Chapter 14: THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL OF AGENT SMITH

“Morning, G,” said Agent John Smith.

Sir Crispen Fotherington-Smythe smiled cheerfully as he saw his favourite operative enter G Division through the double doors at the end of the corridor.

The year was 1983 and John Smith was Frontiere’s top agent, the one chosen for the most hazardous missions, usually in the most exotic places. He had recently returned from Canada where he had busted a major cheese-smuggling ring that were illicitly bringing large quantities of cheese over the border from the USA and into southern Ontario, where it was sold to restaurants at greatly inflated prices. The leader of the operation, a Canadian police officer, was arrested, along with two others after Agent Smith had followed them to a warehouse containing over C$200,000 of American cheese and other dairy products. A pizzeria owner in Toronto was also being questioned by police after a quantity of contraband dairy was discovered on his premises.

A poster issued by the Royal Canadian Mounted Cheese Police in 1982

“Agent Smith,” said Sir Crispen, “what a pleasant surprise. I take it you’ve been briefed by Big C.”

“Just come down from his office, G. What have you got for me this time?”

“Before we get down to business, I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

“Oh, yes. What is it this time?”

“It’s an idea for a new book.”

Agent Smith rolled his eyes and smiled. “Go on,” he said.

“It’s about a female Soviet agent who eliminates her opponents by passing sexually transmitted diseases onto them. I’m thinking of calling it From Thrusher With Love. What do you think?”

“Forget it.”

“Really? I thought it was a rather good idea.”

“Trust me, G, it’s not.”

“Oh well, back to the drawing board,” said Sir Crispen before taking Agent Smith through the gadgets he would be requiring for his latest assignment.

Agent Smith had been ordered to infiltrate the Late Afternoon Goudalistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses on South Island and to send back regular reports to Big C. The Goudi movement was becoming increasingly influential on South Island and Big C needed to know whether or not they posed a threat. Part of his assignment was to attempt to uncover Elroy Hubble’s actual identity, which was going to be no easy task as virtually nothing was known about the man.

“Be careful with that lot,” said Sir Crispen. “They might claim to be peace-loving religious types, but in my experience of that sort of thing they usually turn out to be bunch of lunatics.”

“I hear you loud and clear, G,” said Agent Smith, “but really, there’s no need to worry.”

Three months later there was every reason for Sir Crispen to worry. After successfully infiltrating the Late Afternoon Goudalistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses, Agent John Smith’s cover had been blown when GBH received an anonymous tip-off from a double agent calling himself Cheesefinger.

Smith was called into GBH’s office under the pretence of swearing him in as a fully paid up member of the Goudis. When he entered the office, however, he was jumped upon by two large men hiding behind the door. A bag was forced over Smith’s head and he struggled manfully as his hands and feet were being bound, but a sharp blow to the head sent him spinning into a dark tunnel of unconsciousness.

When he regained his senses he found himself bound to a chair in a darkened room. There was a large screen in front of him that was constantly showing old episodes of the Australian TV soap Neighbours and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the show was punctuated with random slogans that flashed briefly up on the screen at one minute intervals in black words in large capital letters on a white background. ‘JOIN US!’ ‘ELROY HUBBLE IS YOUR SAVIOUR!’ ‘BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS!’ ‘ONE OF US!’ and ‘SHOP AT FOODTOWN FOR ALL YOUR CHEESY COMESTIBLES!’

Smith wasn’t entirely sure why that last slogan was included, but he was pretty certain that he was being brainwashed. And just to complete the torture two large men dressed in black suits and wearing ski-masks would enter the room at intervals of fifteen minutes and, without saying a word, one would hold Smith’s mouth open while the other force-fed him Jar Cheese from a spoon and liquefied Australian Bitey through a funnel.

Nothing in his training had prepared him for what he was being subjected to. This level of sophisticated torture had not been seen since the dark days of the Spanish Inquisition, when, in an attempt to convert the radical extra-strong Cheddar cheese-eaters into accepting the new milder and creamier varieties, the Inquisitors would smear their victim’s bodies with Jar Queso and then let hungry cats lick it all off with their rough tongues. Driven to the brink of insanity by this inhumane treatment, almost all of those tortured by this method would confess to anything and everything in order to have their names put on the waiting list to be hung, drawn and quartered, which was felt by many to be a more befitting punishment for the average medieval cheese connoisseur and heretic.

