Switchback Fair

‘Mr Fip! Mr Fip!’

Charlie Fip ignored the calls and tried to up his pace through the main line of stalls. But his attempts only increased the inertia of the crowds, and at last he gave up and turned round.

‘What do you want, Digsby?’

Digsby Troutwhistle shoved a dictaphone in Fip’s face.

‘Can I ask you your opinion on the Caracas rumours?’

Fip had perfected the art of looking unflappable many years ago, and Troutwhistle’s words passed through him like particularly meek neutrinos.

‘What opinion would you like me to have, Digsby?’

‘Have you authorised a £1m approach from Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid?’

‘Jack Caracas is not for sale,’ said Fip. ‘He’s still under contract and I think we’re all looking forward to enjoying his unique brand of performance comedy for many years to come.’

‘So it’s not true that you think he’s a talentless moron?’

Fip sighed.

‘Digsby, if Jack Caracas isn’t talented, why would Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid offer £1m for him?’

‘According to my source in the senate, you suspect it’s because they’re shameless megalomaniacs with all the entertainment taste of a flock of lobotomised seagulls.’

‘Is your source Brother Greenbeard?’

‘I never reveal my sources, Mr Fip.’

‘Because if it is, I’ll be sending him on a one-way mission to our outpost fair in Ulan Bator.’

Flashback!

Deep underground in an abandoned salt mine, Agent Sapphire took her place behind a perfect replica of a Switchback Fair stall. The cavern was otherwise empty. She waited.

A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision…

‘Nice day today, isn’t it?’

A customer had dropped from the ceiling. Agent Sapphire was ready. Months of training would see her through.

‘Oh, it’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she replied.

‘I might go down to the stream later, have a little paddle,’ said the customer.

Agent Sapphire executed a perfect double somersault over the stall and pinned the customer to the ground.

‘What do you know about the stream?‘ she barked, slapping the customer repeatedly about the face.

Another figure rushed out of the shadows to intervene.

‘No no no!’ he said. ‘That’s not the way you deal with customers! Cadet Sapphire, report back to barracks. You’re going back to basic training.’

End of flashback!

Deep in the heart of Switchback Fair, Agent Sapphire was setting out a real stall for the first time. She felt calm. Her training had not prepared her for light drizzle, but she felt calm. Deep breaths.

‘That’s summer over for this year then!’

Burt von Jam had wandered over from his own stall.

‘Oh, it’s - I mean, yes, typical, isn’t it?’ said Agent Sapphire, her heart racing.

‘Burt von Jam, pleased to meet you.’

Agent Sapphire gave her false name and they shook hands.

‘I trust you’re settling in without too much trouble,’ said Burt von Jam. ‘Any problems, you call me, OK? And we hold a meeting of the Stall Holders’ Association every Wednesday lunchtime. When it’s nicer weather than today we go down to the stream and have a picnic. Do join us, won’t you - er - are you all right?’

Agent Sapphire was bracing herself against the stall, gasping for air.

‘Picnic - lovely,’ she managed.

‘You look like you could do with a nice bit of jam,’ said Burt von Jam.

‘I’m fully trained to eat jam,’ murmured Agent Sapphire.

‘That’s marvellous!’ said Burt von Jam. ‘I was thinking of instituting a training programme myself. The way the younger generation eat their jam today, with their hoodies on, typing out “I’m eating jam” on Twitter at the same time, I just don’t know what to make of it - ‘

Frank Ashizukai, ninja postman, surveyed the scene. He was charged with a seemingly simple task: deliver a parcel to Dr M. Bayernfels at the Tent of Wonders. But Ashizukai knew better than to take any delivery for granted.

A pigeon landed in front of the tent and started pecking the ground. Was it an ordinary pigeon? Or was it a highly-trained samurai pigeon, in the pay of the local warlord, just waiting for its chance to strike with a blade concealed under its wings? Ashizukai shuddered at the thought of how many times he had faced death in pigeon form.

He continued to watch patiently, hidden behind a stall that sold quality wooden knick knacks for mantelpieces. His hand poised above a replica bird of paradise, carefully chosen for its suitability as a close combat weapon.

Eventually, the pigeon flew off again. Ashizukai kept his eyes on it as it circled over the fair and then turned away towards the village. When it returned, he would be ready.

The coast now clear, he headed stealthily to the entrance of the Tent of Wonders.

‘Dr M. Bayernfels?’ he called.

A small man emerged from the tent.

‘That’s me!’ said Bayernfels cheerfully, but his face dropped when he saw how Ashizukai was dressed. ‘Have you come to kill me?’ he said, resigned.

