Djinn Rummy

EIGHT

Philly Nine sighed. He was having a hard time.

The brimstone had been a complete washout. Literally — it had started raining just as he was lugging the crates of the stuff off the lorry, and industrial spec brimstone is water-soluble.

The frogs had been an absolute nightmare. They’d just sat there. No sooner had he shooed one consignment of, say, five thousand out of the delivery pond than the previous batch had hopped back in and sat down, resolutely croaking and wobbling their chins at him. Magically generated flash floods dispersed them for a while, but their homing instinct was such that at least ninety-five per cent of them were back home within the hour. They way they got through pondweed was nobody’s business.

“Sign here,” the Frenchman said. “And here. And here. Thanks, monsieur. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Philly nodded sombrely, and waved as the convoy of trucks raffled away into the distance. If you stretched the definition to breaking point, a worldwide chain of Provençal Fried Frogs’ Legs bars might be taken to constitute a plague, but it probably wasn’t going to bring the world to its knees; not, at least, in the short term.

What, he asked himself wretchedly, next? His own fault, he reflected, for letting himself be carried away by the gothic splendour of the language. If he’d been content to settle for a nice straightforward plague of, say, plague, the entire human race would by now be coming out in suppurating boils, and he’d be home and dry. As it was… He took out the crumpled envelope on which he’d jotted down his notes.

Never usually a quitter, Philly sighed, folded the envelope and put it away. Was there, he asked himself, really any point in going on?

And then he remembered.

The brochure. The smiling face. The slogan, “We’re here to help you.”

“Of course!” he said aloud, and his face broke into a silly grin. Virtually the only useful thing they teach you at Genie School: don’t bother learning the Knowledge itself, so long as you know where to go to look it up. He took out his diary and thumbed through the business cards wedged in the inside flap until he found the right one.

GAS headquarters had only recently relocated to an imposing suite of purpose-blown bottles in a crate round the back of Number 56, Street of the Lamp-Makers, and there were the inevitable settling-in problems associated with the migration of any large enterprise. For example, the phones weren’t working yet, only twenty per cent of the staff knew where the toilets were, and all the files had been sent to a hurricane lamp in the Orkneys by mistake, along with most of the typewriters and the coffee machine. Apart from that, it was business as usual.

After five minutes in the waiting room reading a back number of the National Demonological, Philly was greeted by a small, round genie who extended a tiny, moist paw and introduced himself as “GAS 364, your Personal Business Adviser”. GAS 364 chivvied him into a small cell with two deep armchairs, a vase of flowers and a large framed print of Picasso’s Guernica, offered him coffee, and asked what the problem was.

Philly explained.

“Right,” said GAS 364, “got you. The old, old story.”

“It is?”

GAS 364 nodded. “Bitten off more than we can chew,” he said, smiling. “Trying to swoop before we can glide. It’s basically a time management/resources allocation problem.”

“Ah. Is that serious?”

“Depends.” GAS 364 waggled his hands. “There’s a lot of variables. How your operation is structured, for example, lateral as against vertical command groups, properly demarcated zones of responsibility, incentive-related leadership packages, that sort of thing.”

“Gosh,” Philly said. “Actually, there’s only me.”

GAS 364 rubbed his various chins. “Sole practitioner, huh?” he said. “Now that means a whole different subgroup of potential dysfunction hotspots. The left hand not knowing whether the right hand’s been left holding the baby. And, of course, carrying the can.” He shook his head. “You know,” he said, “if only you’d come to see us earlier, a lot of this could well have been avoided. But there we are.”

“Are we?”

GAS 364 spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. “Are we indeed?” he said. “Like we always say, you can’t destroy the world without breaking eggs.”

Philly’s brow clouded for a moment. “Eggs,” he said. “You’re thinking of the giant ants?”

“Let’s stay off the specifics for the time being,” GAS 364 replied, glancing at his watch, “and zoom in on the generals. Which means, first things first, software.”

“Software?”