The Spanish Inquisition smearing 'Jar Queso' on one of their victims moments before the cats are released

Agent John Smith couldn’t remember how long he had suffered this terrible ordeal – it seemed like days – and just when he felt like he was beginning to crack under the pressure of it all, the timely intervention of Miss Emily Yip broke the cycle of torture and brainwashing.

Miss Yip’s parents were an odd couple. Her father, Jock Forshaw, was a wealthy six foot tall Scotsman from Campbeltown, a place so weather-beaten that it was often said that if the wind suddenly stopped blowing everyone would fall over. Her mother, Zhi Yip, was four foot nothing and extremely beautiful and, like thousands of others, had fled China along with her family after the Cultural Revolution and settled in New Zealand, where they prospered in the marionette business. The couple had met in Wellington when Jock was on one of his many important overseas business trips and they fell instantly in love with each other. After a short long-distance relationship Jock sold his glove puppet business and moved to New Zealand where they were married.

The marriage was blissful at first – Jock would put on impromptu Punch and Judy Shows for her and she would entertain him with Chinese adaptations of classic Fireball XL5 episodes – but alas, it was not to last. Shortly after the birth of Emily, Zhi returned home one evening to find Jock playing with their next door neighbour, Derek. She was so shocked by what she discovered about her husband that she could barely utter a word to him for a week. When she finally spoke it was to ask for a divorce. “I’m a broad-minded woman,” she told her solicitor, “but I draw the line at Wargaming.”

Jock promised to attend regular Wargamers Anonymous meetings, but the damage was irreversible and Zhi left home with young Emily, never to return.

Emily Yip grew up in a warm and loving relationship with her mother and grandparents. Her grandfather was particularly influential in her development, teaching her the Eastern arts of Tai Kwon Do, Karate, Judo, Feng Shui and Origami and at the age of eighteen she was approached by Liam Schiffrin, who recruited her into the Big Top.

Once her training was completed she was taken under the wing of Agent John Smith who, although ten years her senior, had taken a bit of a shine to her. They worked as a team on a number of missions and their relationship, as fellow agents at least, became almost symbiotic.

Rescuing him from the clutches of the Late Afternoon Goudaistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses was her way of saying thank you.

The two men who had been torturing Agent Smith never knew what hit them. They were both killed instantly by well-aimed blows to the neck and, after leaving two perfectly folded paper swans on their bodies and rearranging the furniture for maximum Chi, Miss Yip helped her groggy mentor out of the building and to the safety of her waiting car.

A few minutes after Miss Yip drove Agent Smith away, a squad of heavily armed and trigger-happy policemen from Orangatanga, who were following an anonymous tip-off, arrived. After piling out of their armoured vehicle and securing the area, the police realised that the place was in the middle of nowhere and therefore devoid of any possible witnesses, at which point they immediately opened fire on anything that moved within a hundred yard radius, and before leaving they burned the place to the ground with flaming torches. Driving along the coast road on the way back to Orangatanga they drank beer and sang songs. “And the hairs on her dicky-di-do hung down to her knees,” they bellowed cheerfully, until an accidental discharge from one of the high-powered rifles in the back shot the driver through the head, whereupon the armoured vehicle careered off the road and over the edge of a cliff, killing everyone inside.

The Goudi Headquarters in flames

In a headline article the next day, The Orangatanga Times reported that “the operation the Orangatanga police undertook at the South Island Late Afternoon Goudaistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses was so thoroughly executed that they left no witnesses, not even themselves.”

Agent John Smith was given a week to recover before he was called in to see Big C, along with Agent Yip.

“Good to see you again, John,” began Everard Hinchcliffe. “You seem to be fully recovered from your ordeal, but, as far as everyone is aware, you are a completely broken man. I want to maintain that illusion in order for you to complete your mission.”

John Smith sat back in his chair and nodded.

