Snatched by Bill James Page A

up and let the door swing shut. Penelope was about to descend on the rope when he seemed to change his mind and, turning back, violently pulled the sauna door open again. Squinting in, he this time began to call not Penelope but Butler-Minton himself, in a low, intense, suddenly joy-filled whisper that only just reached her on the beam. She had begun to shiver a little, partly on account of cooling, but also a reaction to the eeriness of what was happening. All the same, she decided now she must stay and observe.
    â€˜Sir Eric? It’s Neville. Neville Falldew, Palaeontology. All right, you were a glistening bastard, but a Hulliborn glistening bastard. That’s what counts. I’ve always known as a certainty you weren’t gone for ever. Wonderful to see you there in the Folk the other night, nearly starkers on the floor and in beautifully traditional form. Thank heavens I’d hung on to my museum keys, although thrown out. I’d recognize you anywhere, even from behind, as it were, even in the half dark and wearing those little navy socks. Well, didn’t I have that earlier similar occasion as a prompt – the one in the icons room?
    â€˜But the other night in the Folk! Oh, for me such an encounter is a kind of revelation, indeed, an epiphany. And those two people with you, splendidly tumultuous in the straw, so close and chummy. I think I knew them, too – people from their very different centuries, yet so mystically fused, thanks to you, Sir Eric. This was a brilliant demonstration of what museums are for: that fusing of apparently, and
only
apparently, discrete areas of Time. I have to tell you that there have been long hours since the Hulliborn spurned me when I felt sickened, almost deranged by anger, and the need for revenge. Yes, madness came very, very close: a man craves his work, and a museum man craves his contact with the fruitful past. These were torn away from me. But now I know all will be fine, because you are with us still. And stay with us, Sir Eric, please.’
    It was a supplication, yet spoken in a voice alight with happiness and confidence. Above all, confidence. Nev grew silent for a minute or two, continuing to look into the sauna. Then he said: ‘Ah, old boatman, still plying your humble but noble trade, I see. Still singing in honour of simple labour and the beauties of creation.’ He paused, as though listening – listening and revelling in what he heard. ‘“All together in the chorus,” you jovially command. So be it.’ Falldew leant against the sauna doorframe and instantly began at full volume a classic, tuneless, meandering, gobbledegook lyric in would-be Arabic, beating monstrously irrelevant time with one hand and smiling barmily.
    It lasted for seven or eight minutes and, at the end, he waved slowly and supremely meaningfully into the sauna with large, sweeping movements, as though across a great spread of water, and closed the door. ‘We shall meet again, venerable harbour person,’ he said. Then, after one more glance around the gym, he readjusted his scarf with a considerable flourish and left, his steps now more positive, his body strangely stronger looking.
    Lady Butler-Minton slid down the rope, pulled on her Mr Universe sweatshirt, and did some undemanding weights work until the sauna heated up again. ‘Well, Lip, I accept you were a “bastard”, but a “glistening bastard”? Nev was always a bit purple, wasn’t he, and now he’s flipped. So, what the hell does he think he saw in the Folk? And who was it?’

Fourteen
    It was George Lepage’s first Founder’s Day ball as Director, and, standing in the minstrels’ gallery, looking down a bit tensely at the dancers, he wished he could have avoided inviting Neville Falldew. There were others he would willingly have done without, too, but Neville effortlessly claimed top spot as potential supreme master of aggro. His presence