“Mortals,” GAS 364 translated. “As opposed to hardware, meaning us. It’s basically a question of approach, you see. You sole practitioners, you simply have no idea of how to delegate.”

“Delegate? Delegate the annihilation of the human race?”

GAS 364 nodded. “The only way,” he said. “Think about it. Sure, you’re a Force Twelve, rippling muscles, big turban, the works. But at the end of the day, when pitch comes to shove, there’s just you. Just you,” the genie repeated, “to open the mail, answer the telephones and wipe out all sentient life-forms on the Planet Earth. Result: you’re overstretched. Which means,” he went on, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head, “when the van arrives with the crates of frogs, you can’t cope. As we’ve seen.”

Philly nodded. “So?”

“So,” GAS 364 replied, “let somebody else do the donkey work for you. Get the software to do the actual extermination stuff, while you maintain a general supervisory and administrative role, which is what you’re supremely qualified for. It’s as simple as that.”

Philly, who had just begun to feel he was dimly glimpsing what the small genie was driving at, scowled. “Please explain,” he said.

GAS 364 beamed at him. “Easy,” he said. “Start a war.”

“Hello,” Jane said.

Kiss got up slowly and started wringing out his wet clothes. “Hello,” he replied.

“He’s gone.”

“Has he?”

“Yes. You’re all wet.”

“Yes.”

“Just as well,” Jane said, “that you can’t catch colds.”

“Isn’t it.”

They stood for a while, looking at each other. Between them, so nearly solid that it was almost visible, the question What were you doing in Vince’s ear? hovered in the air.

Somebody once defined Love as never having to explain what you were doing in somebody’s ear. It’s not a particularly accurate definition.

“Fancy a picnic?” asked Jane.

“Don’t mind.”

“Or we could stay in and I’ll cook something.”

Kiss smiled feebly. “Let’s have a picnic,” he said.

For want of anywhere better to go, they went to Martinique. It wasn’t the most joyous picnic in history — (For the record, the most joyous picnic in history was the time seven Force Fives decided to have a barbecue in the back garden of a house in Pudding Lane, London, in the year 1666. The genies had a great time and London got St Pauls, various Wren churches and a nursery rhyme or two by way of belated compensation.) — and after they’d eaten the sandwiches and drunk the champagne they sat in silence for a full seven minutes, looking at the dark blue sea.

“Jane,” Kiss said eventually.

“Yes?”

How to put it, exactly? How to explain that the ferociously passionate feelings they both harboured were nothing but a device contrived by a supernatural fiend as part of his plan to annihilate humanity? How to explain all that, tactfully?

“Nothing.”

Jane poured the last dribble of the champagne into her glass. It was lukewarm and as flat as a bowling green. “I thought that was very romantic,” she said.

Kiss suppressed a shudder. “What was?”

“You hanging around like that when Vince was there. I think you were jealous.”

Well of course, you would. “Ah.”

“Were you?”

“Sorry? Oh, yes. Yes, I was.”

“You needn’t be.”

“That’s good to know.”

Jane picked at the strap of her sandal. “The moment I saw him,” she went on, “I knew it was all over between us. In fact, I can’t imagine what I ever saw in him, really.”

“Can’t you?”

“No.”

Kiss breathed in. For some reason, he found it harder than usual. “I quite took to him, actually,” he said. “Not a bad bloke, when you get to know him. I expect.”

“Oh Kiss, you are sweet.”

That particular phrase, Oh Kiss, you are sweet, stayed with him the rest of the day and deep into the night, with the result that he couldn’t sleep. By two-thirty in the morning, it had got to him so much that he put on his coat and went to Saheed’s.

In the back bar he met two old friends, Nordic Industrial Components IV and Consolidated Tin IX. They were sitting in a corner sharing a big jug of pasteurised and playing djinn rummy.

“Hi,” he said, joining them. “Would you guys say I was sweet?”

Nick and Con stared at him. “Sweet?”

“You heard me.”

