Wilkins had a point. From that range, it would have been easier to hit the target than to miss. The shot had been carefully chosen as a warning, albeit a forceful one. Having said that, had the behemoth Zero been standing at the front of the group rather than at the back, then they’d all be trying to remove bits of his permanently constipated facial expression from their clothing right about now.
Chaz picked himself up off the ground with the assistance of a hand from Wilkins. The man’s demeanour was telling. Smithy guessed he had known Chaz for quite some time, as his air of subservience had a definite undercurrent of disapproval to it.
“What are you doing shooting at anyone?”
“I’m afraid a trio of your other” – Wilkins twirled a finger in the air that conveyed a remarkable amount – “guests, attempted to gain entry to the collection earlier. They had to be dissuaded.”
“What?” said Chaz, before turning to Zero. “Zero, I want these men found and dealt with.”
“How gallant of you, sir, but unnecessary.”
“No,” said Chaz. “I insist.”
“Very well,” said Wilkins. “The immense gentleman should look for one individual with a severe limp, another lacking a right ear, and a third who shall sadly be unable to reproduce – or indeed, urinate – unaided.”
Chaz looked from Wilkins to Zero. “Right. Good. See to it.”
Zero nodded, which seemed to be a real skill of his.
Chaz turned and resumed his tour-guide duties. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Wilkins. The keeper of the collection. He has been with my family for generations.”
“And may I say what an absolute delight it is to meet you all.”
“Thank you, Wilkins.”
“Yes, between this and getting to drag a priceless collection of one-of-a-kind artefacts to a cesspool in the desert, my cup doth runneth over with joy.”
Chaz twitched. “Yes, well, that is your job.”
“And one, may I say, that I enjoy more and more with each passing day.”
The two men looked at each other, Wilkins a study in English stiff-upper-lippedness by which Smithy couldn’t help but be impressed. If Chaz ever got to see the phalanx of therapists he needed, his relationship with Wilkins would probably provide a nice couple of weeks as a palate cleanser between the mummy and daddy issues.
Wilkins snapped a square of fabric from his breast pocket and held it out to Chaz. “Would you like a handkerchief, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? It would appear you have a nosebleed.”
Chaz held up a hand to his face, then snatched the fabric from Wilkins’s hand.
“Very good, sir.”
Chaz, his paranoia kicking in swiftly, moved to one side, his shoulders hunched as he wiped at his nose. “Show them the collection.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
Chaz said nothing more. Instead, he simply gestured for Wilkins to get on with it as he scurried out the door and around the corner.
Wilkins turned to face the rest of the group and gave them an appraising stare. Whatever silent test he was adjudicating they evidently failed, given the subtle disdain in the curl of his lips.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as previously stated you are about to view a collection of one-of-a-kind artefacts that are literally priceless. I say ‘view’ as you are not permitted to touch them. You will not breathe on them. If they are in a glass case, not only will you not open the case, but you will also not touch the glass of the case with your grubby little paws. Failure to respect these rules will result in no finger-pointing. By which I mean” – he tapped the hilt of his sword – “you will suffer the loss of a finger. One of the good ones, too. Are there any questions?”
There weren’t.
Wilkins glanced up at Zero. “And if you are a hulking behemoth blessed with the natural grace and poise of an inebriated bull in a china shop, may I suggest that you stay here and enjoy the view of this curtain.”
Wilkins stared up at Zero for several seconds. He eventually broke off and spoke to Muroe. “Does it speak?”
“I … I believe he does.”
“Really?” Wilkins raised his voice. “You. Stay here. No smashy-smashy.”
Zero nodded.
“Excellent,” said Wilkins, clapping his hands. “What a thrilling insight into the world of Jane Goodall that was. Now, I’m assuming the rest of you understood the rules as they have been explained?”
Smithy, Diller, Muroe, Finley and Reed all nodded immediately.
“Wonderful.”
Wilkins pulled back the curtain with a flourish. Inside, various exhibits were housed under dim lighting. In one corner, a machine huffed out air at a no-doubt-precise temperature. He ushered them into the room and pulled the curtain closed behind them.
“Stay behind me at all times as we’re walking,” Wilkins instructed as he moved to the head of the group. “I shall give you the abbreviated highlights and then I will be delighted to answer any questions you have.”
Smithy turned to Diller. “Don’t even think about it.”
“But he said—”
“He’s British. They do that.”
Wilkins stopped abruptly and turned on his heel. “Now, if you look to your left, you will see a case that contains the bullet that killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914 and started the Great War. A tragic series of events that led to the needless loss of millions of lives. To your right is the outfit Janet Jackson wore at the 2004 Super Bowl – or rather she didn’t fully wear, which is why it became famous. At this juncture I would normally point out that while I maintain the collection, sadly I do not decide upon its contents. Moving on …
“To your left, the infamous O. J. Simpson gloves. To your right, the impeccably preserved pretzel former president George Bush Junior choked on. Over by the wall there is the original ejector seat from the space shuttle Enterprise, lovingly removed and replaced by an identical one. In that one, while enjoying a private tour, a visiting dignitary had a brief dalliance with a former Miss Alabama that people in the know estimate had a greater impact on the socioeconomic development of the world than most wars do.”
“Wow,” said Diller.
“Quite. This collection gives you a perspective on the secret history of the world few are afforded.” Wilkins stopped beside a case containing a large glass jar. “And here is the brain of JFK.”
Smithy’s lips moved before his brain did. “Bullshit!”
Wilkins looked down at him with a glare that could strip paint. His voice came out at a temperature below freezing. “I assure the diminutive gentleman that, while I may not select the content of the collection, I am in charge of verifying its authenticity. Nothing in here is fake.”
“But …”
“Actually,” said Diller. “The brain of JFK did disappear from the National Archives.”
“Yes,’ said Reed, “it did. Everyone knows that. Don’t be an idiot.”
Smithy looked up at him. “‘Don’t be an idiot?’ Thanks to you, we’re here as the prisoners of your demented friend. And you think you should be throwing around insults?” Smithy looked around. “In fact, what the hell are we doing? Getting sucked into this madness. We’re away from him and his henchman, Dill. Let’s get out of here.”