Nirvana Bites Read Online Free Page B

interrupted eagerly, ‘It may be pertinent to consider whether the intended victim is Stanley, or Catherine.’
    Robin and Nick might look like a pair of crusty old hippies, but their origins betray them whenever they open their mouths. Those accents – the plummiest this side of Dulwich Village – could only be the result of a public-school education. But no one controls the situation they’re born into, so we are all kind enough not to draw attention to it. Not too often anyway.
    Robin lowered his head and peered with great intensity at the toe protruding from his dilapidated right trainer. ‘Actually, I just might be in a position to do a spot of research on that front,’ he mumbled. ‘My mother happens to be the chair of the local Conservative association in Catherine Highshore’s constituency. They’re good friends.’ He hunched his bony shoulders in an apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry, folks,’ he murmured. ‘But it just might be useful, you know?’
    â€˜Thanks, Robin,’ I said brightly. ‘We know that was hard for you and we appreciate it. That may well be something we have to follow up. Anyone got any other ideas?’
    There was a short silence, which was broken by an unexpected sound.
    â€˜Eco-warriors.’
    We all looked up and turned to gaze at Ali. It was rare that he spoke and when he did it was usually in monosyllables and often, as now, appeared to be a confusing non sequitur. In fact, I’ve always suspected he has a superb brain and rarely speaks to others because he gets far more satisfaction – and stimulation – from internal conversations. What appears to be a contribution from the nether regions of Planet Ali – and thus completely incomprehensible to our humanoid species – often turns out to be incredibly apposite.
    We all narrowed our eyes, furrowed our brows and tried to look intelligent. It was Mags who got there first.
    â€˜Are you suggesting there may be a link between the trashing of the production suite and what’s happening to Stan?’
    Ali raised an eyebrow in response.
    Frank looked up from the date palm, which he had been gazing at wistfully. ‘I heard something about that. I met Slug the other day down the pub. He said it was shite.’
    â€˜What was shite, Frank?’ I asked, careful not to freak him out by sounding impatient.
    From the age of five, Frank had boarded at a college on the Galway coast. He never talks about his education, but whatever it consisted of was enough to result in him being physically sick whenever he sees a Catholic priest. He left when he was sixteen and hit the streets of London with as much experience as a fish has of an aviary and as ripe for exploitation as a Vietnamese worker in a Nike factory. In quick and easy stages he developed pubic lice, scabies, herpes, a taste for Tennants Extra and a major drugs habit. He’s off the smack now, but it’s no surprise that his brain is still scrambled.
    â€˜That BBC stuff. He said it was set up to look like an eco-job, but no one knows anyone involved. He reckons it was well dodgy.’
    â€˜Can we talk to Slug about it?’ I asked.
    â€˜Dunno where he is,’ shrugged Frank.
    â€˜We can’t go and see him?’ enquired Mags.
    â€˜He lives up a fucking tree,’ Frank protested.
    â€˜So?’ chorused Mags and I in unison.
    â€˜So it’s never the same fucking tree,’ Frank explained, like it was obvious.
    We slumped.
    â€˜Um. There is another way of pursuing that angle actually,’ interjected Nick. ‘We could check out the eco-sites on the Web.’
    â€˜Yeah. Just one small flaw, Nick,’ I said. I knew I sounded a bit nasty. This wasn’t providing the results I’d hoped for. ‘Who do we know who has access to the internet?’
    â€˜Um. Er. Well.’ Nick shuffled uncomfortably. We all looked at him with curiosity. ‘I do,