Groanin had not eaten his dinner because Angus had drugged it with a powerful sleeping draft. Somewhere in the wee small hours of the morning he intended to let himself into the insensible English butler’s room and steal the bag of cash that John’s djinn power had created for him.
Groanin ate a couple of bags of potato chips from the minibar and watched TV, which was how he learned that several other European volcanoes were also showing signs of new activity: the Montañas del Fuego on Lanzarote, Hekla in Iceland, and near the Greek mainland, Santorini. There was no doubt about it, he thought. He had to reach Rome as soon as possible to get on a flight for Manchester, otherwise he faced being stranded in Europe for the rest of the summer as the effects of the strike and the volcanoes started to bite.
This thought — about the effects of something starting to bite — prompted Groanin to remove his false teeth, and,having placed these in a large vodka and tonic, he went straight to bed.
Despite the soporific effects of
David Copperfield
, Groanin slept only lightly that night, and just before dawn he awoke to hear furtive movement in his room, which was full of light coming through the threadbare curtains from the street-lamp outside his window. Opening one eye, he saw a figure with his money bag creeping toward the door. Groanin did not hesitate. He reached for a weapon and the first weapon that came, instinctively, to hand was his silver-framed picture of Her Majesty the Queen. Hurling it hard across the room like a Frisbee, the picture struck Angus squarely on the back of the head and knocked him out, but not before it had shattered into several pieces.
Groanin switched on the bedside light, collected his false teeth, drank the vodka and tonic, leaped out of bed, and looked sadly at the scene that now met his eyes.
Angus groaned loudly and rubbed the back of his red-haired head.
“I am so sorry,” Groanin said to the picture. “I’d have given anything to have avoided that, Your Majesty. That you should be used as a projectile to bring down a light-fingered Scotsman. The indignity of it. The sheer disrespect of it takes one’s breath away. But in the heat of the moment, I took hold of the first thing and hurled it. I am so, so sorry.”
He kicked the bag to the opposite side of the room and then picked up the pieces of the picture. He nodded at the woman in the photograph and placed her and the silver frame and the cardboard slip on the edge of his bed.
“That’s all right,” said Angus. “Not much harm done, I think.”
Groanin bent down and flicked the Scotsman’s pink ear very hard.
“Ow!” said Angus.
“No one’s talking to you, Rob Roy MacGregor. Except perhaps the police when I’ve telephoned them.”
He picked up the telephone and started to dial.
“Please, sir. Have pity on me. I’ve a police record and they’ll throw the book at me this time. I’ll be deported, for sure.” Angus rolled over and adopted a begging position, consistent with someone asking for mercy.
Groanin stopped dialing. Being an ex-thief himself, he disliked the idea of turning someone in to the police; if Nimrod hadn’t been such a forgiving sort, he might have gone to prison himself, too. Could he do any less than forgive this worthless man? He put down the phone and picked up the Scot. One of the butler’s arms had been created with djinn power and as a result was superstrong. Mostly it came in handy for picking up Nimrod’s heavy suitcases and it was rare that the butler ever used it in an intimidating way. But this was the arm he used now to slowly lift the thieving Scot up to the ceiling.
Which was very intimidating. The Scotsman squealed loudly, as his head brushed the ceiling light.
“Count yourself lucky I’m the forgiving sort,” said Groanin.
“Thank you, sir.”
Groanin looked at his watch. It was five o’clock and there seemed little point in going back to bed now.
“Tell you
Groanin ate a couple of bags of potato chips from the minibar and watched TV, which was how he learned that several other European volcanoes were also showing signs of new activity: the Montañas del Fuego on Lanzarote, Hekla in Iceland, and near the Greek mainland, Santorini. There was no doubt about it, he thought. He had to reach Rome as soon as possible to get on a flight for Manchester, otherwise he faced being stranded in Europe for the rest of the summer as the effects of the strike and the volcanoes started to bite.
This thought — about the effects of something starting to bite — prompted Groanin to remove his false teeth, and,having placed these in a large vodka and tonic, he went straight to bed.
Despite the soporific effects of
David Copperfield
, Groanin slept only lightly that night, and just before dawn he awoke to hear furtive movement in his room, which was full of light coming through the threadbare curtains from the street-lamp outside his window. Opening one eye, he saw a figure with his money bag creeping toward the door. Groanin did not hesitate. He reached for a weapon and the first weapon that came, instinctively, to hand was his silver-framed picture of Her Majesty the Queen. Hurling it hard across the room like a Frisbee, the picture struck Angus squarely on the back of the head and knocked him out, but not before it had shattered into several pieces.
Groanin switched on the bedside light, collected his false teeth, drank the vodka and tonic, leaped out of bed, and looked sadly at the scene that now met his eyes.
Angus groaned loudly and rubbed the back of his red-haired head.
“I am so sorry,” Groanin said to the picture. “I’d have given anything to have avoided that, Your Majesty. That you should be used as a projectile to bring down a light-fingered Scotsman. The indignity of it. The sheer disrespect of it takes one’s breath away. But in the heat of the moment, I took hold of the first thing and hurled it. I am so, so sorry.”
He kicked the bag to the opposite side of the room and then picked up the pieces of the picture. He nodded at the woman in the photograph and placed her and the silver frame and the cardboard slip on the edge of his bed.
“That’s all right,” said Angus. “Not much harm done, I think.”
Groanin bent down and flicked the Scotsman’s pink ear very hard.
“Ow!” said Angus.
“No one’s talking to you, Rob Roy MacGregor. Except perhaps the police when I’ve telephoned them.”
He picked up the telephone and started to dial.
“Please, sir. Have pity on me. I’ve a police record and they’ll throw the book at me this time. I’ll be deported, for sure.” Angus rolled over and adopted a begging position, consistent with someone asking for mercy.
Groanin stopped dialing. Being an ex-thief himself, he disliked the idea of turning someone in to the police; if Nimrod hadn’t been such a forgiving sort, he might have gone to prison himself, too. Could he do any less than forgive this worthless man? He put down the phone and picked up the Scot. One of the butler’s arms had been created with djinn power and as a result was superstrong. Mostly it came in handy for picking up Nimrod’s heavy suitcases and it was rare that the butler ever used it in an intimidating way. But this was the arm he used now to slowly lift the thieving Scot up to the ceiling.
Which was very intimidating. The Scotsman squealed loudly, as his head brushed the ceiling light.
“Count yourself lucky I’m the forgiving sort,” said Groanin.
“Thank you, sir.”
Groanin looked at his watch. It was five o’clock and there seemed little point in going back to bed now.
“Tell you
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