000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,The Hussein-Ishmael was owned by Mo Hussein-Ishmael, a great bull of a man with hair that rose and fell in a quiff, then a duck tail Mo believed that with pigeons you have to get to the root of the problem: not the excretions but the pigeon itself. The shit is not the shit (this was Mos mantra), the pigeon is the shit. So the morning of Archies almost-death began as every morning in the Hussein-Ishmael, with Mo resting his huge belly on the windowsill, leaning out and swinging a meat cleaver in an attempt to halt the flow of dribbling purple.Get out of it! Get away, you shit-making bastards! Yes! SIX!It was cricket, basically the Englishmans game adapted by the immigrant, and six was the most pigeons you could get at one swipe.Varin! said Mo, calling down to the street, holding the bloodied cleaver up in triumph.Youre in to bat, my boy. Ready?Below him on the pavement stood Varin - a massively overweight Hindu boy on misjudged work experience from the school round the corner, looking up like a big dejected blob underneath Mos question mark. It was Varins job to struggle up a ladder and gather spliced bits of pigeon into a small Kwik Save carrier bag, tie the bag up, and dispose of it in the bins at the other end of the street.Come on, Mr. Fatty-man, yelled one of Mos kitchen staff, poking Varin up the arse with a broom as punctuation for each word.Get-yourfatGaneshHindubacksideupthere-ElephantBoyandbringsomeofthatmas edpigeonstuffwith-you. Mo wiped the sweat off his forehead, snorted, and looked out overCricklewood, surveying the discarded armchairs and strips of carpet, outdoor lounges for local drunks; the slot machine emporiums, the greasy spoons and the mini cabs all covered in shit. One day, so Mo believed, Cricklewood and its residents would have cause to thank him for his daily massacre; one day no man, woman or child in the broadway would ever again have to mix one part detergent to four parts vinegar to clean up the crap that falls on the world. The shit is not the shit, he repeated solemnly, the pigeon is the shit. Mo was the only man in the community who truly understood. He was feeling really very Zen about this very goodwill-to-all-men until he spotted Archies car.Arshad!A shifty-looking skinny guy with a handlebar moustache, dressed in four different shades of brown, came out of the shop, with blood on his palms.Arshad! Mo barely restrained himself, stabbed his finger in the direction of the car. My boy, Im going to ask you just once.Yes, Abba? said Arshad, shifting from foot to foot.What the hell is this? What is this doing here? I got delivery at 6.30.1 got fifteen dead bovines turning up here at 6.30. I got to get it in the back. Thats my job. You see? Theres meat coming. So, I am perplexed . . Mo affected a look of innocent confusion. Because I thought this was clearly marked Delivery Area. He pointed to an ageing wooden crate which bore the legend no parkings of any vehicle on any days. Well?I dont know, Abba.Youre my son, Arshad. I dont employ you not to know. I employ him not to know he reached out of the window and slapped Varin, who was negotiating the perilous gutter like a tightrope-walker, giving him a thorough cosh to the back of his head and almost knocking the boy off his perch I employ you to know things. To compute information. To bring into the light the great darkness of the creators unexplainable universe.Abba?Find out what its doing there and get rid of it.Mo disappeared from the window. A minute later Arshad returned with the explanation. Abba.Mos head sprang back through the window like a malicious cuckoo from a Swiss clock.Hes gassing himself, Abba.What?Arshad shrugged. I shouted through the car window and told the guy to move on and he says, I am gassing myself, leave me alone. Like that.No one gasses himself on my property, Mo snapped as he marched downstairs. We are not licensed.Once in the street, Mo advanced upon Archies car, pulled out the towels that were sealing the gap in the drivers window, and pushed it down five inches with brute, bullish force.Do you hear that, mister? Were not licensed for suicides around here. This place hal al Kosher, understand? If youre going to die round here, my friend, Im afraid youve got to be thoroughly bled first.Archie dragged his head off the steering wheel. And in the moment between focusing on the sweaty bulk of a brown-skinned Elvis and realizing that life was still his, he had a kind of epiphany.It occurred to him that, for the first time since his birth, Life had said Yes to Archie Jones. Not simply an OK or You-might-aswellcarryonsinceyouve-started, but a resounding affirmative.Life wanted Archie. She h