It had been hellish. A hellish day. A day designed in hell and it had been had by Craig.

Firstly, the new delivery of Shake Base had failed to arrive again, meaning another tiresome day of explaining to overheated customers that there was only Fanta. Then Alison had left to meet up with Jameson and had walked absentmindedly into a cyclist.

The cyclist had spent half an hour lying face down on the vinyl bench and screaming, which had put off the remaining gaggle of customers who were not so fond of milkshakes.

Except for The-Anis, of course.

The-Anis sat unperturbed in his corner booth, smoothing down his copy of Witch? and creaking quietly in his stripy coat. Craig felt he owed The-Anis something, but a corner booth and a Fanta just didn't seem sufficient.

The scorched marks the stricken cyclist was exposing to the dappled boulevard were scaldingly familiar to Craig, and he wished he could explain to the cyclist that he shared his pain, but the cyclist was Hispanic and Craig's measured Lancashire accent seemed only to enrage him further.

Craig wanted to tell him that he'd outgrown his bike.

The 3.30 redeye from LA touched down without a squeal at Luton and taxied lazily to a stop.

The stewardess wanted to thank Craig for flying with her, but Craig knew that she said that to all the guys. And all the gals. And all the passengers.

Craig was sporting a tan from Baltimore, and the notes he fished from his wallet at the Bureau de Change were fifty dollar bills, but somehow the Bedfordshire drizzle was dousing his fresh Statestyle confidence and bonhomie and soaking it away, leaving a rather stupid looking English man in an gilty and expensive-looking frame.

Craig knew that the frame didn't really look all that expensive or elaborate. He'd never been particularly confident in America, but he had reasoned that simply returning from the USA gave him the right to come back a changed man.

He certainly hadn't expected to be changed. He didn't adapt well to it, especially when it was forced upon him.

And it had certainly been forced upon him.

He had often wondered if The-Anis had been sent as an angel by some overseeing deity to take him from the leafy exclusion of Manorfordwoodfield and steer him on his transatlantic journey into the world of Donut franchises.

Whenever Craig found himself wandering the lonely streets of this kind of speculation, he would shake himself out of it: there were no answers to be found there. The-Anis had just been there, and he had just nearly run into him. It could have been anybody, but it had been Craig.

It hadn't been often that it had been Craig that Things Happened to. Except for his mother, of course.

Beryl Fortunate had fallen at a County Gymkhana right in front of the judges, and had nearly been trampled to death but for being absolutely miles behind everybody else.

Georgina Fitzgerald's father had won a parachute jump in raffle, but ended up piloting the aircraft inexpertly from Cardiff to Le Havre when all the instructors and the pilot had fallen unexpectedly catatonic with food poisoning.

Some said it was a plot hatched by Mrs. Fitzgerald, who was a staunch advocated of arranged marriages, and who had always been bitter that Mr. Fitzgerald had proposed to her before she could persuade her parents to take charge. Her parents had always joked that had they had to have arranged a marriage, it would almost certainly have been with the Fitzgerald's because of the Prospects.

But whatever the truth was, Mr. Fitzgerald was still in La Havre living in some farmhouse and eating cheese and Mrs. Fitzgerald was trying to fix Georgina up with Beryl's brother.

But The-Anis had been there for him and there was no sense in wondering why or questioning how. At least, that's what The-Anis had said.

Flicker, flicker, went the television, lighting up the stooped old mans shiny head blue. He was coughing and snoring, somnolent at the workbench, wreathed in filthy mudguards and long bendy spokes.

The TV lit up the corners of the room blue. Occasionally it lit up handlebars and front lights and gears blue, too. The jaunty man was singing a silent jaunty song in blue sequins and the dancers flashed bluely all over the screen. The old man slept.

The door opened, and Craig walked in.

He knew things were different immediately, but as the moments gathered behind him, he began to see that it was just the same.

....Except.

What was it?

Except - was that the same packet of pine kernels? The perch was empty, but that could mean anything. Craig knew it didn't mean just anything. It didn't mean nothing, either. It was somewhere in between, but Craig didn't want to think about that very much.

"Dad, where's Paul?" he asked aloud.

The stooped old man jerked up violently with a start and looked about him myopically. All he could see was blueness. A man with a smile was singing to him in his own son's voice. "Dad?" No, that was his own son's voice right there in his ear. He could feel the breath on his face.

"Craig! Craig!" he cried. "Craig!"

Craig! Craig! Where was he? Craig! There he was. Craig, there looking at him. He was different. Taller, firmer. Somehow more confident, like he'd travelled and returned. This is what all boys are like.

"Craig! Are you home to stay?" He grasped his son's face in both hands.

Craig pulled himself away.

"Where's Paul?" he demanded, then noticed the TV. His face hardened firmly. "Oh," he breathed "You bastard".

"What?" cried the old man, looking frantically after Craig's gaze.

"You must see," he said. "Look what I have done for you!"

He hobbled painfully into the sparkly gloom and returned pushing Craig's bike in front of him. It caught a glimmer from the television and revealed itself as one hermetic, sensual sculpture of machinery. The wheels stalked the carpet. The chain licked the bottom bracket. The seat sat pertly, almost begging.

"Come sit on me," it sighed.

It was awfully small.

"I fixed it, Craig," trembled the old man, "l found it and I fixed it. It goes. You can ride it. Are you back? Are you home to stay?"

Craig stood for an instant, a statue of fury illuminated by fragments of showbiz from the TV.

Then he stormed out, showering pine kernels all over.

A thousand miles away, James Last was just rounding oft his show with a few well-wrought gags drawn from the headlines of the previous week. The audience was tittering appreciatively.

He had them in his hand. He could tickle them. He could caress them. He could crush him. They had given themselves to him. He hadn't asked, he had just been there. It was just another cruel joke. And he knew The-Anis would be watching and sharing it with him. No one else would know.

How could anyone suspect?

The floor manager, laughing at the last gag, signalled the thirty second wind-up, and James Last started to say goodnight.

The last thing he heard was a sudden, screeching commotion, and the last thing he saw was a brown avenging shape looming up at him from behind Camera Two. The last thing he felt was soft teathers in his face.

Sharp talons at his throat.