Nick shook his head. “To be frank with you, Kiss, no.”

“I’m very relieved to hear it. Same again?”

Three or four jugs and a game of racing genie later, Nick asked why he had wanted to know.

“Oh, no reason. Somebody accused me of sweetness earlier on today, and it’s been preying on my mind.”

“Ah.” Nick dealt the cards. “Well, my old mate, you need have no worries on that score. Who’s to open?”

“Me,” said Con. “Three earthquakes.”

“See your three earthquakes,” Nick replied, “and raise you one famine.”

“Twist,” said Kiss. “I think it’s a horrible thing to say about anybody.”

“Agreed,” said Con. “Who said it, and what had you in mind by way of reprisals?”

“My fiancée,” Kiss said. “Your go, Nick.”

“Your fiancée?”

“That’s right.”

“See your famine and raise you a pestilence. Since when?”

“Recently,” Kiss answered. “Can we change the subject, guys? I’m trying to enjoy myself.”

“Your pestilence,” said Con, “and raise you one. This is pretty heavy stuff, Kiss. She must be some doll if you’re thinking of packing in the genieing on her account.”

“Repique,” Kiss said (he was banker), “and doubled in Clubs. My clutch, I think.”

“Buggery.”

“That’s forty-six above the line to me,” Kiss went on, jotting down figures on a milk-mat, “and one for his spikes, makes seventy-seven to me and three to play. My deal.”

“I’ve had enough of this game,” said Con. “Let’s play Miserable Families instead.”

So they played Miserable Families; and two hands and a jug of pasteurised later, Kiss was ninety-six ahead and held mortgages on seventy-five per cent of Antarctica, which was where Con lived.

“No thanks,” Con said, when Kiss suggested another hand. “I get the impression your luck’s in tonight.”

“Tell me about it,” replied Kiss gloomily.

“This girlfriend of yours.”

“Fiancée.”

“Quite.” Con paused. Generally speaking, genies don’t kick a fellow when he’s down, just in case he grabs hold of their foot. There are, however, exceptions. “Lucky in cards, unlucky in love, they say.”

“They’re absolutely right.”

Nick grinned. “I take it,” he said, “you’re not overjoyed?”

“It’s that bastard,” Kiss blurted out. No need to say who the bastard was. “He hired Cupid to shoot me. It’s not,” he added dangerously, “funny.”

There was a difference of opinion on that score. When he had regained control of himself, Nick asked why.

“He’s going to destroy the world…”

“Not again.”

“…and he wants me out of the way first. I call it diabolical,” Kiss concluded, draining his glass. “He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Con replied mildly. “All’s fair in—”

“Don’t say it. Not the L word.”

“War,” Con continued. “You’ve got to hand it to Philly, he has brains. And vision. And that indispensable streak of sheer bloody-minded viciousness that you need to get on in this business.”

Kiss frowned. “Well, so have I,” he said. “Trouble is, she won’t let me use it.”

“Bossy cow!”

“Or at least,” Kiss amended lamely, “she wouldn’t like it.

And as things are at the moment…”

Nick winked. “Say no more,” he said. “What you need, I think, is a little help from your friends.”

Kiss looked up. “Really?”

“We might consider it,” Con replied. “Get a mate out of a hole. Can’t watch a good genie go down, and all that.”

Kiss’s frown deepened. “But what can you do?” he asked. “Philly’s a Twelve and you’re both Fives. He’d have you for breakfast.”

Con cleared his throat. “We weren’t thinking of that,” he said. “No, what we had in mind…” He looked at Nick, who nodded. “What we were thinking of was more by way of getting your beloved off your back. Weren’t we?”

“Could be fun,” Nick agreed. “How long have you got?”

Kiss shuddered. “Thirteen days,” he said, “before the papers go through. Any ideas?”

Nick poured the last of the pasteurised into his glass and chuckled. “I expect we’ll think of something,” he said.

Battered Volkswagen camper van speeding across the desert.