‘Not today,’ said Ashizukai, handing him his parcel.

‘Oh right,’ said Bayernfels. ‘You’re the new postman! Thanks a lot, I’ve been waiting for weeks for this. Do you want to see what’s inside?’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Ashizukai.

‘You’re not the tiniest bit curious?’ said Bayernfels. ‘This is the Tent of Wonders, after all.’

Ashizukai assessed the potential threat level of the box.

‘Very well,’ he said.

Bayernfels opened the box and beamed with pride.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ he said. ‘It’s come all the way from Papua New Guinea. Handmade by a tribe considered lost until three months ago. The crowds are going to go wild for it.’

Ashizukai took a closer look at the Wonder. It was a wooden bird of paradise.

‘Erm … you do know you can get these over at the knick knack stall, don’t you?’ he said. They’ve got a two for a tenner deal on at the moment.’

Charlie Fip and the Duck of Wednesday were discussing which colour to repaint the senate meeting room when a young scamp rushed in.

‘Breaking news, sir!’ he said, waving his arms about in an attempt to look like a histrionic TV graphic. ‘Barnaby Fair has got the bomb!’

Fip shared an alarmed look with Wednesday, who was desperately suppressing an urge to fly out of danger.

‘Is that right, my lad?’ said Fip. ‘Do you know anything about the mix?’

‘It knocked my sister right out and she said she was miles away!’ said the scamp. ‘She ain’t said much since, but she says it was a summer punch.’

‘Dammit!’ said Fip. ‘We thought they were years away from summer punch.’ He handed the scamp some money. ‘Well done, son. Go and buy yourself some pear drops.’

‘Mother says I can’t have sweets, they’re bad for my teeth,’ said the scamp.

‘Did she now?’ said Fip. ‘What kind of a scamp are you, going around listening to your mother like that? All right then, get someone to buy you some smokes instead, OK?’

‘Yes sir!’ said the scamp. He ran away gleefully, leaving Fip and Wednesday to consider the repercussions of his news.

‘I think it’s time to consult the colonel,’ said Fip.

‘Quack!’ said Wednesday vehemently.

‘Yes, I know. But they’re not real, are they? I don’t think we have a choice any more.’

* * *

Colonel Seager (Retired) looked up at Fip and Wednesday as they approached his stall.

‘Well here’s a pair of gunslingers,’ said Seager. ‘Fancy your chances today, gentlemen? Pound for five shots, five on target gets you this fine quartz watch-’

‘Quack!’ spat Wednesday.

‘Wednesday!’ said Fip, horrified.

‘What did he say?’ said Seager.

‘Er … he’d love to try his luck, but we have other issues to discuss,’ said Fip.

‘QUACK!’ said Wednesday.

‘He doesn’t seem to agree with your translation,’ said Seager.

‘Well … you know, it’s a duck shoot,’ said Fip. ‘He’s sensitive about it.’

‘Oh!’ said Seager, turning red. ‘I hadn’t realised! They’re only cardboard, honest!’

‘I think it’s the principle,’ said Fip. ‘Anyway, we’ve come to see you on another matter. Barnaby Fair have successfully developed a punch bomb and we’re wondering how to respond.’

‘Have they now?’ said Seager. He stroked his retired colonel’s moustache thoughtfully. ‘Well, you’ve got two options. You can go in for a first strike. Couple of our own punch bombs should put them out of action.’

‘Won’t that make us the aggressors?’ said Fip.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Seager. ‘We’re the good guys, remember? There’ll be an exchange, of course, but there’ll be no more than two to three thousand made drunk as a skunk, tops.’

Fip looked aghast. ‘And the other option?’

‘Years of hard negotiations with no guarantee of any breakthrough. It’ll be terribly frustrating for you, all the while knowing that a couple of punch bombs could sort it out in a flash-’

‘That’s OK, I’ll get someone else to handle the negotiations,’ said Fip. ‘That’s settled then. Off we go, Wednesday.’

‘Quack,’ said Wednesday.

‘Oh yes, one other thing,’ said Fip. He handed Seager some swatches. ‘Which would you say is more militaristic: Raspberry Bellini or Overtly Olive?’

Poppy Stubbs gazed wistfully at the people eating in the Michelin-starred “Cirque de Manger” food tent. It was her tragedy in life to possess both a creative spirit and a love of fine dining. So far today her busking had only earned her enough for a bag of curly fries at the neighbouring “Greasemaster” food tent, which was still waiting for its first Michelin star.

She was about to burst into tears at the smell of foamed asparagus when a sign on the tent caught her eye.

WAITRESS WANTED

MINIMUM WAGE + TIPS

APPLY WITHIN.

