No way, was there room under the table for both of us. Babs gave me a shove; I clung desperately to the single middle leg of the white plastic garden-table.
‘We’re being shot at!’ she hissed.
‘I know,’ I hissed back.
‘Can you see him?’
‘How do you know it’s a him?’
‘I just know. That’s how. It’s logical’
‘God, I’ve married a Vulcan.’
‘Can you see him?’
‘No, can you?’
‘Well, do something!’
‘What? He only managed to hit the hollyhocks.’
‘Wizz-Zuppp!’ - another shot made its presence known, another flower fluttered free from the towering stand of hollyhocks. They looked even taller from under the table. Rather beautiful, I thought, sunlit against the sky.

There are three ways of dealing with danger: bravery, panic and indifference. I was desperately trying to go the third way.
‘DO SOMETHING!’ - Babs had a different attitude, she was into panic. Unfortunately it was infectious.
‘WHAT?’
‘You could phone the police.’
‘So could you.’
‘I’m not going out there to get shot at.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘Zizzzzz-PANG!’ - another flower bit the dust and a sizeable chunk of brickwork disappeared from the back corner of the garage.
‘What was that?’ - Babs was hissing again.
‘He, if it is a he, hit the garage, that time.’
‘I’m going to do something,’ - she sounded decisive.
‘Ouch!’ - no I hadn’t been hit; Babs had me in an arm-lock. She’s good at those.
‘You do something, or I break your arm!’ she grunted.
‘I thought you were going to do something!’
‘I am, I’m making you do something!’ - she tightened her grip. I ouched again.
‘Okay, OKAY! Leggo and I will.’
She did, so I did.

Rolling painfully across the terrace and into the dining-room. There was another table there, solid Victorian mahogany. I dived under it, pulling the phone off the sideboard as I went.
‘Zizz-Whuppp, zizzzzz-wupp, Pang!’ - two more shots shook the hollyhocks and another, smaller, chip fell off the corner of the garage.
I pipped the phone buttons - ‘What serv…?’ - ‘Zizz-Whang’ - ‘Gees’ - ‘What…?’ - ‘I’m being shot at!’ - ‘What service do you require?’ - ‘Eh? Police, I think - or ambulance.’ - ‘Putting you through.’
The plastic garden table crashed into the French-doors and stuck-fast. Babs crashed with it, vaulted the obstruction and joined me under the dining table.
‘This is the Police,’ said the phone, ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’ve just torn my skirt,’ said Babs.
‘I’m being shot at,’ said I
‘WE’re being shot at!’ - Babs had dropped her ripped hem and grabbed the phone.
‘Is anybody injured?’
‘Eh? No, not yet.’
‘We’re on our way.’
‘The address is…’
‘We know where you are, the location of every phone is on the computer.’
‘They know where we are,’ said Babs.

‘Zizz-flupp-thud!’ - something fast zapped into the flowers on the sideboard, then buried itself in the fruit-bowl. A melon exploded, spraying the room with slimy pips.
‘Christ! So does the man with the gun!’
‘He’s aiming at the flowers!’ said Babs.
‘Or garages, or fruit,’ I said, ‘P’raps he’s not shooting at us at all.’
‘Anything’s possible,’ she mused, sticking her head out from under the table.’ - there were no additional shots - ‘Yes, I’m right. It was definitely the flowers, mainly hollyhocks.’
‘How do you know it’s hollyhocks?’
‘Every shot’s hit a hollyhock. Even the ones that hit the garage hit a hollyhock first.’
‘So, why say “mainly” hollyhocks?’
‘You know what I mean,’ she grunted, ducking back under the table, just to give me a shove.
‘Okay, so he’s got it in for hollyhocks, but what about the shot that came in here?’
‘There was a hollyhock in the vase; you know that broken spire you brought in after yesterday’s thunderstorm.’
‘You’re right. At least, I hope you’re right, but what sort of a nutter shoots at hollyhocks?'
Babs opened her mouth, but before she could say anything…
‘Bees, sir.’
It was a police-person, wearing enough protective clothing to take-on a herd of tanks.