The Dragon King was beginning to get on Asaf’s nerves. After a long struggle, he had managed to jury-rig the primitive radio so that it could receive Radio Bazra’s easy listening music channel; but he needn’t have bothered, because he couldn’t hear a thing over the Dragon King’s Mobius-loop renditions of The Wild Colonial Boy. It would have been slightly more bearable if the King had known more than 40 per cent of the words. As if that wasn’t enough, the King had taken his shoes and socks off, and his feet smelt.

“Twas in eighteen hundred and sixty-two,” the King informed him for the seventeenth time that day, “that he started his wild career / Tum tumpty tumpty tumpty tum tee tumpty tumpty fear / He robbed the wealthy squatters and…”

“Do you mind?”

The King looked up. “Yer what, mate?” he enquired.

“Do you mind,” Asaf said, “not singing?”

The King looked hurt. “Sorry, chum,” he said. “Thought a good old sing-song’d help pass the time.”

“You did, did you?”

“No offence, mate.”

“Quite.”

The King turned his head and looked out of the window. “I spy,” he said, “with my little eye, something beginning with S."

“Sand.”

“Too right, sport, good on yer. Your go.”

“No, thank you.”

“Fair enough.” The King sighed and opened a can of beer, which hissed like a bad-tempered snake and sprayed suds all over the place. Asaf wiped his eye.

“That’s another thing,” he growled. “This car smells like a brewery.”

“Glad you like it.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t. Can’t you wait till we stop?”

“Anything you say, boss.” He drained the can and chucked it out of the window. No point, Asaf reflected, in raising the subject of pollution of the environment and the recycling of scrap aluminium. Deaf ears.

“Not much further now, anyway,” the King said, “till we reach the first Adventure.”

Asaf applied the brakes, bringing the van to a sudden halt. “What do you mean,” he asked dangerously, “adventure?”

The King looked at him. “Gee, mate, this is a quest, right? You gotta have a few adventures in a quest. Don’t you worry, though, she’ll be right.”

“Who will?”

“It’ll all go beaut,” the King translated. “No worries on that score. Trust me.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

The next half-hour was relatively painless. True, the King hummed Do You Ever Dream, My Sweetheart in a Dalek-like drone under his breath, but with the radio and the groaning of the suspension over the rocky, potholed road, he was scarcely audible. It could have been worse, Asaf rationalised. It could have been My Way.

“Here we are,” the King said, pointing with his right forefinger into the middle of the trackless waste of their left. “Anywhere here’ll do.”

Asaf sighed and pulled over, leaving the engine running. “Now what?” he said.

The King chuckled. “You’ll like this,” he said. “Right up your alley, this is. Watch.”

A flicker of movement in the far distance caught Asaf’s eye. The King handed him a pair of binoculars, through which he could see a girl on a donkey being hotly pursued by three men on camels. The girl had a good lead on her pursuers, but they were gaining fast.

“The low-down is,” said the King, “the chick is the daughter of some Sultan or other, and the three blokes on the camels are wicked magicians. All clear so far?”

Asaf nodded.

“Well,” the King continued, “she’s running away from them because she’s just stolen the Pearl of Solomon, which gives them sort of magic powers. You go to meet her, she gives you a magic bow and three arrows. You fire the first arrow at the first magician—”

“Excuse me—”

“And,” the King continued, “he turns back into a beetle — that’s what he really is, you see, a beetle — and you tread on him and that’s that. You fire the second arrow—”

“Excuse me—”

“The second arrow at the second magician, and he turns back into a scorpion, which is his true shape, and you drop a rock on him. You shoot the third…”

“Excuse me,” Asaf shouted.

The King looked up. “Sorry, mate, am I going too fast? The first…”

“I won’t do it.”

The King stared at him with a wild surmise. The surmise couldn’t have been wilder if he’d just said that Dennis Lillee was a slow bowler.

“I don’t want anything to do with it,” the fisherman reiterated. “You’re asking me to aid and abet a theft, commit murder—”

“Jeez, mate, they’re insects.”