“I’ll be sending you and Agent Yip to Braintree in England. We have a Frontiere Cheese Factory there and you will set yourself up as the new manager. You must be indecisive and a total moron at all times. If you can pull this off it will be your best performance to date. Are you up for it, John?”

“Of course, sir; but what about Agent Yip?”

“She’ll be going with you, posing as your personal secretary. She’ll effectively be in charge of the factory and watching your back at the same time. That will give you the time and space to gather whatever information you can get your hands on.”

“Good.”

“There are rumours that Elroy Hubble has not been found because he doesn’t live on dry land.”

“What, you mean he lives on a boat?

“Exactly. The reason I’m sending you to Braintree is because no one has ever heard of it – in fact everyone here thinks it’s a made-up name. I want you carry on with your investigations into Hubble where there are no distractions and, believe me, you won’t find any distractions in Braintree.”

“Then what?”

“Report back to me. Do you have any questions, John?”

“Only one, sir – when do we leave?”

“Tomorrow – you’ll be picked up in London by a guy called Peter Perkins, who will take you to Braintree. He’s a bit soft in the head, but he’s OK.”

Agent John Smith played the part of burnt-out moronic manager to perfection. All the staff at the factory thought he was an idiot. They scoffed at him behind his back, regarding him as childish for insisting on his weekly copy of 2000AD. What no one knew, apart from Miss Yip and Peter Perkins, was that (apart from being a first-rate periodical brimming with sophisticated and humorous storylines – he particularly liked Strontium Dog – aimed squarely at adults) The Mighty Tharg’s editorial column contained coded messages pertaining to the whereabouts of Elroy Hubble.

The day Jim Friteuse arrived at the factory Agent Smith had received one such message, informing him that Hubble. travelling under the name of Wulf Sternhammer, was one of the passengers in the very aircraft that Jim had arrived in England on.

Mr Sternhammer was staying at a Guest House in Braintree and had already received the personal invitation to visit the local Frontiere Factory that afternoon.

It would not be long before he arrived and then, contrary to Big Cs orders, Smith was going to kill him for what he and his lunatic supporters had subjected him to.

He closed the door of his office, sat down on his swivel chair, picked up his copy of 2000AD and held the magazine open in front of his face, before letting out a long maniacal, pantomime baddy laugh.

If the Big Top’s psychiatric evaluator had been sat in the office at that same moment in time he would have concluded that Agent John Smith was an awfully long way away from being recovered.

DON’T MISS Chapter 15: IDENTITY CRISIS!

COMING SOON!

Chapter 13: ELROY HUBBLE: FOIL AND TROUBLE

What follows is an exclusive extract from the introduction to Henry Higgins’ forthcoming biography of Elroy Hubble. This book will be published by Possum Press on 1^st December 2012 and will be available to buy from all good remainder bins from 2^nd December 2012.

The biography that claims to answer questions about the mysterious Mr Hubble

Attempting a biography of such a controversial figure as Elroy Hubble presents the writer with two major problems. First and foremost is the fact that virtually nothing is known about this mysterious man, apart from what can be gleaned from the plethora of awful science novels he wrote during the 1970s. Secondly, the complete absence of any photographic evidence leads one to wonder whether he actually existed at all.

Hubble came to prominence when his book Diuretics (1978) became something of a phenomenon in New Zealand, selling well over three hundred copies in one year alone. In the book he claimed that during an intense period of intoxication he had been contacted by Gouda, Emperor of Hothratherer, who had told him that humans were originally descended from a race of Cheese-Men with urinary tract infections that were now living inside the volcano on the island of Krakatoa.

The now classic1969 Hollywood blockbuster Krakatoa: East of Java, however, makes no mention of Cheese-Men from Hothratherer, but I suspect this was probably due to the fact that Krakatoa is actually west of Java. According to my sources within the film industry one of the minor characters in the original screenplay was supposed to be suffering from a urinary tract infection, but all those scenes were left on the cutting room floor thanks to the poor performance of the actor cast in the role, who was himself suffering from a urinary tract infection and was in constant pain during filming.

The poster for the 1969 blockbuster 'Krakatoa East of Java'

Was that pure coincidence or divine prophecy? You decide.

