My sister had been a wise woman.

Her specialist area of expertise was other women. I had always considered this a waste of wisdom from her point of view, but it never did me any harm to have her advice.

One of her most apposite maxims was regularly proffered in my direction. "Satchmo," she would say, "do you know how to spot a genuinely beautiful woman?"

Of course, I did after having heard this a few times, but I would always play along. "No," I would answer. Mary would smile.

"An honestly, naturally, attractive woman, not some precious creature that cannot bear to leave her room without make-up, a really gorgeous woman wakes-up beautiful."

Hardly Confucius, but still, like so much my sister said, I had found this to be absolutely true.

Two things reminded me of this; firstly, upon waking up the following morning with shooting pains in my back and cramp in my calf, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the rear view mirror.

Dawn had broken grey and murky like yesterday's wallpaper paste, and in its grimy smears of light my looks appalled even myself. The usual lived-in face was smudged with filth punctuated by two days of stubble and deep lines. My eyes were bloodshot and the tangle of hair on my head looked as if it was home to a family of hedgehogs. I had most certainly not woken up beautiful.

The second reminder of my sister's words was the sight of Martha emerging from the farmhouse, wrapped in a huge bath towel. Her face too was smeared in soot and grime, her hair was tousled out of its usual strict ponytail and her legs were streaked with black mud from the ditch in which we had restrained her in last night.

Despite this, her back was straight and her shoulders spread broad. Martha's face was placid, and her vivid green eyes were bright. She wore not a stroke of make-up, had endured a considerable ordeal last night, and yet she had woken up beautiful.

I could almost see my sister smiling at me from a cloud.

"You win again, Mary," I said aloud. "But being right doesn't always help."

Martha made it to the cowshed and the icy water of the shower started to flow. I groaned and clambered out of the car to stretch my legs. My right calf was still complaining bitterly, and I realized that I stank. I too was in dire need of a wash, and a shave, if she left any water.

I trotted over to the barn to see whether Ty had any plan of action following the night's events. I found him rolling up his bag, already washed and dressed in neat khaki trousers and a loose brown T-shirt.

"Did you sleep alright?" he asked.

"I've had worse nights," I replied. Whilst this was true, I felt that the night I spent lying in the flowerbed on a ring road roundabout after a particularly debauched teenage night out did not actually count.

"Good. We have a busy day. I thought we might take a trip to see Mr. Michaels. Martha will have some business to sort out with the police and her insurance people," Ty announced, looking at me implacably.

"Is it a good idea to leave her?" I said, concerned.

"I'm sure she will be fine with the authorities, Satchmo. Besides which, it is definitely better that she not accompany us to our meeting."

That sounded ominous.

"Oh, and have a wash Satchmo, you look awful," Ty said bluntly.

Charming, I thought. He did have a point though.

"I'll drive Martha into town while you clean yourself up. You don't smell too good either," he said, wrinkling his nose.

*

I had stood in the shower for as long as I could bear it. The cold water burned like acid and after a while it felt like no amount of scrubbing would bring life back into my flesh.

I had, however, managed to clean most of the grime off and thanks to a healthy squirt of fragranced soap I no longer smelled like the dustbins behind McDonald's.

I flatly refused to shave in cold water though. Previous experience had taught me that while it might be all right for the likes of Banjo Patterson and Tyrone Edge, I would most likely cut my head off. Plus, the irritation would only be slightly less than if I had used sandpaper to remove my stubble. No, I had to have warm water and that meant I would have to create fire.

Man, by which I mean the male of the species, has a primeval link to flames. Something is hardwired into our brain that tells us that not only is it a good idea to make fire, but that it is solely our domain.

Once made, we find it hard to take our eyes from the twinkling flames. It's like TV's in pubs, any visible cleavage or glaringly obvious wigs; they are impossible to ignore.

Unlike Ty, I was not well versed in the art of lighting fires, but I had seen him do it enough times to give it a go. I found the kindling he liked to use; a fragment of cloth burnt black and cut into small squares. Then I used a small knife to carve a feather stick; shaving curls into the length of wood just as I had seen Ty do.

I arranged the newly mangled wood underneath a pile of small twigs and got a few larger pieces of fuel ready for when the fire had caught. Next was the hard bit; the spark.

Ty kept a small metal cylinder that produced sparks when struck with the rear edge of a knife blade. He made it look easy though, by holding the kindling at the base of the tool he would scrape once or twice and the cloth would burst into flames. I tried a similar trick and found it difficult to hold all the requisite pieces simultaneously.

After several attempts, I managed to create a little sprinkling of sparks. Many more efforts were required before I had the tiny embers landing on the material, but eventually I rained a good shower onto the dark cloth target and it caught light.

Pleased with myself, I picked up the cloth and blew sibilantly until flames appeared, then I held it to the feather stick until it ignited. It felt good somehow, knowing that I had fashioned fire from the small pile of burning twigs with almost nothing.

