RAFFERTY’S SNOUT, STINKY Harold, to judge by the smell of him, must spend most of his time on the council’s rubbish dump. He met him on the stairwell of the grey, dank and entirely uninviting top floor of the multi-storey. Making sure to stand well downwind of his snout, Rafferty said, ‘So what have you got for me, Stinky?’
‘Something worth ten of your Earth pounds,’ Stinky replied.
This was something of a running gag between them as Stinky was so other-worldly he might as well be an alien. He was a small man who wore numerous layers, each succeeding layer a little cleaner and less torn than the preceding one. Like Rafferty, he was originally from London. His voice was pure ‘Sarf’ London.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Rafferty told him. ‘So, come on, out with it. What have you got?’
‘It
