The Vacant Casualty by Patty O'Furniture

shout.
    ‘Henge?’ Bradley was saying. ‘Oh, I see. It really is a place of crucial heritage.’
    ‘Stones came here from hundreds of miles away. This isn’t just a gathering of people who happen to be here and who reject modern technology. This is an ancient place of worship where
ancient rituals are enacted by present-day people. Big, important rituals!’
    ‘Right,’ said Bradley. ‘Sam, let go of my arm. Sorry, go on. So what do you guys do up here, is there some kind of ritual?’
    ‘Oh, yes. And look here,’ she pointed out of a gap in the side of the tent. ‘We have forty men, women and children working with wicker all day long. They are helping to make
our main piece for the great sacrifice.’
    ‘How remarkable. And it’s shaped like an enormous pole, almost like a man’s p— Sam! Stop tugging my arm like that!’
    ‘And here we have sixty others, digging the ceremonial trench . . .’
    ‘I see, I see. Almost like a woman’s . . . Yes, Sam. don’t worry, I’m coming with you. Let’s hurry along now. So long, sister! Put that cigarette down, now, Sam.
Run!’

Chapter Eight
    S AM SNOOZED OFF the effects of his large cigarette on the way back to the town, and when woken up on arriving there, he insisted on getting some
lunch.
    ‘Not just
any
lunch,’ he said. ‘Let’s get some proper lunch.’
    Detective Inspector Bradley soon gave up trying to suggest what a proper lunch might be, allowing Sam’s nose to follow itself until they stumbled across the Legume & Gastropod pub,
tucked away in a winding side alley.
    ‘Garlic mushrooms,’ said Sam, before his backside had even touched the bench. ‘Onion rings, deep-fried whitebait and a bacon-triple-cheeseburger. With onions, relish and
anything else that comes with it. And a Coke? I would come in and order with you but I’ve got a bad leg.’ He handed the menu back to Bradley with a twenty-pound note, fell back in a
swoon against the leather chair, turned his face to the window and relaxed in the hot sunshine.
    ‘Ordered,’ said Bradley, appearing sooner than expected.
    ‘Okay, man,’ said the writer, who, with the promise of large amounts of juicy fried food coming his way, surprised himself by snapping out of his reverie. ‘How do you think
this is going? I’m getting a big kick out of this, baby.’
    ‘I . . . I’m not sure,’ said Bradley, picking over his words carefully. ‘I’m concerned that you were dealing drugs with those crusties up there . . .’ he
began.
    ‘Good,’ encouraged Sam.
    ‘But then, I’m also slightly terrified that if we’d stayed up there long enough they would have sacrificed us to the sun god.’
    ‘It must be quite close to some solstice or other,’ said Sam. ‘And notice how I gave you a helpful wrist-tugging hint . . .’
    ‘Gold star to you there, young man,’ said Bradley, who was pleased to see that his approbation gave Sam pleasure. ‘Well done for saving our lives,’ he reiterated.
‘But still it leaves a lot unexplained. And still more motives!’
    ‘Hmm,’ said Sam, sipping his Coke. ‘We’ve still got to talk to the mayor, and many others, but I think we should get hold of the man with the Ye Olde Shoppe.’
    ‘Yes, he certainly sounds like he has a grudge against the council, that could be a motive.’
    ‘Right,’ said Sam, caught off-guard. ‘He has a motive, all right. But he’s also missing out on some
major
other Dickens puns for his shop.’
    ‘Right, I see—’
    ‘Nicholas Nippleby, A Tale of Two Titties, David Cop-a-feel. That’s off the top of my head, if he wants to have a porn shop. If he wants to get into any other linem of business
(except being an actual Old Curiosity Shop), I could come up with a dozen puns on the spot.’
    As Bradley was in the course of nodding and smiling, and agreeing in order to stop Sam speaking, their food arrived and they quickly settled into companionable silence. Sam’s wordplay was
happily confined to