Hubble’s first science fiction novel, Stranger in a Strange Leerdammer, appeared in 1971. This was followed in subsequent years by The Mozzarella in Gouda’s Eye (1972). A Fall Of Mantasio Dust (1973), I, Ricotta (1974), Do Androids Dream of Electric Spenwood (1975), A Clockwork Oaxaca (1976) and Romanoworld (1977). He also wrote countless short stories for New Zealand’s premier sci-fi monthly Possum Science Fiction, and it was in May 1980, two years after the publication of Diuretics, that this magazine featured the first of the stories that would influence the confused thinking of many people for years to come – Cheese-Men From The Moon.

In Cheese-Men From The Moon the earth is invaded by alien beings, whose skin is much like the rubbery texture of Edam. Possessing cheese-technology far superior to our own, their first act of aggression is to coat the White House in an alien cream cheese, thus suffocating everyone inside. With the protectors of democracy gone, the aliens are then free to rampage through the world firing their hot cheese ray guns at anything that moves. Pretty soon they have conquered every nation on the planet, even Australia, and they use mankind as slaves to tend the cheese orchards they have planted throughout the world. All seems lost, until a plucky Kiwi bio-cheese-chemist from South Island called Reginald Molehusband is contacted by Gouda, Emperor of the planet Hothratherer, who instructs him through unexplained telepathic means to introduce a new strain of mould into one of the blue cheese orchards outside Orangatanga. This piece of divine advice kills all the aliens around the world in one stroke by making their heads explode and Reginald Molehusband becomes president of the world.

The controversial May 1980 issue of Possum Science Fiction

Cheese-Men From The Moon was a disappointing story for many reasons; the fact that it made no scientific sense whatsoever was a contributing factor to that disappointment, but the thing that made most readers either throw it into the bin or publicly burn it was that it was not sufficiently explained until the very end that the aliens were linked by a single consciousness, thus making the feeble attempt at a twist ending both ridiculous and barely credible.

Letters from irate readers flooded into the magazine’s headquarters in Wellington, asking for their money back; some even called for Hubble’s immediate arrest and execution for crimes against literature.  

The Crimes Against Literature Act is a little known and short lived piece of New Zealand legislation that was introduced in 1975 to prevent the American author Sidney Sheldon from ever entering the country. The law was successfully repealed in 1985 after solicitors acting on behalf of the International Guild of Writers and Artists claimed that in order to win any literary prize a book had to be both pretentious and unreadable, therefore qualifying it to fall under the Crimes Against Literature Act. More recently, however, the New Zealand government has been considering the reintroduction of the act following the publication of the Fifty Shades Trilogy.

Hubble himself was never charged under the act as the authorities were unable to find him, and when the police questioned his agent concerning his whereabouts they were informed that Elroy Hubble was a pseudonym and that he had never actually seen him. Thinking that a pseudonym was a small nocturnal woodland creature the authorities quickly gave up their search.

Demonstrators took to the streets with placards that read: BRING BACK HANGING FOR HUBBLE! and DEATH TO HUBBLE!  One demonstrator was reported to have said that he would have burnt Hubble’s effigy if only he’d known what he looked like.

Enraged members of Orangatanga’s Hard-Science Fiction Fan Club clashed on the streets with members of Nikkinakkinori’s Space Opera Fan Club each claiming that the genre of science fiction represented in Cheese-Men From The Moon belonged to the other. Riot Police were called in to calm the situation down and they almost had everything under control when members of Wongawonga’s Fantasy Fiction Fan Club arrived in buses and were turned on by the other two groups. “It was like a scene from West Side Story,” said one observer, “only without the music, songs and interesting characters.”

While all this was happening on North Island, over on South Island it was a very different story.

The South Islanders took in every word of Hubble’s nonsensical story and one man in particular, Gervaise Bridlington-Harvey (known to his friends as GBH) took the events Hubble described so seriously that he formed his own religion, Goudaism, and church that went with it, the now infamous Late Afternoon Goudalistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses.

