Hunting for Silence

01. A Tail With a Beard

'Psht!'

'What?'

'Psht, be quiet! I think someone is following us!'

Glancing around at my best friend Patsy, I rolled my eyes. Someone following us? Ridiculous!

Yes, absolutely ridiculous. That fool got himself caught again! The third time in a row!

As inconspicuously as possible, I tried to wave away the tip of the brightly coloured turban sticking out from behind a nearby rosebush.

Shew! Shew! Begone!

'Surely you're just imagining things,' I told Patsy with a bright smile. My hand was still waving behind my back like a mad windmill. 'I mean, who would follow us? That would be silly.'

Go home, you big oaf! Go!

The turban didn't listen to my mental urging. But at least it fully submerged behind the rosebush. Branches cracked, and a Punjabi curse rose into the air.

'What was that?' Patsy whirled around, trying to locate the noise.

'What?' I asked, the picture of innocence drawn by a blind, arm-amputated artist.

'That noise! Someone said something. Sounded foreign to me.' Suspiciously, Patsy peered at a mother passing nearby with a stroller, considering her as a serious candidate for tropical profanity.

'It's probably that Italian count,' Flora sighed, a dreamy look in her eyes. 'Don't you remember, Patsy? He was quite taken with you at the ball the other night. Maybe he has fallen madly in love with you, and now he is drawn inextricably towards the love of his life.'

'Madly in love, eh?' Hefting her parasol, Patsy surveyed the peaceful surroundings as if they were the fields of Waterloo just before the big attack. 'Well, I'm a charitable person. I would love to cure him of his mental illness.' Gently, she stroked her parasol. 'And I think I know the right medicine.'

I did my best to join the others' laughter, while simultaneously gesturing frantically at the turban, which had once again partially resurfaced from behind the rosebush. Damn the man! Couldn't he keep hidden for five minutes? Although, I had to admit, as a nearly seven-feet-tall, turban-wearing, sabre-swinging Indian in the middle of a public London park on a Sunday afternoon, that task did present some challenges.

'All this talk of romance has given me an appetite!' Eve proclaimed with her customary lack of logic. 'Want to come and find something to eat?'

'You go ahead,' I said, nodding at my three friends. 'I, um...have to go. I've...noticed a flower in that rosebush I'd like to admire.'

'Admire away,' Patsy told me. 'I agree with Eve. I need something to eat. Where is that picnic we brought?'

The others flitted away, looking for a nice place to spread a picnic blanket. I, meanwhile, walked over to the rosebush.

'Hm...what have we here?' I mused in the manner of a botanical expert. 'A rare specimen of Rosa Annoyinga Bodyguarda. I wonder, should I pluck a few of your petals?'

'Allah have mercy on you if you try,' Karim growled.

I gazed down at the big bodyguard kneeling behind the bush. His trousers were dirty, his turban sat askew, and a rose had gotten tangled up in his enormous beard. He looked like he'd tried to dance a tango with the vultures in the Sahara.

'You don't have to do this, you know,' I offered hopefully. 'You can just stay at home, comb your beard and polish your sabre. I'm sure I'll manage on my own.'