He, or was it she, removed the blockage from the French window then bent down and peered at us under the table. ‘You don’t mind if I come in, do you, sir?’
‘Eh, no…’
‘Bees?’ said Babs, in that voice of hers. You know, the one she uses to demolish my late-back-from-the-pub excuses.
‘Certainly madam. Honey-bees! Although to be more precise I should call them Speed-Bees.’
‘Speed-Bees? Never heard of them,’ I said.
‘Like in my magazine?’ said Babs.
‘What magazine?’ - the police-person was astonished - ‘Speed-Bees are currently supposed to be top-secret. They only escaped just before lunch.’
‘She means the quick crossword,’ I said, ‘It’s a word-play on “Spelling-Bee”.’
‘Not a very good one, I must say…’
‘Never mind that! How can they be top-secret when they’re demolishing my hollyhocks?’ I asked.
‘You’re right sir,’ sighed the police-person, ‘It had to come out sooner or later.’

‘Zizzz, Zizzz, Zizzzzzz, Whup, Whup, Pang!’ - the garden sounded like the BBC Radiophonic Workshop building a battle scene for Doctor Who.
‘They’re coming thick and fast, now, sir,’ chuckled the plod (or ploddess) though plastic visor and breathing apparatus.
‘But what use are Speed-Bees?’ asked Babs.
‘Super-efficient commercial pollination, you know, fruit and stuff, things like that,’ came the muffled reply.
‘I see. They get a bit fruity, do they?’ I said.
‘You’d know all about that!’ muttered Babs.
‘It doesn’t work very well, does it?’ said another plod, picking a way past the plastic table and filling the room with choking insecticide.
‘For Pete’s sake…’ yelled Plod number one, hurriedly handing out face-masks, ‘That stuff’s lethal!’
‘How’ - choke - ‘do you mean?’ I said.
‘Lethal, sir. Kills people as well as bugs.’
‘No, I got that bit. It was your colleague saying, “It doesn’t work very well,” that was worrying me?’
‘Ah, I see. Well it’s obvious, isn’t it. The bees’re much too fast. They see a flower, specially a hollyhock, and wizz-bang: Instant pollination followed by total demolition. Can’t stop, you see. Insectarian joy-riders, all gas-pedal and no brakes.’

‘We’re finished out here, boss.’ Yet another armour-plated plod had stuck a head in from the garden.
‘How many did you get?’
‘Sixty-two from the victims in Adelaide street, god rest their souls, who would have thought flower-pattern shirts could be so dangerous. Then twelve from this lot’s herbaceous border and a collection of body-parts from the compost-heap by the corner of the garage.’
‘Did you get all the bits?’
‘Well, I picked up thirty legs. So with this set’ - he tweezered several somethings out of the melon fragments - ‘It looks like we’ve accounted for all eighty of the little ...’
‘Yes, thank you, constable,’ said plod number one, who was obviously a sergeant. He - yes, after all it was a he - pulled off his mask, sniffed the air - rather doubtfully I thought - and turned to me.
‘We’ll leave you now, sir, and eh, madam. Try to resist calling the media. I know it’s a wonderful story, but we’d prefer to avoid a national panic, if we can.’
‘Are there any more of the things about?’ I asked.
‘No sir, that’s the lot. All eighty of ‘em.’ He held up a plastic evidence-bag.

Then we were alone, enjoying the quiet of the anticlimax. We didn’t feel like going back in the garden, but it was a stifling day and the room still stunk of insecticide, so we left the windows open.
‘I say,’ said Babs, ‘That old jug your aunt left you. That’s got hollyhocks on it.’
‘So it has. Moorcroft, I think. Rather nice really.’
‘Good job it wasn’t in view of the windows.’
‘I s’pose so,’ I mused, picking it up. Babs came over and we admired it together. I turned it to catch the light. Then I said, ‘Yes, definitely, rather nice and valuable too.’
Zizzzzzzzzzzzzz-POW!!!! - the antique jug exploded in my hands.
With hindsight, when they were clearing up around the end of the garage, I suppose it would have been better if they’d counted heads or even pairs of wings. Speeeed-Beeees, it seeems, fly even faster with no legs!

Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©1999