God hates a coward,' Gardener finished.

Ron cackled, clapped him on the back, and called for THE TAB. He signed it with a flourish and then added a generous tip from his money clip. 'Let's boogie, m'man.' And off they went.

The late-afternoon sun lanced Gardener's eyes like glass spears and it suddenly occurred to him that this might be a bad idea.

'Listen, Ron,' he said, 'I think maybe I'll just – '

Cummings clapped him on the shoulder, his formerly pale cheeks flushed, his formerly watery blue eyes blazing (to Gard, Cummings now looked rather like Toad of Toad Hall after the acquisition of his motor-car), and cajoled: 'Don't crap out on me now, Jim! Boston lies before us, so various and new, glistening like the fresh ejaculate of a young boy's first wetdream

Gardener burst into helpless gales of laughter.

'That's more like the Gardener we've all come to know and love,' Ron said, cackling himself.

'God hates a coward,' Gardener said. 'Hail us a cab, Ronnie.'

He saw it then: the funnel in the sky. Big and black and getting closer. Soon it was going to touch down and carry him away.

Not to Oz, though.

A cab pulled over to the curb. They got in. The driver asked them where they wanted to go.

'Oz,' Gardener muttered.

Ron cackled. 'What he means is someplace where they drink fast and dance faster. Think you can manage that?'

'Oh, I think so,' the driver said, and pulled out.

Gardener draped an arm around Ron's shoulders and cried: 'Let the wild rumpus start!'

'I'll drink to that,' Ron said.

2

Gardener awoke the next morning fully dressed in a tubful of cold water. His best set of clothes – which he'd had the misfortune to be wearing when he and Ron Cummings set sail the day before – were bonding themselves slowly to his skin. He looked at his fingers and saw they were very white and very pruney. Fishfingers. He'd been here for a while, apparently. The water might even have been hot when he climbed in. He didn't remember.