Alistair Raven and the Stormtrooper in Stilettos (Book 1)

CODA

Alistair sat dreamily in a quaint English garden, sipping tea from a fine china cup and saucer. Nothing short of idyllic, the air was sweet with the scent of freshly mown grass whilst robust county birds chirruped. A garden table was covered in a crocheted cloth and loaded with a fine array of silverware. Treats aplenty were on offer: cut sandwiches, layer cakes, iced sticky buns and an urn of English Breakfast tea. Alistair yawned and stretched contently before he helped himself to more pickled cucumber sandwiches.

"You pig," Chelsea said as he shoved the sandwich in his mouth and munched away happily. Perched on the edge of the wrought-iron garden table, Balderick flapped his bandaged wing as he nibbled at a plate of especially wriggly worms. Alistair wiped crumbs from his own chin with the back of his sleeve.

"Oh Alistair," Delilah sighed, embarrassed at his lack of etiquette. "You're in Charles III Gardens!!! Please don't act like a ravenous scavenger. I implore you to use your manners. Please!"

"Delilah," Alistair moaned, licking his lips as he reached for a custard tart.

"After what he's been through, I think we can let the children of the revolution relax a little," Julian countered. Delilah's mother hen cogs ground as she tried to pretend it didn't matter. Tentatively, Julian leaned forward and cut himself a slice of cream cake and began to eat it with a dainty fork. His pale face was shaded by a wide-brim sunhat and large flies-eyes sunglasses and the seat creaked as he shifted uncomfortably. Julian took delicate bites and winced as he swallowed. Thick layers of gauzing and bandages dressed his in-and-out bullet wound though befitting his dandy image, Julian had accessorised his bandages perfectly and even though he was on his way to healing, he was still miffed the medics who treated him had ruined his finest battle suit, cutting it from him with such recklessness.

The porter had positioned the jukebox exactly where Julian had wished and he raised the volume of the Wurlitzer, treating them to The Beatles Here Comes The Sun. Popping more painkillers and washing them down with a glass of Tizzer, Julian's medication had made him disagreeable and forgetful as he launched into his favourite diatribe once again.

"John Deacon, John Entwistle, John Paul Jones...geniuses all."

"That's a lot of Johns," Delilah noted.

"Yes, but no one...NO ONE...ever remembers the bassists! They're the backbone of groove," Julian cried.

"Mr Essex, what is a bassist?" Delilah asked, flummoxed.

"I'll pretend you didn't ask," Julian replied, resigned to being a one-man agitator for the rights and recognition for the plight of the chronically ignored.

"Jules, tell us something we don't already know?" Chelsea implored. As the patient and girl bickered - little had changed - Alistair gazed around the gardens feeling like he was in a cosy dream. He wondered when he would wake up, but of course, this was no dream.

"Earth to Alistair, d'ya wanna explore the garden maze?" Chelsea asked. "And we can sneak a peek at the ponds. I saw a row boat down there before."