Membership of this new religious movement began slowly, with a few Goudis, as they called themselves, spreading the gospel according to Hubble throughout the towns of South Island, but more people joined the Goudis after the publication in 1981 of Hubble’s eighth novel Cheese-Stealers From Hothratherer.  

The book that built a church

In this book, his first in four years, a group of disgruntled rebel Hothrathererens arrive on earth to steal all the cheese, but are foiled when Gouda, Emperor of Hothratherer contacts a plucky bio-cheese-chemist from South Island called Ronnie Badgerwife via an unexplained mind-control device, informing him that he should build a cheese ray that fires liquid Rocquefort. Ronnie does as he is told and fires the liquid cheese at the Hothrathereren spaceship, whereupon the rebels’ heads explode and they crash land directly on top of the White House, completely destroying it and incinerating everyone inside. With all the leaders of the democratic world dead, Ronnie Badgerwife is elected the president of the New World order, where he forms a new religion based on the teachings of Gouda, and everyone has to pray twice a day wrapped in sheets of tin foil.

Not wanting a repeat of the ugly scenes that followed the publication of the short story Cheese-Men From The Moon, the three science-fiction fan groups of North Island patched up their differences and a legally binding agreement was drafted up by lawyers stating that they would all boycott the release of Cheese-Stealers From Hothratherer. As a result of their actions the book sold no copies at all on North Island.

On South Island, however, the fact that Cheese-Stealers From Hothratherer was virtually a much longer rehash of Cheese-Men From The Moon went unnoticed and converts to Goudaism began to increase.

In a recent interview, GBH claimed that he had been called to the summit of Aoraki, where he received, from Gouda himself, the foundations of Goudaism in the form of the Five Wedges of Hothratherer, which all converts to the religion must strictly adhere to. The Five Wedges of Hothratherer  are:

1. No one other than Gouda, Emperor of Hothratherer is worthy of your worship.

2. You must pray each morning and evening to Gouda, Emperor of Hothratherer, wrapped in the sacred foil of tin.  

3. You must respect the leader of the Late Afternoon Goudalistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses.

4. You must give generously at every opportunity to the Late Afternoon Goudalistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses.

5. You must not give evidence against anyone associated with Goudaism.

No one, apart from GBH, was allowed to look at the Five Wedges of Hothratherer , because it was claimed (by GBH, of course) that if anyone even caught a glimpse of them they would burst into flames and burn for eternity in the Fire-Pits of Thuth. 

GBH also claimed in another interview to have invented the game Trivial Pursuit.

After the publication of Cheese-Stealers From Hothratherer all traces of the already elusive Elroy Hubble disappeared completely and he has not been heard of since.

What happened to him? Where did he go and, more importantly, who is he?

I intend to answer all those questions within the pages of this book.

STOP PRESS: Henry Higgins' book Elroy Hubble: Foil and Trouble was withdrawn from publication today after the author was found drowned in a vat of chicken stock. A spokesman for the Late Afternoon Goudalistic Church of the Seven Hard Cheeses refused to comment. Police suspect foul play.

Chapter 12: THE BRAINTREE OPERATION

The British operation of Frontiere had been set up two years earlier but the plans had actually been drawn up three years before that. It was after the 1979 election that Everard Hinchcliffe decided that Britain needed to be carefully watched. Up until then the British had posed no threat to New Zealand’s way of life (apart from when they raped, murdered and pillaged their way through the indigenous population in the 19^th Century), but after they had voted Margaret Thatcher into power there was no telling what they would do next.

It was a cold day during the last week of November in 1985 when the head of operations at the Braintree Branch of Frontiere greeted Jim on his arrival with a warm handshake, a smile and a quiet, almost imperceptible, growl.

“Welcome, Jim,” he said in an unmistakeable Kiwi accent. “I’m John Smith.”

“Hi,” Jim replied cheerfully. “You’re from New Zealand.”

“That’s right, Jim. I hope everything has been to your liking. Peter was pleasant on your arrival I trust.”

“Oh yes, he was just fine.”

“He didn’t foist any of his philosophical wisdom onto you or your wife, then.”

“Err, no.”

“Because he can get carried away sometimes; isn’t that right Peter?”