Her heart leapt!

PS. NO PROTEST SINGERS

And sank again. But the sound of expertly poured Chateau Frou-Frou drove her on. She found a quiet area around the back of the tent and laid her guitar gently against a tree.

‘Back soon, baby, I promise,’ she whispered.

She felt strangely naked as she walked back to the entrance, but pressed on and was on the verge of applying within when she had further reservations. She rushed back to where she had left the guitar and added her collection of badges, a copy of the I Ching, a ‘PEACE NOW’ shawl and a large placard denouncing globalisation. For a moment she considered a further level of misdirection by putting on the fake moustache she used for imitating The Man, but on balance decided that it would count against her chances of securing the waitress job. Typical fascist employers.

As she walked inside the tent she felt a hitherto unknown level of super-nakedness, and was therefore very uncomfortable as the manager sniffily looked her up and down.

‘How good are you at catching knives?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ said Poppy.

‘You do know what happened to the last waitress, don’t you?’ said the manager.

‘Er… did she retire to a pretty little cottage in the lake district?’ said Poppy hopefully.

‘That was her dream, poor girl,’ said the manager. ‘Well, you’ve got the job if you want it. Nobody else has been crazy enough to apply.’

‘Do I get a staff discount?’ said Poppy.

‘Oh, you’ll get to try all the new dishes,’ said the manager. ‘Just be careful when you give feedback. And whatever you do, don’t set it to music.’

‘I’ll be honest, it looks bad,’ said Charlie Fip, holding up a copy of the Switchback Echo.

The other members of the senate murmured in reluctant agreement.

‘Glenda Kneerot, treasurer of Switchback Fair, claimed back over twenty five pounds for a complete set of Emerson Lake & Palmer CDs.’

‘Ruddy good value, they were,’ mumbled Kneerot.

‘Dennis Jaffason, Switchback Fair secretary, was reimbursed thirty six pounds for an ornamental cake stand.’

Jaffason struck the table with his fist.

‘If we can’t display our cakes - which may I say are completely innocent and shouldn’t be dragged into this mess - if we can’t display our cakes in a sympathetic setting without bringing down a storm of hacks on us, how are we ever going to attract good people into the senate?’

‘Quite right,’ said Kneerot. ‘We’re not monks, after all.’

‘Quack!’ said the Duck of Wednesday.

‘Except for Brother Greenbeard, you’re right,’ said Kneerot. ‘He sends his apologies, by the way.’

‘Too busy drinking his twenty-two quid bottle of Burgundy wine, I expect?’ said Fip.

‘Well, what about you?’ said Jaffason. ‘You’re up for sixty pounds of silk lingerie!’

‘That was an entirely legitimate claim,’ said Fip, turning red.

‘Quack!’ said the Duck of Wednesday.

‘Quite right, Wednesday,’ said Fip. ‘The point is not whether these expenses were justifiable, because of course they were. The point is they look bad, and that’s bad PR for the fair. Now how are we going to fix this?’

‘Call the police!’ said Kneerot.

‘That’s not good PR either,’ said Fip patiently.

‘Ban the Echo!’ said Jaffason.

‘Beyond our powers, unfortunately,’ said Fip.

‘Oh, this makes me so mad!’ said Jaffason. ‘What about a distraction? Can’t we get the bank manager to do something outrageously incompetent again?’

At that moment the doors to the senate flung open.

‘Evening all!’ said Brother Greenbeard, swaying gently on the incoming air currents. He held up a bottle of wine. ‘Great stuff, this. Have you seen the papers today! What a laugh! What’s underneath that suit, eh, Fippy?’

‘Just pour me a glass, please,’ said the head of PR.

The summer residence of Jack Caracas was guarded by a pack of hounds with severe anger management issues. So vicious were they that Switchback’s village postman had been forced into early retirement, his replacement had suffered a nervous breakdown, and the latest had asked to return to his original position at the British Forces post office in Helmand province, Afghanistan.

Alarmed at the attrition rate, the Royal Mail sent in one of their elite: Frank Ashizukai, the ninja postman.

A slight rustle in the leylandii was all that indicated the presence of the new arrival and his payload of 6,128 pieces of undelivered mail. Frank balanced himself on a twig and prepared to exploit the psychological weaknesses of the hounds.

‘Fetch!’ he shouted, throwing a star shuriken over to the other side of the grounds, then disappeared back into the shadows. Thirty seconds later he was on the balcony of the master bedroom, with the hounds barking ineffectually below.

It was the work of a moment to blow up the balcony doors. As the smoke cleared, Frank saw half a dozen scantily-clad women scattering from the bedroom while a bodyguard rushed in to the aid of Caracas.