“Insectide, robbery with violence, obstruction of the highway and heaven knows what else, for no readily apparent reason—”

The King was almost in tears. “For crying out loud,” he said, “it’s a flamin’ adventure. What sort of a bloke are you?”

“Basically law-abiding,” Asaf replied coldly. “Has it also occurred to you that I might miss? With only a very scanty knowledge of archery and just three arrows—”

“It’s a magic bow, you dozy bastard!” the King yelled. “You can’t miss. Believe me.”

“It’s still wrong,” Asaf replied. “If there’s a dispute between these people, they ought to take it to the proper authorities.”

The donkey was quite close now, and slowing to a gentle trot. The camels, however, were accelerating.

“Look,” shouted the King. “Unless you rescue the chick, she won’t be able to give you the three white stones, which—”

“What three white stones?”

“The three magic white stones which have strange and supernatural powers, you stupid drongo!” the King snapped. “Of all the…”

Asaf sighed, and opened the door. “Oh, all right,” he said.

“But I’m not shooting anybody, and that’s final. You wait here and don’t interfere.”

He climbed out of the camper. His legs were stiff with cramp after the long drive, and his left foot had gone to sleep. He hobbled over to where the donkey had come to an expectant halt.

“Allah be praised!” the girl exclaimed. She was radiantly beautiful, and around her neck hung a single white pearl which shone with a strange inner light. “Quick, my prince, take this bow and—”

“Be quiet!” Asaf snapped. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He trudged past her and stood between her and the camels, which slewed to a halt. The lead camel-rider drew a curved blue sword and brandished it ferociously.

“Out of the way, infidel,” he snarled, “or I shall cut off your head!”

Asaf shook his head. “Don’t be silly,” he said briskly. “And for your information, I’m not an infidel.”

The camel-rider reined in his steed and frowned. “Yes, you are,” he said. “By definition,” he added.

“Rubbish.”

The other two camel-riders drew their scimitars and waved them, but with rather less enthusiasm.

Asaf didn’t move. “Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“Ask me a question about Islamic belief and culture. That’ll show whether I’m an infidel or not.”

“It’s just an expression,” the second camel-rider started to say, but his superior shushed him.

“All right, Mister Clever,” said the first camel-rider. “What’s the first verse of the fortieth chapter of the Koran? You don’t know, do you? I thought you…”

Asaf cleared his throat. “This book is revealed by Allah,” Asaf recited in a loud, clear voice, “the mighty one, the all-knowing, who forgives sin and accepts repentance, the bountiful one, whose punishment is stern. Want me to go on?”

The camel-riders looked at each other.

“OK,” said the first camel-rider. “So you’re not an infidel. Now will you please shove off and let us get on with our work?”

Asaf stayed where he was. “Bet you don’t know the next bit,” he said.

The camel-rider glowered at him. "Course I do,” he said.

“Go on, then. Prove it.”

“Huh.” The first camel-rider sniffed. “There is no god but Him, all shall return to him, none but the unbelievers dispute the teachings of Allah—”

“Excuse me,” the second camel-rider interrupted.

The first camel-rider whirled round in his saddle. “What?” he said.

“It’s not teachings, it’s revelations. The revelations of Allah.”

The first camel-rider scowled. “It says teachings, son of a dog!” he growled. “Do you dare—?”

“Actually,” muttered the third camel-rider, “he’s quite right, it is revelations. Here, have a look. At the bottom of the second page, three lines up.”

“What!” roared the first rider. “You dare to contradict me, spawn of filth! I shall cut off—”

“Here, look for yourself, it’s there in black and…”

“He’s right, you know, Trev. It does say…”

There was the sharp, brittle sound of steel clashing on steel. Asaf sighed, shook his head sadly, and sauntered back to where the girl was waiting.

“Idiots,” he muttered softly. “All right, give me the stones and sling your hook.”