“Yes, Mr Smith,” said Peter, looking faintly embarrassed.

“He was absolutely charming, Mr Smith,” confirmed Jim.

“Call me John, Jim.”

“OK, John.”

John Smith winced. “Actually, come to think of it, I’d prefer it if you called me Mr Smith after all. It’s nothing personal – it just maintains a modicum of discipline throughout the rank structure here. I mean, I wouldn’t want the cleaners calling me John, now would I Jim?”

“You’re absolutely correct, Mr Smith. In fact, from now on I’d like you to address me as Mr Friteuse.”

“There’s no need to take that attitude. We’re a big happy family here, aren’t we Peter?”

“If you say so, Mr Smith.”

“I do say so. In fact I want everyone to start calling me John from now on – and that includes the cleaners!”

“Are you sure?” asked Peter.

“Yes . . . err . . . no . . . forget what I just said. I want everyone to go back to calling me Mr Smith – especially the cleaners!”

“I doubt if any of the cleaners heard you,” said Jim.”

“I can’t take any chances. If just one of them heard – well – there’d be anarchy, wouldn’t there?”

“I don’t think it would go that far.”

“Are you certain about that, Peter?”

“Well, nobody can be absolutely certain about anything, can they?”

“No, I suppose not.”John Smith looked up into the air, as if searching for some divine guidance. “Maybe I should ask Miss Yip’s advice.”

Peter Perkins smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Maybe you should.”

“Miss Yip!” called Mr Smith.

A young Chinese woman of about twenty-five emerged from an office nearby. “Yes, Mr Smith,” she called. Jim registered from her accent that she was, like Mr Smith, another New Zealander.

“Who’s Miss Yip?” he asked Peter Perkins.

“She’s his assistant,” replied Peter, “and I think I’m in love with her.”

Miss Yip was an absolutely beautiful woman, with shoulder length jet black hair, high cheekbones and a ready smile, although the fact that she was Asian and about half Peter’s age was probably a contributing factor to his infatuation with her.

“Miss Yip,” said Mr Smith. “I’m in a bit of a quandary – a few moments ago I mentioned that everyone could call me John, but then I changed my mind and said everyone had to call me Mr Smith. Now I’m not certain whether any of the cleaners heard my first directive, but if they did and they didn’t hear my second directive, there’s every chance they may call me John at some point in the day. Now, do you think I ought to release a statement to the entire workforce, possibly in the form of an internal memo, explaining that from this moment on they should all address me as Mr Smith regardless of anything they might have heard.”

Miss Yip rolled her eyes and flattened down her Puffball skirt. “Mr Smith,” she said, “Now why don’t you go to your office and I’ll deal with Mr Friteuse.”

“But . . .”

“Stop fretting about trivial things; you know how they upset you. I’ve put this week’s copy of 2000AD on your desk – that should keep you occupied for the rest of the morning.”

“But . . .”

“No more buts, Mr Smith. Off you go. It’s my job to sort out things like this.”

Mr Smith turned around and made his way back to his office.

“Well, that was interesting,” said Jim. “If you don’t mind me asking; who is actually in charge of this place?”

“We were supposed to come over here to work as partners, but as things turned out Mr Smith was in no fit state to run anything.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do see. In the end he sent here for rest and recuperation after he suffered from a complete nervous breakdown. He’s harmless really, but as you’ve just seen he does need some guidance from time to time.”

“What happened to him?”

“It’s a long story,” sighed Miss Yip, “and I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until Chapter 14 to hear about it.”

“Oh, right,” said Jim, not fully understanding Miss Yip’s answer.

“Come on,” said Miss Yip cheerfully. “Let me give you a tour of the place.”

“Sounds good to me.”

As they began walking Miss Yip turned to Peter. “Thanks for meeting Mr Friteuse last night and getting him settled in, but I don’t think I’ll be needing you here anymore.

“OK,” said Peter. “I’ll get back to my desk, then."

After Peter had disappeared, Miss Yip enquired, “So you’re the famous Jim Friteuse.”

“I wouldn’t say famous.”

