editor, shaking his head.
    “I’m now extremely confused.”
    “Why don’t you just go home and sleep it off? Would you like me to phone for a minicab?”
    “What?” said Soap.
    “You are clearly delusional,” said the editor. “Does your condition manifest itself in bouts of uncontrollable violence? Because I must warn you that I am an exponent of
Dimac
, the deadliest martial art in the world, and can brutally maim and disfigure you with little more than a fingertip’s touch, should I so wish. And I will not hesitate to do so should the need arise.”
    “Come again?” said Soap.
    “It’s just that it’s my duty to warn you.
The Dimac Code of Honour
. I have a badge and a certificate and a little plastic card with my photo on it and everything. Would you care to see any of these?”
    “No,” said Soap. “And I am not delusional, nor am I violent. I am Soap Distant, traveller beneath, and I demand to see Mr Bacon.”
    The editor sighed. “Mr Distant,” he said. “If you really wish to pull off this scam you are going to have to work a lot harder, get your facts straight, make your story more convincing.”
    “Scam?” said Soap. “Story?”
    “I see what you’re up to,” said the editor, “and it doesn’t lack imagination. In fact it has a whole lot going for it. The centre of the Earth. The last frontier. Planting the flag for England. Admirable stuff.”
    “But it’s all true!” Soap’s pale face took on a pinkish hue.
    “No,” said the editor. “It’s not. You should have done your research. Found a newspaper where a former editor had died or something. Forged his signature onto some kind of contract.”
    “I … I …” Soap began to colour up most brightly.
    “You see,” the editor continued, “for one thing there never was a Mr Bacon on the staff. For another, this paper was only founded eight years ago, and for another yet we only moved in here today. Look,
I
founded this newspaper,
I
should know.”
    “No,” said Soap. “Oh no no no.” And his head began to swim and he began to rock both to and fro. And then he toppled off his box and fell upon the floor.
     
    There is a deep dark pit of whirling blackness that detectives who work only in the “first person” always fall into in chapter two. After a dame has done them wrong and a wise guy has bopped them over the head. Soap did not fall into one of these. Soap fell headlong into full and sober consciousness and leapt to his feet with a fearsome yell.
    “Kreegah Bundolo!” cried Soap, which all lovers of Tarzan will recognize to be none other than the cry of the bull ape.
    “Have a care,” cried the editor in ready response. “Beware the poison hand that mutilates your flesh.”
    “Pictures!” shouted Soap. “I have the pictures!”
    “Pictures?” went the editor. “Look, I was young and I needed the money.”
    “Eh?” went Soap. “Whatever do you mean?”
    “Oh, nothing, nothing. Do you want me to duff you up a bit? I’m feeling quite in the mood.”
    “No,” said Soap, swaying on his toes. “I am a Buddhist, I abhor all forms of violence. But I do have the pictures. To prove my story.”
    “Whip ’em out, then. Let’s have a look at the buggers.”
    “Ah,” said Soap. “Well, I don’t have them on me.”
    “Ah,” said the editor. “Isn’t it always the way?”
    “They’re at Boots the Chemist,