Logging - Nick Spalding Page 0,68

me,’ I say in a strained voice as one of them steps backwards into my path to take a picture of what appears to be the front of an estate agency.

Quite why this gentleman feels the need to have a picture of Quimley’s of Bath is beyond me. Perhaps he likes the name. Or maybe there’s a five-bed detached on the outskirts of town he’s interested in. Either way, he’s in my way, and I’m not happy about it.

‘I said excuse me,’ I repeat, earning me a befuddled look. I tut as loudly as an Englishman dares in public and slide past the man, pushing him out of the way slightly.

‘Are you all right?’ Grace says to me as she draws alongside me, once we’re past the group of happily snapping tourists.

‘Not really. My feet hurt, I’m out of fudge and we’re still no closer to finding this bloody street.’

‘It is getting a bit frustrating, isn’t it?’ she agrees. ‘We don’t seem to be getting any closer. We could really do with a map.’

‘Yes, we could,’ I agree, my hand unconsciously coming up in front of my face.

I notice that Grace is making the same gesture.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I say, shaking my head ruefully.

‘What?’

‘We’re both holding up our hands like we’ve got our phones in them,’ I point out.

Grace looks down at her own slightly cupped hand and goes a bit wide-eyed again. ‘Jesus Christ.’

I consciously lower my arm in a very deliberate fashion and take a deep breath. ‘Time for some more directions, I think.’

‘Agreed. But who from? I don’t see any deaf old women with mental dogs around.’

I stare back at the gaggle of Asian tourists. ‘Back this way, I think.’

Grace looks down the street. ‘You think they’ll know any better than us?’

‘Not them,’ I reply as I set off back towards them, ‘but maybe what they were taking pictures of.’

Quimley’s of Bath is the kind of estate agent’s you come to if you are extremely rich, extremely posh and possibly in need of something with crenellations along the roof.

I have no real idea what a crenellation is, so am not supposed to set foot in a place like this, but Grace and I need to find this bloody jeweller’s, and if anyone’s going to know something like that, it’ll be an estate agent’s that looks like it’s been here since the dawn of time.

Speaking of things that look like they’ve been here since the dawn of time, I walk up to the only inhabited desk on the tiny shop floor, behind which sits a dusty skeleton.

Oh no, sorry, my mistake. It’s an old man, not a skeleton. He is quite dusty, though. That three-piece suit he’s wearing looks like it was tailored about five minutes after the shop opened.

‘Good afternoon,’ I say.

‘And a fine and tremensicle afternoon to you too, sir!’ comes the hearty reply, in a booming voice.

Is ‘tremensicle’ a word, though?

I mean, it could be. But I’ve never heard it before.

Mind you, as stated, I have no idea what a crenellation is either, so we’ll just have to hope this ancient entity has a better grip on his vocabulary than I have on mine.

‘I was wondering if you could help my friend and I?’ I ask the dusty old man, who has now risen from the enormous mahogany Chesterfield desk and is coming around to stand in front of us with a speed that belies his obvious age.

Vampire!

What?

It’s a bloody vampire!

What are you talking about, brain?

He’s skinny, tall and ancient, but moves like greased lightning – and he talks like he’s Brian Blessed! Clearly a vampire! Run, you fool! Run before we are taken by the creature of the night!

I do not run, I am proud to say. However vampiric this gentleman may appear to be, I am fairly sure he isn’t actually one of the undead. They probably wouldn’t allow them in Bath. They wouldn’t go with the sandstone and fudge. You’ve never seen a vampire munching on a nice square of fudge before, and if you can’t munch on a nice square of fudge, I’m pretty damn sure Bath is not for you.

‘Why, I’d be delighted to help, young man! What serviceables may I render unto you and your lovely companionation? Perhaps you are in the market for a fresh domicillary locale?’

OK, there’s at least three words in there that aren’t real. This guy may not be a vampire, but he’s sure as hell sucking the life out of the English dictionary.

‘We’d just