“There’s no need to be so coy with me, Jim – after all you’re the man who can identify over a thousand different dairy products by smell alone – even Egyptian and Australian cheeses.”

“Well, Australia’s easy – there’s only Bitey.”

“And you can also use you amazing olfactory senses to judge when a cheese is at its optimum maturity.”

“Well, erm . . .”

“Like it or not, Jim, you are regarded as something of a legend in the world of cheese. Cheese-fanciers all over the world are in awe of you. I’m just disappointed that you haven’t brought Claire along with you today.”

“Claire?”

“Durr . . . Cooking With Cans of course. . . it’s a smash hit with Kiwis all over the world. We got the show recorded onto Betamax tapes and shipped over to us. She’s an absolute genius – I mean, the way she uses the Branbatia is like, well it’s almost balletic. I’d always used the Butterfly until Claire showed me how easy the Brabantia was. My RSI has almost disappeared as a result and there must be hundreds more women just as grateful as I am. Do you think there could be a chance of meeting her – maybe she’d be kind enough to sign my copy of Cooking From A Can. It was a godsend for busy working women like me – I use it all the time, you know. I can barely read the Gourmet Baked Beans on Toast recipe anymore because of all the rich tomato sauce stains I’ve splashed onto that page, and her Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pie, Tinned New Potatoes and Batchelor’s Marrowfat Peas recipe is simply orgasmic!”

“Err, yes,” mumbled Jim, thinking that he’d better change the subject, “So, Mr Smith used to be a Big Top agent before his breakdown . . .”

“Of course, yes; and a damn good one at that,” Miss Yip replied, “but you shouldn’t mention the Big Top in his presence. It’s just the sort of thing that might tip him over the edge again. The day-to-day operation of the factory here keeps his mind focussed. And his weekly copy of 2000AD, of course.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a comic, and a very violent one at that. But the violence seems to soothe him.”

That week's cover of 2000AD

“Oh . . . right.”

“Look, just so you know – Mr Smith was assigned to infiltrate a so-called new religion movement, which turned out to contain some very manipulative and ultimately very nasty people in New Zealand. He was once one of the Big Top’s top agents, although you wouldn’t believe it by looking at him now. It was the people that he got himself mixed up with while he was in deep cover that created the man you saw earlier.”

“But who were they?”

“You don’t even want to know, but if you’ve ever heard about or tried to read the book Diuretics you’ll know who I’m talking about.”

The book that started a cult

Jim felt a shiver run down his spine. “I’ve never heard of them.”

Miss Yip laughed. “Very good, Jim. I like your sense of humour.”

“No,” said Jim, “that wasn’t a joke – I actually have no idea who or what you’re talking about. But for Mr Smith’s sake I promise I won’t say anything about whatever it was you were talking about.”

  

“Good,” said Miss Yip. “Now, shall we continue?”

They stopped at a large metal door a key pad next to it. Miss Yip typed in a four-digit code and the door opened with a ttttshhhh. “This door is airtight to eliminate the risk of any bacteria entering the room. We have to be very careful, especially when employing the locals. All the men had to be sent on a two-day course to teach them how to wash their hands after going to the toilet.”

The aroma of several different types of cheese in various stages of maturity wafted up Jim’s nostrils and he knew instinctively which room he was entering.

“Ah, bliss . . . the Cheese-Sniffing room,” he said to Miss Yip as the door clanged shut behind them.

True to her word, Miss Yip had indeed left that week’s edition of 2000AD on Mr Smith’s desk, and just to show that she still loved him there was a glass of orange squash sitting next to it.

His weekly copy of 2000AD was the only bright spot amongst all the misery that surrounded him. Almost all the workforce at the factory thought he was a basket case and it was important to let them continue believing it. Any one of them could be a Goudi spy.

Miss Yip was the only one who knew the true extent of his suffering at the hands of the Goudi’s, a sinister cult of cheese-sniffers. She was the one who had rescued him and convinced Everard Hinchcliffe that he was still a valuable asset to the Big Top.

He desperately wanted to go back to New Zealand, but he knew that would never happen – at least while Elroy Hubble was still alive.

But if the intelligence he had gathered was correct that was all about to change.