‘Who are you?’ said Jack, from the bed. ‘Paparazzi?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Frank. ‘I’m your new postman.’

‘Really?’ said Jack. ‘I do have a letterbox, you know.’

The sack of undelivered mail was thrown down on his bed.

‘Wouldn’t have fit,’ said Frank. ‘Didn’t you wonder why you hadn’t received any mail for the past year?’

‘I was a little concerned about the lack of fanmail, I suppose,’ said Jack.

‘It’s up to you,’ said Frank. ‘Either keep your dogs under control, or get your balcony doors blown up once a day. Before 9am for special deliveries.’

In the sewers beneath the fair, Agent Sapphire hunted for her prey like an unhygienic shark. Her GPS tracker indicated that the first target was near.

‘Turn - right - at the intersection, second exit,’ it said.

Agent Sapphire peered through the murk.

‘That’s not right, it’s straight on!’ she shouted at the tracker. ‘If this is another dead end, I’ll leave you here for the rats to eat.’

‘After - thirty - yards, you have reached your destination,’ said the tracker hurriedly.

‘I hope so, for your sake,’ said Agent Sapphire.

After thirty yards, she reached her destination and pulled out a state-of-the-art bugging device. She attached it to the roof of the sewer tunnel and switched it on. A green light blinked at her.

‘How refreshing not to have back chat from a gadget,’ she muttered in the tracker’s direction.

A second green light appeared on the bug.

‘Hello!’ said the bug cheerily. ‘It looks like you’re trying to bug someone. Would you like to run the espionage wizard?’

‘No!’ said Agent Sapphire. ‘Shut up, you stupid machine!’

The second light turned red, and flashed.

‘I was only offering to help,’ said the bug. ‘Was there any need to throw it back in my face like that? I get it, you’re too smart to need a hand from the likes of me. That doesn’t mean you can be rude. You’ve got a real attitude problem, young lady.’

The second light turned green again.

‘Have you finished?’ said Agent Sapphire.

‘Are you ready to say sorry?’ said the bug, both lights flashing.

‘Fine!’ said Agent Sapphire. ‘I’m sorry! OK? You’re a valued member of the team. Now start recording or I’ll fix you to the bottom of the tunnel. The reception’s just as good down there.’

A third green light hastily appeared. Agent Sapphire put on a pair of headphones, tensing at the possibility of another synthesised voice, but to her relief she heard only the sound of people above her.

‘Fancy a cuppa, Nora?’

‘Ooh, that’d be lovely, Kev. I think I’ve got some biscuits somewhere.’

‘Jim’s got ‘em, I think.’

‘Oh look, he’s asleep at the wheel again. Wake up Jim! Tea’s brewed.’

Agent Sapphire took off her headphones and pulled out a radio.

‘Aladdin, this is Sapphire, over.’

‘Sapphire, report,’ crackled the reply.

‘Security lodge objective complete, moving on.’

‘Roger that, Sapphire.’

The first light on the bug winked off.

‘You’re off, then,’ it said.

‘Not a moment too soon,’ said Agent Sapphire.

‘You … you won’t forget me, will you?’ said the bug. ‘It’s so dark in here … and cold … and the smell!’

‘Forget you?’ said Agent Sapphire. ‘I’m going to have nightmares about you. I’ll be back to get you in a few weeks, all right? Hang on in there.’

‘My cousin gets to live in a wall socket, you know. Lucky sod,’ said the bug, as Agent Sapphire disappeared along the tunnel.

At the second target, Agent Sapphire pulled out a manual and made sure the bug was in silent mode before she switched it on.

‘Jam, jam, jam,’ said the voice in her headphones. ‘Jam, jam, jam jam jam.’

‘Industrial target located,’ said Agent Sapphire into the radio. ‘Moving on.’

The final target was several hundred yards further on. Agent Sapphire, already caked with sewage from her journey, finally misstepped and fell into the stream. The last bug flew out of her hand and smashed against the side of the tunnel, where it turned itself on.

‘If you dare say anything…’ said Agent Sapphire.

She picked the bug up and stuck it on the ceiling. Grimacing, she put the sewage-covered headphones back on. The signal was as clear as ever.

‘It’s imperative that we maintain our information advantage. So what I propose is to send an agent into the sewer system at Barnaby Fair, and place these fancy new bugs under strategic locations. What do you think?’

‘Quack!’

Agent Sapphire switched the radio back on.

‘I’ve got Fip,’ she said. ‘I’m out of here. And next time, it’s Agent Emerald’s turn to get the sewer assignment, OK?’