I added some larger pieces of wood, then filled Ty's billy can with water and propped it over the flames to boil. After several minutes the water was warm, and I lathered and shaved without the use of a mirror. By the time I had towelled dry and dressed in fresh clothes I felt decidedly more human.

I warmed and went through a routine of stretches to relieve my body from some of the night's rigours, and was just finishing when I heard the crunch of tyres on the drive; Ty had returned.

He strolled over to me with a smile on his face, and inspected my fire with interest.

"Not bad, Satchmo! Come on now, we have an errand to run," he called, smiling.

I gathered some bits and pieces and five minutes later we made our way to the Land Rover. I buckled up tight, having prior experience of Ty's notion of what constituted reasonable driving, and braced my knees on the dashboard to lessen the chances of my spine being pushed through the top of my skull from the bouncing.

We didn't make it far before the shit hit the fan. Literally.

At the junction of the drive and the road, a large pile of manure blocked our way. At its peak the heap was level with our seating position, and it steamed gently in the cool air. Several flies buzzed half-heartedly around it, looking for a choice landing spot.

Beyond the minor shit mountain was an old and dented Bedford flatbed lorry the colour of curdled milk. The tailgate on the vehicle was down and a broad-bladed shovel poked out over the edge.

Squeezed behind the steering wheel was the giant frame of one of Michaels' lackeys who seemed to be desperately trying to start the vehicle with little success.

Norman, Tweedledum, had returned.

The lorry's engine spluttered like a tuberculosis ward but would not catch. Tweedledum had spotted us and was casting furtive glances our way in-between his cranking of the ignition key.

"Wait here a minute, Satchmo," Ty said, his voice icy and seemingly not perturbed that five minutes after he had driven down it, his drive now looked as if Hannibal's army of elephants had taken a dump on it.

Tweedledum was a big man, but I wouldn't want to be sat in that cab right then.

Edge slid out of the Land Rover and walked casually over to the Bedford. He bent over the driver's window and with a fluid snapping blow from his elbow he shattered the pane. Tiny chunks of glass showered over the driver who emitted a squeal like a stuck pig.

Ty leaned both hands into the vehicle; with his left he grabbed Tweedledum's hair and smashed his forehead into the steering wheel, while removing the keys from the ignition with his right.

Standing straight again, Ty tossed the keys atop the shit pile then opened the lorry door and grasped the enormous driver by the ears. Tweedledum spilled out onto the road like entrails. Ty stooped and said something inaudible which apparently did not illicit the response he was looking for.

Ty gave Norman a solid kick in the ribs then hauled him upright by the throat, which was a considerable feat of strength given the man's sheer bulk. Tweedledum was struggling and trying to punch, but Ty cooled his enthusiasm with a knee to the groin so fast that it moved with a blur. The thud of contact with the big man's under-crackers made me gasp involuntarily.

Norman collapsed double from the force of the impact, the wind whistling from his chest like a steam train boiler about to blow. As Tweedledum bent over, Ty laced his fingers behind the man's head and brought his knee up a second time, this time into the huge opponent's face.

Game over.

Tweedledum hit the road, and I thought I saw the ivory gleam of loose teeth spilling across the tarmac.

At this point I thought that Ty was going to kill the man, and that, in the grand scheme of things, would not be a good idea.

I got out of the car and hurried across to Edge who was leaning over the felled giant. Tweedledum lay motionless on the road, making guttural noises that sounded like a warthog choking on a frog.

I noticed that his left leg was adorned with a metal brace from our last encounter; it was clamped firmly in place and looked more like an instrument of the Inquisition than a surgical aid, the chrome splints scraping on the tarmac as the huge man now tried in vain to crawl away.

"I asked you whether you started the fire," Ty said, his voice still level and icy.

This was a very different Tyrone Edge to the man I had come to know. It was as if a dark force had gripped his soul and was driving him with a whip. His eyes burned with a heat, stoked by the devil's bellows, that I believe would have scorched a hole in lead.

"Ah, Ty?" I tried to interject. "Don't you think you should..."

He cut me short by dragging Tweedledum across the road by his hair. Norman scrabbled on hands and knees to stop his scalp from being ripped off.

They were headed straight for the pile of shit, the smell of which was quite overpowering at this distance.

Still holding Tweedledum's hair, Ty thrust his clenched fist deep into the manure. It was soft and loosely compacted and both hand and head completely disappeared up to the shoulder blades.

Tweedledum wriggled and squirmed, obviously struggling to breathe. His leg brace clacked an odd rhythm against the road, like an old drunk playing the spoons. Ty held him firm.

"Did you start the fire?" Ty's tone would have solidified lava.

There was a muffled noise from deep within the manure and Ty hauled Tweedledum out. The man's head was caked with blood and shit and his eyes rolled madly in their sockets. He tried to speak, croaked and spat filth, then vomited over the front of his T-shirt.

"Some fucking muscle you are," Ty tutted disparagingly.

