On JB's arrival

JB has a bonfire (a small, city-type bonfire without any petrol to really get the thing going), and it got me thinking about when he arrived in the village.

The LTLP arrived first, a kind of advance-party to check us all out, I guess. It's fair to say we hit it off straight away. Within two hours of her moving in she had got me horribly, incapably drunk. I was naked, smeared with chocolate sauce, thinking in what a strange direction life can sometimes take you, when she told me that she's not a naturally outgoing sort of woman. I could see that. Behind her Dominatrix personna she had the kind of quiet, dimunitive nature that .

Jonny arrived the next day, all bumbling Fawlty-esque mannerisms.

"Hello," I say, "you'll be the new neighbour then".

"Yes, that's me. Billericay. That's my name. Not where I'm from. I'm not from Billericay. Although I have been there once or twice. It's quite pleasant really and has a good Conservative MP. What was I saying? Ah yes. Jonny, you can call me Jonny. That's not really my name though. But, new start and all that. Toodlepip."

He really does play the part of socially-awkward eccentric very well.

With a final flourish he turns and saunters into the cottage. It was only later I found out he was a highly-dangerous international terrorist.

Action (Jackson)

I am getting thoroughly pissed off with this whole "wait and see what Jonny does" approach that Those In Charge keep foisting on me. I could be here for years. I don't want to be here for years, I want to be back in the big time, back in the City, back in amongst the murder and drugs and prostitution and vice and dirt and grime and I want to FINISH this crappy assignment in the backend of nowhere and get back to the real job of fighting crime like they do on The Bill.

Positive action is what is required.

I concoct a honey-trap. A sting. A foolproof way of getting Jonny to reveal his criminal leanings.

Unfortunately my plan involves offing an old man, but we must regard this as collateral damage. After I have horribly slaughtered an old chap I follow home from the Post Office, I employ my skills for disguise to rustle up a convincing replica of his face. I take his cash card and withdraw the paltry sum he has saved, drive his Nissan Micra to Jonny's house and settle down to wait. Not long has passed before Jonny departs, scratching his private parts like a common baboon. I follow him into town, stay at a safe distance until he enters the chemist, and then I'm out and into the street, sporting a limp and a bent back in what is a downright brilliant Kaiser Soze impression.

Jonny is at the counter, dribbling over a semi-attractive checkout girl. I prod him with my walking stick, loudly mention the old fart's PIN code, then pull him close and say, "it's a beautiful day today, sonny. Such a beautiful day. You look after yourself now. I fought during the war for you." But my ruse fails. I fumble the cash card just as I'm about to tuck it in his back pocket. It lays on the chemist floor, staring up at me, mocking me, just sitting there with my hopes and dreams of getting out of here all wrapped up in it.

I shuffle out. I do not need to put on the hobble this time, I feel like a broken man.

Wibble

I fear that Jonny has finally lost it.

For two days I've been watching him. Most of that time he has been sitting on the toilet, dressed in only his pants, with a loaded rifle by his side. He looks increasingly gaunt, he's grown a small beard, and he seems to be mumbling about killer rabbits.

One thing is for sure, that gun will be either turned on himself, or the next person to turn up at his house. There is only one thing to do.

I send Mrs Short Tony around for a cup of sugar.

Surveillance report

It's been some months now since I rigged Jonny's house up to record his every move. There's been some very suspicious activity in that house, oh yes.

First on the list is the peculiar cast of characters that Jonny keeps close to him at night. There seem to be three of these furry beasts:

Mister Mitt - an obvious anagram of Tits Met Rim.
Peter the Hanging Monkey - A clear reference to Hartlepool, is this where the terrorist attack is planned for?
Honey Bear - probably nothing more than a sex toy; clear anagram of Boner, Yeah.

What's so valuable about these cuddly toys that he has to keep them within arms reach at all times? More observation is required.

The camera in the kitchen has yielded even stranger results. Last week I captured him having sex with what appeared to be the remains of a stuffed sheep's heart. I couldn't help drop into conversation the fact that I have a camera in there. You should have seen that little sucker scouring his kitchen trying to find it! Second light-fitting from the door, Jonny, have a look there and you might get more success.

Unfortunately I have no hard proof of what Jonny may be planning.

Wall

Jonny tells me that he's asked the Friendly Builder to put a dividing wall in the attic. This is something of a blow, as the attic provides easy access to JB's house when he's out and about. Even at night time I've been known to venture into the enemies' lair. The LTLP snores like a passing freight train, so the odd creak here and there doesn't present a problem.

Why does Jonny want the attic to be partitioned? There must be some hidden secrets up there. Dead bodies? Dried blood staines? Crap old records? I'm a bit concerned that the Friendly Builder may discover the small compartment of my own that's home to some nasty secrets, but it's well concealed and he's not likely to spot the opening switch hidden inside JB's old guitar. I watch him as he builds up the wall, stone by stone. It's like he's building his own crypt. I prepare the shovel.

Installation

I use the free weekend to make some alterations.

Up through the hatch into the loft, over the accumulated detreitus, down through Jonny's trapdoor, and I'm in. I think of rummaging through his belongings for telltail signs of nefarious activities, but time is limited and he's far too clever to leave anything incriminating lying around. So I install secret cameras in the kitchen, the lounge, and above the bedroom. These little beauties will last for years.

Prague

I wait for him to leave the house. To my surprise, only three days go by before the premises are vacated. Jonny struggles out of the door with several heavy-looking suitcases.

"Going anywhere nice?", I ask. "Spain? Italy? Swaffham?"

"Well," says Jonny, "Prague, actually. You know. Eastern Europe."

I wonder at the audacity of his pronouncement. He must know that I have him under surveillance. This vicious cabaret that we are performing is beginning to affect me, psychologically.

What is there in Prague? Guns. Prostitution. Gambling. Stag parties. Maybe JB is going to smuggle back an armed poker-playing lout dressed in a Borat bikini.

Unlikely, granted.