He was supposed to be the getaway driver.
I bundled myself into the car with the cash and yelled, “Step on it, Trahearne!”
“Indeed,” he said. “The future looks bleak indeed if the forces of Her Majesty’s Constabulary are as dogged as their legend foretells. I fear our travails will only become ever more burdensome as we proceed.”
“What are you talking about, Trahearne? Put your bloody foot down!”
“But how could it be that I, a mere scholar of the mystic arts, am to effect such a manoeuvre? My mother has entrusted me with the legendary semi-automatic Caladborg, that I might wield it against the coming tide of rozzers in the battle that is fated to ensue.”
“Look, Trahearne, if you don’t start burning rubber soon, we could both get thrown in the slammer!”
“[sigh] If you go to gaol, my friend, rest assured that I will be right by your side, for it seems that our destinies our entwined. Do not despair. We must press onward. And fear not, for my necromatic servants are, I venture, too intellectually impoverished to turn Queen’s on us. I suggest we do not linger, for hark, I detect the far-off caterwaul of police sirens.”
…. and so it went on.
Next week I’m taking him waterskiing.
