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chuckled. 'Hoo-ee!' he said. 'That was some big mean muthafucka of a dog!'
'Shit,' Zeb gasped, 'less.' He looked pale and sweaty.
'Sorry about that, chaps,' I said.
'Hey, you're an athlete, I-sis,' Boz said admiringly.
'Thank you.'
'But you're crazy; what the hell you doin' stayin' back when that hound of the
fuckin' Baskervilles come at us like that?'
'I told you,' I told him, 'I have a way with animals.'
'You're crazy,' Boz laughed.
'According to my maternal grandmother Yolanda,' I told him, setting my hat
straight upon my head again and trying not to let my heart swell too much with
pride and vanity, 'I am a tough cookie.'
'Yeah,' he said, 'sounds like your maternal grandmother Yolanda ain't no fool
neither.' He nodded at a telephone box on the far side of the village green.
'Let's call a taxi.'
Zeb and I watched for pursuit while Boz rang a number on a card inside the
telephone box, but neither
Tyson nor his blond handler appeared. Boz came out of the telephone box.
'It's the same guy; he's on his way; says he'll bring the book for you.'
'How kind,' I said. 'Excuse me, would you?' I took a deep breath, gritted my
teeth and stepped into the telephone box. I studied the instructions, then
stuck my head and one arm out. 'Zeb; some change, please.'
Zeb gave me his long-suffering look but coughed up a half-pound piece. 'God,
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forgive me,' I whispered as
I inserted the coin and buttoned the number that had been on the pad by the
telephone in La Mancha. Boz and Zeb looked quizzically in through the glass.
'Good morning,' said a pleasant female voice. I was startled, even though I
was prepared to be spoken to;
after years spent using telephones as telegraphs, it was slightly shocking to
hear a human voice rather than the ringing tone. 'Clissold's Health Farm and
Country Club,' the warm, welcoming voice said. 'How may I
help you?'
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all
Bothering her
, I thought, and reluctantly restrained myself from asking to speak to Morag.
'I'm sorry?' I
said.
'This is Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club. May I help you?' the lady
said again, with a little less warmth. Her accent was definitely English,
though I couldn't place it more accurately.
'Oh; I was trying to reach, ah, Scotland,' I said, sounding flustered.
'I
think you have the wrong number,' the lady said, sounding amused. 'Wrong code,
really. This is
Somerset.'
'Oh,' I said, brightly. 'What part? I know Somerset quite well,' I lied.
'Dudgeon Magna; we're near Wells.'
'Oooh, heavens, yes,' I said, with such shamelessly specious conviction I
almost had myself persuaded.
'Know it well. I - oh, bother; there goes my money.' I clicked the handset
back onto its rest.
Zeb looked suspicious. He glared at the telephone in the box. 'I thought you
weren't-' he began.
'Somerset,' I announced to him and Boz as the same taxi that had brought us
here swung into sight on the far side of the green.
*
Perversely enough, it was probably the burning down of the old seaweed factory
that ensured our Faith became more than just an eccentricity shared by a
handful of people. My Grandfather just wanted to forget about the whole
incident, but the lawyers who had charge of the disputed estate to which the
old factory had belonged were not so understanding. Several of the men
responsible for the conflagration were apprehended and charged, and when the
matter came to trial in Stornoway, Salvador, Aasni and
Zhobelia had no choice but to appear as witnesses.
My Grandfather had taken to dressing entirely in black by then and whenever he
left the farm at
Luskentyre he wore a black, wide-brimmed hat. With him dressed so, and
boasting long (and now entirely white) hair and bushy white beard, and the two
sisters clad in their best, most colourful saris, they must have presented a
singular sight as they attended the court. There was some press interest; our
Founder abhorred such attention, but there was little he could do about it,
and of course the fact that he refused to talk to people on the
Stornoway Gazette or a journalist sent from Glasgow from the
Daily
Dispatch only piqued their interest (and given the rumours about our Founder
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