‘Nowt but an eyesore,’ said Mrs Comb, ‘and right whiffy to boot.’ Upon closer inspection the dwelling proved carefully constructed – bricks of cans, pans and mottled bottles, and mortar of spud skins, burnt rice crusts and ‘Vote for Me’ leaflets. A bicycle mudguard ascended ramp-wise, to a hole as black as a Hackensack mac. Goatwriter squinted inside. ‘So the burglar dwells in this hovel of stiltonic stench.’
‘Hovel?’ An irate rant shot back. ‘Give me my hovel and stuff ya geriatric rust-bucket bus, any day of da month!’
‘Aha! So you are in residence, thief! Unhand my manuscript forthwith!’
‘Take a ing hike, ya JoeSchmoe!’
‘Soap and water!’ gasped Mrs Comb.
Goatwriter lowered his horns. ‘Fiend, there are ladies present!’
A tiny hand appeared in the whole and flashed the finger. ‘If that scrawny bird is a “lady” I am Frank Sinatra’s I’m warnin’ ya, if ya ain’t skedaddled by da time I count to five I’ll slap harassment suits on ya so quick ya won’t know your X!X£s from Tuesday!’
‘Legality! Indeed. A most m-moot point! You broke into our venerable coach, and theived Zanzibar kippers and m-my truly untold tale! Furthermore, by Girton, we don’t intend to go back empty-handed!’
‘Oooh, a threat I’m ing in my didgereedungarees!’
Pithecanthropus grunted impatiently, waded up to the cone of rubbish and clefted the top quarter clean away. Inside was a shocked rat – who a moment later was a furious rat. ‘Are ya IXXX ing deranged? Ya nearly brained me, ya knucklescraping Neanderthal!’
Goatwriter peered through his pince-nez. ‘Remarkable – the thief is an apparent relative of mus musculus domesticus.’
‘I ain’t no domestic nuffink, punk! I am da One, da Only, ScatRat! Yeah, yeah, so I sampled ya mouldy kippers – where’s da big balooey, Huey? But I never lifted no stories. I got Japanese Scientific Whalers’ Weekly 2 wipe my hole. And I swear, ya slander my good name once again my lawyer’s gonna sue ya s up ya !#X$s!’
‘Scourers! Detergents!’ Mrs Comb covered her ears.
ScatRat hollered all the louder. ‘Act ya age, not ya egg size! Ya in da real world margins here!’ ScatRat saluted with one finger. ‘Rats, 4ever! In Union Are We Linked! ScatRat never never never, is extinct!’ With that, the rodent vanished into the benthic bowels of his pyrrhic pile.
Pithecanthropus grunted a question.
‘I agree, sir,’ said Mrs Comb. ‘Don’t care should be made to care.’
Goatwriter shook his head sadly. His arthritis hurt. ‘Certainly, friends, ScatRat is an exceedingly unpleasant character, but a lack of m-manners per se is no crime. I am afraid the m-mystery of my m-missing m-manuscript must go unsolved. Let us return to the venerable coach. I believe we will be leaving the m-margins tonight.’
Evening on the margins was an unrequited requiem. Mrs Comb was baking a burdock fairy cake to cheer Goatwriter up, and Pithecanthropus was repairing a hole in the roof. Goatwriter proof-read his last page, and laid it to rest in his manuscript tray. His rewrite lacked the magnificent glow that the original truly untold tale retained in his memory.
‘Dinner-time, by and by,’ called Mrs Comb. ‘You must be starving, sir.’
‘Peculiar to pronounce, I could not entertain a m-morsel.’
‘But, sir! You haven’t had a bite the livelong day!’
Pithecanthropus grunted in concern through the hole in the roof.
Goatwriter considered. ‘So I haven’t.’
‘Still fretting about your missing stories, sir? We’ll be leaving the margins and burglars and the like far behind.’
Pithecanthropus double-took and grunted frantically.
‘By ’eck, you savage! Clap that trap! Sir is out of sorts enough as it is!’
Goatwriter frowned. ‘M-my dear fellow, whatever is distressing you so?’
Mrs Comb dropped her cookery book. ‘Sir! What are you eating?’
‘Why, only a little paper cud—’ Goatwriter’s jaws froze. The truth dawned. Mrs Comb spelt it out. ‘Sir! You were eating your own pages as you wrote them!’
Goatwriter’s words stuck in his throat.
When evening comes I turn off all the lights and wait for Buntaro in the kitchen, so nobody knows I am here, and so I can see Buntaro arriving and know it is him and not anyone else. I stare at a wall-tile whorl as minutes spin by and die. Here come the headlights of Buntaro’s car now, swinging into the car porch. It still seems weird to think of Buntaro existing anywhere except the counter at the Shooting Star. I hate needing. I spent the last nine years trying to avoid needing – generosity, charity, affection, sympathy, money. And here I am again. I unlock the front door. ‘Hi.’