“Allah be praised, oh my prince,” said the girl nervously, rather as if she’d been expecting a rather different cue. “Thanks to you—”

“Yes,” Asaf said. “We’ll take all that as read, shall we? The stones, please.”

Behind him there was a roar of triumph. The third rider lay slumped on the sand, and the first rider was brandishing his sword again.

“If I were you,” Asaf said, “I’d hand them over and get the hell out of here before those two sort out their differences. Keep straight on down this road about ten miles and you’ll find a telephone box. Phone the police. OK?”

The girl nodded, confused, and handed him a white cloth bag which held something heavy. Before she could say anything else, Asaf turned on his heel, hobbled back to the van and slammed the door.

“I trust,” he said, putting the van into gear and driving off, “that there’s not going to be much more of this sort of thing, because a man can only take so much pratting around before his patience starts to wear thin. I’m telling you this,” he added, “just so’s you’ll know. OK?”

“OK, mate. Actually…”

Asaf turned his head and gave the King a long, cold look. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “There’s more.”

“Fair crack of the whip, chum, it is a quest.”

Asaf glanced quickly in the mirror, slowed down and started to turn the van around.

“Hey,” the King protested, “what are you…”

“Going home,” Asaf replied. “Look, I may just be a simple fisherman, but I have my self-respect. So let’s just call it quits. You get out of my life and stay out, and everything will be fine.”

“But the sheila,” the King said. “It’s all fixed up!”

“Then unfix it.”

“I can’t!”

Asaf stopped the van. “What,” he asked quietly, “does that mean?”

The King bit his lips. “Like I said,” he replied mournfully.

“Everything’s set up. You wished, remember?”

“Wealth without limit was what I wished for,” Asaf replied. “There wasn’t anything in the original specifications about running amok killing and stealing half-way across the blasted continent.”

“For pity’s sake, mate, this is my job on the line here. I’ve made arrangements…”

Asaf leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “All right,” he sighed. “On three conditions.”

“Anything.”

“One, you don’t sing.”

“No worries, mate, not another note.”

“Two,” said Asaf, “we keep these stupid adventures to the basic minimum. No magic spells, no more beautiful maidens than absolutely necessary, and positively no gratuitous folldore. Agreed?”

“You got it.”

“Three.” He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. “Keep your bloody shoes on.”

Two genies, rather the worse for six pints apiece of semi-skimmed with double-cream chasers, lurched out of Saheed’s and hailed a taxi.

“Where to?”

“Isson this bitta paper,” mumbled Nick. “Fastasyoulike.”

“You’re the boss,” replied the taxi. It hovered for a moment, straightening out its corners, and lowered itself to ground level. The genies climbed aboard.

“Home, James,” Con declaimed, “an’ don’t spare the Axminster.”

The carpet rose like a very flat Harrier, made itself stiff in every fibre of its being, and shimmered away into the night sky.

The cold air, rushing past their ears, served to cut the milk fug, and by the time they arrived at the destination scribbled on the milk-mat both genies were — not sober, exactly, but at least 90 per cent in charge of their principal motor functions. The ideal state, in other words, for attempting something very silly indeed.

“Right,” said Nick. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Con replied. “Here, I’m not so sure this is a very brilliant idea…

“Shuttup.” Nick rubbed his eyes and said the shape-changing spell aloud. It worked. “Your turn,” he said.

“I still think—”

“Get on with it.”

“All right.” Con mumbled the magic words; and he too changed shape. The carpet braked smoothly and began its descent.

“Here, Con,” Nick whispered. “Remind me. Which one am I supposed to be?”

Con shrugged. “I’ve forgotten,” he admitted. “Let’s have a look at you.”

“Well?”

Con rubbed his chin. “I think,” he said after a while, “you’re the tall one. Wossisname.”

“I see. So you’re…?”

“The other one.”

“Fine. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out.”

The carpet came to rest. The two genies climbed off and paid the fare, and then looked round. Nobody about. Probably just as well. What they were doing was, of course, unethical and probably highly illegal by genie standards. On the other hand, virtually everything genies do is.

