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took to striking Uncle Brian about the head. ‘Stop!’ wailed my
uncle. ‘Stop. Why are you doing this?’ ‘Don’t come the innocent with me,’
advised the police sergeant, bringing out his regulation notebook (which is
always a bad sign). ‘It’s a fair cop and you know it. This garden is the
property of a Mr Brian Rankin. One of Mr Rankin’s neighbours telephoned a few
minutes ago to say that they had just arrived home to discover a tramp in Mr
Rankin’s garden smashing up his motorbike. Oh my God!’
    ‘Oh my
God?’ queried the young constable.
    The
police sergeant stooped down and picked up a small enamelled badge that lay in
the dirt. ‘Oh my God, say it’s not true.’
    ‘It’s
not true,’ said the constable, stamping on my uncle’s foot.
    ‘Ouch,’
said my uncle, in ready response.
    ‘But it is.’ The police sergeant fell to his knees and began to beat his fists
in the dirt and foam somewhat at the mouth.
    ‘Now
look what you’ve done,’ the constable told my uncle. ‘Take that, you villain.’
    ‘Ouch,’
went my uncle again.
    The
police sergeant drew himself slowly to his feet and did what he could to
recover his dignity. ‘You,’ he mumbled, waggling a shaky finger in my uncle’s
face. ‘You iconoclast. Do you realize what you’ve done?’
    Uncle
Brian shook his head feebly.
    ‘A 1935
Vincent Alostrael. You’ve smashed up a 1935 Vincent Alostrael.’
    ‘Is
that bad?’ asked the constable.
    ‘Bad?’
The sergeant snatched the truncheon from the young man’s fist. ‘Bad? There
were only six ever made. Even if this one had been rusted to buggeration and
painted buttercup yellow it would still have been worth a fortune.’
    He
raised the truncheon high and brought it down with considerable force.
    My
uncle was dragged unconscious to the Black Maria and heaved there-into. The
police sergeant rolled up his sleeves and joined him in the back.
    Now it
has to be said that according to the laws of possibility, to which this little
episode is dedicated, it is more than likely that this very same incident has
occurred before.
    Possibly
even as many as five times before.
    But
given the growing rarity of the 1935 Vincent Alostrael, the likelihood of it
ever occurring again is pretty remote, really. Fascinating, isn’t it?
     
    The laws of science
    Uncle Brian spent quite
some time in the hospital. The doctors marvelled at the X-rays of his stomach.
These revealed a regular scrapyard of nuts and bolts and piston rings. Copious
quantities of cod liver oil were administered in the hope of easing these
through his system and their exit was made clearer by the surgical removal of a
police truncheon.
    A
specialist diagnosed my uncle’s condition as a rare psychopathic eating
disorder known as Crombie’s Syndrome and recommended a long stay in a
soft room, with plenty of experimental medication.
    It was
all a bit much for my uncle.
    When
the doctors finally lost interest in him, he was dispatched home for a bit of
care in the community. He was never the same man again.
    My
Uncle Brian had found science.
    Now
there is nothing altogether strange about a Rankin finding religion. Religion
is in the genes with us. And I have set about the writing of this work with the
intention to explain, through a brief history of my lineage, how it was I came
to the discovery that I am the long awaited Chosen One.
    But
more, much more, of that later.
    For
now, be it known that Uncle Brian had found science.
    He
found also, upon returning home, that the remains of the motorbike had
mysteriously vanished from his back garden. And it was no coincidence that a
certain truncheon-happy police sergeant had taken early retirement and vanished
with them.
    Uncle
Brian sighed and nodded and took to the pacing up and down of his back garden,
muttering to himself and occasionally stopping to strike the fist of one hand
into the palm of the other and cry aloud such things as, ‘Yes, I have it now!’
and, ‘All becomes