Tweedledum had regained the power of speech enough to wail "You crazy bastard!" the pitch high with fear.

I didn't blame him. I was scared and my head had been nowhere near the crap.

Ty grabbed him once more and made for a return to the manure, but Tweedledum shouted, "I don't know anything about any fire. I didn't do nothing!"

Ty looked at him for a moment. "Did Godzilla take a dump on my drive?" he asked.

Tweedledee looked confused then realized. "OK man, I did that, but it was Michaels. He paid me to, like, scare you off!"

"Do I look scared to you?" Ty asked.

Tweedledum did not have to answer. Ty did not look scared.

"I pull scarier things than you out of my nose," Ty remarked. Tweedledum merely nodded stupidly.

"Right. I think it's time I talked to your boss. How do you fancy a ride?" Edge said, looking over at me. "There's rope in the back of the Rover, Satch."

No shit, I thought. I reckoned there was probably a Fabergé egg and a time machine back there somewhere.

As I retrieved a long coil of nylon cordage from among sundry other items, I began to wonder, and not for the first time, what the fuck I had got myself into.

*

Tweedledum lay in the back of the Bedford. His wrists were tied behind his back to his ankles, hog-tied Ty had called it, and he rolled around on his front among the detritus of the manure remaining in the flatbed.

The acrid tang of vomit mingled with the powerful stink of shit drifted up to the cab, all adorned with vehement curses and the crashing of metal.

"I should have gagged the bastard," Ty said.

He was taking no account of the extra unsecured passenger in the way he drove. We hurtled round corners like a rat up a drainpipe, sending Norman's bulk smashing about in the back and drawing another stream of oaths.

"I think you've done more than enough already. We are in some deep shit now Ty; GBH, kidnapping even," I whimpered. Inadvertently becoming an accomplice to various illegality will do that to your voice.

"Jesus, Satchmo, for a guy that routinely deals with criminals, you are pretty daft."

I didn't mention that I rarely ever dealt with criminals. Mostly I spent my days following fat, balding men who were cheating on their wives by pawing a secretary who could barely spell her own name let alone take dictation.

"Michaels is bent. He won't go to the police, and our cretinous friend back there thinks that I will kill him if he even considers it," Ty continued.

"And, would you? Kill him, I mean," I asked nervously.

"Probably..." he replied with a thin smile on his face. I couldn't tell if he was joking and didn't like to ask.

We were approaching the outskirts of Birmingham; a vast urban sprawl that made drab sound desirable.

It had begun raining; that kind of misty half-arsed rain that gets you wet without you specifically noticing. Like God's watering can feeding the concrete bulbs of tower blocks that sprouted around us, it was relentless.

The windscreen wipers on the old Bedford creaked and groaned as they smeared the water across my view rather than removed it, just making matters worse. The reduced visibility didn't bother Ty, who swerved across lanes and between cars with gay abandon.

The city began to grow around us; its slick concrete monochrome in stark contrast to the green of Pebble Deeping. There was less noise from the back of the car now. Tweedledum had been tied up like that for about an hour and the bonds must have cut the blood supply to his limbs.

I was feeling considerable disquiet about the turn of events. I was not at all sure what I felt about Ty, and the way he had dealt with the arrival of Norman the Shit Fairy. I realized that I did not know him as well as I had thought. He seemed to be such a quiet and secretive individual that I had overlooked the aura of menace, or was it strength, that he exuded.

In essence, I made a mental note to be glad that he was on my side.

"What are we going to do when we get there?" I asked nervously. "Maybe we should take him to A&E? It's gone very quiet back there."

"He'll live," Ty replied.

"But he might have concussion or something," I persisted.

"Satchmo, if Martha had not been staying with us last night she would have died in that blaze. For all we know it was the intention of that maggot back there that she did die last night," Ty's tone was a little weary.

"I think we need to know whether Michaels was behind the fire, and if he was, I'm going to make sure he never tries anything similar again," he continued, as if explaining to a child.

"But he's not going to just admit it; Yes boys, you've got me banged to rights. Fair enough, I won't try it again!" I said sarcastically.

We turned off the ring road and into the leafy suburb of Edgbaston. Red brick semis had been long-since converted into offices for professionals; private dentists, accountants and sundry other wankers.

Ty stopped outside a large house, wound down the window and inspected the bronze plaque fixed to the low wall by the drive.

"Here we are," he said, swinging the Bedford onto a parking space that had RESERVED painted on it in thick white lines.

Ty reached under his seat and felt about for a moment. His hand emerged holding the dark and blocky blue-black shape of a semi-automatic pistol. He ejected the magazine from the grip, checked the ammunition and then slid it back home.

I stared in disbelief; my mind paralyzed by the sight of the weapon. Where had that come from? Had he always intended to bring it?

Ty ensured that the safety catch was on and tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back.

"Oh, something tells me he'll admit if he was involved," he said nonchalantly as he climbed from the car.

I followed him like the lingering remains of a bad fart.