The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit fell open at ‘Gallimauphy’.
Inspector Funk arrived on fire.
The only witness present was a mute cook called Chum.
The blinds were shut tight.
The light a marsh gas lava lamp.
‘This setting is singularly inappropriate’
scrawled across the crudely artexed wall.
Water dripped three-four time into a blue builder’s bucket.
A neurosurgeon minced nervously from door to door.
A fat man rested his eyes in the blind corner of the crowded annex.
Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room.
The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four.
On the lawn red fungi appeared from the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves.
The silver rowan tree was barren.
A youth on a black bicycle rode past. Blurred adamant and grey.
She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move.
Belatedly the phone rang. It was limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the perfumed abattoir.
Funk was lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference
The varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light. They were hungry.
A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer.
His bane, Epimetheus, patrolled the galley like a hawk in times of need. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence was cited.
Chum would be released on good behaviour by a Nightingale.
He had done nothing heinous.
The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was shut and files sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and examined the food for truffle spores.
Grimbeau 