“Here goes.”

“Break a leg.” Con extended a slightly unsteady arm and rang Jane’s doorbell.

“What do you mean,” Nick asked, “break a leg?”

“It’s something mortals say,” Con replied as the porch light came on. “Something to do with good luck.”

“It’s not good luck breaking a leg,” Nick said doubtfully. “Not if you’re a mortal, that is. Takes weeks to mend, a mortal leg does.”

“It’s just an expression.”

“Bloody silly one, if you ask me.”

The door opened and Jane stood in the doorway. She was wearing a pink winceyette dressing-gown and fluffy slippers.

“Ah,” said Nick, as smoothly as he could (but another half of pasteurised would, he realised, have been a wise precaution), “good evening, um, miss. My name’s Robert Redford and this is my friend Tom Cruise. Our car’s broken down and we were wondering if we could borrow your phone.”

Jane frowned. “It’s two o’clock in the morning,” she said.

If Nick was fazed for a moment, he didn’t show it. “Exactly what I was saying to Mr Cruise,” he replied. “Face it, Tom, I told him, chances of there being a garage open at this time of night are practically nil, so we’d better phone the breakdown service. And then, would you believe it, neither of us had any change. So we thought…”

In the background, the carpet lifted smoothly into the air, waggled its seams and glided away. “You’d better come in,” Jane said.

“Thanks.”

Jane shut the door. “You’re genies, aren’t you?” she said.

“An.”

“It’s the carpet,” Jane said over her shoulder, leading the way through into the living-room. “It’s a dead giveaway, that. Also,” she added wearily, “you obviously haven’t seen Mr Redford for quite some time. Not that he hasn’t worn quite well, but…”

Con took a deep breath. “Hey,” he said, “is this guy really a genie? Gosh, isn’t that.”

“And so are you,” Jane sighed. “You’re still wearing your slippers.”

The soi-disant Tom Cruise glanced down at his feet, which were encased in curly-toed gold slippers with jewels stuck to the uppers. “Damn,” he said.

“Sit down,” said Jane.

Nick smiled feebly. “Listen, Miss,” he said, “this has all been a big mistake, and…”

“Sit down.”

They sat down.

“And take those silly faces off, for heaven’s sake.”

They changed back into their proper shapes.

“Sorry,” Nick said.

“And so you should be.” Jane folded her arms and gave them each a look that would have made a woolly mammoth feel at home. “Men!” she added.

“I’m sorry?”

“Typical male idea of a joke,” Jane went on. “Oh gosh, Kiss is getting married, let’s go and play a joke on him. Puerile.”

“An.”

“Posing as extremely handsome film actors, you said to yourselves, let’s make some excuse to get in to her flat, so that when he comes round the next morning he’ll jump to the wrong conclusion, get madly jealous and they’ll have a row. How utterly childish!”

Nick swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said, “I see that now. How silly of me.”

“Me too,” Con mumbled. “Won’t be doing anything like this again ma hurry, you can bet your life.”

Jane glowered at them. “Actually,” she said, “you’re closer to the truth there than you think. Stay there.”

She swept out, and came back a few seconds later with two tomato ketchup bottles and a saucepan. “It’s just as well,” she said, “that I was planning on making a bolognese anyway.”

She emptied the bottles into the saucepan, put them down on a coffee table, and snapped her fingers. “Right,” she commanded. “In you get.”

The two genies stared at each other.

“You can’t be…”

“You heard me. Come on, jump to it.”

Quickly, the two genies assessed their position. On the one hand, Jane had invoked no magic spell or charm sufficient to force them into the bottles. They didn’t have to go. They would be perfectly within their rights to stay exactly where they were and simply explain, calmly and rationally, exactly what they thought they were playing at.

WHOOSH!

Jane nodded and screwed down the lids. Then she put the bottles away in the kitchen cupboard and went back to bed.