Drabbleganger

I was in the middle of an oil change on the Norton - Winston had already muttered at me for getting oil on the gravel in front of the front door - when I heard a car drawing up to the outside of Croft Manor. I wiped my hands on a rag and tucked one of my Brownings into the back of my trousers.

The car was a Nissan Leaf and the driver - a girl of rather non-descript appearance - was trying to open the gates.

"May I help you?" I said.

"Please can you let me in? It seems to be locked."

"It is locked."

"Can you unlock it?"

"Why would I?"

The girl gave me a slightly baffled look. "So I can get in. Thanks."

I tucked my thumbs into my belt. "And you are?"

"I'm Laura Croft," said the girl. "I live here."

I regarded her for a second and then produced my revolver. She squeaked.

"Don't move," I said, unlocking the gate and dragging her inside.

"Hang on a minute," said Laura. "You can't do this."

"If you say so." I poked her in the small of her back. "Let's go inside for a chat."

Winston was relatively deadpan when he brought the tray in. I noticed he'd propped his shot gun up near the kitchen door.

"So, Laura," I began. "Who sent you?"

Laura looked on the verge of being tearful. "Nobody sent me. This is my home."

"Uh huh. And who do you think I am?"

The girl bit her lip. "The gardener?" she said, tentatively.

Winston sniffed.

"Yes, Winston?"

"If I may, Madam. This is Lady Lara Croft," he said, pointing the teapot in my direction. "And this building is Croft Manor."

"Oh," said Laura, holding out her hand. "So pleased to meet you."

Winston and I exchanged glances.

I ran through various explanations - head injury, recreational drug use, familial cretinism - but I was drawing a blank.

"If I might ask," said Winston, "but can Miss Laura …" he rhymed it with 'aura' "…tell us what year it is and who the Prime Minister is?"

Laura looked vaguely put out. "What patronising questions. It's 2015 and the Prime Minister of Parliament is David Crosby."

"I see," said Winston. He shimmered off.

"Did Natla send you?" I said, fingering my revolver.

"Who?" said Laura. "Look, as I said, nobody sent me. I live here."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Since I was born."

"Which was?"

"1997."

"And where were you born?"

"Funny story," said Laura, brightening perceptibly, no doubt cheered by the prospect of talking about her favorite subject, "I was born in San Diego, California. Mum was passing through. But then we came back to England."

"And where is your mother now?"

"She and Daddy are on a vaguely defined world cruise for an indefinite period."

I collared Winston in the kitchen whilst pretending to look for cake.

"Could she be a cousin, Madam?"

"She could be," I whispered. "She could be a raving nut job."

"Shall I call the police?"

"I could just use her for target practice out on the firing range."

Winston tutted.

I returned with some Jaffa cakes, which even Laura seemed familiar with.

"The thing is, " I said, with as much sympathy as I could find, "I'm Lara Croft and this is my house."

Laura blinked. "Are we related?" she said, eventually. She fumbled in her pocket and produced an iPhone.

"See?" she said. The phone showed a map with a red market pointing at Croft Manor and the legend "My home."

I realised I was going to have to listen to her entire life story, however banal.

"So let's recap," I said, pointing at my chalk blackboard. "You're a lesbian …"

Laura went cherry coloured. "I didn't say that!" she protested, hotly.

"My mistake."

"We're just good friends."

"To move on. You went to .." I peered at the board, trying to keep my tone neutral "… University College London. How very proletarian of you."

"What a snobby thing to say!"

"I'm a member of the British aristocracy," I said. "You patently are not."

"And you're really rude!"

"So they told me when I got sent down from Cambridge. "

Laura started to say something but thought better of it.

"To continue," I said. "You like bows and arrows, whereas I could barely hit myself in the eye with one."

"Sure, "said Laura, perking up slightly. "Bows are cool."

"If you're a Girl Guide," I muttered under what I thought was my breath.

Laura bristled. "It's an Olympic Sport!"

"If you say so. So … you went on some expedition to a junkyard, killed a bunch of mercenaries, saved your girlfriend and got …" I peered at the board again "… PTSD."

"BFF."

"Oh sorry." I reached for the duster.

"She's my BFF. PTSD stands for post traumatic stress disorder."

I couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "Interesting, " I said.

Laura was looking haunted. "I killed so. many. people."

"Well done, " I said.

"No … you don't get it. I didn't want to harm anybody, but they just kept coming. Wave after wave of men with guns."

I tried not to look puzzled. "And they were trying to kill you?"

"It was horrible, "said Laura hollowly, with a thousand yard stare.

"But you killed them first?"

"I'll never be the same again. I've even tried cognitive psychotherapy."

"That is horrible," I said. "Still, at least we've established you're not a Scientologist." Even if she was a raving psychopath.

Sadly at that moment, Winston, who had crept up behind her, jabbed a hypodermic into her neck. To cut a long story short, we called the men in white coats to take her away.

"Was she supposed to resemble me?" I said to Winston. I was feeling slightly insulted.

"Possibly, Madam."

"She was rubbish!"

"If you say so, Madam."