a pen. Of course, that was all part of the Councilâs strategy. They knew that most people would not be carrying pen and paper with them when out walking their dogs. With any luck, by the time the dog walkers got home, they would have forgotten the planning application number, or even forgotten about the whole business.
And what was that at the bottom of the page in very small writing? âComments must be received within twenty-one days of the date of this letter.â
The date on the notice was 1st May! It was now the 18th May. That gave only three days to object.
At that moment Nigel squeezed back under the fence.
âListen, Nigel. I want you to remember the Planning Application number: 2010/5369/CP,â said Malcolm.
Malcolm was still searching through his pockets for anything that he could write on, or with. It was his habit to jot things on his shirt cuff, to the despair of his wife and the local laundry.
âWhy do you do it?â his wife Angela kept saying. âYou know it ruins your shirts!â
Malcolm agreed with her, but he couldnât stop himself. Especially when he needed to remember something important, like now.
However, this time his shirt was spared. His hand closed around his mobile phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and punched the planning application number into the phoneâs address book.
âHa, ha! Fooled you!â he snarled at the Council with grim satisfaction.
However, Malcolm would live to regret being so resourceful, for he was about to be sucked into a web of suspense and violence that would spiral out of his control.
Chapter Two
Trevor Williams woke up in a panic.
It was a work-day, and he always woke in a panic when he had to go to work. For fifteen years he had been toiling in the Planning Department of Camden Council, and for fifteen years he had dreaded work-days.
Trevor wondered if anyone in the outside world could even guess at the horror of working in the Planning Department.
Suddenly he made his mind up. He would refuse to go in to work today. He would phone in sick. He got these migraines. Everybody knew about them. He had one today. He couldnât possibly work.
Trevor got to the bathroom and stared at his face in the bathroom mirror. He had been a young man when heâd started working in the Planning Department. Now he was old before his time. His face was lined. His eyes were dull and lifeless. Even his hair looked depressed.
He owed it to himself not to go into work today. He would go fishing instead.
Feeling much better, he shaved and made himself some breakfast: a little toast, a pot of coffee, even a boiled egg.
Then he washed up, put on his coat, grabbed his briefcase and ran for the bus. He jumped onto it just as the doors were closing, and slumped into an empty seat. He sighed a weary sigh.
More and more often he found that the only way to get himself out of bed was to pretend that he was going to phone in sick and go fishing instead.
Ah! He could feel the rod in his hand, and hear the quiet wash of the river against its banks. There was the splash now and again as fish jumped into the world above for an instant, before falling back into their watery fish-world. Just as Trevor had, for a moment, leapt from the drab world of reality into the world of his day-dreams and gone fishing.
Fish were wonderful, peaceable creatures. They minded their own business, and didnât glare at you, or write angry letters.
Fish didnât ring you up and scream abuse at you. Fish didnât threaten to take you to court or tell you that you were a Nazi working for a Nazi organisation. Nor had Trevor ever heard of fish ganging up on someone going about his normal duties, catching him outside the supermarket and pouring cold custard over his jacket. It had happened to him.
Fish didnât write angry letters about the block of flats being built outside their sitting-room window. Fish didnât accuse you of being racist because
And what was that at the bottom of the page in very small writing? âComments must be received within twenty-one days of the date of this letter.â
The date on the notice was 1st May! It was now the 18th May. That gave only three days to object.
At that moment Nigel squeezed back under the fence.
âListen, Nigel. I want you to remember the Planning Application number: 2010/5369/CP,â said Malcolm.
Malcolm was still searching through his pockets for anything that he could write on, or with. It was his habit to jot things on his shirt cuff, to the despair of his wife and the local laundry.
âWhy do you do it?â his wife Angela kept saying. âYou know it ruins your shirts!â
Malcolm agreed with her, but he couldnât stop himself. Especially when he needed to remember something important, like now.
However, this time his shirt was spared. His hand closed around his mobile phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and punched the planning application number into the phoneâs address book.
âHa, ha! Fooled you!â he snarled at the Council with grim satisfaction.
However, Malcolm would live to regret being so resourceful, for he was about to be sucked into a web of suspense and violence that would spiral out of his control.
Chapter Two
Trevor Williams woke up in a panic.
It was a work-day, and he always woke in a panic when he had to go to work. For fifteen years he had been toiling in the Planning Department of Camden Council, and for fifteen years he had dreaded work-days.
Trevor wondered if anyone in the outside world could even guess at the horror of working in the Planning Department.
Suddenly he made his mind up. He would refuse to go in to work today. He would phone in sick. He got these migraines. Everybody knew about them. He had one today. He couldnât possibly work.
Trevor got to the bathroom and stared at his face in the bathroom mirror. He had been a young man when heâd started working in the Planning Department. Now he was old before his time. His face was lined. His eyes were dull and lifeless. Even his hair looked depressed.
He owed it to himself not to go into work today. He would go fishing instead.
Feeling much better, he shaved and made himself some breakfast: a little toast, a pot of coffee, even a boiled egg.
Then he washed up, put on his coat, grabbed his briefcase and ran for the bus. He jumped onto it just as the doors were closing, and slumped into an empty seat. He sighed a weary sigh.
More and more often he found that the only way to get himself out of bed was to pretend that he was going to phone in sick and go fishing instead.
Ah! He could feel the rod in his hand, and hear the quiet wash of the river against its banks. There was the splash now and again as fish jumped into the world above for an instant, before falling back into their watery fish-world. Just as Trevor had, for a moment, leapt from the drab world of reality into the world of his day-dreams and gone fishing.
Fish were wonderful, peaceable creatures. They minded their own business, and didnât glare at you, or write angry letters.
Fish didnât ring you up and scream abuse at you. Fish didnât threaten to take you to court or tell you that you were a Nazi working for a Nazi organisation. Nor had Trevor ever heard of fish ganging up on someone going about his normal duties, catching him outside the supermarket and pouring cold custard over his jacket. It had happened to him.
Fish didnât write angry letters about the block of flats being built outside their sitting-room window. Fish didnât accuse you of being racist because
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