than he was, and that they were undoubtedly violent psychopaths. No one but a violent psychopath rode motorbikes in R. P. Tyler’s world.
So he raised his chin and began to strut past them, without apparently noticing they were there,52 all the while composing in his head a letter (Sirs, this evening I noted with distress a large number of hooligans on motorbicycles infesting Our Fair Village. Why, oh Why, does the government do nothing about this plague of … ).
“Hi,” said one of the motorcyclists, raising his visor to reveal a thin face and a trim black beard. “We’re kinda lost.”
“Ah,” said R. P. Tyler disapprovingly.
“The signpost musta blew down,” said the motorcyclist.
“Yes, I suppose it must,” agreed R. P. Tyler. He noticed with surprise that he was getting hungry.
“Yeah. Well, we’re heading for Lower Tadfield.”
An officious eyebrow raised. “You’re Americans. With the air force base, I suppose.” (Sirs, when I did national service I was a credit to my country. I notice with horror and dismay that airmen from the Tadfield Air Base are driving around our noble countryside dressed no better than common thugs. While I appreciate their importance in defending the freedom of the western world … )
Then his love of giving instructions took over. “You go back down that road for half a mile, then first left, it’s in a deplorable state of disrepair I’m afraid, I’ve written numerous letters to the council about it, are you civil servants or civil masters, that’s what I asked them, after all, who pays your wages? then second right, only it’s not exactly right, it’s on the left but you’ll find it bends round toward the right eventually, it’s signposted Porrit’s Lane, but of course it isn’t Porrit’s Lane, you look at the ordinance survey map, you’ll see, it’s simply the eastern end of Forest Hill Lane, you’ll come out in the village, now you go past the Bull and Fiddle—that’s a public house—then when you get to the church (I have pointed out to the people who compile the ordinance survey map that it’s a church with a spire, not a church with a tower, indeed I have written to the Tadfield Advertiser, suggesting they mount a local campaign to get the map corrected, and I have every hope that once these people realize with whom they are dealing you’ll see a hasty U-turn from them) then you’ll get to a crossroads, now, you go straight across that crossroads and you’ll immediately come to a second crossroads, now, you can take either the left-hand fork or go straight on, either way you’ll arrive at the air base (although the left-hand fork is almost a tenth of a mile shorter) and you can’t miss it.”
Famine stared at him blankly. “I, uh, I’m not sure I got that … ” he began.
I DID. LET US GO.
Shutzi gave a little yelp and darted behind R. P. Tyler, where it remained, shivering.
The strangers climbed back onto their bikes. The one in white (a hippie, by the look of him, thought R. P. Tyler) dropped an empty crisp packet onto the grass shoulder.
“Excuse me,” barked Tyler. “Is that your crisp packet?”
“Oh, it’s not just mine,” said the boy. “It’s everybody’s.”
R. P. Tyler drew himself up to his full height.53 “Young man,” he said, “how would you feel if I came over to your house and dropped litter everywhere?”
Pollution smiled, wistfully. “Very, very pleased,” he breathed. “Oh, that would be wonderful.”
Beneath his bike an oil slick puddled a rainbow on the wet road.
Engines revved.
“I missed something,” said War. “Now, why are we meant to make a U-turn by the church?”
JUST FOLLOW ME, said the tall one in front, and the four rode off together.
R. P. Tyler stared after them, until his attention was distracted by the sound of something going clackclackclack. He turned. Four figures on bicycles shot past him, closely followed by the scampering figure of a small dog.
“You! Stop!” shouted R. P. Tyler.
The Them braked to a halt and looked at him.
“I knew it was you, Adam Young, and your little, hmph, cabal. What, might I enquire, are you children doing out at this time of night? Do your fathers know you’re out?”
The leader of the cyclists turned. “I can’t see how you can say it’s late,” he said, “seems to me, seems to me, that if the sun’s still out then it’s not late.”
“It’s past your bedtime, anyway,” R. P. Tyler informed them, “and don’t stick out your tongue at me,