Paddy Bostock - Chosen

But that was only the first tweak, featuring as a mere taster in a few inside pages.

Once The Daily Truth ’s editor, Simone de Vérité, spotted the legs such a story might have, however, it took on a whole new—international—dimension. No more bother with such fripperies as children and porn star wives for Simone. No siree. Instead she was able to reveal as headline news that she and her team of “undercover experts” had been able to link the disappearance of megalomaniac bonkers banker in question to not only the 2008 banking crash but also (“tellingly”) to Maxim in Minsk who, it was believed, had CIA-confirmed connections to Bratva, Russia’s Mafia, and thereby direct links to the Kremlin.

Similar and yet more inventive interpretations were to follow in The Daily Grunt , The Sunday Planet and other organs across the nation, all of them directly linking the unexplained vanishing of what had become the “renegade Trotskyite megalomaniac bonkers banker” to Russian president Igor Ripurpantzov himself. According to these accounts, not satisfied with the Internet fiddling of the election of a paranoid narcissist to The White House and the destabilization of the UK’s age-old parliamentary democracy by flooding the social media with pre-Brexit referendum bot-generated pro-Leave posts, Ripurpantzov’s quest for world domination had sunk to the level of tempting into his inner circle Britain’s top talent, possibly by doping them. The News described the phenomenon as “BRITAIN’S NEW BRAIN DRAIN,” while The Morning Scrutiny asked: “IS THE BONKERS BANKER THE BURGESS AND MACLEAN FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY?” and, in similar vein, The Evening Informer wanted to know: “IS THE BONKERS BANKER THE NEW EDWARD SNOWDEN?”

And so on… and on… and on as the story took flight and was further amended to suit the tastes of readers in places as far flung as Australia where normally it was only cricket or rogue kangaroos that made the headlines. Back home even supposedly balanced heavyweight titles and respectable TV and radio channels pounced on the story, careless of the danger of yet again arousing the same xenophobic angst that had caused voters to rally to such specious concepts as “Britishness” and “sovereignty” in the 2016 Brexit referendum.

“Some imaginations these guys have,” said Jeremy as he and Barry surfed the net for updates on his situation.

Barry nodded. “But possibly not so far off the mark. Who would bet against the Ruskies having had a cyber pop at Western democracies and then trying to lure away their top talent? Was it an American who built the first atomic bomb or was it an imported ex-Nazi?”

“Why me though?” said Jeremy. “All I wanted was a life away from my old life. And now this .”

“To sow uncertainties, promote fake news, and sell newspapers, my friend. You are simply the latest convenient catalyst for a good story. You know the other meaning of that word, don’t you?”

“Lie.”

“Exactly. And you have been chosen as the unwitting subject, object, whichever way you want to look at it, of someone else’s narrative.”

Jeremy sighed. “Again?”

“Afraid so. Just let us say you have been framed as the latest player in the age-old game called: ‘Sod the truth if porkies can make more money.’”

“Just when I was trying to be the real me. And now I get to be someone else’s toy?”

“It seems that way.”

“Fuck.”

“Don’t worry, old chap. News never lasts longer than a femtosecond these days. Should the moron in the White House get himself nuked overnight and suspicion fall on either the pudgy bloke with the funny hair in Pyongyang or the Kremlin’s latest version of Stalin, you’ll be yesterday’s news just… like… that …” Barry snapped his fingers. “And be free to plough your own furrow. Won’t he, Pete?”

“ Oink ,” said Pete.

“Another shot of the nettle brandy, old chap?”

Jeremy sighed and held out his glass.

Dennis “Shorty”/“Betty” Dawkins wasted no time in his hunt for the internationally sought fugitive megalomaniac bonkers banker, Jeremy Crawford. The very next morning, claiming to Billy McCann, he was off in search of the egregious local poacher, Squiffy O’Donnell. He freed from their kennel his ace sniffer dogs, Colin, an English Cocker Spaniel, and Hans, a German Shepherd, leashed them up, and set off. Ostensibly he was heading in the direction of Squiffy’s caravan, but his real goal was the Crawford mansion again, this time in search of clues.

Having been caged up and not done any proper sniffing for a long time, Colin and Hans were excited, along the way leaping up trees where they suspected squirrels may be hiding, sniffing at fallen branches and leaves then pissing on them. And, embarrassingly for Dennis, although mercifully for him no villagers were watching, on one occasion yanking so hard on their restraints in pursuit of a cat called Maxine sitting stock still in the middle of the lane staring at them, that their master fell flat on his face and was dragged ten metres along the tarmac before he could regain control.

Maxine, still sitting sphinx-like with the dogs only inches from her face, thought it was very funny as Dennis finally managed to scramble to his feet and holler at Colin and Hans they were VERY BAD BOYS who wouldn’t be taken walkies any time again soon unless they behaved themselves.

“No treats for YOU unless you be HAVE ,” he told them, as Colin and Hans did their best to look repentant by sitting on their bottoms and giving Master the doe-eye.

Maxine shook her head and stalked off into a hedgerow, saying “ Dogs !”

The problem Dennis faced, however, was that, despite their misdemeanours, Colin and Hans refused to budge unless they were given treats, both of them eyeing Dennis’s Bonios-For-Good-Dogs satchel meaningfully.

“But you haven’t been good dogs. You’ve been very bad dogs,” Dennis explained, reading their eyeballing.

Colin and Hans exchanged puzzled glances that translated as: “Some weirdo, this human. What’s a dog sup posed to do when it sees a cat? Go up and say, ‘Hi there, Cat. How you doin’ today?’”

The other problem Dennis faced was that, despite being their supposed master, he wasn’t actually very masterful at all. Never had been. The dogs knew that; he knew that. And so it was he relented, dug into his Bonios-For-Good-Dogs satchel, and, breaking all the rules of reward-for-good-behaviour dog training, gave Colin and Hans one each.

The rest of trip to the Crawford mansion was to all intents and purposes a mobile picnic for Colin and Hans. Every three paces they would sit, beg, and be given a new Bonio. But at least Dennis and his “highly trained sniffer dogs”—as he introduced Colin and Hans to Sophie when they eventually arrived at the Crawford mansion—were on hot on the trail of her errant husband.

Well, hot- ish . Actually more like lukewarm. Fine, the dogs sniffed around the barn picking up scents of its previous occupants for a bit, but once outside again, they lost much of their interest and took to rambling about the estate, pissing on plants.

“Omi god , stop them doing that on my begonias, will you?” Sophie barked, reminding Dennis of the irritating ‘no boots in the house’ line she’d come out with on his last visit.

“They’re checking,” he said. “Maybe they’ve picked up a trace of your ’usband. Maybe he pissed on the begoonias too.”

“Beg o nias.”